[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Osaka, Japan…]
“Father,” Shiro Yoshida said, “I do not understand.”
“You must trust me, Shiro,” Saburo Yoshida said brusquely, walking into his office past his secretary Kimiko. He briefly looked at the waiting area, but saw his eleven o’clock appointment had not yet arrived.
“But I have tested positive,” Shiro reminded him, crossing the threshold and standing before his father’s desk. “My genetic structure is compatible with the Weapon X treatments. Japan pioneered these treatments. We need one of our own to undergo them, to take our rightful place in history.”
“Let historians worry about history.”
“Respectfully, father, I must insist. I am an ideal candidate, and being in a position to monitor the process of Weapon X from the inside would be invaluable.”
The elder Yoshida walked back to the door and glanced briefly at Kimiko, before closing it. He turned to Shiro and put his hands on his son’s arms. “It is not your destiny, my son.”
“Destiny? Father, please don’t tell me you have been speaking to Uncle Tomo again about ghosts and-”
“Shiro,” he interrupted curtly, his hands dropping quickly, “do not disrespect the spirits of your ancestors.”
“Forgive me, father,” Shiro said, bowing deeply. “But we are opening new doorways into the future of humanity. We cannot stand aside while others cross the divide and step through.”
He looked his son in the eyes, his fear unmasked. “This is not your grandfather’s decision, or the decision of the ancestor spirits… or even my decision. It is yours. I know I cannot forbid you from undergoing the Gene Mod process. But I implore you- I beg you, my son- to reconsider.”
Shiro was taken aback by his father’s plea. Saburo Yoshida was a proud man, a powerful man, and a well respected man. He did not beg. “What haven’t you told me, father?”
The elder Yoshida turned and walked to his desk. “I need you to speak with someone,” he said finally, “someone who will be able to explain everything.” He will tell you everything you need to know about why you should not undergo the Weapon X trials, about the people who are running the organization, and about those who never made it out of that laboratory.”
The intercom on his desk buzzed. Hideki leaned over and keyed the button, listening as Kimiko announced his eleven o’clock appointment. “Send him in.”
The door opened, and a tall man wearing a deep crimson suit walked into the room. “Konichiwa, Saburo-san,” he said, bowing deeply.
“Konichiwa, Erik-san,” Hideki said, returning the greeting. “Shiro,” he said, holding out his hands to Shiro and his visitor, “I would like you to meet Erik Lensherr.”
“Father,” Shiro Yoshida said, “I do not understand.”
“You must trust me, Shiro,” Saburo Yoshida said brusquely, walking into his office past his secretary Kimiko. He briefly looked at the waiting area, but saw his eleven o’clock appointment had not yet arrived.
“But I have tested positive,” Shiro reminded him, crossing the threshold and standing before his father’s desk. “My genetic structure is compatible with the Weapon X treatments. Japan pioneered these treatments. We need one of our own to undergo them, to take our rightful place in history.”
“Let historians worry about history.”
“Respectfully, father, I must insist. I am an ideal candidate, and being in a position to monitor the process of Weapon X from the inside would be invaluable.”
The elder Yoshida walked back to the door and glanced briefly at Kimiko, before closing it. He turned to Shiro and put his hands on his son’s arms. “It is not your destiny, my son.”
“Destiny? Father, please don’t tell me you have been speaking to Uncle Tomo again about ghosts and-”
“Shiro,” he interrupted curtly, his hands dropping quickly, “do not disrespect the spirits of your ancestors.”
“Forgive me, father,” Shiro said, bowing deeply. “But we are opening new doorways into the future of humanity. We cannot stand aside while others cross the divide and step through.”
He looked his son in the eyes, his fear unmasked. “This is not your grandfather’s decision, or the decision of the ancestor spirits… or even my decision. It is yours. I know I cannot forbid you from undergoing the Gene Mod process. But I implore you- I beg you, my son- to reconsider.”
Shiro was taken aback by his father’s plea. Saburo Yoshida was a proud man, a powerful man, and a well respected man. He did not beg. “What haven’t you told me, father?”
The elder Yoshida turned and walked to his desk. “I need you to speak with someone,” he said finally, “someone who will be able to explain everything.” He will tell you everything you need to know about why you should not undergo the Weapon X trials, about the people who are running the organization, and about those who never made it out of that laboratory.”
The intercom on his desk buzzed. Hideki leaned over and keyed the button, listening as Kimiko announced his eleven o’clock appointment. “Send him in.”
The door opened, and a tall man wearing a deep crimson suit walked into the room. “Konichiwa, Saburo-san,” he said, bowing deeply.
“Konichiwa, Erik-san,” Hideki said, returning the greeting. “Shiro,” he said, holding out his hands to Shiro and his visitor, “I would like you to meet Erik Lensherr.”
“BROTHERHOOD – PART THREE”
[NOW: Weapon X’s Barracks…]
“Up and at ‘em, matchstick,” Logan grunted, kicking the edge of St. John Allerdyce’s bed and yanking the covers down. “Ya been tapped.”
“Crikey,” St. John muttered, “Sod off, ya bloody tosser!”
“Wheels up in twenty minutes,” Logan sneered. “You’re not on that plane, I’ll make sure your fire’s put out fer good.”
St. John nodded and waived his hand dismissively. “Yes, Dad,” he mocked. Logan turned and disappeared down the hallway.
“Bloody bastard.” St. John rose from his bunk and keyed in the code to open his wardrobe where his sleek black body suit hung. It was standard Weapon X attire, and St. John loathed it bitterly. Once, he had loved it, and the adventure it promised. But his fire for espionage had long since faded.
He slipped into the suit, tightening the harness straps and adjusting the bright yellow interlocks before sliding on his boots. A sealed cabinet in the wall hissed as he unlocked it, the heavy door swinging slowly through the air.
He removed the “Golden Fleece” from its storage space and draped it over his shoulders like a shawl, its hoses clicking into the interlocks with loud pops, lining his arms and shoulders. Reaching behind him, he slipped the ends of the feeder hoses into two small ports in his back, concealed by the latest in cutting edge plastic surgery and artificial grafts. He grimaced in pain as the hoses vacuum sealed with a sharp hiss. When the entire assembly was in place, he slipped his hands into the wristlets that capped each hose. With a quick flourish he swept up his zippo and slipped it into his pocket.
He checked the mirror quickly. It never failed; the Golden Fleece made him look like a high school science fair gone horribly awry.
St. John groaned as a second knock rapped loudly from his door. “I’m bloody up, already!” he exclaimed, keying the door mechanism. Standing in the doorway, decked out in a skin-tight blue body suit zipped down to her navel, was the only thing that made life at Weapon X remotely tolerable; Raven Darkhölme.
“I’ll bet you are,” she smiled.
“Blimey, Rave, you gotta stop coming to my door looking like that when I’m in the gear. This skin tight get up doesn’t hide much.”
“C’mon, let’s get to the hangar. Fred’s already there.” She turned and walked out.
