X-Men

by Stuart Moore

  “Colossus?”

  The big X-Man gave a hesitant smile. “I cannot waste this suit.”

  “Logan?” Cyclops twisted his head through the limo’s barrier window. “You got the worst of it. You ready for this?”

  Wolverine stared at Cyclops for a moment, then turned toward Jean. A dark look crossed his face. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough to make Storm shudder.

  “Always,” he said.

  * * *

  A STEADY rain fell as Scott Summers approached the ornate wooden door, holding the umbrella above Jean’s head. She nuzzled in close to him, her face warm against his shoulder.

  You know I could telekinetically repel the raindrops, she said in his mind.

  That wouldn’t be very “low profile,” he replied. Would it?

  He cocked his head and ran a mental check. Jean had hooked up the X-Men’s minds in a sort of extended network, allowing Cyclops to access any of their thoughts, one at a time or in combination, by clicking a series of mental “icons.” It was unquestionably the best communication system they’d ever used—on more than one occasion it had saved their lives. But tonight, for some reason, it made him uneasy.

  Ororo and Peter are already on-site, Jean said. Nothing to report yet.

  A costumed attendant wearing a powdered wig and velvet vest swung open the door. Cyclops nodded, handed the man his umbrella, and held out his arm to Jean. Together they stepped inside.

  The room was vast, multileveled, filled with men in three-piece suits and women in long elegant gowns. At first glance it resembled any old-line private club, with freestanding bars in the corners, tables piled high with appetizers, framed photos and paintings hung on papered walls. A grand staircase dominated the center of the room, sporting a bright crimson carpet liner. Swing music filled the air, just loud enough to make conversation difficult.

  At a closer look, though, the true nature of the establishment became clear. The photos were hundred-year-old shots of women in corsets, posing with whips. A man in an executioner’s hood roamed the crowd; the waitresses wore high heels, fishnet stockings, and ultra-short skirts. A huge banner hung above the staircase:

  DO WHAT THOU WILT

  They crossed the room, passing a table where an octogenarian in a tuxedo sat leering at a waitress in her twenties. The Hellfire Club, Scott said. Is this it?

  Jean raised an eyebrow. It’s about what I expected.

  Find Storm, okay? Scott said. And make sure Peter’s doing all right. I’ll check in with Wolverine and Nightcrawler.

  Jean gave him a brief smile and an even briefer kiss. Then she turned toward the staircase and glided away, black dress flowing in her wake. He watched her for a long moment, inhaling the old-world blend of cologne and pipe tobacco pervading the air.

  Then he turned to the menu in his mind and tapped a pair of icons. Kurt?

  The link went active immediately—he could feel Nightcrawler’s and Wolverine’s minds on the circuit, though neither of them spoke.

  Everything good?

  Ja, Nightcrawler said. We are—

  We’re in the flamin’ sewers. Wolverine’s tone was harsh. Just like you wanted, boss.

  Good, Cyclops replied. I know it’s nasty work, but we need you in position.

  We are, Scott, Nightcrawler responded. In position, I mean. The rain is still coming down heavily… water is rising down here. A pause. And, uh…

  Kurt? What is it?

  Scott, there are extra power and communications cables down here. The Hellfire Club appears to be drawing a tremendous amount of electricity… as much as an entire skyscraper.

  That’s odd.

  And, uh… Nightcrawler hesitated again. Well, Wolverine decided to, er, attack the cables with his claws.

  Elf. Wolverine’s smile came through over the circuit. That was supposed t’be a surprise.

  I told you, Logan, Cyclops said. We’re trying to keep a low profile.

  Relax, Summers. All I did was strip some of the insulation off the power lines. Water’s rising down here… when the water hits ’em, they ought to short out. Blow every light in the club, I bet.

  Cyclops hesitated. To the left of the central staircase he could see the tall, distinctive figures of Storm and Colossus, surrounded by a crowd of tuxedo-clad businessmen. He spotted the eye-catching red of Jean’s hair on the other side of the room, next to one of the small cocktail bars.

  He frowned. What was she doing?

  Anything goes wrong tonight, Logan continued, I figured a surprise blackout might come in handy.

