Of Crushed Wings and Conquered Dreams

by Jaya Mitai

"You know I want him dead as much as you do."

He didn't even dare to breathe.

"More. I have greater . . . incentive."

Was afraid he wouldn't be after all.

"It's . . . what do they call it? A no-brainer."

It sounded so sane.

He did breathe, shallowly, and felt air scour the top of his sinus passages, traveling down that stretch of delicate, sensitive flesh behind the roof of his mouth. Felt it warm and finally moist, sliding into his chest hesitantly, never lingering.

The pattern repeated.

And again.

It seemed that he was alive. He found resisting the urge to swallow got easier the tighter and drier that strip of flesh became. Swallowing would only pull, it wouldn't moisten. There was no mucus to tickle him, just the fine torture of dry air and the ebb and flow of blood in his neck.

There was blood, and it was in his neck. This seemed important, but he couldn't really grasp the entirety of it all at once, and took another breath, thinking.

Another.

There was a commotion, outside the relentless abrading of his throat and fury of the trapped liquid beneath his skin. He wondered if that liquid would only run from him, would all the skin be ground away by the dry and the air. Would it make the pain even finer, or would it cease to be something so celebrated.

"My lord." More commotion. "They have penetrated the outer defenses through the old tunnels."

Far off, sheets of metal rumbled ominously. "Do not collapse the tunnels. Allow them to find their way here."

"Yes, Master."

The motion was lost in the mesmerizing movement of the dry and the air; they seemed to be almost one. The dry slapped around the great chamber, it muttered and cursed and looked for a way out, first against one wall, then another, a never-ending symphony of vain recoiling escapes.

It was a vaguely unsettling image, it reminded him too much of chaos. All that mattered was the pattern. He had been taught this. Focus on the pattern, let it speak to you, through you, soothe you.

No. That wasn't right at all. The dry was finer yet, exquisite, and he was more aware of it than the pattern. More air was coming through, settling in him longer. Mingling with the blood, inside his neck.

What was it? There was something very important about that.

Maybe it was important because the blood was in his neck, as opposed to being somewhere else. But then again, where else would it be?

The dry moved near him, he heard the air passing over someone else's skin. "He's alive. For now."

"Leave us."

The dry moved with the voice, trying in vain to use the same exit, but he drew it back into his throat once more, doggedly. Only the pattern mattered.

There was a long period of silence, letting him ground himself with that pattern. But it wasn't working the way he knew it should. He was only more and more aware of everything around him, more unsettled than soothed, so near -

Nathan choked, holding a violent cough inside his chest. The slow burn was instantly kindled, and he did his best to breathe raggedly around it. With awareness flooded memories, and Nathan kept his eyes screwed shut, doing everything in his power to keep still, remain subdued and motionless.

He had to think. He needed time.

He made the mistake of swallowing.

With that last effort, everything shattered back down to the pattern and the dry. It was a long climb back, curiously unaided.

He wondered why he expected help. He expected someone else to be there, but he heard no one. Maybe the Lord had gone and taken it with him.

More commotion. Less pattern.

Cable struggled to hold onto coherent thought, struggled to feel the solid floor beneath him, struggled to hear outside of his own body. Reached out with his mind.

But he only felt the weight of his own body pressing down on him. Heard only his blood flowing. Touched nothing but a cold blank space. He closed his eyes. There was another pattern, one he knew that should be soothing. He listened to his pulse, forcing it to be more relaxed. Then he tried again.

And again. The weight of his weight. Silence.

#Nathan?#

The blood pounded loudly in his neck, trying to obscure it. Reminding him that it was easier to relax.

#Nathan, can you hear me?!#

There was no mistaking it. It tugged him further from the dry and blood, and it was pink.

# . . . yes.#

He thought he heard a hiss, a hiss of the dry in his own mind, and he struggled to open his eyes. It was hard, very hard. Too hard. He gave up the effort when he felt not even a twitch from his eyelids, and he lay quietly.

He was on the floor. Had to be. He thought he could feel the support of a wall to his right side, and he was half curled over himself, his own body weight making it harder to breathe.

#Nathan, where are you?# It was so quiet and so careful that he hesitated before answering. Telling her he was in Apocalypse's main chamber and was lying on the floor helpless while Nur was probably still in the room didn't seem like a great plan. He wasn't sure if he was more afraid of upsetting her or so full of shame that he couldn't bear to admit it to her.

#I don't know,# he responded, and he felt her inquiry, tiny warm careful fingers reaching into his mind to extract his recent memories. He batted the fingers away, ignoring her concerned response. #I'm fine, Jean. Did everyone survive?#

Hesitance on her part, but he was too dazed to reach out to her. He hurt. He hurt just about everywhere, and his head was spinning from the communication. He felt panic seize him by the gut as he prodded the T-O that had wrapped around his skull, but his training had held. The virus had not spread into his brain.

At this point he wondered bitterly why it even mattered.

Nathan hung on to that bitterness for all he was worth, using it and his crippling sense of failure to keep him conscious. He was considered beaten by Apocalypse. He was lying on the floor, out of mind. He had an advantage here, one of complete surprise.

He had no weapons. He had no strength.

Assess your surroundings. Define all the conditions, and see if you can change any of them.

Nathan forced his eyes open, forced himself to look around. He didn't move; he didn't want to know the extent of his injuries yet, if a healer had had to be called and declared him 'alive for now.' Better to see his physical surroundings. At least it could be a help to Jean.

He was in the main chamber he recalled, one wall completely covered with a panel that displayed the globe. Various points were marked in an alphabet Nathan didn't recognize. A few of the symbols were those of Apocalypse, precursors of the Egyptian hieroglyph writings. The others weren't even reminiscent of Ship.

The External's back was to him, great hands clasped behind his back in a pose of thoughtful stillness. He was watching a monitor out of Nathan's view, and every once in a while his shoulders would rise and fall.

It would be as easy as it had been before. He didn't know how fast the External would heal from the damage, but perhaps because of the nerve damage it wouldn't heal as quickly. If he could keep Nur from returning to his chamber, it might be enough to permanently cripple him if not kill. But once he died, wouldn't it heal itself?

Like Sam's body should have healed itself? his brain reminded him. He cocked an ear to it, listening for a telltale accent, but there was none.

Stryfe was being silent. Maybe he had no choice. Maybe Blaquesmith had finally destroyed him, or forced him so deep that he spent his time in a sort of sleep. Maybe the struggle had damaged the Stryfe psyche so much it no longer was capable of coherent thought.

Wishful thinking if ever he'd had it.

#Everyone's alive. For now.#

Nathan fought back an irrational explosion of laughter, hitching his breathing only slightly. He couldn't hide it from Jean, though, and her alarm came to him clearly.

#Nathan, what's happened?#

#He knows you're in the outer tunnels, Jean.# Which begged the question of why he would be allowing communication of any kind, even telepathic. He seemed impervious to the power himself, and Dark Riders seemed to be granted this same immunity, though in a different form. Still, while it was no danger to him or his Riders, it did help the enemy organize. Was Nur so arrogant that he'd allow them the luxury of long-distance communication, or was he counting on it?

Nathan pulled his eyes open again, staring at En Sabah Nur. He was still, standing where he had been before. #He's herding you here.#

A dry feeling. #I gathered that. Is Sinister working for him or for us?#

Interesting question. He nearly missed Jean's probe, and she gleaned more than he wanted her to. He slammed shields up, which she curiously didn't even probe, and he sat quietly behind them.

He just had to - to think, that was all. Just for a minute, get everything in line. Focus on the now, not the then. Focus on what he could do, not what he couldn't, or should've, or had to -

No!

Nathan shook his head violently, throwing the concept off like sweat after a training session. It dizzied him, he wasn't even aware that anything had changed until he felt a massive object beneath his chin.

It was strangely gentle for something so large.

"Wake, Dayspring."

He kept his eyes closed, the tiny muscles fighting the reflex to keep them open, to see the threat. The effect was not the one he intended, for he heard a chuckle.

"Dream then. When you open your eyes, you will witness nothing you haven't before."

No.

The Askani flashed behind his eyelids as his face was released, as the nigh-silent footsteps carried the behemoth back to his post, or perhaps to an antechamber. Jenskot. Hope. The temples, everything he ever remembered seeing. Sanctity. Rachel. Redd and Slym. New Canaan in its height. Tetherblood. The deadly sands of the desert.

Everything burned away. Dried in the sun. Even the bark of those great trees was rough and comfortless. No water but that which ran beneath the skin, in the necks of all those he had known in that desolate, desiccated world. When he stopped dreaming, all he would see was that world. He had read the last pages.

