X-MEN ETERNITY

Uncanny X-Men #8: “Masks" (Part Two of the Doom Arc)
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 "Uncanny X-Men 1-6: The Slayer" and X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. It is encouraged to read those stories first.

****

“This recording was made one month ago. Our contacts in the underground smuggled it out at great personal cost. I must warn you, it is... disturbing.”

Doomstadt, Latveria
One Month Earlier

“Come on... hurry! It's not much further!” (* translated from Hungarian)

The night was almost totally black, the air infused with a bitter chill. Half a dozen people in tattered, dirty clothes pushed through a knot of pine trees, their breath quick and halting and stopping short with every sound. One of the group had yellow eyes and milky white skin. Another boasted the outline of a tail under its cloak. The others didn't appear out of the ordinary at first glance, but then mutants often didn't.

The one with yellow eyes had the lead; he gestured for the others to halt, just shy of a clearing. His tongue darted out like a snake's, scenting the air.

“What?” said one of the others, a young woman.

He hissed something foul under his breath. “Run. Back the way we came. Quickly-- go!”

They got about four steps. Then the first of them fell under a barrage of futuristic weapons that cooked them where they stood. Somebody screamed. The mutant with the tail unfurled it and took to the trees. He fell off the lowest branch with a hole in his chest.

The yellow-eyed mutant lasted longest. His unusual skin seemed to deflect energy blasts and even small-arms fire. He struggled through the underbrush, pushed his way clear...

A silhouette appeared in his path. He backed away, trembling. The figure raised a weapon. For a moment as he advanced, moonlight reflected off the steel-gray mask he wore...

Westchester, New York
Xavier Institute for Higher Learning

Gathered around a video monitor in the loft formerly belonging to Sage, the latest incarnation of the uncanny X-Men watched the last moments of six mutants' lives with expressions that mixed fascination and horror. Reading from left to right, they were: Alex Summers-- Havok, administrator of the Xavier institute. Bobby Drake-- Iceman, field leader of the new team. Rachel Grey-- Marvel Girl, resident spunky telepath. Kurt Wagner-- Nightcrawler, fuzzy elf still recovering from a forcefield spike through the gut (* The Crossroads). Next to him on the couch, his daughter TJ-- Nocturne, similarly fuzzy elf with an alternate-reality twist. And Wanda Maximoff-- The Scarlet Witch, either the newest X-Man or a recovering lunatic. Smart odds pegged her as both.

Also sharing space in the loft were two outsiders: A tubby little man with a thick mustache named Peter Szabo and his sister Marika, who appeared as a dark-haired woman with lovely green eyes when she wasn't all see-through and sparkly and zapping people with stored-up energy.

Both Szabos hailed from Latveria and spoke with thick, Hungarian-laced-with-German accents characteristic of that nation. Right now, Marika crossed herself and murmured:

“Poor Janos... he was always so careful...”

Peter wrapped an arm around her and hugged her. Havok and the Iceman shared a look.

“How'd you get this?” Bobby asked.

“One thing you can depend upon in Latveria: Something is *always* watching you, even if it's just one of the Master's spying eyes. As I said, we paid a high price for a copy of this record.”

“Can it really be Doom?” TJ asked.

“I felt his return (* last issue),” Wanda said. “I knew... but...”

“Can Sage's equipment enhance this image?” Kurt asked, pointing at the dark space beside the glint of mask. “Can we zoom in on that?”

“Sage's equipment can spin straw into gold, probably,” Rachel said. “Hang on...”

She touched a few buttons. The computer spent a moment chewing on the problem.

While it did, Alex Summers asked: “Why mutants?”

Kurt nodded. A good question. He thought he already knew the answer; when they got the computer enhancement, he'd be certain.

Marika said, “Laszlo went out of his way to find mutants... even brought some in from the neighboring countries.”

“Too many Latverians are sheep,” Peter snarled. “They do not see through Doom's lies.”

“You had no chance of assembling a conventional army, so you went for the big guns,” Alex observed. “A small group of mutants could do a hell of a lot of damage to a country the size of Latveria. Look at how much trouble Nick Fury's little errand caused.”

The two refugees looked uncomfortable, but they didn't say Alex was wrong.

Rachel cleared her throat. “It's ready.”

The dark section of grid sprang into the foreground, focusing into sharper relief. The others were probably expecting the harsh lines of Dr. Doom's mask, but Kurt guessed they would be disappointed, and he was right: The lines revealed by the computer enhancement were organic. Scarred and irregular, but definitely human flesh.

