X-MEN ETERNITY

New X-Men #8: “Along Came a Spider-Girl...”
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: This story takes place after "New X-Men #1-6" and X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. It is encouraged to read those stories first.

*****

She saw them in her mind-- three hundred fifteen individual points of light, moving low and fast over the plains. Gleaming, terrible, deadly. Each packed with enough weaponry to menace a city. She felt no minds inside them, and knew that was wise on somebody's part. Minds weaved into the pattern, they were a part of the invisible tapestry which revealed itself only to her. Machines could be a part of the future, but minds created the future. That left them especially vulnerable... to her.

September 2032
Alternate Reality #502

They slid into attack formation as they approached. Although quite blind, she visualized each silhouette-- the millions of sensory nodes scattered throughout the American Midwest transmitting directly into her brain, granting her the equivalent of a powerful telepathic gift, just as the machines hooked up to her withered body breathed some semblance of life into a physical form that would have long ago perished.

Once she had a name, although only a handful still spoke it. Once she was a beautiful young woman whose mutant X-gene allowed her to prophesy the future. Now, she'd become the centerpoint of the most complex, comprehensive defensive system ever devised.

Today that system would fail and she would die. She knew this as surely as she knew the sun rose in the morning, and would continue to rise for countless years after she was-- finally, blissfully-- gone. She took comfort in that knowledge, although it came at the cost of knowing how utterly small and helpless she was, how futile her efforts in the larger scheme.

Such was the course of Destiny.

The door to her chamber slid open with a *whoosh* and a breath of air that most sighted people wouldn't have noticed; Destiny cherished it, as the only contact she ever had with anything *real*, anything that existed outside of her sensory web and the machines that kept her heart pumping. An orderly stepped inside to check the machines, as they always did at this time of day. But this time, their footsteps sounded different, more... cautious. Destiny felt a thrill. Almost time.

“How are we doing today, Miz Adler?” said the orderly, in a cautious voice.

Destiny's own voice was no longer that of Irene Adler, but a computer-synthesized projection of her thoughts, processed by the machines.

“They have come for us,” she said, “as you have come for me, I expect, child.”

A tiny intake of breath. Destiny imagined the look on the poor orderly's face... and then the eyes rolling back in his head as he fell to the ground, and a mutant assassin stepped *out* of him. Irene Adler had never seen Talia Josephine Wagner, but she'd heard rumors of yellow eyes and a demonic appearance. It was almost better not to see her. Demons are always more frightening when they're simply imagined.

“Damn,” said Talia Wagner, whose enemies-- practically everyone-- called her Nocturne. “I really didn't think you'd see it coming.”

“If you seek to outwit Destiny, you'll have to do better than a borrowed lump of flesh.”

She could practically feel the air turn cold as Nocturne tensed. “So why didn't you call somebody to stop me?”

If she'd still had a body to speak of, Irene Adler would have shrugged. “Shall I tell you a story, my child? Consider it an old woman's last request.”

“You don't have a lot of time,” said Nocturne. The vague disgust in her voice said she hardly considered what was left inside the machines to be a woman.

“Yes, I know about your schedule, but humor me,” Destiny said. “Years ago, Raven-- your grandmother-- and I embarked upon a mission to change the world. We met with all the success you might expect. Fruitless years and decades wasted. When General Magnus and his X-Men came along with their own quest, we joined forces immediately. Raven always could spot a winner. We fought the First Mutant War together, all of us, but I was grievously injured. My comrades weren't doing much better.

“The problem, you see, was a human named Tony Stark. I should have foreseen that one, killed him in his crib, perhaps, but I think he's too smart for even me. He built the War Machines-- the same War Machines I now see approaching our border. (* launched last issue) Oh, don't worry, I know I won't be allowed to stop them. I wouldn't try. I've done too much of that...

“They were so powerful and so fast... they decimated our forces in every encounter. Then a mutant named Forge came up with an idea. A sensory net, spread throughout our growing territory, linked to flying drones called the Keepers (* seen way back in New X-Men #1), whose sole job it was to track and kill Stark's toys. That provided the framework, but not the brain. Our own computers couldn't stop them all, nor could any telepath. To stop the War Machines, to intercept hundreds at once... you'd practically have to know the future. Well, of course I volunteered.

“Raven wouldn't have it, at first. She wanted to keep me alive, as I was. Forge tried to tell her that in this form I would live forever... a lot of poppycock, predicated on the idea that you'd call *this* living. But I accepted it because I knew it had to be done. Raven acquiesced... but she promised she would someday free me. I told her not to bother. One day, I said, her own blood would do the honors. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” said Nocturne. Destiny heard a slight *snik* of metal against metal as she unsheathed some weapon. “If it's any consolation, you're a hell of a prize. Invictus is paying me enough for this one job to retire on... if I didn't love my work.”

“And your people?” said Destiny. “Is there so little of your grandmother in you? Even your father, for all his mistakes, would never betray us so--”

“My father's an idiot. My grandmother's a witch. And you're history.”

With that, Nocturne struck. Destiny felt some small pain-- a reminder of the physical form she'd already left behind-- and then the transcendence of freedom after years of toil. Out in the world, her sensory net went dark. Her Keepers fell to the ground. The War Machines kept coming...

