X-MEN ETERNITY

New X-Men #5: "Storm Fronts in Collision"
Rated PG-13 for violence and language

by R. John Burke
X-Men Eternity Message Board: http://solofan.proboards76.com/index.cgi

DISCLAIMER: The X-Men are a copyright of Marvel Comics. I don't own them, but this is only non-profit fan fiction. No money is involved and no infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: X-Men Eternity started (in Uncanny #1: The Shattering) with the events at the end of "House of M" and went in a different direction. Nothing that happened after that is canon for our purposes, and in fact a few things have changed. The team is now scattered through time and space.

"New X-Men: Eternity" is a series following the adventures of a splinter group of X-Men whom the reality-shift left trapped in the future.

***************************************************************

African Nation of Wakanda
July 2032
Alternate Reality #502

They led him down the aisle in the center of the chamber, a broad-shoulder, powerful man whose steps bespoke a natural grace, a pride that carried him beyond the crude shackles around his hands and feet.

His hair was gray, shading toward white, and worn long, with an even longer beard. It shone brilliantly against his skin, rich chocolate in color and crisscrossed with uncounted scars. His head did not bow, even when his captors jerked the heavy chain attached to the collar around his neck, and his eyes simmered with anger, carefully restrained and rationed. There was no indignation in him, no uncontrolled rancor-- that would have been beneath him. Rather, to look at him, one would have thought he was simply biding his time-- that, prisoner or not, everything here proceeded according to his design, and could not do otherwise.

His guards brought him up before a throne, where an equally regal woman in rich, golden robes regarded him through narrowed blue eyes. Her skin and hair were nearly the same color as his, her bearing no less formidable, but her lips pulled upward in a tiny smirk.

The man sitting beside her-- tell, strong, exotic of appearance, with bronze skin and dark eyes beneath his steel-gray hair-- laughed out loud, and stroked the woman's arm with his flesh-and-blood hand, the other being a prosthetic. A knot of courtiers and sycophants to either side of the pedestal echoed his amusement.

The woman rose and stepped down from her throne. She approached the prisoner, hair and robes stirred by a breeze of her own creation, never taking her eyes from his. The man made no move to kneel. One of the guards drew back a weapon to strike him down. The woman held up a hand, and he refrained.

"I do not want him beaten down," she said. "I wish for him to see reason of his own accord. T'Challa, *former* ruler of Wakanda, do you bow to your queen?"

The former Black Panther arched an eyebrow at her, almost smiled, and deliberately turned his head. The woman's eyes flashed. She reached for him with electricity and bitter cold springing from her fingertips. The man gasped when she touched his flesh, charring it, leaving yet another ugly wound to heal-- but he did not cry out.

"I will have your answer," the woman breathed in his ear. "And your respect."

T'Challa gritted his teeth. "The answer is the same, Ororo. The respect was lost the day you took advantage of my friendship to betray me."

Ororo Munroe, once called Storm as a member of this Universe's second generation of X-Men, now a notorious traitor in a world split between warring factions of humans and mutants (* see issues 1-2), did not appear overly stung by his words. She'd heard their like before.

"I am sorry to have disappointed you, my liege," she said, and got a laugh from her courtiers for the sarcastic title. "Are you really so surprised, T'Challa? You are merely a man; I, a goddess. I am bound by no word to you."

T'Challa stared at her, dark eyes unblinking. The gaze would have made a weaker will blush. But there was no weaker will here, only an obscene sort of equal, so he spoke, low and steady:

"There was a time, Ororo, when you did not believe such madness. When I would have trusted you above all others. It was that woman I acted to save, so many years ago. Though it cost me all my kingdom, I believe she may yet be saved.”

"Not by you," Ororo said, smirking. "T'Challa, *former* king of Wakanda, say the word and I will make you a prince. You shall be the Black Panther again, a great man in this realm. You have only to accept that which is undeniable-- and bow."

The other straightened his shoulders-- stooped now, but still broad and strong-- and met her gaze unblinking.

"I bow to no usurpers in *my* realm."

"Heh!" said the other man, from the throne. "There you have it-- again! Why don't you fry him this time, save us a lot of trouble?"

Ororo glanced back. "Ah, Forge, my love, you do not understand. It's true, my lord T'Challa's intractability can be... vexing. Yet I believe I would be disappointed with anything less..."

While she spoke, she reached out almost casually and-- ZZZRRPOW!-- blasted T'Challa halfway across the room. The courtiers cheered the smelled of charred flesh and burnt cloth. Perhaps they were expecting an epic battle. Once, long ago, they would have seen one; in his prime, the most powerful of super-beings had thought twice about crossing the Black Panther. But this man, for all his dignity and pride, was aging, tired, beaten-down by years of torture. It was all he could do to stagger back to his feet.

Ororo blasted him again, then again when still he tried to stand. The self-appointed queen advanced, merciless, implacable, eyes glittering.

"*Human*. Your insolence amuses me, but there is a cost. You. Will. Bow. To. Me."

T'Challa said nothing. Grimacing from a dozen wounds, trembling from pain unimaginable, he staggered to his feet. The crowd howled their disapproval.

Ororo smiled. "Impressive. Take him back now. We shall try again tomorrow. And every day, until he bows."

"I shall not," T'Challa said.

