Back to Gatefold
Issue #1 by Brad Horton
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London.
Club Gorgon.
23:46 UTC.
He had it all. His name was Herbert Windsor. From the age of seven onward, he had been taken under the wing of his father, the senior Herbert—a wealthy oil executive. Money had never been an issue for his family, even after his father disappeared during the Apocalypse Event a few years ago.
Apocalypse was an immortal mutant who used a shard of the M'Kraan Crystal to reshape reality. The official report of what transpired was a little unclear to the public. Although many lives were lost, the world was restored after Apocalypse's defeat and apparent death. It was as if it were a lingering bad dream—with dour aftertaste of tragedy for much of the world.* But with the help of superheroes, everyone bounced back as they always do in a world of weird cosmic occurrences and individuals with strange and dangerous abilities.
*(Check A2K #1-6 —Brad)
Hebert took over his father's executive position, eventually rising through the ranks, using his political influence to his own ends. Even at the relatively tender age of 23, Herbert was a powerful player. He golfed with politicians, dined with monarchs, drove fast Italian cars, and exchanged dirty jokes with the world's wealthiest.
There was also the fact that he was a mutant. To the public, he wasn't as high-profile as one might assume for the fear and prejudice to really matter—he was British, after all—it didn't really matter what those who knew his secret thought.
A girl on each arm at any given time, it probably wouldn't matter if he smelt like rotting flesh. They were like moths to the flame to him. Techno music rumbled the trendy night club, but it was all white noise to the young Mr. Windsor as his posse swarmed around him.
"Alright, luv...I've got to get some air," he whispered into the eighteen-year-old on his left arm wearing a gaudy silver dress that barely covered her body.
"But it's my birthday, Herbie," the girl whined, her words slurred, her dirty martini—as if there was a pretense to act more distinguished beyond her years. "I can drink my own drink in public..."
"Brilliant...," Herbert scoffed as he adjusted the lapel on his thousand-count threaded suit. "Just tell the barkeep you're on my tab, then, yeah?"
"You don't even know my name, do you?" the girl in the silver dress asked.
The girl on his right arm, wearing an equally tiny dress, except it was black, turned as she sipped her whiskey sour and laughed, "Well, he bloody knows my name, don't you, Herbie...?"
Herbert cleared his throat and closed and opened his tired eyelids, "Well, that depends."
Both young women looked upon their—for lack of a better term—free drink machine with bloodshot eyes, hung on his every word.
Mr. Windsor downed the rest of his scotch and smacked his lips as he stood up from the comfortable white leather seat of the VIP area, located on a balcony overlooking the rest of the club.
"Depends on what, Herbie...? Don't you love me?" the girl in the black dress wondered with the infinite wisdom of four whiskey sours in under an hour.
Herbert loosened his tie and sighed, "It mainly depends on what day of it. What day is it?"
"It's...," the silver dress girl began to answer, but decided to chug her martini instead.
"It's Saturday, Herbie," the counterpart to Drunk Girl One said.
Herbert nodded as he fully removed his silk tie, "Hmm. I figure I was wrong, then. The day doesn't narrow it down, unfortunately." He threw his tie into the seat formerly occupied by his over-privileged buttocks, "As I was saying...Air. Me. Alone. Now, fuck off."
The young mogul walked off, leaving the woman who just chugged more vodka in under two hours than a Russian at a funeral to wonder, "Wait...what's my name, anyway...?"
"Seriously?" her counterpart inquired with disgust. She paused, however...as it became apparent she just drank herself blind. "Ugh...I fink I had too much..."
Herbert made his way through the sweaty bodies dancing badly to annoying music. He finally reached the much quieter back of the club, where there was a dimly-lit area with a door marked with a red exit sign. He pushed the door open, where three cocktail waitresses were sharing a cigarette.
"Why don't you go on back to work, yeah?" Herbert ordered. "This is my club, if you haven't forgotten."
The three girls quickly shuffled back inside. One snuffed the cigarette butt on the ground, "Sorry Mr. Windsor, we was jus' havin' a break."
Herbert grabbed the girl by the upper arm and jerked her violently close to his face, "I should HOPE so!" His gaze suddenly traveled downwards, observing the girl's short black skirt, "Now...let's check and reaffirm why I hired you..."
The girl attempted to scream, but Herbert covered her mouth.
The back exit door, which had begun to swing shut after two of the waitresses rushed back indoors was suddenly stopped by a clenched fist before it could close.
"Come, now...you knew this would end one of two ways when you got this job," Herbert laughed as he began to unbuckle his belt. In doing so, his other hand freed the waitress' mouth to scream in horror.
Herbert quickly grabbed the girl by the neck and smiled, "None of that..."
The lights of the alley seemed to dim as a feeling of eeriness befell the young oil tycoon.
"I think we all know that's enough, Herbie..." a voice uttered with a demonic echo.
Herbert's eyes suddenly crackled with yellow energy. He clenched his teeth, "I don't know where you're from...judging from your accent, but it's clear you aren't from around here." He tightened his grip around his employee's neck as he looked upon her. He looked back out into the darkness, "I suggest you move along before things get messy. For both you and this bloody flatscan, here..."
"Well, see...that isn't going to happen, Mr. Windsor," the voice said. It had changed locations from within the shadows. "That girl has an anomaly in her CCR5 gene, on her third chromosome, which would grant her descendants a natural immunity to any disease. I'd hate to lose out on that opportunity."
"What the feck are you talking about, tosser?" Herbert growled. His skin began to turn a shade of light gray and his glowing eyes became opaque yellow as his mutant gifts began to reveal themselves.
A polite chuckle came from the shadows, "I'm just simply thinking out loud. Miss Francis there would be nothing more than a curious hobby." The man who spoke from within the shadows, stepped into the light to partially reveal a pair of blood-red eyes. "I'm actually here for you."
A large bladed weapon shot from the man's arm, slicing Herbert's forearm, freeing his victim. She stumbled onto the street, running past Herbert's attacker—the man who most likely saved her life.
Herbert winced in pain, his tough hide rarely drew blood unless he was dealing with another superhuman. "Whoever you are...you just dropped a clanger..."
"No, no mistake. With the right velocity and density, even the most unbreakable skin can be broken." The attacker sniffed the air, "Ah, yes...my suspicions are now confirmed. The glowing eyes, the pathetic skin tone of a parasitic life form, the stench of your blood. You are related to the would-be conquerer, Apocalypse."
"Wha...Are you having a laugh?" Herbert wondered as he elevated his forearm, gripping the wound with his opposite hand. Dark crimson blood dripped profusely from the cut. "Not that I'm entertaining that ridiculous claim, but how would you even know that?"
