“I can still give you a lesson in manners, you psychotic midget!”
Fitzroy had fallen for the distraction, talking when he should have attacked. Wolverine was fully recovered now. Not only that, but his enemy’s expression was priceless. He had the quick temper of immaturity, and he had let himself become riled. A cruel grin spread across Wolverine’s face, and he added: “You ain’t even learned how to grow facial hair yet. Time for your first razor, bub; get that green fluff off your chin!”
It might have been a childish insult, but it worked. With a yell of fury, Fitzroy powered his armor across the room, his hands outstretched to wrap around his tormentor’s throat. Wolverine was ready for him.
Fitzroy probably expected his target to try to avoid him. Instead, Wolverine counter-attacked. The two deadly foes collided in midair, and hit the ground fighting.
Rogue’s urgent, less than ladylike departure from the ballroom drew a few bemused looks and raised eyebrows from the other patrons. They were nothing, however, compared to the expressions of the two bouncers in the corridor outside, as the Southern X-Man literally flew at them. She downed them with simultaneous punches to the jaws, before they could raise the alarm. She touched down and paused for a second, listening. A loud crash resounded from a nearby side passage. Rogue kicked off her high heels, hitched up her impractical skirt and ran towards the source of the disturbance.
A second crash pinpointed the exact room. She shoulder-charged the door without hesitation, taking it not only off its latch but off its hinges too. It thudded to the ground, and Rogue felt foolish, in the sudden silence that followed, standing in the doorway in her fancy clothing, with her hair tumbling over her face.
The albino woman in the red outfit seemed amused. “An associate of yours, I take it?”
Nightcrawler grinned awkwardly. “Ah, yes. Scribe, allow me to introduce Rogue.”
Rogue took a step into the room, confused and wary. “What’s going on, Kurt?”
“I must apologize. I called for assistance a little prematurely. As you can see, everything is under control now.” Nightcrawler indicated the two Hellfire Club agents who were sprawled, unconscious, on the floor. There had obviously been a fight here: chairs had been overturned, and books pulled from the shelves.
“And who’s the lady? Call me a cynic, but I can’t help noticing that clasp at her neck: you know, the one with the trident symbol that looks mighty familiar.”
Scribe pursed her scarlet-painted lips into a smile, which was presumably meant to be friendly. However, her keen eyes continued to stare at the new arrival, and Rogue had the uncomfortable feeling of being sized up. “I don’t blame you for being suspicious,” said Scribe. “And indeed you are correct, I am a member of the Hellfire Club.”
Rogue clicked her fingers, as well as she could through her gloves. “I remember the name now. Scribe. You were with the English branch. Their paper-pusher, weren’t you?”
“I am the Red Rook of London’s Inner Circle,” said Scribe, with a hint of irritation.
Rogue ventured further into the room, making her way towards Nightcrawler but taking the long route. She kept her eyes firmly on Scribe as she circled her, alert for any hint of deception. She didn’t know what it was exactly, but there was something about this woman that made Rogue distrust her. “I thought the English club went bust,” she said. “Must be an awful bore for y’all, a Red Rook without a chessboard to play on. So, what’s the skinny? You taking sides with the Black King now?”
“As a temporary measure, until I take my rightful place among the new red royalty.”
Nightcrawler shot her a glance. “Although you could say that Scribe is playing for both sides already. She and I have come to an understanding.”
“Uh-huh. That sounds like the Hellfire Club: so used to acting like snakes that they can’t even trust each other. Not like the X-Men, eh, ‘Nightcrawler’?”
It had taken her a while to work it out, but in the end she was just fast enough. Nightcrawler-if that’s who he truly was-leapt at her, but Rogue took him by surprise. She plucked him out of the air and hurled him at Scribe. With dazzling speed, Scribe ducked beneath the human projectile and sprang towards Rogue, her fingers outstretched. Rogue put up an arm to protect her face. Scribe cut through her sleeve, but seemed to realize that she ought not to touch the exposed skin beneath. Rogue, in turn, tried to land punch after punch, but Scribe ducked and feinted and avoided each one, as if performing a speeded-up dance.
“Your instincts are good, I’ll give you that,” said Scribe. “What gave us away?”
“Whoever your friend is,” Rogue grunted, “he does a lousy German accent.”
