First Team

by Robbie MacNiven

  “I’m sure that’s the least we can do,” Graymalkin said. “Are we to assume, also, that there will be no further punishment for our actions?”

  “Consider that chapter now closed,” Cyclops advised. “Just remember what I said. A family looks out for one another. If you need something, if you’re struggling for any reason, if you think you’re lost or alone or afraid, the Institute is here for you. Keep your communicators with you and keep me up to date.”

  “We will,” Cipher promised. “And... thank you, principal.”

  “There’s one more thing you should be aware of,” Cyclops said before they both stood up. “You know that Santo has been out seeking Dan Borkowski too. I should tell you that he intended to strike a Purifier recruitment sermon being run by Prophet Xodus earlier this evening. Since then, I’ve not had any communication from him. It’s possible that he’s been taken prisoner by the Purifiers. Or worse.”

  Cipher and Graymalkin exchanged a look. Vic was one thing, but Rockslide was a fully-fledged X-Man now. What did the Purifiers have up their sleeves that enabled them to take down someone as unrelenting and powerful as Santo?

  “I will continue to try and make contact,” Cyclops said. “But if we do find ourselves facing a worst-case scenario, I may have to call upon you to keep an eye out for Santo as well.”

  “If they’ve taken him prisoner, it’s likely they’ll be holding him wherever Victor’s father is,” Gray hypothesized. “They can’t have that many secret secure locations in the vicinity of New York.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Cyclops said. “Track down one, and you might find them both. And speaking of tracking, I have something that you might find very useful.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Italian-based pizza with extra pepperoni and mushroom slices. Vic inhaled the fresh scents of baked dough and mozzarella before picking out a slice and setting the cardboard box aside. God, sometimes he really missed pizza. The closest takeout place to the Institute was still distant enough to mean they only did bulk orders for dorm parties.

  He bit into the slice and closed his eyes for a few seconds, savoring it. New York pizzas really were a cut above. He’d always demanded one whenever his parents had taken him to the city. Every few years they’d spend about a week with his aunt on Long Island, and Vic would refuse to eat anything but Gabriello’s pizza.

  The abrupt memory of the family outing turned the slick taste in his mouth bitter. He set the slice aside on top of the box, wiped his fingers on the accompanying napkin, and picked up the binoculars he’d bought from the camera shop on West Broadway the previous morning.

  Four days had passed since he had snuck into Esson Electrical. In that time, he’d shifted his base of operations – or, more accurately, his rucksack – to the top of an apartment stack on 18th and 7th, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. Gabriello’s Oven Pizzas was only two blocks away, which meant pizza for dinner every day. It had also allowed him to renew an old friendship with Mr Gabriello himself. The old baker hadn’t seen Vic since he was a kid. How were Mr and Mrs Borkowski? How was home? Was school still going well? Had he applied to college? Vic turned his acting up a notch and lied through his teeth. It hurt, somewhere deep down inside, but it was all necessity now. Hunter, hunted, he was both and he was just doing what he had to in order to survive. He told Mr Gabriello that his parents were fine, that he was in NYC visiting his aunt, and that they all still missed his pizza – that, at least, was no lie. The garrulous big Italian had laughed and whacked him on the shoulder but, when Vic casually asked him to text anytime he happened to see Purifiers out on the streets, his expression had turned dark.

  “You don’t wanna fall foul of those guys, Vic,” he’d said. “They’re causing trouble for your type all over.”

  “Sure,” Vic had replied. “That’s why I want to know if they’re in town. Gotta make sure I give them a wide berth.”

  Mr Gabriello had agreed wholeheartedly and sworn his delivery boys would be on the lookout. The eyes and ears of a dozen busy delivery drivers thus enlisted, Vic had secured his new bolt hole and paid a trip to the New York City Central Library.