  It’ll be a surprise to us, too, you know. But, um, fine. Stay in position—Cyclops out. He cut the connection, switched links. Jean?

  No answer.

  Jean!

  Still nothing. A hint of panic ran through him.

  Scott?

  Jean! What are you doing over there? You sound… far away.

  I think I saw something.

  What kind of something?

  I’m not sure. Her “voice” was even quieter now. B-R-B.

  Jean?

  Cyclops? That was Ororo. Just reporting in.

  One moment, Storm. Jean?

  Again, no answer. He scanned the room again, but she was gone.

  What is it, Storm?

  Peter and I find ourselves… uncomfortably popular. We have already been propositioned multiple times, in assorted combinations.

  Under other circumstances, Cyclops might have found that amusing. Instead he frowned, and started moving toward the small bar where he’d last caught sight of Jean.

  At the moment, Storm continued, we are reluctantly engaged in a vigorous discussion of nineteenth-century paddling techniques.

  That’s different. How, uh, how is Peter doing?

  I believe he regrets leaving the Motherland.

  As Cyclops pushed his way toward the back of the room, the crowd grew thicker. Two incredibly drunk men lurched toward him, their arms wrapped around a waitress. The smile on her face looked extremely strained. He dodged out of their way, gritting his teeth.

  Chin up, Ororo, he sent, and he knew it was lame. Just see what you can—

  Scott—

  Jean again. Her thoughts were barely audible.

  Jean? What’s going on?

  Scott, I don’t think I can fight him.

  Fight who? He spun around, searching the crowd. Jean, where are you?

  He twisted sideways, almost colliding with a wall of laughing businessmen in tuxedos. He grabbed hold of the banister at the foot of the staircase to steady himself.

  Can’t fight him can’t fight it…

  Jean, talk to me. Tell me what you’re fighting!

  It’s me. It’s inside me.

  Again he searched the room, left to right and back again. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t even see Colossus and Storm anymore. Just drunken partygoers and tired, reluctant women serving up drinks and pained smiles to the men who’d hired them. Then another “voice” cut into the circuit. A man’s voice, deep and loud and commanding.

  My beautiful flower…

  Cyclops whirled, seeking the source, and found himself facing the staircase. When he looked up, his mouth dropped in amazement. Jean was climbing the stairs, just a few steps up, her fiery hair cascading down the pale skin of her back. A man in buccaneer boots, a silk shirt, and a velvet jacket guided her slowly upward, his hand wrapped firmly around her shoulder.

  “Jean!” Cyclops cried. “Jean, wait!” She stopped a few steps from the top, but she didn’t turn around. The man glanced at her, then swiveled his head to look down. His neatly trimmed beard framed a lupine smile.

  The man’s thought echoed in Cyclops’s mind: …almost in full bloom.

  Wyngarde, he realized. This was Jason Wyngarde, the man she’d met on Kirinos. Cyclops had seen him in Jean’s thoughts, back in New Mexico.

  Jean? Why is he—hey! Cyclops took off after them—but he stopped short as a gloved hand grabbed his arm. He jerked to a halt, still o
n the bottom step, and whirled around.

  Emma Frost.

  She stood in full Hellfire garb, cape swirling around her. A few passing drunks hovered nearby, leering and muttering obscenities, but on the whole she hardly stood out among the costumed multitude. Cyclops wrenched his arm away, and started up the staircase.

  Don’t, Emma warned in his mind.

  Wyngarde and Jean had almost reached the top of the stairs. As Cyclops moved toward them, Emma seemed to glide up past him. She stopped a step above, blocking his way.

  “Move,” he said.

  You won’t like what you find.

  He hesitated. The look on her face wasn’t cruel or even playful. It almost looked like… sympathy.

  Your link with her, Emma said. It’s gone.

  With a shock, he realized it was true. He could no longer sense Jean’s thoughts—their newfound intimacy, their enhanced mental bond, had vanished. He couldn’t sense any of the other X-Men, either. The team was deaf, dumb, and blind.

  “What have you done?” he demanded.

  Me? she responded. Nothing. Emma reached down to touch him on the shoulder. She’s just gone.

  He peered past her. Up above, Wyngarde and Jean turned around a corner, passing out of sight.

