S PARIS burning?’ No, but soon enough it will be—when I am in control of the Cube . .
_ In the light of early morning, two figures stood at the railing on
the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, and gazed down upon the quaint homes and magnificent palaces that comprised the centerpiece of Magneto’s world. To the east, the sun was just beginning to climb above the horizon, painting the landscape in soft pinks and yellows. On the streets below, a lone jogger—it was impossible to tell whether the person was a human or a mutant from this altitude, or even if it was a man or a woman—hurried along on what must have been their daily regimen. And from the girders somewhere high above the watchers, the sound of doves cooing softly could be heard.
The start of a new day, on a new world.
The Controller sneered. “I think I liked this place better in von Doom’s version, where it was nothing more than a smoking pit devoid of life. A killing ground that stood as testament to the destructive abilities of a sub-human allowed to run free, when he and all his genetically-inferior brethren should have been long dead.”
“Have you ever been here before, sir?” Leonard asked. “I mean, before Magneto destroyed it and then rebuilt it?”
The Controller nodded. “Oh, yes. Many times. And each time I have been reminded of better days, when the people of the world trembled in fear at the might of the empire that was taking form then. Awestricken by the sheer power of the dedication we had to the dream of a great man, of the lengths we would go to make that dream come true.” He sneered. “But that was before the dream began to fade. Before the dreamer was murdered by an inhuman creature that dared to think of itself as a man.” His teeth ground together noisily. “Before I was swallowed by the mists of oblivion and trapped there for decades, lost within the trackless depths of my own dreams.”
“Like what they say happened to Captain Ame—”
“I have heard the story,” the Controller snapped. He grunted. “Fanciful, overly romanticized lies told to impress a gullible public—” he gazed coolly at his young assistant “—and children.”
Leonard’s cheeks turned a deep crimson shade, but he declined to respond to the insult. Clearly, he understood how foolish it would be to talk back to his superior—especially when they were so very high up . . .
“I remember a night in June,” the Controller murmured, his voice surprisingly soft, “when the air was filled with the sounds of merriment. I stood beside the leader at the top of the Eiffel Tower, as we do now. There was a cool breeze gently blowing from the east—from the homeland. A good sign. We stood there, that night, and watched our men celebrate their recent victory over the once-mighty French forces. There was song, and laughter, and a sense of fulfillment. We realized then that the world truly was ours for the taking. We felt—no, we knew we were . . . invincible.” An approximation of a smile cracked his grotesque features. “It was an . . . inspiring moment.”
“So, what happened?” Leonard asked.
The Controller snarled and lashed out with a gloved fist, savagely backhanding the young man across the mouth. Leonard fell back onto the platform, his head rebounding against the metal flooring.
“Dumbkopf.'!” the Controller roared. “Has your entire generation become so lost in decadence that you now take some sort of perverse pride in your ignorance? Do you know nothing of history?”
Leonard slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He spat out a wad of bloody phlegm; sunlight glinted off the enamel coating of a premolar that floated in the crimson-hued mucous. “I know your side lost, ” he said sullenly.
The Controller flashed his death’s-head grin and chuckled. “Ah. Then you are not the imbecile I feared you might be.” Arms folded across his chest, he watched as his assistant struggled to regain his feet. “Pay more attention to history, Leonard,” he said sternly. “A wise man once remarked, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ I am always aware of my past, though I see no need to dwell on unpleasant memories. It is the future that holds the greatest promise; the future . . . and the Cube.”
The Controller looked at the rising sun, a half smile twisting a corner of his mouth. “Yes ... the Cube . . .” he said quietly, as though he had lapsed into a trance. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then slowly released the breath through his nostrils. “I feel it. It calls to me as a lover would, caresses me with tendrils of the purest energy, entices me with dreams of ultimate power. Dreams of godhood.” He chuckled. “It promises nothing I have not already experienced.” His eyes suddenly opened, and his relaxed expression flowed into one of confusion. “But there is something wrong . . .”
