Continued from yesterday:
‘Are you out of your frikkin’ mind?’
The expletive, coming out of the mouth of a six armed sorceress, would be perceived by many as somewhat unusual, especially when it was directed at a demonic-looking individual.
Nightcrawler (as he was known, there were few people who knew his first name, and almost none who knew his second) merely smiled his trademark sardonic smile.
'Mein liebling,’ he drawled, 'please don’t accuse me of that, or I'll scoop your brain out of it’s skull.’
It was an empty threat (mostly), one which would send shivers down the spine to most people, but Spiral recognised it for what it was; friendly banter. These kinds of comments were as close to joking as Nightcrawler ever got.
He was certianly an imposing figure, aside from the blue fur and barbed tail. Red armor, scratched, dirty, dented but strong adorned him. Strange trophies were hung around his neck, his hair was matted, his pointed ears were adorned with studs. His bale-yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness.
Spiral sighed and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the annoying hum of the machinery as it searched for this new 'angel.’
'What do you want with him anyway?’ she asked. 'He sounds like another pretty uplander, why would he leave the sun to come down here? And why would we WANT him to?’
'Have you listened to nothing I have said?’ snapped Nightcrawler. 'For one thing, the man is RICH! We have many things, but capitol is not one of them, and a bit of money behind us would certainly help! We could buy medical supplies, calcium pills, clothes, computer equipment, electronics, weapons, bombs… And besides, we need a pretty face, someone to scout above ground for us. A spy.’
'And why would he join us?’
'Many reasons,’ the demonic terrorist replied enigmatically, 'for one he is a mutant with a physical manifestation, like all of us. He knows what it is like to be judged by his appearance, even if that judgment is more… positive.’
'True,’ admitted Spiral, 'but if what you’ve heard is correct those pretty wings of his won’t be there for long.’
'Ja, the operation! Ah, what joy is must be for him,’ Nightcrawler's voice raised in sarcasm. 'Ah,’ he continued, 'imagine it, a few snips, bye-bye wings! Perhaps they could do that for me? Bye-bye fur! Bye-bye tail! Bye-bye ears! Maybe you too, Liebling? How would you like to have all those extra limbs severed?’
The sorceress blanched, and wrapped her arms around her body defensively.
'See what I mean?’ finished Nightcrawler in more serious tones. 'Mutilation, even when it is to help you fit in, is still mutilation. The question for our angelic friend is how far is he willing to go just to fit in with the norms?’
Spiral did not answer.
Suddenly a voice from the shadows piped up. It came from a girl, still in her teens, and covered in bones which protruded from her body at gruesome angles.
'That man… was he really an angel… was he… beautiful?’
Nightcrawler turned one glowing eye towards Marrow, AKA Sarah and smiled, showing a rare bit of affection. The child had grown up in the dirt and stink of the sewers, rarely seeing the sun, rarely seeing beauty except on the other end of a stick, gun, or boot.
'Nein,’ he replied softly, 'he was just a man… and ja, he was very beautiful, but not half as pretty as you.’
The girl chuckled huskily, feeling pride that her leader had said such a thing about her.
'So boss,’ piped up Spiral, 'what’s the plan?’
'Gather together a group, we’re going up to the surface.’
'A raid?’
'In a way… more like… a vacation, to meet this angel. Tell me, have you ever heard a singer by the name of Alison Blaire?’
~
Stacy checked her makeup one last time. Great. She looked perfectly normal, all over. _Thank you, Cover Girl._ She was dressed in something that Filch had 'borrowed’ and done herself up to look like the sort of high-class woman that Worthington would have as an accessory.
As she marched from the powder room, the strains of _Polyester Girl_ filled her head and gave her step an extra, seductive bounce.
And there was target A. He wore a long coat that hid the wings, yet showed no sign that they were actually there. _Expensive tailoring. Nice._
“Hi,” she said, amping up the charm in his general direction. “It’s so embarrassing. My date cancelled at the last minute. Can I be yours?"
Worthington’s mouth was hanging open. ”…uh…“
Stacy made her nipples perk. A little trick she learned from the street. "I’d *hate* to go alone, and I thought you looked lonely, and…” she lowered her eyes, acting coy whilst she amped a little more. "Maybe we could keep each other company?“
”…glah…“ said Worthington, but he was nodding.
