That had been the night Magneto—and his relentless quest to punish humanity, no matter the cost—was bom.
But with the aid of the Cube, Lensherr had been able to reunite with Anya and Magda, to heal the wound in his soul that had lain festering for so long. All he wanted was a chance to keep what little goodness he had managed to create.
Xavier had clearly been tom by the unusual plea, considering all the times his old friend had tried to kill him. And yet, though his heart obviously went out to Lensherr, he had to reject it, explaining that, with the Cube threatening the existence of multiple dimensions, nothing of Magneto’s world could remain if order was to be restored.
Lensherr hadn’t known what to say in response. Instead, he had directed Xavier to take the Cube, then set off to be with his family in the last moments they would have together before the Professor changed everything back to normal.
But then a dagger had pierced his chest, and the Red Skull pushed past him to steal the Cube. Xavier had come to his aid, but Lensherr was more concerned with what might happen to Anya in a world overran with Nazi butchers. He begged Xavier to protect his daughter, and, as consciousness began to fade, he dimly heard his friend agree. Secure in the belief that Charles would honor his pledge, Lensherr ceased struggling against the chill that was spreading through his body. The world went dark—and yet he did not die. When he again opened his eyes, it was to discover that he was, astonishingly, still alive . . . and in a far worse situation than he could have ever imagined.
One that was horrifyingly familiar.
One that made the grave seem preferable to having to relive a nightmare from which he had barely escaped the first time . ..
But death was a luxury denied him. For all the beatings he received, for all the cuts, bruises, and broken bones he suffered, the guards were under the strictest orders to not deliver the fatal blow that would free the mutant overlord from his punishment. No matter the severity of his injuries—including the occasion just the day before, when his skull had been split open by a shovel wielded by another prisoner—he would always find himself back at the medical center, being tended to by sadists and drunkards whose pathetic ministrative skills had landed them here because they were more hindrance than help to the Empire’s soldiers. And yet, such poor performance meant nothing at this camp—if a Jew or a gypsy or a mutant died at their clumsy hands, what did it matter?
Nor was he spared the memories of what had come before the Skull had shattered his dreams of a peaceful world. Under the control of its previous owners, Doctor Doom and Magneto, the Cube had altered the minds of every man, woman, and child on the planet, modifying them so that the population never questioned how such infamous supervillains could become their exalted monarchs; they simply accepted them as benevolent dictators and went on with their lives. But for what must have been purely personal reasons, the Skull had apparently decided to allow Lensherr use of his full faculties. No doubt it was his way of constantly reminding an old enemy of all he had lost when the world changed—friends, family ...
“Anya. . .” Lensherr whispered, blinking away tears that had suddenly formed. “I’m sorry.”
He swung his legs onto the floor to sit, hunched over, on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he stood up, ignoring the slight crackle of electricity along his spine that the inhibitor spat out whenever he moved. The soles of his wooden shoes scuffling against the equally worn wooden paneling, he stepped over and around the men curled up on the floor—a difficult task, given that there were 400 people crammed into a room meant to hold, perhaps, no more than sixty or seventy—and made his way to one of the small windows built into a far wall.
Through the wire mesh, he could see that the yard was empty, the remainder of the camp’s 15,000 inmates having long since been hustled into the surrounding barracks to settle into troubled sleep. In the pale moonlight, guards moved along the watchtowers, their silhouettes occasionally merging with those of the structures as they walked a circuit around their stations. Straining his hearing, he could just make out some of their words as they passed the time conversing—mostly talk about the Empire’s latest campaign, or thoughts of home, or vulgar and explicit comments about one of the female prisoners.
Lensherr sneered. He’d heard similar talk before, at another concentration camp in which he’d been locked away more than six decades ago. The guards here were no different than those at Auschwitz, or from any other jackbooted thug he’d ever encountered in his life; the only thing that separated them was the passage of time.
Time. If what Xavier had told him about the Cube was true, time was something that was swiftly running out for the universe. He didn’t know how much was left, but he was certain it couldn’t be a great deal. If he remembered correctly, the world run by von Doom had existed for at least a month; his own, less than a week. The Skull’s Nazi paradise couldn’t be more than a few days old, though, under the Cube’s influence, it felt as though it had existed for decades. Which left—what? Days? Hours? Minutes, perhaps?
And where was Anya in all of this? Or Magda? Or his other children, Wanda and Pietro? Had they been scattered across the globe as the Cube took the world apart and restructured it to fit the needs of its new master? Could they have been transformed, too?
Or were they dead?
Lensherr shook his head. No. He couldn’t believe that, refused to believe that. He had had much taken away from him over the years— his powers, his freedom, trusted allies and devoted followers—and had come to accept it as part of life; over time, they could be replaced or restored. But to have finally reclaimed the missing pieces of his heart, his soul, only to possibly lose them forever . . .
“I will escape from here and find you, Anya,” he vowed, gazing at the stars that filled the night sky. “We will be reunited, though the gates of hell might be thrown wide open and every demon set upon me.” His lips twisted in a sinister smile. “And then the Red Skull will discover just how much pain Magneto, Master of Magnetism, can inflict—before I tear him limb from limb ...”