“Is it Magneto?” Leonard asked. A handkerchief was clumsily stuffed into one corner of his mouth, to staunch the bleeding of the empty socket from where his broken tooth had originated.
“No. It is the Cube.” The Controller looked to the lightening skies. High across the stratosphere, stretching off in all directions to disappear beyond the horizon line, multihued bands of energy flowed and sputtered, draping the world in colors that only the Controller could see with the naked eye. “The wave patterns are different. They are not in keeping with those normally associated with a Cosmic Cube.” He casually waved a hand, as though to dismiss the topic. “It is an unforeseen complication, but one that will not delay my appropriation of the device.” “You can see the Cube’s energy?” There was a tone of astonishment in Leonard’s voice.
“Of course, I can,” his master replied testily. “Just as I was able to redirect that same energy so that you and I were not transformed when it struck the command center.” He poked a thick finger into Leonard’s chest. “Remember, lackey, you speak to a superior being—a man who has been as one with the universe itself through the power of the Cube; who once walked the Earth as a god; who has slipped free of death’s cold embrace time and again to take revenge upon his enemies. And once the Cube is mine, there will be nothing I cannot do. Nothing.” The Controller glanced over the railing. Far below, Paris was beginning to awaken, as a few early risers appeared on the sidewalks, and the first signs of vehicular traffic took to the roads. “We must go. I do not wish to tip my hand yet and, given my . . . striking appearance-—” he gestured toward his hideous face “—it would not be long before Lensherr received word of my presence in his precious city.” His eyes glimmered with the fires of intense hatred. “But we will return later, when the city sleeps once more, to set my plans in motion. And then Magneto will know I am here, as his dream begins to die around him. ...”
BETSY HAD always had a fondness for Paris.
She’d visited it often during her short modeling career, when
_„ she’d been in demand for spring runway shows, fought over by
practically every fashion designer in the world. The charming cafes, the cozy little streets, the museums and galleries ... If she hadn’t been on the run from people who had once been her friends, and on her way to confront a man who could turn her into a glistening, gore-drenched paperweight of shattered bone and tattered sinew, either with or without the aid of the glowing little box of cosmic energy that had caused all this trouble, she might have been able to enjoy the trip. As it was, she was more than willing to sacrifice the lure of sightseeing just for an opportunity to survive this adventure in one piece.
After her narrow escape from the ex-X-Men, Betsy had awakened the following morning to find herself draped across a wooden bench in Place Jean XXIII, near the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. She’d felt stiff and sore and woolly-brained, and the curious stares she’d received from the couple sitting across the path from her made her all too aware of the sad state of her appearance, even if she hadn’t detected those particular thoughts when she scanned their minds to find out if they were working for Magneto. Bruised, bloodied, tattered and tom, with nowhere to go and no one to call upon for assistance, she’d left the square as quickly as possible, hobbling off into the early morning sunlight on her injured ankle before anyone
had a chance to ask questions.
After that, matters had definitely worsened. She’d tried to enter a streetside pay toilet to clean her cuts, assess her situation, and change clothes, only to realize she wasn’t carrying any money—having escaped von Doom’s crumbling world with only the clothes on her back, she hadn’t even thought about needing cash when her focus had been on getting to Magneto. It was the reason why Xavier had been the one to pay for their rooms at that nasty little flophouse in New York. Much to her distaste, it meant that the only way she was getting inside the lavatory was by using her teleportational power for a short jaunt.
Why is it I can’t see the Scarlet Witch or Warbird finding themselves in this type of situation. . . ? she’d thought darkly.
Once inside, she’d gazed at her reflection in the mirror above the small sink, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She literally looked like bloody hell: her eyes were puffy and red; chin and hands caked with dried blood; the left side of her face horribly bruised from where Kurt’s fist had struck; a bright red ring around her neck, created by Kurt’s tail; arms cut in a dozen or so places from her encounter with the hotel window. The bottom half of her was no better—both knees scraped raw, a thick patch of dried blood running along her right leg from thigh to calf, left ankle swollen and stiff.