He knew how the story ended.

But this wasn't it. It wasn't the battle. The Battle. He would know, he would _know_ when that time came, he would know it as he knew pain now. Why sacrifice everything when the greatest test was yet to come?

Perhaps if he didn't, this would be the last task.

It was logical. Stryfe had the telekinesis, and he wouldn't pay the slightest attention to the T-O. It had already taken a good strong hold and it would take weeks of concentrated effort to force it to relinquish what cells could still be saved. And Stryfe was no stranger to pain. It would serve as a goad, a whip. Stryfe couldn't keep a level head but he was a formidable adversary in combat. He was skilled, fast, and had been trained well for this kind of combat. Stryfe had seen more of En Sabah Nur than perhaps even he himself. Apocalypse had trained Stryfe as his heir.

It was easy. He wouldn't even have to ask. Stryfe might be silent now, but any invitation, however subtle, would be leapt up. He had no doubt Stryfe would accept the proposition.

And with the X-Men and Sinister there, Stryfe could be subdued. While he might not be distracted by the pain, their body wasn't in any shape to be leaving of its own power. Maybe bodysliding, and that was stretching it. If Stryfe had picked up that particular talent, or could call on Zero, maybe . . .

It wasn't as though Stryfe could do any more damage to him than he already had. Round two had gone to Stryfe. In a pitched battle, his homicidal clone had once again managed to take a love and a son. He'd touched Sam's mind. He'd seen his body. He knew exactly what Sinister had done. Sinister had found a way to inhibit if not completely destroy whatever part of him made him an External.

And Nathan himself had been an integral part of what had killed Domino, Stryfe notwithstanding. Jean hadn't lied. In his heart he knew that Domino was still alive. He couldn't sense her, not really - there was something wrong with his telepathy if Jean could feel his probe but he couldn't hear her - but he knew she was still alive. Just long enough for the hand of Apocalypse to ensure a swifter death than coma.

If Nathan could have closed his eyes further, he would have. He didn't want to see the thoughts in his mind. Every tactical part of his brain told him what he didn't want to hear. The torture was complete. The only further damage Stryfe could possibly undertake would be to destroy any chance of Nathan accomplishing his mission.

And Blaquesmith would never allow that. Nathan had full confidence that his tutor would alter the timeline irrevocably and take countless lives to prevent it.

And it just so happened that there was an Askani sister and a Blaquesmith on hand themselves. A nexus point, she'd called it.

Perhaps it was his decision now, rather than the battle. Perhaps this was the moment that everything would be changed.

Nathan lay on the floor, feeling the hard, oddly body-temperature metal beneath his cheek.

And he did nothing.

* * * * * * *

Scott began to understand Essex's choice of costume as he followed the scientist through nearly lightless tunnels. The ribboned effect of his cape made his motion impossible to predict, and it was all Cyclops could do but not attack as time after time he saw that cloth indicate Essex was feigning to attack.

He didn't like this approach, not at all. But there was no choice. Too much of the team was down, either wounded or carrying the wounded. It made the most sense that he and Sinister take up the forward positions and leave defensive teammates to the rear; in this case Jean and Scalphunter. Gambit and Logan stayed squarely between the two, one with Sam slung across his shoulder, the other carrying a delirious Domino.

Sam still had spoken no word, though Domino occasionally ranted angrily. She had quickly grown too disoriented to walk, and now LeBeau occasionally had to forcibly quiet her. Once they'd gone into the darkness she'd become strangely silent. Now and then they'd hear her giggling, but it was always soft, as though she were in on the great big secret of sneaking.

Glancing back, Cyclops could pick out Remy's odd eyes, the silhouettes of the others. A slight glow around Jean as she shielded herself and the rear of the group telekinetically, just in case. The tunnels were old, and not well-used. It was obvious new ones had been constructed since Essex had last visited the base.

That was another thing that was bothering Cyclops. Essex had once been Nur's slave, created to be the perfect servant to him. And Sinister had proven many times that he had no love for En Sabah Nur, even in the Victorian era, even as Apocalypse had made a bid to vastly change the face of Europe as the world knew it today. But Sinister was leading them into the heart of a fortress he himself had not visited for hundreds of years. And he did so with complete confidence.

Why the confidence? Because he had the X-Men sandwiched securely between himself and his Marauder, and it was only a matter of time before the two turned inward? It would be over before the team even knew what was happening.

*Jean? I know he's a clone and it's difficult, but can you tell me what Scalphunter is thinking?*

He detested referring to the Marauders by their codenames, though he supposed it was no less repugnant for them to refer to the X-Men by theirs. The best intelligence they'd collected indicated that Scalphunter went by the names John Riverwind and Grey Crow, though it was unknown if they were merely aliases or one was actually his real name. It had occurred to Scott that he had an unprecedented opportunity to ask him, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to start a conversation with the killer.

# . . . no. I'm sorry. He's blocking me pretty cleanly.# He had no doubt she could penetrate that block, but it would likely tip off a non-psi, if he was mindaware enough to block telepaths in the first place. And considering empathy had been proven to have little or no effect on Scalphunter . . . maybe he was just naturally psi-resistant? The cloning would help that, make his mind less uniform, less easy for a scanning telepath to read on a surface level.

#I found Nathan,# she added, and her silence and turmoil a few seconds ago suddenly made more sense.

*Where is he?*

#He's in one of the chambers above us.# She sounded miserable. #I . . . I think he fought Nur. He's in a lot of pain, and he's shielding from me.# The short conversation and impressions she had gleaned were transferred to Scott telepathically, and Sinister stopped his steady advance down the branching tunnels to stare directly at Scott.

He said nothing, and again Scott wondered if Sinister had some psionic ability. His stare was intense, but after a few seconds the voice in Scott's mind was Jean's.

#I don't feel a scan. And I'm shielding your mind, there's no way for him to bypass me.#

And then Essex turned and headed back through the winding tunnels without a backward glance.

They knew the importance of remaining silent, so Scott kept his thoughts to himself. Behind him, Domino giggled softly.

It was a steadily uphill climb, the dry stifling tunnels eventually giving way to cooler and fresher air. The opening had been in a face of eroded sandstone, a ledge many miles from the fortress itself. In the winding climbing dark, it was impossible to measure the distance, but Scott was hazarding at least two miles. He'd been spelunking before, this was really no different save the temperature and the level of tension.

They'd met no resistance, and something in Scott refused to believe the old tunnels were not being monitored. It was like assuming the Morlock tunnels were no longer monitored.

There were no symbols on the walls, no visible means of orienting oneself once the tunnels had been entered. Summers had no doubt that Sinister remembered the way, but if things had been altered near the end, wandering these dark places waiting for an ambush was a very real and unsettling possibility.

It was another mile at least before Sinister stopped the troupe again, this time to stare upwards. The air was much cooler than it had been even ten minutes ago, and Sinister reached above his head to touch the top of the tunnel thoughtfully.

It was all sandstone, rotting a bit, and a small fraction of the tunnel crumbled away at the gentle touch. They were about seven feet high and six feet across, large enough to accommodate large mutants and possibly small supply convoys. There had to be some unseen ventilating system for the air to be circulating so well in this area, or they had to be nearing the end of the tunnels.

"To me, Summers."

Scott found he had stopped breathing, and was utterly still, deeply considering that command. They didn't have the time to argue, but every sinew in his being was screaming to lash out. They barely even could indulge in the luxury of speaking, however soft the voice had been. Bickering wouldn't accomplish anything, but specifically prodding him like that had been a calculated move. What was it going to prove if he resisted, or didn't?

He stepped up, tightly, and studied the stone that Essex found so interesting.

If the scientist approved, he did not indicate it. "The main chambers are above us about four meters. I have sufficient energy to clear the debris, and I presume Jean Grey-Summers has sufficient energy to prevent this part of the tunnel from collapsing and to carry us all through the vent?"

It would certainly be a way to avoid any unnecessary Dark Rider interference, since Cyclops had no doubt they were waiting at the conventional end of the tunnel. He suspected that they would be allowed to find Apocalypse no matter how they exited the tunnel system, but Sinister couldn't wait that long.

Domino was muttering.

*Jean? Did you get that?*

She had once taken a collapsed portion of a ceiling and fashioned it into a ramp, but they didn't have room in the tunnel. She would have to hold up at least a ton of sand and stone and then propel the team up about twelve feet, and it would have to be done very quickly.

The quickly might actually be the saving grace, if she could just focus all that energy -

#Yes,# she thought quickly. #Give me just a moment to locate Nathan.# Scott nodded, stopping himself when he realized his head was actually moving. Coming up right under either Apocalypse or Nathan would be . . . coming up under Apocalypse . . .

