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The Gambit Guild

Disclaimor: I do not own, nor am I making money off of, Gambit or the X-Men or any of the X-Men's villians. They belong to Marvel.

Introductions

The media termed it ‘Decimation’, mutant kind saw it as an Apocalypse, humankind deemed it a reckoning, but to the inhabitants of 1407 Greymelkin Lane it was only the beginning.

Nobody remembered who or what provided the initial spark, but then, nobody ever does. Some say it started with the brutal murder of a 13-year-old girl who used to be a mutant. Others assert a group of depowered mutants started a fight against a radical anti-mutant group calling themselves the Reals.

Whatever the catalyst, fear, anger and emotions gave way to escalation, and soon both mutants and former mutants found themselves fighting against Sentinels, Hunters, army divisions and various ‘human rights’ groups.

In the midst of growing turmoil, the X-Men became easy targets for growing anti-mutant sentiments. The attack on the X Mansion was quick and merciless, claiming the life of many an X-Man. And the house that Xavier built was left in a pile of perfect chaos, his hopes and dreams buried under the mounds of smoldering rubble.

Yet for all the dangers currently facing the remaining X-Men a greater threat lies shrouded behind the veil of entropy, and it is here our story begins…
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

The Prelude: Days of Future Ended

Blood pounded in her ears. She was uncertain how long she had been running, but she knew now was not the time to stop and recount. A rumbling behind her gave speed to her tiring footfalls. Ignoring the stabbing pain creeping up her spine, she ran, dodging and occasionally phasing through trees and brush.

Kitty Pryde cleared the tree line and came to an abrupt halt. In front of Kitty the world fell off, and her first view of Charles Xavier’s once proud School for the Gifted laid to rubble robbed any remaining oxygen from her already starved lungs. Memories flooded her in a panic. Tattered bits of concrete and twisted steel supports were the only testament left to remind Kitty of the house she once grew to call home.

Behind her the sound of metal eviscerating undergrowth brought Kitty’s mind back to the present. She turned in time to see the Hunter emerging from the shadowed depths of the forest. There was no where left to run. She knew this, but that knowledge elicited no discernable expressions of fear or regret from the X-Man known as Shadowcat.

The Hunter rose to full height, and its aiming reticule pronounced Kitty to be the intended target. Kitty held her head back and smiled at the mutant eliminating contraption. This particular model, she knew, was designed specifically for her. The mechanical beast’s steely body began glowing a brilliant red. Even if she tried to phase through, the beam would separate her molecules, spreading her essence across the atmosphere. The glowing intensified, reaching a breaking point. Clinching her fists, Kitty straitened, determined not to give this hunk of metal the satisfaction of processing her scream.

Kitty closed her eyes, and the resulting explosion assaulted her ears with brutal force. The shockwave sent her sprawling to the unyielding carpet of rocks and grass beneath her. Slowly, she opened her eyes. If this was truly death, not much had changed.

“Always playin’ de tough girl, non Chat?”

Out of the billowing steam and smoldering pieces of the Hunter walked Kitty’s uninvited, but much appreciated, knight in trench coat armour. Yet this image of Gambit resembled nothing of the description passed on to her by former X-Men. Gone was the silken white hair, the midnight obsidian skin and the creaking voice that sizzled like twigs in a fire. This was not the incarnation of Apocalypse’s horseman. No, this was the Gambit Kitty remembered. Her teammate. Her friend.

Finally realizing he just saved her, Kitty bounded to her feet and rushed over, wrapping her arms around the Cajun hero. Tears ebbed down her face, not in thanks for being rescued, but rather for the well-being of a friend she thought gone. “Remy. You’re. You’re back.”

“Lucky fo’ you, dat I am.”

“I thought. They told me. They said you were gone, that you had become Death.”

“Dey were right.”

“But you’re you. How?”

Remy fixed the crying kitten with a smile fit to tame lions and shrews. “Let’s jus say I know a very good doctor.”

Wiping the snot and tears from her face with her sleeve, Kitty smiled sadly. “Yeah. Same old cryptic thief.” She paused and turned to observe the shards of Xavier’s dream. “I just had to see it. You know? I couldn’t believe until I did.”

“Oui. Dat’s why I’m here. I heard ev’ryting went crazy. Guess I jus had t’ witness it wit my own eyes. Good t’ing I did, eh?”

“I’ll say. But hey, I’m glad I found you too. Some of the surviving X-Men have gotten together; we’re trying to figure out our next move. Why don’t you come back with me?”

“’Fraid I can’ do dat.” And Kitty saw in Remy’s eyes a pain she never would have guessed possible. This may be the same man she fought side-by-side with, the same man she called friend, but something had changed.

“But…”

“I ain’ an X-Man no more.”

“What are you talking about? We’re a team. More important than that, you’re family, and that’s all that matters.”

“Fam’ly? Fam’ly don’ leave fam’ly behind. I was wrong t’ join Apocalypse. I see dat now, but I did what I thought was best fo’ de team. And in de end, dey jus left me. We’s both wrong, me and dem, but at least I was wrong fo’ de right reasons.”

Another tear formed in Kitty’s already puffy eyes. So much had been taken from her over the past two years, she refused to believe she had found Remy just to lose him again. “Yes they were wrong. I’m sorry they left you. Sorry I couldn’t be there for you like you were here for me. But things have changed. The world is on its ear. We need you, Remy.” Her voice trailed off. “I need you.”

Remy brought her in close, trying to pour all his sympathy out to Kitty through his embrace. “I know. But now ain’ de time. I have…obligations.”

“What?”

Pulling his fingerless gloves off, Remy revealed his flesh-toned hands to the sky. “Dis didn’ come wit’out a price. I gotta debt t’ pay off, and if de world really is fallin’ apart, dat jus means I don’ have much time t’ ante up.”

Remy pushed Kitty away and darted back to the trees. He turned and gave one last heartsick look to his friend. “I’m sorry, ma chat.” And then he disappeared into the darkness.

* * * Elsewhere

Against the vivid colors of a video monitor, a silhouette of silver and black grinned. Treacherous, pointed teeth gleamed malevolently in the screen’s light. “Very good, LeBeau. The stage is set, now we simply await the arrival of our cast.”
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 1: Broken

Alex Summers stomped back and forth, his impatient footsteps echoing off the ill-lit cave walls currently acting as a base for the remaining X-Men. “Where is she?” Alex testily asked no one in particular. “She was supposed to be back almost an hour ago.”

“Maybe she got tired of listening to you and decided to stay gone,” muttered Bobby Drake.

Hoping to avert yet another round of Alex vs. Bobby, Hank McCoy spoke up. “I’m sure she is fine, Alex. Even if something did come up, Kitty’s a resourceful young woman. She is more than capable of handling herself.”

“That’s not the point, Beast. I told her not to go, at least not to go alone. We have enough to worry about without everyone running off doing their own thing.”

Bobby skewered Alex with a hard smirk. “Aw. What’s wrong, Big Al? Afraid everyone’s gonna stop taking orders from you just because your last name is Summers?”

“Stuff it Robert. I’m the team leader, like it or not. And if you don’t like it there’s a cave entrance you can walk right out.”

Hank, not needing heightened animal senses to know where this discussion was heading, heaved a sigh and made his way to one the cave’s off-shooting tunnels that he semi-jokingly referred to as the team’s ‘bedrooms’. “If we fought our enemies with the same intensity we used to fight ourselves, we’d be all out of enemies.”

The two combatants paid no heed to either Hank’s leaving or his words. “Oh, you’ve done a bang up job playing ‘leader’, Lite-Brite,” spat Bobby, giving the word ‘leader’ the same type of vile enunciation usually reserved for referring to murders, rapists and die-hard Nsync fans. “You’ve successfully led the mighty X-Men to cowering in some God-forsaken cave right in the middle of Nowheresville, New York.”

Bobby’s overt assault on his qualifications as team leader sent Alex scrambling on the defensive. “It’s not like I had much of a choice.”

If further explanation was forthcoming it got cut off by Bobby’s unrelenting disaffectedness. “Yeah? Well I’m sure the Professor would be oh so proud of you.”

Before Alex could attempt a reply Lorna Dane, his usually faithful and sometimes mentally unstable girlfriend, stepped in to put an end to the bickering. “Bobby. Please. That’s enough. Alex did what he thought was best for us all.”

Bobby threw up his hands in a grand display of mock surprise. “Oh look everybody: It’s Lorna coming to the rescue of her little boy-toy.”