"Then you will pay the cost again. I am a patient woman. Days, months, years... it matters little. *Eventually*, my lord T'Challa, you will bow... or if you do not, perhaps I will be kind someday and kill you. But more likely not."

The guards seized the chains binding the rightful king and dragged him out of the room. Ororo watched him go, sighing to herself, almost... wistful. She return to her throne beside Forge.

"Waste of time, you ask me," he said. "What's the big deal about that guy? What do you care if he's got a burr up his royal--"

Ororo held a finger to his lips, quieting him. "I care, my love, because once... long ago, in another time and place... the Black Panther was my equal."

"Are you saying I'm not?"

Ororo laughed, kissed him, and rested her head upon his shoulder. She purred: "Beloved... if you were, I'd have to break you of it. What's the good of being a goddess if you are not the *only* one?"

****

Some miles away but approaching fast, a woman whose face was a mirror image of Ororo's, minus twenty years, and who still used the name Storm, sat in the copilot's seat of Lady Sarah's personal jet, watching the instruments intently. She already knew what the woman in the pilot's chair was going to say before she spoke:

"Comin' up on Wakandan airspace. Get ready for some fun, kids."

Storm turned fractionally toward Callisto, the scarred and graying alternate version of the Morlock leader from her own timeline. "What sort of resistance do you anticipate?"

Callisto shrugged. "Hard to say. Hardly any traffic to an' from Africa these days."

Lucas Bishop, another of Storm's companions-- here and now, the one she trusted the most-- wedged his bulk into the cockpit beside them. "I'd expect the worst. Wakandans have always guarded their privacy."

"Sure, under the Panther... but who says the Panther's still callin' shots?"

Storm frowned. "T'Challa would be a hard man to depose."

"Yup. Only two-three people I can think of could do it."

Callisto gave Storm a significant look through her good eye. The wind-rider shifted uncomfortably. She had sworn to bring her alternate-Universe counterpart to justice for her crimes (* issue #2), but she couldn't have said she was looking forward to facing the nature of those crimes.

"Better get Esme," Bishop said, referring to the teenage telepath now asleep in back of the jet.

Storm shook her head. "Let her sleep."

"What if we run into...?"

"Then we will deal with it," Storm said.

Bishop frowned at her, but her tone did not invite debate. Esme Cuckoo had already committed at least three murders-- her own sister, then two more-or-less innocent pilots (* last issue) before Storm's eyes, not to mention assisting Magneto with countless others during his attack on New York. She was-- theoretically-- attempting to reform, but Storm had had enough of relying on her aid.

"Okay, kids, civilization in ten," said Callisto. She hunched over the controls and took a deep breath...

Storm stared out the window, waiting. She recalled the topography: They had to pass a dense knot of foliage, and then there should be a city-- in her own world, one of the most beautiful and highly advanced cities known to man, as Wakanda was one of the most prosperous nations. Now...

"Goddess!" she breathed. "It cannot be!"

"I don't believe it..." said Bishop.

"Damn fools," Callisto murmured.

The city wasn't even there. She'd been prepared for some fighting, some damage, an aggressive response. But the response was, simply, nothing, because there was nothing left to respond. This area of Wakanda was little more than a charred plain, a barren sheet of rock dotted with military surplus and decaying bodies. Flying in the middle of it all: The gold-on-black flag of the human army, Invictus.

"T'Challa is not in power," Storm said. "He would not have allowed this to happen."

"This is *her* handiwork," said Callisto. "Now you know why you're such a popular gal, Wind-Rider."

"Storm's a mutant," said Bishop. "Why would she sell out these people to Invictus?"

"At a guess? Fair trade-off. Invictus always hated the Panther even more'n us mutants, 'cuz he was about the only human who managed to keep his power base during the Magnus purge. He didn't need 'em, and he didn't play ball with 'em. So maybe the enemy of my enemy's a little less my enemy, if ya get my meaning."

Storm's teeth gritted together. “What happened to me here? How did I become so... lost?”

“Search me.” Callisto shrugged. “We believed in you, Wind-Rider. I never saw it comin'.”

She turned away and wrenched the controls, bringing the jet onto a new course. Bishop laid a hand on Storm's arm. The clouds around the jet intensified, reflecting Storm's mood. The landscape below them didn't get any better. Perhaps the greatest nation in the world... the best standard of living, the most secure... and Storm's own opposite number had reduced it to ash. Why? What had possessed her so? Storm couldn't begin to know the answer.

Before she left Wakanda, however, she would.

****

There was no way to detect the Slayer's approach, for the room around Esme Cuckoo was nothing but darkness and this creature was darkness personified. She didn't mind terribly; she found it terribly exciting.

"I've been waiting for you," she said.

The shadows on the edge of her mind seemed to hesitate. --Are you certain we're alone?--

She smiled, the glow in her eyes very bright. "Storm thinks I'm asleep."

--She's not the one I'm worried about... It is Esme, isn't it?--

Her smile broadened. "You can tell because I'm the cute one."

--You're the lethal one, dear. I admire that. But how do I know your sisters aren't waiting on the other side of that light in your head, in some feeble attempt to trap me?--

"Well, if the attempt is that feeble, you've got nothing to worry about."