"Stand by," Scott murmured dismissively, and he turned to make his way back to Jean.

* * * * * * *

Paige Guthrie took a slow breath as a tiny sports car bearing a portly balding man pulled into one of the prime parking spaces.

Paige had been coupled with Shatterstar and Theresa, and the three sat on their heels in the underbrush, watching life come to the office building of Brooker and Sons Lmt. It was nearing 8 o'clock, though they'd been in position for at least an hour. Paige's legs were cramping slightly, but neither the alien nor Terry seemed to be uncomfortable, so she held her tongue.

She was pretty sure she'd impressed them in the training session last night. Paige had effectively proven she wouldn't stupidly get in the way of another teammate's attack, which had been exactly what Terry was looking for. A team had to rely on each person to keep out of the way of friendly fire, and Paige had simply husked into one of her harder forms and taken the same approach as James Proudstar. She'd started pounding on things.

It had been very cathartic. Warpath had given her a rare grin as they'd knocked an opponent back and forth between each other, and she'd had a chance to work off some of the cold rage.

It was returning to her as the sun climbed.

Her mother hadn't been happy about this arrangement, but Paige really hadn't let her argue. She'd simply announced she was going, and her mother had announced her disapproval, and that was that. McCoy had promised to protect the family as best he could, and he had stayed behind to wait for a communication from the X-Men, if one was forthcoming. Or do damage control. Maybe summon some of the other X-Men.

Paige brought her mind back on the task at hand, watching a few more calls pulling in from the side street. Most went down the drive towards the soap manufacturing plant, but another one turned into the parking lot. This one was a Toyota Corolla.

The black van was nowhere to be seen, but there was no guarantee that it wasn't parked in the large garage adjacent to the newer-looking office building. The business was an insurance broker of some sort, and they had a small list of clients that went back a few years. They had the proper business licenses, and everything had checked out. There were twelve employees and a few temps that had been hired on, not including the janitorial service. Oddly, there were no Brookers on the list of employees.

They hadn't had an opportunity to find out if it was a chain, but there was plenty of time for that later. On the PACRAT Terry had made it perfectly clear that this was as much of a reconnaissance mission as it was to find and eliminate a threat. They were to question anyone they could get their hands on and confiscate as much paper evidence as they could. If there were others, they needed to be isolated as quickly as possible.

That strategy had birthed the teams. Ric, Warpath and Dani were going to approach from the garage, where they would hopefully find the black van in question and thus the initial proof that they had the right place. Once that was confirmed, Terry was going to take out the front door and security and Husk and Shatterstar were on their own.

She wasn't going to lose it, though. She was going to do Sam and her mother proud. She was going to gather as much evidence as she possibly could. It was so much more damaging than attacking the single people.

The people that had beaten her mother, her brothers and sisters, they were nothing. They were dandelion leaves. Paige was going to go for the root and she wasn't going to let go until every last feeler of this group had tasted poison.

"Calm down, Paige. Yer going to give yerself a cramp."

She hadn't noticed her fists, and she uncurled them quickly. But neither of her new teammates seemed to be admonishing her. Shatterstar was relaxed but in a very intense way, his eyes bright and alert. Terry wasn't slouching either, and something was in her face that hadn't been there before. She seemed to take being a leader very seriously.

Paige turned to stare at the office building, not wanting to be caught studying her companions. They were well used to each other, and the less she acted as an outsider the more leeway they would give her. She'd remembered what she'd read of Sam's letters. This team wasn't . . . part of a moral structure that Xavier would approve of. Theresa had a lot of sometimes brutal people under her command, and Paige could only imagine what the older woman was thinking right then.

Siryn glanced at her watch. Five minutes after eight o'clock. It looked like most of the people that were going to show up had. No sense in dragging this out any longer than they had to. She really wasn't sure what kind of surveillance this group had on X-Force, and the later they waited, the higher the chance their prey would suspect they had left their happy house and expect retaliation.

Terry raised a com to her lips, slowly. "Move out."

And they waited.

The com line stayed open, but there was no sound, and Paige marveled at it. All they heard were running noises, then the deep thunking of someone struggling with the door. A sharp crack, the door opening. But still no words. A polished set. Complete teamwork. It was something the X-Men had, something she envied, wished GenX might eventually pick up.

"Somebody gave it a good washing." A grunt. "Mud still on the undercarriage."

That was enough for Terry, who grimly pocked the com and rose into the air with a scream.

Shatterstar tensed to Paige's right, and they waited for three seconds before charging out into the open, announced by the shriek of a Siryn and shattering glass.

* * * * * * *

Sharon nodded politely to Trudy as he shuffled in, hiding her disdain for him by refusing to look at his face. She buried herself in the faxes they'd gotten overnight instead, ignoring the attempt to start a conversation. He'd find someone in the break room to molest, there was no doubt about that.

Someone had brought in coffee cake, and as soon as she got the phones off forwarding she'd consider helping herself. It wasn't likely one of their clients would come strolling in until noon at least, but no matter how long their hours were, it was always 'very important' and 'do this immediately' and 'we needed this yesterday!'

Not enough money in the Northern Americas. Even the benefits were lousy.

Sharon swiveled in the chair, catching her pantyhose on the corner of the drawer she'd just pulled out, and frowned at the hole. Not a run yet, but just give it time.

Like everything else around here. It all went to shit, given enough time.

That meeting she'd organized? Abandoned. The rest of the office went out to lunch constantly and didn't write the expenses into the budget book. She couldn't get a manager to sign anything to save her life. She'd had to file for a further extension on last year's taxes because she still hadn't gotten their franchise information. In fact, she still hadn't managed to get the numbers for their main office from Ryan.

Add to that the overtime she'd been working the past few weeks but not getting paid for, the van getting trashed . . . Who in their right mind took a cargo van off-road? They were lucky the only damage was a cracked axle. The shocks would never be the same, and there was no carwash on the planet that could get all that mud off the undercarriage.

Sharon actually didn't look up at the sound of shattering glass. She was well-used to the destructive tendencies of the many employees here, particularly the ones that were titled 'Paralegal assistants.' Besides, she'd whacked herself on the head a dozen times from leaning up too fast, so she rolled her chair backwards to give herself the room to level a sneer at the idiot who had - apparently - just taken out the entire glass paneled front of the office.

Let's see Ryan write this one off, she thought with satisfaction.

Her eyes cleared the surface of the desk in time to catch the wave of sound almost squarely on the very top of her head. A high-pitched scream slammed into her as though it were actually tangible, and she ducked her head down with a cry of her own, her chair skittering out from underneath her. Her ears were ringing, she clamped her hands over them and clumsily scooted herself further beneath the heavy oak reception desk.

The space was smaller than it seemed, and she heard her breathing only internally, bumping her knees as she drew them in, curled herself in a tight ball. She could feel her hands shaking, but it was secondary to straining, listening with all her might to her own pulse and breathing. She couldn't hear anything, not a damn thing.

Phone. She had to call 911.

Oh, and report what? That someone screamed in the parking lot and it had blown out the lobby glass?

Sharon squeezed her eyes tightly shut and tried to calm down. That was ridiculous, that couldn't have been it. The scream was someone else -

But I'm the only woman who works here! her mind wailed.

But all the glass was gone.

Explosion of some kind? Her ears _hurt_ in that 'I was sitting too near the stadium speakers during the Super Bowl game' kinda way, maybe a gas leak?

That was certainly a good reason to call 911. Explosion.

She unwrapped a arm from around her knees, trying to steady it as she reached tentatively for the phone. She could just grab her headset, it was right next to her keyboard, so if there was another explosion she could be protected behind the desk. It was safest. She stretched her fingers further, reaching, patting the surface directly above her head.

She found the corner of the keyboard, a little cool and textured, comforting plastic. The mousepad, a spongey frayed corner. Something round - no! It skittered from her grasp, and she just heard the harsh sounds of a pencil rolling across finished wood.

Where the hell was it?!

She edged herself further from the back of the desk, feeling the reassuring pull of muscles in her shoulder as she frantically scrabbled around the desk. She could hear things, now, hear her fingers scratching on the wood, hear some alarmed shouts from her coworkers.

A grip like iron closed around her wrist, and Sharon couldn't bite back the yelp.

* * * * * * *

SHHHRIP!

Picking the last of her skin from her shoulder, Paige crunched through the glass. She was careful to dodge a few spiteful pieces still clinging to the frame above her. Being impaled by falling glass would be the perfect beginning to this little expedition.