  Trust me, Emma said. Sometimes it’s better to walk in the shadows than stare at the sun.

  He lifted his glasses and shot a narrow energy blast past her head. The beam struck an ornate carving atop the banister, shattering it into wooden shards. Emma cried out, startled, as a chunk of wood struck her cheek. Losing her balance, she stumbled down the stairs, scattering drunken men in her wake. A couple of them reached out for her. She managed to dodge them, but just barely.

  “Get out of my head,” Cyclops snarled, sprinting up the stairs. A group of businessmen and women, all in tuxedos and evening wear, stood blocking the landing. He shoved them aside and sprinted down a corridor lined with old wallpaper, dimly lit by hanging bulbs. Muffled laughter and moaning sounds leaked through the walls on either side. He ignored the noises and pressed forward.

  Jean!

  He ran, seemingly forever, twisting and turning down madly winding hallways. A sense of futility settled over him, as if he’d been running down the same blind alleys, the same dark corridors, fighting the same useless battles all his life. With no Jean, no voice in his mind to guide him or warn him or whisper assurances in his ear.

  Up ahead, to the left, a door was just closing. He caught a glimpse of a woman’s bare thigh, pale, muscular, rising out of a polished black boot fastened with high laces. He cried out her name—and then he knew. Knew that something was terribly wrong, that he’d misjudged the situation on a critical level.

  A mental blast seared through him, pounding into his head, slamming him back against the corridor wall. There was no defense, no time to respond. He screamed in pain and fell to the floor, the world swimming around him. A voice sounded in his mind.

  Told you.

  Not Jean’s voice. Emma’s.

  He looked up, struggling to focus. Jean stood in the hallway, her hand smoking with power, glaring down at him with a look of utter contempt. She wore a black mirror version of Emma Frost’s outfit—boots, tight shorts, and a leather collar studded with sharp spikes. A cape was fastened at the throat with a single red rose.

  And that corset. The black corset she’d described to him, the one from the closet on Kirinos. Laced around her waist, binding her body as tightly as the strange grip that Wyngarde seemed to hold on her mind.

  “Jean,” he croaked.

  Wyngarde stepped up behind her, laid a hand on her caped shoulder. He cast his eyes down at Cyclops’s limp form and grinned.

  “Magnificent,” he said aloud. “Magnificent, my love.”

  She turned to face Wyngarde. Her eyes flashed with hunger, and she grabbed him by both cheeks. She kissed him hard on the lips, her hands roaming up and down his vest and coat.

  Cyclops watched in horror, desperately struggling to remain conscious. But his strength was gone. As the hallway dissolved to black, the last thing he heard was Wyngarde’s silky, dominant voice:

  “My Black Queen.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  STORM’S SENSITIVE ears picked up the scream. She whirled around, summoning a mild wind to gently push aside a trio of men in bear costumes. She searched the room, peering over the heads of the drunken revelers.

  Cyclops?

  Nothing—no response. The telepathic link was broken.

  She turned back to Colossus. The young X-Man had been backed into a corner, beneath a wall sconce, by two middle-aged men and a very drunk young woman. One of the men had a hand on his bicep.

  “Metal restraints!” the man said. “ Much stronger than leather.”

  “Leave him alone!” The young woman giggled, spilling a bit of champagne on Peter’s arm. Storm strode over and grabbed his hand.

  “We must go.”

  Colossus disengaged himself gratefully from the group. “Did Cyclops call you?”

  “I think he is out of the game. In any event, we’ve lost telepathic contact.”

  He looked alarmed. “That means something’s happened to—”

  “To Jean. Yes.”

  The middle-aged man grabbed Colossus’s arm again. “Have you any experience with metal?” he asked, slurring his words. Colossus paused for a moment. Then a halo of energy surrounded him and he began to grow, to swell up. In an instant, his skin transformed to solid, gleaming steel.

  “A bit,” he said, pulling free of the startled man’s grip.

  A crowd was gathering at the base of the staircase, singing a Celtic song in painful, off-key tones. They hadn’t noticed Peter’s transformation, but the guests nearer to him began pointing in alarm, their drinks spilling over onto the floor.

