Such were the wonders of a mutant healing factor.
“This wasn’t how it was supposed to work,” the dark-haired woman muttered. “You were supposed to go after the big guns while I twisted your gal pal’s psyche inside out like a corkscrew.”
“Stop it,” Wolverine replied. “Yer gonna make me cry. Anyways, you an’ me got some old scores t’settle.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, you little psycho,” Mastermind said, stepping back and reaching for another clip of bullets. “Not that that matters to you in the least, I’m sure.”
Sunlight glinted on adamantium as his claws slashed out, cutting the barrel of Mastermind’s gun in half. “Hope ya weren’t too attached t’that thing,” he said, and took another step toward her.
But instead of turning and running from the pint-sized engine of destruction, Mastermind stood her ground . . . and smiled. “Hope you’re not too attached to your brain . . . Shorty.” Her brown eyes flashed.
The claws that tore into Logan’s head were not real—he knew that for fact. They were actually psychic probes transmitted from the young woman before him, peeling back the layers of his mind, exposing his deepest secrets, his darkest fears, his most unsettling jealousies.
The claws hurt like hell, but they weren’t real, he kept reminding himself.
That knowledge, though, didn’t stop him from screaming.
“Wolverine!” Phoenix cried.
Standing beside Cyclops, she was in the midst of helping him battle Fenris—using her mental powers to hurl at them everything from garbage cans to a Starbucks coffee kiosk to the paving stones that formed the floor of the library plaza—when she heard Logan howl in excruciating pain. In her mind’s eye, she caught glimpses of the agonies he
was being forced to endure under Mastermind’s psychic assault: images of sinister-looking laboratories and flesh-searing explosions and the so-ciopathic villain Sabretooth gouging out huge chunks of his body with the assassin’s own sets of claws and Magneto using his incredible powers to literally strip the adamantium coating from Wolverine’s bones through the pores of his skin and then enduring even greater levels of searing pain as the indestructible metal was once more bonded to him a year later.
And, most surprising of all, of the moment when she and Scott had stood on the altar at their wedding and first kissed as husband and wife. That image seemed to be stuck on playback, moving forward and then rewinding, to start the process over again without any end in sight. Of all the memories being used against him in Mastermind’s vicious attack, this was the one causing him the greatest pain.
Oh, Logan . . . Jean turned to her husband. “Scott, I’ve—”
“Go, ” he said. “I can handle this.”
“I’ll be right back,” she promised.
“And I’ll be counting the moments till then, love,” Cyclops replied. He triggered his visor once more, and the ground beneath Fenris shattered in a blast of crimson energies, tossing the siblings high into the air.
Bright green eyes flashed, and Jean took to the air, rushing forward to aid her fallen comrade.
Carol Danvers was completely out of her element.
For a moment, when these costumed stormtroopers of von Doom’s had stepped from the levitating platform, she felt certain that she could provide some help to the X-Men—try and draw one of the combatants after her to cut down the odds.
That opinion had changed once the brother/sister team of Fenris loosed the devastating energy that they had formed by simply holding hands. The blast had scattered the X-Men like tenpins and shattered one of the stone lions that stood guard at the entrance to the library plaza. Carol had been tossed a good twelve or fifteen feet into the air, and it was only through sheer luck that she had landed in the row of hedges that lined the perimeter of the library grounds; luckier still to have survived the short flight with no broken bones.
Now, as she watched the battle being waged in the center of Manhattan from the relative safety of a hot dog cart that had been abandoned by its owner at the first sign of trouble, Carol began to wonder why she just hadn’t run for the hills after the camp was liberated. True, she was grateful to these strangers for helping her escape from a living hell, but whatever had possessed her to join them on their quixotic campaign, instead of melting into the shadows and trying to create a new life for herself? Was it really because she shared their desire to oust von Doom from his throne? Or was it because they had treated her as one of their own?