The shadows coalesced into something man-shaped. Vague impressions of eyes peered out at Esme from a field of ebony. --You miss my point. Why should I trust you?--

"Because..." In her mind, Esme paced a few steps closer to the figure. "I've already taken your side."

--Yes, the business at Elkhorn Tavern. (*X-Factor #4) You certainly did embarrass young Sophie. Tell me... why do you hate her so?--

"Because she thinks she owns me," Esme said, "and nobody does... unless I want them to."

The shadow approached, mere inches away. Esme could feel its chill, but did her best not to recoil. Along with the cold, it exuded a certain... danger.

--And your price, dear?--

"They're afraid," Esme said. "I'm not. I know you're stronger than they are, and I have no interest in dying again. So whatever your plan is... I want in."

It glowered at her. --I wonder if you know what you're asking.--

"Well, of course..." She reached out to the shadow, but it evaporated before her fingers. "I could call in my sisters. We have a whole plan, you know, for how we're supposed to kill you. Xavier's plan. I'm afraid there's a chance... a very small chance... it could work."

--Are you threatening me?--

Esme's lip twitched; her tone frosted over. "Warning you. Erik thought he could take me for granted. Don't ever do that. A girl needs to feel wanted."

Then the most remarkable thing happened. The shadows coalesced, solidified-- and, finally, became a man, tall and dark with a neatly trimmed beard. From her sister's reports, Esme guessed this was the "Merlin" persona the shadow used in the past of Reality 225. (* eXcalibur series). Most intriguing.

He tilted her chin up to look him in the eye. "I understand. You have no idea how well. I think we're going to have a lot of fun together."

Esme grinned. "Then I'll get what I want?"

He nodded. "A place beside me, where people will appreciate your... obvious brilliance and beauty... and power to satisfy even your darkest desires. In return, *I* will get your sisters on a platter."

"And after them, the X-Men?"

"After them... we'll see."

The smile faded. "Don't play games with me. You'll regret it if you do."

"My dear, I never would. All things will be made clear. But we must be clever. Divide and conquer, that's the way. When the time is right, I'll show you what to do."

His hand moved up, to stroke the line of her jaw. Esme felt heat rising to her cheeks.

"Hurry. I've been waiting such a long time for this..."

****

T'Challa had nearly fallen asleep... ignoring, as ever, the burning in his outstretched arms and the things skittering in the corner of his cell, or sometimes on him... when he caught the footstep outside. He tensed, ready as ever for an opportunity, for his captors to provide the slightest opening for his escape.

He was not ready for what happened, however. The door creaked open, momentarily blinding him, and when the pain subsided, a burly man-- a member of Ororo's bastardized Hatut Zeraze, the Wakandan secret police-- walked into the room, frowned at T'Challa for a moment, then proceeded to cut his bonds.

For an instant, T'Challa couldn't believe his luck. This man had been handpicked by Ororo; T'Challa *knew* he was no loyalist. Fearing some sort of cruel game, he immediately found his feet and struck the man hard in the pressure point of his side. He crumpled without a sound; T'Challa seized his weapon and was halfway to the door...

BANG!

Pain blossomed in T'Challa's gut; he clamped his hand to his stomach and felt the warm flow of blood. A tall silhouette appeared in the doorway. T'Challa cursed himself for not marking the second intruder, but it had been so long since he'd been able to practice his skills...

"Forge," he said through gritted teeth.

The other man stepped inside, cradling the rifle that had shot T'Challa. "How you doing, your lordship? Don't mind me. I'm just a tourist."

"Have you come... to kill me?"

"Well, no offense, but yes." His old enemy grinned. "I never thought Ororo should have left you alive in the first place. I'm tired of wasting time with you ever day."

T'Challa arched an eyebrow. "You tire of my meeting with your lady's approval."

"That, too. Never pays to leave competition lying around." He hefted his weapon. "Now, this rifle is really a work of art. No residue, no prints, fires a bullet identical in caliber to the weapons of the Hatut Zeraze. Nothing to connect this to me. You attempted escape, your kingship. It's about time."

He took aim. T'Challa struggled forward, but was in no condition to save himself Forge's finger moved on the trigger...

"NO!" A bolt of lightning blasted the Cheyenne across the room, slamming him against the wall, half-conscious.

T'Challa exhaled. A moment later, Ororo swept into the room in a state in which he'd never seen her-- frazzled, confused, shaking violently and looking around as though she didn't quite know where she was. When she saw him looking at her, she gasped.

"T'Challa! I... I do not... how long has it been?"

"Been?" he frowned.

"You do not understand. None of this... I didn't... I thought I could control him..."

"Forge?" T'Challa guessed. "I doubt you--"

"NO! The... it doesn't matter. We must hurry. I don't know how long..." Ororo slid to her knees on the ground beside him, checking T'Challa's wound. The look in her eyes was... different... from anything he remembered these past years. It almost reminded him of the old Ororo, the one he'd trusted or even, once, loved... she reached for him tentatively...

She stopped. Her beautiful blue eyes glittered-- for just a moment, they looked pitch-black to T'Challa. She produced a knife from her sleeve.

"Never mind," Ororo said, and slashed the knife across his chest. T'Challa gasped, but it was not deep enough to kill. Just another scar.

As steady as ever, Ororo rose to her feet and gestured out into the corridor. More guards entered; their treatment of his wound was professional, but not nearly so tender as Ororo's.

