by Stuart Moore
Is that really her? he wondered. The anger, the resentment… the sense of claustrophobia, of being caged all her life?
“This life may not be the life I’m meant to…”
A terrible thought came over him. Have I been holding her back? Preventing Jean from… from becoming her best self? I’ve shared her thoughts, her fears… loved her, laughed and cried with her. But even with our minds linked together, I never knew… never understood the depth of her…
He swallowed, blinked back tears behind the hood.
Maybe I never knew her at all, he thought darkly. Maybe no one can ever truly know another person.
No! This is Wyngarde… it’s all his doing, somehow. Part of his chess game, his gambit to seize control of the Hellfire Club. He’s taken over her mind, implanted some fantasy inside of her. If it’s the last thing I do, I will stop him.
Marshaling his strength, Cyclops struggled to his feet. The light grew brighter again, threatening to overwhelm him. He forced himself to face it head-on, to open himself to its secrets.
Show me, my darling, he thought. Let me see the nightmare world you’re living in, through your eyes. But the light seemed to flare, resisting him. Then it softened, relented. There was a sensation of flight, of falling…
…and then he saw.
The room was huge and bright, tall windows framed by ornate curtains. Gas lamps illuminated the large space, darkening the drapes with a coating of ash. A chandelier dominated the high ceiling, thick candles dripping wax down their sockets.
The main hall, he realized. The gateway to Lady Jean’s manor.
Again her thoughts assaulted him.
Rage burning ice leather—
He forced them away, using the Professor’s exercises to build a mental wall. Focused on hearing past the noise, on seeing Jean and her surroundings as she saw them. A scarlet-haired lady, tall and proud, fists planted on the cinched waist of her corset. Club members gathered around her like a pack of competing suitors. He studied them one by one, collecting impressions of the Inner Circle.
Donald Pierce. Tall, effete, his long face cruelly lined.
Harry Leland. Large, heavy, arrogant, casting a casual leer in Jean’s direction.
Sebastian Shaw. Rough, thick-bodied, with a brawler’s hands and cold eyes.
Jason Wyngarde, at Jean’s side. Rakish, with his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Smiling as if he owned everything in this room, everything in the world.
“You’re far more… receptive than the White Queen, dear.” Leland reached out a hand to cup Jean’s chin. “I like that.” His other hand strayed to her waist. Jean’s eyes flashed and she edged away, almost imperceptibly, out of his reach. Then she smiled.
“I like you, too, Squire Leland.”
Cyclops felt a flash of anger—and helplessness, too. In this place, here within Jean’s mind, he was powerless to act. All he could do was watch.
“Where is your dear Queen, Sebastian?” Wyngarde asked. “Shouldn’t she be sharing in this celebration?”
“Emma has her duties,” Shaw said.
Wyngarde laughed. “You don’t know where she is.”
Shaw glowered and looked away.
“Boys, boys.” Jean looked from one to another. “Aren’t I enough for you?” They all smiled.
She’s manipulating them, Cyclops thought. Playing to their basest instincts. Oh, Jean…
“Speaking of duties.” She held up a coiled whip. “Perhaps it’s time to administer some discipline.”
She turned toward four figures propped up against the wall. One wore the rugged clothes of a farm laborer; another was clad in a dirt-specked white dress. A third, mustachioed figure had the sharp eyes and colorful ascot of a rogue from some past era. All their arms were cuffed behind their backs.
That’s us, Cyclops realized. The X-Men, as Jean sees us. Colossus, Storm, Nightcrawler…
He stared through Jean’s eyes at the fourth figure. The man wore a tricorn hat, dark glasses, and a dour expression. Like the others, he was bound, helpless.
…and me. He blinked. That’s me.
“A rebellion.” Jean paced back and forth, slapping the whip against her hand. “Among my own household staff! The servants I fed, clothed, trusted, raised up from nothing.” She paused, reached up to grab Colossus’s chin in a rough grip. “It hurts, Peter. Do you understand that?” His eyes went wide, but he made no reply.
