“I hope your brother gets here soon, ducks, ” the leering gamesmaster said to her. Betsy tried to lash out at him, to claw at that insipid, arrogant face, or kick him in the groin to wipe away that infuriating smile, but bound as she was, hand and foot, to a gleaming white wooden stallion on a merry-go-round, such actions were impossible.
“I’d hate to see such an exquisitely beautiful woman—such as yourself—wind up splattered across ten square meters of Derbyshire, ” he continued, “because their super heroic sibling was off rescuing cats from trees when he should have been watching out for his loved ones. ” He reached out to stroke Betsy’s cheek with a gloved hand, and—
“—your boyfriend can attest to that fact,” the Minister was saying. Betsy started. “W-what.. . ?” She looked up to find herself sitting in front of Arcade’s desk on one of the candy-apple red chairs scattered about the office. The Minister was back in his big leather seat, white-booted feet resting comfortably on the desk’s ink blotter.
Betsy shook her head to clear her thoughts; her cheeks reddened. “I-I’m sorry, Minister. My mind must have .. .”
“Taken a little stroll?” Arcade asked. Betsy bobbed her head once without looking at him. Arcade shrugged. “Happens to me all the time.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Betsy nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, I am. I’m fine.” She saw Arcade’s eyes narrow as he studied her face. “Really,” she insisted.
“All right. Just checking,” Arcade said. “Anyway, I was just saying that Warren can back me up when I say that I thought your stuff was outstanding last night. You put a lot of heart in your performance, and it really showed.”
Betsy blushed. “Thank you.”
“And that little number you threw Warren’s way. That poem?”
“ ‘Spring Rain,’ by Sara Teasdale?” Betsy offered.
Arcade thumped a fist on the desk. “That’s the one! Fantastic number! I saw how the audience was just eating it up with a spoon—wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the time you were done yanking on their heart-strings. A regular Celine Dion ballad.” He shrugged. “Not exactly Wayne Newton, but hey—it’s a helluva lot better than ‘I Think I Love You,’ and it’d have the Empress crying all over her party dress, and that’s what’s important.” He paused. “You have permission from this .. . this ...”
“Teasdale.”
“Right. Her. You have her permission to use that song?”
Betsy suddenly found it difficult to catch her breath. Was this conversation going where she thought it was heading . . . ?
“Well?” Arcade asked. “Is this Teasdale going to cause any trouble?”
“Uh, no,” Betsy replied. “She passed away quite a long time ago.” “Perfect!” Arcade exclaimed. “I love quick and easy solutions to potential problems—they make my life so much simpler.”
“Umm . . . excuse me, Minister . . .” Betsy began.
“Arcade, ” the Minister happily insisted.
“All right. . . Arcade.” Betsy paused, part of her brain screaming at her to ask the question, the other part warning her not to back him into a comer and force him to make a decision too soon. She had to know, though. “I don’t mean to be too forward,” she said slowly, “but are we talking about me actually participating in the anniversary gala?”
“Well, for now, we are,” Arcade admitted. “But I can’t set anything in stone until I hear back from some of the other acts I’ve been talking to. Believe you me, the last thing I’m about to do is tell The Wayouts that I’ve gotta bump ’em from the schedule so some unknown chanteuse from a midtown Manhattan lounge can take their spot and serenade the Royal Couple instead.” He shivered. “Those guys would rip off my legs and beat me to death with ’em before I could choke out an ‘I’m sorry, and I’ll make it up to you.’ ”
“But you are saying I have a chance?” Betsy asked. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears, she wasn’t even certain she had put forth the question.
“Sure—everybody’s got a chance, sweets, but I really won’t know for sure about the line-up for another day or so.” Arcade shrugged. “You’ll just have to bear with me until you hear back one way or the other. Fair enough?”
Her mind suddenly a blank, Betsy found it difficult to do anything more than simply nod.
“Any luck?” Scott asked.
Jean shook her head. “I can’t detect any other activity from Betsy.
It’s like her ‘signal’ was cut off in mid-transmission. And without knowing the direction it came from, I can’t get a fix on her location.”