Scribe was too fast for Rogue, and Rogue too tough for Scribe. They could have kept up this pointless battle all day, neither hurting the other. But Rogue realized that Scribe was just trying to keep her occupied, to distract her from the real danger. She forced herself to ignore the Red Rook, to look for whoever or whatever was in Night-crawler’s form. She had thrown him into a wall, stunning him, but he was already getting to his feet again.
She barreled towards him, not caring if Scribe was in her way or not, and caught him in the midriff. He hit the wall again, the breath knocked out of him. Rogue drew back a fist to send him down for the count, but hesitated at the thought of striking a friend. ‘Nightcrawler’ could have been a simulacrum, of course, or a shape-changer, but she was beginning to recall what little she had read about Scribe in the X-Men’s files, and she knew she had previously worked with a man who could possess the bodies of others.
“You’ve realized the truth, haven’t you?” her enemy taunted her, his English accent sounding strange in Kurt Wagner’s voice. “Mount-joy’s the name, and I'm in the driving seat of this body at the moment. You can’t hurt me without hurting your teammate.”
Rogue gritted her teeth. “If you’re still in there, Kurt, I’m sorry about this. Truly, I am.”
But then, before she could hit him, Scribe jumped onto her back and snatched the glove from her upraised fist.
It took Rogue a second to work out what to do next. She shifted her aim, intending to hit Nightcrawler’s body in the stomach, where his costume would protect him-protect them both-from the danger that her skin posed. By that time, it was too late.
He teleported away, leaving Rogue facing a blank wall and engulfed in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. Disoriented, she turned around ... and recoiled, shocked to find Nightcrawler’s face an inch from hers. He grinned at her, wrapped his hands around her head, pulled her closer and locked his lips to hers.
Rogue’s eyes widened in horror. She tried to push him away, to break the deadly kiss, but she could already feel the change, weakening them both, and Kurt Wagner-the real Kurt Wagner-was inside her mind, screaming: Don’t worry about me, meine Freundin, just get him away from you! He was trying not to fight her, to be as supportive as he could, but it didn’t make the situation any easier to cope with. In that frenetic, dazed, upside-down moment, Rogue still couldn’t tell which thoughts were his and which hers.
She screamed, and Nightcrawler was screaming too. As her vision blurred, she put everything she had into one powerful punch, hoping Kurt could forgive her, knowing they had already held onto each other for far too long. She was vaguely aware of the spectral form of a bearded man in a brown suit, fleeing from Nightcrawler’s body as it crumpled to the floor. She prayed she hadn’t harmed her friend too badly. She was on the floor herself, although she didn’t remember falling. Her head was a mass of pain and, as she tried to focus on the carpet beneath her hands and knees, she saw that her skin had turned indigo blue.
“Very neat,” said a man’s voice: Mountjoy’s, it had to be. “The X-Men defeat each other. So, what do we do with them now?”
“You heard Fitzroy’s orders,” said Scribe. “We kill them!”
And at that point, despite her best efforts, Rogue blacked out, her last coherent thought being to wonder why nobody else had answered Nightcra
wler’s emergency signal.
There weren’t many lights on at the back of the Hellfire Club building, so Storm picked an illuminated window at random and struck it with a lightning bolt, blowing out the glass. A fierce gust of wind whipped the blinds up and inwards, out of her way, as she spread out her cloak behind her and glided smoothly through her makeshift entrance.
She had picked the wrong room. A middle-aged man in the seventeenth-century costume of the club’s elite leapt out of his chair and cowered behind his desk, knocking over a bottle of malt whiskey in the process. Without so much as an apology for the intrusion, Storm hurried past him, pulled open the door and emerged into the corridor beyond.
A short way to her left, a rectangle of electric light spilled onto the carpet, and she could hear voices. She ran in that direction, and arrived in the doorway of a richly furnished office to find Nightcrawler and Rogue lying in the debris of a recent battle.
She took in the situation at a glance. Nightcrawler was unconscious, lying next to the wall at an awkward angle, blood trickling from a cut to his temple. Rogue’s eyes were closed too, and she moaned fitfully to herself. Her skin was dark blue, and she sported a tail. Storm always made a point of keeping herself up to date with the X-Men’s many foes, so she immediately recognized the man and the woman who had defeated her teammates. Scribe had a machine-gun: standard club issue, probably taken from one of the two agents who were also present and down. She was standing over Nightcrawler, pressing the muzzle of the weapon to his head. Mountjoy was watching, evidently enjoying the prospect of an execution.
