X-Men

by Stuart Moore

  Forgive me, little brother.

  * * *

  WOLVERINE SLASHED upward, his claws digging through layer after layer of soil. When he struck concrete, the resistance almost knocked him off-balance. He inched back, bracing himself against the walls of the vertical tunnel he’d just dug.

  “Pay dirt,” he called down.

  Below, in the sewer, Nightcrawler stood hip-deep in water. He grinned at his teammate and gave a thumbs-up sign.

  Grunting, Wolverine pressed one arm against the dirt wall of the tunnel. Then he flexed the other arm and thrust upward. His Adamantium-tipped claws shattered the concrete to rubble.

  He climbed up into the third-level subbasement of the Hellfire Club. It was dark, deserted, with water heaters and power generators humming away in the corners. A huge furnace pumped and whirred, linked by pipes to a network of rusty oil tanks. Before he could yell down again, Nightcrawler appeared ahead of him in a cloud of brimstone.

  “We’re in,” Nightcrawler said. “So far, so good.”

  “Yeah.” Logan brushed sewage off his costume. “Too bad you couldn’t just ’port us in here from outside.”

  “Without knowing the layout,” Nightcrawler replied, “I might have materialized inside something. And unlike our new recruit, I cannot walk through walls.”

  “I know, I know.” Logan sniffed the air. “Still, this caper’s goin’ down easy—a little too easy, you ask me.”

  Nightcrawler shrugged. “Do they not say in this country, ‘No news is good news?’”

  “Depends on the channel. You hear anything from Cyke or Jeannie?”

  “No.” Nightcrawler frowned. “In fact, I do not seem to sense them in my mind anym—”

  Wolverine caught the scent—just a moment too late. A man darted out of the shadows and grabbed Nightcrawler by the throat, lifting him into the air. The newcomer was tall, with carefully coiffed blond hair, and dressed in period garb—crushed-velvet vest, long coat, breeches. He spun around and held out Nightcrawler in front of him like a shield.

  Logan dropped to a crouch and snarled. Easy enough to take ’im out, he thought. But I might tag Kurt by mistake.

  “Elf,” he said, “’Port away!”

  Nightcrawler gasped. His head whipped back and forth in the man’s grip.

  “He cannot.” The man’s voice was cultured, with a trace of a finishing-school accent. “I am projecting an electrical field through his body, preventing him from concentrating.”

  “Good for you,” Logan said, and slashed out. His claws raked straight down the man’s arm, cutting through coat and silk. An electrical charge shot through Logan; pain seared through him, from his arm up to his chest.

  When he paused to assess the damage, what he saw made him gasp. The man’s arm hadn’t moved—he still held Nightcrawler’s throat in an iron grip. But where Wolverine had sliced into him, the flesh had been torn away to reveal a complex of sparking wires.

  “You savage!” the man exclaimed. “Look what you’ve done!”

  Wolverine stared. “You’re a freakin’ robot.”

  “I am not!” The man’s brows narrowed in rage. “Donald Pierce is a cyborg.” His other hand swept out, grabbing hold of Wolverine’s arm. Before Logan could react, he found himself flying through the air. When he crashed into an oil tank, the impact went straight up his reinforced spine. He shook his head and climbed to his feet, a dangerous smile creeping across his face.

  “I know all about cyborgs. I’m sort of one myself.” He held out both hands, displaying his claws. “Loosely defined.”

  Nightcrawler let out a strangled gasp and went limp in Pierce’s grip. Wolverine leaped to his feet and sprinted across the basement—but before he could cross the distance a sword slashed out from the side, blocking his way. Logan whirled, snarling, to see a portly man with a red beard. A dull smile covered the man’s face as he lunged forward, jabbing at the air.

  “The name is Leland,” the man said, “Harry Leland, and I’m afraid I can’t allow you to attack Sir Pierce again.”

  Wolverine laughed. “You’re welcome to try an’ stop me.”

  “Dear boy.” The man’s smile grew wider. “Challenge accepted.”

  Logan stepped toward Leland, raking his claws menacingly against each other. Leland holstered his sword and held out both hands. All at once, a great weight seemed to descend on Logan—his back, his legs, his arms. Each step grew more difficult than the last.