A sharp skirling of metal piercing rock brought the squabble to an attentive pause, and if that was not enough, the scowl contorting the lithe, purple-haired ninja’s face sealed the silence as Betsy Braddock stepped out from her seat in the shadows. “Enough. Do you people even bother listening to yourselves? Bobby, stop taking it out on Alex just because Lorna won’t let you in her pants. Alex, get over Bobby sniffing after your woman. And Lorna, stop indulging the both of them,” Betsy said in her clipped British accent. “Now will the lot of you shut up? I swear you are, all of you, sodding pathetic. Especially you.” Betsy delivered her last statement with a pointed glare at Alex.

“Me? What did I do?”

Retrieving her katana, Betsy set off to follow the trail earlier blazed by Hank. “Oh, honestly.”

Bobby took this a cue to restart his earlier ranting. “Oh, looks like our fearless leader just got served.”

This gave halt to Betsy’s exit. “Bobby Drake, you are the most pathetic display of an overgrown, angsty teenager I have ever laid eyes on.”

“This coming from a grown up who wears purple dental floss for a costume. I mean, really, I’ve seen strippers wear more clothes.”

The temperature in the cave plummeted instantly. Lorna covered her mouth in anticipation of the execution Bobby just signed up for, while Alex just smiled. He might not be a match for Bobby’s chilly wit, but Betsy…

“I fully suspect the only naked woman you’ve ever seen was either in a high school health book or downloaded from one of you little Internet porn sites. God knows you’ve never touched the real thing. And we all know you wouldn’t know what to do with a real woman if ever you got one, not that any real woman with any sense of self-respect would want your fumbling, puerile hands on her anyways. So tonight when you’re huddled under your covers, wearing only your Scooby-do boxers, trying to pleasure yourself over that picture you thought you secretly snapped of me and Ororo in the hot tub last summer, try to remember that’s as close as you’ll probably ever end up to the real thing. Now if any of you putrescent sprats have anything else to say, I’m all ears.”

No one so much as breathed, lest the fiery ninja perceive the movement as a personal challenge. “As I expected. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” And she stalked ferociously toward her personal tunnel.

For a small eternity the trio of Lorna, Alex and Bobby said nothing, but after a few terse minutes Alex busted out laughing. “I’m sorry Robert; what was it you said about someone ‘getting served?’”

“Screw you, light bulb. I didn’t see you asserting any leadership qualities when she started in on you.”

Alex cocked his head. “It’s called intelligence. You might want to look into it some day.”

“Well lookie here, someone thinks his manhood finally dropped.”

“Guys. Please. Just stop,” said Lorna, with her face firmly buried in her hands.

* * *

Kitty stood outside the cave, where she had been for some short while now. Unfortunately that short while had been long enough for her to catch her teammates’ callow bickering.

Upset, she turned and put a couple dozen paces between her and the cave entrance. When she was far enough out of hearing range, Kitty perched on a small outcrop of rocks, pulled her knees up under her chin and allowed a tear to fall. Just one, she told herself, reasoning that she deserved one. But one became two, and two became a few.

After an expanse of sob-wracked minutes, the mini-deluge began to slowly subside. Kitty dabbed her eyes with the sleeves of her uniform and resituated herself, curling up beside her seat and resting her head on the rock’s time weathered stability. Thankful for this measure of solitude, Kitty held her position until a faint wafting of rotten eggs and a barely audible *Bamf* announced the end of her silent respite.

“Kitty?” the devilish looking saint of the X-Men asked with relief. “Kitty, you’re alright.”

Kurt Wagner’s sudden presence pushed the sorrow back into the recesses of Kitty’s mind. She had neither seen nor heard from Kurt since before the Mansion’s destruction. At the sound of his voice Kitty sprang from the ground and wrapped her old friend in a welcoming embrace even before she fully knew were he was. “Kurt! Oh my God! I was so worried about you. Where--”

Her voice trailed off as shock overwhelmed her joy. Seeing Kitty’s reaction, Kurt’s already megawatt smile brightened. “Vaat, Kitty? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Staving off another swell of tears, Kitty put a hand over her gaping mouth. “Ya’ve cried enough t’day, kiddo. So howza ‘bout ya just say ‘hi’, an’ we skip tha tears?”

“They. They told me you were dead,” Kitty finally managed.

Logan could count on one set of claws how many people he allowed to see a genuine smile, and Kitty was definitely on the short list. “We ain’t gonna skip tha tears are we?”

Kitty, keeping one arm firmly around Kurt’s neck, locked the other arm around Logan’s with impressive strength, and the tears were indeed not skipped.

“Hey. Careful. I don’t mind huggin’ ya, but I ain’t huggin’ tha elf.”

“Ja. I do not vant Logan to shed on me. Do you have any idea how long it vould take to get his fur off of my clothes?”

And Kitty’s tears mixed with the first twinges of laughter her lips had tasted in far too long.

* * *

The great thing about secret underground bases is that they are, by definition, secret and underground. Therefore they make ideal hiding places for cabalistic laboratories ran by mutant geneticists with questionable moral standards. Dr. Nathaniel Essex owned several such labs, thirty-three to be exact, and, since M-Day, Essex had been operating almost exclusively out of his lab in New York. Not surprisingly, only a select few knew of this particular lab’s existence. Still, Essex managed to keep a full schedule of clients and experiments.

Today’s first patient sat strapped into a high, strait-backed metallic chair. His cold grey eyes and regal demeanor told of age beyond the relatively youthful appearance of his body. The first portion of his treatment finished, he awaited Essex’s return to complete today’s session.

In the surrounding gloom he felt more than heard the opening door that signaled the doctor’s return. Essex went directly to a panel covered with dim lit buttons and monitors whirling a constant litany of sciential garble.

“Very good,” Essex said. “The treatment seems to be taking. How do you feel?”

“Like a lab rat.”

“Yes, I suppose being strapped down has that affect. However I was referring to your powers.”

The man scowled knives into the darkness. “They are returning, but they feel different.”

Responding with a perfunctory grunt, Essex began pushing buttons and twisting knobs. “That is to be expected. But once the procedure is finished your powers will be restored, possibly beyond their original limits.”

“And today?”

“I’ve one last shot to administer,” said Essex, approaching his charge with a rather sizeable needle. “Try to relax Mr. Lehnsherr; this won’t hurt. Much.”

After the final inoculation, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr left Essex’s secret laboratory, and Essex withdrew to his main observation room. From this central hub he could look into his six operating rooms through both one-way glasses and a series of monitors.

Essex busied himself with imputing statistics from his previous client and tweaked measurements for future treatments. So enwrapped was Essex in his computations that he failed to notice the menacing shadow towering behind him.

“I do not approve,” said the shadow, its voice rumbling, low, like the first tale-tell echoes of thunder before a summer storm. “Magneto is far too powerful to be controlled.”

“He is also too powerful to not be manipulated,” Essex replied flatly.

The shadow said nothing for a long, thoughtful interval. “I see. And how is our other patient coming along?”

Essex flashed a maniacal, toothy grin. “Perfectly on schedule.”

* * *

During the events of Decimation the United States government established several contingency bases staffed with specially trained military personnel, in case of an emergency. And in this case ‘emergency’ meant: if or when mutants become unruly or annoying and needed to be put down. The New York Emergency Mutant Response outpost, staffed with 27 control central technicians, 14 Hunters and two platoons of general purpose Soldiers, was under the command of Lieutenant Darius Fleming, who took great pride in his position and duty.

The inside of Lt. Fleming’s command center was an orderly cacophony of control consoles, lighted buttons and live streaming video screens of strategically vital locations. Today was running very much at status quo, until a very important light on Private Javier Molina’s board blinked off.

“Lieutenant,” started Molina, “We’ve lost contact with Unit 5.”

Molina’s announcement brought Lieutenant Fleming to hovering over Molina’s shoulder instantly. “Confirm status of Unit 5, Private.”

Pushing buttons at a trained frenetic pace, Molina’s reassessment of the situation echoed the first. “Confirmed, sir. Unit 5 is down.”

“Henderson, who was Hunter Unit 5’s designated target?”

Corporal Ethan Henderson quickly put an answer to Lt. Fleming’s query. “Unit 5 was assigned to track and dispense of a Katherine Pryde, aka Shadowcat.”

“What was Unit 5’s last reported position?” This question was directed to Private Molina.

Molina swiveled his chair around to face his commanding officer. “Sir. It was outside the Xavier Institute.”