****

St. Louis, Missouri

Rising later than usual after a long night's search (* as seen last issue), Scott Summers found his ex-wife in the living room of the apartment his team had rented. Jean Grey sat cross-legged on the sofa, watching what appeared to be a very loud movie.

“What's this?” he asked while he hunted for something to drink.

Jean glanced up. “Hmm? 'Flight of the Phoenix,' starring Alison Blaire. No relation to the Jimmy Stewart movie; this one's about me.”

Scott arched an eyebrow behind his glasses. He pulled the tab off a bottle of orange juice and watched from behind the couch. “I never knew you were so... vapid.”

Jean mock-glared at him, but said, “C'mon, Ali's doing her best with the script they gave her. But you're right, it doesn't seem to delve into the essential me-ness of the character.”

“You're one of a kind,” Scott agreed.

Jean thought of asking how come so irreplaceable a person got replaced so easily, but decided she'd rather not spend the rest of the day fighting with Scott. Instead, she continued, “This is my second time through. You should see the ending. I heroically give my life wiping every living Homo sapiens off the face of the Earth.”

“Noble,” said Scott, around a swig of juice “I've never felt so inspired, yet nauseated.”

“What happened to us here, Scott? How did we go so wrong?”

“Apparently, *I* happened.”

Jean glanced up-- she knew that look too well. “Oh, c'mon... don't go getting all blamey on me.”

“Blamey? Is that even a word?”

“For you, it is.” Jean shifted on the couch. “Next you're going to take all this on your shoulders and use it as an excuse to shut your friends out even more, and that's not fair. You didn't do this, Scott...”

The Cyclops averted his gaze. “I would have, though. If they'd killed Alex the way Rachel described (* after hearing the story in NXM #4)... and done it back when I was an angry, awkward teenager who didn't understand his powers... I would have killed every human I could find.”

She couldn't quite get a reading on how much he meant that, even with telepathy. Finally, she shrugged. “People do stupid things when they're young.”

“Like fall in love with me?”

Jean felt a blush burning across her cheeks. At first she turned away, annoyed that Scott couldn't have passed up that subject as she had. Then, quietly, she said, “I don't regret a moment, Scott. I want you to know that.”

Now he seemed to be trying to read *her*. “Are you being nice to me so I'll feel worse?”

“Well, yes.”

“I can live with that...” Scott cleared his throat. “Since you've been indulging in the fine arts, I take it you haven't seen the news?”

Jean shook her head.

“You're been on it since last night. Every station. Somebody caught you on camera...”

“Forge told me. We knew this was coming.” Jean had already had a run-in with a mutant general since their arrival (* last issue). “Judging by this, they must be thrilled.”

“The mutants are. The humans look ready to slit their wrists.”

“It might be kinder.” Jean pressed a button on the remote. Alison Blaire's movie-star looks and cheap red wig faded from the screen, replaced by... “Scott? I thought you said *I* was on the news.”

“You were.” Scott practically leaped over the couch. “Turn that up.”

Jean did: The screen displayed a 'Breaking News' report, all right, but the pictures were of burned-out buildings and crowds of panicked mutants. While they watched, a jumpy video image showed something *else* blowing up in the distance, and a reflection of silver armor...

“Is that Iron Man?” Jean asked.

The burning suspicion in Scott's sense matched her own. “That's a *lot* of Iron Men. I think we'd--”

BLINK! Suddenly they had company in the living room: Clarice Ferguson, the aptly-named Blink, who appeared in front of the TV talking a mile a minute: “Scott, Jean, have you seen-- oh, good, you saw-- actually, bad. It's very bad. Forge said he's getting reports from all across the front and into mutant territory: Chicago, Houston, Denver, Winnipeg, Mexico City...”

“We don't need a list, Blink!” said Scott. “Where are they doing the most damage?”

“I just told you: Chicago, Houston, Denver, Winnipeg, Mexico City...”

“Any reports from St. Louis yet?” asked Jean, who could feel tension and fear building throughout the apartment building.

“No, so far they're honoring the treaty.” Blink made a face. “That'll last 'till pretty much the exact moment they get the upper hand...”

“Cynical much?” Jean suggested.

“I learned war strategy from Magneto. He has actual classes where people just slap you 'till you stop being optimistic.” The lilac mutant turned to their leader. “Everybody's ready to roll, Mr. Summers. We just need a destination.”

Scott nodded. “Two groups. Denver's the capital and Chicago's the front line; we can make the most noise there.”

“Even if we stop them in two cities...”

“Right now, I'll settle for scaring the crap out of them,” Scott said. “Jean?”

Jean Grey thought about the movie she'd just seen, and shuddered. “I think that can be arranged...”

****

“Whoo-ee, Mister, them's some fancy wheels! Lemme guess: Fill 'er up, wash the windshield, check the wiper fluid, an' get you one a' them little fold-out maps so you can get the hell outta this hick town. Am I right? Here's a little tip for ya: Never turn left at Albuquerque. *Always* a mistake.”

Kurt Wagner made a face and sighed. He'd dreaded this moment, but there was no more putting it off. With a final touch of the controls, he brought his new hovering chair fully into view of his allies: Rubber-faced shapeshifter Morph and embittered Lady Sarah, once known as Marrow.