"Naughty child," she said. "How could you consider leaving me? We have so many years of fun left to us."

"Ororo... I don't..."

She stopped beside the door to collect Forge, who was coming around with a slow groan...

"Come, beloved. We shall... ease your pain. But you really mustn't defy me again. You know how cross it makes me."

"I'll remember..." Forge allowed her to support him to the door.

T'Challa watched them go, trying to process what he'd seen, while the guards finished their work and bound him again.

"She is insane," he said to his former subjects. "You must see that."

The guards looked at each other, then black at the Black Panther, and shrugged. T'Challa supposed that sanity was relative; in their books, any woman who paid their salaries and could incinerate them with a thought was *eminently* sane.

For himself, some of the pieces were beginning to fall into place. And what they meant for T'Challa's kingdom, entrusted to him by his father and lost to one of the few people he'd ever trusted... that was even worse than he had guessed...

****

"Quick now... quiet..."

Callisto urged Storm and her companions along under cover of darkness. The fact that it was pouring rain, with the occasional gale-force wind, didn't help their cause. She'd wondered aloud whether Storm couldn't do something to ease conditions, but the wind-rider didn't dare. Just as she could sense that this storm was unnatural, caused by some great distress on the part of her double, she knew that if she were to dissipate it, her opposite number would trace that back to her.

So for the time being, Storm, Bishop, Callisto, and Esme traced their way past the ruined remains of a wall on one side and a knot of trees on the other, in near-perfect darkness and miserable weather, toward an unclear destination, with their knowledge of the lay of the land badly outdated and Callisto's enhanced senses their only edge. It was not the most pleasant evening Storm had ever passed.

"You might have told us there would be nights like this," she said to Bishop.

The big man shrugged. "Never saw this coming."

"No scenario like this one ever played out for the X-Men in your future?"

"No. Nothing *close.*"

She frowned. "How does it feel to be in uncharted territory with the rest of us?"

"Blind, that's how I feel.” He sighed. “Dumb and blind."

Callisto sniffed the air and held up a hand. "Somethin' up ahead..."

"Esme?" Storm asked.

The girl hugged herself and shivered. "Don't look at me; I'm too busy being perfectly miserable..."

Bishop grunted. "It can always get worse, kid."

"*How?*"

Suddenly Exhibit A bounded over the wall, a snarling, sharp-edged shape that slammed into Bishop, knocking him into the mud. Storm and Callisto sprung into action, but suddenly soldiers were coming out of the trees. Storm redirected the winds-- just a small, subtle alteration would be safe, she hoped-- to relieve them of their weapons, but they kept coming.

Callisto took on two at once, as fierce as ever, breaking bones and tearing ligaments with abandon. Storm engaged those who approached her with less enthusiasm, but no lesser results; her hand-to-hand combat training was as thorough as theirs, her reflexes exceptional.

At first glance, Esme appeared to be the one in danger, but the first solider who approached her learned his lesson. She let him come almost to within arms' length, smiling at him all the while. When he reached for her, her eyes flashed and he screamed, dropping to his knees behind her with his hands clutching his head and his nose dripping blood. The other soldiers gave her a wide berth after that.

Storm kept going, fighting her way to Bishop, who was in the process of getting mauled. He brought his hands up and blasted his feral attacker halfway across the field, but the smaller man landed on his feet and pounced again. Bishop was barely recovering, and Storm wasn't going to reach him in time--

"YIP!"

A strong hand caught Bishop's attacker by the scruff of the neck and dropped him on the ground. Storm turned to behold the newcomer, twice as big as anyone on the field besides Bishop and even more solidly chiseled...

"Enough, Kyle," said a deep voice. "I think they get the point."

The soldiers stood down immediately, as though that voice held a special magic for them. Storm blinked. A flash of lightning illuminated the newcomer, a huge blond man in military uniform, with razor-sharp claws on his hands, permanently stained red. He grinned at Storm, showing a mouthful of deadly teeth. Thanks to the wonders of a healing factor, he hadn't aged a day since Storm had last seen him in her home reality.

"Sabretooth?" she asked, falling into defensive stance.

"General Creed, please, Wind-Rider." His voice held a tone of command and control she'd never heard from the near-savage Victor Creed she knew. "Fancy meetin' you here. Shouldn't you be layin' low after that stunt in St. Louis? (* see issue #3)"

Storm frowned. "It is... complicated."

"Alternate Universe?"

"Erm... yes."

"Figured. You ain't the Ororo Munroe I'm lookin' for. Ought to kill you, tie up the loose ends."

Callisto cracked her knuckles. "Stop yakkin' an' take your shot, then."

"We can help you," Storm said, ignoring her.

General Creed laughed. "How you gonna do that, babe? You don't even know why we're here."

"To cut a deal with this Universe's Storm?" Bishop guessed, regaining his feet. "A pardon, maybe, in exchange for her help in driving Invictus off this continent?"

Creed stared, then laughed. "Yeah, gotta kill ya. Good guess, though."

"She will not help you," Storm said. "But I will. If you can help me reach her... I can do the rest. I *can* bring about a change in this country, institute a regime more... amenable to your goals?"

"Don't trust her," snarled Kyle, crouched at his master's side like a loyal pet.