“’Course he is, the sheep shagger,” he said, following her. “He probably sleeps in the ready room.” He stopped in his tracks abruptly. “Wait, Rave, this isn’t when we-”
She spun and slammed him into the wall, kissing him deeply. After a few seconds she stopped and whispered in his ear. “I’m pretty sure that I told you to keep your damned mouth shut, you moron,” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s listening without the jammer activated.” She planted another tiny kiss on his lips and darted towards the hangar.
“Crazy bitch,” St. John said, holding the back of his head where it had slammed into the wall.
[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Avalon…]
Dominicos Kanelopoulous stood naked in the center of the sealed transformation chamber, his eyes slammed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his sun toasted skin, his muscles rippling a trembling with his exertions. His arms were covered with several dark runic looking tattoos, weaving an intricate web up his arms to his shoulders. His lips fluttered as he mumbled an unconscious litany of incantations learned over the past year of intense study. Somewhere, in the back of his brain, he could hear voices vibrating through the stone walls.
“The meditations,” Erik said, standing outside the chamber with his guest, “last for several weeks. A believer’s mind must be free of distraction and doubt. Eventually, as they reach a state of spiritual enlightenment, they will feel compelled towards- or more accurately, attracted to- a specific discipline. The specific abilities of that discipline will not be known until the believer actually begins the transformation ritual. Dominicos has discovered an attunement with the Earth. His abilities could manifest themselves in a number of ways; seismic wave control, seismic sensitivity, stone manipulation, or even stone transformation.”
“So you don’t choose your powers… your powers choose you?” Shiro said.
Erik smiled. “Something like that. We will not know what, if any, effects the ritual have had until Dominicos emerges from the chamber. Were anyone to enter the chamber during the ritual, it would break the meditative state, with potentially disastrous consequences. So we wait.”
Shiro nodded. “I will confess, Erik-san, that I am fascinated by what you have told me. My father was very insistent that I meet with you, and talk to you about the Weapon X treatments. He seemed almost frightened. But I know that research, I helped my father design crucial components in the machines. Nothing we did is dangerous. What are his concerns based on?”
“The ugly truth,” Erik answered. “The system, as you and your father designed it, is ultimately benign. But the system, as you and your father designed it, is also completely useless. There were nothing but unmitigated failures during the initial trials. The first dozen subjects showed no change at all. At his wits end and fearing a complete shut down, Fred Duncan brought in a geneticist with some radical theories who provided a key bit of research. Suddenly, the Weapon X trials were producing results. The subjects were displaying evidence of superhuman powers. That was just before they died, usually violently.”
He looked at Shiro with a grave sincerity. “Naturally, the supply of volunteers dried up pretty quickly after that, so Fred Duncan and Charles Xavier began importing them. Some subjects came from death row, a few were tricked into the trials under false pretenses. When they became desperate, they began ‘recruiting’ them from within the staff. Employees of the project were first offered incentive packages to undergo the trials, and when no one volunteered, they simply began to take them against their will. Work accidents, they called them.”
“Then, one day,” he said, “one of them survived. Their rogue geneticist had perfected his formula. There has not been a single fatality since that first survivor. But that does not erase the fact that scores of men and women died, most of them against their will, at the hands of Charles Xavier.”
“And this rogue geneticist,” Shiro asked, “who was this man, to play so casually with human lives?”
“His name,” Erik said, “was Dexter Leftwich.”
[NOW: Deep Within Weapon X Labs…]
“Burning the midnight oil, Dr. Leftwich?”
Dexter Leftwich nodded and smiled a slight smile. “I’m just looking over the old files, Dr. Rao, seeking answers.”
Kavita Rao stood before him across the desk, removing her glasses. “Dexter, it has been years. Surely we’ve exhausted all the data those files have to offer?”
“I can’t help it, Kavita,” he said, rubbing either side of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “These people died because of me. I want to know what happened.”
“I thought they established that it was Cytorite poisoning?” Kavita said.
“That was the cause of mutation,” Dexter nodded, “but that doesn’t explain the mutation’s lethal potency. And it doesn’t explain why the original subjects failed to show any mutation at all. Just hoping something will jump out, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t be here too late. The sun will be here in just a few hours. You need rest. You look a little pale.”
“I will be leaving shortly,” Dexter said, “thanks for your concern, Kavita.”
Kavita turned and left the lab, closing the door behind her.
Dexter jiggled the mouse a bit, bringing the computer out of its sleep state, and accessed the computer records mainframe, bypassing the already opened “Weapon X – Trial Two” folder for the folder titled “Weapon X – Trial One”.
Dexter slid the files out and tiled them on the screen. These were the files of the first ever subjects of the Weapon X program, twelve people who had been subject to endless testing and genetic modification, and had come out the other side powerless, unchanged on every perceptible level.
Subject One was a lost cause, he knew. But the other eleven were still viable.
He inserted a tiny thumb drive into the USB slot in the computer. After a few moments, the drive came up on the screen. He highlighted the twelve files and dragged them to the drive’s primary folder.
MOVE/COPY?
Dexter selected move.
WARNING! MOVING FILES WITHOUT COPYING WILL REMOVE THEM FROM PARENT DRIVE. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO MOVE WITHOUT COPYING? Y/N
Dexter smiled as he clicked the Y, deleting Weapon X’s last records of The Twelve.
[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Avalon…]
Shiro Yoshida emerged from the transformation chamber, his skin parched and dry. The sweat that had been wrung from his body during the grueling meditation and incantations had been subsequently boiled away in the enormous flash of heat that had accompanied his enlightenment.
“Congratulations, Shiro-san,” Erik said, bowing. “Welcome to the future.”
“Thank you, Erik-san,” Shiro said, returning his teacher’s bow. “For a moment, I thought… the fire, the heat… such energy, like the heart of an atomic blast. I almost doubted I could survive. I- I am at a loss for words.”
“The transformation is a life changing event. One cannot be expected to sum up such an epiphany the very moment it has occurred.”
“The power… I would not have believed it possible without the science that Weapon X uses.”
“For them,” Erik sneered in disgust, “it would not be possible. Their scientists do not have the discipline to achieve the state of mind necessary for the transformation ritual. Few beings have the patience, the inner peace, necessary to hear the voices of the ancestor spirits.” He looked back at Shiro, his demeanor softening. “Ah, but this is not the time for my ruminations about Weapon X. Now is a time of celebration for your spiritual awakening. It is customary for those so enlightened to choose a spirit name for themselves.”
“My grandfather was at Hiroshima when the atomic bomb detonated. He said it was as if the sun itself had set fire to the land. He said that nothing had ever struck such fear in him as that awesome and powerful Sunfire.”
“Sunfire it is,” Erik smiled. “Welcome to the Brotherhood of Men.”
[NOW: Avalon…]
Shiro stood in Gateway’s chamber, watching in rapt fascination as the aborigine’s bullroarer spun ever faster, rending the very fabric of space, creating a chasm crossing into somewhere else.
