“I hope he means that in a good way,” Nightcrawler whispered to Phoenix.
“I hope we survive long enough to find out. ..” she replied.
The voices were back—with a vengeance.
With Warren having gone off to take his seat in the auditorium— after making certain she wouldn’t appear on-stage in her unmentionables by helping her into her gown and matching opera gloves—Betsy had been sitting alone in her dressing room for the past hour, with only her thoughts to keep her company. She was waiting for Tommy to eventually come by and rap on her door to let her know it was time. Unfortunately, as the minutes passed, her pre-show jitters became so intense that she allowed her concentration to slip.
The sound and fury that suddenly exploded in her mind was akin to waking up in the center of the New York Stock Exchange on a frantic day of trading—there were screams, shouts, even bells ringing. The intensity of the “noise” had driven her to her knees, and momentarily blinded her.
There were too many people around her, she realized as she staggered over to the loveseat; too many “voices” demanding to be heard. The thoughts pounded her mind in unrelenting waves, each breaker more powerful than the one before it, until she was sitting, doubled-over, the heels of her hands pressing against her temples.
Get outGetOUTGETOUT! her own thoughts screamed at the unwanted voices.
And, to her amazement, the voices obeyed; all was suddenly calm and quiet in the mind of Elisabeth Braddock—the very same woman who, a few short days ago, had feared for her sanity.
Betsy opened her eyes, uncertain of what had just happened. True, she had been working hard to block outside thoughts for the past few days; her success at the party last night was proof that she had been getting better at it. But now, it was as though she had angrily confronted a group of guests who had overstayed their welcome and forced them out of the cluttered apartment that was her mind, then locked the door behind them.
Could her control be that good, in so short a period of time?
“Well, don’t question it, you git,” she scolded herself. “Just be thankful for it.”
Nodding in complete agreement with herself, Betsy slowly eased back in the loveseat, expecting the “guests” to return at any moment, prepared for the worst. When it didn’t happen, an easy smile came to her lips, and she began to enjoy the feeling of serenity that flowed through her mind. Maybe Warren was right; maybe she would get through this evening without any problems . . .
A fog bank was rolling in from off the Potomac River.
It was a complete surprise to the security detail of D.C. police officers on the river side of the arts center—the weather forecast had called for clear, moonlit skies and a cool breeze from the east (all due, of course, to Ororo’s influence). And the fact that it had appeared without them noticing it before this second made them incredibly suspicious.
Unfortunately for the officers, the fog was upon them before anyone was able to notify the command center—and then all it took was a strong telepathic “push” from Phoenix to “shut down” their minds and render them unconscious, as she had done with Rogue.
After scanning the fallen officers to make sure none had suffered brain damage, Phoenix took to the air, heading for the roof.
Across the river, on Theodore Roosevelt Island, the X-Men and Magneto’s acolytes had gathered to launch their attack. Now, they watched as the fog bank continued to move from the river to envelop the arts center; the building was quickly lost from sight.
“That is a most impressive ability of Ms. Voght’s,” Nightcrawler said. “I didn’t think she was capable of covering such a large area in her mist-form.”
“It ain’t gonna work fer long, though,” Wolverine commented. “All these bully-boys in one area, watchin’ out fer trouble—somebody’s gonna get wise an’ let Doom know what’s goin’ on.”
“True,” Forge said. “But that tyrant’s such an incredible egomaniac, he’ll probably want to meet us head-on.”
“I certainly hope so ...” Magneto said, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“It’s Phoenix,” Cyclops suddenly said; he was receiving information from his wife through their telepathic link. “The first obstacle’s been removed—she’s moving on to Target #2.”
Magneto turned to his fellow conspirators. “We move—quickly.”
Gathering everyone in a magnetic field, the mutant overlord flew them across the river, to land in front of the arts center. Phoenix drifted down from the roof to join them.