  It was a risk, just like visiting Gabriello’s was a risk, but he knew he couldn’t last in New York indefinitely without continuing to throw the dice. He’d made progress at Esson Electrical, and he made progress in the library too. Using a guest pass on one of their computers, he’d hunted for anything on the Sublime Corporation. They were a mid-level New York trader, buying and selling stock to help fund small startup operations, of which Esson Electrical was apparently one. The trail began to go cold after that. Besides a bland website, he could find little evidence of Esson Electrical actually doing electrical work. The other startups were much the same. The Sublime Corp board were similarly opaque. There were only a few trustees listed on their website, and company shares and holding listings were threadbare. At least he had an address for the headquarters.

  He’d checked into a grimy Long Island motel that night under a false name, mostly just for a shower. All the while he’d kept his skin tone “human” and his hood up to hide his skull’s carapace. It was a deceptively simple trick, but one that could serve in a pinch. He’d passed himself off as a kid with a rough skin condition before. After spending a dreamless night in a real bed, he’d checked out and taken up his new residence along New York’s skyline. Being close to Gabriello’s was one benefit of his change of location, but the main one was that his vantage point – nestled between two fuse boxes and a mess of antennas and bird droppings – afforded him a half-decent view of the front of the Sublime Corporation headquarters. The towering skyscraper dominated the intersection at the end of the street, its seemingly endless ranks of windows reflecting back the sunlight throughout the warm early August afternoons.

  Vic adjusted the folding chair he’d bought with the binoculars and settled back onto his elbows, peering over the edge of the rooftop ledge. The street stretched away, a corridor of tiny, churning people and vehicles framed by the vast blocks of glass, steel, and red brick that towered like cyclopean gods on either side. At times like these, he was thankful he had a head for heights. He trained in on the far corner of the street, adjusting the focus ring to bring the base of Sublime Corp’s soaring headquarters into sharp relief.

  There was the usually steady flow of suits and ties entering and leaving the building from its frontal glass façade, a sight he’d grown accustomed to in the last few days. He now regretted calling the time spent under the Hudson Yards bridge monotonous. It was practically scintillating compared to this. Still, he forced himself to focus. He had to stay sharp, for Dad. If he didn’t, he might as well go back to the Institute and admit defeat.

  He was looking for anything abnormal or out of the ordinary visitors, but for the most part he was trying to gauge a way in. He’d already passed by the front of the building twice, hood up, pretending to be looking for a cab as he checked out the security arrangements on the main door. There was at least one guard, usually two on at all times, and there looked to be scanners inside the foyer beyond the doors.

  He’d checked out the side entrances as well. There was a loading bay and several fire exits, but none appeared particularly busy and he had no doubt they were alarmed. This place was the real deal, not Esson Electrical. The best he’d been able to come up with so far was hitching a ride in on one of the mail trucks he’d seen delivering to the building in the early mornings and evenings.

  He kept watch for another hour, trying not to let his mind wander, sweltering in the afternoon heat. Eventually he was forced to retreat to the shade of the roof’s access stairwell, needing to regulate his body temperature. Camping out on Manhattan roofs in summer was a dirty, stinking, heatstroke-inducing job. It was certainly a long way from how he’d imagined his first mission playing out.

  He allowed himself to doze off, shutting out the bustle of the city rising up from far b
elow. He awoke to the buzzing of the communicator in his X-suit’s pocket. Sitting up sharply, he fumbled for it and flipped the screen.

  “Hey, kid,” Mr Gabriello’s gruff voice said over the speakers. “You about or what?”

  “Was just grabbing a nap,” Vic admitted, trying not to sound tired. “What’s up Mr G?”

  “One of my boys was delivering to the GenWave offices along 7th and he said he saw a bunch of kooks in black robes heading along the street. You said you wanted to know if any of those sorts were in town?”

  “I did,” Vic said, scrambling back to his chair and almost knocking his binoculars off the ledge and onto the street below. “Thanks, Mr Gabriello. I owe you big!”

  “Anytime, kid,” came the response as Vic trained the binoculars back on the Sublime Corp tower. He got it lined up and focused just in time to see a hint of black and white being ushered through the front doors by security. Had that been Xodus? It looked as though at least one figure had been in fully white robes rather than black? Whoever it was, it had to be Purifiers. That meant it was finally showtime.