“But the worst betrayal,” she continued, “the wound that cuts the deepest… is yours, my dear Ororo.” She paused, looked at Storm. “Have I not treated you well?”
Storm frowned. “We have always been friends, Jean.”
“Friends?”
Jean slapped the whip across Storm’s cheek. Ororo cried out. She struggled, but the ropes held her arms tight.
“We are not friends,” Jean continued. “You are my slave. You were born my family’s slave, and as such you will die.”
Storm’s mouth opened in shock. Slowly, her expression turned to rage.
“Is this what you want, beauty?” Jean held up a large ring laden with metal keys. “The keys that will free you and your companions?”
Storm stared into Jean’s cold eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Jean laughed—a loud rasping sound.
Cyclops recoiled, looked away. He couldn’t stand this— not any longer. Jean’s viciousness, her naked racism, her cruelty toward helpless victims—
—abruptly, the room wavered. Drapes turned to stone, windows to video screens. Gas lamps morphed into wall-mounted torches. Cyclops lurched, felt the tug of the bindings against his arms—
—and then, somehow, he could see the room. Not as Jean saw it, but as it really was. A dark stone chamber, lit by candles and torches, state-of-the-art computers juxtaposed with displays of antique weapons. Rows of wooden tables, an elevated meeting area at the far end.
Nightcrawler, Storm, and Colossus stood lined up against the wall, chains and cuffs binding their arms as well. They wore their costumes, and high-tech collars—no doubt equipped with inhibitor technology to negate their mutant powers.
Jean looked unchanged. Tall, imperious, clad in the same dark corset, heels, and cape she’d worn in the illusion. The uniform— the cruel armor—of the Black Queen.
“Jean.” Storm’s voice carried an uncharacteristic undertone of fury. “In the name of the love we shared, I will endeavor to remember you as you were.”
“Whereas I,” Jean replied, “will not remember you at all.” She smiled and dangled the keys before Storm’s eyes.
No, Cyclops realized, not keys. The object in Jean’s hand was Storm’s headdress, which held a selection of tiny, sophisticated lockpicks.
Wyngarde stepped up to join Jean. Leland let out a laugh, and Shaw snorted in approval. Pierce followed, smiling in silence.
They look the same, too, Cyclops thought. The Inner Circle of the Hellfire Club, in their expensive, foppish cosplay. Their arrogance— the greed and hatred of the elite—is the same in any time period.
Then the image faded to a deep, featureless red. He found himself back in his own mind, cut off from Jean’s thoughts. Once again, he was blind.
“Herr Shaw.” That was Nightcrawler. “Pardon my asking, but why are we still alive?”
Shaw’s footsteps sounded on the stone floor, growing closer.
“As I explained to Ms. Munroe,” he said, “super-powered beings are proliferating throughout the world. If we can custom-build mutants through genetic engineering… well, then the possibilities are limitless.”
“And we are to be your guinea pigs,” Colossus said.
“Yes.” Shaw paused. “Actually… looking at it from your perspective…”
Cyclops gritted his teeth in frustration. He was helpless, caught in a trap designed specifically for him. Lost, quite literally, in the dark.
“…it might have been better if we had killed you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE
PAWNS never saw him coming. One minute they were fanned out on the dark patio at the back of the club, searching around dumpsters and stacks of kitchen supplies. Their mission: locate any additional X-Men who might be hiding in the shadows.
The next minute, Wolverine exploded up out of a sewer grate, claws slicing savagely through the air. The pawns scattered, raising high-powered rifles. Logan leaped toward them, grinning. Those blank, bisected masks hid their expressions, but he could smell their fear on the wind.
One of them fired a shot, wild, into the air. “Davey,” he yelled, “he’s coming for you!”
Been in better brawls, Wolverine thought. Odds here are only three to one. He touched down, swiping out with his right hand. His claws sliced into one of the pawns, tearing through Kevlar and drawing blood. The man cried out, grabbed his stomach, and doubled over. His eyes went glassy, his mouth began to foam, and he fell.
Make that two to one. Sorry, Davey.