Depressed, she glanced at her husband, who smiled encouragingly. After receiving Betsy’s psychic SOS, the X-Men had elected to move to the opposite side of Fifth Avenue in order to get away from the constant flow of pedestrian traffic that crowded the busy intersection; for the past fifteen minutes, they had been sitting quietly on the stone steps of the New York Public Library, waiting for Jean to track down their missing colleague. Off to one side, Carol and Nightcrawler sat at a small table, conversing quietly as they sipped at cans of soda; his unusual skin coloration was concealed, for the time being, by the shade of the open umbrella that jutted up from the center of the table. Rogue and Gambit were also sitting together, snuggled close, heads almost touching as they talked in hushed whispers. They looked like any other couple gathered on the steps: two people—not mutants, not super heroes—deeply in love and enjoying their own company.
As for Scott, Jean, and Logan, they were still focused on the matter at hand: trying to reach Betsy. Scott was sitting back, elbows resting on the step behind him, watching the nonstop hustle and bustle that was New York at lunchtime; it seemed that not even the machinations of Victor von Doom could do much to disrupt the faster-than-life speed of the Big Apple. Beside him, Jean looked thoroughly annoyed, chin resting in the palms of her hand as her elbows balanced on her knees; she stared into space, brow furrowed. Slouched on the steps on Jean’s other side, Logan was doing his best not to look like a third wheel as he sat beside the happy couple.
Groaning softly, Jean leaned forward to grasp her sandaled feet and hang her head in frustration between her legs, allowing her hair to flow down and conceal her features. Scott reached out a hand to gently rub her back.
“I don’t understand it,” Jean muttered from beneath her mountain of crimson locks. “Even if Betsy were unconscious, I should still be able to pick up some trace of her subconscious—a random thought, a brief replay of the last few seconds before she blacked out. . . Something. ”
“You sure she’s in the immediate area, Red?” Logan asked, his cowboy hat set low over his dark eyes. “If her mental hollerin’ was as loud as you say it was, maybe she’s someplace else in the five boroughs. Hell, she coulda been sendin’ that message from Hoboken fer all ya know.”
Jean’s head snapped back up and she stared at Logan for a moment. Then, wincing as though in pain, she growled softly, and sharply rapped the sides of her head with her knuckles. “Dumb, dumb dumb,” she muttered. “The image of Arcade that she broadcast was so clear, the sensation of his threat so evident, I just assumed Betsy was somewhere in our vicinity.” She looked at Wolverine. “Thanks, Logan.”
“No charge fer the service, darlin’,” he replied with a half smile. “Any news?” Carol asked as she and Nightcrawler walked over to join them. She glanced at a large clock suspended above the entrance of a cigar shop of the comer of Forty-second Street—it was 1:30 p.m. “Time’s a-wastin’ if you folks want to try and track down some of your long-john brethren.”
“That can wait for the moment,” Scott said. “Right now, we’ve got a friend who appears to be threatened by one of our most dangerous enemies. She might be in need of our help and, Doom-controlled world or not, the X-Men always take care of their own.”
“Pretty words, Summers, but ultimately useless,” Carol said, with the tone of someone who no longer believed such sentiments. “Try saying them again with the same convict
ion if you ever wind up in one of von Doom’s camps like I did. I promise you: one week of beatings and starvation and fighting for crumbs of food, and that ‘all for one, and one for all’ Musketeer crap will become just a faint memory as you focus on more important things—like battling each day just to keep yourself alive.”
“Well, Carol,” Scott replied slowly, clearly avoiding being drawn into an argument, “if we succeed in our mission and set everything back to the way it all should be, it’ll be this version of the world that becomes the faint memory. And locating another X-Man is just as important as contacting the Avengers for help now—it’s one more ally lending her powers to our cause.” Not bothering to wait for Carol to respond, he turned to Phoenix. “Jean, I want you to run a telepathic scan as far out from this spot as you’re able to go. Start with the island, then sweep the other boroughs. If that fails—” he glanced at Wolverine, and smiled wryly “—follow Logan’s suggestion and try Hoboken.”