“It's not him,” Bobby said. “It's a guy in a mask, but it only covers half his face.”

“That's Laszlo,” Peter sighed.

TJ peered at the image. “The dude from 'Casablanca?'”

Kurt frowned. His daughter shrugged. TJ wasn't great at maintaining seriousness at the best of times.

“Laszlo Vadász, our leader,” Marika said, eyes still downcast. “His parents were Zorba's lieutenants. When they died, he reclaimed our group from the ashes. He and I were... close.”

TJ quirked an eyebrow. “I guess he's attractive, if you like, y'know, the Michael Myers type...”

This time Kurt elbowed her in the ribs. She winced. Even Nocturne seemed to realize she'd gone too far with that one.

Peter Szabo said, “The man you see on that recording is not the Laszlo we knew. Our Laszlo was captured by Doom, years ago. I was there when it happened. (* last issue) I survived only because my mutation makes my body tissue dense and quick to regenerate.”

“They shot you, but you got better?” Bobby guessed.

Peter nodded. “When I awoke, I found no trace of Laszlo. I thought he was dead-- until this happened.”

“After Doom's death, the remnant of our group broke up,” Marika said. “We built new lives for ourselves-- or tried to. Throughout the squabbling between von Bardas, assorted petty warlords, and your United Nations, we did the best we could. Then, two months ago, we started dying. Former rebels hunted down, killed in the most indescribable manner. Then people who were never rebels... innocent victims, farmers, peasants.. almost all of them secretly mutants.”

“They are butchering us,” Peter said, nodding at the masked man on the video screen. “*He* is butchering us. Our German-speaking population has taken to calling him *der Scharfrichter.*”

“The Executioner,” Kurt murmured. “But what makes you think this is connected to Doom? No matter how he feels about superheros, killing everyday mutants is not his style.”

“He always watched over the Roma,” Wanda added. “He is an evil man, but genocide for its own sake? No, never. He fancies himself too noble.”

“You Americans should be careful what you teach to others,” Peter rumbled. “As you say, we've learned the lesson of your secret war. Reed Richards disassembled much of von Doom's technology. Mutants are the greatest potential power in Latveria now... and Doom will allow no one else to hold power for long.”

“But you have no proof he's even back,” Rachel pointed out.

“We have Laszlo!” Light shone from Marika's face and hands as sudden fury made her lose control. “They took him. They tortured him. It is said that Castle Doom is the place you go to lose your soul. Laszlo lost his long ago. Now he is back, killing von Doom's former enemies with what remains of the Master's technology. What is your expression? Do the math!”

“It does not add up,” Kurt said. He had no doubt something terrible was happening in Latveria; he also had no doubt they were hearing only one side of it.

“Even if you're right, it doesn't necessarily mean the return of Doom,” Alex mused. “He's struck out from 'beyond the grave' before. Doombots, brainwashings... this could just be one of his failsafe plans, gone a little haywire.”

“Let's find out,” Bobby said, hopping out of his seat and icing up on his way to the door. “Everybody make sure your Latverian passports are in order...”

Kurt turned. “So soon? I don't know if we should...”

“Me, neither. But we're not gonna get the answers from a grainy old video. I want to see what we're up against.”

“Ja, so do I, but the new team is not even fully trained together!”

The Iceman winked at him. “This is what we call learning by doing.”

“Bobby, I don't--” He was going to say 'trust these people,' but it would have been very poor manners, what with Marika and Peter Szabo still in the room.

Rachel must have caught a hint of it from his sense, because she telepathically linked the team:

--He's not sure he trusts them. I kinda agree, but then, I don't trust anybody.--

--Are they lying?-- Alex asked.

The lithe redhead frowned, but replied, --No. I haven't detected any outright deceit... but if they're very good, I might not.--

--I'm not saying we trust them,-- Bobby thought. --I wouldn't be checking this out for myself if I trusted them.--

--If it's a trap...-- Kurt warned.

--Sometimes you must spring a trap if you want to know what's behind it,-- thought Wanda. --We should...--

--Who's we?-- Rachel challenged. She wasn't thrilled with trusting *Wanda,* either.

