The faux von Doom wagged a disapproving finger at “his” guest. “You really should work on your sense of humor, Erik. All this talk of dead men and retribution—it makes you incredibly soporific at times.” “Is that so?” Lensherr replied, raising an eyebrow. “My plans for overthrowing von Doom make you drowsy, Raven?” Now, it was his turn to smile menacingly. “Well, if you feel fatigued by my company, then perhaps you should retire for the evening. I shall be more than delighted to tuck you in—permanently.”
A knock on the front door put a swift end to any further verbal jousting. In the time it took Lensherr to glance from the portal back to Mystique, she had undergone another transformation—a wrinkled, hunched-over, white-haired woman in her eighties was now standing before him. Arthritic fingers smoothed out the dark-blue dress and white apron that had replaced von Doom’s pressed business suit. Slowly, the octogenarian moved toward the front of the house, pausing to reach into a closet and pull out a formidable-looking handgun; Lensherr recognized it as an Israeli-made Desert Eagle .45.
“Who is it?” Mystique called out in a quavery, high-pitched voice. “Pizza delivery,” replied a male voice from the other side of the door.
Still moving forward, the old woman slowly, quietly, pulled back the slide on the top of the gun to chamber a round. Lensherr followed her out into the hallway, grabbing his helmet from the top of a coat rack, prepared to go into battle. By the time Mystique reached the door, the Eagle’s hammer was cocked, and the gun was hidden behind her back. She unlocked the deadbolt, released the security chain, and slowly opened the door.
“Oh,” Lensherr heard the old woman say in Mystique’s normally silky voice. “It’s you clowns.” She stepped back, and a pair of men entered the front hall. Both of them carried pizza boxes; the air in the hallway filled with the aroma of tomato sauce and melted cheese. One man was tall and thin, with sharp, hawklike features and a Julius Caesar hairstyle that had gone out of vogue with the demise of gladiator movies in the late 1950s. His name was Forge, and he was both a Cheyenne Indian shaman and a mutant gifted with an ability to create incredible— and frequently deadly—mechanical devices from the smallest piles of spare parts and wiring.
What Forge possessed in sheer brain power, the other man more than matched in sheer phy-sicality. Powerfully built, with movie star looks and shoulder-length red hair tied back in a ponytail, Fabian Cortez, like his associates, was a mutant. fMike his fellow conspirators, though, Cortez’s unique ability was that he was able to amplify other mutants’ powers, often beyond their control; thus, if a member of Homo sapiens superior could fire energy blasts from his or her hands, that person, under Cortez’s influence, would be able to level mountains— with the unfortunate side effect that the recoil would more than likely help provide enough velocity to put them in orbit around the Earth.
A mixed blessing, to be sure.
Mystique closed the door and shifted back to her natural, midnight-blue form, then cautiously uncocked the hammer of the Desert Eagle and placed it on a small table nearby. “What’ve you got in the boxes, boys?”
Forge lifted the top of the one he held; inside, a vegetable-laden pizza quietly bubbled, fresh from the oven. “Having already sampled your culinary skills, Raven, we decided to bring our own food.” He sniffed the air, and his features twisted in disgust. “Tuna casserole again, huh?” He shook his head. “How can one of our finest operatives live like this?”
Mystique grunted in reply and strode back to the dining room, ignoring Lensherr’s amused expression. The three men followed her.
“So,” Lensherr began as they convened at the table, “has my son told you of my plans?”
“A small portion, lord,” Cortez replied. “Merely that you wish to put a swift end to the rule of that annoying flatscan, von Doom.”
“Flatscan.” A term coined by Cortez ages ago to define humans— “those genetic dead ends unblessed with our mutant abilities,” as he had put it. Lensherr allowed a trace of a smile to crease his face. What better way to describe the bottom-most rung on man’s evolutionary ladder?
Lensherr nodded. “I understand that the tenth anniversary of that braggart’s rise to power is to be celebrated shortly, and that his aides fear I will take that opportunity to try and strike him down.” He smiled maliciously. “I do not wish to shatter their expectations.”