  Vic hefted his rucksack up from where he’d concealed it beneath a ventilation cover and delved inside for the robes and mask he’d stolen in Fairbury. He’d been planning this since discovering the location of the Sublime building. Well, planning was a rather grandiose word. His first objective was to get inside the building and doing it while the Purifiers were in town seemed like his most certain bet. He’d worried that the covert handover of cash and weapons he’d seen under the rail bridge meant that cultists wouldn’t be visiting Sublime Corp in person, but apparently not. This was his opportunity.

  He pulled on the robes – foul and musky enough to make him retch as he plunged his head into the black folds – and settled the leering mask into place before heading for the fire escape. He descended, struggling somewhat in the robes, and stepped out onto the street. He felt ridiculous in the getup, and the horrible mask once again made it difficult to see anything, but he forced himself across the road and along to the front of the towering Sublime building. Get in character, he told himself. Would a Purifier be feeling awkward and embarrassed? No, he’d be confident in his sacred robes, proud of the fearful glances passers-by gave him. He was above earthly, mortal concerns. All he cared about was saving humanity by purging it of the filthy mutants.

  It wasn’t an easy role to play, but nothing drove character acting quite like necessity. As he climbed the steps to the front doors of the building, having to hike up his robe skirts as he went, a security guard blocked his way.

  “Late for the party?” the large, jowly man demanded. Now it was all just down to self-confidence and a sharp wit. Vic was fine with that.

  “I have a vital message for my great prophet,” he said, trying to sound gruff, aided somewhat by the muffled effects of the mask. He was already overheating again in the accursed garments.

  “I’m going to need to see some ID,” the guard said, his expression one of disgust – clearly even Sublime’s staff didn’t like dealing with the cultists.

  “The only identification I require is my purity brand,” Vic said, completely winging it now. He kept his hands clasped in front of him and concealed in the sleeves of his robes. If he had to take them out, he could color-shift to a human skin tone, but it was hardly ideal.

  “I must see the prophet,” he went on, pressing desperately. “The fires of damnation await all who would impede me!”

  That was how they always talked, right? The guard looked unimpressed. He took a step back and turned to speak into a hand radio. “My colleague will escort you up,” he told Vic a moment later, his tone dispassionate.

  Vic considered telling him he was sure he could find his own way, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He waited by the front doors before a second security staffer appeared and stared straight ahead to avoid the looks of the suits passing in and out of the building. He could never have been a cultist, he decided. Even playing the role, the secondhand awkwardness was just too much.

  The second guard appeared, a shorter, goateed man with a suspicious, sneering expression. He gestured at Vic. “This way then,” he said. “Stick close. Mr L doesn’t like your kind wandering free at headquarters.”

  “As you wish,” Vic said, wondering who “Mr L” was as he followed the guard through the glass front doors. A large, tiled foyer lay before them, sectioned off by security gates. The guard led Vic through an open, deactivated one and on to an elevator in the lobby beyond. Inside he punched up the thirty-fourth floor – the third from the top, apparently – and waited.

  “So, busy week?” Vic asked in his gruffest of voices. He knew he shouldn’t speak, that he should just stand in silence for the five minutes it took to reach their destination, but it was too painful. He cursed himself silently as the guard just looked at him, lip curling slightly. The man said nothing.

  He stood sweltering in his stolen robes, wondering what he’d gotten himself into this time. He was in, yes, but at what cost? He’d hoped to break free at some point, get rid of the robes and go chameleon so he could start snooping around. Sublime Corp was clearly up to some seriously shady business, the sort of stuff that trips to the New York Central Library weren’t going to expose. But now he was in it seemed he’d be getting ferried directly to the top office. It looked as though he was going to meet Mr L, whether he wanted to or not.

  The elevator stopped half a dozen times on its way up. On every occasion the suited men and women who’d called it hesitated on the threshold when they saw who was currently occupying it. No one got in.