  “You X-Men are not the only mutants in the world,” Leland said. “My own talent involves mass.”

  Wolverine dropped to the floor, gasping.

  “Simply by concentrating,” Leland continued, “I can increase the weight of any object. Or any person.”

  Must weigh tons, Logan thought. And I’m gettin’ heavier all the time. But I can’t give up. Gotta save the elf… warn the others… He reached out, stabbed a claw into the floor, and used the leverage to wrench himself forward.

  Pierce approached, still holding Nightcrawler’s limp body. “Impressive.” His other arm sparked and sputtered in the air.

  “Indeed,” Leland said. “So refreshing to test ourselves against mutants, instead of the, uh…”

  “The cattle?” Pierce asked.

  “The flowers,” Leland replied.

  The two men laughed.

  Logan ignored them. He sliced into the floor again, anchoring his claws in the concrete. With a tremendous effort, he pulled himself forward another six inches.

  “I could have used your help at the Circle meeting, old chap,” Leland said. “Shaw and his little Queen were playing their power games again.”

  “It couldn’t be helped.” Pierce shrugged. “Business abroad, you know.”

  “Well, it’s good to have you back. Men of breeding are an increasingly rare thing in this world.”

  “You flatter me,” Pierce smiled. “But you speak the truth, of course.”

  Logan’s skull seemed to be made of lead. He was less than a yard away from Leland, but it might as well have been miles. He could feel the pressure on his back, sapping his strength.

  “Kill you,” he growled.

  Leland turned at the voice, as if he’d forgotten Logan entirely. “Perhaps, dear boy.” He twisted his hands in midair. “Or else…?”

  Once again, the pressure increased sharply. Logan’s spine began to creak, bones bending like twigs. Then he felt the floor beneath him buckle and crack open—and he fell. His increased mass propelled him through layers of concrete, dirt, and metal, back down into the subterranean levels beneath the building.

  He burst through the ceiling of the sewer, tumbling down to land with a heavy splash. A wall of filthy water assaulted him, the impact knocking him unconscious in an instant, and then he was swept away from the Hellfire Club on an unstoppable tide.

  * * *

  STORM SOARED through the upper levels of the club, startling couples and threesomes as they poked their heads out of secluded rooms. Locating a utility staircase, she glided up to the top floor, where a pair of double doors led to a high-ceilinged library furnished with old leather chairs and wooden desks. Shelves of musty-smelling antique books stretched up the walls.

  She touched down and pulled out her phone. Tried to reach Wolverine, then Nightcrawler. No answer. Enough, she thought, and raised her arms to summon the lightning. A powerful bolt burst forth, blasting against the bay windows.

  Nothing. The lightning dissipated, sparking harmlessly into the air. The windows remained shut.

  Some sort of defensive energy field, she realized. This Hellfire Club… every part of it is built for confinement. She eyed the door. Only one route left: back downstairs and out the front door, using the party guests to cover my escape—

  “Surprise.”

  Shaw lunged out of the shadows. She took to the air, but he was too fast—he grabbed her ankle and held it in an iron grip. She struggled to free herself.

  He seems to know all about our powers, she thought. My only hope
is to do the unexpected! She raised her arms as if to summon a windstorm, but instead kicked out with her free leg, clipping Shaw hard across the chin. He cried out and released her, sending her tumbling through the air. But before she could seize the advantage, he caught hold of her cape and pulled her toward him.

  “Have you forgotten, Storm? I absorb kinetic energy.” He flipped her upside down, sending her plummeting toward the floor. “Your attacks merely… agitate me.” She struck face-first, crying out in pain as blood filled her mouth.

  “Why?” she gasped. “Why… us?”

  “An accident of genetics.” Shaw lifted her up by the hair, turned her to face him. “I have an instinct for money. It’s raised me from humble beginnings to become one of the preeminent industrialists of the twenty-first century. If I—if the Hellfire Club—can isolate the genetic X factor that creates enhanced-power beings like ourselves, we can exploit it in the marketplace.”