--We,-- thought TJ, who wasn't thrilled that Rachel wasn't thrilled. --As in me, my parents, and a jealous little redheaded...--

--Can you not discuss this over an open telepathic connection?-- Alex suggested. --Some of us so desperately don't want it to be our business.--

TJ looked annoyed, but she seemed to recognize the wisdom there. She backed off, adding only: --Mom can help us.--

--She's right,-- Wanda said. --I know the region better than any of you except Kurt, and he's wounded.--

--No, leibling, absolutely not.-- Kurt ignored the stab of annoyance from Rachel when he used the term of endearment. He'd meant it only in the general sense. --If Doom has returned, the one thing we cannot risk is his getting his hands on you.--

In the wake of the House of M, nobody could deny that made terrific sense. For a moment, they were stymied.

--Pietro, then,-- Wanda suggested; Kurt saw her idealized mental image of her brother. --He can help you.--

--If he will,-- Alex thought darkly.

--He will if we gang up on him,-- thought the Scarlet Witch with some amusement. Nobody else saw the humor.

--It's settled, then,-- Bobby thought. --The team will be me, Pietro, Alex, Rachel, Siryn, and Warpath, as soon as he's able. (* Warpath was kayoed last issue) We'll take the Szabos, too. If there's trouble, it'll land on all of us. Kurt, can you and TJ handle things here?--

--Ja,-- thought the amazing Nightcrawler. --But I still think we're rushing into this.--

--Cool,-- said Bobby, who couldn't quite lose that smart-aleck grin, even as a team leader.

“Well,” said Marika Szabo, “this is awkward...”

The X-Men were suddenly conscious they'd been standing around saying absolutely nothing-- but looking very intent-- in front of their guests.

Peter tried on about half a smile. “It's alright... when we could find a good telepath, we used to hold conferences, too.”

“Are you going to help us?” Marika asked.

“We're going to try,” said Bobby, which was the right answer even if Kurt didn't care for the way he was going about it.

****

Annie Ghazikhanian checked one of the electronic readouts above James Proudstar's bed, nodded slightly, and turned to the redheaded woman sitting beside him:

“Nothing to worry about. He should be coming around soon.”

The woman nodded. Her name was Theresa Rourke Cassidy, code-named Siryn, and not so long ago, she'd been the one unconscious in a hospital bed, while this man-- the tall, strong Apache code-named Warpath, had kept watch over her (* that was UXM #2-4). Now she returned the favor, although his injury wasn't nearly as severe as hers had been. Terry had been deceived and brutally assaulted by the mutant shape-shifter Mystique. James Proudstar had only been knocked unconscious by a bout of Nocturne's psychic possession.

*And is his mind all she possessed?* Theresa knew the junior X-Man was attracted to her old friend, and hadn't really decided whether that bothered her.

For the moment, it didn't seem to matter. It was enough to sit here, undisturbed, and try to make some sense of recent events. Following a tremendously busy day yesterday, (* last issue, and Generation: Eternity #1) the X-teams belonging to Rogue, Wolverine, Emma Frost, and Cyclops had finally departed. After being filled to capacity in the wake of the Slayer incident, the mansion now felt empty as a tomb. Theresa wondered when the next thing would go wrong. One thing she knew-- had ingrained in her from the very beginning, thanks to Black Tom and her father and Cable and Deadpool and all the other chaotic influences in her life: Something else would always go wrong.

When it did, would the new team be up to it? Theresa had her doubts. She wasn't much concerned about the “new” team members-- she knew Jimmy's capabilities and her own, and even Nocturne had her skills-- but the mix of personalities seemed dangerously volatile, the team's leader only slightly less so. And some of the potential conflicts...

Maybe it would get better when Nightcrawler recovered. Besides being one of most experienced X-Men in the group, Kurt Wagner was one of the few people at the mansion everybody seemed to like. Some of them a bit too much.

Theresa thought of Rachel Grey, and smiled. *Two redheads on the same X-team, with all the temper that implies. Anybody with a lick o' judgment ought to know that's going to end badly...*

Speaking of which, here came the man responsible for the whole mess: Bobby Drake, the Iceman, already in his ice form. Theresa tensed, wondering if this meant a fight.

“Our guests not behaving themselves?”

Bobby shrugged. “If you count dropping a giant load of guano in our laps as 'behaving.' Dealing with it as we speak; you up for a trip to Europe?”

“I love Europe! The Louvre, the Parthenon, the Coliseum...”

“I was thinking more like scenic Latveria.”

Theresa's nose wrinkled. “Is it too late to pass?”

“Sorry; you're in.” Bobby glanced around. “Say, have you seen...”

“Jubilee?” Theresa guessed; rumors of the drama between the X-Men's two resident cut-ups (* GenE #1) had already gotten around. “She left an hour ago.”