“That so? I want a retrieval unit dispatched to the Institute immediately. I want that Hunter bagged, tagged and analyzed. I will know what happened, and I will know it by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Molina. “Retrieval unit underway.”

* * *

After Kitty finally let go her three-way embrace a thought struck her. “How did you know I was crying?”

Logan smirked and poked a blue gloved finger toward his nose. “Can’t fool this nose, kid.”

“And here I thought it vas because you’re Canadian.”

“Keep it up, elf. I could use a new rug.”

“Vell, perhaps if ve could get you house trained, Logan, you vould not have such problems.”

“Kids,” interrupted Kitty, “Behave, or I’ll put you both in timeout.”

“Yes ma’am,” Logan and Kurt replied together. Kitty graced the two with another smile, but her heart just was not in it. As much as she struggled to maintain a grip on her thoughts, they refused to be ignored or pushed down.

Sensing her unrest Kurt thought Kitty might need some alone time with her former mentor, so he decided to politely excuse himself. “I believe I vill inform ze others of our arrival.”

As soon as Kurt faded through the murky entrance, Logan’s grin dropped back into a familiar grimace. “What’s wrong?”

Pasting on a disarming smile Kitty intended to cut this conversation short, but the only thing that got cut was her intentions. “I know that smile, darlin’, and it ain’t gonna work on me. Now, what’s eatin’ ya?”

“I. I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” said Kitty, retaking her stony seat.

Logan responded by flopping down beside Kitty’s outcrop.

Uncomfortable seconds ticked away like centuries, but finally Kitty dared to end the silence. “It’s just too much. M-Day, the war, the mansion. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

“Ain’t been easy on any of us. But you and I, we’ve both seen tough times. And we both know that ain’t what’s buggin’ ya.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Ya know, not sayin’ it ain’t gonna make it any less true.”

“I know, but if I do say it. If I say it, I’ll have to face it.”

“Yer gonna hafta face it one way or tha other.”

“But--”

Logan shifted to meet Kitty eye to eye. “Darlin’, I’ve been ‘round a long time, buried more friends and lovers than any man oughta. What yer tryin’ ta bottle up ain’t gonna stay bottled up fer long. And tha longer ya try ta force it down, tha harder it’s gonna blow up in yer face. I’d never tell ya what ta do--” Before Logan could complete his thought, Kitty threw her head into his chest, her eyes ablaze.

“He’s gone, Logan. Peter. I loved. He’s gone,” was all she could manage between the sobbing. Logan said nothing. He just held her and watched as the sun traced an oblivious path down toward the western horizon.
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 2: The Devil’s Tomb

Once upon a time New York City was regarded as the economic center of the world, a Mecca of modern-day civilization. That was before the Human-Mutant Wars plunged The City That Never Sleeps into shapeless ruin. Streets were repaved in shards of metal and glass and humanity, mighty skyscrapers were toppled into haphazard piles of rubble, and the culture that brought worldwide renown had been thoroughly choked from the air. The once bustling metropolis now stood in a deathlike inertia, afraid that any movement might rekindle the fires of chaotic yesterdays.

As nighttime fell mercifully upon the wreckage a solitary shadow stirred atop one of the few still standing high-rises. Remy LeBeau took in the desecrated city with a sense of poignant irony. He knew what it felt like to fall from glorious heights into the stagnancy of death. Now he just needed to find a way back, and that way, according to his current employer, started here.

Removing the glove from his left hand, Remy stared at the fleshy hue of his fingers and lost himself in thoughts he would much rather ignore, thoughts of responsibility and redemption and cost.

A gust of wind howled angrily through the wreckage of the building Remy had been watching, yanking the thief’s addled mind back to the present. Remy shivered as another surge of air billowed across the war stained streets, and he caught himself praying that eerie groan was just the wind.

Remy knew what that dilapidated edifice used to be. He had even broken in a time or two, if for no other reason than to show those uppity snobs who lived there he could. Of course that was before Remy learned of the arcanum that waited hungrily in the catacombs beneath the Hellfire Club’s New York headquarters. Had he known then what he knew now, Remy might have picked a safer place to placate his ego.

Forcing the bile back down his throat, Remy descended from his perch until his feet met noiselessly with the abandoned New York sidewalk. Out of habit Remy looked both ways before crossing the street. Then Remy stopped, his chuckle hanging inappropriately in the tense air. “Somehow I doubt anyone’ll be out drivin’ t’day,” he said to no one in particular.

Remy crossed the street and ascended the Hellfire Club’s front stairs with reverent quietness. The door stood slightly ajar, offering a sliver of a glance at the darkness within. As Remy put a hand on the door to push it open an inhuman shriek exploded into his ear. Remy threw himself off the stairwell, landing hard on his side as he dove away from his assailant. The pain in his hip did not have time to register before Remy kipped up to his feet with a trio of cards already glowing a vibrant red.

A cat scurried out from a pile of trash on the other side of the stairs, wailing like a jilted banshee and disappeared into the darkness of a side alley. It was then that Remy’s lungs reminded the Cajun to breathe. “Chat stupide,” Remy spat before launching his cards at the alley wall.

After Remy’s breathing returned to something close to normal he remounted the stairs and kicked the door off its hinges. The door seemed to float, weightless, through the air before it landed with quite possibly the loudest crash Remy ever heard. Immediately Remy regretted his reckless entry methods.

Remy stepped across the threshold and found himself engulfed in an abyss of nothingness. He stopped after a few steps inside to allow his eyes to adjust to the heavy darkness, but the more he tried to focus his vision the more oppressive the gloom became. Closing his eyes tight, Remy’s mind conjured visceral images of faceless demons carved from obsidian and hate standing just beyond the reach of his senses, ready to ravish him, body and soul, if he dared take one more step.

Remy’s instincts screamed at him, begging him to cut and run. There was something here, something very much not bound, walking the murkiness in front of him. Chiding himself for this childish fear of the dark, Remy opened his eyes, swallowed his pride and dug a flashlight out of his belt.

Reluctantly the beam flicked on, etching a defiant path through the bleakness and providing any enemies a convenient target to aim for. Remy tried to disregard that last part. He failed.

If the directions his current employer gave him were anywhere near accurate the hallway on the left-hand side of the room would lead to a flight of stairs that went down to the catacombs. The closer Remy got to the descending stairs the more his thoughts turned to the man who ‘cured’ him, to the doctor, if he could be called such.

Remy had hated doctors for as long as he could remember. He hated their needles filled with unpronounceable solutions of unknown origins, hated the chill of their frigid metal stethoscopes, hated how every doctor he had ever met thought they were God in a crisply pressed white coat. But more than all that, what Remy really hated about doctors was the bill. Seemed like every time Remy visited a doctor the visit ended up costing him more than the initial problem. Of course the real difficulty came from those doctors who demanded payment in forms other than money, the kind who collected their dues in favors. And since Remy’s trademark lie in thievery, those kind of doctors usually had Remy do a couple of jobs to pay off his debt.

The first step groaned in violent protest under the Cajun’s weight but held steadily enough. The second step groaned just as loudly. Between the flashlight’s shining and the stair’s screeching Remy knew the element of stealth was gone. Remy reached the first landing and continued down the second flight. Two more flights would put him face-to-face with the door to Hell. A door he had to pass through to get the doctor’s precious specimen.

Still, this time Remy really had no place to complain about prices. After all it was Remy who overstepped himself. Sure, his intentions were noble, but that sentiment provided nary an excuse for what he did. As much as Remy wanted to lie to himself, to look in the mirror every morning and vindicate his actions, he knew. He threw himself away. What’s more he threw away the trust of his friends, of those he dared call family, in essence betraying them. Yet all that became trivial in the moment Remy acknowledged his worst sin.

By the third, and subsequently next-to-last, flight of steps the creaks stopped. Remy, finding this odd, stopped to inspect the stairs. Apparently somewhere between the second flight and Remy’s thoughts the stairs ceased to be wood in favor of being carved from stone.

Rogue. The name tickled his throat as though Remy had swallowed the very fires of Hell. It scorched; it sizzled; it blazed hotter and hotter. Perhaps Sunfire would suggest this fire was cleansing, but to Remy it just burned. For the countless hundredth time Remy castigated himself mentally. How could he be so stupid? How could he not only turn his back on the woman he loved, but then, in a concerted effort to make a bad situation worse, try to kill her? Even now, when he should be focusing on his pinch, one word kept resounding in the recesses of his mind: Unforgiven. That one word was why he was here, running errands for the only person who possessed the ability to remake Remy from the creature he let Apocalypse make him.