“Mission accomplished,” she said. “All the guards on this side of the building, as well as the roof, are sleeping like babies. But we’ve got to move quickly—I heard some chatter over their walkie-talkies: they know we’re here. It won’t be long before they start heading this way.” “All right, Summers, this is where we split up,” Magneto said to Cyclops. “You and your people are the first line of defense. Try and hold off Doom’s lapdogs for as long as you can.”
“Giving you time enough to get to Doom,” Cyclops replied. Magneto smiled without humor. “And all this time I used to think you were quite the dullard.” He turned to his acolytes. “Come, my friends—we mustn’t be late for the final act... especially when we are the ones who are going to write it.” An evil smile twisted his features. “I wonder how the story will end... ?”
Moving quickly but silently, the band of rebellious mutants disappeared into the mist.
“I’m gonna enjoy carvin’ my initials in that puke’s face when the time comes ...” Wolverine muttered.
“Don’t bother with your initials, Logan,” Cyclops said through clenched teeth as he gazed into the living fog that undulated around them. “Write your full name.”
Nightcrawler turned to the young woman standing beside him. “Feeling up to this, Rogue?” He waited for her to reply, but the beautiful powerhouse only stared at the arts center, fidgeting as though eager to be somewhere else. “Rogue?”
The red-and-black-clad X-Man started, as though awakened from a trance. Slowly, she turned toward Kurt. “What?” she asked heatedly.
“I was asking how you felt,” Nightcrawler replied.
“I’m fine, Kurt—just fine, ” she said curtly. “Couldn’t be better— for a woman who just lost the man she loved, that is.” She glared at her teammate. “That answer your question?”
“Indeed,” Kurt replied softly. Rogue grunted and went back to staring at the wall in front of her, as though she were capable of seeing through it.
But looking for what? Kurt wondered, as he gazed at Rogue’s heated expression. It was obvious the girl was running on auto pilot; it would be a miracle if they could actually count on her in this fight, but excluding her from the mission had not been an option—they needed her powers.
But there was something more to her silent rage—something that went beyond mere depression. All that anger, all that grief she was so clearly bottling up inside ever since she had stepped from the hotel bedroom—Kurt knew they had to be released at some point, or they’d eventually destroy her. It was how she would release those emotions when the time came that was beginning to worry him.
Could she be waiting, perhaps, to get her hands on the one person she held responsible for Gambit’s death? The one man who had changed an entire world to suit his twisted needs, thus forcing the X-Men to set out on this nightmarish mission that had cost them so dearly already?
And, if so, would one of her friends be forced into stopping Rogue, before she did something she’d regret for the rest of her life?
Silently, Kurt prayed that he and his fellow X-Men would not have to be placed in such a position. In his heart, though, he knew it was just a matter of time ...
Inside the Concert Hall, the woman known as Lancer sat bolt upright in her seat in the Royal Box—there was a loud buzzing in her ear. It took her a moment to recognize it as the alert for an incoming call on the combination receiver/transmitter she wore clipped to her right ear.
She touched a smal
l contact on the earpiece. “Go.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Sam, but there might be a situation brewing.” The voice that crackled through the receiver belonged to Peter Garibaldi, the White House Chief of Security. He was also one of the few people Lancer allowed to address her by her real name.
“Hang on a second,” she whispered. Moving quietly so as not to disturb the Royal Couple, Lancer rose from her seat and moved to the rear of the box.
“All right, talk to me,” she whispered into the tiny microphone.
“Security detail on the roof spotted a fog rolling in from the river— big one, too.”
“One not scheduled by the Empress to remind her of her last trip to London, I imagine,” Lancer said.
“You got it. Then we lost contact with them.” Garibaldi paused. “The detail on the roof, too.”
Lancer sadly shook her head. “You’d think that walking magnet would’ve had the decency to wait until the show’s over.”
“Some people, huh?” quipped Garibaldi.
“Yeah.” Lancer sighed. “All right, go to full alert—-nobody in, nobody out. I want this place locked up so tight Reed Richards couldn’t squeeze in here through a crack in the plaster. And if somebody does spot Magneto, I want to know from which direction he’s coming, which wall he’s probably going to blow up to get inside, and how long it’ll take him to get to the Concert Hall.”