The remaining pawns pointed, shouted, and aimed their rifles. Logan didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. He leapt up onto a crate of kitchen supplies and launched himself across the patio. His claws jabbed deep into the second pawn’s chest, knocking him backward into an old metal trash can. The man moaned and slumped to the ground.
A barrage of rifle fire split the air. Logan dropped, striking his head on the stone patio with a heavy thud. Pain lanced through him. That’s a concussion for sure, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Fortunately, his mutant healing power was already repairing the damage. Shaking off the pain, he rolled, keeping his body low to the ground. He edged around a pile of crates, moving toward a dark fence at the far end of the patio.
He paused in the shadows, gasping. He’d nearly drowned tonight. The floodwaters had washed him almost a mile down the sewer pipe before he’d managed to claw his way up out of the rushing current. Getting back here had been an adventure in itself.
“Don’t move,” the remaining pawn said.
Wolverine smiled. Retracting his claws, he stepped out of the shadows.
The man stood across the patio, up against the stone wall of the building. His rifle shook in his hands. “Wh-what’s that smell?” he asked.
“I ain’t had time to shower,” Wolverine said. “Listen, bub. I know what you’re thinkin’.”
“Huh?”
“You’re thinking, ‘He’s hurt. An’ he’s five meters away from me, an’ I got a full clip of ammo in my rifle. So the question is, can I kill Wolverine before he cuts me into airport sushi with those freaky claws of his?’”
The man glanced back toward the door that led to the kitchen. No one was coming to his aid.
“It’s a decent question,” Logan allowed, “but you gotta consider all the factors. One: Wolverine is nearly unkillable. Two: Wolverine’s claws are made of Adamantium, the strongest metal on Earth. Three: five meters ain’t really all that far for me. But here’s the kicker. Your bosses are holdin’ the Wolverine’s friends inside that cut-rate kink parlor, and one of those friends is real, real important. Not just to me—maybe to the whole world.
“Point is, you really don’t want to get between the Wolverine and his friends.” He paused for effect. “Your play, hero. But I gotta warn you: I’m on a mission.”
The pawn hesitated. Then he lowered his rifle and let it clatter to the ground. Logan was on the man before he could make a sound. Adamantium-reinforced fingers clamped around the pawn’s throat, lifting him up into the air.
“I—gkk—I surrender!” the man gasped.
“’S’all good, bub. I ain’t gonna kill you.”
“What dgggkk you want?”
“Thanks for askin’.” Logan smiled up at him. “I want to know every detail of the Hellfire Club’s layout. Especially the secret hangouts, leather closets, and VIP rooms of the dirtbags that run this place.”
The pawn hesitated. Logan squeezed.
The man nodded.
Three minutes later, Logan smashed the pawn’s head against a dumpster—not fatally, just hard enough to knock him out.
Must be goin’ soft, he thought, but the man did come correct. Now all I gotta do is find that elevator to the subbasement, which means I gotta get across the main floor quietly. And then…
Then he’d have to deal with Jean. But he didn’t want to think about that—not yet.
He turned toward the building, wrenched open the kitchen door—and froze. A dozen chefs and waitresses stood facing him, all holding up kitchen knives. More pawns provided backup, some holding rifles, others with energy weapons. And behind them stood a quartet of large men wearing powdered wigs and Revolutionary-era military coats, brandishing heavy wooden clubs.
Wolverine sighed. So much for “quietly.”
He loosed his claws and lunged forward to do what he did best.
* * *
“CYCLOPS? CAN you hear me?”
He clenched his bound fists in frustration. Yes, Storm, I can hear you, but I can’t see you—and I can’t speak, either!
“Something is happening,” she said.
He straightened his back against the wall, cocking his head to listen. The Inner Circle members had moved away, but he could still hear them on the far side of the room. He strained to pick up their voices.
“…disturbance upstairs, Shaw.”
“Well? What is it?”
“Not sure. Something about an intruder in the kitchen.”
“Well, make sure they’re confined. Call in extra security.”
An intruder, Cyclops thought. He had an idea who it was, but that could wait. For now, the important thing was that Shaw and the others were distracted.