Siryn had disappeared into the building - there were alarmed shouts coming from an open door in the rear, which probably meant something - and the Mojoworld samurai had outsprinted her, heading unerringly for the reception desk. There was something almost overeager about it, and she wondered if he hadn't just been running faster because his legs had been cramping too.

There was no doubt she felt a lot better moving than she had waiting.

Shatterstar's charge bore fruit, and he leapt nimbly on top of the rounded, heavy-looking oak piece of furniture, reaching down to pick something up -

He'd found the receptionist.

He had her by the wrist and yanked, and there was a yelp and the muffled sound of a body hitting the bottom of the desk before a terrified brown-haired woman came into view. She was a typical secretary type, and Paige didn't see anything but terror in her eyes.

The receptionist let out with a full scream as she got an eyeful of her captor, and he tossed her down and against the back wall as though she were a piece of rubbish. Obviously not a worthy adversary for the mutant, but she could be useful nonetheless. She might have her boss's passwords, or access to his files.

Paige jogged up as Shatterstar dropped soundlessly from the desk to the floor, bringing his sword up and around -

"Wait!" He was just going to kill her then and there? Obviously the words 'reconnaissance' and 'innocent' didn't mean very much to him.

The blade came to rest against the throat of the terrified woman, who was shaking so badly she couldn't seem to speak. Husk stepped around the desk, ignoring the inquiring look she was getting from her 'partner.'

"Have you entered your password into this computer?"

More shaking. Paige thought she saw a more discernable movement, though; a nod.

"Do you have access to your boss's files?"

Just trembling. Hmm. A no.

"Give me the key to the filing room." Or directions to it, or maybe she didn't even need a key, but it was the only other relevant question she could think of. Shatterstar hadn't so much as twitched, but she could sense he was getting antsy as another of Siryn's screams came from down that hall.

The secretary shrieked a little at the noise, flattening herself against the light blue wall, trying desperately to get away from the sword at her throat. "I-I don't have o-one! P-please, please don't . . . oh god no. . . I didn't do anything - I-I won't tell . . . please! I won't tell! Oh, god!" Her eyes seemed to leap out of her face, tearstained and wide with fright, seeking some sign of compassion in her attacker's. At his expression, she choked, unable to look away.

"Please . . . don't . . . please! I don't want to die! Please . . . please, god, no . . ."

She trailed into hysterical sobs, whimpering, hands and feet sliding on the floor in her attempt to brace herself more tightly against the wall. Paige turned to make sure the computer really had been logged onto, stomach churning. It had been a long time since she'd seen someone begging for their life, and it was a scene she could go without seeing the rest of hers.

Shatterstar seemed to take the turning of her head as a dismissal. Husk leaned over and clicked the space bar to disengage the screensaver, and caught motion in her peripheral vision.

Shatterstar's face bore only a dripping contempt, and without effort he dispatched the whimpering woman, splashing Paige's calves a bit with warm blood. Paige didn't speak; wasn't sure what to say, she'd never seen someone decapitated before. The head was still perched on the neck, there wasn't very much blood at all.

The feet were still scrabbling.

Paige turned herself quickly again, staring at the computer screen, hands gripping the edge of the desk with enough force to turn her knuckles white. Her mind was reeling. Oh my God. He just . . . he just decapitated her! Just like that! He didn't even think about it . . . He had just _cut off her head_ and was already headed off in another direction as though nothing had happened!

Shaking, she turned to look at him. She opened her mouth, the words not even formed in her head, but her jaw had other ideas and closed with a snap. She was not intimidated by him, she was _not_ -

Shatterstar was headed towards a closed wooden door, leaving Paige in front of the computer. He did give her a glance, but it was almost dismissive, almost disappointed; clearly he had decided something about her. He then did another sweep of the room with his eyes, finding no more likely targets.

He was going to leave her in here to gather information.

Paige took a deep breath, staring at her hands. Steady. Well, that was fine. This was X-Force, they played by Cable's rules. She should not be surprised. The receptionist probably knew all about it anyway. Probably had typed up the memo to the other men here on where to meet, probably looked up the Guthrie address in the phonebook.

Her stomach was still churning.

Whatever, she told her mind firmly. She was more interested in getting to the root. Doing her part of the mission. Copy the info; there was a Zip drive in the machine. Okay. And find the hard copies. She was going to get the son of a bitch that started this thing. Let X-Force do whatever they wanted.

She turned away from him, picked up the chair, and sat shakily, double-clicking My Computer.

The feet were still scrabbling.

* * * * * * *

"Go."

Dani jogged soundlessly across the well-swept concrete floor, heading for the large wooden door at the far end. Entrance into the main building. They were supposed to stay back and capture anyone Terry and her team flushed out, but Siryn was doing a lot of screaming, and there had been more than a few gunshots. Shatterstar could take it, and maybe Paige, but Terry wasn't exactly bulletproof, and it wouldn't hurt to send someone in to take 'em from the rear.

What an appealing mental image.

Rictor scanned the garage, looking for anything that might prove useful. Like a generator to take out, or a fuse box. Besides the van, there was an enormous stack of cardboard - the instructions written on the sides indicated it had held wooden furniture.

Well, damn. How long had they been here, then? Or were they planning on packing all this shit back up when they left?

"Hey. Check this out."

Ric pulled his gaze away from the cardboard with difficulty. It was hard to look away, for some reason, like when you were really tired and your eyes just wanted to stare at one spot because it was comfortable and didn't take any effort.

Jimmy was staring out the window of the large garage door. It was an automatic, the kind wide enough for three vehicles. But no one else seemed interested in parking in the garage, so the question was more why they had it than why no one was in it.

Ric came over to his side, peering cautiously around the frame into the glass. A car was pulling in.

"Someone's tardy."

Rictor patted the Apache on the back. "Think maybe you should remind him to punctual?"

"Punctual, puncture . . ." Jimmy glanced around the structure before seeing a person-sized door at the far end. Through the glass he could see it led to a dumpster.

"Think I'll just mosey on out."

Julio watched him squeeze his bulk out the door, then glanced back towards the building end of the garage. So far, no one had run - defending the place, though, if the gunfight was any indication. He itched to be doing something, but causing a little earthquake now wouldn't do anyone any good, it was just as liable to hurt his teammates than his enemies.

He moved into position near the van, waiting patiently. If he cold just get the concrete to fracture upwards, it would make a hell of a sick running surface, and he did bring his gun -

There was a loud click above his head, then a low vibrating hum. Rictor looked up at the ventilation system . . . that was a damn weird sound for air conditioning -

"Going somewhere, Mr. Richter?"

* * * * * * *

Terry grunted as she hit the ground unexpectedly, recovering well and rolling to the cover of a nearby set of bookcases. She had a curiously numb feeling in her throat, and she knew exactly what it meant.

"Scream all you want, woman. Music to my ears."

Dammit.

God _dammit_, she thought a little more fervently, reaching around for her gun. They all had handguns. She'd expected this. They'd done it to Sam in the house, it would be foolish to assume they wouldn't have their local base of operations equally protected.

But still. _Dammit!_

She didn't waste breath with taunting him. This was the main office, which meant the man that had just spoken had to be the 'regional manager' Ryan McPhearson. Perfect timing, too. She finds him right before they kick on the mutant inhibiting generator.

Terry listened, trying to gauge his position, but he was silent, and the room was very quiet save sounds coming from behind her, in the direction of the lobby. Paige and Shatterstar. Shouldn't be a problem for either of them so long as she'd already husked. And Ric and Jimmy should be fine, so long as Ric figured it out in time.

But Shatterstar . . . ?

Terry peeked around the corner and a neat wedge of wood splintered off. She hurled her head back, almost pulling a muscle, and touched her cheek as two more shots whined by. It was numb; her fingers came away with a smudge of blood.

"Ye missed." He knew her position, silence only helped him now.

"No I didn't," came the calm reply, and the sound of a door slamming.

Terry risked another peek, this time at a different height, to find what she could see of his office empty. It didn't mean anything, but the door slamming had come from there. The back of the office building was the garage, so it was unlikely he'd get past Jimmy. Even without his mutant powers, it would take quite a bit to take him down. Not fast enough to dodge anymore, though -

Not for the first time, Terry wished fervently that Sam had somehow escaped this. Hearing about the little boy, running away, being found by Cable and Domino, not being there to save his family, whatever had happened to him in Sinister's care, all of it.

Bloody hell.

Terry took another good look into that office, then a quick glance behind her that stopped her in her tracks.

He hadn't missed after all.