“Hell, I’ll even give you his aisle and row numbers if I can find my copy of the seating arrangements,” Garibaldi replied.
Lancer chuckled softly. “You do that. And Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“The first person who falls asleep at the switch will answer to me— and they better hope their medical insurance payments are up-to-date when they do. Make sure you pass that bit of encouragement along to the troops, would you?”
“It’ll be an inspiration to us all, Ms. Dunbar,” replied the security chief.
Cutting the connection, Lancer turned around to find von Doom and Ororo watching her.
“Damn...” Lancer muttered. Crouching low, and pulling up the hem of her dark-blue ball gown so she wouldn’t trip, she moved to speak with them, motioning to Harada to join in the conversation.
Von Doom turned back toward the stage to watch Bernadette Peters as she soulfully performed “Someone to Watch Over Me.” The Emperor nodded politely as she looked toward the Royal Box. “Is there a problem, Lancer?” he asked softly.
“Could be,” she admitted, and glanced at Ororo. “An unexpected fog bank that just rolled in from the Potomac—Security’s having some trouble seeing.”
“He comes,” the Emperor murmured. “At last, he comes.” The tone of malicious joy in his voice was unmistakable.
“That would be my guess, Your Majesty,” Lancer said. “But this really isn’t the time or place for a knock-down/drag-out—not with all these people here probably getting caught in the middle.”
“What would you suggest, Lancer?” Ororo asked.
“It might be best if we were to leave, Your Majesty,” Lancer replied.
Miss Peters finished her last song to an energetic round of applause. Von Doom and Ororo joined in, the sound of his metal-encased hands coming together ringing loudly throughout the auditorium. When the applause at last died down with Miss Peters’ exit from the stage, the Emperor turned to his bodyguard, a sneer on his lips.
“You think I should run from him, Lancer? Should I cower in fear, and allow others to snatch from my hands the victory over that wretch that should be mine, and mine alone?”
“Now, you know I didn’t mean it like that, Your Majesty,” Lancer replied. “But you pay me to watch your back, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to do—if you’ll let me.”
“There will be no talk of running, Lancer,” the Emperor stated flatly. “Let that mutant dog come. Doom stands ready for him.”
Lancer sighed. “Somehow, I just knew you were going to say that...”
“Ladies and gentlemen—Miss Elisabeth Braddock.”
A polite smattering of applause greeted Betsy as she stepped out onto the stage of the Concert Hall and nodded in acknowledgment to the orchestra conductor; he smiled and did likewise. The “voices” greeted her, too—mostly blase comments about her being “Worthington’s songbird” from those who recognized her, or questions about who she was, and how in the world she had wound up on the evening’s card from those who didn’t—but she forced them down and out of her mind. Nothing was going to spoil this moment for her. Somewhere, out there in the seemingly endless rows of seats, she knew, Warren was watching her, probably holding his breath and crossing his fingers, trying to look calm while his heart nervously pounded in his chest.
She felt the same way.
Yet, knowing that the most important person in her world was out there, confident in every way that she would have no trouble in getting through what could be the most important moment of her life, she wondered how she could even have thought about disappointing him ... or herself, for that matter.
She reached the microphone without tripping over the stand, or bumping into its foam-covered diaphragm and causing a screech of eardrum-rattling feedback to echo throughout the hall. So far, so good. Now she just had to make it to the end of her set. ..
“Good evening,” she said to the crowd. “Although I’m certain others before me have expressed these same sentiments, I’d just like to say what an honor it is to be here tonight, on such a special occasion.” She glanced toward the Royal Box. “And for such a special honoree.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically, less for her sentiment and more for the man in the iron suit, who smiled politely and nodded in approval.
Betsy smiled demurely. Never let it be said I don’t know how to suck up big-time to royalty. ..
When the applause died down, she turned to the conductor. He nodded and signaled for the orchestra to begin playing the introduction to her first number.