“Get away from him, Scribe!” bellowed Storm. Even before she spoke, she had summoned a wind, which howled through the confines of the office and snatched the lightweight gun out of Scribe’s hands. But Scribe reacted so quickly that she was upon Storm before she had even completed the command. She wrestled with her foe, obviously realizing that the wind-rider’s powers were little use to her at such close range. Storm, however, had also realized this long ago, and had trained extensively in hand-to-hand combat. She broke Scribe’s hold and seized her wrist, twisting it around behind her back and forcing the scarlet-clad villain down onto her knees. At the same time, she blew Mountjoy away—knowing that, if he touched her, the fight was over-and created a localized rain shower over Nightcrawler’s head, hoping he wasn’t so injured that a splash of cold water wouldn’t revive him.
Scribe twisted out of Storm’s grip, and coiled a foot around her leg, almost tripping her. While the X-Man was still off-balance, her foe punched her in the face, and dodged out of the way of her counterattack. “You bitch,” she snarled, “you won’t lay a hand on me again!” She slashed at Storm’s cheek with her fingernails, leaving four shallow cuts.
Storm didn’t respond to the threat. She gritted her teeth and concentrated on the air around her, sensing its currents and merging a part of her mind with them, coaxing them, guiding them and ultimately controlling them. Scribe broke off her attack, her white hair whipping around her face, as a veritable tornado sprang up inside Sebastian Shaw’s office, with her at its epicenter. Papers, books, and-as the winds picked up—even furniture were scattered. Buffeted from all sides, Scribe did her best to remain standing, and even to press her attack. But, as good as her reflexes were, she couldn’t possibly react to every sudden change in the wind's direction—unlike her opponent, who knew about each one in advance.
As Scribe lost her footing, Storm marched towards her. The Red Rook saw her coming and tried to back away, but she was blown instead into the X-Man’s arms. Storm punched her—once, twice, three times-until her knees buckled and she fell. Then, the wind-rider allowed her miniature tornado to die down, and looked for Mountjoy.
She didn’t see him. But Rogue-still exhibiting some of Nightcrawler’s external characteristics-was on her feet now, facing her, and it only took a second for Ororo to realize that something was wrong. Something about her posture that was unfamiliar.
“Bright lady,” she breathed in horror, “please, no!”
‘Rogue’ grinned, and slowly, deliberately, removed her remaining glove. “You know,” said Mountjoy, in the voice of Storm’s friend and teammate, “this body is just bursting with power. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. What a pity, then, that the mind of its real owner can’t cope. While Rogue curls herself into a metaphorical ball and shuts herself off from the world, I can make full use of her abilities. I don’t have to hold myself back for fear of what it might do to your poor friend’s fragile psyche. I only have to touch you, Storm.”
“I won’t let you,” said Storm, defiantly.
“Ah, but won’t you indeed? This body is strong. Can you stop me without destroying it?”
“Rogue would want me to try!” Storm was already preparing to summon a lightning bolt, knowing that nothing less would penetrate Rogue’s hide, fearing that what Mountjoy said could well be true.
“Might not be necessary, sugar,” said Rogue—and Storm saw that a change had suddenly come over her. She seemed weaker. Her face was contorted with pain and she was clenching her fists and shaking as if engaged in some titanic inner struggle. Not only that, but her voice had regained its familiar Southern lilt. This could be a trick on Mountjoy’s part, but Storm doubted it. Rogue was fighting him for control of her body.
For an instant, Rogue looked scared, and Mountjoy’s English accent emerged from her mouth again. “What are you doing? This is impossible! You can’t—!” Then, as if a switch had been thrown, Rogue was back. “Can’t I? You made a mistake, Mountjoy. To take over my body, you had to touch me first. Even as you wormed your way in here, I absorbed a measure of your powers. You tried to take me over...”
Storm watched the bizarre battle, helpless to intervene. She gasped as her teammate’s form altered again, her features lengthening, hair appearing on her chin, her very clothes darkening and changing shape until, in appearance at least, she was more Mountjoy than Rogue. But it was certainly Rogue who put the look of grim satisfaction on the combined entity’s face and, using its mouth, completed her sentence: “Now, I’m taking you over!”