The man she knew as Sabretooth stroked his chin. "Might be able to get you there. What guarantee have I got that you'll play ball?"

Storm shrugged. "You may keep these others as collateral. If I do not succeed..."

"I'm sorry," said Esme. "WHAT...?!"

Bishop and Callisto shifted uncomfortably, but held their tongues. Storm frowned at the young telepath, intent on sending the message: *Trust me, child.* But she couldn't tell if Esme was listening.

Creed said, "I don't know about your Universe, but our Ororo wouldn't think twice about leavin' friends behind."

"I am not her. But you have a more compelling reason to trust me, General."

"An' what's that?"

Storm shrugged. "No goddess likes to share. When she learns of my presence here, she will stop at nothing to destroy me. If she succeeds, you've lost nothing. If I succeed, so does your mission."

The general grunted. "Ororo might surprise you. She's meaner'n me, so I guarantee she's meaner'n you."

"Perhaps. But I do not know that you would wish to find out how disagreeable I can be."

Keen eyes bored in on Storm for a moment. Then Creed tossed back his massive head and laughed, drowning out the thunder. He gestured to a few of his soldiers.

"Bring 'em," he said. "This caper might be more fun than we thought."

"No! Kill them now!" Kyle pressed. "You can't risk--"

Sabretooth turned, picked up the smaller mutant by the neck, and twisted-- SNAP. Storm gasped, but General Creed only shrugged and tossed the body aside.

"Anybody else gonna question my orders? You sure? Then bring 'em."

And he walked away. Storm followed under guard, wondering if there was any possible way to determine which side in this terrible world was closer to the right one... or whether they might both be beyond any hope. She could only pray that she and her companions were not.

****

Los Angeles, California
Worthington International Airport

"I still don't understand why they're traveling openly," Rachel Grey said to the alternate-reality version of her brother, Cable. "I mean, forget the assassination attempt on the Minister of State (* last issue). Hank's supposed to be *dead!*"

The big man beside her in the waiting area shrugged. "I'm sure they won't be ID'd. Sage was a lady who knew her business."

"What part of her business was it to betray us?"

Cable frowned. "Not sure I believe that. I worked with her a number of times over the years. Trust me, you'll find out she had an angle... and it won't be simple."

"You talk like she's still alive," Rachel said. "The news said they found a body."

"Maybe they saw just what she wanted them to see.”

Rachel was about to object when she caught sight of a broad-shouldered man pushing his way through the crowd, with a young woman beside him. Rachel turned and almost forgot him, because he didn't look like anybody she knew, but then she caught a telepathic snippet:

*"My stars and garters?" NOBODY says that anymore except...*

She said a word Cable had never heard her say, and he looked at her funny. Rachel didn't have any time to explain, because suddenly a pair of strong hands seized her from behind and picked her off the ground.

"Hey! Hey, what do you think you're doing, you...!"

"MmmWHA!" Hank McCoy said, bestowing a big, wet kiss on her cheek. "Like all the Grey women, my dear, you are *beautiful* when you're shocked into speechlessness! I should do that more often! Of course, it's not everyday a man has a surprise of this caliber to spring on his friends..."

Rachel shoved him away with a mostly good-natured burst of teke, then turned on him. It was Hank McCoy, the Beast, alright... but not much of a beast anymore. The blue fur was gone, along with the feline snout and whiskers. If Rachel studied him carefully, she could tell he still had the fullback build and outsized limbs, but the face that beamed at her was perfectly human-- even, in a certain light, handsome. She'd never seen Hank like this except in some old, *very* old pictures of her mother's, from their early days training with Xavier...

Cable seemed as astonished as she was: "Doctor... McCoy?"

"A bright boy, Nathan! Wonderful boy!" Hank pumped his hand. "Indeed, 'tis I, your friendly neighborhood Beast, no longer bashful or blue-furred, feline or simian, but resplendent in a rather more sapient physicality!"

"A what an' the what?"

Monet St. Croix, the exotic young woman who stood smirking at Hank's side, rolled her eyes. "He said he's human again. Don't mind the kissing; he's been doing that to *everyone*. I suppose it's understandable with you, and well, of course *I'm* irresistible, but really, Doctor, what was the appeal of that meter maid?"

"Beauty, Monet, is more than skin deep. It's just the *having* skin again that's--"

"We can see he's human," Rachel interrupted them, "but *how*?"

"Thank Sage!" said Hank. "She attempted to teach me a lesson, just before our, erm, falling out..." (* last issue)

"Don't you mean *her* falling out?" Monet arched an eyebrow. "Quite a drop from that window. Nobody's thanked me yet."

"She seems to have somehow regressed my mutation. The woman has strange ideas of what constitutes revenge. I feel not unlike B'rer Rabbit."

Cable grunted. "I wouldn't shuffle off to the briar patch yet, old man. If Sage meant to screw you, you're screwed. Even if you don't see it yet."

"Pish tosh, my boy! I've never felt better in my life! I feel like dancing-- perhaps the foxtrot! *There's* something I haven't mutated into yet..."

With that, he seized Rachel's hands and tripped the light fantastic in the direction of the baggage claim. Rachel wanted to feel happy for him, but she kept glancing back at her brother and Monet, who shared a skeptical look.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Monet said, and sighed heavily. She followed after the others.