“It never ceases to amaze,” Angelo Unuscione said, smiling. “All the amazing abilities we each have, the unfathomable things we can accomplish, and yet Gateway always mystifies me.”
“Hai,” Shiro said. “The spirits teach a great many things to those who know how to listen.”
“All thanks to the guidance of the great Magneto,” Mort Toynbee spoke up, “let’s not forget that.”
Shiro appraised the man carefully. He looked deathly ill, his pale greasy skin covered in warts and pimples, his hair shaggy and dirty. His frail form did nothing to shatter the illusion of sickness. He wore an ill fitting camouflage jacket over a tattered Yankees shirt. Ripped jeans with filthy sneakers finished off a look that was more street urchin than messenger of a higher power.
Angelo and Shiro looked at each other briefly before returning their gaze to Gateway’s bullroarer.
The man formerly known as Dominico Kanelopoulous, now Dominic Stone, lumbered into the room. His face solemn, his eyes steeled, his stance confident, he stepped aside for the man following him into the chamber, as if silently heralding his approach.
“Thank you, Dominic,” Pietro Lensherr said, stepping quickly into the chamber. His every move seemed hurried, twitchy, as if he had just drank a full pot of coffee. “Gentlemen, are we ready to embark?”
Mort and Angelo nodded, with Dominic remaining stoic as ever. Shiro looked briefly at the others, and then at Pietro before speaking. “Pietro-san, what is our mission today?”
“Retrieval,” Pietro said. “There are a few believers who wish to come into our fold.”
“This is a recruitment mission? Five seems a bit excessive for such a task.”
“There may be… resistance,” Pietro said, smiling at Dominic and then looking back at Shiro.
Shiro frowned. Though he took no particular pleasure in violence, he knew it was, at times, a necessary evil. He had made it his personal mission to be the voice of reason, to help find a non-violent solution whenever possible.
“Resistance from outside parties,” Shiro asked, “or from those being retrieved?”
Pietro stepped to him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Shiro-san,” he said, “you have been with the Brotherhood of Men for seven years. You should know by now, we are not kidnappers. We do not take people against their will. But there are sometimes others not as enlightened who refuse to allow people to decide their destinies for themselves.” He playfully shook Shiro’s shoulder. “We simply clear the way for them.”
“Hai,” Shiro said, “but when our primary mission is to extend an open hand, we must be careful not to resort to the closed fist.”
“This is all very lovely,” Mort said, “but can we get on with it?”
[NOW: The Weapon X Transport…]
“Madrox!” Logan barked, “What the Hell did you think you were doing, duping out before takeoff?”
Jamie Madrox sat in four seats of the transport at once, looking up at Logan. “What?” one of them said, “I was told to report to the transport in numbers.”
“That couldn’t have waited until we were on the ground?”
“I guess not,” another one of him said, shifting in his seat. “We’re just following orders.”
Logan shook his head. “The whole jet stinks like that cheap aftershave you wear.”
“Not my fault you can smell a mouse fart from the next county.”
Logan shot him another dirty look before returning to addressing the team. “Sound off,” he said, “Call signs.”
“Blob, online,” Fred Dukes said, adjusting the gold shoulder straps on his utility harness. It was the only item he wore that wasn’t jet black, standing out starkly against his boots, cargo pants, spandex athletic shirt and gloves, which was the standard uniform for Weapon X operatives in the field.
“Pyro, online,” St. John Allerdyce said, thumbing the wheel of his zippo and quickly snapping it shut.
“Banshee, online,” Sean Cassidy replied.
“Multiple Man, online,” one of him said.
“All of you,” Logan growled forcefully.
“Multiple Man, online,” all of his duplicates said loudly. The feedback into the earpiece made everyone cringe.
“Mystique, online,” Raven said from the pilot’s seat.
“Wolverine, online,” Logan finished, keying off the coms unit. “Alright, Raven, get us on the ground.”
With a throaty roar, the jet’s thrust vectoring system slowed them to a hover.
The jet slowly descended until it touched down with a hiss in a large grassy field, the door lowering from the belly with a faint whirring noise. Logan stepped carefully off the transport, looking around at the darkened landscape. Even in the barest light of the oncoming dawn, the vista was majestic. With barely any industry in the area, there were thousands more stars visible than usual.
“Something’s wrong,” Logan stopped suddenly. “Intel said there would be a weapons lab here. I don’t detect anything.”
“Well, Lad,” Sean began, “maybe there’s a-” He wheeled suddenly to the left, a jagged crease appearing at the middle of his neck as a strangled cry died in his throat. His hands clamped tightly over the wound, he dashed wide-eyed to duck behind the ramp, seeking cover.
“Ambush!” Logan screamed, “Everybody down!”
Jamie and his duplicates scattered like leaves before a stiff autumn wind, diving for any available cover. St. John and Raven both broke for the tree line, seeking refuge behind a large outcropping of stone. Fred strode up to Logan, twisting his head to the left, cracking his neck audibly. Logan stared tensely at the tree line, trying to see which direction the shot had come from. Except, there had been no report. How could a bullet have not made a sound?
The very ground beneath them suddenly buckled and heaved, lurching Logan violently backwards. Fred stood his ground, the grass and earth tearing under his increased weight.
There was a bright flash from beyond the tree line, and a fiery figure leapt into the air. “Hold!” Shiro yelled, firing a burst of flame at Fred’s feet. “Do not approach!”
St. John held up his hands and spread his fingers. Shiro’s bolt of flame curled in mid-air, wrapping back around and slamming into him. A blurry form leapt from the trees, cracking St. John across the jaw, and flipping him into the air. As Raven turned to see what had hit him, she suddenly found herself facing a tall man with a square jaw wearing a black leather body suit. She spun, seeking to kick him in the side of his head, but found her foot suspended in mid-air just outside the range of his peripheral vision.
“So sorry, Senora, but I am untouchable,” Angelo smiled. He pushed his hands forward, his personal force field crashing into her chest and knocking her backwards.
Fred stepped up, rearing his fist back and preparing to send his hardest punch at Angelo. Before he could deliver the blow, he was engulfed from behind by flames. He turned, his skin remaining unblemished because of his increased density, and bent to the ground, hefting a large stone over his head. He reared back to hurl the stone at Shiro, but the stone shattered in his hands, dropping to the ground around him. The ground swelled again, wrapping around his feet and encasing his lower body, holding him fast.
Logan rose to his feet, incensed at falling into so blatant and ambush. Fred was trapped, rapidly being encased in stone, still being attacked by the flier with the fire. St. John was being kicked around by a lithe form that kept hopping like the ground was on fire beneath him. Raven was on the ground, knocked flat by the field generator in leather. Sean hadn’t been seen since the first shot of the battle, possibly bleeding to death behind the ramp of the jet. Jamie was still scrambling for cover at four different points on the battlefield, just beginning to get his bearings. His upper lip curled in anger, Logan stepped towards the man holding his hands up weaving the ground into Fred’s prison.