Shatterstar was standing in the hallway behind her, already on his way down. He didn't seem to notice that he was falling, he was staring at his hand. There was blood, more than there should have been, and the shots were in an odd place -

It clicked with startlingly little fanfare.

Shatterstar collapsed to his knees, still staring at his hand, and from there pitched forward without a sound.

* * * * * * *

His eyes were narrow, flicking back and forth as he searched for her. Dani tread soundlessly across the thin carpeting, crouching behind a row of file cabinets. He was obviously a top executive, and just as obviously deeply involved in what had happened to the Guthries.

If the baseball bats mounted on the walls of his office had anything to do with anything. And there was that gun he'd pulled, calling her by name.

Yes, it was fairly likely that he had been one of the men in that van. He didn't even have a southern accent.

Dani narrowed almond-shaped eyes, watching him carefully. She needed a clean shot of sorts, and she didn't want to get her head blown off waiting for one.

The man was very careful. He was staying in his own office, under cover, and hadn't needlessly wasted his bullets. The plaque on his desk read 'Alan Goodman.' Talk about an irony.

His blue eyes were like steel, grey now, lightless, and his blonde hair well-tended. "I know you're out there! And I know what you can do!" A strong voice, but not as confident as it seemed. Her lips curled into a smirk. "You can't get us all." His husky frame belied its speed, but even with that and his weapon he didn't stand a chance.

"Yes we can," she murmured to herself, summoning the concentration, a flaming bow springing to her hands. It didn't really matter that he'd found cover. She did need line of sight to terrify him with her mindpowers.

She didn't need it to kill him. Not really.

When focusing on one specific fear of one specific person, it took an intense amount of concentration. She had to first extract it and then project it. The arrows removed the need for extracting - they acted on that fear no matter what it was. Mirage need not know what it was that Mr. Alan Goodman was afraid of.

Though she hoped that right now it was her.

She waited until she got a glimpse of his position, ducking as he fired. A piece of the file cabinet shot off with a metallic *clang!* and Dani frowned. Questioning this one seemed unlikely, and if he kept shooting up the files -

"Surrender your comrades or face me." Didn't hurt to try. For Terry's sake.

A laugh was her only reply.

"Bye." She leaned out, loosening the arrow, watching the tiny ball of her power sail towards him. Goodman ducked behind the desk, but it did him no good - the psionic arrow couldn't be stopped by such a physical object.

This one was stopped by something entirely different.

The bow in her hands disappeared without warning, and she blinked, then darted frantic eyes along the path the arrow had been winging.

It was gone. Evaporated. Without her mutant ability to sustain it, it had dispersed around the room.

Stupid inhibiting generators.

Dispersed, it wasn't powerful enough to kill him, or even do much in the way of terrifying him. It did, however, make him yelp and fall back, exposing his face to view. Without missing a beat Dani grabbed the nine millimeter Terry had insisted they all carry and leveled it at the frightened eyes, squeezing the trigger exactly the way she'd been taught.

Then she stood, walking fully into the office and cautiously looking around.

They needed some hard evidence, and while many would call her cynical for it, she didn't think the rest of her team or Terry's would be that interested in gathering it. She had to admit that she was less than enthusiastic about giving these assholes even the briefest chance of escape.

There was a certain logic to the way her ancestors settled things like this. A pity life was so much more complicated.

Dani stalked fully into the office, glancing at the computer, seeing that it was off. Too bad; they probably had all the important stuff on a server somewhere, and they'd need someone's password to get it. She should make the next one log in. His desk was locked, so she bent over the body, searching until she found a set of keys. Maybe to the filing cabinets, too -

A loud bang, just behind the open door.

Dani whirled, already wondering if she'd just been shot and hadn't noticed yet. It had been a quiet sound, she should have thought to check behind the door -

She was facing a rabbit. A black and white rabbit, sitting in its cage, very still. The rabbit regarded her over its upturned food dish, half-hidden behind it. The delicate pink nose was wriggling quite busily, evidence of anxiousness.

The poor thing had probably been named something silly, too, like 'Lucky.'

Dani frowned, then went over and opened the cage. She extracted the rabbit, setting the struggling creature on the carpet, where it headed immediately out the door. So much for loyalty to the ones we love, Dani thought ironically, before heading back out to the main hall. They could collect files later. Right now she had some work to do, and a memory to honor.

* * * * * * *

An elbow came down with crushing force and Ric almost choked as the bile shot up his throat. Would have choked if he'd been breathing at the time, couldn't breathe this time.

The dull roar was back, and he fought to get past it, fought with everything he had. He felt a flung fist strike flesh, he felt the weight move from him. Good or bad? he wondered.

Bad.

Richter blinked around the encroaching dimness, rolling onto his side painfully, searching for his opponent. Shit. _Shit!_ He was going for the gun, the gun he'd knocked away from Ric. Shot with his own weapon.

A handcrafted piece, his folks had given it to him posthumously. It'd failed them, but against Stryfe, what weapon wouldn't.

Even Cable had, after all.

Rictor struggled to his knees, interested more in finding cover than trying to outpace his opponent. Both were futile, the drop was on him and he could still barely breathe around the ribs. It was just a matter of time. When had he become so dependent on his mutant powers? When had he forgotten everything he'd learned about fighting on the street?

When he'd gotten off the street. And speaking of weapons, Cable drilled it into their heads: never be without one. When all else fails, use whatever body part you can throw. Never give up the fight, you just lose faster and worse that way.

Assess your surroundings. Define all conditions. Then start changing them.

He was unarmed. His opponent would be armed shortly.

This wouldn't do.

With a cry he threw himself forward. The sound was more a yell of pain than a distractionary tactic, but he didn't care. He pumped his legs for everything they were worth and threw himself into a full-body tackle. This killer was going to either sidestep him or shoot him to a standstill, but he was a dead man any way you sliced it, and he had teammates to worry about.

Julio felt the contact, just a graze, not a good full-body plowing, and his chest screamed, the pain five times worse than a full-contact hit would have been. He couldn't hang on, felt his momentum carrying him past his target. A gunshot, impossibly loud. The volume of that shot was deafening, it seemed to be alive. The echo of it rattled between the parallel walls almost like a tangible thing.

This is what it was like to hear the last thing you ever heard. You heard it forever.

And it just sucked that instead of hearing a tearful 'I love you, Julio Esteban Richter' uttered from trembling, painted lips, he heard the gunshot that ended his life.

That shot continued echoing long past when it should have stopped, and Rictor became confused. His chest barely hurt anymore, but wasn't this a bit excessive? Shouldn't he have stopped being aware by now? He believed in God and the places you went after you died, but unless an angel showed up real quick he was beginning to think perhaps he hadn't lived his life as well as he could have.

There was this last mistake, for instance. Clearing the garage. Sending Dani in as soon as they heard gunshots. Staying back to prevent escapees. Making Jimmy watch the parking lot for late employees. Not watching his back, not checking the empty office boxes stacked next to the van.

Not checking. Not clearing the room the way he'd been taught. Overconfident. Angry.

Dead.

Dammit, he should be dead by now. Wasn't this enough reflection already?

A hot wind swept out of nowhere, a burning wind, searing his flesh, making him choke. Choke - he was breathing! The scent of gasoline, of heat. It dried his mouth instantly, he felt the burning on his scalp, hands, face - okay, maybe he ought to reflect a little more . . .

No. The simple explanation was that he wasn't dead. It was just a very loud, very hot gunshot.

Or something blew up.

Ric tried to pry his eyes open, tearing from the brief, searing heat, and tried to see. Tried to breathe. His internal pain was forgotten for the burning of his skin, and he pulled his head off the swept concrete, forced his eyes to focus.

Dios. No.

The van was sitting a little crookedly on its suspension, a fire burning brightly beneath it. One side of it seemed to be in pieces on the floor, he could just make out the wavy, indistinct features distorted by the heat of the flames.

And the shape on the other side that was just as distorted, yet just as recognizable.

"Jimmy," he croaked. If the figure moved, it was so slightly that he couldn't distinguish it from the heat. Rictor moved an arm. Another. Struggled to pull himself into a better position to get his legs under him.

"Jimmy." No stronger.

No response.

"Damn you, Proudstar," he rasped, slowly pulling himself into a hunched, kneeling position. It pulled at the burns, he hissed with the pain. Eyes screwed shut opened again to find his opponent, dead on the floor. But what about the other . . . what about the one Jimmy had been fighting?

He knew Proudstar had been fighting, he'd heard him when he'd managed to disarm his own opponent. Warpath had been enjoying himself at someone else's expense, even without powers.

And now Warpath was lying on the other side of an explosion.