“All right, Scott,” Jean said. “It might take a while, though.”
“You take all de time you need, Jeannie,” Gambit piped in. “We not goin’ nowhere till you finished with what needs doin’.” Jean turned in his direction and saw that Remy was lying on one of the steps, head resting comfortably in Rogue’s lap; he grinned broadly as his Southern Belle ran slender, gloved fingers through his dark, unruly hair.
Jean smiled. “Thank you, Remy. I appreciate your patience.”
“My pleasure,” Gambit said.
Jean’s grin broadened. Dat Gambit, he a suave one, no? she thought.
Drawing her legs up, Jean assumed a meditative lotus position and closed her eyes. Slowly, she willed herself to tune out the ear-throbbing urban sounds around her, then slowed her breathing and cleared her mind.
Betsy, are you there? she broadcast. Betsy? It’s Jean. If you can “hear” me, please respond. Betsy.. . ?
Down at the World Trade Center, Betsy had just stepped into the elevator that would take her back down to the lobby when the screaming started in her head.
BETSY! PLEASE ANSWER ME! IT’S JEAN! BETSY, YOU’VE GOT TO RESPOND!
It was sudden and demanding and so completely overwhelming— like an icepick being driven through her eye and into her brain—that the pain temporarily blinded her. She stumbled forward into the car and slammed against the far wall, clutching the sides of her head. Thankfully, the elevator was empty, so she didn’t need to try and mutter some lame excuse for her behavior to a fellow passenger; not that she could have said anything at this point—the throbbing in her brain was so intense she could barely form a coherent thought.
“S-stop i-it. P-please st-stop i-it. . .” she mumbled pitifully, tears streaming down her cheeks. But the pain didn’t let up, and her legs were suddenly unable to support her weight any longer; she slid down along the wall to lie in a heap on the cool, tiled floor.
And now a torrent of images pounded at her mind: a concerned, redheaded woman; a man with claws like an animal, but the heart of a warrior; a black-costumed man with a goatee, raking razor-sharp fingers across her eyes; an obese, yellow-skinned thing with eyelids held open by metallic pincers that sunk deeply into its flesh, and a smile like that of Satan himself; the English-woman version of herself, trapped in a room filling with water as the Minister of Entertainment/but not the Minister of Entertainment watched, her cries for help cut off by a colorful strip of cloth; the correct, Japanese version of herself, but dressed in a dark blue swimsuit and leggings of some kind, a swash of red color—like paint, or a tattoo—running from just above her left eye down to her left cheekbone; a blue-skinned demon with a pointed tail, leaping at her; a peaceful world that looked nothing like Earth, watched over by a kindly, dark-haired woman in white who lived in a floating citadel; a baldheaded man in a wheelchair.
What did it mean? What did any of it mean? And why wouldn’t the flood of indecipherable visions stop? Why wouldn’t they get out of her head before she was driven to the brink of madness, for surely that wasn’t long in coming?
But still the images formed and dissolved, moving faster and faster, and still the voice echoed through her mind, growing louder in volume, demanding that she respond.. ..
A few blocks away, in a building on Pearl Street, an alarm began sounding.
The offices of the Imperial Agency for Superhuman Activities, New York Center, were located in a forty-story, Art Deco-designed building that, from the outside, looked no different from any of the hundreds of other glass and steel and stone structures that towered above the thin, winding streets of lower Manhattan.
Unlike the other structures, however, the glass was capable of withstanding a point-blank burst from a laser cannon, the stone was thick enough to shrug off a blow or two from the Hulk, and the beams that supported the building were composed of steel mixed with adamantium and a variety of other super-strong elements. In short, the building could withstand anything short of a nuclear strike on Manhattan, or a gathering of hell-raising Norse gods intent on having a memorable night on the town.
It was almost as strong, some often pointed out, as the woman in charge of its personnel.