"Oh, I’m *so* glad,” she entheused. “You won’t regret a *minute*, I swear.”
A dark shape in the rafters above the lights spoke into a tiny mike attached to his ear. “Barbie’s in position with Ken,” it said. It had a German accent.
~
'Pleasedon'tkillme,pleasedon'tkillme!pleasedon'tkillme!!!’
Sarah, AKA Marrow, growled and delivered a sharp slap to her captive, one Greg Hallson who, only a few minutes ago, would never have even imagined he could be in this situation.
He had only left Warren for a minute, to pick up a bottle of wine to take to the party, when he had been accosted and captured by two freakish ladies.
One of these ladies, a red-headed girl with bones growing higgledy-piggledy out of her skin, was pressing a bone dagger against his skin.
'Quick fooling around Marrow,’ barked the other lady, a pale haired woman with six arms. 'Get it!’
Growling the bone-girl ruffled through Greg’s jacket, searching for the desired object. Eventually she found it, drawing out the gold-leafed ticket to Dazzler’s private dinner party.
'Now human,’ she rasped, her voice sounding like bones grating together, 'you got a choice. Do what we say and you walk away from this with just a few bumps and bruises. Refuse and…’
The bone dagger dug further into the skin of Greg’s throat.
'Wh-what do you want?’ he wimpered.
Marrow rooted in his jacket again coming up with his cell-phone.
'Contact your angel friend,’ she ordered, 'tell him you can’t make it to the party. Make up some excuse. And no funny business, OK?’
She pushed him into the nearest wall for effect, he nodded hastily.
Dailling the number with trembling fingers, he put it too his ear, sweat dripping down his face.
'Hello? Greg?’
Warren’s voice sounded small and tinny though the speakers.
'Uh… h-hi Warren,’ replied Greg, trying desperatly to keep his voice calm and normal, 'l-look, I can’t come with you tonight… something's come up. OK?’
'Greg… are you alright?’
'Y-yeah, yeah fine! I… it’s just business, you know?’
'Uh… sure. I’ll see you soon then. Right?’
'Yeah. Bye.’
He hastily turned the phone off. Returning his wide-eyed gaze to the bone girl.
'Well done,’ she purred, 'goodnight!’
With a quick movement she slammed the hilt of her bone dagger into his head, Greg Hallson slumped onto the cold pavement, unconscious.
'Nicely done, Marrow,’ congratulated Spiral, and the girl seemed to glow with pride. Marrow was one of the youngest of the team, she had hardly been to the upworld much, and this was one of her first missions.
The passed Spiral the pilfered invitation, and the witch took it. She then donned a long, thick overcoat, one which hid her extra arms, and a hat.
'Wish me luck,’ she said, before going off into the night.
*
Warren could hardly belive his luck. Sure, it was ashame Greg couldn't come, but on the other hand it would mean he’d have no competition for the gorgious dame that was currently hanging off his arm. And he would be seeing one of his favourite pop stars, Dazzler, soon. Joining her for dinner, no less. Could I guy do any better?
Suddenly he caught sight of someone moving in the crowds, a dark figure wearing a shadowed had and long overcoat. It made a bee-line straight for them, and knocked into his date (what was her name anyway?) as he/she passed.
'Hey, watch it,’ called Warren, but the myserious figure paid no notice, it continued to push its way though the crowds.
'Don’t worry,’ cooed his beautiful date, 'come on, let’s hurry to the party! It’ll be starting soon.’
Warren nodded and continued on his way, forgetting all about the strange incident.
*
Little did he know that the figure was actually Spiral and that she had, when pushing past Stacy, used one of her extra arms to sneak her an invitation, Greg’s invitation, which would allow her access to the party.
Warren, as mentioned, did not know, or even suspect this.
Thus it can safely be said that Nightcrawler’s plan was going quite smoothly, and continued to go smoothly even as Warren and Stacy entered the doors of the Hall Hotel, where Dazzler would be entertaining far more guests than she had originally planned.
~
It had been a wonderful light-show. Dazzler - aka Alison Blair - had put on her almost usual, yet *un*usual light-show. It was fantastic to behold. It was only at the dinner that the trouble began.