  “Well,” Storm said, “I suppose the infiltration stage of this mission is concluded.” She took to the air, spreading her arms to raise a wind current. Her dress dropped away, revealing her black-and-ivory X-Men costume beneath. The nearest guests stared at her and retreated, holding up their hands against the wind.

  “This way,” she said, gliding toward the staircase. Colossus followed at a run, his thundering footsteps shaking the hall. A sea of tuxedos parted for them.

  Storm paused at the base of the staircase, noting the shattered wooden carving atop the banister. A tuxedo-clad waiter stood partway up the flight of stairs, sweeping up the pieces. As Storm wafted up toward him, he turned to face her. He dropped his broom, let out a little gasp, and scurried away.

  Colossus took the steps three at a time, wooden beams crunching beneath his feet. Storm paced him from above.

  “I heard Cyclops cry out,” she said. “At least, I believe it was him.”

  “Perhaps our trap has sprung?” Colossus replied.

  “Goddess grant that we can deal with whatever we’ve snared.”

  Atop the stairs, the landing gave way to a narrow corridor lined with doors. They rounded a corner—and came face-to-face with a stocky, middle-aged man. He stood blocking the hallway, his hands planted firmly on his hips. He wore tights and the sash of a martial-arts master, with protective boots similar to the X-Men’s own. His chest was bare.

  “Ororo Munroe,” the man said, a sadistic grin breaking out on his face. “And Peter Rasputin. I am Sebastian Shaw.”

  Storm paused in midair. Behind Shaw, the corridor stretched into the distance. All the doors lining it were closed.

  “I advise you to surrender,” Shaw said.

  “To you?” Colossus pounded forward. “Do not make me laugh.” He raised a metal fist.

  “Be careful, little brother!” Storm said. “He is only human. Your blow could kill him.”

  Colossus nodded. His fist lashed out, stopping short as it made contact with Shaw’s chest. Good, Storm thought. He pulled the punch just in time. That should be just enough to defeat this hired martial artist without seriously injuring him.

  Shaw didn’t flinch, didn
’t even move. Where Colossus’s fist struck him, a small burst of energy seemed to flash, then dissolve into his bare chest. Colossus stepped back, stunned.

  “My blow had no effect!” he said.

  “Wrong,” Shaw said. “Both of you.”

  Before Storm could react, Shaw clasped his fists tightly together and swung them through the air. The blow slammed into Colossus’s midsection and, incredibly, knocked him into the air. Five hundred pounds of metallic mutant crashed into a table at the end of the hallway, shattering the mirror behind it.

  “Peter!” Storm cried.

  Like a hunter stalking his prey, Shaw took a step toward Colossus. The X-Man looked up from the floor, dazed.

  “I am no mere human,” Shaw said, leaping into the air. “I am a mutant—as much as you are, my unfortunate friend.” Colossus kicked upward, grimacing, and dealt Shaw a powerful blow to the stomach. Shaw let out a strangled gasp—then twisted in midair and landed gracefully. He reached out, grabbed Colossus’s outstretched leg, and swung him up off his feet.

  Peter didn’t hold back that time, Storm thought, watching her teammate struggle in Shaw’s grip. That kick would have smashed a tank.

  “My power,” Shaw said, “is to absorb any energy directed against me. Your attacks only make me stronger…”

  Colossus struck the wall with a thunderous crash.

  “…which makes me the one enemy you can never defeat.”

  Peter slumped to the floor and was still.

  “Now…” Shaw turned to look up at Storm. She drifted backward in the air, almost touching the wall of the cramped hallway, and glanced down at Peter. He was barely moving, but his body hadn’t yet reverted to human form. That meant he was still partially conscious.

  More important, it meant he was alive.

  “Half your team is beaten, Storm.” Shaw gave her a hungry grin. “And the battle has barely begun.”

  I don’t want to leave Peter, she thought, but his armored body is too heavy to carry. And I must warn Nightcrawler and Wolverine!

  “Yield,” Shaw continued, “and I will show mercy.”

  “Never,” she said.

  She concentrated, amplifying the humidity in the air. A thick fog rose up all at once, with Sebastian Shaw at its center. He stumbled and lashed out with his fists. Storm swooped easily around him and flew back toward the staircase. The last thing she saw, through the thick mist, was Colossus’s armored body lying still on the floor.