But the fight wasn’t over yet. As Rogue’s features began to reassert themselves, she turned to Storm and, rigid with effort, grunted: “Ororo, I can’t hold him much longer. Take ’Crawler and get out of here. I’ll follow you. Go!”
Nightcrawler was beginning to come round, but so was Scribe. Storm gathered up the injured X-Man and made for the window-but, groggy as he was, Kurt struggled in her arms. She let him go, and he practically fell on top of Shaw’s computer, which had been blown off the desk and was lying on the floor, the screen of its monitor broken. He took a CD out of its drive, and grinned weakly. “Don’t know what’s on here, but it’s something, right?” Then he fell against Storm, and lost consciousness again.
Wolverine was running rings around Fitzroy. He gave himself over to his animal instincts, letting them tell him when to attack and when to withdraw. He couldn’t cut through the young mutant’s armor, but he could use strength and leverage against him. He had brought Fitzroy crashing down to the floor four times already. Each time, he had swooped in and made an attempt to pry his omnium mesh helmet from his head. He hadn’t been successful yet, but he figured he had at least loosened it.
Fitzroy, in turn, had punched him, head-butted him and tried with all his might to maintain a hold upon his slippery foe. He had probably drained enough energy from Wolverine to power a small town for a month. As long as he took it in small enough doses for the Canadian X-Man to recover between each one-and as long as he couldn’t use the energy offensively-Wolverine didn’t care too much. But he remained aware that, were Fitzroy to get a proper grip on him for any length of time, then that would be the end of him. It made for a long, grinding battle, but Wolverine took consolation in the certainty that, even with his efforts magnified by his bio-armor, his opponent had to be feeling the strain more than he was.
Inevitably, Fitzroy made another mistake. He cursed as he was
outmaneuvered and knocked off his feet, gravity and his heavy shell doing the rest. Wolverine was upon him again before he could stand, searching with his claws for a seam in his armor. He grunted with satisfaction as he found one. With the sound of wrenching metal, the helmet came off at last.
By that time, Fitzroy had reached up and seized both of Wolverine’s wrists.
They glared into each other’s eyes. Sweat was pouring down Fitzroy’s face, but his expression was exultant. “You came too close, X-Man. You’re dead, now!”
“Wanna bet, bub?”
Wolverine could feel his life force fading, and see it crackling inside Fitzroy’s chest-plate. The powered grips of two armored hands would be difficult to break, perhaps impossible. But there was another way.
He retracted his claws and pushed down with all his strength. Fitzroy, who had expected him to try to pull away, was taken by surprise. Suddenly, Wolverine’s fists were resting on his face-and the metal claw housings that were built into his gloves were pointing squarely at his eyes. “You just saw what adamantium can do to omnium mesh,” he growled. “What do you think it can do to you?” Fitzroy set his jaw defiantly, so Wolverine spelled out his threat: “Give up now, or I’ll dig my way into your brain, by the messy route! Better believe I can kill you before you can kill me.”
“OK, OK, I give!” whined Fitzroy, sounding like a child.
“That’s a good boy,” said Wolverine. He could already feel his body repairing the damage, restoring him to health. “Now, since you’re in such an obliging mood, I’ve got a few questions to ask you-about your boss, and a certain friend of mine.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Trev.”
Fitzroy spat in his interrogator’s face. Wolverine snarled, and considered popping his claws after all.
But suddenly, all hell broke loose. A familiar bamf heralded an unexpected arrival. A blue-skinned Rogue teleported into the room, and crumpled to the floor with a cry of: “Logan, help me!” At the same time, a Hellfire Club goon leapt up from his prone position, picked up a chair and hurled it at Wolverine’s head. Wolverine caught it, and sent the impromptu missile back the way it had come, but Fitzroy used the twin distraction. He pushed up hard, throwing the X-Man away from him and climbing back to his feet. He hesitated, as if wondering whether to attack again or just cut his losses. His decision was made easier as Storm swept into the office, carrying an unconscious Nightcrawler. Fitzroy dived through his dimensional portal and disappeared. Infuriated, and scenting blood, Wolverine made to follow-but his instincts told him better. He drew back, as the portal suddenly snapped shut: a deliberate attempt on the White Rook’s part to cut any pursuers in half.
The Legacy Quest Trilogy Page 11