  There was a chiming sound. The thirty-fourth floor. Vic steeled himself as the door rumbled open. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Some sort of den of villainy, replete with weapons racks and torture implements. Instead, an overwhelmingly bland office corridor presented itself, complete with a tough, blue-gray carpet, white walls and foam ceiling squares. At the end of it sat a black door, slightly ajar.

  The security guard stepped out, glancing back after Vic. He began to follow down the corridor. The only break in the corporate sterility was a few pieces of artwork hanging on the otherwise undecorated walls. They were modern, abstract-looking, just long stretches of white canvas smeared and splashed with red paint. They made Vic feel uncomfortable.

  As they reached the black door, he realized he could hear raised voices from beyond. The security guard seemed to think better about going any further. He paused and eased the door further open, then nodded for Vic to step through.

  “I was more than clear,” barked someone from beyond the door. “Under no circumstances were you or any of your idiot fanatics to visit me here!”

  Vic briefly contemplated trying to take the guard out, but even with the element of surprise he knew there was no way he could manage that without alerting whoever was in the room, even in the midst of an argument. Instead he pushed past the glaring man and passed through the doorway.

  The space beyond was large, probably taking up the entire tower block floor. Rows of tinted windows offered a near-uninterrupted 270-degree view of the jagged Manhattan skyline, while the floor underfoot consisted of black tiling that had been polished to a reflective sheen. The room was largely empty, but for a few strange-looking, warped, black ornaments and more of the abstract art on the wall either side of Vic. That, and the large semi-circular desk that sat in the very center of the room. Like the floor and the sculptures, it was glossy black, like freshly spilt oil. A section of it had risen up to expose a monitor screen, but apart from that its surface was completely empty.

  There were Purifiers already in the room. Xodus was one of them, standing off to one side of the desk, his serene golden mask a counterpoint to the anger that charged the air. Three others flanked him, one in black and two in white, the latter pair a sharp contrast to the black surfaces surrounding them. Vic experienced the usual jolt of revulsion at the sight of t
he cultists, but he didn’t get a chance to stoke his anger – the other figure in the room, the man sitting behind the desk, had already noticed him.

  He was a slight-looking figure with delicate, sharp features, tanned, and with a black goatee that was as impeccably groomed as his suit and red-and-black striped tie. At first glance he would have appeared little different from any of the hundreds of other sharply turned out, image-conscious CEOs within a five-mile radius of the center of New York City. But two things disrupted the look. The first was the top of the man’s head – the flesh was bloated and distended, as though his brain had swollen and ruptured his skull, leaving the skin lumpen and taut. The second incongruence was the man’s expression. It bore the rawest, most terrible anger Vic had ever seen.

  It didn’t seem to animate his face the way rage normally did. It didn’t leave him with a throbbing vein in his temple, or ruddy cheeks, or a clenched jaw. But it was there, in his pale gray eyes. While the face remained as controlled and refined as Prophet Xodus’s angelic mask, those eyes blazed with a deep, almost maniacal wrath. They were the eyes of a man who appeared so unused to being disobeyed that they were now almost crackling with displeasure. Vic was forced to endure their fury as they turned on him. He nearly did an about-face and left immediately. He was frozen though, trapped in that gaze as he watched the wrath turn to something just as bad – a chilling curiosity.

  “I told you, our communications are compromised,” Prophet Xodus said in his bass, mechanical-laced intonation. It seemed he hadn’t yet noticed where the man behind the desk was looking. “The one who sprang our trap wasn’t the one you were seeking, but he may still be useful.”

  It was clear the man behind the desk wasn’t listening any more. He cut off Xodus, without taking his eyes off Vic. “Who… is that?”

  There was a rustle of robes as the four Purifiers turned in unison to look at him. Vic remained rooted to the spot, lanced by the suited man’s penetrating gaze, like a moth pinned to a lepidopterist’s specimen board. He had to move, to say something, anything, but he couldn’t.