Watching the X-Men working in unison—covering one another’s backs, gently chiding one another in the heat of battle—she began to understand that these people functioned not just as a team, but as a family. And, despite the fact she didn’t know them from Adam (though they insisted otherwise), despite the hostility she had felt toward Jean Grey for obviously withholding information from her after their trip through her mind, despite the fact she had thought them insane for wanting to confront Victor von Doom on his home turf, they had welcomed her into their hearts and made her feel a part of that family.
An old saying sprang to Carol’s mind: Friends may come and go, but family is forever. In the middle of a crisis like this, could she really just run off and abandon her new family?
Near the main set of steps leading to the library’s main entrance, Phoenix made a perfect two-point landing, positioning herself between Mastermind and Wolverine. Carol was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the scene: a leather-clad femme fatale facing off against a redheaded fury in a pretty, yellow summer dress, while a short, hairy man with foot-long pitchfork tines sticking out of his hands writhed on the ground, clasping his head in agony. For a moment, she wondered where the movie cameras might be hidden.
That ridiculous question was quickly tossed aside as she spotted the red-and-gold-dressed woman from the platform—Carol had heard Mastermind refer to her as “Shakti”—cast a spell that caused a gale-force wind to send Rogue flying across Fifth Avenue and into the sixth floor windows of an office building. Bystanders who had stopped to watch the fight now scrambled for cover as glass, masonry, and office supplies rained down on them. Momentarily free from attack, the dark-haired sorceress turned her attention to Phoenix, who appeared to be in the midst of some mental catfight with Mastermind. To Carol, it looked like the two combatants were quietly standing their ground, eyes locked, though Lord only knew on what kind of psychic battlefield they were waging their private war.
What Shakti seemed to see, on the other hand, was an invitation to strike down an unwitting enemy.
Well, two can play at that game, Carol thought. But first, I need a weapon ...
She spotted a heavy, gray paving stone lying nearby. Without hesitation, she leapt from her hiding place, grabbed the object, and charged straight at Shakti’s unprotected back.
She didn’t even realize she had stepped in an oily patch on the ground until it sprang to life, slithering up her legs and over her body before she could cry out in surprise.
“NO!" Carol tried to scream, but the oily film covered her face, flowing into her nostrils and tear ducts, pouring into her open mouth like a living river of ink. Her body convulsed from the panicked sensation that she was drowning, a half mile from any body of water. In horror, she felt the entity taking control of every nerve, every muscle in her body, forcing it to ignore her mental commands.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
Nor could she stop the entity from changing the direction of her attack, then raising the paving stone above her head, to bring it crashing down on the back of Phoenix’s skull. Jean stiffened for a moment; then, with a whisper of a sigh, she collapsed in a heap on the warm gravel.
Mastermind smiled at her. “Thanks for the assist, Divinity. Not that I couldn’t have handled the witch by myself.”
“Too much time, your method takes,” Carol heard herself say in a voice that was not her own. “Time should not be wasted so.”
The entity called Divinity ke
pt talking to Mastermind, asking what the telepath planned to do with Wolverine before he regained consciousness, but Carol was no longer listening. There was another odd sensation beginning to flow through her body, one that had started in her toes and was slowly creeping up her legs, her torso, into her very thoughts. It was an icy chill, of all things—something she never would have expected to feel in the middle of June, with the sun shining so brightly and not a cloud in the sky. But even as it reached up to caress her mind with the gentleness of a lover, she recognized it for what it was—a terrible thing she had held at bay for years, denying its touch; something she thought she had managed to finally elude when she saw the sun rise on a day filled with such promise.
It was Death.
And she had come to take Carol home.
Cyclops staggered back a step as he felt his wife being struck down from behind—a disadvantage, to be sure, of sharing a psychic link with a loved one in the midst of a battle.