The attacker laughed, "Well the truth is, I've been following you for awhile. At first, I was afraid such a high profile chap like yourself would—"
Herbert tackled the man and threw him against the side of the building, cracking its edifice, before he could finish that sentence, "I wasn't looking for a bloody essay on the subject!" It was then that the dim reflection from the moonlight cast a faint blue light on the figure.
Herbert backed away as his attacker slid down the side of the building. He groaned slightly from the impact. Blood poured out of his mouth, sizzling and evaporating as it hit the ground. But the diamond shape on the man's forehead was unmistakable.
"You're...dead," Herbert said as the saliva dried up in his mouth. "We know about you, Sinister. You've been fucking with my family for over a century..."
The man smiled, spitting the remainder of blood out of his mouth. He grabbed his ribs as they continued to regenerate, "Adam—not Nathanial—Essex. I don't think we've met, but apparently, my father's reputation precedes my own."
Herbert smiled as he drove his fist down into Adam's skull, cracking it against the force of his nigh-impenetrable skin, "Too bad yer father was a dodgy chav...using others to do his dirty work."
"Chav...?" Adam wondered aloud as he doubly grabbed Herbert by the wrist, pinching a nerve between his scaphoid and radius bones, and twisted his arm behind him, causing him to growl in agony. "I'm not sure if I'm technically British given that I was ‘born' in the States...but the slang here is not always so obvious."
Adam grabbed the opposite arm, the one that he previously sliced, whilst transforming his hand into the organic equivalent of industrial-grade shears—removing Herbert's arm with a clean slice just underneath his armpit.
"ARRRGGHHH!!!" Herbert screamed as blood squirted and pumped wildly over his thousand-count threaded suit.
"I'm going to assume it was derogatory..." Adam whispered with a gravely tone into Herbert's ear. "And no...I'm not my father."
Another limb removed.
"ARGGGG!!" Herbert cried as tears became blood-smeared from the two horrific wounds. His screams were suddenly silenced as his larynx was sliced diagonally from a shape-shifted set of fingernails into dense metallic claws.
"I do my OWN dirty work!" Adam growled as Herbert felt himself drift away.
All he could see was the glowing red eyes and that symbol before he felt a warmth under his neck, then he seemed to roll down a hill. No, his head was no longer attached to his body, but he was still alive for a few more seconds.
The diamond marking was unmistakable.
Club Gorgon.
23:46 UTC.
He had it all. His name was Herbert Windsor. From the age of seven onward, he had been taken under the wing of his father, the senior Herbert—a wealthy oil executive. Money had never been an issue for his family, even after his father disappeared during the Apocalypse Event a few years ago.
Apocalypse was an immortal mutant who used a shard of the M'Kraan Crystal to reshape reality. The official report of what transpired was a little unclear to the public. Although many lives were lost, the world was restored after Apocalypse's defeat and apparent death. It was as if it were a lingering bad dream—with dour aftertaste of tragedy for much of the world.* But with the help of superheroes, everyone bounced back as they always do in a world of weird cosmic occurrences and individuals with strange and dangerous abilities.
*(Check A2K #1-6 —Brad)
Hebert took over his father's executive position, eventually rising through the ranks, using his political influence to his own ends. Even at the relatively tender age of 23, Herbert was a powerful player. He golfed with politicians, dined with monarchs, drove fast Italian cars, and exchanged dirty jokes with the world's wealthiest.
There was also the fact that he was a mutant. To the public, he wasn't as high-profile as one might assume for the fear and prejudice to really matter—he was British, after all—it didn't really matter what those who knew his secret thought.
A girl on each arm at any given time, it probably wouldn't matter if he smelt like rotting flesh. They were like moths to the flame to him. Techno music rumbled the trendy night club, but it was all white noise to the young Mr. Windsor as his posse swarmed around him.
"Alright, luv...I've got to get some air," he whispered into the eighteen-year-old on his left arm wearing a gaudy silver dress that barely covered her body.
"But it's my birthday, Herbie," the girl whined, her words slurred, her dirty martini—as if there was a pretense to act more distinguished beyond her years. "I can drink my own drink in public..."
"Brilliant...," Herbert scoffed as he adjusted the lapel on his thousand-count threaded suit. "Just tell the barkeep you're on my tab, then, yeah?"
"You don't even know my name, do you?" the girl in the silver dress asked.
The girl on his right arm, wearing an equally tiny dress, except it was black, turned as she sipped her whiskey sour and laughed, "Well, he bloody knows my name, don't you, Herbie...?"
Herbert cleared his throat and closed and opened his tired eyelids, "Well, that depends."
Both young women looked upon their—for lack of a better term—free drink machine with bloodshot eyes, hung on his every word.
Mr. Windsor downed the rest of his scotch and smacked his lips as he stood up from the comfortable white leather seat of the VIP area, located on a balcony overlooking the rest of the club.
"Depends on what, Herbie...? Don't you love me?" the girl in the black dress wondered with the infinite wisdom of four whiskey sours in under an hour.
Herbert loosened his tie and sighed, "It mainly depends on what day of it. What day is it?"
"It's...," the silver dress girl began to answer, but decided to chug her martini instead.
"It's Saturday, Herbie," the counterpart to Drunk Girl One said.
Herbert nodded as he fully removed his silk tie, "Hmm. I figure I was wrong, then. The day doesn't narrow it down, unfortunately." He threw his tie into the seat formerly occupied by his over-privileged buttocks, "As I was saying...Air. Me. Alone. Now, fuck off."
The young mogul walked off, leaving the woman who just chugged more vodka in under two hours than a Russian at a funeral to wonder, "Wait...what's my name, anyway...?"
"Seriously?" her counterpart inquired with disgust. She paused, however...as it became apparent she just drank herself blind. "Ugh...I fink I had too much..."
Herbert made his way through the sweaty bodies dancing badly to annoying music. He finally reached the much quieter back of the club, where there was a dimly-lit area with a door marked with a red exit sign. He pushed the door open, where three cocktail waitresses were sharing a cigarette.
"Why don't you go on back to work, yeah?" Herbert ordered. "This is my club, if you haven't forgotten."
The three girls quickly shuffled back inside. One snuffed the cigarette butt on the ground, "Sorry Mr. Windsor, we was jus' havin' a break."
Herbert grabbed the girl by the upper arm and jerked her violently close to his face, "I should HOPE so!" His gaze suddenly traveled downwards, observing the girl's short black skirt, "Now...let's check and reaffirm why I hired you..."