Morph had brought him to Sarah's people in Los Angeles two months ago, when he lay unconscious from a would-be assassin's bullet (* in New X-Men #6). They, in turn, had smuggled the former X-Man to St. Louis, where he could recover in the relative comfort of their Lady's estate. Very likely, the move had saved Kurt's life; he wouldn't have lasted long in hospital once his enemies learned where he was. Whether this new situation would turn out any better... that remained to be seen. Kurt hadn't had dealings with Sarah or her bodyguard, Callisto, in many years, but he remembered they'd once had... strong ideas on mutant/human relations. Ideas that involved more in the way of genocide than peace.

“Looking good,” said Sarah, whose hot temper had burned unusually cool during Kurt's recovery. He suspected she wanted something from him, but didn't yet know what. “I'm only sorry it's necessary. I want you to know, my doctors did everything they could...”

“Most generous,” Kurt said. “Do not despair, my friends. Despite appearances, I intend to walk again.”

“That's the spirit, chum!” said Morph, who practically bounded up and down with energy. He elongated the lower half of his mouth to provide a visual aide as he continued: “Stiff upper lip and all that, eh what? Good show, I say!”

Marrow frowned at him. “Out of curiosity, does this one ever shut up?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Damn.”

“Hey! After all I've done for you people! Risking my life, bringing you two disaffected loons together! Is it too much to except a little kindness and consideration and maybe a HUNDRED MILLION DOLLAR REWARD? It's not like she can't spare it.” When Marrow just glared at him, Morph scrunched up his face as only he could, threw himself on the ground, and morphed into a rip-away T-shirt. “What d'you think, Sarah? Hey, SARAH! Hey, Sarrrraaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!”

Kurt Wagner groaned. “Thank you, Morph. A thousand times, we thank you.”

“You're welcome. See, was that so hard?” The shapeshifter climbed to his feet with dignity. “Just... you know, trying to cheer things up a little.”

“Silence might work,” Sarah suggested.

Since Kurt seemed to agree, Morph sobered. But he couldn't maintain *complete* silence. After a moment he said, “Tell me you hate him.”

“Eh?” said Kurt, deliberately allowing the remark to escape his pointed ears.

“Cable. For this. Just tell me you hate his filthy little rich-boy guts, and I'll be satisfied. C'mon. I don't ask you for much.”

Kurt maneuvered the wheelchair so he wouldn't have to meet his friend's eyes. “No.”

“Does that mean you don't hate him, or you just don't want to *say* it? Because I can live with a tacit acknowledgment.” No answer. “C'mon, Kurt--”

“Leave him be,” said Sarah. When Morph opened his mouth again, she pulled a bone dagger to bolster her argument. He shut up.

Just when the silence would have stretched to record-breaking levels of discomfort, Callisto burst into the room at a run, asking if they'd seen the news. Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the remote control and turned on the TV in the corner. When Sarah saw the cities in flames, she buried her dagger in the upholstery.

“Warm up the jet,” she growled.

“It's everywhere,” Callisto said, “and they could be long gone by the time we--”

“Just do it!” As her mentor backed out of the room, Sarah turned to Kurt and swore. She jabbed a finger at the monitor. “There's your peace! I've seen this before-- haven't you? This is what they do!”

Kurt steepled his fingers. “We must not be so quick to--”

Sarah compressed into four letters her opinion of that, and stormed out. Kurt and Morph remained alone, the shapeshifter staring at the monitor with an expression that said all the color would have drained from his face if he'd had any to start with.

“Psylocke's army is fighting in Chicago, right? I'd say they're going to lose.”

“Not yet,” said Kurt, and he hovered after Sarah.

****

BLINK!

“Whew! That was a long one. Okay, we're supposed to be in Denver, right? Tell me you see Rocky Mountains.”

Cain Marko, the Juggernaut, glanced around the city square, then down at his lilac-shaded colleague. “All I see is stuff burnin'.”

“That works too-- WHOA!”

A repulsor beam slammed into the ground at Clarice Ferguson's feet, the shockwave knocking her down. Mindee Cuckoo landed beside her, and even Scott Summers was shaken. The Juggernaut didn't budge. Up ahead, a silver sentinel in the general shape of Tony Stark's Iron Man armor was lining up for another shot... until Cain uprooted a streetlight and swatted it like an angry hornet. Two thundering footsteps later, he brought his boot down on its helmet and-- CRUNCH!

“Huh,” he said, staring down into a mass of sizzling wires. “No prize inside. No wonder he went down like a punk. Say what you want about the real Shellhead, he's a tough customer.”

“Tell me about it,” Blink said, rolling to her feet.

“You mixed it up with Iron Man, kid?”

“Yeah. It was another Universe and he was evil at the time. You?”

“Regular Universe. *I* was evil.”

“Bummer, as Jubes would say. How many times have you fought the Hulk?”

“Too many.”

“I'm gonna use that answer too. Oop-- watch out! Another one at ten o'clock!”

The new War Machine came screaming out of a dark sky, repulsor beams blasting from its hands. Blink tossed two of her javelins at it, but both glanced off some kind of forcefield. When it tried to return fire, she ducked behind the Juggernaut while Cyclops stepped into her place, blasting from his visor. The shield absorbed his first two shots, but cracked under his third. The War Machine veered off-course, then sputtered right into Cain Marko's arms. The Juggernaut ripped it to pieces.