Hank spun Rachel around, obscuring her view, so she didn't see Cable sidle off to quiet corner...

****

--This will not go well for him,-- said the shadow in Nathan Christopher Summers' brain.

The mutant called Cable glanced back one more time to make sure his alternate-reality sister was out of sight, then murmured: "That's what *I* said. Almost feel sorry for the man."

--Do not waste your pity. One way or another, he will soon be dead.--

"About that. I'm prepared to move against the weather witch as soon as she returns..."

Cable couldn't have said how, but he had the distinct impression someone was frowning at him. --There is no need. She has taken an unexpected course; she will destroy herself, now. You must deal with the others, and quickly.--

"I'm on it," he said. "You'd better be as good as your word."

--Naturally. But you will not be able to keep Rachel Grey apart. She will try to stop you.--

"No, it's handled. Leave Rachel to me."

--As long as we understand each other,-- said the shadow, and it dissipated. Cable hurried to catch up to the others.

He reminded himself that he didn't have a choice in what he was about to do. His father had been Scott Summers, chief lieutenant to General Magnus. His mother had been the Phoenix. They would have expected no less of him.

Humans killed mutants every day, often by the hundreds. Tomorrow, perhaps, a few mutants would kill their own. That was regrettable. But Nathan Summers could not allow the world his parents had built to fall apart. Whatever it took to preserve it, he would pay that cost. Even to the Slayer.

****

General Creed's soldiers had established a makeshift camp on the edge of the plain Storm had seen on approach. He led the group of X-Men past a group of tents half-sunk into the mud. On the bright side, the rain appeared to be slacking off.

*Perhaps my mood has improved,* Storm thought. *That is... troubling enough.*

"Ororo Munroe took refuge in Wakanda 'cause nobody else would have her," Creed said. "Humans hated 'er just slightly less than we did... an' we hate her lots. That's what you reap when you sow treason."

"You'd know," Bishop said quietly. Creed shot a dirty look in his direction, but continued:

"The Morlock Massacre was pretty much an open an' shut case. Nobody really doubts she did us dirt, or killed the Angel. But T'Challa didn't buy it. Popular theory holds he was just taken in by your..." Creed flicked appreciative eyes down the length of Storm's body, "...talents..."

"You are too kind," Storm said, glaring.

"...but I dunno. Man wasn't a sucker, an' he was paranoid about security. So maybe there really was more to it. But there was also more t'you-- I mean, her-- than he figured. Even the Black Panther wasn't prepared for the kind'a... force of nature he'd unleashed. In six months, she'd taken him for a captive, killed the Dora Milaje and instituted her own version of the Hatut Zeraze, razed the capital, pretty much knocked this country back in time a thousand years. Then she built this."

Creed led them into the largest tent, which seemed to be his. Soldiers shrank from him-- now and then, Storm thought she recognized one, perhaps the adult double of someone she'd taught at Xavier's. If he was accustomed to treating their lives so casually as he had that of Kyle Gibney's double, they were wise to fear. But Sabretooth was all business now, and led them to a table in the middle of a tent with a map spread across it. He jabbed with a claw.

"The Temple of the Goddess, she calls it. It's the center of her vanishing power."

"Vanishing?" Storm asked.

Creed nodded. "She can match the Panther for strength, but she ain't the politician he was. T'Challa was smart enough to keep the war outside his borders. Thanks to your-- her li'l deal with Invictus, that ain't so anymore."

Storm studied the map, felt her lips wrinkle with distaste, and stepped back. "This ends. Her rape of a noble people ends. We must find where she is holding T'Challa and free him."

"How d'you know he ain't dead?" Callisto asked.

Storm shook her head. "She will not kill him until he submits... and he will not."

"Here," said Creed, pointing to a spot near the temple. "Our intel suggests there's a bunker underneath the temple. Guess the goddess was afraid she might not be immune to nukes. If she's got a captive that valuable, she'll stash him here."

"Understood. When do I leave?"

Sabretooth shrugged. "Hell, babe, go ahead an' take your team. You're gonna need all th' help you can get."

"Thank you, but... *when?*"

"Now's good."

It might have been coincidence, the roll of thunder that culminated in a loud crash at that moment. Coincidence, or Storm subconsciously altering the weather patterns. Somehow, it seemed much more likely that nature itself had taken an interest in their situation and, as a favor to an old friend, had chosen to accompany his entrance with a bit of the theatrical.

Either way, it worked. The thunder heralded a shape in the doorway, stooped and withered, while another flash of lightening followed hard upon to make its identity known:

Gateway, the ancient Aboriginal mutant and occasional ally of the X-Men in Storm's home timeline, looked rather out of place in the oversized jacket they'd draped across his shoulders, but otherwise neither rain nor storm nor unfamiliar surroundings broke the implacable mask he wore. He said nothing to Storm as he stepped inside, but nodded fractionally to Sabretooth.

"He's ready," the mutant general said. "You ever 'ported before, Wind-Rider?"

"On... occasion," Storm said. She stared at the old man. He stared back at her. She had the oddest feeling that he knew who she was, understood her history and the very different place she came from. Storm, who feared nothing and hardly knew of shame, wanted to blush. His gaze made her feel naked in more than a merely physical sense.