A little late to consider it, he groaned at his mind, hauling himself into a kneeling position, groping for anything to help him up. Shit, he needed to get up, get over there. Find those inhibiting generators, he wasn't fit for fighting and he'd lost track of his gun. Needed that gun, his parents had given it to him posthumously . . .

"Jimmy!" Stronger. He wanted a response if he was going to all this trouble of surviving himself. The least Proudstar could do.

A slight moan.

The sudden lurch of hope manifested in standing, painfully making his way around the van. He was wary the fire would discover the oil pan, if it hadn't already. The van blowing up further wouldn't be good for anyone.

Around he went, looking around the much darker garage for any sign of the other 'employee.' Shit, the way those guys fought, they were hired guns. No doubt about it. He'd seen enough babysitting the trade, let alone since he'd joined Cable's little party. There was a lot more to this than they knew, and they'd better get that evidence before it went up like the van.

Around the van, choking a little on the smoke. Kneeling painfully by Proudstar's side.

It took a few scary seconds before Rictor found a pulse - he wasn't sure if it was because Jimmy was just that thick, or his fingers were desensitized by the fire. Dammit. Out cold. Uniform scorched. Bleeding a little.

So who did the moaning . . . ?

The smoke was making his head thick, and he tried not to cough, to upset his ribs any more than they already were. The bullet went into the van, so at least he didn't have to worry about that, but where the hell was the other guy?

It came out of nowhere, and Rictor again found himself on the ground, unable to breathe for the weight. An almost sharp something grinding its way into the base of his skull. A mutter, almost feral. A tremble in the object as Rictor tried ineffectually to move himself. He was being used like a stool, there was no way to shake off all that weight, and he twisted his hips, hoping beyond hope that it would somehow work -

Again, the weight disappeared. Again, the explosion, except there were more, and they were of shorter duration. Also, this time it was followed by a lot of feminine-sounding coughing.

But this time it was different because he still couldn't breathe.

* * * * * **

Terry crept forward softly, keeping her head low as she headed into the men's room. She'd cleared the woman's restroom with ease, as she'd already known the only female employee was the receptionist and if Paige and Shatterstar hadn't taken care of her by now it wasn't likely that Terry would get the drop on her, either.

To her immediate left was the door to the garage, and she could plainly hear a struggle. The noise, accompanied by grunts, indicated that Jimmy was having a good time. She didn't hear Rictor; he had to be around somewhere.

With a booted toe, Theresa nudged the bathroom door open. It was a small business restroom - one sink, one toilet, one room. Tiled ceiling.

She entered the room fully, taking in the decorated mirror, the sweet smell of scented hand soap, the purple fur cover on the toilet seat.

The footprint in the purple fur toilet seat cover.

Terry moved her eyes upward without changing the position of her head. He'd known she was behind him and if he'd ascertained that someone was in the garage . . .

Where else would Mr. McPhearson go.

They needed him alive. They'd hit too early, not enough of the employees had been actually working. She had seen enough of the building to know that their server was very small. They didn't keep anything important on it, though she fully intended to take the drives with her when they left. They needed access to the main network of these killers.

They needed Ryan McPhearson alive long enough to give it to them.

She used her peripheral vision to search for tiles that may have been sitting a little high, giving him a view of her. They all were settled normally, so she moved her head, staring upwards. She couldn't bring down the ceiling unless they found and eliminated the inhibiting generators, and randomly shooting the tiles would only waste precious ammunition and possibly kill him.

She walked back out, looking down the hall carefully first. And she was glad she did.

A deafening explosion rocked the building, shaking the very foundations, and Terry felt herself drop into a defensive crouch. The lights flickered briefly, but came back to a steady hum, and she hesitated before standing.

That had come from the garage.

Please, let James and Julio have done that -

Terry whirled at footsteps behind her, almost tripping in her haste and bad position. A red-headed man was tearing down the main hall towards her, gun held in fumbling hands as he tried to reload it.

"Ryan! We've been compromised, Sharon was logged in-!" He cut off as he saw her, his body becoming nearly horizontal as he made a dive for an open door. A sword seemed to suddenly sprout from his back, landing with a solid and surprisingly loud thunk in the doorframe, and the body hung there, kicking feebly like a drowning man seconds before death.

Like a pinned butterfly.

Shatterstar followed his blade more slowly, stepping out from one of the secondary rooms. He was a little hunched, and his movements lacked any grace, but the wounds didn't seem to be as disabling as she'd first feared. It was apparent the mutant inhibiting field that had sprung up didn't affect his regenerative abilities, and she couldn't be happier about it.

When he'd first gone down, she'd been sure that they had lost him. And the only way McPhearson could have known exactly where to aim . . .

He had to have access to either Henry McCoy's notes on Shatterstar or possibly the old Cerebro's breakdown of Longshot's physique. There was no other explanation.

He caught her eyes, and Terry gave him a nod.

Jesus above. She hadn't even seen the redhead back there, and she'd checked that room. He could easily have killed her, but oddly, he didn't seem to know she was there, either . . . they'd missed each other. And that was odd indeed.

There was no doubt that the men they'd seen were trained mercenaries. The weaponry was contemporary, well-made, foreign, and handled with skill. They weren't your typical FOH, they weren't stupid. They defended the office building tactically, abandoning the parts that didn't matter to defend the valuable territory.

"Thank ye," she murmured to Shatterstar, who placed a leg against the blindly peddling body to extract his sword. Terry had already turned, but she heard the fleshy thud of the body falling, the choking end as the warrior efficiently killed his prey.

Gunshots in the garage. So at least one of their team was still at it.

The body count was going to be high on this one, and the fallout hot, but blood on her hands had never felt so right.

Resolutely, she toed open the men's room door again. "Ryan, come down."

She didn't expect him to, and he didn't disappoint her.

She swallowed, about to issue an ultimatum, and felt the glorious sensitivity return to her throat. More of that perfect timing. She smiled.

"Do ye know what happens when the music stops?"

The tiles shook and flew from their frames, not disintegrating like a harder surface would have under those circumstances. Her target was easy to pick out as he came crashing down with the broken boards, a tall man, athletic, scarred just above his right ear.

He was armed and he tried to righten himself, tried to get a round off, but Terry was on him too fast.

"Ye have to find a seat quick."

He never had a chance.

* * * * * * *

Paige choked on the smoke, staring upwards into the smoke-filled ceiling. She had that itchy feeling back-

Those bullets . . . or maybe the explosion . . . ?

It didn't matter. Her powers were back, for whatever reason. Which meant everyone else's were as well.

Paige crouched low, trying to keep under the smoke. She had spotted Rictor struggling on the floor, tackled his attacker. She was pretty sure the gun hadn't gone off until after she'd made contact, but Rictor was lying perfectly still, and her stomach curled miserably behind her kidneys as she leaned in close, fingers digging for a pulse.

And there it was. He was just unconscious.

She needed to get them out of here before the smoke killed them both.

And James . . . Proudstar had to be in here, he wasn't anywhere else. She'd come from around the side, the evidence she'd gathered was stashed neatly outside the front or copying itself onto a Jaz drive. A scream, nearby, indicated that Terry was alive and well.

She put her arms underneath Rictor's armpits, hauling his still form towards the garage doors. Air the place out, find James. She had to dodge the still-burning van to do it, and she looked at the dying flames in alarm. The smoke was putting the fire out. A few more desperate tugs and they met the wall. She laid him down, leaning down to suck a good breath of fresh air between the gap of floor and garage door. Then she felt along the wall for the switch she knew had to be there.

Found it. Pressed the button.

And nothing happened.

Somewhere out towards the van, she heard a soft cough.

"James?"

* * * * * * *

Terry pulled open the door to the garage, nearly choking as a thick black cloud came flying out to meet her. The heat was stifling, and the darkness complete.

"Rictor! Warpath!"

Somewhere a piece of metal clanged onto the concrete, but even that seemed muffled, and Terry leaned out to suck in a deep breath, then plunged into the darkness, slamming the door behind her with an "Everyone out!" hollered behind her.

Shatterstar wasn't in great shape, but he could be trusted to take care of McPhearson. Hopefully he'd grab Tabitha on the way out, if she was still in the building. She'd lost track of Husk fairly early, but couldn't imagine the Guthrie girl had gotten herself into real trouble. Even powerdampened, there wasn't much these men could do to her.

Besides choke her with smoke.

There was a very dim light before her, and Terry hurried towards it, her held breath burning a bit in the smoke.

Why hadn't they opened the door? She groped along the wall, searching for the control box she knew had to be there, and she tripped over something that gave with a soft groan.