Armed men had been creeping into the room while the audience was distracted with Alison’s speech on the podium, and at the right moment - opened fire at the roof. As one person, the guests screamed and dived for cover under their tables.
“Nobody move!” Cried the leader, despite the fact that everyone had pre-emptively obeyed him. “Everyone on the dance floor! Get down![3] Hands on your heads!”
_Oh *shit*…_ Warren did his best, considering his unique problems, and was immediately singled out.
“You! Why the fuck aren’t you down?”
“I have a back condition,” he lied. “This is the best I can do.”
Someone helped him out by sending him sprawling to the floor. He suffered the indignity. It was better than being found out for a mutant.
They’d shoot him without even thinking.
~
Stacy lay on her belly, trying to stay inconspicuous. Damn, this wasn’t how things were meant to go! She was meant to merely mingle with Warren, get to know the guy, strengths, weaknesses, that kind of thing and perhaps, if all went well, arrange for some sort of 'meeting’ later on.
What had started as an undercover operation was now most definitely going to become overcover.
She recognised the symbols on the armbands these men wore, they were members of FoH, a fledgling, but still extremely dangerous group of mutant haters. She couldn’t be sure, but she figured that if Nightcrawler had seen Warren fly, then there was a chance others had too. Having said that, if they did know of his mutation, they would normally have shot him on sight…
Well, never mind. Whatever the reason both she and Warren were in deadly threat, and that was more than enough reason to call in the cavalry. Besides, there was some FoH butt on offer to kick, couldn't pass up an opportunity like that.
Reaching into the secret pocket of her dress, she brought out a tiny communicator, crude, but effective.
'Barbie calling into Blue Elf, Barbie calling into Blue Elf,’ she tried to keep her voice down to the merest whisper, her movements small. She prayed no-one saw or heard her.
'Blue Elf, here, what’s happening?’ The soft voice on the other end held a harsh, commanding tone and a German accent.
'We’ve been ambushed! Terrorists from FoH, with guns. Don’t know what the plans are, but both Barbie and Ken are at risk. Repeat, both Barbie and Ken are in deadly peril. Requesting cavalry immediately!’
'Ja,’ said the voice quickly, Stacy could almost imagine the look on his face, 'I’ll get Spiral to open a portal to the dinner room now, the cavalry will be with you in a moment, over and out!’
~
The foremost gunman fired again at the roof, sending shattered plaster down in a dusty flurry. More screaming. One man started to pray in a low voice. Warren just looked at him with contempt in his eyes. Like God was going to help them now.
Lying on his back, he was crushing his wings, and the muscles thereof twanged in protest. There was little he could do though. Having patrolled the murky streets of New York for the past years, he’d come across all sorts of ruffians, and learned to tell certain types apart. These guys looked like the kind to start shooting, shoot some more and then ask questions when everyone was dead.[4] The guy approaching the podium in particular was of the type to have an exceptionally itchy trigger finger.
Warren didn’t recognise the weaponry. Automated, with far-ranging fire radius, but no identifiable markings. They looked like prototypes, so either these guys had good connections, or they’d lifted them from someone who did.
Their leader reached the stand and took the microphone. Behind him, Dazzler crouched with her hands on her head as per their orders. Yet when he looked a little closer, Warren saw with some surprise that she looked not so much scared as remarkably angry, and glared into the man's back with no hint of remorse. Her short blonde hair flopped over her headband into her face, but it couldn’t mask her expression. Warren just hoped none of the other gunmen he could see positioned around the room would notice it.
“Listen up, y'all,” said the leader when he achieved the mike. “Play the game accordin’ to our rules an’ no-one gets hurt, awight? Grab that camera,” he gestured to the news crew that had previously been filming Dazzler’s speech about her new movie role.
When it was focussed on him he addressed it, pointing at the lens and shouting like some sports commentator talking about an especially engaging event. The broadcast was live, being sent out to many channels, and Warren cursed vehemently under his breath at the words spoken. With that camera he couldn’t risk exposing his wings, and for the first time in many months, he felt very helpless.
