Diablo was a green-and-purple-clad sorceror of indeterminate age. Thin as the proverbial rail, with a pencil-thin mustache and a sharp, hawk-like beak for a nose, he was a master of the black arts, conjuring demons and bewitching his victims with but a wave of his hand and a few simple words. Unfortunately, having to rely on oral spells was a terrible drawback for the sorceror, since he possessed what is commonly referred to in boxing as “a glass jaw.” A swift shot to the molars, and Diablo would wind up kissing the ground as though it were a long-lost lover.
The assassin known as Deadly Nightshade was an African-American woman in her early twenties, wearing thigh-high, black leather boots and the briefest of black leather bikinis, a pair of gunbelts wrapped around her shapely waist; her head was framed by an immense Afro, the size of which made one immediately think of the R&B group The Commodores at the height of their musical careers. However, despite the fact that she looked like someone who had spent far too much time watching female “blaxploitation” films of the 1970s during her formative years, Nightshade was as talented a markswoman as Cyclops was with his power beams.
A bunny. A pantywaist. A Pam Grier wannabe. Not exactly the kind of group normally expected to provide serious trouble for any single member of the X-Men, let alone the entire team.
The man leading the pack of Hunters, however, was an entirely different story.
He was a bear-sized man with a wild mane of golden hair, deadly fangs, and an even deadlier set of claws. A raving sociopath who lived for the thrill of the hunt, for the pleasure of the kill. A mutant, who, on his own, had come close to wiping out the entire complement of the X-Men’s roster on quite a few occasions.
His name was Sabretooth; in this, or any other reality, he was Logan’s oldest—and most lethal—enemy.
And Wolverine always looked forward to the next opportunity when he could literally wipe that malicious grin off his inhuman sparring partner’s face—usually by dragging it along the side of a building.
With a malicious smile, Logan triggered his claws.
“You folks head in,” he growled to Cyclops and Phoenix. “I might be here a while.” And then, with a lion-like roar, he charged at his adversaries.
Cyclops turned to Nightcrawler. “Kurt—”
Torn between aiding his colleague and teleporting into the building to track down Rogue, Nightcrawler froze, his thoughts racing over what to do next. Against Sabretooth and his three accomplices, his rational mind argued, it was a certainty that Logan could handle the situation; Rogue, on the other hand, was in the midst of severe depression. For all Kurt knew—and the good Lord knew he wasn’t a psychologist— she might not be looking to punish Doom for Gambit’s death; rather, she could be planning to force him to end her suffering—so she could spend the rest of eternity by Remy’s side.
And yet, the image of Logan, standing atop a pile of corpses in the center of the Salem Center death camp, flashed through his mind. He couldn’t allow such carnage to happen again.
The piercing scream of the White Rabbit as she leapt away from Wolverine’s slashing claws helped Kurt come to a quick decision.
“All right, Scott,” Nightcrawler replied. “I shall try to keep him out of trouble . . . though it would be far easier to ask me to stop the Hulk from tearing down the towers of the World Trade Center.”
“Next time,” Cyclops said with a wry smile.
Nightcrawler nodded. “Good luck with your help, mein freuden. ” Turning on his heel, he raced over to help Wolverine, though it was obvious that it was the Hunters—with the exception of Sabretooth— who were the ones in most need of aid, if only to provide them with any chance of surviving this encounter with the feral X-Man.
Cyclops looked to Phoenix. “Let’s go.”
A flash of bright-green eyes, and Phoenix hoisted them both into the air. They flew quickly above the stampeding crowds that poured through Rogue’s hastily-made side exit, moving deeper into the arts center.
Of Rogue herself, there was no sign.
“Where is he?” Magneto bellowed to the panicked patrons as they raced for the exits. “Where is your ‘beloved ruler’—that tin-plated madman who dared to toy with the mind of Magneto?”
As to be expected, no one stopped to answer him; within seconds, he was alone.