“That's two,” said Scott. “Mindee, how many of these things are there?”

The girl shut tight her glowing eyes. “They're on remote; I can't be sure. From the panic in the surrounding minds, I'll guess a dozen. With a five hundred percent margin of error.”

“You can't help much, then.” Scott thought for a second. “Alright, I need you to find me somebody in authority and then get clear.”

“My pleasure,” said Mindee. “Let's see-- oh, I'm over that way. Will I do?”

Scott blinked. “You?”

“Well, Reality 502 me. My sisters and I seem to be working for Emma, coordinating defense of the capital building. We're not having much luck-- it's just awfully rude to send those things out with no minds in them. It's discrimination against telepaths, that's what.”

“Fine-- you'll do!” Scott spotted another War Machine heading for a nearby building, and-- ZRRRACK! His shot deflected, but didn't destroy it. “Just call the portal and go! Hurry!”

“Mindee, come with us to the war zone. Mindee, get out of the war zone. And I thought Sophie was hard to live with...”

With a brilliant white flash that signaled the arrival of their portal between Universes (* described in the Crossroads), the girl vanished. Scott, meanwhile, turned his attention to a pair of War Machines which were circling around to catch their new targets in a crossfire.

“This should be fun...”

Clarice Ferguson grabbed his arm. “I'll blink us out.”

“No-- we want their attention. Cain... make us a hole.”

The Juggernaut turned to Scott Summers, checked to make sure his helmet was on straight, and grinned. “Thought you'd never ask...”

Lowering his shoulder, he charged the nearest War Machine while both it and its counterpart blasted away at him. He got within a few feet before it struck with a blast that knocked the Juggernaut smack into the nearest building. Its wall collapsed upon him, but a moment later he dug himself out, tossed a thumbs-up to his teammates, and kept going.

Clarice Ferguson stared the whole time. “Just for my information... you know he's crazy, right?”

“Oh, he has been for years.” Cyclops frowned. “I keep hoping it's a constructive insanity.”

“You mean like Wolverine's?”

“That would be the other kind.” He took off after Cain, blasting away with his optic beam.

****

A moment before the portal went back for Mindee, it deposited Jean Grey and her team in an alley adjacent to the ruined streets of what might once have been Chicago. She had to blink and shake herself a few times to get her bearings. Being in the portal always reminded Jean of the White Hot Room. There was something about it, at once comfortable and terrifying.

Probably not as terrifying as where she was *now*, but still...

If the dozen War Machines sent to shake up the mutant capital had caused a fuss, the hundred presently engaging a mutant army on the front lines were enough to craft a fair impression of Hell. Before Jean's eyes, a ragged line of mutants formed at the end of the nearest block: energy-manipulators, mostly, who could strike from a distance or shield themselves from the repulsor beams. Somebody cried out, and they opened fire: Dazzle-blasts and fireworks and streams of molten energy poured forth into a line of silver drones with a sound like the worst artillery barrage in human history.

The War Machines received this punishment-- two of them shattered and a third fell back, trailing sparks-- but in the main their shields protected them. Then they lifted their arms and fired back. And then people screamed.

“Jean...” Lucas Bishop murmured, rooted to the spot beside her.

“I know, Lucas. I'll do what I can...”

“How much power can you bring to bear?” asked the Cheyenne mutant, Forge.

“Not as much as you probably think,” Jean sighed. That was true: she hadn't come back from the dead with access to her full potential. She'd gotten some of it back when she'd fought the Slayer alongside her daughter Rachel (* in the Crossroads), but that battle itself had drained her. But she still had enough in her for some sound and fury, and given the advantage of her reputation here, maybe that was all that would be required.

Jean took a step out forward, out of concealment. The nearest War Machine turned, sensing her presence...

SHIKT! Two sets of claws popped from the forearms of her final team member, Laura Kinney, more often called X-23. Before Jean could object, she launched herself at the gleaming drone, adamantium-laced claws reaching for its torso...

Two things happened at once. First, X-23 shredded the War Machine with a SKRAK! and its two halves fell in opposite directions. Second, the drone behind it aimed a repulsor blast and knocked the girl into next week.

“X!” Bishop cried, as she hit the wall with a sickening crunch. He knelt beside her, inspecting what looked-- and smelled-- to be horrible burns across her arms and torso. “Come on, come on, don't do this to me...”

“...eeeaaling,” she murmured.

“Dammit, kid, when are you going to stop jumping into trouble like--”

“--said I'LL HEAL!” X-23 snarled, and pushed him away. Indeed, the marks on her skin looked noticeably less angry than they had only a few seconds earlier.

Jean sighed. She wondered what the X-Men would have done throughout the years without healing factors. Then she steeled herself for the job ahead...

Bishop found his feet and pushed past her before she could do it. Anger boiling off him like telepathic steam, he stepped right up to the line of War Machines and spread his arms.

“You like that? Huh?! You think you're all big and tough 'cause you can slaughter children? Come on! Let's do it, then! Let's see what you've got! C'mon-- HIT ME!”