Bobby hissed. “I wish I'd gotten a chance to say goodbye.”

“Aye, and so I suggested that. She called yeh an ass an' walked out.”

“You could have defended me.”

Terry shrugged. “In fairness, Bob, yeh *are* rather an ass.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” With a visible effort, the team leader shook it off. “Okay, then... how's James?”

She frowned at the sleeping mutant. “Annie says he'll be fine. Give us an hour, an'...”

“I'll give you half an hour. Meet us on the Blackbird.” He tossed over his shoulder on the way out, “An *ass* would have only given fifteen minutes.”

“Aye,” Theresa grumbled, “and so I reckon yeh're only half-assed...”

Bobby slammed the door; the sound must have registered with Proudstar's enhanced senses, because his eyes fluttered. He awoke with a gasp. “What--”

“Easy,” said Terry. She took his hand. “Yeh shouldn't play so rough with th' elf-lass. Yeh gave us a scare...”

He took in Terry's slightly frazzled appearance, and half-smiled. “You were scared?”

“Concerned, if yeh will.”

“Maybe I should concern you more often.”

“Maybe--” Terry caught herself, cleared her throat. “Oh, while yeh were out, we signed yeh up for a jaunt to Latveria.”

Proudstar sat up straight. “Holy crap, why?”

“The food's not bad, and there's a solid chance we might start a war.”

“Oh.” James Proudstar considered, squeezed her hand, and nodded. “Well, that's okay, then.”

****

A little distance from the mansion, a figure in red-and-gold armor slowed to a hover, just above the altitude where any of Sage's gizmos would have picked *him* up. Between Xavier's resources and their dalliances with the Shi'ar, the X-Men boasted excellent tech these days.

Tony Stark's was better. He knew because he'd designed it himself, and he'd thought it might prove very instructive to pay another, quieter call on the Xavier Institute after his unsuccessful run-in with Havok (* last issue). As usual, his instincts proved right.

“...the way we came! Quickly-- go!”

His armor gleaned nothing new in his second run-through of the pirated video, so he set it to work on cleaning up the same image the X-Men had just inspected. What Sage's equipment did in a minute, his biologically-integrated armor did in seconds.

Stark frowned at the image: Not Doom. Latveria, though. From the Hungarian dialect and what it could extrapolate about the topography, his armor was 98.9 percent certain of that.

Secure within the virtual-reality environment that made his Iron Man suit about ten times bigger on the inside, Tony Stark called up another image and hissed. The weapons were Doom's, too.

“Dammit, what are you people doing, screwing around over there?”

He wouldn't have worried about the old X-Men; Cyclops was a sensible man, if a little surly at times. Even Logan knew enough to keep a low profile in a place like Latveria. But this new team... even after years of superheroing, Bobby Drake remained an X-factor (pun not intended, Stark thought ruefully). Alex Summers had impressed him as well-meaning but misguided. Mutants certainly had a right to be touchy these days, but there was a line between 'touchy' and 'unwilling to see reason,' reason in this case being defined as whatever Tony Stark's formidable intellect thought was wise.

By the time his armor reported signs of life from the hangar where the X-Men kept their Blackbird jets, Stark had devised a plan.

He activated his armor's com, a secure channel back to the Avengers' Tower that no technology he knew could decrypt. A woman's voice said: “Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“Maria, I'm going to need a little backup. Have we heard from Spider-Man?”

“No, sir, he and Mr. Cage still haven't checked in. (* for what they might be doing, see the new 'Spider-Man: Eternity') I can have the Sentry there in...”

“No, no,” Stark said. “That's *too* much backup.” He furrowed his brow, considering. “I think we may go outside the team on this. I'd like to speak to Henry Pym.”

When Tony Stark told one of his employees he'd 'like' to do something, that was tantamount to another man's ranting and raving for action. If he'd said he'd like a direct line to the Archangel Gabriel, his secretary would have moved Heaven and Earth to make it happen.

Maria didn't have to work that hard this time. Thirty seconds later, she said: “Mr. Stark? Dr. Pym is waiting to be patched through.”

“Thank you, Maria.”

One of the Blackbirds was definitely powering up. Stark edged closer, feeling only faintly guilty: *We could have worked together on this, Havok. But the political situation in Latveria's a nightmare right now; any missteps could set off sectarian violence like you've never seen. You try to shut us out of something that big, you deserve to be inconvenienced...*

****

“Mutant. Your DNA has been identified and you are not authorized to be in this area. You will halt immediately or SKRAAAAAAK!”