* * * * * * *

Rictor coughed, vaguely aware of the pain in his chest. Hands on him. Never, it couldn't be another one . . . could it? Had he come back to finish him off? All he could smell was smoke, all he could feel was heat. Maybe he really had blown it this time -

A voice. No, not a voice. A hiss. He couldn't make out the words, but the fingers on him were impossibly thin, they were painful, reaching for his neck, choking him -

Saints above, God above, this couldn't be -

He reached out with his only defense, extending his hands, feeling them forced down. The hissing grew louder.

He tried to concentrate with all his might, he fought, he extended his fingers and he released every last bit of energy he could into toppling Hell.

Perhaps there was redemption to be had, even for him.

* * * * * * *

Dani wrestled with the last drawer. An unlucky bullet had bent the steel frame, and the drawer refused to fully extend, keeping at least thirty folders marked with intriguing numbers just out of reach, and she reached in as far as it would allow, fingertips brushing the folders without getting purchase.

Up to her shoulder in file cabinet, it was easy to feel the first jolt.

There was no mistaking it - Rictor had discovered his powers were back. Dani smiled a bit, but it faded as the tremors grew more powerful. She yanked her arm free only moments before the cabinet toppled backwards, hitting the shivering floor with a loud clanking that never seemed to stop. Glass shattered from out in the hall.

What was he thinking?! He was going to bring the place down on top of them all -

The tremors stopped as suddenly as they began, and Dani paused, listening to everything settle. Behind her the glass in the window, having already cracked, dropped out of its frame to the floor, breaking in a thudding sort of way.

They started again, even more violently, and Dani thought she heard a scream.

* * * * * * *

Terry used the last of her air to scream. It was a perfectly natural reaction when trapped in a smoke-filled room in the middle of a sizable earthquake, so it wasn't difficult to get the right sort of pitch to it.

She blew the roof right off the garage.

Once that was gone, the structure toppled like an arch with the keystone removed. She curled herself over Rictor, knowing if any debris actually hit them it wouldn't matter, but the walls fell outward rather than inward, releasing the smoke like a cube of frozen black mist.

It only remained garage-shaped for a minute, billowing out into the clear blue sky, and Terry sucked in a few good breaths, staring down at Julio with smoke-born tears streaming down her face.

He was delirious, but he'd stopped trying to bring the place down. So why did the tremors feel as though they were increasing . . .?

Behind her, she heard the telltale cracks and pops; they'd all heard it a hundred times before.

The office building was about to come down.

And it wasn't the only thing. The ground around her was rippling like the unmade comforter on a child's bed. Trees were already down, and the road out to the street might as well have been a stepped on potato chip.

With the smoke lifted, she could see Paige Guthrie, tugging ineffectually on Jimmy. At over three hundred pounds, it would take them both -

With a deafening crack, the concrete of the floor pulled itself apart an inch.

And the tremors weren't stopping.

Terry lifted herself up in the air, still holding onto Rictor, and deposited him in the grass a hundred yards from the office building. In the air she could steady herself, and saw that this earthquake wasn't localized. Dust was rising as far as she could see, and there were houses shivering in every direction. A small cottage went down with a flat-sounding squelch, and everything was hidden in a low roar.

Kentucky. The New Madrid fault. Rictor had woken the New Madrid fault.

Dani Moonstar had appeared from nowhere, and Terry landed lightly beside her, helping them drag Jimmy out. She cleared them a path through the debris, afraid of using the same tactic to move Jimmy; he looked burned, and his lack of any movement worried her. They needed to get him medical attention pronto.

It was difficult to pull, to move, to go in the direction they wanted to, but the three of them got Jimmy to the same general grassy spot. She indicated that she wanted everyone seated, and they complied. Paige looked fine, she was still coughing a little, but her hard red skin was unbroken. Rictor was also burned, and had fallen deeply unconscious - probably from expending all that energy. He'd given the place a damn good shake.

Shatterstar was approaching with a copier paper box full of papers and some sort of mangled-looking black square. He joined them quickly, also sitting as they waited patiently for the tremors to peter out. They couldn't take off in this anyway, and with the mines, if anyone needed their help -

With a deafening series of creaks, the building in front of them started collapsing into itself.

And then it suddenly vanished.

Terry blinked, unsure she was really seeing what she was seeing. A cloud of dust had just erupted from where the building had been, but she was almost certain she had seen the corner just disappear -

"Ah ain't seen a sinkhole like that in years," she heard Paige mutter, and they sat, watching the dust rising, listening to the low rumble, and waiting for the earth to stand still.

* * * * * * *

There was no low rumble to warn, there was just the explosion. The floor vibrated so strongly it shook Cable to the bone, and his eyes flew open of themselves, tasting blood as his teeth cut into his tongue.

Dust, an explosion . . . Apocalypse was climbing to his feet with a roar . . . that sound . . . Scott.

It's time.

Cable tried to get it together, he fought his body, forced his eyes to focus, to see. To watch.

Jean had apparently gotten them up through the floor, and she was circling behind Apocalypse, trying to get his attention away from -

From the wounded. LeBeau and Logan had Sam and Domino, and they were trying to get them to a save corner - of course. Leaving them in the tunnels would be as dangerous as having them at the battle. Nur wouldn't consider them.

Just like he was paying Nathan himself no attention whatsoever.

"Your loyalty will be rewarded," the External was roaring at Sinister, who was, as unbelievable as it seemed, baring his teeth in the closest to a rage he'd ever seen the geneticist. He looked a little dusty but none the worse for wear, and his smile was terrifying.

"As will yours, En Sabah Nur," came the bitten reply, and a dazzling blast of energy knocked Apocalypse back one step.

*Zak!*

Apocalypse was driven back another step. He increased his mass, growing so tall that Nathan's eyes refused to look up that far. They relaxed in his skull, falling upon the wounded.

Scalphunter. Next to Domino. Rage gave him the strength to lean up, picking his head off the ground, ready and willing to kill the Marauder if he so much as touched her . . . but no, he was giving her what looked like a tranquilizer gun . . .

And Sam, picking up his head dazedly, following the battle with his eyes. He saw Cable looking at him.

*Ah'm real sorry, sir -*

Bright Lady, so was he.

* * * * * * *

Scott was clipped by the giant appendage, now in the form of a flat bludgeoning object, and hit the wall hard, a lot harder than he thought he would. He shook it off, getting unsteadily to his feet and blasting again, drawing on the energy he'd gathered out in the desert, wishing they hadn't spent so much time in the tunnels. He needed all the energy he could get.

They couldn't keep this up for long. Logan was holding the corner and the wounded, and he had his work cut out for him - the Dark Riders that had been waiting at the end of the tunnels had entered the chamber and were heading straight for him. It wasn't surprising; Logan was far away from Apocalypse, who was swinging madly and wasn't going to distinguish between his own and his enemies.

"What did you think this offense would give you?" Nur snarled, pounding a huge fist against Jean's telekinetic shield. The redhead dropped to her knees with a gasp, but the shield held, and Nur was distracted by Gambit, who had nimbly sprung up the arm and gotten ahold of one of the hoses that made up his armor.

With a careless grin, the mutant charged the one he had ahold of, leaping off again as both an energy blast and Nur's other hand came up to dislodge him. He landed well, extending his bo stick and knocking the weapon from the Rider that had fired at him.

The blast was impressive, and Nur roared with the pain, stumbling backwards. Another well-placed *zak!* had him back another step.

Towards the large hole in the floor. It all hinged on tripping him enough to give her just one shot -

* * * * * * *

"Come on, woman. Get it together."

Idiot. He thought he was all that, but she had survived everything she'd been through. Hell, she hadn't even been cloned _once_, and here this sanctimonious bastard was yelling at her like she was being weak.

Weak. It was an overwhelming weak feeling. She felt like she couldn't even breathe, she was too tired to even see. Just a great weariness, she wanted to lay down and sleep until it was gone and her eyes weren't so heavy and finally she could be warm -

Warm. She felt warm, fevered. Must be why she thought she was so cold. Cold like that piece of metal that was being shoved at her.

Bastard.

He seemed to like that. "No denying it. Look, shoot the big ugly guy and I'll leave you alone. How's that." Rough voice, but almost pleading. Maybe he knew he was a failure, that he'd died many times and she was just cooler because she never had.

She should really ask him about it, she hated to go into unknown territory without at least some intelligence.

"Come on, woman! Wake up!"

