She’d certainly been a sight to see, then, hadn’t she? The impression she must have left on the minds of the Doom Youth Scout trdop when the elevator doors had opened to reveal an attractive, purple-haired woman sprawled in a comer, mumbling for someone to “stop”!
Thankfully, the voices and the barrage of images had stopped, just before she had resorted to banging her head against the elevator’s walls and floor in the desperate hope that unconsciousness would bring a blessed end to the torment. Why they had stopped, she didn’t know; nor did she really care.
Fighting the child-proof safety cap, Betsy eventually managed to shake out a couple of tablets from the bottle. With a grimace, she shoved them into her mouth and dry-swallowed. Now, if she could just manage to get back to the apartment without passing out again . . .
Man, could I get lost in all ’a that hair. . .
Betsy raised her head—a little too quickly, as her throbbing temples pointed out—and looked around for the speaker. Her gaze fell upon a young black man in his early twenties seated on a bench across from her. He was dressed in a tightfitting white T-shirt—emblazoned with the logo of the New York Yankees—and a pair of black spandex shorts. One sneakered foot rested idly on the support bar of a mountain bicycle. A walkie talkie was strapped to his waist, and a large, black portfolio was propped against the edge of the wooden seat, within arm’s reach. A messenger of some sort, obviously taking a break from his errands to admire the feminine scenery.
“I beg your pardon?” Betsy asked him.
The messenger looked back at her, clearly caught off-guard by her question. “Huh?” he replied.
“You said something about my hair?”
The messenger started, as though he’d been caught at doing something bad. But instead of apologizing, he vigorously shook his head. “I didn’t say nothin.’ ”
Betsy frowned; she wasn’t in the mood for this nonsense. “Of course, you did,” she said. “I clearly heard you say you’d like to get lost in all my hair.” To emphasize the point, she tugged at a few lavender strands. “Not that I’m not flattered—I am—but I think it’s somewhat inappropriate to just go blurting out things like that in public.”
The messenger’s eyes widened in surprise, and he slowly rose to his feet. “B-but,” he stammered, “I didn’t say it. I was just thinkin’ it.”
Now it was Betsy’s turn for shocked expressions. “But, that can’t be,” she insisted. “I heard you plain as day.”
Holy—she’s some kinda freaky mutant or something, or maybe one of those Imperial probe types I heard about—Readin’ my mind an’ stuff. I gotta get outta here!
Betsy froze. She had heard that, too. But this time she had been facing the man—and he hadn ’t spoken those words aloud.
Oh, my God, she thought, feeling a horde of butterflies being released into her stomach. It’s starting again. But, how am I doing this? What’s happening to me .. . ?
“Look, lady,” the messenger said, as he straddled the seat of his bicycle, “I’m tellin’ you the truth. I didn’t say nothin’ out loud, and I didn’t say nothin’ to you. All I was doin’ was checkin’ you out, an’ thinkin’ about what fine hair you got. But I never said anything out loud. An’ if that ain’t good enough for you, then that’s your problem. Me—I’m outta here.” And with that, he began pedaling away.
“Wait!” Betsy said, waving at him to stop. “I’m sorry! Please, I don’t understand why this is ...”
But the messenger was already riding out of the park, not bothering to look back.
“Please...” Betsy whispered, feeling tears well up in the comers of her eyes. Her head was beginning to ache again, and she squeezed her eyes shut to try and stave off the next wave of pain before it broke. She needed to get home, lie down, and—
Wow. Check out those legs, another voice said. Go right up to her neck, don’t they? I’d sure like to—
She wheeled around to find a thirtysomething police officer standing a dozen paces behind her, an admiring smile plastered on his face as he openly gazed at her. With a start, he realized that he was being observed by the very object of his keen interest; cheeks blushing, he quickly averted his gaze.
“You’d like to what?” Betsy asked angrily, rising to her feet. She took two wobbly steps toward him, but then—
Can’t believe Doom ’5 raising the price of gas again. You ’d think he’s already got enough money. . .