  She wiped blood from her face. “And you’re not about to experiment on yourself.”

  “Why should I?” He smiled. “When there are so many lovely, fascinating subjects to choose from.”

  He twisted her around and slammed her head into a bookcase. She caught a quick glimpse of old books falling from the shelves, leather-bound tomes tumbling to the polished wood floor. And then she didn’t see anything at all.

  * * *

  SHAW TWISTED Storm’s cape around his fist and began dragging her across the floor. Then he paused, turned toward the door, and cocked his head.

  Emma? Do you hear me?

  No answer.

  We have defeated the X-Men, he said, and with no losses of our own. The Hellfire Club is triumphant.

  Only a slight buzz in his mind betrayed the White Queen’s presence.

  It’s been a long time since I used my mutant ability, he added. I’d forgotten how good it felt. He crouched down, hoisting up Ororo as if she weighed nothing. Are you proud of your King?

  Laughter. Light yet harsh, ringing in his mind over the telepathic link. She was a cruel one, his White Queen—yet such was the way of the Hellfire Club. Its currency was power, its instrument cruelty. So it had been in times long past, and so it would always be.

  He sighed, slung the unconscious mutant over his shoulder, and started down toward the basement headquarters of the Inner Circle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JEAN!

  That was Scott Summers’s first thought upon waking. Then came pure, claustrophobic terror.

  I can’t see!

  He whipped his head one way, then the other. Metallic restraints clanked, pulling taut against his throat. He lay on a cold stone floor; a thick glove bound his hands tightly together, holding his arms behind his back. A metal collar and hood covered his entire face and neck, so tightly that he couldn’t even move his mouth to speak. His captors had placed his visor over his eyes, and the hood pressed it painfully against the bridge of his nose. When he tried to use his glove controls to open the visor, the energy flashed briefly and then died. All he could see was a haze of red.

  The hood, he realized. It’s infused with ruby quartz. My power is useless!

  “Ho!” a rumbling voice said. “He’s awake, Pierce.”

  “Watch out for that one, Leland. He’s the leader.” The second voice was higher, silkier. “These others are still out.”

  Who? Cyclops wondered. Who else have they captured?

  He heard a slam, like a door being thrown open. Heavy footsteps approached, growing louder. Then a large object—a body?—thudded onto the floor, just inches away from him.

  “That’s the last of them.” The third voice was deep, commanding. “The Hellfire Club is victorious.”

  There was a faint moan from the floor. Cyclops recognized the voice: Storm!

  He forced himself to concentrate. As a teenager, he’d learned to adapt to situations where he couldn’t see his surroundings. A necessary skill for a boy who often had to squeeze his eyes shut in order to avoid injuring his fellow students.

  The air in the room was cold and dry. Sounds of humming machinery, crackling fires. This must be the Inner Circle’s sanctum… probably somewhere beneath the building itself.

  “How’s your arm, Pierce?”

  “Just a scratch, Shaw. Easily repaired—I’m fine now.”

  Shaw. Emma Frost’s… what? Lover? Master? Partner in her sick games?

  “Scratch—ha!”

  The new voice sent chills up Cyclops’s spine. He’d only heard it once before—briefly, just before losing consciousness—but he’d felt it, experienced its power secondhand, inside Jean’s mind. On the butte in New Mexico, when he’d opened himself to her thoughts and memories.

  Wyngarde.

  “Wolverine cut through your precious bionic arm like a stick of butter,” the voice continued.

  “Jason, darling.”

  No. Oh no.

  Jean.

  “We’ve just won a splendid victory,” she continued. “Why spoil it with harsh words?”

  He knew her voice better than anyone’s, better even than his own, but he’d never heard it like this before. So oily, so full of guile and deception.

  “Your Black Queen speaks true, Wyngarde,” Shaw said. “This was a group effort. We all did our part.”

  “Did we?” Wyngarde paused. “I believe we’re missing one X-Man.”

  “Wolverine is dead,” Leland said.

  Wyngarde snorted. “I doubt that.”

  “If he lives, I’ll kill him again. With my bare hands.” That was Pierce again, his voice charged with anger. “No man draws blood from me and lives. Especially not some filthy mutant.”