“Hello all you people out there in TV-Land. I’m here today to let y'all in on a little secret. We of the Friends of Humanity have dedicated ourselves to purgin’ the world of mutant scum. They seep into our lives, sharin’ our resources an’ then killin’ ordinary decent folk like you an’ me without provocation. Why? Because they’re mutants. It's in their nature. They don’t got no morals, no ethics - they be no more than animals. An’ the worse thing is, they pretend to be like us. They walk among us, ready to slit our throats at a moment’s notice. We don't know who they are. They could be our children’s teachers, the tramp in the street, the cashier behind the counter of your local Kwik-E-Mart. Anyone can be a mutant. Which is why, today, we chose to send out this message to all mutants ev'rywheres.” He jabbed a finger at the camera. "We’ll find you. Wherever y'all go, and whatever y'all do, we’ll find you, an’ we’ll make sure you can’t do it to nobody else.“
A cheer went up from the gathered gunmen, and Warren felt sick to his stomach. He’d heard the rhetoric before, and it never ceased to amaze him how gullible some people could be, eating up all that banter without question.
Yet something bothered him. He’d run into factions of the FoH on his travels before. On one memorable occasion he’d escaped only by the skin of his teeth, and he knew to some extent their methods and how they operated.
There was something off about these goons.
They were too orderly, almost military-like. Usually FoH were a bunch of semi-trained idiots with more hatred and fear than experience. Ordinary people, stirred to violence to protect their own genes and loved ones. There were a few exceptions to the rule, as with all radical camps, but they were generally few and far between. The FoH preferred clandestine tactics, getting under people’s skin and sowing seeds of doubt. They wanted an army, and the best way to do that was to remain largely in the background and allow the frightened to come to them, not put on this brash kid of display.
Something smelled bad, and it wasn’t just the sushi he’d ordered.
But there was no time to ponder it, for the leader had turned and suddenly grabbed the collar of Dazzler’s flamboyant red jacket - her stagewear, which she wore to every concert over an assortment of sparkly, oft-sequinned outfits. He hauled her to her feet; pointing the barrel of his weapon to her temple and holding her forth like an offering to the camera.
"Even our idols can be mutants. Take this one here. Did any of y'all know that Alison Blaire was a mutant? Would you have bought her records if you’d known?”
A collective gasp went around the room, Warren included. He stared at Dazzler, watching her face crumple for a second, and then reset in a mask of fury. She slit her eyes at her captor, taking no heed of the gun pressed to her skull. Yet she said nothing. There was nothing *to* say that wouldn’t inculpate her further.
A knot of anger manifested in his gut, and he felt it pulsing against the backs of his eyes as he glowered at the terrorist. Beside him something moved, and he craned his neck back a little to see the girl who’d accosted him as a date outside the concert - and subsequently produced a ticket to this fancy dinner - shuffling forward on her belly. Her face was neutral, but he saw the anger mirrored in her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she said in a soft, somehow sultry voice as soon as she was near enough. “Help’s on the way.”
Warren frowned. What did she mean, help?
But there was no opportunity to ask, for at that precise moment the huge stained-glass windows that made up an entire wall of the room exploded inward in a shower of coloured shards and blinding white light. Screams followed, and a round of wild gunfire from the nearest terrorist who was standing too close.
A demon stood amongst them, flanked by a woman who wouldn’t have look out of place in an Indian painting. Her pale hair flared around her as she alighted on the littered floor, each of her six arms brandishing a wicked looking curved knife.
The demon smiled, revealing sharp fangs.
“Guten Abend, geehrte Gueste. Mind if we join the party?”
~
The Blackbird made for an imposing sight as it scudded through the night sky. People who looked up gasped in amazement that such a huge craft could stay aloft, and many watched until it was far out of sight, or had disappeared into some cloud embankment.
Alex sat at the controls, manoeuvring the giant plane with ease. His love of flying far outweighed that of his brother, and Scott sat a few feet behind him, scowling slightly.
“Havok,” he said, using Alex’s codename while they were in uniform. "Quit the acrobatics and let’s just get this the hell over with.“
"You just don’t wanna let me have *any* fun, do you,” Alex half-griped, but levelled off the jet anyway.
Scott leaned back in his chair, fiddling with the control on his visor and glaring lumps out of the floor. He started as Jean leaned over and touched his arm.