In her early thirties, blond-haired and blue-eyed, Dr. Valerie Cooper was that rare kind of person who possesses good looks, an incredible intellect, and an annoyingly superior attitude that, in this case, meant she considered herself God’s gift to science (and there where those in the scientific community who would actually agree with that assessment). For the past decade, she had made a career of keeping superhumans in line, coordinating her office’s activities with those of Anthony Stark’s and Sebastian Shaw’s, and, on the rare occasion, even reporting directly to Emperor von Doom himself. Her rule of thumb in dealing with the superpowered men and women who tended to pop up over the years was simple: you either worked for the Emperor and wore your leash and collar like a good little obedient dog, or you were put down before you posed a threat to the civilian population. After all, nobody liked a bad dog.
A lot of bad dogs had been put down on her watch.
Nine years ago, it had been the good doctor’s people who, at von Doom’s command, had eliminated a good portion of the super-villain community so that the Emperor could focus on more important matters of state. And though some people might call her a killer, and some might consider her a saint, the bottom line was that Val Cooper enjoyed her work, was proud of her work, and wasn’t the type to allow even the lowest Morlock to escape her scrutiny.
Such dedication to her profession, of course, made being assigned to her division akin to a sneak preview of what it might be like to be consigned to the blackest pit of hell. . .
“Kill that damn noise!” Cooper bellowed as she entered the thirty-first floor monitoring room. She turned to a brown-haired, female technician as the alarm cut off. “What’s the situation?”
“TK meters, Ma’am.” The tech—whose nametag said burroughs— pointed to a monitor at her station. “We’re picking up an incredible surge of psychic power—it’s off the scale!”
Cooper folded her arms across her chest and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Location?”
“Midtown Manhattan. Forty-second and Fifth.” Burrough’s eyes widened as she glanced at another screen. “Ma’am, the sender isn’t registered in the systems.”
Now it was Cooper’s turn to register surprise. “An unknown psi-talent? How can that be possible?”
“I’ve no idea, Ma’am,” Burroughs replied. “Your orders?”
Cooper tapped a slender index finger against the tip of her nose as she paused to consider her next move.
“Scramble the Hunters,” she finally said. “Fill them in on the situation, and have them load for bear; we don’t know what we might be up against here. Then notify Psi Division—have them send one of their people over so our team’s got someone capable of warding off a mental assault.” She pointed a demanding finger in the technician’s face. “And make sure they’re all aware that the target’s in the middle of a densely populated ar
ea. I don’t want them tearing up half of Manhattan in some senseless donnybrook if they can convince the target to surrender peacefully.” She frowned. “I sure as hell don’t want to have to explain the cause for massive property damage and incalculable civilian injuries to the Emperor.”
Burroughs nodded in understanding, then paused. “And if the target refuses to cooperate, Ma’am?”
Cooper’s eyes glittered with unbridled malevolence. “Then the Hunters are to terminate the target—with extreme prejudice.”
10
F EVER there was one specific person for whom Extra-Strength Tylenol had been created, that person would have to have been Elisabeth Braddock.
Hair and clothing disheveled, feet set squarely on the warm asphalt walkway, she sat on a bench at Battery Park, head down, looking for all the world like someone who had just been trampled by every bull and bear that had ever run rampant through the Wall Street area. Above her, a flock of seagulls made slow circles in the afternoon sky above the harbor; every now and then, one of the birds let loose a piercing cry that rang through Betsy’s skull like a fire alarm. A few hundreds yards away, a tour group was lining up to board a boat that would take them to the Statue of von Doom, where they would be given a brief history lesson on the Emperor’s rise to power. Betsy had taken the tour once, last year, when Warren had been out of town on business; it had been a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, with the smell of salt water in the air and a cool breeze blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean.
Now, though, just the act of elevating her head slightly to look at the beaming faces of the children as they ran wildly across the boat’s twin decks was enough to send daggers into the base of her skull. Dully, she wondered how such a day laden with promise could have gone so terribly wrong. Not expecting a reply, she hung her head down to lessen the pressure building behind her sinuses and fished in her purse for the small bottle of Tylenol she had purchased after staggering out of the elevator back at the World Trade Center.
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