  “Take care, old boy,” Leland replied, an edge creeping into his voice. “Remember the company you keep.”

  “Gentlemen,” Shaw said. “ If Wolverine survived, he’ll be far away by now. We’ll deal with him in time, just as we have with all the others.”

  All the others, Cyclops thought. That means they’ve got Peter and Kurt, too.

  “Let us celebrate,” Shaw continued, “while the sheep upstairs conduct their petty bacchanal. All unaware that we will soon fleece them, along with the rest of the world.”

  “As you say, Shaw,” Wyngarde said. “Just remember that it was my Queen, Jean Grey, who provided the key to our victory.”

  Pierce sniffed. “We would have won in any case.”

  “You think so? Very well, I’ll release my hold on her. We’ll see how long you last.”

  “Enough!” Shaw’s voice grew louder as he moved toward the group. “I propose a toast. To the Hellfire Club—and to Jean Grey, our Black Queen.”

  “Long may she reign,” Wyngarde said.

  Those two—they’re the main players, Cyclops thought. They’re sparring with each other, jockeying for power. Shaw with Emma at his side, and Wyngarde with his… his Black Queen. They’re the only two that matter. Leland and Pierce are nothing… surrogates, playing pieces.

  “The manor is secure, Sir Jason.” Jean’s voice again. “Do you wish to discipline the staff further?”

  The manor? Cyclops thought. The staff?

  A slapping sound. Like a riding crop against leather.

  Wyngarde’s right, Scott thought. Jean is the key. Somehow he’s enthralled her, drawn out some flaw inside her that’s allowed him to take over her mind. Turned her into a twisted reflection of herself.

  “Later, my dear,” Wyngarde said. “For now, let us enjoy the fruits of my—of our victory.”

  Wyngarde pulled her close and kissed her. His eyes, his rough beard, the musky scent of him—all of it formed an overwhelming cocktail, flooding her senses. Her blood surged and she responded, pressing herself urgently against him—

  Wait. Cyclops jumped, startled. How did I know all that?

  The link, he realized. Our telepathic bond—it’s still active. Jean tried to sever it, to cut herself off from me, but some trace of it remains. What had they pledged, back in New Mexico? Total intimacy. Total trust.


  Time to put that to the test.

  He cleared his thoughts, remembering the concentration exercises taught to him by Professor X. The red haze before him faded to black. Distantly, he heard Storm groan again, but he ignored the sound, forced it out of his mind. He banished all outside stimuli, focusing his consciousness on one thing and one thing alone: a tiny pinpoint of red, a faint light shining off in the darkness.

  Jean, he thought. Jean, I know you’re there. I know you’re hurting. Let me in.

  The light grew brighter, hotter.

  Remember all we’ve shared. Let me in!

  * * *

  MIND LIKE FIRE like the heart of a sun

  Pure power pure rage

  They don’t understand. They’ll never you’ll never understand. Flames dancing on skin corset laced tight worlds exploding in fire fire fire fire I am fire. Fire and life incarnate

  Ice leather burning freezing

  Love the love the fall. Trees changing leaves dropping. The circle unbroken

  Welcome the voice within without. Ancient unknowable ME. Inscribed on genes, etched in racial memory

  Welcome to the last minutes

  Shackles fastened whip cracking charged particles might cause mutations in the

  Face on fire stomach churning

  Me it’s me it’s inside me

  Oh oh Jason oh my love

  Naked man with animal horns

  Lady Jean

  Sky lit up like a star like a furnace the fire that consumes rage rage against the men against the humans they hate mutants hate women hate all that is different hate ME

  Love me I could make you love me. Make you do anything anything I wish. You exist you live you continue at my sufferance Lady Jean I am Lady Jean Grey Jason oh my Jason your scent your voice your arms bind me set me free this life

  I am Phoenix I am rage am fire

  This life may not be the life I’m meant to

  I AM LADY JEAN GREY AND THIS IS MY MANOR

  * * *

  CYCLOPS REELED, tumbling back. In his mind’s eye, he raised his hands to ward off the blinding light, the chaos assaulting his senses.