"I'll be damned," Bishop murmured. He felt it, too.

"Kinda gets under yer skin, don't he?" said Creed. "One more thing..."

He accepted a rifle from one of his soldiers, locked and loaded it, then sharpened his claws on its barrel, checking their reflection in the next burst of lightning.

"I'm goin' with you," he said, grinning like a lunatic. "Just in case you get cute."

Storm nodded. "Esme, remain here. The rest of you..."

"I like *that*," the girl said. "After dragging me all this way, your plan is to leave me at the mercy of these psychotics?"

"How many of them vocal chords you figure you really *need*, girl?" Callisto asked.

"It is time," Storm said, cutting off the debate.

They stepped out into the rain. Sabretooth nodded to Gateway, who closed his eyes and unfurled the lord cord of his bullroarer-- a very old musical instrument whose strong vibrato was said to represent the sound of the Rainbow Serpent. What it meant to Gateway, Storm didn't know, but she knew it was in some way connected to his mutant ability to create portals.

He swung the device around and around, faster and faster, the sound filling Storm's ears, and suddenly the brilliant portal stood before her. Storm took the lead, as four mutants stepped into it--

--but only three emerged in a darkened chamber of the goddess' temple.

Storm gasped. Beside her, Bishop and Callisto looked from one side to the other...

"Sabretooth?" she asked.

"Guess he wasn't invited," said Bishop.

"He would have been useful."

"So would the kid," said Callisto, "but I don't trust her either. We can do the job like this, Wind-Rider. Just point us where you want to go."

Storm looked from one side to another. The chamber appeared ceremonial in function, lined with the precious vibranium that made Wakanda wealthy, and at the head of it... a tall statue carved in Storm's own likeness stood above an altar. The smell of death was strong in the room.

*By the Bright Lady... do I actually demand -sacrifice?- How perverted have I become? Have I simply lost my mind?*

"Storm?" Bishop prompted.

"Yes." She cleared her throat, recalling what Creed had showed them. "Take the passage to the left. Find T'Challa. I will go right and attempt to locate... myself. If nothing else, I will buy you as much time as possible."

"Fightin' our way out's gonna be fun," Callisto said. "Think Creed'll organize a retrieval team?"

"There is no need. When the job is done, Gateway will bring you home."

"Wish I had your faith in that creepy old dude."

"Trust us," said Bishop. "He comes from a good family..."

"Let us go," Storm said. She started to wish her friends the blessings of the goddess, but in the presence of her own graven image, it seemed... blasphemous somehow, so she held her tongue. With a nod to her friends, Storm set off toward the right-hand passage.

*If nothing else,* she vowed to herself, *I shall level this place. Not two stones of it shall remain together.*

Storm left unstated the question of whether she would be buried beneath one of those stones... although she suspected she might be, at *least* once.

****

As in the open, Callisto took the point in leading Bishop down, down deeper under the other Storm's temple. The guards in the place weren't any match for her enhanced senses-- most, in fact, seemed rather bored, as though they'd really prefer to be somewhere else. Several times, Callisto was able to get herself and Bishop to safety before they approached. The one time they half-surprised her, she moved in and snapped his neck before he could make a sound.

Callisto stopped at the edge of a long, dug-out corridor that smelled filthy and damp. She held up a hand to Bishop, who flattened against the wall beside her.

“Metal down there,” she whispered. “Think it's a door. Can you blast it?”

Bishop shrugged. “We'll find out...”

They inched forward, conscious that the corridor was a wonderful, terrible place for a trap. Callisto allowed Bishop to push past her at the end, and he came face-to-face with a broad, solid-looking metal door, rectangular in shape and set directly into the rock. Bishop felt up and down its length...

“Vibranium,” he said. “Blasting it's not gonna happen.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then?”

He peered at a small square set off to the side. “Recognition plate here. Standard DNA print. We need somebody with authorization...”

“Ask an' ye shall receive,” said an echoing voice from the end of the corridor. “G'day, Callisto, luv.”

Bishop whirled; Callisto, in front of him, was already in fighting stance. The man at the far end of the corridor was blond, slender, and equipped with a familiar-looking backpack.

“Pyro,” Bishop hissed.

“Pyro? Yeh, they did used ter call me that, some years ago. Back when me an' the Boss an' Callie were all fightin' humans together. It's mostly Lord St. John now.”

“No kiddin',” Callisto said. “Big man, eh?”

Pyro stepped forward. “Ah, remember those days, Cal? We were quite the young terrors. 'Course, we went our separate ways. I stuck with the winning side... an' you made your choice, didn't yer, luv?”

The old woman sneered. “You're nothin' but a punk, Allerdyce. Never was. You want some good advice? Stay out of our way.”

“Excuse me,” Bishop said. “I hate to interrupt, but I'm trying to pick a sophisticated lock here. Could the two of you posture someplace else?”

Pyro laughed. “Too right, cobber! We *should* take this elsewhere. My suggestion t' the both of you is to come along quietly.”

“Or else?” Callisto asked.

“Well... you see, I'm familiar, as perhaps you're not, with the mineral composition of these tunnels. I can tell yer they won't react particularly well to, shall we say, excitement.”

“No kidding,” said Bishop, squaring his shoulders.

“It's true. D'you know what that makes you?”

“What?”