The girl attempted to scream, but Herbert covered her mouth.
The back exit door, which had begun to swing shut after two of the waitresses rushed back indoors was suddenly stopped by a clenched fist before it could close.
"Come, now...you knew this would end one of two ways when you got this job," Herbert laughed as he began to unbuckle his belt. In doing so, his other hand freed the waitress' mouth to scream in horror.
Herbert quickly grabbed the girl by the neck and smiled, "None of that..."
The lights of the alley seemed to dim as a feeling of eeriness befell the young oil tycoon.
"I think we all know that's enough, Herbie..." a voice uttered with a demonic echo.
Herbert's eyes suddenly crackled with yellow energy. He clenched his teeth, "I don't know where you're from...judging from your accent, but it's clear you aren't from around here." He tightened his grip around his employee's neck as he looked upon her. He looked back out into the darkness, "I suggest you move along before things get messy. For both you and this bloody flatscan, here..."
"Well, see...that isn't going to happen, Mr. Windsor," the voice said. It had changed locations from within the shadows. "That girl has an anomaly in her CCR5 gene, on her third chromosome, which would grant her descendants a natural immunity to any disease. I'd hate to lose out on that opportunity."
"What the feck are you talking about, tosser?" Herbert growled. His skin began to turn a shade of light gray and his glowing eyes became opaque yellow as his mutant gifts began to reveal themselves.
A polite chuckle came from the shadows, "I'm just simply thinking out loud. Miss Francis there would be nothing more than a curious hobby." The man who spoke from within the shadows, stepped into the light to partially reveal a pair of blood-red eyes. "I'm actually here for you."
A large bladed weapon shot from the man's arm, slicing Herbert's forearm, freeing his victim. She stumbled onto the street, running past Herbert's attacker—the man who most likely saved her life.
Herbert winced in pain, his tough hide rarely drew blood unless he was dealing with another superhuman. "Whoever you are...you just dropped a clanger..."
"No, no mistake. With the right velocity and density, even the most unbreakable skin can be broken." The attacker sniffed the air, "Ah, yes...my suspicions are now confirmed. The glowing eyes, the pathetic skin tone of a parasitic life form, the stench of your blood. You are related to the would-be conquerer, Apocalypse."
"Wha...Are you having a laugh?" Herbert wondered as he elevated his forearm, gripping the wound with his opposite hand. Dark crimson blood dripped profusely from the cut. "Not that I'm entertaining that ridiculous claim, but how would you even know that?"
The attacker laughed, "Well the truth is, I've been following you for awhile. At first, I was afraid such a high profile chap like yourself would—"
Herbert tackled the man and threw him against the side of the building, cracking its edifice, before he could finish that sentence, "I wasn't looking for a bloody essay on the subject!" It was then that the dim reflection from the moonlight cast a faint blue light on the figure.
Herbert backed away as his attacker slid down the side of the building. He groaned slightly from the impact. Blood poured out of his mouth, sizzling and evaporating as it hit the ground. But the diamond shape on the man's forehead was unmistakable.
"You're...dead," Herbert said as the saliva dried up in his mouth. "We know about you, Sinister. You've been fucking with my family for over a century..."
The man smiled, spitting the remainder of blood out of his mouth. He grabbed his ribs as they continued to regenerate, "Adam—not Nathanial—Essex. I don't think we've met, but apparently, my father's reputation precedes my own."
Herbert smiled as he drove his fist down into Adam's skull, cracking it against the force of his nigh-impenetrable skin, "Too bad yer father was a dodgy chav...using others to do his dirty work."
"Chav...?" Adam wondered aloud as he doubly grabbed Herbert by the wrist, pinching a nerve between his scaphoid and radius bones, and twisted his arm behind him, causing him to growl in agony. "I'm not sure if I'm technically British given that I was ‘born' in the States...but the slang here is not always so obvious."
Adam grabbed the opposite arm, the one that he previously sliced, whilst transforming his hand into the organic equivalent of industrial-grade shears—removing Herbert's arm with a clean slice just underneath his armpit.
"ARRRGGHHH!!!" Herbert screamed as blood squirted and pumped wildly over his thousand-count threaded suit.
"I'm going to assume it was derogatory..." Adam whispered with a gravely tone into Herbert's ear. "And no...I'm not my father."
Another limb removed.
"ARGGGG!!" Herbert cried as tears became blood-smeared from the two horrific wounds. His screams were suddenly silenced as his larynx was sliced diagonally from a shape-shifted set of fingernails into dense metallic claws.
"I do my OWN dirty work!" Adam growled as Herbert felt himself drift away.
All he could see was the glowing red eyes and that symbol before he felt a warmth under his neck, then he seemed to roll down a hill. No, his head was no longer attached to his body, but he was still alive for a few more seconds.
The diamond marking was unmistakable.
#1 - "PREDATION"
Elsewhere.
Eight Months, Twenty-Three Days Ago.*
* (Check the Cable/Deadpool 2012 Annual, where this scene took place—Brad)
A giant hand-made sphere, pieces of flattened iron and steel sealed together by rivets, began to hum. The "steampunk"-inspired contraption clung to a seemingly towering ceiling as the sphere began to glow from the inside.
[[Adam Essex. You are reborn.]]
The sphere spun as it unlocked itself, pouring a yellowish-green soupy substance out of it—then a nude male slid out in its afterbirth. A man was born of a mechanical womb.
"My dear boy...my son, if you are hearing this message, then I have perished," Nathanial Essex spoke from a holographic projection.
Adam opened his eyes, now an opaque blood red. He brushed his long, stringy black hair out of his face and in doing so, felt something hardened on his forehead. It was almost crystalline in nature. It was geometric to be sure. He shrugged it off and gazed upon his father—but not the father he knew. He was pale, had red eyes and the same jet black hair, along with a diamond-shaped ruby embedded in his forehead.
Adam traced the edges of the hard thing he felt in his forehead—and yes, it was the same diamond shape.
"It took hundreds of years of research, thousands of failed experiments, dozens of infiltrations and betrayals, thousands of clones, and one interesting cancer patient..." Essex explained with a sigh. "But I finally realized that the perfect genetic specimen was myself. My lineage. I could no longer rely on nature to take its course. So I set out to recreate my original genesis project—bringing you back to life."
"...gggmmm...," Adam tried to speak, but vomited the greenish soupy substance he had been incubating in for years.