A burst of air swept past him, spinning him in a circle. Logan looked around quickly. “Quicksilver!” Logan yelled. “Come out of hiding, you coward!”
Between blinks of the eye, Pietro appeared a dozen feet away, smiling smugly.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Wolverine,” he sneered.
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t gut you where you stand!” Logan snarled.
“Because you wouldn’t stand a chance,” Pietro said quickly. “Sunfire could boil the flesh off your bones, and Avalanche could bury the body before it even stopped smoking.”
“You willing to take that chance, bub?” Logan said, his eyes alight with the beginnings of a berserker rage.
“No,” Pietro said, holding out his hand. Logan stopped short, his arms whipping up to stand straight out from his sides, as if crucified on an invisible cross. “Luckily, I don’t have to.”
“Daddy… teaching you... a few… tricks?” Logan said, struggling to speak through his magnetized jaw.
The four Jamies looked at each other, ready to make their move. Before any of them could speak, they were all knocked unconscious by Pietro, delivering nerve pinches at super speed.
Pietro bolted over to Logan, smiling. “Defiance comes with a price, Logan.” A purplish rift appeared in the air behind them, a low electrical humming emanating from within. “I am taking your teammates prisoner.”
Shiro snapped his gaze towards the Brotherhood’s field leader, but did not openly question him.
“They will be unharmed, and returned to you within twenty four hours. The Brotherhood of Men does not kill helpless prisoners, Wolverine. We just wish to explain to them what we do, provide them with the choice they were denied by the butchers that mutilated them. My father instructed me not to kill you. It is for that reason alone that you will live to see another sunrise. In fact,” he said, looking up at the brightening sky, “I’ve never been a patient man, so I’ll give you a head start on this one!” With a flick of his wrist, Logan shot up into the air several hundred feet.
Free of Pietro’s mysterious magnetic hold, Logan twisted in the air as he shot into the cloudless sky. He crested at what looked to be about eight hundred feet. The light of the sun instantly warmed his face, and he took a moment to soak in the view. It really was beautiful.
And then Logan began to fall.
[TWENTY ONE YEARS AGO: Weapon X Labs…]
“The radiation should accelerate the reaction to the bio-engineering as it’s being assimilated by the subject,” Dr. Leftwich smiled enthusiastically. “It will make subject thirteen’s enhancements extremely effective.”
Hank nodded, fiddling with the dials one final time. “All well and good, Dr. Leftwich. We’re ready to begin.” He clicked on the recorder and spoke into the microphone. “Subject thirteen, Jack MacNaughton. Bio-enhancement molecular modification, first attempt utilizing Cytorite radiation as per Dr. Dexter Leftwich’s research. Dr. Henry McCoy presiding, assisted by Dr. Leftwich and Dr. Annie Ghazikhanian, witnessed by Agent Fred Duncan, Dr. Charles Xavier, Rabbi Erik Lensherr, and subject twelve, Tricia MacNaughton. Engaging procedure.”
The wires leading to Jack MacNaughton’s body twitched as electricity jolted through it. The tubes running into his arms streamed a thick greenish liquid into his bloodstream. Within the back of the chamber, a small panel slid open, exposing the room to a glowing cytorite fragment.
“Cytorite radiation mingling with the augmentation serum,” Dr. Leftwich reported, monitoring MacNaughton’s vitals. “Subject shows no adverse effects. We-”
Jack sat up, despite being heavily sedated, his eyes wide in fright. His face appeared fluid, slowly sloughing down his skull, his lower lip dangling as his features softened and began to bubble. Holding up his hands, he stared in abject horror as his fingers seemed to drape over the bones of his hands.
“Shut it down!” Hank screamed, punching a large red button that instantly sent a piercing cry out into the air. The panel began to slide shut once again, hiding the cytorite fragment.
“Jack!” Tricia screamed, shoving past the others to try to get into the chamber. Hank restrained her until the cytorite was completely shielded, and the door hissed open. They rushed into the room, stopping short as Jack screamed again.
Annie was the first to act, rushing up to him and putting a reassuring hand on his arm. MacNaughton grabbed her wrist and looked at her, his face contorted and deformed like a wax mask melting over flame. Her own scream rose from her lips, matching his in intensity as her arm melted into a misshapen lump of flesh.
Fred Duncan drew out his side arm and leveled it at Jack’s head.
“Fred, no!” Charles screamed, reaching for the gun.
“Charles, stay back,” Erik said, “Dear God, what’s happening to him?”
“No! Don’t kill him!” Tricia screamed, putting herself between Fred and the agonized man. Annie tried to pull away, screaming hysterically, and as Jack grabbed her other wrist, her hand began to twist and writhe of its own accord, her fingers rebelling like a fistful of snakes. Jack looked down at her hands and let go, horrified by what he saw.
Hank grabbed for one of the intravenous hoses attached to Jack’s arm, injecting a high powered sedative into it. Jack twisted wildly, his eyes ablaze with fear and confusion. As he reached his misshapen hands out for Hank’s throat, Fred Duncan smashed the back of his head with the butt of his pistol.
He looked at Hank and pointed at Tricia. “Get her out of here.”
“Jack!” Tricia screamed as she was being led from the chamber. Hank sternly guided the enraged woman out as she struggled against him, tears welling up in her eyes.
As the door hissed shut and locked, Tricia looked at Hank, beating on his shoulder. “He was going to kill him!”
“Probably,” Hank said quickly. “Did you see what he did to poor Annie?”
“We don’t know what he did to Annie. It had been five seconds. For all we know Annie’s arms are back to normal.”
“For all we know, she could be dead by now!” Hank seethed. “Jack knew the risks when he signed up, just like you did!” He turned looking back at the displays that showed Jack’s heartbeat returning to normal, his voice dropping to a more calm level. “I told them that allowing couples into the program was a mistake.”
“What’s going to happen to him now?”
“He will be analyzed, and if possible, the treatment will be reversed. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Hank,” she said, pleading, “Henry, please. Please, I have to know, what is going to happen to my husband?”
Hank sighed, his head hanging low. “Fred Duncan would never have killed your husband. Weapon X subjects, even ones deemed failures, represent too valuable an investment to simply destroy. There is a contingency for treatment should the process ever result in a non-viable success.”
“A non-viable success?” Tricia screamed. “Is that what you call what you’ve done to my husband?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You tell me, Hank. You tell me where they are going to put my husband.”
“There is an underground facility in upstate New York. The official designation is Mercyhaven.” He paused, looking back at Tricia. “They call it The Alley.”
[NOW: Eight Hundred Feet and Falling…]
Logan looked down at the ground, gauging where he would be impact. About fifteen feet shy of slamming right into the jet. He was surprised to see Jamie still on the ground, all four of him, still unconscious. He estimated it would take about ten seconds for him to reach the ground. He knew he would survive, but he was also certain that this was going to fucking hurt.
He slammed into the ground, digging deep into the soft earth, a loud thud echoing through the still morning air. When he came to, he saw one of the Jamies standing over the hole his impact had created.