Yet another voice? Confused, Betsy turned from the policeman and saw a business-suited man walking by, not looking at her at all; he was too busy reading a newspaper.
Reading. But his lips weren’t moving. Yet she could still “hear” him as he continued scanning an article on pending price increases announced by von Doom’s cabinet.
But it wasn’t like what had happened in the elevator. There were no images this time, no suppressed memories suddenly leaping to the front of her brain—this was nothing less than a deluge of other people’s thoughts. It was as though her head had been turned into some kind of enormous receiving dish for every random idea, every dark secret scratching at the comers of someone’s mind, every hidden desire being unconsciously broadcast by the people around her.
And it wouldn’t stop; in fact, it only got worse with each passing second.
been meaning to tell Barbara how I feel like to tell old man Ferguson where he can stick it how can I tell Kevin Fm infected gotta be a way to get out of this freakin ’ lowpaying job why doesn ’t anybody understand never should’ve let Jack talk me into that weekend in Atlantic City Mets better get some good pitchin ’ soon can’t let Sandra go and ruin my marriage bet nobody’d care if I stepped in front of a bus wonder if Bill’s interested in going to the cabin this weekend can’t believe I have to reschedule another dental appointment they ’11 never find the body NOT WHERE I HID IT why can’t I be as thin as those supermodels a shame a looker like her turns out to be such a nutjob GREAT LEGS THOUGH AND MAN JUST LOOK AT ALL THAT HAIR
“STOP IT! STOP IT!” Betsy screamed, her hands pressed to the sides of her head. “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Around her, passersby came to an abrupt halt. She could “hear” each of their thoughts—some of them feeling concern for her, some annoyed by the antics of the crazy woman melodramatically clutching her head, some wondering what she might be like in bed when the “voices” weren’t talking to her. Most though, spared her only a moment’s glance before continuing on their way—a typical New York reaction to an atypical situation: Not my business, their thoughts said. Somebody else’s problem. Move on.
Fighting to regain control of her mind, Betsy realized that she had to get out of the park, back to the apartment. She couldn’t remain here any longer—at any moment, the police officer who had been admiring her legs might call for
Dispatch, I need an ambulance at Battery Park. Possible psychiatric patient causing a disturbance, request assistance.
Frantically, Betsy looked around. The policeman was standing far enough away so that she wouldn’t have been able to hear him under normal circumstances, but now .. .
Before the officer could react, she was pushing through the crowd and racing through the park, trying to see through bleary eyes as she looked for an exit. All she needed to do was get to the apartment complex—get to the complex and she’d be safe. But it seemed so very far away...
“Warren . . .” she cried softly, tears streaming down her cheeks, head pounding like an incessant drumbeat. “Help me . . .”
* * *
With a heavy sigh, Jean Grey shook her head and turned to her husband. “I’m sorry, Scott,” she said. “It’s no use. She’s just not sending.” With a slight nod of his head, Scott Summers reached out to rub Jean’s arm consolingly. “It’s all right, hon. You did your best.” He smiled encouragingly at her, but Jean’s expression made it clear she was disappointed in herself for failing to locate Betsy.
“We movin’ out?” Logan asked from beneath his hat.
“No other choice,” Scott repl
ied, a frown creasing his handsome features. “We can’t afford to wait any longer.” He ran a hand through his dark-brown hair and kicked at a loose piece of concrete near his feet in frustration. “Damn it.”
Now it was Jean who offered the comforting gesture, sliding her right arm around his waist and pulling him close. “I know how you feel, hon,” she said quietly. “None of us want to leave a team member behind, especially in the middle of a crisis. But we don’t have a lot of options open to us, and reversing Doom’s handiwork has to remain our top priority.”
“I know,” Scott said. “But still. . .”