Standing in the lobby of the arts center, hips on hips, Magneto hurled destructive bolts of magnetic energy at the walls, the ceiling, the fine objets d’art that had represented all that was best in Latveria. Everything shattered beneath the devastating volley. The building shook violently, as it had when he had fired the first volley that blew in the north wall, throwing aside subterfuge for a line of attack more suited to his personality: direct confrontation.
It had certainly gotten everyone’s attention.
“DOOM!” he shouted. “Your executioner has arrived! Come forth, so we may put a swift end to this nonsense you’ve created!”
“Y’all can’t have him, Erik,” said a familiar, Southern-tinged voice from above.
Magneto looked up. There, on the second floor landing, was Rogue. As he watched, she took to the air, floating down to land directly in his path.
“What’s this?” Magneto asked. “Summers and I had an agreement, Rogue: none of you are allowed to interfere.”
“Cyclops can go hang for all I care,” Rogue said. “This here business is just between Doom an’ me.”
“And what sort of ‘business’ would that be, child?” Magneto asked, clearly annoyed by this interruption.
Rogue snarled. “Me killin’ him.”
“Is that so?” Magneto said, raising a quizzical eyebrow. He seemed more amused than threatened by this young woman, as he gazed at her smoldering, hate-filled eyes. Slowly, though, he came to an understanding. “Ah. I see. He killed your—” he sneered “—boyfriend, Gambit, and so he must pay the ultimate price. ‘An eye for an eye,’ yes?”
“Somethin’ like that,” Rogue said. Her voice was flat, emotionless.
Magneto chuckled. “If only your idealistic teacher could see you all now. You want to kill von Doom. Cyclops is willing to step aside and allow me first blood. How Charles’s heart would break.” He shook his head. “But I’m sorry, child. While I empathize with your situation— truly, I do—and would dearly enjoy seeing you take that first step toward darkness, I cannot allow it. Doom is mine to punish.” He moved to one side, to go around her and continue on his way.
“No,” Rogue said flatly. She stepped into his path again, hands curled into mighty fists.
“Don’t force me to kill you as well, X-Man,” Magneto warned. “Take yer best shot,” Rogue growled.
Razor-sharp claws suddenly raked across her back, and Rogue cried out in pain. Blinking back tears, she turned to face her cowardly attacker, only to be bludgeoned with a hundred blows across her face and body, delivered within the space of a heartbeat by the super-swift Quicksilver. She staggered back, dazed, into the arms of the reptilian Mellen-camp, who wasted no time in sinking his powerful teeth into her left shoulder and clamping down tightly, like some saurian pit bull. Rogue screamed and thrashed wildly, but could do nothing to pull herself free.
Quicksilver came to a halt beside Magneto. “Having some trouble, Father?”
“A momentary diversion, my son,” he replied. “Though I had no need of assistance, I am still grateful for your timely intervention.” He looked around. “Where are the others?”
“Unuscione and Cortez are dealing with the Hunters. Mellencamp and I have already confronted the Guardsmen; they have momentarily withdrawn—” Pietro smiled “—probably to repair all their damaged armor. Vindaloo and Scanner are handling the armed forces without.” As if on cue, a wall of fire erupted in front of the building—Vindaloo’s napalm-like flames at work. The screams of those caught in the blast were cut short by the window-shattering explosions of limousines and police vehicles as their gas tanks ignited.
“Forge and Voght are providing cover for us,” Pietro continued
. “And Mystique has already been here for quite some time.”
Magneto nodded, clearly pleased with the report. “And the X-Men?” “Like this one—” Pietro gestured toward Rogue, who was trying to pry open Mellencamp’s jaws “—they’re starting to make their way inside.”
“To be the ones who reach Doom first,” Magneto rumbled, a sneer on his lips. “To keep me from my vengeance.”
“Then, go, Father,” Pietro said. He lashed out with a booted foot, ending Rogue’s struggles with a swift kick to the head. “Mellencamp and I shall deal with this... minor annoyance.”