“J-Jean . . . ?” he muttered, one hand rising to massage his pulsing forehead. In horror, he looked over to where she lay on the ground. Standing over her was Carol Danvers, a heavy, blood-smeared stone in her hands; she was covered from head to toe in an oily substance, eyes widened in shock, her mouth opened in a silent scream. Next to Carol was Mastermind, who prodded Jean’s unmoving body with the pointed toe of a leather boot.
“JEAN!” Cyclops screamed.
A flash of ruby quartz in sunlight, and Mastermind was propelled up the library steps and into the antique wooden framework above the main entrance. She collapsed in a heap on the landing.
Despite the dangers presented by turning his back on an enemy— even though both members of Fenris were lying, dazed, on the ground— Scott couldn’t stop himself from doing so; Jean was lying so still, so lifeless. He had to know if she was merely unconscious, or ...
He took one step toward Jean—
And was blown across the length of the plaza as Fenris—groggy, but still functional—unleashed another burst of destructive energy.
Amid the splintering of every bone in his right arm as he crashed into a used book kiosk, Cyclops heard one other sound: Carol Danvers’ death rattle as the oily creature that had enveloped her flowed off her body, leaving behind a desiccated, lifeless husk that crumpled to the ground.
And then darkness claimed him.
“Now, y’all went an’ got me mad!” Rogue shouted as she soared above Fifth Avenue.
It had taken her a while to dig her way out of the five offices through which she had crashed after being hurled away from the battlezone by Shakti’s miniature cyclone—five offices and countless walls that had crumbled like papier-mache before she had finally come to rest in the break area of the law offices of Stem, Mantlo, Moench & McGregor. To say the partners, their employees, and the few clients seated in the waiting room had not been pleased by her unexpected—and highly destructive—visit would be an understatement; suffice to say, there had been enough derisive expletives and angry promises of lawsuits aimed her way to make certain that Rogue would avoid entering even the airspace above a courthouse for years to come.
Mad as hell, her hair drenched in half-and-half cream and smelling of used coffee grounds, Rogue had done her best to ignore the threats and insults and quickly exited back the way she had come, eager to dole out a little payback to the villainess who had caused her all this trouble in the first place.
But as she returned to the plaza, she was greeting by the sight of Fenris striking down Cyclops—and Divinity draining the life-force from Carol Danvers.
“Oh, God . . Rogue whispered. “Carol. . .”
Any further concerns for her erstwhile teammate were smashed from her mind as a devastating bolt of energy blew her out of the sky.
Tumbling head over heels, Rogue dimly realized that seeing Carol being murdered had distracted her long enough for Fenris for launch their attack. Unable to regain her equilibrium, she could only brace for the impact just before she crashed into the sidewalk, hard enough to create an eight-foot-wide crater.
Rogue slowly struggled to her feet, unable to clear her addled thoughts. Something warm dripped into her eyes, and she recognized it as blood, seeping from a deep cut in her forehead—possibly the result of a hairline skull fracture. The shock of seeing herself bleeding began pumping adrenaline through her system, and her mind slowly cleared. Her head was spinning, her eyes couldn’t focus, and her legs felt as though they were made of gelatin, but she knew that if she didn’t stand up, didn’t strike back, she was more than likely going to join Carol on her trip to the afterlife.
But she wasn’t prepared to die—not yet.
Unfortunately, she never saw the remaining stone lion at the entrance to the plaza come to life under Shakti’s direction, never saw it rise on its haunches and eye her hungrily—at least, not until it had sprung at her. But by then, it was too late.
Before she could leap out of its path, the lion was upon her, driving the air from her lungs and smashing her head against the pavement with the full weight of its body.
As the world dimmed around her, Rogue wondered if Carol had felt any pain in her last moments of life.
She also wondered if she was about to be able to ask Carol that question directly.
“Things are not going well, mein freund, ” Nightcrawler commented as he and Gambit clashed with the cloven-hoofed, technology-based life-form that had identified itself as Technarx. Despite a rapid series of well-placed kicks and blows delivered by quickly teleporting around his foe, Kurt had been unable to find a weakness in its armor.