Jean moved her arm from his waist and reached up to gently tousle his hair. “I’m sure Betsy will be fine, Scott,” she assured him. “She’s an X-Man, after all, and it’ll be a sorry day for us all when one of our people can’t handle a third-rate loser like Arcade.” She smiled, and reached up to stroke his cheek with her left hand. “We have to keep telling ourselves that, have to maintain a positive outlook, or we won’t be able to complete this mission.” Her smile broadened as she leaned close to whisper in his ear. “As a wise man once said: ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’ ”
“ ‘Or the one,’ ” Scott said, completing the quote. He turned to look at Jean, a half smile playing at his lips. “Since when did AMC start running The Wrath of Khan?”
“They didn’t,” Jean replied. “Star Trek movie marathon on the Sci-Fi Channel. I caught it just before we left to help Roma.”
Scott shook his head in mild disbelief and leaned forward to kiss her; Jean met him halfway.
Love you, Red.
Love you too, “Slim. ”
Beside them, Logan suddenly sat bolt upright, batting his Stetson away with one hand. He jumped to his feet and cocked his head to one side, obviously straining to hear something above the noise and traffic on Fifth Avenue.
“Logan?” Scott asked. He and Jean rose to their feet.
“We got company,” Logan said. “I’m pickin’ up some weird kinda turbine sound, cornin’ from—” he turned around and pointed to the sky above the public library “—there.”
Its hull gleaming brightly in the midday sun, the armored transport sliced through the air, moving swiftly from the west toward Fifth Avenue. As it drew closer, the sound created by the powerful turbines that kept it aloft drowned out every other noise in the area and rattled windows for blocks around. And then, as quickly as it had flown, it came to an abrupt stop just above the library and remained there, hovering.
As one, the other X-Men and Carol moved to stand beside Logan, Scott, and Jean, assuming combat-ready positions.
“How you wanna play this, Cyclops?” Rogue asked.
“Let them make the first move,” Scott replied. “And when it comes, try not to let them draw any of you away from the rest of the team.” “I’ll try keepin’ that in mind when the explosions start goin’ off,” Rogue said. She glanced at Gambit. “Can’t be a proper fight without somethin’ explodin’—right, sugah?”
Gambit flashed an easy smile. “Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, chere. ”
With a hiss of pressurized air being released, a hatch opened on the bottom of the craft.
“All right,” Scott said grimly. “Here it comes.”
Slowly, a large metal platform descended from the transport, occupied by a half-dozen costumed men and women. As it moved closer, they were able to get a better view of the group: a dark-haired woman in a tight leather outfit, a gun strapped to her right thigh; a blond-haired man in a red leather jacket, green buccaneer-style boots, and a black costume trimmed in green—the upper half of his face was concealed beneath a mask that was green on the left side and black on the right; a blond-haired woman in an identical costume to his, though the display of colors on her mask were reversed, and her thigh-high boots were golden; behind them stood a cloven-hoofed cyborg of some sort, another dark-haired woman in a red-and-gold costume, and what appeared to be a sentient oil slick, on top of which floated an inky-black approximation of a human face.
“Looks like somebody left the door open at the Legion of Losers Hall,” Wolverine said.
“You know these people?” Carol asked.
“Some of ’em,” Wolverine muttered, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Don’t recognize the three in the back, though.” He pointed to the leather-clad woman. “That one calls herself ‘Mastermind.’ The Cajun an’ me ran into her a couple years ago. She’s a telepath, like her old man—tried messin’ with our heads, makin’ us think I was some kinda serial killer.” His lips pulled back in a feral snarl. “An’ she was workin’ with Arcade then.”
“All roads seem to lead back to that little sociopath, do they not?” Nightcrawler commented.
“Just a small cog in a giant machine, Kurt,” Jean replied. “Besides, our kind of business thrives on coincidence.”
“The brother/sister act in the matching costumes,” Scott explained to Carol, “call themselves ‘Fenris,’ after the wolf in Norse mythology. They’re mutants, with an ability to generate concussive blasts.”
Behind him, Rogue looked over to Gambit and smiled.
“See? I told you,” she whispered. “Explosions.”
“Big time, chere, ” the Cajun agreed. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his duster to pull out one of the six new decks of playing cards he had purchased after getting off the train at Grand Central Station.