They did. Four beams struck Bishop dead-center, enough power to send tremors halfway down the block. Grinning fiercly all the while, glowing brighter than the light inside the portal, he turned all that power back on them; two War Machines simply... ceased to exist, reduced to something a tad bit smaller than atoms by their own power wave.

Bishop, whose costume looked a little singed but was otherwise unhurt, turned to their fellows and grinned. “Who's next?”

“Look out,” murmured Forge, even before the machines circled him. “This is going to...”

The word was probably 'hurt.' Jean never heard it because she was busy flying backward through the alley with the rest of her friends; in lieu of blasting Bishop again, the Machines had turned to the more versatile aspects of Stark's design, striking him with a wave of magnetic force that ripped up the nearby buildings and sent everything else-- people, vehicles, the odd mailbox and kitchen sink-- flying. Jean hit the wall hard, slid down it seeing stars, and almost blacked out for a second.

“Auntie Em...” she murmured when she could open her eyes. Bishop lay beside her, bleeding from the nose and mouth. “Jumping into trouble, huh?”

“I'll heal,” the big man murmured. Although the pair of War Machines advancing on them through what was left of the alley might have disagreed.

Jean picked herself up, pain and anger making her burn, but she was still a little sluggish. She wasn't sure she could get both of the drones before they fired back. She tried anyway, unleashing a burst of power that sent a War Machine flying as component parts. She missed the second, and it aimed its repulsor beams...

PAFF! The arm it was aiming with exploded in a burst of colored light. It turned, one-armed, to face the new threat. It managed about half a turn before Jean's telepathic power crushed it like a cheaply-made beer can.

The woman at the end of the alley was short, compact, athletic, and dressed in a plain black jumpsuit with rank insignia. She stared at Jean through tired eyes set into a face criss-crossed with scars and worry lines. Jean knew their rescuer couldn't have been as old as 45, but she looked ancient.

“Jubilation Lee?” said a recovering Forge. “It's good to see you're--”

The woman answered with a string of unvarnished profanity that would have reduced her 616 counterpart to tears. She pointed to the insignia. “It's *Major* Lee. And you damned idiots just broke in five minutes a defensive line I was supposed to hold 'till nightfall. Look out there... they're back on the run! They'll fall back half a dozen blocks before I can catch them, much less get them organized again!”

“We're sorry,” Jean said, “but...”

“And you! What the hell are you supposed to be?”

“I... what do I look like?”

Major Lee frowned harder. “You look like freakin' Jean Grey.”

“What a coincidence...”

Her enigmatic smile drew Lee to a pause, but then the short woman concluded: “The face isn't bad, but the red wig's a cheap knockoff and you don't sound like her at all. And she *never* would have got her ass handed to her just now. I'm really not impressed.”

Jean shrugged. “That might change.”

Forge said, “Fortunately, we don't care if we impress you. Who's your commanding officer?”

Lee grunted. “New in town, Geronimo? What kind of fool hasn't heard of General Braddock?”

“Besty's here?” Bishop, who knew this reality's Psylocke rather too well, leaped at the information. “We'll need to see her.”

“Will you?” Major Lee glared at them all. “Well, that might just happen. Whether you freaks know it or not, you just got drafted into her army.”

****

As Mindee had predicted, the group of five identical women attempting to create some order out of the chaos surrounding the M Building-- the monument to Eric Magnus Lehnsherr that housed the mutant government of North America-- wasn't experiencing a great deal of success. They couldn't predict the movements of the War Machines, they couldn't seem to shout loud enough to get anyone's attention, and for the kind of complex tasks they were trying to get accomplished, they could really only take over a couple of minds at a time.

In short, they didn't have a lot to do, so Scott Summers felt no guilt about interrupting them by tapping one on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I'm looking for--”

“You!” she said.

“What are you?” said another sister.

“Creed's report!” said a third, probably referring to whatever Victor Creed had told the mutant command about meeting up with 616 versions of Storm and Jean Grey (* in NXM #5-7).

“We thought he was crazy!” said a fourth. “Of course, he *is* crazy, so you can't blame us.”

The fifth stood off and regarded Scott with a critical eye. “He's lovely, isn't he? I mean, if he had eyes he would be. No wonder Emma liked him.”

“Emma! Yes, thank you! I'm looking for--”

“One way to find out for sure,” said all five sisters, and they gathered in a knot around Scott Summers with eyes glowing brightly.

“ARGH!” The leader of the X-Men let out a choked gasp and fell to his knees as their telepathy sorted through his mind.

“Hey!” snapped Cain Marko, reaching for the girls.

“Allow me,” said Clarice Ferguson, stepping forward.

BLINK! BLINK! BLINK! BLINK! BLINK! She grabbed each sister in turn, and 'ported them to opposite ends of the courtyard, disrupting their telepathy as she went. By the time the siblings had regrouped, Cain had helped Scott to his feet and she stood beside them with a javelin in each hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Magneto taught me a few tricks-- I'm betting I can keep you all out of my brain long enough to rearrange at *least* two of your faces. You could use some identifying marks anyway.”

“Good one!” said the Juggernaut, cracking his knuckles ominously.

One of the Cuckoos stuck out her lower lip. “You didn't have to be *rude*...”