Mystique glared at him. “And why am I just hearing this for the first time? You’ve been here two days, Magnus, and you never once hinted that you were planning something so incredibly . . . foolish. ”
“I keep my own council, Raven,” Lensherr replied curtly. “Your function is to provide me with information and support my actions— not voice your opposition. I have made my decision—” his eyes narrowed “—and the matter is not open to debate.”
“Well,” Forge said around a mouthful of pizza, “the timing couldn’t be better to start making our preparations. From what Fve heard through the grapevine, some major dust-up in New York that happened today has got von Doom’s nose out of joint.” He paused. “That reminds me . ..” He stood, bowed to Lensherr. “Excuse me for a moment—I need to check on something.” Lensherr waved a dismissive hand, and Forge headed for the living room.
“As I was saying, Cortez,” the mutant overlord continued, “the concept of destroying that armor-plated scum before an audience of billions has great appeal for me. I’m certain my ... performance will be the talk of the entire planet the next day—the first day of the Age of Homo superior.”
Cortez nodded eagerly, eyes shining brightly with undisguised passion, as one would expect from an acolyte devoted so completely to a cause—and a charismatic leader.
“Uh, folks?” Forge called from the living room. “I think you all better take a look at this.”
Stepping from the kitchen, the trio were greeted by the machine-smith, who waved them toward the couch.
“What—” Lensherr began.
“Just watch,” Forge replied. He pointed to the television, on which could be seen an image of a dark-suited, blond-haired woman in her mid-twenties, holding a microphone. She was standing before the cordoned-off battlezone that had once been the New York Public Library plaza; police officers and Guardsmen kept curious passersby from getting too close to the crime scene. Forge pressed the volume control on the remote.
“—high-ranking official at the Ministry of Information reported that the unprovoked attack on a group of Hunters that took place here in midtown Manhattan this afternoon was initiated by sympathizers of the notorious Magneto, the so-called ‘Butcher of Paris,’ ” the woman stated.
“You see, Magnus?” Mystique said, glancing at Lensherr. “The media just loves you.”
“Silence, ” Lensherr snapped.
“Despite severe injuries to some members of the team,” the reporter continued, “the Hunters were able to apprehend the superpowered terrorists before they could carry out their plans to detonate a small nuclear device that they had smuggled into the city. It is now expected that, with the assistance of anti-terrorist experts from the government organization S.H.I.E.L.D., information will soon be acquired from the prisoners that will ultimately lead to the capture of their infamous leader.
“Joy Mercado, CNN.”
Forge lowered the television’s volume as the broadcast cut to a commercial for the upcoming release of the Doom’s Patrol motion picture. He turned to Lensherr. “Pietro didn’t mention anything about you sending in an advance team to stir things up.”
“Because I did not order one to do so,” Lensherr replied. “Whoever these ‘terrorists’ are, whatever their motives may be, they acted without my knowledge. Do you really think I’d be so foolish as to have any use for a bunch of sycophantic bomb-carriers idiotic enough to openly confront a group of highly-skilled Hunters?” He pressed his lips together in a firm, straight line and sat back on the couch to think. “Yet, such actions—whether they be true, or mere fabrications created by von Doom’s propaganda machine—demo
nstrate that there are still those who share our opposition to that Latverian windbag; perhaps we even share the same dream of making our race the supreme form of life on Earth.” He nodded slowly, settled his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and stared into space. “And if these individuals are powerful enough to have injured a pack of von Doom’s bloodhounds ...” His voice trailed off, and he sat silently.
After a few moments, Forge politely cleared his throat. “Uh, Erik? You want to clue us in as to what you’re thinking?”
Slowly, Lensherr’s glazed-over eyes cleared. He leaned forward, then turned to Cortez. “Contact my son. Have him speak with his associate in Washington. I want to know where the prisoners were taken, and how much time remains before they are to be executed.”