“Y’okay?” Jamie mumbled, trying to clear his head.
“I just fell eight hundred feet onto my face. No.” He extricated himself from his crater and looked around. “You okay?”
“Feel drugged. M’ heads not right,” Jamie slurred.
“Pietro shouldn’t have been able to do that.”
Jamie shook his head lethargically. “Another one. Not Pietro.”
“What?”
“Chick. Green hair. Wearing purple.” Another Jamie began to stir in the background. “Hiding in trees.”
The other two Jamies sat up, gathering their wits.
“They played us,” Logan snarled. “Leaked us false intel, set the trap, and smiled as we waltzed right in.” He looked around again. “We’ve got to get back to base.”
They climbed the ramp up into the transport, Wolverine slamming his hand into the communications panel. “Wolverine to base. Get me Cyclops.”
There was a brief pause. “This is Cyclops. Give me a sit-rep.”
“They’re gone, Scott. My whole team, except for Jamie. Pietro and the Brotherhood ambushed us.”
“Define gone,” Scott replied.
“Gone, Scott, not here. The Brotherhood was waiting for us. They knocked Jamie out, launched me into the sky, and took off with the rest of the team through one of their rifts.”
Silence. After a long beat, Scott simply replied “Return to base. We’ll call our contacts in the Brotherhood and get to the bottom of this.”
“Did you hear me, Scott? Raven, Fred, Sean, and John and gone! We can’t just-”
“Hold on, Logan,” Jamie said. “We have a problem.”
Logan looked back at the four Jamies impatiently. “What is it?”
Jamie looked at Logan. “I have a very rudimentary mental link with my clones. It’s nothing like full blown telepathy, just a mild sense of awareness.”
“And?!?”
Three of the Jamies looked at the fourth grimly. “I’m not getting anything from him,” they all said in unison.
“Wolverine, did you say they took Sean?” Scott came back over the intercom.
“Yeah,” Logan said, his eyes riveted on the fourth Jamie.
“That’s not possible,” Scott said, “I’m here with Sean in operations. He’s been on site all morning.”
Logan held down the intercom switch for a long second. “Scott, lemme get back to you.” He released it, turning off the communications array. Taking slow, steady strides up to the fourth Jamie, Logan twisted his head, cracking his neck with a sharp metallic clank. “Okay, bub,” he said. “We can do this the hard way, or the easy way. I want to know, right now, exactly who the Hell are you?!?”
TO BE CONTINUED...
“Up and at ‘em, matchstick,” Logan grunted, kicking the edge of St. John Allerdyce’s bed and yanking the covers down. “Ya been tapped.”
“Crikey,” St. John muttered, “Sod off, ya bloody tosser!”
“Wheels up in twenty minutes,” Logan sneered. “You’re not on that plane, I’ll make sure your fire’s put out fer good.”
St. John nodded and waived his hand dismissively. “Yes, Dad,” he mocked. Logan turned and disappeared down the hallway.
“Bloody bastard.” St. John rose from his bunk and keyed in the code to open his wardrobe where his sleek black body suit hung. It was standard Weapon X attire, and St. John loathed it bitterly. Once, he had loved it, and the adventure it promised. But his fire for espionage had long since faded.
He slipped into the suit, tightening the harness straps and adjusting the bright yellow interlocks before sliding on his boots. A sealed cabinet in the wall hissed as he unlocked it, the heavy door swinging slowly through the air.
He removed the “Golden Fleece” from its storage space and draped it over his shoulders like a shawl, its hoses clicking into the interlocks with loud pops, lining his arms and shoulders. Reaching behind him, he slipped the ends of the feeder hoses into two small ports in his back, concealed by the latest in cutting edge plastic surgery and artificial grafts. He grimaced in pain as the hoses vacuum sealed with a sharp hiss. When the entire assembly was in place, he slipped his hands into the wristlets that capped each hose. With a quick flourish he swept up his zippo and slipped it into his pocket.
He checked the mirror quickly. It never failed; the Golden Fleece made him look like a high school science fair gone horribly awry.
St. John groaned as a second knock rapped loudly from his door. “I’m bloody up, already!” he exclaimed, keying the door mechanism. Standing in the doorway, decked out in a skin-tight blue body suit zipped down to her navel, was the only thing that made life at Weapon X remotely tolerable; Raven Darkhölme.
“I’ll bet you are,” she smiled.
“Blimey, Rave, you gotta stop coming to my door looking like that when I’m in the gear. This skin tight get up doesn’t hide much.”
“C’mon, let’s get to the hangar. Fred’s already there.” She turned and walked out.
“’Course he is, the sheep shagger,” he said, following her. “He probably sleeps in the ready room.” He stopped in his tracks abruptly. “Wait, Rave, this isn’t when we-”
She spun and slammed him into the wall, kissing him deeply. After a few seconds she stopped and whispered in his ear. “I’m pretty sure that I told you to keep your damned mouth shut, you moron,” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s listening without the jammer activated.” She planted another tiny kiss on his lips and darted towards the hangar.
“Crazy bitch,” St. John said, holding the back of his head where it had slammed into the wall.
[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Avalon…]
Dominicos Kanelopoulous stood naked in the center of the sealed transformation chamber, his eyes slammed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his sun toasted skin, his muscles rippling a trembling with his exertions. His arms were covered with several dark runic looking tattoos, weaving an intricate web up his arms to his shoulders. His lips fluttered as he mumbled an unconscious litany of incantations learned over the past year of intense study. Somewhere, in the back of his brain, he could hear voices vibrating through the stone walls.
“The meditations,” Erik said, standing outside the chamber with his guest, “last for several weeks. A believer’s mind must be free of distraction and doubt. Eventually, as they reach a state of spiritual enlightenment, they will feel compelled towards- or more accurately, attracted to- a specific discipline. The specific abilities of that discipline will not be known until the believer actually begins the transformation ritual. Dominicos has discovered an attunement with the Earth. His abilities could manifest themselves in a number of ways; seismic wave control, seismic sensitivity, stone manipulation, or even stone transformation.”
“So you don’t choose your powers… your powers choose you?” Shiro said.
Erik smiled. “Something like that. We will not know what, if any, effects the ritual have had until Dominicos emerges from the chamber. Were anyone to enter the chamber during the ritual, it would break the meditative state, with potentially disastrous consequences. So we wait.”
Shiro nodded. “I will confess, Erik-san, that I am fascinated by what you have told me. My father was very insistent that I meet with you, and talk to you about the Weapon X treatments. He seemed almost frightened. But I know that research, I helped my father design crucial components in the machines. Nothing we did is dangerous. What are his concerns based on?”
“The ugly truth,” Erik answered. “The system, as you and your father designed it, is ultimately benign. But the system, as you and your father designed it, is also completely useless. There were nothing but unmitigated failures during the initial trials. The first dozen subjects showed no change at all. At his wits end and fearing a complete shut down, Fred Duncan brought in a geneticist with some radical theories who provided a key bit of research. Suddenly, the Weapon X trials were producing results. The subjects were displaying evidence of superhuman powers. That was just before they died, usually violently.”