"Granted, you are not the original Adam Stanislaus Essex, but you are of my seed and the ovum of your mother's—her descendants, anyway—as close to hers as I could make it. You are as much my son as I am your father. And as such, my living will and testament, I have granted you with my powers and my intelligence. I will leave my task to create the perfect genetic specimen to you. Do you understand?"
"Y-Yes...," Adam heard himself speak, surprised at his deeper voice. It was strange, he had a few of the memories of his younger self, the original Adam as a child in the late 1880's London. Were they his own or memories of his father's retroactively implanted into his mind? He was barely a toddler when he died—now he was a young man.
"Brilliant...first, your task is to eliminate the Clan Akkaba at all costs," Nathanial spoke. "As long as their bloodline exists, Apocalypse will always have a backup plan for himself to return—to unabashedly jump start evolution in his own image by destroying the world, never allowing science to progress."
Adam watched as dozens of holographic squares popped up in front of him, slightly curved to match his line of peripheral vision. They were current members of the Clan Akkaba, descendants of En Sabah Nur. Through their blood, they could create a new host body for Apocalypse.
Adam looked at five boxes in particular—Scott Summers, Alex Summers, Nathan Summers, Rachel Summers, and Nate Grey. The main reason they stood out was because they were highlighted with a yellow border. Two of them, Nathan and Rachel Summers, already had a red X over them—signifying that they were deceased. They were labeled as "DESCENDANT" but were not affiliated with the Clan.
The name Summers stood out in his mind. He knew that name, but wasn't sure why. Somehow Adam knew, as his father did, that they were special.
"Can I count on you to grant your father's dying wish?" the holographic figure asked from beyond the grave.
Adam watched the holograms fade away as a sinister grin formed on his face.
# # # # #
London.
Now.
"Wipe that fawkin' smirk off yer face!" a roar bellowed from a towering, muscular figure in a rustic, hand-made custom leather duster. His name was Victor Creed, the mutant outlaw known as Sabretooth.
Outlaw was perhaps a generous way to describe him.
For years, he terrorized the X-Man known as Wolverine—who, as it turned out, was his father—and his associates as a ruthless mercenary, assassin, and downright murderer. His mutation was partially to blame for his animalistic side—but it was his fault for giving into it. After a botched mission to kill a group of X-Men, they arrested him and held him at one of their headquarters, where he was eventually rehabilitated and better learned to control his animal instincts, but there were a few missteps on his path to redemption.*
* (See X-Men Omega and the Sabretooth mini-series — Brad)
"I mean...just kill the schmuck—yer like a cat playin' with a mouse," Victor barked as he held a blacklight fashioned into a handheld flashlight as he scanned the area of the alley behind Club Gorgon.
"Says the gentleman who named himself Sabretooth...," Adam joked. He sighed as he took a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and wiped blood off of his forehead, "Don't worry. The coagulation inhibitor I derived from my own blood worked when I broke his skin. His blood won't leave any evidence, unless the local constables want to try and figure out how to track vaporized blood...which they won't know how to do. Because they can't."
"Science is no excuse for a messy job," Sabretooth grunted as he stood up, just shy of two meters tall. "That ain't how I trained ya..."
Adam rolled his eyes, "Sorry sensei. I'll be sure to slap that water and balance with one foot on while constructing a ship in a bottle."
"Yer glorious arrogance ya got from yer dear ol' pop? It upsets me," Victor snarled. "Put a fuckin' lid on it."
"Threnody, dear?" Adam inquired in the direction of the solitary young woman positioned in the middle of the alley. "Have you completed what needs to be done?"
The young woman known as Threnody opened her eyes. Streams of hot pink necroplasmic energy travelled along the arteries in her eyes and along the patterns of her irises. She was once simply a runaway named Melody Jacobs, until she discovered her mutant ability to absorb the energy of those who are either dying or close to death.
The haunting side effect of her abilities meant that there was a residual piece of those that she absorbed. She came into the employ of Adam's father, where in exchange he fabricated specialized psionic dampeners fastened to her temples and just under her cheek bones.
Eventually, she was "freed" from Sinister and she began a relationship with Nate Grey—a recent despot from an alternate reality. She was eventually drained of all of her lifeforce by the disembodied spirit of Madelyne Pryor, but instead of dying like she should have, Melody awakened with a new ability...zombie creation. Worse, she had begun to enjoy the euphoric rush the necroplasmic energy gave her.
She had been wandering aimlessly, trying to isolate herself for years until Adam found his father's former messenger—nearly catatonic with insanity from the withdrawals. Adam modified his father's original design of Threnody's psi-shields and in a harsh twist of fate, Threnody was indebted to Sinister's son. Threnody had almost no choice but to assist Adam in his murderous mission.
"It's done," Threnody said as she calmly exhaled. Small green LEDs lit up along her psi-blocks, storing some of the information residing in the tiny psionic threads between life and death. "The necroplasmic echo is completely gone. His family won't be able to track him."
"How do you feel?" Adam wondered. The diamond marking on his forehead seemed to glow, "Am I providing enough resistance?" He didn't inherit all of his father's gifts, like his telepathy, but rather something else. Anti-telepathy—or an aura of sorts that cancels out telepathy. Adam called it a psionic dead zone.
Threnody nodded, "I keep hearing the name Kos..."
It was another reason Threnody was so indebted to Adam. She could barely leave his side. He brought her back from the brink of catatonia—and keeps her sane.
"Greek island...South Aegean," Victor said as he was met with surprised glances from his colleagues. He shifted his stance, reflecting his annoyance, "What? I'm older than I look, idiots. Passed it on a boat once! So, I just saved you two seconds lookin' that up with a smartphone."
"I'll have to run that against my father's files and see what that brings up...I'm not familiar with the Clan being in that area," Adam said.
"It could be a secret base or refuge...if there were danger," Threnody suggested. "Sinister wouldn't know about that."
"Yeah, and even though you've been picking these dweebs off little by little, they're starting to beef up their security. Herbert's were easy to pay off, luckily," Sabretooth mumbled as he hawked a loogie onto the pavement and readjusted his groin. "They're two hours ahead, give or take. We goin' or what?"
"Very well, you heard the boss. Let's rest up and head to Greece," Adam declared with a wink. A bright diamond-shaped portal opened in the alley as the tesseract technology instantly teleported the three—including the pieces of Herbert.
# # # # #
The Domicilium.
Mansion to the Clan Akkaba.
England.
The Slade family was descended from the ancient Saxon tribes. During his world journey, Apocalypse procreated with one of its female warriors, unknown at the time to be a mutant. Over time, the family intermingled and married into other families throughout England–the Starsmores were one of them. One lone elopement spawned the mutant that would one day become the Summers family.* Thousands of years later, the Slades still exist prominently within the Clan Akkaba–named after the birthplace of their patriarch.