The Sentinel's voice dissolved into a series of broken-record twitters as Pietro Maximoff ran a jagged metal lance through its head at super-speed. Auxiliary control came on=line and it swept an arm at him, but Pietro leaped off the ledge on which he stood and hit the ground running. It would never catch him; nothing ever caught up with the mutant called Quicksilver against his will, except perhaps his conscience.

Another Sentinel was in the air, blasting at Pietro from above. He darted between the beams, moving through a futuristic cityscape too fast for the eye to see or the Sentinel to track. In moments, he'd left it in the dust.

But that wasn't enough for Pietro. He intended to scrap the blasted menace. He opened up his lead on the Sentinel, darting beyond the reach of the thing's sensors, and picked his hiding place-- behind a shed in a complex on the edge of the city.

The waiting was the worst part. Pietro lived in a world inhabited by perpetually slow lummoxes who couldn't even *think* at a decent speed. Bringing himself down to their level was almost physically painful.

After what seemed like a couple of millennia, the Sentinel peeked into view again, still hunting him. The edges of Pietro's mouth turned up in a fierce grin. *Come on, you overgrown toy soldier...*

The Sentinel's sensor sweep caught a hint of his life signs; it turned. “Mutant. Your DNA has been identified and you are--”

Lacking the patience to listen to its spiel again, Pietro darted out from behind the shed. “Come get me, then!”

The Sentinel hovered closer-- closer. Its eyes assumed a particular glow. Charging up for a blast. It raised its hand.

Pietro *moved*. In a blink, he was half a block away from his hiding place-- which was good, because anything less than half a block away was blown to cinders. That was what happened when you applied high-grade military weaponry to a rather large generator. The unfortunate Sentinel had focused on its prey to the exclusion of its surroundings, never even noticing Pietro had led it toward the city power plant. Every light on the city skyline winked out, while Pietro pictured the look on some startled flatscan's face...

“Impressive,” said a voice out of the darkness. “Very impressive, boy. But you still have a lot to learn.”

Pietro turned, shivers racing up his spine. His face contorted with rage. “YOU--!”

The figure approached, tall and strong, crimson cape fluttering behind him, regal features partially obscured by his trademark helmet. Anybody on Earth would have known that silhouette. The Master of Magnetism needed no introduction, particularly to his son.

“This isn't part of the program!” Pietro snarled. “How have you--”

“Did you think those *things* were the darkest fears in your brain? I am sorry to disillusion you.”

Magneto raised his hand, and a steel girder ripped itself out of a nearby building, cutting through the air like a giant baseball bat swinging for the fences.

CRASH! Pietro darted out of its way before it crushed him, but another appeared to take its place. Then another and another...

“Come on, boy!” the father laughed. “You'll have to do better than that!”

“All right,” Pietro said. “I WILL!”

In the timeless language of roadrunner cartoons, what happened next could be described as “Meep Meep-- ZOOM!” followed by an anvil crashing down on Wile E. Coyote's head. Except Pietro had in mind a few words for his tormentor that would most assuredly not be appropriate for children's television, and the anvil-- kind of fell in the other direction.

Pietro darted between spinning shards of metal to reach his father, only to be propelled backward by a wave of pure magnetic force. It slammed him to the ground and pushed the air out of his lungs, crushing him, just like on Genosha... Pietro was allowed enough motor control to lift his head slightly, to see the caped figure striding toward him, leering, mocking him with its laughter.

“Too easy,” Magneto said. “And now, child, before we end this game, haven't you any last words for Daddy?”

“I hate you!” Pietro snarled-- short and to the point. “You are evil, and you have made me evil, too!”

That only caused Magneto to laugh harder. “Oh, no, my son, I have never been evil. Evil requires a selfish component, and you must admit, I am never that. All the terrible things I did-- I have always thought them necessary, for the good of our people. I believe in what I've done, Pietro. What about you? Do you really believe in being a hero? Or was your vaunted reformation nothing but a way to pay me back? Speak quickly, boy; you don't have a lot of time.”

A metal weight floated into position over Pietro's head, ready to smash down and crush his skull. Pietro struggled and kicked and fought-- but all his speed was no match for this man's raw power.

Even Pietro's words sounded weak, petulant: “Don't you think you deserve to be paid back? Someone has to atone for your mistakes!”

Magneto's eyes flashed. “Your concern for my soul is noted, but I've no need of it! Atone for your *own* sins, boy! Even I never hurt Wanda as you did!”