He looked at Shiro with a grave sincerity. “Naturally, the supply of volunteers dried up pretty quickly after that, so Fred Duncan and Charles Xavier began importing them. Some subjects came from death row, a few were tricked into the trials under false pretenses. When they became desperate, they began ‘recruiting’ them from within the staff. Employees of the project were first offered incentive packages to undergo the trials, and when no one volunteered, they simply began to take them against their will. Work accidents, they called them.”
“Then, one day,” he said, “one of them survived. Their rogue geneticist had perfected his formula. There has not been a single fatality since that first survivor. But that does not erase the fact that scores of men and women died, most of them against their will, at the hands of Charles Xavier.”
“And this rogue geneticist,” Shiro asked, “who was this man, to play so casually with human lives?”
“His name,” Erik said, “was Dexter Leftwich.”
[NOW: Deep Within Weapon X Labs…]
“Burning the midnight oil, Dr. Leftwich?”
Dexter Leftwich nodded and smiled a slight smile. “I’m just looking over the old files, Dr. Rao, seeking answers.”
Kavita Rao stood before him across the desk, removing her glasses. “Dexter, it has been years. Surely we’ve exhausted all the data those files have to offer?”
“I can’t help it, Kavita,” he said, rubbing either side of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “These people died because of me. I want to know what happened.”
“I thought they established that it was Cytorite poisoning?” Kavita said.
“That was the cause of mutation,” Dexter nodded, “but that doesn’t explain the mutation’s lethal potency. And it doesn’t explain why the original subjects failed to show any mutation at all. Just hoping something will jump out, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t be here too late. The sun will be here in just a few hours. You need rest. You look a little pale.”
“I will be leaving shortly,” Dexter said, “thanks for your concern, Kavita.”
Kavita turned and left the lab, closing the door behind her.
Dexter jiggled the mouse a bit, bringing the computer out of its sleep state, and accessed the computer records mainframe, bypassing the already opened “Weapon X – Trial Two” folder for the folder titled “Weapon X – Trial One”.
Dexter slid the files out and tiled them on the screen. These were the files of the first ever subjects of the Weapon X program, twelve people who had been subject to endless testing and genetic modification, and had come out the other side powerless, unchanged on every perceptible level.
Subject One was a lost cause, he knew. But the other eleven were still viable.
He inserted a tiny thumb drive into the USB slot in the computer. After a few moments, the drive came up on the screen. He highlighted the twelve files and dragged them to the drive’s primary folder.
MOVE/COPY?
Dexter selected move.
WARNING! MOVING FILES WITHOUT COPYING WILL REMOVE THEM FROM PARENT DRIVE. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO MOVE WITHOUT COPYING? Y/N
Dexter smiled as he clicked the Y, deleting Weapon X’s last records of The Twelve.
[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Avalon…]
Shiro Yoshida emerged from the transformation chamber, his skin parched and dry. The sweat that had been wrung from his body during the grueling meditation and incantations had been subsequently boiled away in the enormous flash of heat that had accompanied his enlightenment.
“Congratulations, Shiro-san,” Erik said, bowing. “Welcome to the future.”
“Thank you, Erik-san,” Shiro said, returning his teacher’s bow. “For a moment, I thought… the fire, the heat… such energy, like the heart of an atomic blast. I almost doubted I could survive. I- I am at a loss for words.”
“The transformation is a life changing event. One cannot be expected to sum up such an epiphany the very moment it has occurred.”
“The power… I would not have believed it possible without the science that Weapon X uses.”
“For them,” Erik sneered in disgust, “it would not be possible. Their scientists do not have the discipline to achieve the state of mind necessary for the transformation ritual. Few beings have the patience, the inner peace, necessary to hear the voices of the ancestor spirits.” He looked back at Shiro, his demeanor softening. “Ah, but this is not the time for my ruminations about Weapon X. Now is a time of celebration for your spiritual awakening. It is customary for those so enlightened to choose a spirit name for themselves.”
“My grandfather was at Hiroshima when the atomic bomb detonated. He said it was as if the sun itself had set fire to the land. He said that nothing had ever struck such fear in him as that awesome and powerful Sunfire.”
“Sunfire it is,” Erik smiled. “Welcome to the Brotherhood of Men.”
[NOW: Avalon…]
Shiro stood in Gateway’s chamber, watching in rapt fascination as the aborigine’s bullroarer spun ever faster, rending the very fabric of space, creating a chasm crossing into somewhere else.
“It never ceases to amaze,” Angelo Unuscione said, smiling. “All the amazing abilities we each have, the unfathomable things we can accomplish, and yet Gateway always mystifies me.”
“Hai,” Shiro said. “The spirits teach a great many things to those who know how to listen.”
“All thanks to the guidance of the great Magneto,” Mort Toynbee spoke up, “let’s not forget that.”
Shiro appraised the man carefully. He looked deathly ill, his pale greasy skin covered in warts and pimples, his hair shaggy and dirty. His frail form did nothing to shatter the illusion of sickness. He wore an ill fitting camouflage jacket over a tattered Yankees shirt. Ripped jeans with filthy sneakers finished off a look that was more street urchin than messenger of a higher power.
Angelo and Shiro looked at each other briefly before returning their gaze to Gateway’s bullroarer.
The man formerly known as Dominico Kanelopoulous, now Dominic Stone, lumbered into the room. His face solemn, his eyes steeled, his stance confident, he stepped aside for the man following him into the chamber, as if silently heralding his approach.
“Thank you, Dominic,” Pietro Lensherr said, stepping quickly into the chamber. His every move seemed hurried, twitchy, as if he had just drank a full pot of coffee. “Gentlemen, are we ready to embark?”
Mort and Angelo nodded, with Dominic remaining stoic as ever. Shiro looked briefly at the others, and then at Pietro before speaking. “Pietro-san, what is our mission today?”
“Retrieval,” Pietro said. “There are a few believers who wish to come into our fold.”
“This is a recruitment mission? Five seems a bit excessive for such a task.”
“There may be… resistance,” Pietro said, smiling at Dominic and then looking back at Shiro.
Shiro frowned. Though he took no particular pleasure in violence, he knew it was, at times, a necessary evil. He had made it his personal mission to be the voice of reason, to help find a non-violent solution whenever possible.
“Resistance from outside parties,” Shiro asked, “or from those being retrieved?”
Pietro stepped to him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Shiro-san,” he said, “you have been with the Brotherhood of Men for seven years. You should know by now, we are not kidnappers. We do not take people against their will. But there are sometimes others not as enlightened who refuse to allow people to decide their destinies for themselves.” He playfully shook Shiro’s shoulder. “We simply clear the way for them.”
“Hai,” Shiro said, “but when our primary mission is to extend an open hand, we must be careful not to resort to the closed fist.”
“This is all very lovely,” Mort said, “but can we get on with it?”