“We were only curious,” said another.

“Emma's inside,” said the other three, pointing.

“Thank you,” Scott said to them, and then to Blink, more sincerely: “Thank *you*.”

“Don't mention it,” said the lilac mutant. She took his hand and-- BLINK!

Cain tipped an imaginary cap and lumbered after them. Left with a burning city to tend, the five sisters spent a moment in conference before one of them said:

“Should we have told them about Cable?”

One of the others said, “I'm sure Emma will tell them... if she feels like it.”

“And if she doesn't,” said a third, “then I guess they should have been nicer to us, shouldn't they?”

The decision made, all five Cuckoos nodded.

****

Major Lee led Jean's team down street after street in search of what was left of her unit, cautiously avoiding the War Machines where they could, blasting through them where they couldn't. If Lee changed her opinion of Jean's authenticity after repeated telekinetic demonstrations of her power, she didn't show it.

While they walked, Jean could sense Forge growing more and more troubled. Finally the Cheyenne said, “What happened to your defensive net?”

“Hmm?” said Lee, who had been peering around a corner to check for War Machines.

“When we were here before, Ororo told me about machines... the Keepers?... that were supposed to protect your airspace from this kind of thing. What happened?”

Lee grimaced. “They screwed us over, is what happened. The centerpoint went offline at almost the exact moment they hit us. We had to switch to the auxiliary systems, which aren't nearly fast enough to track War Machines...”

“The centerpoint?” Forge asked.

“The mainframe of the defensive grid. It's supposed to be something really special-- cooked up by Forge himself, before he turned traitor. I don't know anything else about it; I don't think anybody else does, besides top brass.”

“Hmm.” He nodded. “So... if you had someone who could fix your mainframe, that might...”

“Pound these metal b******s into scrap metal? I had that thought. But who are you going to get who can fix the Maker's work? From what I hear, nobody else even understands it!”

“Huh. By the way, have we been introduced?” The Cheyenne stuck out his hand. “My name's Geronimo. But some people call me Forge.”

Jean thought the whole rotten day might have been worthwhile for the look on Major Lee's face.

****

From the rooftops high above the city, a female figure in a black costume watched their procession pick up speed, following it from street to street, through neighborhoods one after the other, silently urging them on. She knew, if the shortsighted mutant authorities did not, precisely what they'd uncovered in Jean Grey, and her assignment was to see that they didn't screw things up for once. Besides... she figured redheads ought to stick together.

All was going well for a couple of blocks... and then four War Machines buzzed in from overhead. Probably they were in stealth mode and telepathically shielded; although the woman's senses told her they were a threat, the people on the ground didn't seem to have noticed them. From the looks of it, they wouldn't until it was too late. That just wouldn't do.

The woman sighed. “Why couldn't I have been born lucky instead of beautiful?”

She swung into action with a THWIP!

****

On the streets below, Jean Grey's telepathic senses were stretched to their limits seeking other threats, Forge was deep in conversation with Major Lee about what they were going to do when they reached the defensive grid, and Bishop was still a little out of it from having his bell rung in the last fight. They were, in short, ripe for an ambush.

The same could not be said for Laura Kinney, who had almost fully healed and whose instincts were those of a born assassin. She was ready for anything, and angry enough to kill whatever it was, and her enhanced senses would pick up the slightest sight, scent, or sound that indicated something had gone wrong.

THWIP, for example.

Like a dog in the midst of a hunt, X-23 froze and cocked an ear. Something... above her?

*Sniff, sniff.* Something female. Metallic smells, too.

The others forgotten, she looked up. Far overhead, nearly silent to normal senses, the oddest kind of a dogfight was in progress: A figure in black, dodging, spinning, and hopping her way from rooftop to rooftop with four of those damned contraptions on her tail.

“Huh,” said X-23, who really didn't care what happened to strange figures who seemed to be watching her back for no good reason. She took a step after Bishop and the others...

A faint *Zzap* reached her ears, and the figure in black nearly fell as a near-miss clipped her shoulder. X-23 hesitated. On the other hand... well, on the other hand, there was a fight in progress. When she thought about it, that was all the reason she needed.

SHIKT! X-23 buried one set of claws in the wall of the nearest building, then dug the next in above her and pulled herself up, working her way up the wall, with the single claws on her feet keeping her in perfect balance.

*I knew the foot claws would come in handy,* X-23 thought, and kept climbing...

****

THWIP!

The figure in black swung between buildings, attached to one with an effort, then cast another web across the gap behind her and held it tight. *Hey,* she thought, *it worked for the Ewoks.*

“Come on, baby... step into my parlor...”

Sure enough, there came a War Machine, tearing around the corner all alert for threats. Except it wasn't expecting anything so primitive as a web line. She caught the sucker right about at decapitation level-- with luck, its empty metal head would fall right off. With *no* luck, the web line would break and she would go for a little ride. But she'd planned it pretty carefully; she didn't think there was a serious chance of...

*Snap*, went the web line.

“WHOAAAAAAA!!!!” went the girl in black, now swinging over the city beneath the War Machine, her legs kicking at empty air.

*Figures,* she thought. *I come from a long line of unfathomably bad luck...*

Worse news: Another War Machine circled around the first one and came in low, its glowing fists ready to blast her off her web when the first one towed her into its line of fire.