"Gehway," she slurred, pushing the gun away. She could shoot him later. She needed to sleep -

No! Dammit, no! She blinked frantically, fighting off the wave of drowsiness, and closed her hands around the gun tightly enough to feel the skin stretching over her knuckles. This was the whole point! The Marauder wasn't doing the shooting because of her luck power, that had to be it, giving her a chance to do it simply because she had a better chance -

But what if her powers didn't work anymore? What if the luck thing was psionic, and she was too damaged to get it done?

Oh, that's nice. Why don't you psych yourself out, she snarled at her mind, and was certain it was the first lucid thought she'd had in hours.

Focus. She could focus. She laid herself out on the floor - wasn't hard, it was where she already was - and looked down the sight. Scalphunter was behind her, over her - bastard, thought he was going to get lucky? - steadying the rifle.

"Whaddgelmen."

"I live to serve." There was some lack of humor there she found hysterical, and she laughed until tears ran down her face. Bastard with a sense of humor.

No! Gotta stay focused, gotta do this right. Since it'll be the last shot I take, I oughta make it count.

There. Apocalypse was in her sights, all she had to do was wait for an opening . . . so, mouth or eye? She decided mouth, more blood vessels on a normal human there, eye would be painful and sensitive, but not as likely to deliver the goods.

Tranq. Tranqing Apocalypse. She would have laughed again if not for the fact she thought if she opened her mouth she'd puke all over the gun.

Mustn't puke on the gun.

* * * * * * * *

Jean could have wept for the pain, the creeping tendrils that she felt as she buffered Domino from them. It was so difficult to differentiate her own pain from the other woman's, and keep it from Scott at the same time. She had to fight past it, had to, they had such a tiny window -

She summoned her telekinesis once more, struck. Like he had been backhanded with an enormous hand, Apocalypse's head moved back, sent him once more a step back. He was still off-balance, it wasn't going to last forever - just one more step to the hole, just one more step until they had their once chance to pull off that armor, expose his skin - just that one chance -

Burning. Someone's pain in her arm. Jean lost her concentration, turned to see if it was Domino's or her own -

"Jean!"

A snarling face, a pair of glinting golden eyes -

* * * * * * *

Gambit left Scalphunter to protect the fallen, moving with Logan as the Dark Rider finished chewing on Jean's arm and went for her face. That was all Wolverine's territory, because the big ugly one was getting his balance back and batted Sinister across the chamber like a piñata, taking Scott down with him. Without them, there wasn't any way to beat that stupid hunk of metal back -

Then again, who said he needed to go back?

He was straight out of cards, and he was done charging bits and pieces from the floor. There were more Dark Riders pouring in, and Domino's head was sagging on her shoulders. If they didn't do it now it wasn't going to get done.

Why not steal a little more time?

Gambit charged his bo staff, putting a good deal of his remaining energy into it before hurling it at the floor. It bounced over the body of the one that had been chewing on Jean, jounced past Scott, hissed its way beneath a started Dark Rider, and came to rest gently against Apocalypse's right big toe.

He never paid the slightest attention to it, intent on smashing Scott where he lay, and it occurred to LeBeau that Scott might be a bit too close to that blast -

His beloved staff blew, taking the rest of the tunnel ceiling with it. The floor cracked alarmingly, then disintegrated beneath the weight of the floundering External. With a series of thundering crashes the ancient sandstone chunked apart, and the metal floor screamed as it bent downwards. Heavy, thick fingers dug into the floor as he fell, and they tore dents in the thick metal like it was mud.

"Gotcha."

* * * * * * *

Domino couldn't help but scream as her head exploded with pain. It was as thought Stryfe were tearing her apart all over again, and she couldn't see for it. Fear made her curl away, panicking when she felt body weight pinning her down. Oh fucking hell no -

#It's okay -#

That voice. *Get out of my head!* she shrieked, she knew she hurt him, she knew she did, he wouldn't have been prepared for that level of noise, even if she wasn't psionically gifted, she had to end this now, before he hurt her more, before he brought all that pain back -

Eyes open. Gun readied. A voice in her ear - male's. She threw an elbow back, hitting something, felt the weight shift, heard the grunt. Looked down the sight. Right in that goddamn golden eye of his, she was going to end this now.

Stryfe had caused enough damage, and there he was, staring back at her like he wasn't even afraid.

She squeezed the trigger.

* * * * * * *

Scalphunter shook his head, clearing his vision with a snarl. Dammit, she was too far gone, this was their only shot and she was -

She was aiming for Cable.

"Shit, woman!" he snarled, leaning over her to grab the barrel, yanking it aside as the rifle went off, hurling its deadly package into the air. He only had one more, not enough time to reload -

The bellow of pain shook the chamber to the foundation, and more of the floor shook as the tunnel collapsed further. Cyclops was sliding down into the hole, out cold, and disappeared around the flailing External's waist.

Flailing . . .? Scalphunter heard the next bellow, angry, saw Apocalypse gouging at his own eye -

She'd hit him.

But he saw the dart, clear and brightly shining in the soft green light of the globe display, dangling from the External's lower eyelid. He'd nearly dislodged it, but it was so small compared to him, his fingers were too large and clumsy -

The External struck out in a rage, sending several of his own men crashing into the wall, staying there like soggy pasta. Gambit had barely avoided having his head knocked off and was making a dive to rescue his team leader.

Scalphunter sought out Jean, but her face was a mask of blood and Wolverine was cradling her and snarling. So much for a little TK boost.

He went through the motions swiftly and efficiently, still sitting on the screaming Domino. Open the barrel, pick the next syringe off his uniform, load gently, ready the chamber -

He was such an idiot.

"CABLE!"

* * * * * * *

Bright Lady, this couldn't be happening.

But it was. Reading her thoughts, the pain, the anger, the fear -

But he wasn't Stryfe! Pipe, he'd discarded the idea! He'd refused to relinquish control! He'd sentenced this timeline to the same fate as his own to keep that lunatic from getting control! He hadn't given it to Stryfe, he hadn't slipped that far, he was still him!

Numbly he watched her execute a perfect elbow strike, hitting Scalphunter squarely in the chin. Watched her wrench the rifle over to him. Watched her take aim. Felt her anger, her fear, her determination.

Fitting. He'd betrayed her.

And yet here he was.

"CABLE!"

He blinked, mind still reeling, saw Domino struggling with incoherent yells. But it hadn't been her -

"The dart! Hit it!"

The Marauder was gesturing wildly at . . . Nur. Cable blinked, wondering when the battle had gotten away from him. Drifting, maybe the T-O had infiltrated his brain after all -

Dart. What they'd done to Sam. En Sabah Nur, his eye gouged, dribbling fluid freely even as it healed, stretching out an impossibly long hand for Scalphunter -

Dart . . . the syringe! Where was it!

Cable yanked himself to his knees, eyes fixed on Apocalypse's face. How many times had he studied it, line by line, he knew them by heart -

A bit of shiny crystal dangling like an eyelash from that dripping eye. Dislodged, it hadn't delivered its lethal contents. It was stuck there by sheer luck.

And Bright Lady, it was easy. He took his TK, channeled it away from the T-O. Used it like an index finger, gently and expertly guiding the dart around the orb of the eye and deeply into the skin that made up the bottom of Nur's eye socket.

* * * * * * *

Sam watched the hand coming towards them, willing his blast field to come on, willing himself to move, but only a dim glow, a dim heat. Not enough.

Not enough to prevent them all from being swatted like a fly without wings.

Because someone had taken his.

It made sense, he'd begging Nathan to do it and he'd refused. His mother had always warned him to be careful what he wished for, and he raised his chin, thankful that his last thoughts were of his mother, were fitting of a good Christian raised right.

The hand came down, but it fell short, slamming into the floor just in front of Scalphunter, who had been dragging a screaming Domino back as soon as he'd seen the attack coming. He found himself in the beginnings of a snarl, that the Marauder would be handling her like that when it was obvious she was in so much pain -

What had happened to her? Why didn't anyone seem to know that she was in a bad way?

There was an odd silence, he could clearly hear Domino's slurred curses, and a deep rumbling.

"You know this will not kill me, as it failed to hundreds of years ago."

Essex was the target of the comment, and he was leaning against the wall, clutching his abdomen as though it pained him. "A bacteria was an ineffective pathogen, I admit. This one doesn't have the same shortcomings."

A rumbling chuckle. "You have bought yourself only a few years, Essex. Nothing more."

Sam couldn't believe it. They were having a calm conversation about it! Within seconds he had been reduced to a screaming quivering mass of inflamed flesh, but it seemed to have the same effect on Nur as a couple Valium.

"You underestimate me. You always did," came the soft reply.

And then the tremblings Sam knew so well took the External, and he kept his eyes open, refusing to blink as he watched the rapid poison take control.

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