* (Mr. Sinister accidentally discovered that the Summers family was distantly-related to Apocalypse in Cable/Deadpool #2—Brad)
Frederick Slade watched the sunrise like he did for over one-hundred years before. Frederick was often thought of as weak in his early years—especially by his older brother, Hamilton—but he was also compassionate and fair and led the Clan officially after beheading his brother in battle. Even as a gentle soul, he was a fierce warrior. Apocalypse assured Frederick that strength was not determinant on ruthlessness. Leadership required a different kind of strength.
An elderly man by the time the twenty-first century rolled around, he was rejuvenated during the Apocalypse Event to a youthful young man when Apocalypse himself had approached his descendant and gifted him a hefty dose of his own blood. When the M'Kraan distortion was removed, he retained his youthful appearance.
With his second chance, he knew he had to fulfill his duties as The Fittest—the highest ranking and most powerful family member to carry out the traditions of En Sabah Nur.
"Sir?" Mossman, the valet and butler, asked as he presented a silver tray with a solitary mug on it. "Your morning coffee."
Frederick took his coffee black, contrary to the traditional tea for a Brit like himself—but he was not always one to follow tradition. He sipped the coffee at first before gulping down the entire cup.
"Thank you, Mossman," Frederick replied as he returned the cup to the silver tray. "What news have we this morning?"
Mossman slightly bowed his head out of respect, "Well, m'lord...it seems your nephew, Herbert, has gone missing."
Frederick arched an eyebrow inquisitively, "Forgive me..."
Mossman's posture straightened as he replied, "Herbert Windsor, m'lord. A distant relation. Not a high-ranking member."
Frederick turned and looked out the window once more, "That's the third this month alone...the 23rd in almost a year...it can't be coincidence. No one knows of the Clan Akkaba's existence...we are being hunted. Does the staff regularly interact with the outside world on their off-time?"
Mossman shook his head, "No, m'lord. I wouldn't allow it. Their service is to you and the Clan."
"Have the empaths interrogate the entire staff...I want the leak patched," Frederick demanded. "I will deal with potential moles within the Clan personally."
Mossman stood attentively, "It will be done, m'lord. There is also the intel you requested regarding finding the Nemesis/Holocaust native to our reality...we believe we have found him." He handed Slade a tablet with a grainy surveillance photo with GPS stats on the right hand column of the user interface.
"Of course it had to be New York," Frederick muttered. "Rolfson? Where have I heard that name before?"
"Autumn Rolfson, former Horseman of Famine...it appears she is the boy's mother," Mossman replied.
Frederick arched an eyebrow, "He would be a toddler if he had any other father...it appears his aging was accelerated, perhaps during the Apocalypse Event he underwent a similar process as his half-brother, Apollyon? There are so few direct descendants...perhaps Apocalypse needed to ensure his lineage would live on."
"With respect, sir...aren't you the rightful heir?" Mossman asked to vouch for his master.
"I've played my part, kept the family in line without pettiness and deceit plaguing our ranks." Frederick pinched his chin, "But perhaps this serial killer has been a blessing in disguise—picking off weak links in the chain to make way for a new era of the Clan. A stronger, more pure Clan Akkaba. If everything in my life has led to this moment, I would gladly step down as Fittest for the Son of Apocalypse."
"Wouldn't this boy simply take over Apocalypse's role?" Mossman asked.
"Such disrespect should not be entertained, Mossman," Frederick said as his eyes became opaque emerald. "Our Lord treats life and death like any other journey. His final destination is not yet determined. One does not simply take over for The First One with ease."
"Quite...my apologies, m'lord," Mossman said. "No disrespect was implied."
"If the boy is worthy...," Frederick said as he removed his robe, revealing a massive red tattoo across his chest—the Crest of Akkaba, signifying his rank within the Clan. "He will be able to continue Apocalypse's legacy. Under my tutelage, he will be molded into a proper heir of Apocalypse. He will be one of the strong."
"Yes, m'lord..." Mossman said as he bowed. However, before his neck returned upright, a large bladed weapon drove itself clean through it, depositing his head and a pool of blood over the granite floor.
Frederick's forearm shape-shifted from a metallic blade back into flesh and blood.
"Unfortunately, your disrespect reeked through any attempts to mask it," Frederick bemoaned. He had not taken a life, human or mutant or otherwise, in quite a long time. He did not like it, but part of his leadership meant making difficult choices. If his valet was not able to show respect for the Clan, the entire staff would follow suit and the other family members would see that Frederick was not fit to lead—it simply couldn't be tolerated.
He wiped the blood that had spattered onto the tablet, smearing it in the process. Frederick held it up and smiled at the image of the teenage boy, "William Rolfson, your destiny awaits..."
# # # # #
Kos, Greece.
Forty-Eight Hours Later.
Adam had managed to copy the attire of an Italian tourist a few minutes earlier to mask his intentions as a hunter. Although his distinguished look still bled through, simply shapeshifting his normal dark business casual attire to white and beige. He also took advantage of his jet black hair and simply changed the pigment of his skin to resemble a more Mediterranean tone. His diamond marking was gone, replaced with an unremarkable forehead. A simple run of the mill pair of sunglasses masked his red eyes.
He sniffed the air through the crowded street, hoping to pick up the DNA pattern of the Akkaba he was sent here to track. Through the crowd, however, Adam's mind began to wander as he began visualizing the DNA patterns and alleles if any were to interbreed.
{{Stay on task,}} Sabertooth ordered through the two way radio earpiece.
Adam snapped out of his geneticist daydream and looked upward, scanning the tops of the buildings in the distance until he saw Sabretooth standing on top of a Greek ruin. He stretched his eyeballs inward to increase his field of vision while using his irises to focus in. Victor had a drink in his hand, naturally. Threnody begrudgingly stood beside him.
{{You're approaching a mosque up ahead, so I hope you brushed up on your Turkish.}}
"What the hell are you wearing?" Adam muttered.
{{I prefer an American bathing suit, thanks...}} Sabretooth said as he chugged his vodka. {{You work, I'll play.}}
Adam lowered his sunglasses and caught sight of a cloaked figure. He arched an eyebrow and smirked, "A little too obvious with the Middle Earth attire. He reeks of Apocalypse's blood...this should be fun. Standby."
Adam followed the hooded figure through the crowd until the time was right. They turned a corner into an open alley that overlooked the Aegean. There was enough collateral noise but the location was secluded enough that the killing would go quickly.