Remy’s mind was too busy swimming in guilt to pass out orders, so his feet moved down the final flight of stairs without any conscious directions to do so. Rogue. Rogue. Rogue. As Remy repeated her name in his head, his heart grew more and more burdened under the gravity of his transgressions.

The stairs had disappeared and now Remy stood in front of a massive wooden door. As he prepared to unlatch the locking mechanism the doctor’s last words rang in Remy’s ear anew. “This will be your last job for me. After this your debt shall be paid in full.”

After dis dere may not be a me t’ owe you anything anyway, Remy thought ruefully.

The door opened with a pained wail, and a stench of rotted flesh washed over Remy, who imagined briefly that something more sinister had disguised itself within the fetor and was currently pouring through his veins.

As he entered the labyrinth his thoughts returned to Rogue once more. Rogue. I shoulda killed her. I had de chance. I coulda ended it. Been free.

Remy dropped the flashlight in his surprise. He had no idea where those thoughts had come from, but they almost felt like his own.

Yes, they are yours. They are the thoughts you are too frightened to think, the ones you suppress in your false righteousness.

The flashlight was back in Remy’s hands so fast he barely remembered picking it back up. Remy swung the beam around, desperately attempting to illuminate whoever was taunting him.

A fit of gelid laughter froze Remy where he stood. But the laughter was inside him, squeezing his heart, gnashing his brain.

The object of your search is almost in your grasp, Remy LeBeau. You must but turn around.

A knot of fear balled up in Remy’s throat. He wanted to run, to scream, to cry, to do anything but turn around. Taking a deep breath, Remy forced the lump of cowardice down and turned, slowly. Upon completing this arduous turn Remy found himself staring at a rickety table painted in dust and cobwebs, and on top of the table sat an urn fashioned from silver and topaz. A surreal glimmer of greenish light ebbed and pulsed against the choking dark. Remy, ready to be done with this place, reached to grasp the urn.

Take it, LeBeau. It is what you were sent here to fetch after all.

The gloved hand stopped inches away from its mark.

What? Is the great Remy LeBeau finally growing weary of playing lapdog?

“You talk a lot for someone wit’out de guts t’ look me in de face.”

As you will.

The earth began convulsing, throwing clouds of dust and death into the air, and Remy found himself regretting his brash words. As suddenly as the quake began, it ended. The dust settled like a mist, casually recovering the surfaces it had been shaken away from, and Remy looked around for any signs of his taunter but saw none. Deciding against waiting to see if the ominous voice would return, Remy picked up the urn and turned to leave.

The wall across from the urn’s resting place melted and oozed into a rust colored puddle, revealing a slick crystalline surface. Voices whispered from beyond the translucent wall. Anguished voices. Voices wrought in despair, empty of all hope or light. Voices accented in Damnation.

Faces flashed across the veneer, spinning and funneling one into another. Men, women, children, each lamenting for relief from the fire that does not die and the worm that does not sleep. Forgetting his fears, Remy raced toward the wall in hopes of finding a way to release the tortured souls.

The faces ceased, and in their place a young girl sat curled against the glass, crying lustily. If she noticed Remy’s approach she gave no sign. Remy cautiously knelt down in front of her and started to speak, but as he opened his mouth the girl looked up, screaming with undying agony as her body rent in half.

Remy fell backwards, pushing himself away from the girl as her body, already torn, dissolved into soot.

Such is the fate of all mortals. Even you, LeBeau, are nothing more than ashes dancing in the wind.

The cinders of the girl’s body converged upon themselves, taking shape.

“What did you do t’ her?” Remy screamed at figure emerging behind the wall.

Algid red eyes pierced Remy’s heart as the beast took form. Barbs jutted harshly from every conceivable angle of the creature’s ebony flesh. The air in the catacombs waxed arid and thick, and Remy at last knew what it was to be truly afraid. A sharp grin peeled across the eidolon’s spiny face as he savored Remy’s reaction.

She belongs to me, thus I do as I please with her. As I will soon do to you Remy LeBeau.

A name fell from Remy’s mouth like molten lead, whispered with equal parts reverence and horror. “Blackheart.”

So you know of me, thief. Very good.

“I know enough t’ know you’re stuck behind dat barrier.”

Yet still you tremble. You wonder if this barrier can truly hold me and for how long.

Remy knew Blackheart had been mystically sealed, trapped here for years, but a quiver of uncertainty in his gut told him a creature like Blackheart was not likely to remain caged for long.

So true your thoughts, LeBeau. I am Blackheart, son of Mephisto, Ruler of Hell, and the cheap wizardry of timorous mortals shall not long hold me.

“Well, long as it holds ‘til I’m gone, demon, dat’s all I ask.”

You call me a devil, a demon, an abomination, and rightly so, but you, Remy LeBeau, you are something much worse.

“Don’ think dey make things much worse dan you.”

No? Consider Judas. A man predestined from before the foundations of this world to betray his Lord. A man given to Hell before ever he breathed. A wretched existence without meaning beyond his inevitable sin. A man just like you, LeBeau.

“I ain’ no Judas,” spat Remy.

Is that so?

“Yeah, and dere’s nothin’ you can say can change--”

‘Behold, in the bowels of the New World, shall there be born a child, Le Diable Blanc, in his eyes burn the sign of things to come. For from the power of his hands the glory of Paradise shall light the Earth, joining forever the Kingdoms of Old and New, and then shall there be a peace lasting until the end of the ages.’

The blood in Remy’s veins froze at the sound of those accursed familiar words. His mind fought instinctively to spin some glib comeback, but no such comeback was formed, only poignant silence.

Blackheart sensed his victory and sneered daggers into Remy. What? No witticisms? No cute, clever phrases to hide behind? Yes, I suppose such truths can be hard to swallow. The creature paused, narrowing his searing eyes into slits. You belong to me, LeBeau. You always have.

Remy choked down the fear and the pain of his potential future, covering it, as always, with his guilt. “I don’ belong t’ you or anyone else.”

We both know your destiny, Gambit. One way or another you will end up in my domain. So I offer you a proposal.

“You can stuff your proposal.” Reverently Remy picked up the eldritch urn and turned to head for the exit. He fully intended to run very quickly away from that place, paying no further regard to the demon’s words.

Release me.

The pure absurdity of the question demanded a response Remy knew he was better off not giving. “Why in de name of your fiery kingdom would I want t’ release you?”

Because you are already mine.

“Done told you: I don’ belong t’ no one, least of all you.”

You are a liar, a thief and a traitor. Your future lies securely within me. Release me and I shall look upon you favorably. The desires of your heart shall I give to you. Release me, and I shall reshape your destiny. Instead of a destroyer I would make you a ruler. You would be chief among all mortals; and perhaps you will even save your friends from a fate you have already witnessed.

Temptation alit softly in the recesses of Remy’s mind, where it began gnawing, convincingly, through his thoughts. Visions of might and power and glory crept into the edges of Remy’s consciousness, begging to be heard, and those visions were quickly followed by thoughts of friends burning in the wake of Remy’s fully awakened powers.

Rogue. The thud of that singular name drowned out all the false hopes and beguiling promises offered by the Prince of Hell. With a new found resolve firmly anchored in self-loathing, Remy spun and walked out of the catacombs, desiring nothing more than to put great distance between his thoughts and that beast.

Release me! Release me now, or when next we meet I shall crush your soul into dust. I will rend you asunder and sow you back together with the bones of your loved ones. I shall plunge your friends into the deepest chasms of Hell, and they shall curse you, and you will curse the day you did not kill them yourself. I will chain you in the deepest corners of Hell, and you will beg for death, but death will not come.

“I’ve already seen Hell, an’ I can tell you, I’ve seen worse.” Remy slammed and barred the monstrous door, then made his way hastily up the stairs. Unhallowed shards of laughter jabbed at his feet, following Remy’s every footstep, as Blackheart filled the corridors of the Hellfire club with inane howling.

You know nothing of Hell, Remy LeBeau. YOU KNOW NOTHING OF HELL!

The phrase chased Remy up the stairs, down the hallway and out into the precious chill of a moonless night, and Remy did not stop running until he collapsed at his client’s doorstep, breathless but thankfully unmolested.
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 3: A Falling of Dominoes

Erik Magnus Lehnsherr. Most knew him as his alias: Magneto. Many considered him a genocidal megalomaniac. Others saw him as a visionary and champion for Mutant-kind. What most people failed to realize was it was possible to be both.