*Of course, this is a new low... did I break a mirror or something?*

The War Machine bore down on her. The woman in black winced.

“Ohhh, I think I know the way out of this! But it's gonna be... REALLY... hard!”

She released the web line and felt the gut-wrenching emptiness beneath her, free-falling over rock-hard concrete... the War Machines buzzed past in opposite directions...

THWIP! She caught the leg of the second one with a web line, and used her momentum to swing in a long arc, up and over and onto its back...

*CRUNCH!* She wrenched its ugly metal head off with her enhanced strength and leaped off again before it crashed and burned...

She cast a web-line in mid-air and caught herself against the metal-and-mirrors surface of the nearest building.

“Score!” she cried when she heard the explosion. “It's another flawless performance for everybody's favorite little high diver-slash-trapeze artist-slash-commando, Mayday Parker, better known as the spectacular... aw, crap...”

This came when she saw the reflection of the first War Machine coming at her from behind. She wondered how the heck she was going to pull off a 180 degree spin and simultaneous double-somersault to get away from it-- not that she had any doubt she'd do it, she just wondered how-- when a pint-sized torpedo fell off the roof, slamming into the War Machine with flashing claws.

SHRRRRAAK!!! and the drone was scrap, its juice running out just in time for it to drop and hit the wall *below* May. She clung to her perch for dear life, then realized the torpedo was still falling.

THWIP! She caught her savior with a webline. When it snapped tight--

“Oof! Heavy! What've you got, metal weights in the butt of that costume?”

“Just a little adamantium,” the other growled.

“Great,” said May, who began working her way up the wall. “You must be X-23. He told me to watch out for you.”

“He?”

“Friend of a friend. Listen, sister, thanks for the save and all, but really... I had it covered. I don't need help from any second-rate Wolverine...”

“I'm not second-rate. I'm better.”

“Well, that's even worse!” May levered herself onto the roof of the building with an effort, then sat there panting while X-23's claws crunched their way up behind her. The other girl didn't even look winded.

“So... come here often?”

X-23 only growled.

May sighed. “Look, I'm sorry, okay? I get cranky when I almost die more than twice in a day. Call me crazy.” There being little need for secret identities in a world where everybody she knew already wanted to kill her, she pulled off her mask, revealing short red hair and brilliant green eyes. “May Parker. People call me Mayday. And you must be...?”

“Leaving,” said X-23, and she turned.

“Sure. Great. Only one problem I see with that, sweetie...”

May pointed over the rooftops, where the other two War Machines were adjusting course, repulsors and dead eyes glowing as they picked up speed for an attack run.

“Those guys still want to dance.”

****

Major Lee pressed herself against a wall across from an 'L' station, took a couple of deep breaths, and held out her open palm. Tiny fireworks jumped off it, almost too small to see. But they could be heard: paff-paff-PAFF!

The group waited a moment. Then they heard it distinctly, from across the way: *click-click-click.*

“Three clicks,” Lee breathed. “Didn't think I'd make it, that time. I am too freaking old for this...”

“Think how old I feel,” said Jean Grey. “I once took you roller blading...”

Major Lee looked at her funny; she'd probably earned the right. She stepped out into the open; a moment later, several ragged mutants emerged from cover in doorways and alleys and through windows.

Lucas Bishop sighed, too. “Those guys're pretty good, huh, X? I didn't even-- X?”

He, Forge, and Jean all did a double-take at the same time.

“Where is she?” Forge demanded.

“I don't-- She was right behind me! Dammit! It's my fault, I was so scrambled...”

“We're all responsible, Lucas,” Jean said. “Everybody take a breath. If there's one thing we know about X-23... in fact, it's practically the only thing we know: She can take care of herself.”

“But what kind of damage will she do out there?” Bishop turned. “I'll go after her...”

“No,” said Jean quietly.

“Jean, come on, she's sixteen. No matter how tough she is, she has no business...”

“It's not that I wouldn't like to, Lucas. I don't think we have a choice.”

Jean nodded to Major Lee, who stood before them with her palms held outward, sizzling with fireworks. Several of her comrades behind her had similar abilities, or-- same difference-- drawn weapons. Behind them all, in the doorway of the train station, he caught a glimpse of purple hair and steely eyes. Psylocke.

“Yeah,” said Jubilation Lee's double, who had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry, Bishop. We kind of insist.”

****

Underground, in a dark room, a bank of computer monitors displayed on the one hand, Jean Grey and her team being led into the train station, on the other, Scott Summers and his team entering the M Building, and on the third hand (assuming one happened to be Doctor Octopus and have a few hands to spare) May Parker and X-23 confronting the War Machines, a powerfully built man with a glowing eye leaned back in his chair and nodded.

“Come into my parlor, said the spider to the... well. I hate to step on people's lines. But it's all coming together... don't you think, Charles?”

He turned: The man behind him had a severe, authoritarian cast to his features that ought to have made him look quite unpleasant, particularly with the gaggle of wires attached to his bald skull like so many leeches feeding on his pent-up telepathic power. But his voice was rich and compassionate and his expression not unkind when he said:

“Nathan, please. This is not the way. I applaud your motivations... even your goals. But you cannot stop violence through further violence. It is ineffective and morally wrong.”