The hooded figure abruptly turned around, startling Adam for a brief moment.
"Γιατί μου παρακάτω, αγόρι..." the man spoke. His tone was harsh. His voice was gravelly.
"We can do this however you'd like," Adam taunted arrogantly. "Although it would be more fun if it were in English...your family has reached the end of its usefulness. You are hereby evolutionarily cut off."
Adam thrust his fist forward and connected with the chin of the man. It felt like hitting granite covered in steel spikes...that also burned white hot. Adam's metamorphic facade was immediately overturned as his skin became pale white and his clothing was replaced with a darkened, streamlined and less "billowy" version of his father's armor.
Adam recoiled in pain as he observed his charred flesh flake off of his fist. His blood trickled between his knuckles, but it would not coagulate or evaporate. Also alarming was the fact that his fist was now numb. The cloaked man backhanded Adam across the jaw, sending him crushing through the wall of a small villa.
"My family is this island," the man said in English as his cloak began to ignite and his body and musculature doubled in size. As the cloak burned, Adam saw through the dust his scaled and reptilian face. He was humanoid, but his scales were light gray. The scales on top of his bald head and forehead were black, just above his nose—if he had a nose.
He walked up and grabbed Adam by the throat, the mere touch of him burning, and smashed him into the ground repeatedly before throwing him through another wall of the building on the opposite side of the street. Adam felt his spleen rupture and three ribs punctured his liver.
Adam shakily got to his feet, as his normal regenerative abilities were being impaired. Or perhaps...infected. He spit up blood, which was black like tar. An advanced form of sepsis had begun within his bloodstream. For such a genetically-engineered being, it could spell certain doom. His entire genetic code could break down, he could begin to age rapidly, or just turn to dust and let the Aegean winds carry him into the sea.
"...well, that's not normal," Adam mused as he nevertheless assumed a defensive position as per Sabretooth's training. Black blood trickled from a lone cut along his left temple.
A large battle axe formed out of the reptile man's hand. His soulless eyes glowed with a dark amber, "Perhaps no one told you? I am Enyalius—the First Horseman of Apocalypse. Now...you die."
"Definitely not on the test, Victor...," Adam grumbled to himself through gritted teeth.
# # # # #
Next Issue: Adam Essex has his work cut out for him against the First Horseman while Frederick Slade recruits William Rolfson (“our” version of Holocaust) into the Clan Akkaba. The stakes might get so high that Adam will have to go to great and unexpected lengths to protect his cover…
Eight Months, Twenty-Three Days Ago.*
* (Check the Cable/Deadpool 2012 Annual, where this scene took place—Brad)
A giant hand-made sphere, pieces of flattened iron and steel sealed together by rivets, began to hum. The "steampunk"-inspired contraption clung to a seemingly towering ceiling as the sphere began to glow from the inside.
[[Adam Essex. You are reborn.]]
The sphere spun as it unlocked itself, pouring a yellowish-green soupy substance out of it—then a nude male slid out in its afterbirth. A man was born of a mechanical womb.
"My dear boy...my son, if you are hearing this message, then I have perished," Nathanial Essex spoke from a holographic projection.
Adam opened his eyes, now an opaque blood red. He brushed his long, stringy black hair out of his face and in doing so, felt something hardened on his forehead. It was almost crystalline in nature. It was geometric to be sure. He shrugged it off and gazed upon his father—but not the father he knew. He was pale, had red eyes and the same jet black hair, along with a diamond-shaped ruby embedded in his forehead.
Adam traced the edges of the hard thing he felt in his forehead—and yes, it was the same diamond shape.
"It took hundreds of years of research, thousands of failed experiments, dozens of infiltrations and betrayals, thousands of clones, and one interesting cancer patient..." Essex explained with a sigh. "But I finally realized that the perfect genetic specimen was myself. My lineage. I could no longer rely on nature to take its course. So I set out to recreate my original genesis project—bringing you back to life."
"...gggmmm...," Adam tried to speak, but vomited the greenish soupy substance he had been incubating in for years.
"Granted, you are not the original Adam Stanislaus Essex, but you are of my seed and the ovum of your mother's—her descendants, anyway—as close to hers as I could make it. You are as much my son as I am your father. And as such, my living will and testament, I have granted you with my powers and my intelligence. I will leave my task to create the perfect genetic specimen to you. Do you understand?"
"Y-Yes...," Adam heard himself speak, surprised at his deeper voice. It was strange, he had a few of the memories of his younger self, the original Adam as a child in the late 1880's London. Were they his own or memories of his father's retroactively implanted into his mind? He was barely a toddler when he died—now he was a young man.
"Brilliant...first, your task is to eliminate the Clan Akkaba at all costs," Nathanial spoke. "As long as their bloodline exists, Apocalypse will always have a backup plan for himself to return—to unabashedly jump start evolution in his own image by destroying the world, never allowing science to progress."
Adam watched as dozens of holographic squares popped up in front of him, slightly curved to match his line of peripheral vision. They were current members of the Clan Akkaba, descendants of En Sabah Nur. Through their blood, they could create a new host body for Apocalypse.
Adam looked at five boxes in particular—Scott Summers, Alex Summers, Nathan Summers, Rachel Summers, and Nate Grey. The main reason they stood out was because they were highlighted with a yellow border. Two of them, Nathan and Rachel Summers, already had a red X over them—signifying that they were deceased. They were labeled as "DESCENDANT" but were not affiliated with the Clan.
The name Summers stood out in his mind. He knew that name, but wasn't sure why. Somehow Adam knew, as his father did, that they were special.
"Can I count on you to grant your father's dying wish?" the holographic figure asked from beyond the grave.
Adam watched the holograms fade away as a sinister grin formed on his face.
# # # # #
London.
Now.
"Wipe that fawkin' smirk off yer face!" a roar bellowed from a towering, muscular figure in a rustic, hand-made custom leather duster. His name was Victor Creed, the mutant outlaw known as Sabretooth.
Outlaw was perhaps a generous way to describe him.
For years, he terrorized the X-Man known as Wolverine—who, as it turned out, was his father—and his associates as a ruthless mercenary, assassin, and downright murderer. His mutation was partially to blame for his animalistic side—but it was his fault for giving into it. After a botched mission to kill a group of X-Men, they arrested him and held him at one of their headquarters, where he was eventually rehabilitated and better learned to control his animal instincts, but there were a few missteps on his path to redemption.*
* (See X-Men Omega and the Sabretooth mini-series — Brad)
"I mean...just kill the schmuck—yer like a cat playin' with a mouse," Victor barked as he held a blacklight fashioned into a handheld flashlight as he scanned the area of the alley behind Club Gorgon.