“You alright?” she asked, concern in her eyes.
“Peachy,” he replied, not meeting her gaze. “Nothing like a good life-ruining to make your day, right?”
Jean’s expression wavered between sad and determined. “At least we'll make sure there’s no bloodshed.”
“Oui, mon ami. Can’t have the papers seeing no claret, can we?” Remy drawled, walking a card across the back of his hand in what they all recognised as his favourite nervous habit. He hated this as much as the rest of them, but refused to show it, covering his feelings up with wry humour and extremely bad jokes.
Beside him, Piotr folded his arms. “Glorification of violence,” he said sullenly. “It is sickening.”
“Here we go,” Alex called suddenly. “Hotel DuBois[5]. Not enough room to land, so make ready for an airborne strike, people. I’ll open the hatch.”
Scott unbuckled his safety belt, and around him the other members of his team did likewise. Alex, as pilot, wouldn’t be joining them for their 'fight’, but would keep the Blackbird positioned for the paparazzi to get good shots. Fourteen floors up was high, but the massive jet would be an easy target for the right zoom lens. It wasn’t a job he relished, but missing out on the action was tempered by the fact that he got to fly, so he’d kept his grumbling to a minimum for the majority of the short trip from Westchester to Manhattan.
Scott was just headed towards the hatch when Jean suddenly cried out, pressing her hands to her head. She stumbled, and though Scott dashed to catch her, Remy got there first and swept the telepath literally off her feet.
“What you doin’ faintin’ afore we even fight, chere? Not good form.”
She batted at him with the flat of her hand, a small smile gracing her lips. Even in the direst situations, Remy’s patented charm could make any woman beam. “Remy, put me down. I’m not your date.”
He did so, and she wobbled a bit, so he maintained a hand on her waist to keep her upright. Something about that irked Scott, but since he was to be Cyclops from here on in, he didn’t let himself think about it, instead turning his hand to more practical matters.
“What happened?”
“I sensed a sudden influx of power,” jean said simply. “I wasn't prepared for it, and my shields were down. Felt like my head was about to explode. Cyclops,” she raised her eyes, “I don’t think we’re the only mutants in the vicinity. And I’m not talking about this Dazzler woman. What I sensed was something far more than her signature. It was powerful. *Very* powerful.”
_Aw crap._ Scott had never wished so much that the professor was there to tell them what was going on. But the wheelchair bound man had stayed behind at the Institute, and now he was leader in his stead. “We still have to go down there, whatever happens.”
“They didn’t feel friendly.”
_Double crap._ He refrained from saying anything else, but walked to the hatch and waited for Alex to pop the door. Jean frowned after him; exchanging glances with both Remy and Ororo as the weather witch drew alongside him. Though many years her junior, Ororo’s sensible advice was often sought by her teammates, and Jean had found herself seeking on more than one occasion.
“Hey,” Alex called, “Looks like someone started the party without us. The windows are all smashed in.”
_Triple crap._
“Havok, open the hatch.”
~
“This,” said Piotr, “is my cue, da?” And he jumped from the plane, smashing straight through the roof in his metallic form[6].
“Gambit like his style…”
“Just don’t try to copy him and rapell down?” said Scott, unfurling the ropes.
Ororo and Jean had their own ride, as it were, and Scott only waited until his brother was with him before the vertiginous drop.
Halfway down, he said, “You *did* set it in hover-mode.”
Alex laughed. “You *are* a dick.”
Scott just grinned.
*
The guys with the guns stopped aiming at the demon and aimed at the guy who’d just come through the roof. The metal muscleman.
“I would advise,” he said. “That everybody does *not* want to get hurt to put down the weapons.”
A well-built redhead and an equally well-built African-American floated in as if Gravity were just a formality. There was no doubt at all that these three were mutants.
The FoH did not put the guns down.
The metal guy turned to the redhead. “Just out of interest– how many bullets can you stop?”
“Not *that* many,” said the redhead.
“…shit, shit, shit, shit, *shit*…” hissed Stacy. “This slightly more cavalry than I anticipated. Who *are* these idiots?”
“You had better duck,” advised the metal man. “They are going to shoot.”
They did.
It was chaos.
~