[NOW: The Weapon X Transport…]
“Madrox!” Logan barked, “What the Hell did you think you were doing, duping out before takeoff?”
Jamie Madrox sat in four seats of the transport at once, looking up at Logan. “What?” one of them said, “I was told to report to the transport in numbers.”
“That couldn’t have waited until we were on the ground?”
“I guess not,” another one of him said, shifting in his seat. “We’re just following orders.”
Logan shook his head. “The whole jet stinks like that cheap aftershave you wear.”
“Not my fault you can smell a mouse fart from the next county.”
Logan shot him another dirty look before returning to addressing the team. “Sound off,” he said, “Call signs.”
“Blob, online,” Fred Dukes said, adjusting the gold shoulder straps on his utility harness. It was the only item he wore that wasn’t jet black, standing out starkly against his boots, cargo pants, spandex athletic shirt and gloves, which was the standard uniform for Weapon X operatives in the field.
“Pyro, online,” St. John Allerdyce said, thumbing the wheel of his zippo and quickly snapping it shut.
“Banshee, online,” Sean Cassidy replied.
“Multiple Man, online,” one of him said.
“All of you,” Logan growled forcefully.
“Multiple Man, online,” all of his duplicates said loudly. The feedback into the earpiece made everyone cringe.
“Mystique, online,” Raven said from the pilot’s seat.
“Wolverine, online,” Logan finished, keying off the coms unit. “Alright, Raven, get us on the ground.”
With a throaty roar, the jet’s thrust vectoring system slowed them to a hover.
The jet slowly descended until it touched down with a hiss in a large grassy field, the door lowering from the belly with a faint whirring noise. Logan stepped carefully off the transport, looking around at the darkened landscape. Even in the barest light of the oncoming dawn, the vista was majestic. With barely any industry in the area, there were thousands more stars visible than usual.
“Something’s wrong,” Logan stopped suddenly. “Intel said there would be a weapons lab here. I don’t detect anything.”
“Well, Lad,” Sean began, “maybe there’s a-” He wheeled suddenly to the left, a jagged crease appearing at the middle of his neck as a strangled cry died in his throat. His hands clamped tightly over the wound, he dashed wide-eyed to duck behind the ramp, seeking cover.
“Ambush!” Logan screamed, “Everybody down!”
Jamie and his duplicates scattered like leaves before a stiff autumn wind, diving for any available cover. St. John and Raven both broke for the tree line, seeking refuge behind a large outcropping of stone. Fred strode up to Logan, twisting his head to the left, cracking his neck audibly. Logan stared tensely at the tree line, trying to see which direction the shot had come from. Except, there had been no report. How could a bullet have not made a sound?
The very ground beneath them suddenly buckled and heaved, lurching Logan violently backwards. Fred stood his ground, the grass and earth tearing under his increased weight.
There was a bright flash from beyond the tree line, and a fiery figure leapt into the air. “Hold!” Shiro yelled, firing a burst of flame at Fred’s feet. “Do not approach!”
St. John held up his hands and spread his fingers. Shiro’s bolt of flame curled in mid-air, wrapping back around and slamming into him. A blurry form leapt from the trees, cracking St. John across the jaw, and flipping him into the air. As Raven turned to see what had hit him, she suddenly found herself facing a tall man with a square jaw wearing a black leather body suit. She spun, seeking to kick him in the side of his head, but found her foot suspended in mid-air just outside the range of his peripheral vision.
“So sorry, Senora, but I am untouchable,” Angelo smiled. He pushed his hands forward, his personal force field crashing into her chest and knocking her backwards.
Fred stepped up, rearing his fist back and preparing to send his hardest punch at Angelo. Before he could deliver the blow, he was engulfed from behind by flames. He turned, his skin remaining unblemished because of his increased density, and bent to the ground, hefting a large stone over his head. He reared back to hurl the stone at Shiro, but the stone shattered in his hands, dropping to the ground around him. The ground swelled again, wrapping around his feet and encasing his lower body, holding him fast.
Logan rose to his feet, incensed at falling into so blatant and ambush. Fred was trapped, rapidly being encased in stone, still being attacked by the flier with the fire. St. John was being kicked around by a lithe form that kept hopping like the ground was on fire beneath him. Raven was on the ground, knocked flat by the field generator in leather. Sean hadn’t been seen since the first shot of the battle, possibly bleeding to death behind the ramp of the jet. Jamie was still scrambling for cover at four different points on the battlefield, just beginning to get his bearings. His upper lip curled in anger, Logan stepped towards the man holding his hands up weaving the ground into Fred’s prison.
A burst of air swept past him, spinning him in a circle. Logan looked around quickly. “Quicksilver!” Logan yelled. “Come out of hiding, you coward!”
Between blinks of the eye, Pietro appeared a dozen feet away, smiling smugly.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Wolverine,” he sneered.
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t gut you where you stand!” Logan snarled.
“Because you wouldn’t stand a chance,” Pietro said quickly. “Sunfire could boil the flesh off your bones, and Avalanche could bury the body before it even stopped smoking.”
“You willing to take that chance, bub?” Logan said, his eyes alight with the beginnings of a berserker rage.
“No,” Pietro said, holding out his hand. Logan stopped short, his arms whipping up to stand straight out from his sides, as if crucified on an invisible cross. “Luckily, I don’t have to.”
“Daddy… teaching you... a few… tricks?” Logan said, struggling to speak through his magnetized jaw.
The four Jamies looked at each other, ready to make their move. Before any of them could speak, they were all knocked unconscious by Pietro, delivering nerve pinches at super speed.
Pietro bolted over to Logan, smiling. “Defiance comes with a price, Logan.” A purplish rift appeared in the air behind them, a low electrical humming emanating from within. “I am taking your teammates prisoner.”
Shiro snapped his gaze towards the Brotherhood’s field leader, but did not openly question him.
“They will be unharmed, and returned to you within twenty four hours. The Brotherhood of Men does not kill helpless prisoners, Wolverine. We just wish to explain to them what we do, provide them with the choice they were denied by the butchers that mutilated them. My father instructed me not to kill you. It is for that reason alone that you will live to see another sunrise. In fact,” he said, looking up at the brightening sky, “I’ve never been a patient man, so I’ll give you a head start on this one!” With a flick of his wrist, Logan shot up into the air several hundred feet.
Free of Pietro’s mysterious magnetic hold, Logan twisted in the air as he shot into the cloudless sky. He crested at what looked to be about eight hundred feet. The light of the sun instantly warmed his face, and he took a moment to soak in the view. It really was beautiful.
And then Logan began to fall.
[TWENTY ONE YEARS AGO: Weapon X Labs…]
“The radiation should accelerate the reaction to the bio-engineering as it’s being assimilated by the subject,” Dr. Leftwich smiled enthusiastically. “It will make subject thirteen’s enhancements extremely effective.”