“I tried to protect her!” Pietro protested for the thousandth time. “Someone has to--”

“But you can never protect her--” The voice emanating from within the helmet became different, softer, and Pietro saw that the eyes peering out of it were his own. “--from *us*!”

The weight crashed down; Pietro couldn't even lift his arms to shield his face. Even *falling* didn't happen fast enough for his brain; he must have had a century to watch his death's approach...

Then the world exploded into a billion colors, and he gasped.

Pietro found he was sitting in a chair, hooked up to hundreds of wires, bathed in sweat and shivering. Something was in front of his face-- a pair of VR goggles, clutched in the hand of his old team leader, Havok.

“Summers,” he growled. “Didn't Dr. McCoy say something about potential brain damage if the VR sequence was interrupted without warning?”

“Did he?” Alex said mildly. He nodded toward a video screen. “I think your brain has enough trouble. I saw everything on the monitor-- this is not healthy, Pietro. And if you had *any* idea what kind of a screwed-up family life I'm using for comparison, you would comprehend the weight of that statement.”

Pietro extracted himself from the VR hookup, shrugging out of the heavy vest that held him in place. “Blame yourself, then. I wouldn't have to train in my own mind if you people still had a proper Danger Room.”

“Yeah, we'll fix that some weekend. I just have to run out to the Seven-Eleven and pick up a new Shi'ar hard-light microprocessor...”

Pietro stood and stretched tired muscles-- it really *had* felt real, from beginning to the end. Whatever one could say about Henry McCoy, the man was a full-on genius and master of improvisation.

There remained some doubt in everyone's mind how much of the House of M had been Wanda's fault, how much Pietro's, and how much due to the Slayer. There was probably blame to go around. Wanda had the excuse of being mentally unstable, the Slayer of being, well, evil incarnate. But Pietro...

The X-Men didn't feel right releasing him, and didn't know how to bring him to justice for a crime they couldn't even prove had been committed. For the time being, then, he was on a kind of house arrest while they made up their minds. Pietro understood that-- he rather blamed himself, too-- but had protested he'd go insane with *nothing* to do. So the ever-thoughtful Beast had rigged up a training simulator. Apparently he still had to work some kinks out-- it wasn't supposed to channel Pietro's nightmares.

But it had channeled them, and displayed them in Technicolor for all the world's amusement. To Alex, Pietro snapped, “My thoughts are none of your concern.”

“Are they mine?” said a new voice. Wanda, standing in the doorway behind Alex. Pietro flushed crimson.

“I-- you weren't meant to-- *I* didn't mean to--”

“Ah, Pietro, you must not blame yourself.” Wanda entered the room and took his hands, squeezing them hard. “You are *nothing* like him.”

“You're wrong,” he said. “I am very much my father's son.”

“And your mother's. And our foster parents'. So many people helped raise us. Were they all evil, Pietro? Am I? None of us is shaped by just one man.”

“No.” He frowned at the image on the monitor, his own eyes glaring from Magneto's face. “But we can be broken by one.”

“I've been to that place,” Alex said. “I've been closer to the edge than you probably know. You only have to take one step back at a time.”

Pietro narrowed his eyes. “You want something.”

“Who, us?”

Wanda touched her brother's cheek. “They... *we* need a little help. Dr. Doom may be...”

“Oh, by all means.” Pietro pushed away from her. “Let's go back to saving the world twice a week. Then we can destroy it again and start all over!”

“As I see it, dearest, it's either that or...” Wanda nodded toward the video monitor, “this.”

“What makes you think they're not the same?”

Even as he spoke, he knew he'd agree to whatever they wanted. Anything was better than boredom... even the image on the screen. Blue eyes stared in accusation at Pietro Maximoff, and he stared right back. Perhaps he wasn't like Magneto... but he knew very well Magneto had once been like *him*.

****

“Take care of yourself, James,” Talia Josephine Wagner hugged her friend Warpath for perhaps half a second longer than was really appropriate. Theresa Cassidy was already in the Blackbird, so she didn't catch any flack for it. “Come home safe.”

James Proudstar grinned and winked at her. She waited for him to board the jet, for the thing to raise up on its haunches, and for the deafening noise of its engines to fade into the distance before turning to her father-- or the closest thing she had to one in this dimension.

“Just wait 'till you're feeling better. Then *we'll* get to do the fun stuff and they can stay home.”

Kurt made a face. “TJ, this will not be fun. They're likely to provoke a confrontation with the most dangerous man in the world.”