“Mmmmph?” he said.
“What?” Nightcrawler replied.
“Mmmean.”
“I do not—oh! Jean?” Nightcrawler paused. “She’s just sort of… standing there.”
“Perhaps we could try speaking with her again?” Colossus asked.
Cyclops shook his head. He edged away from them, along the wall, his chains clanking across the floor.
“Scott?” Storm asked.
He ignored her. They meant well, but they couldn’t help him now. Only he could pull this off. It would require total concentration and every ounce of willpower he had.
And I have to do it fast.
He cast his mind back to New Mexico… to that day on the butte, when he and Jean had lain together on the picnic blanket. Just the two of them, alone under the glaring sun. He remembered leaning in to her, speaking the two words that had unlocked so much:
I do.
She’d gestured, just slightly, like a magician showing off, and then they were somewhere else. A place of eternal mist—no earth, no sky, barely any sense of up or down. Soothing sounds: crickets, birdsong, waves crashing just out of view. And Jean. Smiling, lovely, her arms spread to welcome him. So warm, so human, so utterly different from the cold, venomous Black Queen.
The astral plane, she’d explained. A telepath’s little retreat.
They had talked, then, about everything. Talked without words, without walls, without holding back. Talked about their lives, their friends, their fears and hopes and dreams. Their first meeting on the steps of Xavier’s school, years ago, Jean dragging that ragged suitcase behind her. They talked about love, about loss, about fear and hate and vengeance. About being lost, and coming home again.
Now, held captive in the sanctum of the Inner Circle, Cyclops squeezed his eyes shut and remembered. The sounds of the astral plane, the gentle scent of pine on the breeze. Most of all, he remembered the woman he knew, the woman he loved. Her psychic imprint, the shape of her thoughts.
Her beautiful soul.
All at once he was there. The shackles, the collar, the hood were all gone. He flailed, panicking. Without Jean’s presence to anchor him, the astral plane was vast, disorienting. Just that endless mist, shifting and writhing in time to the rhythm of his thoughts.
No, he thought. Not my thoughts. I’m no telepath—I can’t do this alo
ne. If I’m in here, so is she.
“Jean?”
No answer.
He felt a moment of doubt. Am I going crazy? I’ve never tried anything like this before. Maybe this is just my imagination… a hallucination triggered by sensory deprivation?
“JEAN!”
He looked around, then down—and shook his head in surprise. Once again he wore a tricorn hat, high-cuffed pants, and old-fashioned boots. This is the outfit from Jean’s hallucination, he realized. But there was something new: a long sword with a plain metal handle, fitted into a scabbard at his waist.
“I know you’re here,” he said.
A shape began to form in the mist. A block of stone steps, leading upward to an ornate wooden door. The door to the Hellfire Club.
This isn’t going to be easy, he realized. She’s making me conform to the eighteenth-century reality of her timeslips. Whatever Wyngarde has done to her, his control runs deep.
With a creak, the door swung open. A flame-haired figure appeared, black cape fastened around her neck by a familiar rose.
She’s dressed as the Black Queen, he thought. That’s not good.
“Jean,” he said. “It’s Scott.” He couldn’t tell whether he was speaking or thinking the words. She pulled her cape close and furrowed her brow.
“Do I know you, sir?” She stepped back, her boot heels clicking. “Your voice is strangely familiar, but your garb marks you as an American rebel. King George’s enemy—and mine.”
Ohhh-kay.
“Try to remember,” he said, striding toward her. “I’m Scott Summers. You and I… we’re X-Men, and so much more.”
A flicker of doubt crossed her face. He kept talking.
“I don’t understand…” He gestured at the façade of the Hellfire Club, half-formed in the mist. “…well, a lot of things. I think you’ve been hurting, more than I realized. I’m sorry I wasn’t there… sorry I didn’t see it until now.
“But this isn’t freedom, Jean. It’s just another cage.” He paused, feeling very small. “It’s not what you want.”
Her eyes flashed red. “How would you know what I want?”