Hank nodded, fiddling with the dials one final time. “All well and good, Dr. Leftwich. We’re ready to begin.” He clicked on the recorder and spoke into the microphone. “Subject thirteen, Jack MacNaughton. Bio-enhancement molecular modification, first attempt utilizing Cytorite radiation as per Dr. Dexter Leftwich’s research. Dr. Henry McCoy presiding, assisted by Dr. Leftwich and Dr. Annie Ghazikhanian, witnessed by Agent Fred Duncan, Dr. Charles Xavier, Rabbi Erik Lensherr, and subject twelve, Tricia MacNaughton. Engaging procedure.”
The wires leading to Jack MacNaughton’s body twitched as electricity jolted through it. The tubes running into his arms streamed a thick greenish liquid into his bloodstream. Within the back of the chamber, a small panel slid open, exposing the room to a glowing cytorite fragment.
“Cytorite radiation mingling with the augmentation serum,” Dr. Leftwich reported, monitoring MacNaughton’s vitals. “Subject shows no adverse effects. We-”
Jack sat up, despite being heavily sedated, his eyes wide in fright. His face appeared fluid, slowly sloughing down his skull, his lower lip dangling as his features softened and began to bubble. Holding up his hands, he stared in abject horror as his fingers seemed to drape over the bones of his hands.
“Shut it down!” Hank screamed, punching a large red button that instantly sent a piercing cry out into the air. The panel began to slide shut once again, hiding the cytorite fragment.
“Jack!” Tricia screamed, shoving past the others to try to get into the chamber. Hank restrained her until the cytorite was completely shielded, and the door hissed open. They rushed into the room, stopping short as Jack screamed again.
Annie was the first to act, rushing up to him and putting a reassuring hand on his arm. MacNaughton grabbed her wrist and looked at her, his face contorted and deformed like a wax mask melting over flame. Her own scream rose from her lips, matching his in intensity as her arm melted into a misshapen lump of flesh.
Fred Duncan drew out his side arm and leveled it at Jack’s head.
“Fred, no!” Charles screamed, reaching for the gun.
“Charles, stay back,” Erik said, “Dear God, what’s happening to him?”
“No! Don’t kill him!” Tricia screamed, putting herself between Fred and the agonized man. Annie tried to pull away, screaming hysterically, and as Jack grabbed her other wrist, her hand began to twist and writhe of its own accord, her fingers rebelling like a fistful of snakes. Jack looked down at her hands and let go, horrified by what he saw.
Hank grabbed for one of the intravenous hoses attached to Jack’s arm, injecting a high powered sedative into it. Jack twisted wildly, his eyes ablaze with fear and confusion. As he reached his misshapen hands out for Hank’s throat, Fred Duncan smashed the back of his head with the butt of his pistol.
He looked at Hank and pointed at Tricia. “Get her out of here.”
“Jack!” Tricia screamed as she was being led from the chamber. Hank sternly guided the enraged woman out as she struggled against him, tears welling up in her eyes.
As the door hissed shut and locked, Tricia looked at Hank, beating on his shoulder. “He was going to kill him!”
“Probably,” Hank said quickly. “Did you see what he did to poor Annie?”
“We don’t know what he did to Annie. It had been five seconds. For all we know Annie’s arms are back to normal.”
“For all we know, she could be dead by now!” Hank seethed. “Jack knew the risks when he signed up, just like you did!” He turned looking back at the displays that showed Jack’s heartbeat returning to normal, his voice dropping to a more calm level. “I told them that allowing couples into the program was a mistake.”
“What’s going to happen to him now?”
“He will be analyzed, and if possible, the treatment will be reversed. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Hank,” she said, pleading, “Henry, please. Please, I have to know, what is going to happen to my husband?”
Hank sighed, his head hanging low. “Fred Duncan would never have killed your husband. Weapon X subjects, even ones deemed failures, represent too valuable an investment to simply destroy. There is a contingency for treatment should the process ever result in a non-viable success.”
“A non-viable success?” Tricia screamed. “Is that what you call what you’ve done to my husband?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You tell me, Hank. You tell me where they are going to put my husband.”
“There is an underground facility in upstate New York. The official designation is Mercyhaven.” He paused, looking back at Tricia. “They call it The Alley.”
[NOW: Eight Hundred Feet and Falling…]
Logan looked down at the ground, gauging where he would be impact. About fifteen feet shy of slamming right into the jet. He was surprised to see Jamie still on the ground, all four of him, still unconscious. He estimated it would take about ten seconds for him to reach the ground. He knew he would survive, but he was also certain that this was going to fucking hurt.
He slammed into the ground, digging deep into the soft earth, a loud thud echoing through the still morning air. When he came to, he saw one of the Jamies standing over the hole his impact had created.
“Y’okay?” Jamie mumbled, trying to clear his head.
“I just fell eight hundred feet onto my face. No.” He extricated himself from his crater and looked around. “You okay?”
“Feel drugged. M’ heads not right,” Jamie slurred.
“Pietro shouldn’t have been able to do that.”
Jamie shook his head lethargically. “Another one. Not Pietro.”
“What?”
“Chick. Green hair. Wearing purple.” Another Jamie began to stir in the background. “Hiding in trees.”
The other two Jamies sat up, gathering their wits.
“They played us,” Logan snarled. “Leaked us false intel, set the trap, and smiled as we waltzed right in.” He looked around again. “We’ve got to get back to base.”
They climbed the ramp up into the transport, Wolverine slamming his hand into the communications panel. “Wolverine to base. Get me Cyclops.”
There was a brief pause. “This is Cyclops. Give me a sit-rep.”
“They’re gone, Scott. My whole team, except for Jamie. Pietro and the Brotherhood ambushed us.”
“Define gone,” Scott replied.
“Gone, Scott, not here. The Brotherhood was waiting for us. They knocked Jamie out, launched me into the sky, and took off with the rest of the team through one of their rifts.”
Silence. After a long beat, Scott simply replied “Return to base. We’ll call our contacts in the Brotherhood and get to the bottom of this.”
“Did you hear me, Scott? Raven, Fred, Sean, and John and gone! We can’t just-”
“Hold on, Logan,” Jamie said. “We have a problem.”
Logan looked back at the four Jamies impatiently. “What is it?”
Jamie looked at Logan. “I have a very rudimentary mental link with my clones. It’s nothing like full blown telepathy, just a mild sense of awareness.”
“And?!?”
Three of the Jamies looked at the fourth grimly. “I’m not getting anything from him,” they all said in unison.
“Wolverine, did you say they took Sean?” Scott came back over the intercom.
“Yeah,” Logan said, his eyes riveted on the fourth Jamie.
“That’s not possible,” Scott said, “I’m here with Sean in operations. He’s been on site all morning.”
Logan held down the intercom switch for a long second. “Scott, lemme get back to you.” He released it, turning off the communications array. Taking slow, steady strides up to the fourth Jamie, Logan twisted his head, cracking his neck with a sharp metallic clank. “Okay, bub,” he said. “We can do this the hard way, or the easy way. I want to know, right now, exactly who the Hell are you?!?”
TO BE CONTINUED...