Today, however, Lehnsherr was nothing but a mourner, tearily lamenting the loss of a friend who transcended battlefields and differences in philosophies. A dark part of Lehnsherr, a part most people simply pretend does not exist, explained that the ruined mansion in front of him served as the most steadfast of proofs that Charles Xavier’s dream of mutant-human unity was little more than idealistic blithering. Lehnsherr dutifully shoved that thought back down into the murky depths of his subconscious, refusing to give notice to such a notion. Perhaps he and Xavier never quite agreed upon the methodology of obtaining peace for mutants, but there was never a day Lehnsherr did not wish Xavier was right.

A fresh sense of grief washed over Lehnsherr, and the self-proclaimed Master of Magnetism crashed to his knees under a burden of bereavement and guilt. As he pounded the ground with a heavy hearted hand the wreckage of Xavier’s Institute writhed in pain, trembling in accord with Lehnsherr’s deep sobs.

Eventually the torrents of sorrow ran dry, and the offal of the house Xavier built fell back into a portentous quietude. Lehnsherr stood up, his grey puffy eyes smoldering with hate and with purpose. The Erik Magnus Lehnsherr the world once knew, the Magneto that once provoked fear and awe in both Homo sapiens and Homo superiors, had bled away tear by tear. In his place stood something much more terrifying.

“Charles! Your dreams will not lie buried under a heap of mortar and steel. I will build for you a monument. A proper resting place. And I will build it from the desecrated bodies of your killers. Your grave shall be theirs.”

* * *

The tension in the cave was palpable. Kurt had just stepped inside to say ‘hi’ to his teammates, and instantly he felt a need to step right back outside.

Lorna, the only occupant of the main cavern not currently sulking in a corner, was the first to notice Kurt’s arrival. “Kurt! You’re alive!”

“Vhy is everyone so surprised at this?”

“Because we’ve not heard from most of the X-Men,” replied Lorna. “And what little we have heard has been bad.”

“Hi, Nightcrawler,” said Alex, apparently willing to drop his fight with Bobby long enough to welcome back a comrade-in-arms. “Glad you made it.”

Bobby butted in as if he had not spent the past few hours feuding with Alex. “Of course he made it. He is the Blue Fuzzy One after all. High three!”

The two slapped hands together. “Yeah! That’s my main elf. Hey, that reminds me. Didn’t you used to head up Excalibur?”

“Ja. But vaat does that have to do vith anything?”

“Oh, I was just hoping you could teach Alley to not suck so much at being a leader.”

“Very mature, Robert. Nightcrawler comes back to us, and all you can do is make childish jokes.”

“Which is still more than you’ve managed to do, Al.”

Continuing their squabbling, neither Alex nor Bobby noticed the current state of Lorna’s fiercely clenched jaw. Kurt however was very aware of the anger building up behind her taut features. “Uh. Guys. Maybe ve should give this a break.”

“No, I’ve had it up to here with Robert’s attitude,” said Alex.

“No. Really. I think you should stop.”

“Don’t sweat it, Kurt. Me and Maglite here just need to reach an understanding about how terrible a leader he is, which for the record is--”

Bobby never got a chance to complete his sentence because it was at that point that Lorna’s disgust boiled over into action. She lifted her hands and threw them apart, and as she did so, Alex and Bobby went spiraling haphazardly toward opposite sides of the cave, and they both landed in a cloud of dust, pebbles and pain.

Not in the mood for explanations, Lorna stalked purposefully toward the cave’s mouth where Logan was propped against the stony entrance watching the whole scene with a smirk. “Hiya, Lorna. Everythin’ alright?”

“Hi, Logan,” she said with a smile of mock innocence. “Everything’s just great. I just need some air.” To which Logan responded with a knowing nod.

Alex pushed himself to sitting and wiped at the smudges of grey coating his clothes and face. Looking up he noticed a pair of graceful, slender legs planted in front of him. Without even following those silky smooth legs up to their attached face Alex knew who it was. He could feel the smug contempt from her eyes dripping onto the top of his dust coated head. “Go ahead, Psylocke. Say it.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” Betsy said, her prim accent jabbing Alex’s already addled ego in a way only perfected by the British. “I believe Lorna said all that needed to be said. Perhaps one of these days you’ll bother to listen.” And then she walked off to greet Kurt and Logan, leaving Alex to wallow in the muck of his shredded dignity.

Bobby, on the other hand, simply stood up and stalked off to his ‘room’, muttering viciously under his breath every step of the way.

The smirk on Betsy’s face seamlessly morphed into a brilliant smile as she traded hugs with Kurt. “About time you two got here. It’s rather tiresome being the only adult around.”

“Isn’t Hank with you guys?” asked Logan, neither volunteering nor receiving a hug.

“He is, but he spends most of his time squirreled away in his room. Trying to make sure the military doesn’t happen onto our cozy little cave. How did you know he was here anyways?”

Logan lurched to standing and started off toward the back caves. “Scent like Hank’s is hard to forget. No matter how much I want to.”

* * *

The flight from the command post to the Xavier Institute took just under an hour, and Corporal Jared Gathers spent most of the chopper ride trying to figure out why they had lost communication with the surveillance equipment surrounding the Institute. After retrying to establish the link, Gathers radioed back to the base. “Command, this is Air-Hawk 1. We’ve lost communications with Zone X; repeat, communications with Zone X are down.”

“Air-Hawk 1, we read you,” Private Molina’s voice crackled over the communicator. “Confirmed. Communications with Zone X are down. Cause unknown. Proceed with caution.”

“Copy that, comman--” Gathers’ sentence was overtaken by the sounds of shredding metal as the helicopter tore into pieces.

“Corporal Gathers, respond. Corporal Gathers. Report your situation.” Molina’s words met with only a chilled spewing of static.

* * *

“Molina, what just happened?” asked Lt. Fleming.

Molina prodded and poked a few buttons, hoping to somehow regain communications with Air-Hawk 1. Evidently he took to long to respond because Fleming barked Molina’s name again, but this time Fleming accented his barking with a few choice phrases.

“Sir, we’ve lost radio contact with Air-Hawk 1.”

“What happened?”

“Unknown, sir. All signals from Air-Hark 1 and the Institute have been lost.”

“Have you tried--”

“All frequencies, sir. Nothing. It’s like the whole area has shut down.”

Fleming glared at the console in front of Molina, as if the anger in his stare would reconnect the base with their missing chopper. “Was any sign of mutant activity recorded before the sensors went black?”

“No, sir.”

“Henderson, prep the Hunters. I want them ready to move on a moments notice.”

“Sir!” Henderson responded, and then he set off to assist in the activation of the base’s 13 remaining Hunters.

“Molina, try to reestablish contact with my men. I want to know the who’s, what’s and why’s, and I want to know them yesterday. All other personnel gear up. If this is a mutie attack, let’s make sure it’s their last.”

* * *

“Testing is complete. It would seem our little experiment went without a hitch,” said the man commonly known as Mr. Sinister, leering victoriously down at his screen full of indecipherable numbers.

A shadow nestled against one of Essex’s viewing windows swayed lightly and floated toward the doctor, taking care to not touch the floor. “Are you certain?”

A look of insult crossed Essex’s face. “Of course I am certain.”

“Do you so soon forget, doctor? The last time you assured me of our subject’s readiness, he failed.”

“Yes, but while that was unfortunate, it was not a complete waste. As I recall that particular failure led you straight to your precious Key.”

The shadow did not respond, but Essex thought he saw a bitter frown cross the specter’s vacuous face. Essex hurriedly moved the conversation along. “Shall I have him dispatched?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

“A shame really. Such an intriguing specimen. A pity I cannot have longer to study him.”

“You could no more understand him than you could unravel the threads of time and fate.”

Essex fixed the shadow with a turgid twist of his lips. “So you keep saying. Now, what of the Key?”

Ignoring Essex’s haughty expression, the shadow moved back toward the window. “I shall take care of the Key personally.”

“But--”

“The Key shall be my conduit to this world; it I may touch as I please. And be sure to not send anyone of great import out with our subject. I am fairly certain whoever you send shall not be returning.”

* * *

Lorna had brushed past Alex without so much as a cursory glance. He had tried to apologize for behaving like an immature jerk, but Lorna just shook her head and said she did not want to hear it right now. And with that Lorna retired to her cave, with Betsy and Kitty following not far behind. Alex resisted the urge to break his hand against the cave’s stony walls and opted to lose himself in the night air. For the past two hours Alex had simply stood at edge of the mountain, staring at the mist obscured forest below. Thoughts swirled. They taunted and jeered and stabbed.