“It will be done, dread lord,” Cortez said immediately.
“Just a moment. What sort of scheme is running through that devious mind of yours, Magnus?” Mystique asked, arms folded across her chest.
“An inspired bit of deviltry,” Lensherr replied, a mischievous smile
curling his lips. “If these alleged ‘followers’ of mine are as opposed to von Doom as we, perhaps an alliance is in order.”
“And how, pray tell, do we go about signing up these new recruits to the cause?” Mystique shot back.
Lensherr’s smile broadened. “It’s quite simple, child. All we need do is get to them before they’re killed during their interrogations ..
12
YOU HAVE a lovely frontal lobe,” an unknown male voice commented.
_ “W-what.. . ?” Phoenix asked. Her head was pounding like a
drum beat, making it extremely difficult to focus her thoughts. She licked dry lips and opened her eyes, then quickly shut them as a blinding light momentarily seared her retinas. Wincing in pain, she tried to raise a hand to shade her eyes, only to find she was unable to move her arms.
“I wouldn’t bother moving around too much,” her unseen companion said. “You’re still on the mend from that concussion you received, and the restraints on your chair are locked in place.”
Slowly, cautiously, Phoenix half opened her eyes; just enough to provide some vision and give her an idea of her surroundings. She tried to move her head, but it was held in place by some sort of device she couldn’t see; a coarse leather strap bit into the flesh of her throat when she made the slightest movement. She was in the center of a room with metal walls and large glass observation windows, the lighting low except for the halogen lamps shining directly on her. By turning her gaze downward, she could see that she was sitting in a high-tech chair of some sort, her arms and legs held fast by massive clamps.
And that she was wearing her costume.
Now, her eyes opened fully, all traces of her headache vanishing in an instant; her lips pulled back in a snarl. Looking around, her gaze fastened on a bear of a man, standing just off to one side. He was close to seven feet tall, with a build that rivaled the Hulk’s; like the greenskinned behemoth, the man’s closely-cropped hair was a bright emerald hue, but his skin tone was a normal pink coloration. Dressed in dark slacks and shoes, a starched white dress shirt, and an even whiter laboratory coat, the man studied the redheaded mutant with an even stare.
“Who are you?” Phoenix demanded.
“My name is Dr. Leonard Samson,” the man replied. “I’m one of the assistant directors here.”
“And where is ‘here’?”
“Psi Division Headquarters. In Langley, Virginia.”
“And are you the one who dressed me in my costume?” she demanded. To her surprise, Samson actually blushed.
“Uh . . . no,” he replied. “The nurses did that some time after you were brought in.”
She frowned. “Any particular reason for that, Doctor?”
“Well, you and your friends have made us all curious... uh ...”
“Phoenix,” Jean replied. “Like the bird.”
Samson nodded. “I understand the mythological reference. As I was saying, Phoenix, your group—and you in particular—have piqued our interests. It’s not often we come across unregistered telepaths who also possess telekinetic abilities. Or who can single-handedly mind-sweep an area the size of Manhattan.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” Phoenix replied sarcastically.
“By dressing all of you in those colorful uniforms of yours,” Samson explained, “we were hoping that the Imperial Identification Network might be able to recognize you in your costumed identities, since there seem to be no records of your civilian lives.” He shook his head. “No luck there.”
Having quickly grown tired of the conversation, Phoenix closed her eyes and focused her thoughts at him. All right, Doctor, I’ve had enough idle chatter for one day. I want you to tell me everything about this place, and where my friends are. Then you’re going to release me and show me a way out of here. She paused, waiting for his mind to respond, to provide her with information.
But, for some reason, nothing happened.
Samson gazed at her for a moment, then slowly nodded in understanding. “Ah. You’re probably wondering why you can’t get inside my head.” He smiled, then shrugged when she didn’t respond. “Sorry— professional humor. There’s a neural inhibitor attached to the base of your spine; basically, it shuts down the synapses of your brain that allow you to activate your powers. Your friends have also been tagged with them.” He flashed a boyish grin. “We can’t exactly have you people running around the facility fully-powered, possibly damaging billions of dollars of delicate equipment, can we? The taxpayers would kill us— not to mention the Emperor.”