“Right. I should have said *mega*-fun.” Then she noticed the serious look on Nightcrawler's face. As they walked back through the hangar, she said, “You really think Bobby's wrong?”

“Who can say? He made a call. I'm probably worrying too much.”

“You didn't think so during the conference. You could have--”

Kurt's yellow eyes peered at her. “TJ, there is a time and place to express our doubts and a time and place to trust.”

“Huh.” They walked in silence for a moment. “I've gotta say, you don't often remind me you're not the same as my father, but this is kind of an eye-opener.”

“Oh?”

TJ shrugged. “Well, it's just... by the time I became an X-Man, Dad and Uncle Logan had been running the team for a long time. I guess I'm used to you being a little more... commanding.”

“Ah, but did he have my boyish charm?” Kurt laughed; then he sobered. “Perhaps it's better if you do remember the differences between us.”

Now it was the younger Wagner's turn to look a little hurt. Kurt had never seemed to mind his sudden fatherhood, and it made TJ feel more at home. “Well, sure, if you...”

“Ach, do not misunderstand me. I could not care more for you if you were my own. But this thing with me and Wanda...”

“What about you?” TJ asked, too casually.

“You have not been subtle about pushing us together.”

“What? Whoa! No, you're totally-- that's just so--” TJ sighed. “C'mon, you're *great* together! Not just in my world... here, too! Look at the way she backed you at the conference!”

“Because we have a similar heritage and understanding of Doom,” Kurt replied. “*Not* because we are in love. It's simply not going to happen here.”

“Fine.” TJ stuck out her lower lip, sulking. After a moment's silence, she couldn't resist: “But WHY NOT?!”

She'd spoken a little too loudly. Kurt reflexively looked around for students, before remembering they were all in Massachusetts. He still blushed beneath his fur.

“Because,” he said in a whisper, “it's... things are different. If Wanda were not so troubled, if I were not...”

“What? Involved with Rachel? Are you really, Dad? Honest, now. Is anything going to happen there?”

“I... ach, I don't know!” He tossed up his hands. “TJ, you're asking a lot of questions that none of us are ready to answer...”

“Well, maybe they *should* be asked.” She stopped in her tracks, making Kurt turn and look at her. “Y'know, if you loved Rachel, that'd be one thing. It'd be an icky thing, but I could understand it. But you don't want to pursue her, either!”

“What if I don't?” Now Kurt sounded annoyed. “I have the right not to pursue *anyone!*”

“Sure... except it's not what you want.” TJ shrugged. “Even Red's not stubborn enough to wait forever. I *know* Mom won't. If you're happy like this, fine. But if you're not-- and I know you, you're not-- then you might have to move off the middle ground and take a chance!”

“I'm done talking about this,” Kurt said, and turned.

“I'm not going away,” TJ said, just before he was out of earshot.

“I do not want you to. But remember, it is *my* life. Not his.”

“Yeah, I know. And I can pretend to ignore it. I can even stop calling you 'Dad' if you want. But I can't stop remembering what you are... you're not just a follower, Kurt, and you're not some broody gargoyle who can never find happiness. You're a leader, you're the life of the party, you're one of the greatest X-Men of all. I know that because I've *seen* it.

“I also know that most people never find out what they could have been. Nobody knows that better than an Exile, and I don't want it to happen to you. If you want your happy ending... fight for it!”

The two stood a little distance apart, regarding each other, both stubborn. Funny, Kurt had always assumed the stubborn came only from her mother's side. But then, there was a little Mystique in them both...

He nearly cracked a smile. “You may be right in what you say, TJ. I think... it's good for me, having you here. Sometimes I need a little push. But I must also ask that you respect my privacy.”

“I can do that,” she said, “Kurt.”

“Don't talk to your father that way,” he said, and they both grinned.

****

In the cockpit of the Blackbird, Rachel Grey was also wishing that the team assignments might have been a little different. Leaving Kurt and Wanda alone didn't bother her. Leaving them together with TJ didn't bother her, so long as Rachel was around to keep an eye on the pointy-eared troublemaker. Leaving the whole von Trapp family at the mansion while Rachel got to jaunt off and poke a stick in Doctor Doom's eyehole, that... was a little troubling, to say the least.

“Eyes front, Ray,” Alex Summers murmured from the seat beside her. “We've got a mission.”

“I know,” Rachel sighed. A family story clicked in her mind. “You and Bobby used to fight over Lorna, didn't you?”

“All the time.”