Lensherr turned from the window, made his circuitous way back to the cot, and sat down. He huffed out a mighty breath, only to tremble spasmodically as racking coughs punched their way out from his lungs.
Slowly, the coughs subsided, and he spat out a thick wad of yellow-tinged mucus; he noticed traces of blood in the phlegm. With a grunt, he roughly wiped his mouth with the cuff of his black-and-white striped prisoner uniform.
“This was not how I expected my retirement years to pass . ..” he muttered.
e
T WAS the sight of the invaders, more than the staggering numbers | of them, that shook Phoenix with uncontrollable fear.
_ From a distance, they looked like giant insects, their dark-green,
chitinous bodies propelled by a half-dozen segmented legs, each of which ended in a deadly, pointed barb. It was only as they drew closer that it became evident they were far more than oversized cockroaches— the death’s-head grin naturally formed by their horrifyingly large, razor-sharp teeth, and the malevolent gleam in their multifaceted eyes, were proof enough of that.
They were members of an alien race called the Brood—and they were all heading in her direction.
From her vantage point on a small hill, Phoenix could see thousands upon thousands of the invaders as they advanced; they covered the ground as far back as the horizon, possibly even beyond that.
A hand gently touched her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin. She turned to find her husband, Scott Summers, standing just behind her, a grim smile etched on his rugged features, looking handsome and determined in his blue-and-yellow costume. With his eyes hidden behind the single-piece ruby quartz visor that kept his destructive forcebeams under control, it was easy to understand why he went by the codename “Cyclops.”
“Don’t worry, hon,” he said reassuringly. “We’ve been in tougher scraps than this. All we have to do is hold off the Brood until the rest of the X-Men can get here.”
Phoenix tried to return the smile, to put on a brave face in the shadow of overwhelming odds, but could only manage a sickly grimace. She cast a furtive gaze at the swarm that was bearing down on them, then turned back to her husband. “Nothing too demanding, right?” she replied.
Cyclops nodded. “A walk in the park.” He reached out to brush away a few strands of her bright-red hair that had fallen across her equally bright green eyes, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“You lovebirds just about done?” asked a gruff voice nearby.
Phoenix pivoted, then tilted her head downward, to make eye contact with a man a few inches shorter than she. Like Cyclops, he wore a costume of blue and yellow spandex, but the sleeves of the yellow tunic were missing, exposing thickly-muscled arms covered with an equally thick matting of dark hair, and the mask covering the top half of his face sported two unusual protrusions that resembled bat-like ears. He stood in a half-crouch, as though that was his normal stance, lips pulled back in a permanent snarl, head cocked to one side, apparently listening to some sound only he could hear; it all reminded Phoenix of a wild animal, ready to spring to the attack.
She frowned. “Is there a problem, Wolverine?”
The snarl flowed into a smile that was obviously meant to look friendly, but Wolverine’s sharpened canine teeth only made his expression look more threatening. “Nah, Jeannie,” he replied in a rough-edged voice. “Just makin’ sure you an’ Scottie are focused on the job.”
“Don’t worry about us, Logan,” Cyclops shot back. “We’ll be fine.” He flashed a quick smile. “But you’ll let me know the minute you need any help, right?”
Wolverine clenched his fists, and a half-dozen, foot-long spikes suddenly protruded from the backs of his hands. He scraped the edges of the deadly bio-weapons against each other, with a sound like that of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. “That’ll be the day.”
“They’re getting closer,” said a woman standing near Wolverine, each syllable wrapped in a cultured British accent. She was Asian, possibly of Japanese origin, in her twenties, and she stood as tall as Phoenix, dressed in what appeared to be a dark blue latex swimsuit with matching stockings and fingerless, full-length gloves. Lavender-hued hair tumbled down to her waist, and her supermodel features bore an unusual, j-shaped tattoo that covered part of the left side of her face.
“Den let ‘em come, Psylocke,” replied a handsome, brown-haired man in a black-and-maroon outfit and brown leather duster. His eyes glowed as brightly as the playing cards he held between the thumbs and index fingers of both hands. “01’ Gambit, he an expert when it come t’killin’ bugs.”
“You oughtta be, considerin’ that pigsty of an apartment you keep in New Orleans,” quipped the woman beside him. She wore a green-and-yellow spandex bodysuit, accented with yellow leather kid gloves and knee-high boots; a black “X” adorned the left breast of the bodysuit, as well as the buckle of the loose-fitting belt that rested on her hips. A battered, brown leather aviator’s jacket, its sleeves pushed up past her elbows, completed the outfit. Her hair was a lush brown and fell past her waist, with a white streak that ran down the center, starting from her forehead and ending at the tips.
“Dat’s cold, Rogue,” the one calling himself Gambit said. He sighed melodramatically. “An’ here I always t’ought o’ dat as our special place...”
A sharp gust of wind brought a quick end to the discussion before Rogue had a chance to comment. Phoenix looked up, to see a darkskinned, white-haired woman descending from the pink-and-purple-tinted sky. Her black leather outfit was highlighted by a large cape that swept outward like a great pair of wings, allowing her to navigate effortlessly through the weather systems that were hers to command. She lightly touched down in the center of the group.