Phoenix paused to mull this over. No powers, trapped in a building full of telepaths, telekinetics, and armed guards, and no immediate means of escape ...
All right—stay calm, Jean told herself. You’ve gotten out of tougher scrapes—against Magneto, the Brood, Apocalypse . . . Hell, you’ve even come back from the dead once or thrice. All you need is some time to figure a way out of this. She frowned. But I don’t have time—none of us do. Not with Roma getting ready to destroy this plane of reality, and Satumyne probably still egging her on to do it...
“Where are my friends?” she asked.
“Elsewhere in the facility,” Samson replied. “Being questioned by other members of the staff.” He paused. “Except for the one who died, of course.”
Jean’s eyes widened in shock. Scott... ? she thought.
“Who—who was it?” she asked hesitantly.
“A woman,” Samson answered. He picked up a clipboard from a nearby control console, studied the sheets of paper attached to it. “Carol Danvers, according to the fingerprint match.”
Jean allowed herself to breathe again, grateful to learn her husband still lived, but now a feeling of guilt swept over her. What right did she have to feel contentment, knowing that one of her friends had been lost, knowing that she had withheld information from her—information gathered from her own mind?
Oh, Carol, I am so, so sorry.. .
“Says here she was a guest at the Westchester detainee camp,” Samson continued. He glanced up from the clipboard. “I imagine, then, it was your group that was responsible for the camp’s destruction two days ago.”
“Just what are you planning to do with me?” Jean asked, ignoring his leading comment. She rolled her eyes upward, to indicate the device into which her head was strapped. “I doubt you intend to experiment with hairstyles; if you are, though, I like mine just the way it is.”
“I am not planning anything, Phoenix,” the green-haired assistant director replied. “But there are some people from S.H.I.E.L.D. on their way here to ask you questions.”
A nervous shiver ran through Jean’s body, and she forced herself to remain calm. Back when the world was normal, she and the X-Men had had more than a few run-ins with the members of the super-secret intelligence organization. They weren’t exactly the most likable people in the universe—or the most trustworthy, given the fact that the
Psi Division of this reality was based on a much smaller version that operated from the depths of the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier.
“The Cerebrum Scanner,” Samson continued, pointing to the machinery above Jean’s head, “serves two functions: The first is to break down any psychic barriers you may have erected around your mind— that’s done through a combination of electroshock treatments and telepathic contact with a number of our agents. The second is to extract memories that you may have been trained to suppress. I understand Magneto has taught his followers well in ways to resist psi-probes. Rest assured, though: it won’t take the machine very long to break through that kind of conditioning.”
“This is a mind ripper?” Phoenix said angrily. “You’re just going to tear out my memories and paw through them, rather than ask me questions that, I assure you, I don’t have any answers for?”
Samson shook his head. “Not me—the S.H.I.E.L.D. people will be running the interrogation. And I certainly hope it won’t come down to them forcibly extracting the information they’re seeking from your brain.” He shrugged. “But that, as the saying goes, is entirely up to you.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Look, I hate to chat and run, Phoenix, but I have a Board of Directors meeting to attend—your group’s presence has started a great deal of buzz around Washington, what with all the renewed talk of Magneto possibly coming out of hiding to attack the Emperor. We’ve been on alert since you were brought in.” “Well, don’t let me keep you,” Phoenix said sarcastically.
Samson grunted. “I’m sure the S.H.I.E.L.D. people will be along any minute.” His lips curled into a half smile. “Try not to go wandering off before they get here, all right?”
Jean stared daggers into the back of his head as he walked away. Alone with her thoughts, Phoenix nervously chewed her bottom lip, and wondered exactly what kind of techniques were used by this version of the espionage organization to extract information from their prisoners ...
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