For the next twenty minutes, Betsy opened her heart to the people around her—and the billions watching across the world—singing of hopes dashed and dreams realized, of bitter disappointments and wondrous expectations, of tragic losses and soaring victories.
But most of all, she sang of love. Of its magic and its miraculous healing powers. Of its inspirations and wonderments. Of how she had found its true meaning in the touch of the one man in all the world who meant everything to her—the man who was her life, her heart, her soul.
And when she had finished, when the last sweet note had faded into the shadows around her, an unusual silence enveloped the Concert Hall.
Nervously, eyes tightly shut, Betsy bit down on her lower lip for a moment, wondering what could have gone so wrong that the audience wouldn’t even respond. And if the audience hated her singing, then what must the Royal Family have thought of her? Slowly, she opened her eyes and glanced toward the Royal Box—
—and was stunned to see the Emperor and Empress rise to their feet and applaud.
Following that cue—apparently having been waiting for the Royal Family’s reaction—everyone in the auditorium did likewise. They cheered loudly, the sound growing in volume until the arts center seemed to vibrate.
And as the house lights came up, Betsy looked out into the audience, to find Warren standing front row, center, beaming proudly. He pointed to her and silently mouthed the words, “You did it, Betts. Nobody but you. ”
She stood there, tears of joy running down her cheeks, soaking up the cheers and applause that made the years of frustration, the snide questions about her talent, even the voices in her head seem worth all the struggle; reveling in this moment that she wished might never end— And then the first explosion rocked the building.
17
ROGUE! CLEAR a path!” Cyclops yelled. “Get those people out of there before they get caught in the crossfire!”
_ Nodding in acknowledgment but saying nothing, Rogue flew
toward the south side of the arts center and be
gan hammering away at the marble wall.
Cyclops turned to the other male members of his team. “Wolverine! Nightcrawler! Keep an eye out for more of those Hunters Magneto warned us about—we don’t need a repeat of a few days ago.”
Nightcrawler watched Rogue as she tore away great chunks of the arts center’s fagade, her lovely features now contorted with rage. To Kurt, it looked less like she was creating an emergency exit for the guests trapped inside, and more like she was tunneling into the building to find the true target of her anger. If she made it inside alone . . .
“Cyclops,” Nightcrawler said, “I think, perhaps, I should help Rogue instead . . .”
Cyclops shook his head. “She’s a big girl, Kurt—she can take care of herself.” He turned to Phoenix. “Jean, you’re with me. We have to find Doom before Magneto does.”
“What about Lensherr, Summers?” Wolverine asked. “If I see ’im, ya want me t’escort ’im t’Doom’s private box?”
Cyclops glared at him for a moment, then thrust a warning index finger in Wolverine’s face. “Don’t push me, Logan—not now.”
Wolverine snarled. “Point that finger somewhere else, one-eye— before I go upsettin’ yer wife.”
“Stop it!” Phoenix snapped. “We don’t have time for this!” She stared heatedly at Wolverine. “You want to take your aggressions out on someone, Logan?” She pointed over his shoulder. “Take it out on them!”
Wolverine turned. The artifical fog that was Amanda Voght was lifting, presumably because she was joining Magneto’s forces on the other side of the building. Their position exposed by the light of the full moon, the X-Men had known it wouldn’t take very long for trouble to find them—and now it was here.
Stomping their way was a group of Hunters—a quartet of men and women who, even in a normal world, the X-Men would have considered enemies.
In her mid-twenties, The White Rabbit was an attractive woman who looked more like a disgruntled Playboy Bunny than a super-villain, dressed in white go-go boots and one-piece bathing suit, over which were worn the sort of plaid vest, gold pocketwatch, and blue velvet waistcoat that might have attired her anthropomorphic namesake in the classic story Alice in Wonderland; a ridiculous pair of artificial bunny ears protruded from her shoulder-length blond hair, and a fluffy tail was sewn onto the back of her swimsuit, just above her posterior.
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