“As ever, my son, you do your father proud,” the mutant overlord said. Without looking back, he moved deeper into the building, determined to find the man who had dared to toy with his mind.
“Your Majesty, we should leave,” Lancer said.
Around the Royal Box, the guests were in a panic, stampeding for the exits as the building swayed from an almost continuous series of explosions created by the powerful, destructive energies being unleashed both inside the arts center and outside the grounds. Bits of plaster began to rain down from the Concert Hall ceiling, and the lights started flickering.
Von Doom glared at his bodyguard. “You think I fear a handful of traitors and their cretinous leader? Doom fears no one!”
“I didn’t say you did, Sire,” Lancer replied. “But my job is to keep you and the Empress safe from harm, and I can’t very well do that in a place the size of an aircraft carrier. Too many spots in here for someone to hide and wait for that split-second when Security might become distracted by an attack made just to draw our attention away from you. I wouldn’t put something like that past Magneto.”
“Lancer is right, my love,” Ororo said calmly. “This space is too confined for a confrontation with your enemies, and too many innocents would be caught in the crossfire. But if we were to lure him away, perhaps to The Mall, where there is far more room in which to maneuver . . .”
The Emperor paused to consider the logic of his wife’s explanation. After a few moments, he slowly nodded in agreement, and smiled warmly. “Once more, my love, you demonstrate why Doom chose you as his mate—not only for your ravishing beauty, but your intelligence.” Von Doom rose to his feet and held out his hand. Ororo gently took it, laying her fingers across his gauntleted palm.
“Come, my dear,” the Emperor said. “We must prepare to—” a wicked smile came to his lips “—properly greet our guests.”
“Warren! Warren!” Betsy cried. “Where are you?”
Stumbling through the uppermost floor of the arts center, Betsy had spent the better part of a fifteen minutes searching for her missing beau; they’d become separated after the initial explosion, during the audience’s mad dash for the exits. Betsy had been swept away on the tide of humanity that had surged across the stage, barely saving herself from being trampled to death by ducking into a women’s bathroom before the hem of her gown had the opportunity to trip her up as she ran.
“Aero-taxi service, Ma’am?” a male voice asked, from just behind her.
Betsy turned and looked up. Warren was hovering in the air just past her left shoulder. He had tossed aside his jacket and undone the harness he usually wore that kept his wings hidden under his clothes;
now, they were spread wide, flapping gently, their feathers a magnificent white against the shadows of the darkened hallway and the moonlit sky outside.
Betsy ran to him and threw her arms around him as he settled to the ground. He gently stroked her hair and hugged her back.
“I was starting to think I’d never find you,” Warren said softly. He kissed the top of her head.
“You can’t lose me that easily, Mr. Worthington,” Betsy said, her cheek pressed against his chest.
“Well, I never want to lose you that easily, Ms. Braddock,” he replied.
The chatter of gunfire from outside drew their attention to a giant picture window at the front of the building. Down on the street, and around the arts center, man and mutant clashed, and man was clearly losing. The air was rent by the screams and moans of the injured and dying. Half a dozen cars were aflame, the thick, black smoke that wafted up from their smoldering husks lifting high above the district, blocking the light of the moon.
“It feels like the world is coming apart at the seams,” Betsy said quietly, looking out at the chaos unfurling below them. Warren gently placed an arm around her waist.
“Don’t worry, hon,” he said reassuringly. “Doom will have all this back under control by morning.” He winced as he saw a limousine explode. “I just wish we were able to tell what’s the safest way out of here so we could make it to the morning.”
“There ... might be a way for me to find out,” Betsy said hesitantly, turning to face him.
Warren raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And how, pray tell, Ms. Braddock, would that be possible?”
Betsy paused, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, trying to find the right way to explain her . . . peculiar situation. Or at least a way that wouldn’t make it sound as though she’d lost her mind.
Well... the direct approach is usually the best way, she thought. Just go ahead and tell him.