“Was this the face that launched a thousand clothing lines?” she quipped bitterly, disgusted and depressed by the haggard face that stared back at her. “And climbed the topless towers of Lagerfeld?” She sighed. “What would Gianni Versace think of me now, God rest his soul?”
Cleaning up had been a slow, deliberate process. Since she couldn’t go to an emergency room for treatment (again, too many questions would be asked), she had to do the best she could with the first-aid kit she’d remembered to pack—an essential item in her line of work. So, in lieu of sterile pads and yards of gauze, it was cotton balls and Flintstones-decomted Band-Aids (courtesy of the Chief Physician); instead of tetanus shots and witch hazel, iodine and Bactine. She’d used a pair of tweezers to remove the shards of metal from her right leg, and the glass from her arms, and then, pleased with her adequate field dressings, set her sights on tackling the clothing issue. Unfortunately, beyond the first-aid kit, all that remained in the carryall were her dark-blue X-Men uniform, a katana, a pair of sai, a small makeup bag, and the recall device. No other clothes, no money, no credit cards . . . and no food.
Her stomach rumbled.
“This proves I was right,” Betsy had muttered sullenly. “This never would have happened to the Avengers . . .”
Now, hours later, as a brilliant, noonday sun blazed overhead, she wandered the streets of Paris, waiting for night to fall so she could begin her siege on Palace Lensherr. Her body didn’t feel quite so much like she’d been run over by a train, and her head was much clearer than it had been earlier in the morning. The acetaminophen capsules in the first-aid kit had helped her aches and pains, but it was the baguettes, diet sodas, and chocolate-covered marzipan fruits she had “appropriated” from a closed market during the wee hours that had gone the longest way toward helping her organize her thoughts.
Such are the amazing restorative powers of caffeine and sugar, she thought happily.
As she strolled along the bustling sidewalks of Rue Saint Jacques, contentedly munching on the small confections, she glanced at the people around her. Much to her surprise, no one had paid the slightest attention to her unusual appearance, with her oddly-colored hair and provocative clothing and children’s bandages. Perhaps, in this “enlightened” society created by Magneto, super hero uniforms didn’t seem all that unusual. Or perhaps she was on the cutting edge of fashion, with her latex clothing and purple hair—this was Paris, after all; styles might have changed to reflect the New World Order. Or perhaps the Parisians were just more tolerant of strangely-dressed young women who hummed Cole Porter songs while their mouths were full of bread.
Of course, it just might have to do with the possibility that Kwan-non, Bushido Mistress wasn’t broadcast here. In America, based on the reactions from the press and her “fans” in New York, taking a stroll in an outfit that looked exactly like the one worn by her television counterpart would have probably started a riot.
More than likely, though, the reason for the apparent disinterest of passersby was due to Magneto’s control over their minds—if the tourists at the Empire State Building hadn’t reacted to her arrival with Charles from the dark portal, why should the citizens here pay her any mind?
Gazing up at the brilliant blue sky, Betsy stepped to one side to get out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and stopped in front of an antiques shop, reveling in the sunlight that warmed her face. Maybe, she thought, there was a little time for sightseeing—perhaps a walk in the tree-lined lanes of the Jardins des Plantes to help ease the tension in her body. After all, it was such a beautiful day—who knew if she might live to see another after tonight. . . ?
Slowly opening her eyes, a winsome smile pulled at the comers of her mouth. I just wish Warren could be hear to enjoy it with m—
She froze.
That face on the man who had just passed her. The boyish smile and sparkling blue eyes. The shoulder-length blond hair. The powerful build that not even a dark business suit could conceal. She knew them as well as she knew the contours of her own body—they could belong to only one person.
It was Warren.
Well, it was, and it wasn’t. The man certainly looked like Warren, walked like Warren, was humming a Brian Wilson tune off-key like Warren, even wore the same cologne, but it wasn’t really Warren.