“You can say dat again, ’Crawler,” Gambit replied. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see Rogue being dragged over to Shakti by the animated stone lion; it held one of the unconscious mutant’s arms in its granite jaws.
Don ’ you go lettin ’ yo ’ feelin ’s for dat girl get you killed, Remy, he sternly warned himself. Dat Rogue, she a tough one—she ’11 be fine. ’Sides, you got problems of your own t’deal wit’.
As if in response to his thoughts, Technarx swung in his direction, its right arm shooting forward. Gambit leapt to one side, striking the metal-and-circuit-sheathed limb with a charged playing card. The resulting explosion made the techno-organic mutant screech loudly and reel back in pain.
“Maybe you oughtta BAMF! on outta here while I cover you,” Gambit said to his teammate while they had a momentary breather. “Give you some time to go contact de FF, or de ’Vengers, an’ get us some back-up.”
“And leave you in such dire straits?” Nightcrawler asked. “I think not, Remy. Besides, in case you have not noticed, if our little tete-a-tete with Doom’s flunkies has not drawn the attention of such well-respected heroic groups, what makes you think they would be willing to come to our aid now?” A slight movement seen from the comer of his eye caught Kurt’s attention. He glanced past Gambit, who turned to look in the same direction.
Fenris was staring back at them.
“Now, we shall wash the last of this scum from our streets,” said Andrea Strucker, the female half of the team.
“Indeed. The Emperor will be most pleased with our work, dear sister,” replied her brother, Andreas.
Smiling malevolently, the siblings joined hands.
“Perhaps, friend Gambit,” Nightcrawler mused aloud, “discretion is the better part of valor. But if I am to fight another day, I shall not do so alone. ” He reached out to grab his friend, preparing to teleport them both away from the battlezone—
—only to be roughly pushed aside by his teammate. The reason why became immediately clear: Technarx had recovered, firing a stream of techno-organic circuitry at the blue-skinned X-Man in an attempt to snare him. Remy had not hesitated in shoving Kurt out of the way.
Much to his own misfortune.
As Nightcrawler watched, circuits and wires and metal plates began to take form, spreading over Gambit like an infection gone wild, transforming him into a creature that was only partly a man. Remy’s one remai
ning eye swiveled toward Nightcrawler, the sorrow in it unmistakable.
“Kurt...” he/it rasped, in a voice that sounded like two pieces of metal being rubbed together.
And then the Gambit-thing collapsed.
“Oh ... oh, my God . ..” Nightcrawler said huskily. He jumped for-
ward, all thoughts of escape pushed aside by his blinding desire to do something—anything—to help his friend.
He hardly felt the impact of the Fenris-created energy blast that sent him hurtling into unconsciousness.
WHEN BETSY finally awoke, it was to Warren’s gentle kiss on the nape of her neck. She uttered a soft, appreciative moan.
_ “What time is it?” she asked groggily.
“A little after eight,” he replied. “I just got home a few minutes ago. I called around five-thirty, to tell you when I’d get in, but you didn’t pick up.” He paused. “You feeling all right?”
Betsy rolled onto her back and gazed deeply into his loving, concerned eyes, not knowing what to say. Should she tell him about her strange episode in Arcade’s office, or her collapse in the elevator, or the multitude of voices that had been running non-stop through her head until she thought it would burst from the pain? As her sleep-addled brain began to function again, she suddenly realized that the voices still hadn’t returned—maybe, God willing, she was free of the madness.
She doubted that, though.
But, what would he say if she did tell him about everything that had happened? How would he respond?
She knew exactly how he’d respond: the same way he always had in the past when she had a troubling experience—with compassion, and understanding, and that boyish smile that used to make her feel that all was truly right with the world again.
Unfortunately, the kind of trauma she’d undergone this afternoon could not be made better with just a warm smile and a peck on the cheek. Something had happened to her today—something had been awakened inside her mind, and now that the beast had been freed, there was no putting it back in its cage.
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