"Says the gentleman who named himself Sabretooth...," Adam joked. He sighed as he took a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and wiped blood off of his forehead, "Don't worry. The coagulation inhibitor I derived from my own blood worked when I broke his skin. His blood won't leave any evidence, unless the local constables want to try and figure out how to track vaporized blood...which they won't know how to do. Because they can't."
"Science is no excuse for a messy job," Sabretooth grunted as he stood up, just shy of two meters tall. "That ain't how I trained ya..."
Adam rolled his eyes, "Sorry sensei. I'll be sure to slap that water and balance with one foot on while constructing a ship in a bottle."
"Yer glorious arrogance ya got from yer dear ol' pop? It upsets me," Victor snarled. "Put a fuckin' lid on it."
"Threnody, dear?" Adam inquired in the direction of the solitary young woman positioned in the middle of the alley. "Have you completed what needs to be done?"
The young woman known as Threnody opened her eyes. Streams of hot pink necroplasmic energy travelled along the arteries in her eyes and along the patterns of her irises. She was once simply a runaway named Melody Jacobs, until she discovered her mutant ability to absorb the energy of those who are either dying or close to death.
The haunting side effect of her abilities meant that there was a residual piece of those that she absorbed. She came into the employ of Adam's father, where in exchange he fabricated specialized psionic dampeners fastened to her temples and just under her cheek bones.
Eventually, she was "freed" from Sinister and she began a relationship with Nate Grey—a recent despot from an alternate reality. She was eventually drained of all of her lifeforce by the disembodied spirit of Madelyne Pryor, but instead of dying like she should have, Melody awakened with a new ability...zombie creation. Worse, she had begun to enjoy the euphoric rush the necroplasmic energy gave her.
She had been wandering aimlessly, trying to isolate herself for years until Adam found his father's former messenger—nearly catatonic with insanity from the withdrawals. Adam modified his father's original design of Threnody's psi-shields and in a harsh twist of fate, Threnody was indebted to Sinister's son. Threnody had almost no choice but to assist Adam in his murderous mission.
"It's done," Threnody said as she calmly exhaled. Small green LEDs lit up along her psi-blocks, storing some of the information residing in the tiny psionic threads between life and death. "The necroplasmic echo is completely gone. His family won't be able to track him."
"How do you feel?" Adam wondered. The diamond marking on his forehead seemed to glow, "Am I providing enough resistance?" He didn't inherit all of his father's gifts, like his telepathy, but rather something else. Anti-telepathy—or an aura of sorts that cancels out telepathy. Adam called it a psionic dead zone.
Threnody nodded, "I keep hearing the name Kos..."
It was another reason Threnody was so indebted to Adam. She could barely leave his side. He brought her back from the brink of catatonia—and keeps her sane.
"Greek island...South Aegean," Victor said as he was met with surprised glances from his colleagues. He shifted his stance, reflecting his annoyance, "What? I'm older than I look, idiots. Passed it on a boat once! So, I just saved you two seconds lookin' that up with a smartphone."
"I'll have to run that against my father's files and see what that brings up...I'm not familiar with the Clan being in that area," Adam said.
"It could be a secret base or refuge...if there were danger," Threnody suggested. "Sinister wouldn't know about that."
"Yeah, and even though you've been picking these dweebs off little by little, they're starting to beef up their security. Herbert's were easy to pay off, luckily," Sabretooth mumbled as he hawked a loogie onto the pavement and readjusted his groin. "They're two hours ahead, give or take. We goin' or what?"
"Very well, you heard the boss. Let's rest up and head to Greece," Adam declared with a wink. A bright diamond-shaped portal opened in the alley as the tesseract technology instantly teleported the three—including the pieces of Herbert.
# # # # #
The Domicilium.
Mansion to the Clan Akkaba.
England.
The Slade family was descended from the ancient Saxon tribes. During his world journey, Apocalypse procreated with one of its female warriors, unknown at the time to be a mutant. Over time, the family intermingled and married into other families throughout England–the Starsmores were one of them. One lone elopement spawned the mutant that would one day become the Summers family.* Thousands of years later, the Slades still exist prominently within the Clan Akkaba–named after the birthplace of their patriarch.
* (Mr. Sinister accidentally discovered that the Summers family was distantly-related to Apocalypse in Cable/Deadpool #2—Brad)
Frederick Slade watched the sunrise like he did for over one-hundred years before. Frederick was often thought of as weak in his early years—especially by his older brother, Hamilton—but he was also compassionate and fair and led the Clan officially after beheading his brother in battle. Even as a gentle soul, he was a fierce warrior. Apocalypse assured Frederick that strength was not determinant on ruthlessness. Leadership required a different kind of strength.
An elderly man by the time the twenty-first century rolled around, he was rejuvenated during the Apocalypse Event to a youthful young man when Apocalypse himself had approached his descendant and gifted him a hefty dose of his own blood. When the M'Kraan distortion was removed, he retained his youthful appearance.
With his second chance, he knew he had to fulfill his duties as The Fittest—the highest ranking and most powerful family member to carry out the traditions of En Sabah Nur.
"Sir?" Mossman, the valet and butler, asked as he presented a silver tray with a solitary mug on it. "Your morning coffee."
Frederick took his coffee black, contrary to the traditional tea for a Brit like himself—but he was not always one to follow tradition. He sipped the coffee at first before gulping down the entire cup.
"Thank you, Mossman," Frederick replied as he returned the cup to the silver tray. "What news have we this morning?"
Mossman slightly bowed his head out of respect, "Well, m'lord...it seems your nephew, Herbert, has gone missing."
Frederick arched an eyebrow inquisitively, "Forgive me..."
Mossman's posture straightened as he replied, "Herbert Windsor, m'lord. A distant relation. Not a high-ranking member."
Frederick turned and looked out the window once more, "That's the third this month alone...the 23rd in almost a year...it can't be coincidence. No one knows of the Clan Akkaba's existence...we are being hunted. Does the staff regularly interact with the outside world on their off-time?"
Mossman shook his head, "No, m'lord. I wouldn't allow it. Their service is to you and the Clan."
"Have the empaths interrogate the entire staff...I want the leak patched," Frederick demanded. "I will deal with potential moles within the Clan personally."
Mossman stood attentively, "It will be done, m'lord. There is also the intel you requested regarding finding the Nemesis/Holocaust native to our reality...we believe we have found him." He handed Slade a tablet with a grainy surveillance photo with GPS stats on the right hand column of the user interface.