Maybe Bobby was right. Maybe Alex was not fit lead the X-Men. Maybe they would be better off, safer even, under someone else’s command. Maybe the only reason Alex was ever given the job in the first place was because of his big brother.

Unable to shoulder his thoughts in silence any longer, Alex entreated the heavens in the hopes that Scott would somehow send him an answer. “What am I supposed to do, Scott? What would you have done?”

Scott’s answer sounded unfamiliarly German in accent. “Some vould say doubt is nothing more than a test of one’s faith.”

“I don’t have any faith, Kurt. There’s nothing left to have faith in. Look around us. Everything is falling apart. We’re falling apart, and I can’t seem to do anything to stop it.”

“And you think he could?”

“I…” Alex could not bring himself to complete his thought.

“You look up to your brother, and for good reason, but sometimes I think you look up to him too much.”

Alex returned to staring at the dark below him. “What are you talking about? If I was half the man Scott was the team would never have ended up here, beaten and hiding.”

“You are not your brother,” Kurt said, putting a reassuring three-fingered hand on Alex’s shoulder. “It’s time you moved out from his shadow. It’s time you show the vorld who you are.”

“But--”

“No, no buts. I have vatched you. And for all these years you’ve been trying so hard to be Scott, to follow in his footsteps, but that is not who you are.”

“Then who am I,” Alex yelled in desperation.

“You are Alex Summers. Leader of the X-Men, and more importantly, the man I love.” This answer came, not tinted in German, but from the one voice Alex could never misplace: Lorna. At her approach Kurt backed off, content that Lorna could do more to comfort Alex than ever he could.

“Lor, I--” Alex stopped as two of Lorna’s fingers gently landed across his lips.

“No. No more apologies. No more hiding. It’s time they get to see the man I know.” The green haired vixen wrapped herself around Alex and against a backdrop of stars and shadows two faces melted into one.

Slowly Lorna broke off the kiss, and Alex shook his head. “I’m one lucky guy, ending up with you.”

Dipping her head to the left, Lorna unleashed a grin comfortably situated somewhere between shy and sultry. “Don’t you forget it, mister. Now, get back in that cave and keep me warm.”

“I thought you said I was the boss.”

“Not tonight you’re not.”
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 4: The Day the Worlds Shifted

Was he falling or spinning? He did not know. There were no traces of light or dark. No hot or cold. No fear or elation. Just a vast confluence of emptiness. He tried to convince himself he was dreaming, that he only needed to wake up, but something, something that was neither feeling nor intuition, told him this was no dream. This was worse; this was permanent.

He screamed, yet the vorago encompassing him gave no voice to his desperation. Eventually he grew tired of his ineffectual flailing and resigned himself to meekly drift. If something was going to happen, it would either happen or not regardless of his efforts.

Whether it was five seconds or five years he could not tell, but words wafted through him, perhaps a voice, perhaps not. It is time.

Without warning the world shook and toppled with a dull thump. He gasped and sputtered as the first gusts of air reached into his placid lungs. Then the cold hit, a cold so fierce it burned his hands and scalded his bleary eyes.

A black glove shielded his face from the coruscating moonlight seeping into his blackened existence. While staring at the gloved hand, he came to a detached realization that it belonged to him. And that realization brought with it memory, and memory, in turn, brought rage.

“Hey,” came the garbled voice of one of Mr. Sinister’s henchmen, “I think it’s finally awake.”

The voice, the first audible words that filtered through the man’s ears in, well he did not know how long, but it felt like centuries, became a focal point for his pent up aggression.

Erupting from his stainless metallic casket, the man grabbed at the source of the voice and collapsed the misshapen goon’s throat with a powerful twist. The man’s speed shocked the three other henchmen into a brief but fatal pause. A white flash and the second creature found his head separated from his body. Using the momentum of his slice the man thrusted through the third thing’s belly and finished by spinning his body to dislodge his blade from the creature’s gut. The final henchman attempted to bolt but quickly found a knee and a sword piercing his back.

“An impressive display.”

The recently awakened swordsman readied his blade to drink of the newly appeared penumbra hovering in the pale moon. “That will be quite enough. You have well proven your point, Vargas.”

“Vargas?” he said, as if tasting the name for the first time. It felt at once intimately familiar and strangely alien. “Vargas.”

Memories flooded through Vargas’ mind. Recollections, of killing Psylocke, of battling alien invaders, of evading prophecies, of piercing Rogue and Gambit and leaving them to die, of feeling his own blade driven through him by the woman he thought dead, unfolded behind his eyes like a film of his life played back in slow motion, and as the credits rolled one underlying question, one name, echoed into enunciation. “Sinister?”

“Yes, you can blame your recent trip to, shall we call it, Purgatory on Essex’s incompetence. I entrusted to him the job of your completion, but he was too busy playing games with the X-Men. The fool forgot that you are not his lab rat. You are my creation, and now the time draws nigh for your function to be fulfilled.”

Vargas slid his sword back into its sheath and attempted to rub the aches of remembering out of his temples. “My function?” he asked hesitantly.

“Your function,” repeated the shadow. “You must but open a door. A door to which I now present you the key.”

Holding out what might have been a hand, the shadow made a precise vertical movement. Nature seemed to recoil from itself, revealing a barren rift, and from this rift the shade extracted a box, much like the box used to transport Vargas.

“Lord Darcia…” Vargas started before he thought to wonder how he knew that name.

“Good. It would seem your memories are complete. Then you now know what must be done.”

The puzzlement tugging at Vargas’ eyebrows gave way to ironclad certainty. “Yes.”

* * *

Remy shifted on the brown leather couch, trying in vain to find a position remotely close to comfortable. After a couple dozen more twists, wiggles and contortions, he gave up on the concept of comfort and, with a certain degree of bitterness, opened himself to the possibility that his writhings had more to do with mental unrest than with the stiffness of the couch.

“The soup is not to your liking?”

The unexpected voice snapped Remy to the remembrance that there was a bowl of sludge on the table in front of him brazenly masquerading as chicken soup of some ilk. For a fleeting second Remy considered telling the odd, little man that his concoction more closely resembled snake vomit than chicken soup, not that Remy had ever tasted snake vomit, but if he were to imagine what snake vomit tasted like, that bowl of gruel would be really high on the list of possibilities. Fortunately for all involved Remy decided to play nice and answered with a, “Jus’ not hungry at de moment, but thanks anyway.”

The odd, little man scurried over, collected the bowl, spoon and serving tray and scurried back toward the door from whence he came. “Very well. Master will be with you soon.”

As soon as the door clicked behind the strange servant, Remy’s thoughts went back to his surrealistic trip through the catacombs underneath the Hellfire Club Headquarters. His ears still burned from the scathing promise of evils to befall him. And then there was the prophecy, a prophecy Remy had severely hoped the Powers That Be had long forgotten.

“I see the rigors of your visit with the devil are still haunting you.”

So engaged with his own thoughts was Remy that he did not hear his host come in. It took another second more for Remy to realize he had pounced to crouching on the uncomfortable couch’s arm with three sizzling cards ready for deployment.

“Perhaps I should have knocked.”

Powering down his cards Remy slid back down to seated and buried his face in his hands. “Mon dieu. Tell me dis day gonna end. An’ soon.”

“Blackheart really got to you.”

“Felt more like he got inside me.”

Remy’s host took a seat in an antiquated brown leather armchair across from Remy and rubbed at the edges of his mustache. “That’s a demon for you. Their greatest power is reaching into your heart and mind, dragging out your deepest fears and displaying them for you and world to see.”

“He even knew ‘bout de prophecy.”

“That hardly takes any great measure of diablerie. Demons deal in information. It’s what gives them power. So it’s rather unsurprising that a Class A demon like Blackheart would know about a man who is supposedly destined to destroy all of humanity.”

“You know, you talk way too casually ‘bout Class A demons and folk destined t’ destroy de world.”

“Perhaps it’s all in the last name.”

Remy smiled. “Strange certainly does seem t’ fit.”

Dr. Stephen Strange returned Remy’s grin. “Well it simply wouldn’t do to have the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth named ‘Johnson’, now would it?”

“S’pose not. Now back t’ dealin’ wit’ Big, Black and Spiky.”

The Master of the Mystic Arts crossed his arms and let loose a slow, contemplative breath. “I’m sorry, Remy. If I knew how to deal with Blackheart he would not be simply bound under the streets of New York.”