Not her Warren, that is. The one who had fought beside her as a fellow X-Man against the toughest odds. The one who had won her heart with an unbeatable combination of charm, humility, and irresistible sexuality. The one who had sacrificed part of his soul in order to bring her back from death’s door, after her particularly fatal encounter with the sociopathic mutant assassin called Sabretooth.
The one who had died in her arms on a storm-swept grassy field in Washington, D.C.
This man was an impostor; she knew that. His skin wasn’t blue, as Warren’s had become as a result of a run-in with the creature called Apocalypse, who was one of the X-Men’s deadliest enemies. And his thoughts must have been focused a million miles away, because he had brushed past her without even noticing—something Warren never would have done. He’d always been too much the lady-killer to miss the opportunity of spotting a pretty girl on a crowded street. And considering the fact that Betsy was a) standing in the middle of the sidewalk in a formfitting, latex swimsuit, and b) supposed to be this man’s wife in this reality, being so completely ignored by her faux-husband was saying a lot.
Not that it really mattered, of course. She wasn’t in the mood to play “Twenty Questions” with a doppleganger of her dead lover, try to explain what she was doing in Paris, or find out why he was here, for this one-in-a-million chance encounter. Seeing this man only reminded her of the beast who had so callously shattered her world, and of her resolve to make him pay for it, no matter what Xavier had said. The Professor wasn’t here now—she was, and this mission would be accomplished on her terms, hero’s code of ethics be damned.
And yet. . .
And yet, despite the fact it couldn’t be him, no matter how hard she might wish it were so; despite the fact that Warren had died right in front of her only days before; despite her initial anger at Magneto for creating a duplicate of that same man, she found herself unable to resist the impulse to follow him.
Just to be certain, of course, that it wasn ’t him . . .
Somewhere on the edge of Creation, a different sort of quest was coming to an end—a journey along the road to ultimate power, traveled by two men. One was a ruthless dictator whose machinations had resulted in nothing less than the weakening of the entire space/time continuum. The other was a physician who was just now beginning to think that allying himself with an armored tyrant had not been such a good idea after all
...
Located at the bottom-most level of the Starlight Citadel, the stasis chamber—constructed for the incarceration of only the most dangerous criminals in the omniverse—was contained within a high-security area manned even when there were no prisoners to guard. Access to this level was restricted to a select few: Roma and her personal guard, Satumyne, certain high-ranking officials of the Captain Britain Corps... and medical technicians charged with monitoring the vital signs of the inmates.
The Chief Physician was counted among the last group. So was Dr. Stanton.
He stood beside von Doom at the entrance to the innermost room, trying to ignore the broken, lifeless bodies on the floor behind them— med-techs and guards caught unawares and quickly dispatched by the villain before they could call for help.
“Proceed, physician,” the tyrant snapped. It seemed his patience had finally come to an end, annoyed as he had been with the constant delays they’d encountered along the way—traveling along rarely used access tunnels to throw off any pursuers, hiding in shadows whenever a member of the Corps headed in their direction. So far, they’d been fortunate enough to remain undetected for this long, and it appeared that the corpses in the medical wing hadn’t been discovered—yet. Soon enough, though, Stanton knew, the entire citadel would be ringing with the sound of alarms, alerting the staff to von Doom’s disappearance.
Right now, however ...
Stanton stepped in front of an electronic eye; it lit up immediately. “Identify,” demanded a synthesized voice. It sounded very much like Saturnyne’s.
“Stanton, Henry P.,” the physician replied. “World of origin: Earth 1629. Starlight Citadel Xenobiology Division, Level 817. Access Code 5-1-9-8-2-6. Password: Einstein.”
A light flashed from the eye, bathing Stanton in a pale green aura. The beam faded after a few seconds, the computer’s scan of his DNA structure completed.
“Identity confirmed,” the computer stated flatly. “Stanton, Henry P. World of origin: Earth 1629. Starlight Citadel Xenobiology Division, Level 817. Access Code accepted. Password accepted. Please state the nature of your visit.”
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