“All right, people, I’ll only say this once,” Mastermind stated, her voice amplified by a hidden speaker on the platform. She pointed a commanding finger at the X-Men. “By order of his royal majesty, Emperor Victor von Doom I, and under the authority vested in me by the Imperial Agency for Superhuman Activities, Psionics Division, you are to surrender the telepath and then submit to arrest without incident. Failure to comply with these orders is punishable by death.”
“Well, at least now we know how they became aware of our presence,” Carol said. She glanced frostily at Jean. “Between poking around in my so-called ‘memories’ and this, you’ve got a helluva track record going, sister.”
“Knock it off,” Scott snapped. “You have a grievance to air out, do it after we’ve gotten out of this situation.”
“What’s your answer, boys and girls?” Mastermind demanded. “I don’t have all day to stand around while you pick at your navels.” “The answer is no, ” Scott replied. He raised a hand as though to scratch his chin; he was actually placing it close enough to his visor to flip open the ruby quartz lens when needed.
Mastermind smiled; at another time, in another situation, it would have almost seemed pleasant. “No big surprise there, huh, handsome? Well, Cooper’s going to have my head on a platter for this, but. . .” She shrugged, and glanced over her shoulder to her team. “Do it.”
The brother and sister team of Fenris shared the same crazed expression, lips pull backed in a half smile/half snarl; to Jean, they looked like wild beasts scenting blood and wanting their fair share of it. They clasped hands, and immediately their bodies began to glow as a powerful charge of energy took shape between them. Mastermind stepped to one side, allowing them the pleasure of the first strike.
As the platform touched down on the plaza outside the library, Wolverine triggered his claws.
“Bring it on, chumps,” he said with a growl. “I still got some frustrations to work out from this momin’ ... an’ I’m more’n willin’ t’work ’em out on you ...”
At last, she was safe.
Huddled in a comer of the living room, Betsy finally allowed herself to relax, to uncoil from the fetal position she had assumed in an effort to silence the voices running rampant in her head. Her head didn’t ache quite as much as before, but every muscle in her body felt like a limp noodle after being held in so tight a position for so long. If only she could get the droning voices out of her thoughts, she could—
With a start, she realized they were gone.
The voices—the endless torrent of other people’s thoughts
that had driven her to the brink of madness during her blind race from Battery Park—had stopped their continuous chatter; in their place was nothing but sweet, blessed silence.
No, she thought, not silence—just a return to the types of normal sounds she was used to hearing: the hum of the central air conditioning system; the tick of the clock above the mantelpiece; the beat of her own heart. No strange visions of another life she couldn’t remember living, no incessant buzz enveloping her mind about what to buy for dinner or who to get to mind the kids tonight or how expensive dating was getting or the racket created by those blasted kids upstairs with their ’N Sync CDs or how much someone hated her for being so beautiful and so damned skinny—only the sounds of her little comer of the world, assuring her that all was right and good, and that she could be at peace here.
But, how long would this peace last? How long before the thoughts of her neighbors in the complex began invading her mind?
“Don’t dwell on it,” she told herself. “Just take advantage of it.”
Slowly, pressing her hands against the walls, she raised herself to her feet and smoothed out her miniskirt; looking across the room, she realized that, at some point, she had kicked off her shoes, but couldn’t remember doing so. Using a wall to support her, she used a cuff of her jacket to wipe away the tears and snot that had cmsted on her face.
Some sight I must be, eh? she thought. Thank God there are no mirrors handy.
Gathering her strength, she pushed off from the wall and, moving at a snail’s pace, shuffled toward the bedroom.
Betsy had just enough energy left to shrug out of her jacket and skirt before flopping across the bed. As she gratefully drifted off to sleep, she prayed that she would awaken free of any further pain.
“You think this is pain, darlin’? Just wait till I get my hands on you— then you’re gonna know what real pain is.”
For a man with half a clip of .45-caliber bullets in him, Wolverine was doing surprisingly well, considering he should have died after the first three tightly-spaced rounds penetrated his chest. However, not only was he not dead, but he had advanced on Mastermind to put her within striking distance of his claws.
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