“Shrimp on the barbie,” said Pyro. His backpack kicked into action and he released an enormous gout of flame...

****

Storm stood in the middle of the throne room, her eyes rolled back in her head and turned to white. In this state, attuned to everything around her, she could feel the slightest disturbance in the air... including that created by her older self as she swept into the room.

“I've been waiting for you,” she said, and focused on the newcomer.

“Then it is true,” said the older Storm-- Lady Ororo. “I'd heard whispers, but I thought you were a myth, until I felt...”

“Yes. I knew you would feel it, and come. As you know what I must do.”

“I know what you will try to do,” said Lady Ororo. “What I would have done... long ago. Ha! To see your face... I *was* lovely, wasn't I? Still, I think I aged well... do you not agree?”

Storm took a step. The face of the woman before her was practically unlined, her hair slightly wild, reminiscent of her own rebellious phase, but still attractive. None would have denied Lady Ororo's beauty, even now, but...

“Your mind is sick,” she said.

“My mind is *free*. You will come to know freedom, as I do.”

Storm hesitated. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning... there are more things in Heaven and Earth, young one, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” A slight smile crossed her face. “Charles would have appreciated that. A man of literary proportions, Charles, very... Shakespearean. Betrayed in the classically tragic manner.”

She reached out and threw a lightning bolt at her younger self. The other Storm caught it and channeled it into the floor beneath her feet.

“I thought your betrayal was of Warren Worthington. Why speak of Charles?”

Lady Ororo looked disappointed. “Oh, dear one... you didn't think it began and ended with the Morlocks, did you? Certainly I helped destroy the filthy little creatures. And had a hand in Xavier's assassination, *and* sent the Sentinels after Jean Grey. (*- for more on this, see last issue.) There were dozens, hundreds, who had to be put out of the way... I am sure you know I'm a very thorough woman.”

Another bolt, again deflected. Storm stared at herself in horror.

“But... why?”

“Why. Why not?”

This time Storm cast a bolt of her own, and watched the other Ororo redirect it as easily as she had. “That is not good enough, witch! To turn so thoroughly corrupt... there must have been a *reason!*”

Lady Ororo blinked a few times, her mouth moving without words. Then she shook herself. “There were... many reasons, once. I half-remember them still. At times, I feel... flashes. Snippets. I think I am still the woman I was. But it is only a dream. Stillborn, like Charles Xavier's dream. Destined to end in fire.”

This time the older Storm lashed out with everything-- lightning, wind, riain, heat, and bitter cold. It wreaked havoc in the throne room, but passed harmlessly around the bubble of tranquility generated by her younger self. Lady Ororo had not spent much time improving her skills-- Storm judged them to be evenly matched. This could go on forever, without an edge of some sort...

To keep herself talking, she said: “Monster. Do you feel no remorse for what you have wrought?”

Lady Ororo arched an eyebrow. “I regret... Logan, sometimes. A kindred spirit... I had hoped he might... I did not know he would be with Jean when she died. But it would have made no difference. Logan understood necessity, in these things.”

The two women stood only a few feet apart, now. The younger Storm sucked all the air from around her duplicate, creating an instant vacuum that should have been... most effective. She had already resolved that eliminating this alternate self of hers would not be murder, but a form of... suicide, of correcting her own mistakes. Most of the time, Storm held back her abilities out of a deep respect for life. But there was nothing she respected here, and no need to hold back. Although the savagery of her attack might have surprised Lady Ororo for half an instant, the older woman easily parried it, creating a pocket of normal air pressure around herself.

“The only one I could never kill was Kurt,” she continued aimlessly, all but oblivious to the battle. “Such a gentle man... some part of me would not... but I detest leaving my work unfinished. Do you think I shall ever be able to kill him?”

“Your work for whom?” Storm pressed her, ignoring the rest. “To what end?”

“ENOUGH OF THIS, GIRL! I WILL NOT BE QUESTIONED!”

The older Storm's eyes turned white. She unleashed a terrible salvo-- all the fury of the storm outside channeled through her hands, into her opposite number, and then down into the floor and walls. Storm felt a slight tremor, and smiled.

“Apologies, my lady,” she said. “Perhaps you would prefer answers? For example, if you were to ask me what I was doing here before you arrived, I would answer: Superheating and flash-freezing this room repeatedly. To weaken the structure.”

Lady Ororo laughed. “What good will that do? The ceiling and walls of this room are reinforced by vibranium. They will not crumble.”

“No,” said Storm, “but the floor might.”

With that, she gathered all her energy into a single burst and released it straight *down*, causing the room to shake and both Storms to lose their balance. They fell in a heap...

“The passage to your bunker is below us, yes?” Storm said into her own ear. “I imagine you never visit it. I know how we feel about enclosed spaces.”

The older Storm clawed at her arm. “Please... no... we'll be entombed!”

“Fitting, for a goddess. I can imagine no more terrible fate.” Storm forced a smile “Lady Ororo, for... our crimes against our friends... I condemn us both to a private hell.”

The other Storm was still screaming when she released the last of her energy, and the floor beneath their feet gave way...

END

In Issue #6: “Summers' End”
See the other Eternity series, Uncanny X-Men, X-Force, X-Factor, and eXcalibur, online now!
Next Up: X-Force #5: “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Coming soon!