“You remember that night after my performance for Arcade?” she asked.
A wolfish grin lit Warren’s handsome features. “How could I forget?”
She playfully slapped him on the arm. “I meant before that, you big, blue idiot—when we were in Central Park, and you asked me if I could read your mind?”
Warren paused, obviously searching his memory for that particular conversation; then, his eyes widened in surprise. “What? You mean you really are a mind reader?”
Betsy flashed a small smile. “Something like that. But only recently.”
“Oh, great,” he replied sarcastically. “It’s bad enough I have to watch what I say out loud around you—now I’ve got to be careful about what thoughts might be running through my head.” He smiled and tapped the end of her nose with his index finger. “That’s not fair, you know.”
“Darling, you’re a man, ” Betsy said playfully, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I could read your mind long before this happened.” She smiled. “You know, you’re taking this much better than I expected.”
“Hey, hon, you’re talking to a guy with blue skin and wings, ” Warren replied. “When you wake up every morning and get reminded of that little fact by your reflection in the bathroom mirror, everything else seems kinda run-of-the-mill after that. Besides, there are certainly worse things you could have told me than that you’re turning into a budding mento—like you’re really some trained assassin who used to work for the Japanese mobs.” He smiled. “Now, that would surprise me.” He paused. “Well, at least it explains those headaches you were having. Still having them?”
Betsy nodded. “Yes, but they’re not as bad as before. I seem to have some influence over them—at least for now.”
Another explosion—close to their position—rocked the building, and they held tightly to one another.
“I believe you said something about finding us a way out of here ... ?” Warren urged.
“I’ll do my best.” Betsy stepped back from him and closed her eyes. “Now, be a quiet little bear and let Mother find us a way out of here.”
“I’ll try to keep the gunfire down to a minimum,” Warren said sarcastically.
Taking a deep breath, then slowly releasing it, she reached out with her mind, scanning the floors above by allowing the thoughts around her to filter in, giving her some indication of where the forces of Magneto and von Doom were currently clashing. She eventually made contact with the unconscious minds of the security detail stationed on the roof—exactly how she was able to do that she didn’t know—and discovered they were all in some sort of deep sleep. That was good, in a way—it meant she and Warren wouldn’t be shot while trying to make their escape.
“The roof seems to be the safest bet,” she told Warren as she opened her eyes. She point
ed toward a nearby EXIT sign that hung above a door leading to the fire stairs. “This wa—”
—and then her thoughts were suddenly touched by another mind. It this wasn’t like her other, horrid experiences, though, with voices raging in her head and tearing at her sanity; these were the thoughts of a woman like her—someone with similar abilities, though Betsy could immediately tell that this other person was in complete control of the psychic madness they shared.
And there was also a familiarity to this voice that had inadvertently entered her mind—a gentle tone that gave her comfort, calmed her fears, made her feel as though everything would be all right. A name suddenly formed in her thoughts:
“Jean ... ?” she whispered uncertainly.
“Scott—it’s Betsy!” Phoenix cried. “She’s here—” her eyes widened in surprise “—and so is Warren!”
Standing beside his wife in the Grand Foyer, Cyclops opened his visor to release a devastating stream of energy that scattered the riot gear-clad police officers charging their way.
“Where?” Cyclops asked. “We could certainly use their help!” Phoenix concentrated for a moment as her husband continued to hold at bay what seemed to be most of the cops in the district. “They’re—No! They’re leaving—flying away!”
Cyclops grunted. “Just as well—they probably wouldn’t have recognized us, anyway. Where’s Doom?”
Another psychic probe went forth, searching the building for their adversary. “He’s also on his way out—two floors down, heading north.” Phoenix started. “Scott... Ororo’s with him.”
“I guess that’s to be expected, hon,” Cyclops replied. “They are the Royal Couple, after all.”
The two heroes’ discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a coterie of National Guard troopers, armed to the teeth and ready to take on all comers.
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