"Of course it had to be New York," Frederick muttered. "Rolfson? Where have I heard that name before?"
"Autumn Rolfson, former Horseman of Famine...it appears she is the boy's mother," Mossman replied.
Frederick arched an eyebrow, "He would be a toddler if he had any other father...it appears his aging was accelerated, perhaps during the Apocalypse Event he underwent a similar process as his half-brother, Apollyon? There are so few direct descendants...perhaps Apocalypse needed to ensure his lineage would live on."
"With respect, sir...aren't you the rightful heir?" Mossman asked to vouch for his master.
"I've played my part, kept the family in line without pettiness and deceit plaguing our ranks." Frederick pinched his chin, "But perhaps this serial killer has been a blessing in disguise—picking off weak links in the chain to make way for a new era of the Clan. A stronger, more pure Clan Akkaba. If everything in my life has led to this moment, I would gladly step down as Fittest for the Son of Apocalypse."
"Wouldn't this boy simply take over Apocalypse's role?" Mossman asked.
"Such disrespect should not be entertained, Mossman," Frederick said as his eyes became opaque emerald. "Our Lord treats life and death like any other journey. His final destination is not yet determined. One does not simply take over for The First One with ease."
"Quite...my apologies, m'lord," Mossman said. "No disrespect was implied."
"If the boy is worthy...," Frederick said as he removed his robe, revealing a massive red tattoo across his chest—the Crest of Akkaba, signifying his rank within the Clan. "He will be able to continue Apocalypse's legacy. Under my tutelage, he will be molded into a proper heir of Apocalypse. He will be one of the strong."
"Yes, m'lord..." Mossman said as he bowed. However, before his neck returned upright, a large bladed weapon drove itself clean through it, depositing his head and a pool of blood over the granite floor.
Frederick's forearm shape-shifted from a metallic blade back into flesh and blood.
"Unfortunately, your disrespect reeked through any attempts to mask it," Frederick bemoaned. He had not taken a life, human or mutant or otherwise, in quite a long time. He did not like it, but part of his leadership meant making difficult choices. If his valet was not able to show respect for the Clan, the entire staff would follow suit and the other family members would see that Frederick was not fit to lead—it simply couldn't be tolerated.
He wiped the blood that had spattered onto the tablet, smearing it in the process. Frederick held it up and smiled at the image of the teenage boy, "William Rolfson, your destiny awaits..."
# # # # #
Kos, Greece.
Forty-Eight Hours Later.
Adam had managed to copy the attire of an Italian tourist a few minutes earlier to mask his intentions as a hunter. Although his distinguished look still bled through, simply shapeshifting his normal dark business casual attire to white and beige. He also took advantage of his jet black hair and simply changed the pigment of his skin to resemble a more Mediterranean tone. His diamond marking was gone, replaced with an unremarkable forehead. A simple run of the mill pair of sunglasses masked his red eyes.
He sniffed the air through the crowded street, hoping to pick up the DNA pattern of the Akkaba he was sent here to track. Through the crowd, however, Adam's mind began to wander as he began visualizing the DNA patterns and alleles if any were to interbreed.
{{Stay on task,}} Sabertooth ordered through the two way radio earpiece.
Adam snapped out of his geneticist daydream and looked upward, scanning the tops of the buildings in the distance until he saw Sabretooth standing on top of a Greek ruin. He stretched his eyeballs inward to increase his field of vision while using his irises to focus in. Victor had a drink in his hand, naturally. Threnody begrudgingly stood beside him.
{{You're approaching a mosque up ahead, so I hope you brushed up on your Turkish.}}
"What the hell are you wearing?" Adam muttered.
{{I prefer an American bathing suit, thanks...}} Sabretooth said as he chugged his vodka. {{You work, I'll play.}}
Adam lowered his sunglasses and caught sight of a cloaked figure. He arched an eyebrow and smirked, "A little too obvious with the Middle Earth attire. He reeks of Apocalypse's blood...this should be fun. Standby."
Adam followed the hooded figure through the crowd until the time was right. They turned a corner into an open alley that overlooked the Aegean. There was enough collateral noise but the location was secluded enough that the killing would go quickly.
The hooded figure abruptly turned around, startling Adam for a brief moment.
"Γιατί μου παρακάτω, αγόρι..." the man spoke. His tone was harsh. His voice was gravelly.
"We can do this however you'd like," Adam taunted arrogantly. "Although it would be more fun if it were in English...your family has reached the end of its usefulness. You are hereby evolutionarily cut off."
Adam thrust his fist forward and connected with the chin of the man. It felt like hitting granite covered in steel spikes...that also burned white hot. Adam's metamorphic facade was immediately overturned as his skin became pale white and his clothing was replaced with a darkened, streamlined and less "billowy" version of his father's armor.
Adam recoiled in pain as he observed his charred flesh flake off of his fist. His blood trickled between his knuckles, but it would not coagulate or evaporate. Also alarming was the fact that his fist was now numb. The cloaked man backhanded Adam across the jaw, sending him crushing through the wall of a small villa.
"My family is this island," the man said in English as his cloak began to ignite and his body and musculature doubled in size. As the cloak burned, Adam saw through the dust his scaled and reptilian face. He was humanoid, but his scales were light gray. The scales on top of his bald head and forehead were black, just above his nose—if he had a nose.
He walked up and grabbed Adam by the throat, the mere touch of him burning, and smashed him into the ground repeatedly before throwing him through another wall of the building on the opposite side of the street. Adam felt his spleen rupture and three ribs punctured his liver.
Adam shakily got to his feet, as his normal regenerative abilities were being impaired. Or perhaps...infected. He spit up blood, which was black like tar. An advanced form of sepsis had begun within his bloodstream. For such a genetically-engineered being, it could spell certain doom. His entire genetic code could break down, he could begin to age rapidly, or just turn to dust and let the Aegean winds carry him into the sea.
"...well, that's not normal," Adam mused as he nevertheless assumed a defensive position as per Sabretooth's training. Black blood trickled from a lone cut along his left temple.
A large battle axe formed out of the reptile man's hand. His soulless eyes glowed with a dark amber, "Perhaps no one told you? I am Enyalius—the First Horseman of Apocalypse. Now...you die."
"Definitely not on the test, Victor...," Adam grumbled to himself through gritted teeth.
# # # # #
Next Issue: Adam Essex has his work cut out for him against the First Horseman while Frederick Slade recruits William Rolfson (“our” version of Holocaust) into the Clan Akkaba. The stakes might get so high that Adam will have to go to great and unexpected lengths to protect his cover…