Remy and Strange’s discussion drew to a definite conclusion as the odd, little servant burst back into the living room frantically screaming. “Master. Master, you must come. Must come quickly.”

Before Remy could turn and give Dr. Strange a quizzing look, the doctor had sprang from his chair and was halfway through the door. Over his shoulder Strange tossed a brusque, “Remy, hurry up.”

Something in his curt tone told Remy this was no time for questions, so Remy did what he was told and followed the surprisingly fleet footed doctor through his house to a large room stocked full of esoteric books and mystical arcana. In the middle of the room, on a raised pedestal of black marble, sat a crystal the size of a man’s head, and it was flaring a discordant pattern of whites, greens and blacks.

“When did this start?” Strange asked.

The poor servant looked completely cowed. “Just. Just now. I walk by. Not touch anything. It just…” Whatever the crystal just did, the servant had no words to describe it, only vague, inexplicable hand gyrations emphasized by sporadic, unintelligible grunts.

“It’s okay,” Strange said, trying to placate the man. “You did good by finding me. Just leave it to me and Remy.”

“Me? I don’ even know what dat is.”

“It’s a divining crystal.”

“Well dat certainly clears things up.”

“It’s attuned to the metaphysical alignment of this dimension’s ley lines. This particular sequence suggests a temporal distortion. In other words, someone is trying to tear a rift between this world and another.”

“I understood all of none of dat, but it don’ sound good.”

Strange shot Remy a serious look. “It’s begun.”

* * *

Vargas peeled the box’s steely top away with relative ease, revealing a sylphic form enveloped in black silk. Fastidiously he lifted the body from its metallic coffer and walked up a small hill toward a pile of rocks that looked anything but naturally placed. He laid the motionless body down off to the side and turned his attention toward arranging the stones.

The process was slow. Most of the smaller rocks initially refused to fit anywhere, but after a few false starts bits and pieces fell into place. And progress, once ignited, flowed steadily toward completion.

As the final stones were pressed into place a chant escalated from deep inside Vargas. He did not know how he knew the incantation, and he did not know where he learned whatever language it was in, but he understood each syllable as though it was carved into his heart. Upon finishing the stony construct the chant grew gradually louder and louder, until the country side resonated in harmony with Vargas’ gravely voice.

Returning to the box that had housed the silk wrapped body, which Vargas understood to be the Key, Vargas retrieved a tightly wound package of tools and various implements to be used in the ritual to come. And as he unwrapped the instruments the chanting subsided to a coarse, hallowed whisper.

For the duration of Vargas’ building and preparing the shrouded body made nary a movement. Idly Vargas wondered if this accursed creature was still alive or perhaps trapped in the same Purgatory he had been trapped in only hours earlier. Either way he pitied it not; after all, this ignoble life would bring forth the gateway between this world and the realm of his creator.

Vargas made his way back to the body, reverently picking it up and placing it upon the newly build altar. His chanting once again slowly accumulated in volume and tempo. Soon the moon would reach its zenith, and then the ritual would commence.

* * *

Remy was trying to make sense of anything Dr. Strange had just said to him but was coming up empty, so he went with the easiest question in his mind. “What d’ you mean, ‘it’s begun’?”

A remorseful frown edged across Strange’s face. “I had hoped to have more time to discuss this with you.”

Dots started connecting in Remy’s mind, and he did not care for the picture they were forming. “How ‘bout you jus’ give me de Cliff Notes, and we’ll go from dere?”

“Fair enough. How familiar are you with the concept of Purgatory?”

Remy thought for a minute and finally came up with: “Ain’ it some place between Heaven an’ Hell?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. For the sake of time and simplicity, let’s just say someone is trying to push our world into Purgatory.”

“Dat sounds more like a job for a Sorcerer Supreme dan a thief.”

Strange allowed himself a knowing grin. “Perhaps, but you’ve already played a vital part. The items I’ve had you…acquire…over the past few months are not merely antiquated trinkets. When combined in proper order and proportion they form a mystical nostrum, commonly referred to as the Midnight Crucible.”

“Nice name, but dat don’ explain why I’m still here. I did de thievin’, an’ now you can do de voodoo.”

“Unfortunately this is where things become a bit complicated. The Crucible has the ability to unlock the full potential of a person’s powers; however it doesn’t work with mystic powers like mine. The Crucible only works on powers which are intrinsic. Like, say, a mutant’s.”

Taking this explanation as confirmation for his earlier suspicions, Remy’s jaw clenched. “So you used me. Figured you’d get me t’ steal all dat stuff t’ pay off my debt, den what? Force dis Crucible of yours down my throat? Or maybe you thought you’d offer me a chance at redemption. Make up for betrayin’ de X-Men by savin’ de world.”

Crossing his arms, Dr. Strange turned away from Remy to face the crystal, the ever-changing flow of colors casting his face in an eerie relief. “Remy, I’m very cognizant of your past, but I’m no manipulator. And I’m certainly not Mr. Sinister. If you do this it will be your choice and your choice alone. Your debt to me ended when you brought me the Phial of Gaia. Anything further is merely a request. One that will undoubtedly leave me owing you.”

“An’ if I jus’ walk away?”

“Then I’ll continue trying to find a way to prevent this myself.”

“Which means you don’ have another way.”

“At the time, no. This void seems immune to mystic arts. So far the only way I’ve found to shut it off is to manipulate the molecules surrounding it. Like sewing a tear in a shirt, if you will.”

“An’ t’ do dat I’d have t’ go New Son.”

“Yes.”

“I don’ think you know what you’re askin’. I saw what dat man…what I…did. Wiped out an entire planet. Don’ seem t’ make much sense, me savin’ de planet only t’ turn ‘round an’ destroy it.”

Strange turned back to face Remy. “But you’re not New Son.”

Remy tried to force a devilish grin. “Well he didn’ have my accent or my suave sense of fashion.” The attempted smile faded with a thoughtful pause. “But he had my powers, an’ dat means we’re close enough t’ de same.”

Sensing that words would not win this argument, Strange laid his last card on the table. “A group of X-Men is located very near the disturbance. They will be the first to fight the emissary of the void.”

Rage flared up, pouring out of Remy’s eyes. “Why’re you tellin’ me dis? You think dat’ll make me rush t’ drink down your potion?”

“No. I’m hoping you’ll go and help them.”

“If I go do we have any chance of winnin’?”

After a deep breath Strange met Remy’s eyes with a dark gaze. “No. But you might survive. And if you do survive you may find the strength you need to defeat your inner demons.”
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Chapter 5: Collision Course

Peter Rasputin stood looming in the darkness. His massive chest heaved slowly and each breath brought with it a slight hesitation, as if the X-Man known as Colossus was afraid his next exhale would be his last. “Katya?” he asked the darkness softly, almost apologetically.

Kitty turned and, not really trusting her ears, prepared herself for the inevitable let down. To Kitty that simple act of turning spread across unbearable eons, but she was soon rewarded as Peter again asked. “Katya? Katya, are you alright?”

And then his arms were around her, surrounding her, sheltering her from the pain and the peril and the past. Not knowing how to respond, Kitty buried her face into her boyfriend’s chiseled chest and wept unapologetically. The only words she could form were a feeble: “Peter. You’re back.”

“Of course I am back, Katya,” said Peter through a brilliant showing of teeth. “Do you think I could really leave such a wonderful woman behind?”

Dousing her sleeve with tears and mucus, Kitty met Peter’s smile with one of her own. “No. Not really.”

Peter drew her back in for another embrace. “I love you. There is no one, no thing, that could ever keep me from you.”

“Peter, I--” Kitty started, but her voice betrayed her, refusing to transmute thought and feeling into sound. For all she was worth, she fought, straining to cajole her vocal cords into acquiescence, but the more she pushed, the more she felt her throat collapsing in on itself.

“Katya! Katya! Where are you?” Peter’s desperate screams filled Kitty’s ears, echoing deep inside her. “Katya!”

Kitty tried to answer, tried to tell her lover that she was right there, that she had not moved. She reached out to grab him, but her hands passed right through him as though he was a ghost. Or maybe I’m the ghost, she thought.

A shriek ripped through her head, forcing Kitty’s eyes open. Nothing made sense as Kitty’s mind reeled from her rude awakening and the rapidly melting shards of a poignant dreamscape. Fuggy clouds of sleep rolled away with dogged reluctance, but Kitty noticed the skriking had not ceased. Instead it was joined by another voice, a familiar voice.