“Says the man who put together an elite mutant strike force to solve his problems.”

Charles Xavier lowered his eyes. “If that is what you believe my X-Men are, then you don't even understand what you're fighting for.”

Nathan Christopher Summers-- the younger, more impulsive version of Cable spawned in this reality-- shrugged off his concern. “This is what works here, Charles. It is the *only* thing that works. If you want a better way.. teach us. That's why I brought you here.”

“It's not that easy!” Xavier said. “I have seen nothing here to make me believe either side would be receptive to a message of peace.”

Cable stood from his chair and paced a little circle around the room. He stopped in front of Xavier. “What if I could prove it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What if I *show* you that it's not too late for us... that we need a man like you desperately. That you can do more good here than in that spoiled paradise where nobody listens to you?”

Xavier sighed. “My world is hardly a paradise... and I still believe my responsibility lies there. However, I do wish to help you, Nathan. Make your arguments-- I give you my word, I shall listen. Only remove these wires first. That would go a long way toward convincing me of your good intentions.”

Cable took a step forward, reached for the wires... then stopped, his glowing eye lending a shrewd aspect to his features. “I'm sorry, Charles. Not yet. You understand... we're not really about the trust around here. With your power, you might overwhelm even me. So much has been staked on this... people have *died*. My parents died.”

Xavier looked away. “I... grieve for you, Nathan. I can only imagine what sort of failures on my part must have led your parents to such a fate... but...”

“But NOTHING!” snarled Cable. Like a snake uncoiling, he lunged and grabbed Xavier by the chin, forcing him to look at the monitors. “You said it yourself, old man. *Your* failures. *Your* mistakes. You're a great man where you come from, Charles, but not here. Here you screwed up. My world needed you. You *are* going to be there for us this time... I promise.”

“Not like this,” said Xavier, setting his jaw.

Cable released him, sighed, and turned. “I'm not going to argue with you, Charles. There's no point in it. You'll see how things unfold. I think you'll play your part. You wouldn't be Charles Xavier if you didn't.”

He walked away, but he still heard Xavier's voice: “And what of your parents, Nathan? What of Scott and Jean? Will you really let them die again... to prove your point?”

Cable froze, startled for a moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head and laughed. “Oh, come on, Charles. You don't think I'd kill my own parents, do you? I'm no traitor. Nobody you saw on those screens is going to die.”

“Then who, Nathan?” Xavier pressed, feeling lost without his telepathy to tell him things. “What are you planning?”

Cable gave him half a smile. Then he reached out telekinetically and touched a control. The center monitor changed its picture. When he saw it, Xavier gasped.

“The key isn't here, Charles. It isn't here at all. The only one who has to die... is that man right *there*.”

Another flick of the switch, and the image froze on a knot of diplomats at a reception. The image came from the Commonwealth of Wakanda, where Gene Nation's Acting Minister of State was shaking hands with newly-restored King T'Challa.

****

Commonwealth of Wakanda

“Minister Ramsey. I thank you for your presence, sir. And may I offer my sincerest condolences on the tragic death of Minister Pryde? The whole world mourns her with you.”

Douglas Ramsey nodded, shook a great man's hand, and tried to smile instead of cry. “Thank you, King T'Challa. I know Kate would be proud to see this day. She tried for a long time to muster support for your cause, but... politics.”

“Indeed,” said the Black Panther, with a knowing expression that was not terribly pleasant. “I believe you have met my chief advisor, St. John Allerdyce?”

Ramsey's expression when he shook hands with the wiry Australian was somewhat more cry than smile. “M'lord St. John.”

“It's just St. John now,” said the former Pyro with a wink. “Or Johnny, if you prefer. I've put aside my former titles and devoted all my energies to helping King T'Challa rebuild my adoptive homeland.”

“Really?” said Ramsey. “Shame you spent so much energy in the past helping Storm tear it down. (* New X-Men #5-6).”

Pyro shrugged. “Well, mate... we all make mistakes.”

“Yes,” said Ramsey. He released the Aussie's hand as though it carried some dread disease, bowed to the king, and stepped away. “Well... I shouldn't monopolize you, Your Highness. I would enjoy the chance to speak to you later, about mutual opportunities for peace.”

“If time permits,” said the Black Panther, and he turned back to conferring with his ally of convenience.

Ramsey hated to leave it there, so as he turned, he called upon his mutant gift for languages, delivering flawlessly a Wakandan proverb that translated to: “When dining with such a hyena as this, make certain you laugh at his jokes... and make doubly certain you don't become one.”

He feared he'd gone too far, but rather than grow angry, T'Challa let out a startled bark of laughter. Apparently he didn't care for Allerdyce, either.

“Eh?” said the advisor. “What's the joke?”

“It... translates badly,” said T'Challa, and he moved on to other guests.

Ramsey and Allerdyce moved in opposite directions. Neither saw the guard with the flash of yellow eyes look between them, grin, and follow after Pyro.

END

In Issue #9: “A World That Hates and Fears”
See the other Eternity series: Uncanny X-Men, GenE, X-Factor, & X-Force, online now!
Up Next: Uncanny X-Men #9: “Hell on Ice!”