“Nice’a ya t’join us, Storm,” Wolverine said. “Thought the flamin’ party was gonna get started without ya.”
Storm flashed a warm smile. “I had left my invitation in my other costume, Wolverine. I did not think I would be able to attend the gathering without it.”
Wolverine laughed—a sharp, barking note. “Always room fer one more, darlin’, with or without an invite.” He nodded toward Cyclops. “Right, Scottie?”
Cyclops grunted in reply. He pointed at the advancing lines of invaders. The Brood was picking up speed, the tread of millions of legs sending a tremor through the blasted and burned earth that set Phoenix’s teeth to chattering.
“Here they come!” Cyclops yelled. “Get ready!”
Phoenix drew in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then slowly released it, forcing herself to calm down. Lose your head during combat, she knew, and you stood a very good chance of losing your life. Her gaze drifted down from the battlefield, and for the first time she realized that, like her teammates, she was also attired in a colorful costume: a green spandex bodysuit, accessorized with gold opera-length gloves, thigh-high boots, and a sash that trailed around her ankles, the latter held together by a bird-shaped clasp. The emblem adorning her chest represented her namesake: a mythological creature always fated to die in fire, only to be reborn in order to start the cycle anew.
What an odd choice of clothing to wear to my death, she suddenly thought.
And then the Brood swept over her, their war cry filling the air like the wails of the damned as they burst out of the gates of hell...
Jean Sommers awoke with a start, a scream caught in her throat. Eyes wide, breathing hard, she looked at her surroundings in a blind panic, head whipping from side to side, waiting for the monsters that lurked in the darkness to claim her. Eventually, when no attack came, she realized that she was no longer on a battlefield but in her bed, safe from the claws and teeth that had been trying to rend her flesh.
Slowly, her labored gasps subsided, her racing heart eased to a normal pace, and she sat up. Ignoring her chattering teeth, she used the heels of her hands to wipe away the tears that had streamed down her cheeks, then smoothed back her sweat-drenched hair, away from her face. A tremor ran through her body, and she pulled the bed sheets tighter around herself, seeking some comfort from the soft touch of the silken layers.
The dream—the nightmare—was still fresh in her mind, and she knew it would be some time before she was able to get back to sleep. She pounded the bed with a fist—why was it always the bad dreams that had to be the ones that lingered, the ones that could be remembered with crystal clarity even hours later, when the cloying darkness had been replaced with bright sunshine?
But where had this particular nightmare come from? she had to wonder. What would make her conjure up such grotesqueries as that. . . “Brood,” was it? And those ridiculous clothes she and Scott had been wearing! They weren’t regulation combat uniforms—at least none she had ever seen during her brief visits to the military bases at which Scott had been stationed; they looked more like fanciful costumes from a newspaper scientifiction comic strip. Despite the heart-pounding fear she’d just experienced, she had to laugh at the vision of herself dressed in an outfit so scandalous it left little to the imagination, fighting alongside her husband, who wore his own like a second skin, even though the color scheme w-as nothing like what he normally wore—mostly blacks and browns and dark grays. She had to admit, though, that it made him look quite sexy . . .
That woman had been there, too, she suddenly realized; that Asian actress from the cover of Der Television Guide. Elisabeth Braddock, she remembered. But that name had she gone by in the dream—
Psylocke, a small voice whispered from the back of her mind.
Jean shook her head. It was a name that meant nothing to her, and yet. . .
And yet, somehow, she felt that it should. Exactly why that might be was as much a mystery to her as the source of the bizarre images— and individuals—that had populated the dream. Wolverine? Storm? Rogue? They sounded like characters from a children’s story, but something in the depths of her mind insisted that they were familiar names, important names, as impo
rtant to her as her own.
Phoenix, said the voice.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered, and kicked the sheets aside. Ignoring her slippers, she stepped from the bed and walked to the bathroom, enjoying the cool feel of the plush carpeting between her toes. She flicked on the vanity lights lining the mirror, wincing as the oversized bulbs filled the room with blazing fluorescence, then ran cold water in the marble sink while she tied back her hair with a large scrunchie. She splashed her face a few times, hoping to wash away the last remnants of the nightmare along with the sleep-crust stuck to her eyelashes, and dried herself on a black cotton towel hanging from the shower curtain. As she lowered the towel, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
She was still young, still attractive—no denying that. But there was an emptiness in her eyes, as though the life had been drained from them.
And that was when the apparition appeared in the mirror.
It wasn’t a real apparition, not some ghost that suddenly popped up in the silvered glass, its dead hands reaching out to grasp her. No, this was a strangely alternate reflection of her own features: one of a vibrant-looking woman with a mane of fiery hair, eyes filled with a pale-green light that glowed as warmly as the smile that dimpled her cheeks. It was her, and yet it wasn’t. She knew this woman, she suddenly realized—it was the Jean Grey she’d once aspired to be, full of life, ready to take on the world.
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