“Betsy. Betsy, come on. Wake up.” It was Lorna, and even in the remnants of a dream induced stupor Kitty noticed the pleading tone of Lorna’s words. “Betsy, please.”

“What’s wrong?” Kitty finally managed to mutter after a few false starts.

The green haired mistress of magnetism turned to face Kitty, her eyes glistening with not fully suppressed tears. “Kitty, thank God. Betsy. She won’t wake up. She’s just. Screaming. Won’t stop.”

Lorna’s incoherent jumble of sentence fragments came to a halt as someone tore through the pinned up sheets serving as a privacy measure for the female X-Men.

“Hey. What’s--” Whether Lorna acted out of fear or instinct, she would never be able to remember, what she, and most of the other X-Men would remember, was her sending the intruder flying back through the sheets and bouncing off the cave walls.

“Ow! Lorna!” The sound of Alex’s pained voice brought Lorna back to reality, and she sprinted out to check on her intruder/boyfriend.

“Alex?”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine. I--”

“What do you think you’re doing barging in our room like that?”

“I was just--”

“He was trying to catch someone naked,” chided Bobby, walking in at the most inappropriate moment possible.

“I was not.”

“Come on, man. Who was it? Kitty?”

“As reticent as I am to interrupt yet another amusing episode of ‘Family Feud: The X-Men Edition’, I feel the need to point out the fact that Betsy is no longer vociferating.” It was Hank, along with Logan, both of whom had been outside when the commotion started.

“You lost me after ‘as’. Uh. The first ‘as’,” admitted Bobby.

“Betsy is not screaming anymore.” The German accented voice caused Bobby to jump.

“Jeez. Warn a man before you go bamf-ing in behind him.”

“Guys. Betsy,” said Alex, trying to remind the group why they were gathered.

Alex and Lorna led the group back into the room and found Kitty cradling Betsy’s head gingerly. Upon their entry, Kitty gave the rest of the team a sad smile and a shrug. “I don’t know. She just stopped.”

“Is she…” Bobby started but could not bring himself to finish the sentiment.

“No. She’s breathing steadily.” Kitty stopped before adding, “Which is more than you’ll be doing if I ever hear you mentioning me being naked again.”

“Oh. You. Uh. Heard that, huh?” Bobby turned to face any direction but Kitty’s only to find Logan’s snarling eyes boring through him.

Stifling a smirk, Kitty returned her attention to the now motionless Betsy. “What do we do now?”

“Hank,” said Alex, “you’re the doctor.”

“Unfortunately I have only the most rudimentary of implements on hand.”

“It’ll do. This may be a diversionary tactic. Logan, Kurt, Bobby, keep an eye on the outside. Anything seems out of place let us know.”

Kurt was pretty sure he did not want to know the answer to his question but asked it anyway. “Vaat if this is a psychic attack?”

The answer was pretty obvious. With Betsy down they were dangerously low in active psychics. Alex shrugged. “Guess we’re screwed.”

“I highly doubt this to be a psionic attack. However it is very peculiar timing,” said Hank.

“Meaning what?” Alex asked.

Hank glanced at Logan, who took the cue. “Me and Hank went out this mornin’ ta see ‘bout settin’ up some defensive measures around tha cave, and I caught a whiff of someone very familiar. Someone who’s supposed ta be dead.”

The tension in Logan’s voice had caught Kitty’s attention, so much so that she temporarily forgot about Betsy. So when Betsy’s clammy hand clamped down on her forearm Kitty let out a shocked squeal. Gathering herself, Kitty turned to find Betsy sitting up ramrod straight and staring trancelike at the wall. “He’s back,” she muttered. “He’s back.”

“Who’s back?”

“Vargas. He’s back. He’s here.”

“Vargas? Vhy does zis name ring a bell?”

A menacing growl brewed up from deep within Logan, a growl accented with six razor sharp claws. “He’s tha one that skewered Rogue and Gambit, ‘bout killed ‘em both. Don’t really care why he’s here, but since he is, I might as well return tha favor.”

“Betsy, can you track him?” Alex asked.

The svelte ninja closed her eyes and took a meditative breath. “I can. Barely feel him. He’s close. I can’t seem. To lock in.”

A thought struck Alex. “Logan, you said you had his scent. You still have it?”

“Wasn’t his scent. But I’ll just bet tha two’re related.”

This bit of information threw Alex a bit, but this was no time for lengthy explanations. “Lorna, Bobby, you’re in charge of transportation. Everyone else, gear up.”

Inside of ten minutes the team was on route, some more nervous than others to be flying along on a disk of ice and metal crafted by Bobby and flown by Lorna. Their path seemed to be taking them straight into a much too close full moon.

Logan was the first to spot it, a bleak figure cast in stark contrast to the coruscating moonlight. For an instant it was hunched over a silhouetted blob, but the figure turned and stared at the approaching heroes as if he had been expecting them.

* * *

Lehnsherr collapsed. He was unsure how long he had been walking, but he knew he would not be able to push much farther. Ripping the military helicopter apart and meting out his own particular brand of justice sapped Lehnsherr of most of his power. Using the last bit of energy in his body, Lehnsherr literally clawed his way inside of Essex’s defense perimeter.

Essex was busy leering at a monitor when the warning lights for Sector 3 began flashing. Begrudgingly he tore his attention away to see what poor fool had wandered into the wrong neck of the woods. “Ah, Lehnsherr. Back for more treatment are we?” He pressed a button on the armrest of his chair. “If you would be so kind as to retrieve our guest, and tell him I’ll be with him momentarily.”

Two minions saw to Essex’s orders and escorted Lehnsherr to his usual room. Ever true to his word Essex let the Master of Magnetism stew in his chair for a while before making his entrance. “Back so soon? What can we do for you today, Mr. Lehnsherr?”

Lehnsherr’s voice came in creaks and croaks. “Spare me the trite pleasantries, Sinister. Your treatment does not seem to be taking.”

“Or could it be that someone is running around using his powers even though a certain doctor warned him to hold off until the procedure was complete?”

The tight scowl stretched across Lehnsherr’s disheveled face provided all the answer Essex needed. “Right. Well, the good news is I can give you a booster shot. However if you insist on flexing your powers before they’ve completely restored you’ll only lengthen the time needed to restore them fully.”

“Unless of course the good doctor has been lying to you from the start.” Neither Lehnsherr nor Essex noticed the extra shadow which had crept into the murky room, but it now had both their attentions.

“What?” Lehnsherr rasped.

“Pay no mind to him,” hissed Essex. “Merely one of my failed experiments. Nothing but a--”

“Did you really think I would not notice your treachery? You contacted someone via the Astral Plane and told them of the Key’s whereabouts. Not that it matters. They will fail, and you, you will be too dead to care about it.” The shade then addressed Lehnsherr. “Your powers have been restored to full for quite some time now. The pain and fatigue you feel when using them are nothing more than the doctor’s drugs suppressing you energy if you exert too much.”

Having firmly inserted the dagger into Essex’s back the shadow faded from sight, leaving a trail of cachinnations in tribute to its delight.

Essex knew he did not have much time. Producing a needle he spun around to inoculate Lehnsherr before the man could formulate a defense. The needle never found its mark.

Wrath, the kind only wrought by betrayal, burned through Lehnsherr’s veins, consuming any trace of exhaustion in his body. He felt the needle before it was drawn and ripped it out of Essex’s grasp before the other man could turn around.

When Essex realized his needle of repressive poison was no longer in his possession he froze. Sundry thoughts poured through Essex’s mind, each hoping to be the one to save Essex from certain doom. The thoughts stopped as Lehnsherr drove the syringe deep into Essex’s neck and forced the plunger down.

Essex flashed his angular teeth. “You can’t do this. Your powers will not last without me.”

In response to the doctor’s proclamation Lehnsherr levitated the metal chair that had housed him for his visits here and tore it into six shards. Rabid in his intensity, he perforated Essex with the scraps, and then he ripped the pieces in differing directions, each piece taking a section of Essex with it.

The doctor’s head fell to the floor, spewing invectives the whole drop. “Pathetic creature! When my body reforms I will--”

Lehnsherr, weary of listening to Essex’s inelegant droning, simply walked out of the room, taking particular care to kick the doctor’s disembodied head on his way out. “I’m sure you’ll know where to find me whenever you pull yourself back together.”
_________________
I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith.

I am Loki who is fire and wit and hate.

I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

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