“Did you ever have to leave them alone together?”

Alex scratched at his chin. “A couple of times.”

“Any trouble?”

“Well, obviously the good guys won out,” said her uncle, his eyes assuming a far away cast. “Just... check your underwear drawer when you get home. Bobby used to freeze mine solid.”

Rachel shivered. “Ouch...”

“You have no idea.”

Speak of the Iceman and he will appear-- Bobby Drake shouldered his way to the front of the cockpit. He mock-glared at Alex. “Have you been telling stories about me?”

“Only the true ones,” Alex said with a wink.

“But those are the *worst!*” Bobby protested. He laid a hand on Rachel's shoulder. “Plus, you're only giving her your side! Did he tell you about the time he melted me?”

Rachel blinked. “Sorry?”

“I had a date with Lorna...”

“It wasn't a date!” Alex snapped, annoyed even years after the fact. “It was a meal. A pity meal.”

“Sure. I pitied her, spending all that time with you.” Bobby gave an elaborate shrug. “Somebody had to show the girl how to have fun.”

“Ordering burgers out of a speaker shaped like a clown's mouth isn't fun.”

“It was a bucket of chicken!” Bobby protested. Deliberately snubbing Alex, he turned to Rachel: “Once we got home, *somebody* realized he could release low-level thermal radiation into the room and cause me to...”

“Melt?” Rachel prompted.

“At the most inconvenient times.” Their team leader winced with the memory. “My pride recovered, but that couch was never the same.”

Rachel frowned at her uncle. “That was mean.”

“Yes,” Alex agreed gravely, “yes it was. I was really proud of myself that day.”

“Excuse me,” said Pietro Maximoff from a few seats down, “I hate to interrupt this charming banter, but is there any chance we'll get to kill something soon?”

“Just hang onto your seat,” Bobby told him. “You'll get your chance.”

A couple of hours later, they did. It was dark when they approached Latverian airspace; Rachel was dozing in the copilot's seat and Theresa Cassidy had the controls. Suddenly the radio crackled to life with a string of consonant-heavy words. German, maybe, or Hungarian. Terrific.

Peter Szabo struggled toward the front. “He's saying--”

“Yeah, I know, I can get it from your mind.” Rachel hissed. “Dammit! They're telling us to change course or face the consequences...”

“They shouldn't have seen us yet!” Theresa said. “I was careful! This jet's supposed to be--”

“You are dealing with von Doom's technology,” Peter said. “Even the remnant of it is... formidable.”

The man on the radio threatened some more. Again Rachel ripped the translation from their guest's brain-- no time to be gentle. “Guys, we have ten seconds.”

“Out of the chair,” Alex Summers said, taking the controls from Theresa. “Ray, telepathic cloak. I want us psi-dark.”

“If they're tracking us technologically, that won't do a lot of good.”

“Well, do what you can.”

Theresa was still looking around for a new seat when Bobby tapped her on the shoulder. “Plan B.”

“I'm ready if you are.”

“Just keep them busy,” Bobby told her, and cranked open the hatch.

“Terry!” James Proudstar shouted into the suddenly howling wind, but then the Siryn had bailed and the door was closed again. Dimly, through the blackbird's armor, came the sound of her sonic scream.

“Alex--” Bobby said, hustling forward.

“On it,” said his rival. Lightning flashed, suddenly illuminating the landscape as they circled around, allowing Theresa to catch up and then overtake the jet. For a moment, she had the skies to herself. Then Rachel said...

“Picking up a signal-- they've locked onto her!”

“Bobby, what the hell--” Warpath thundered.

“Sit down and shut up!” the Iceman snapped. “Alex, it's all you, man...”

“Stop pressuring me!” Alex growled.

“I was supporting you!”

“Sounded like pressure!” He took a deep breath. “Here it comes...”

The sky lit up again, this time with noise and smoke and light as a dozen different weapons systems zeroed on Theresa. She was considerably smaller than the targets they were designed to destroy. Flipping, spinning, and looping through the air, she avoided everything from anti-aircraft fire to laser blasts to a couple of things that couldn't be identified... and Alex brought the jet along right in her wake, allowing Siryn's passage to barely disrupt their opponent's aim.

At that, they probably shouldn't have gotten through. If they'd been visiting Latveria in its heyday, with Doom in control and at the height of his technological prowess, they wouldn't have come close. Between Reed Richards' attempts to disarm the country and the infrastructure recently destroyed, this was far from the heyday. The Blackbird got within half a mile of its targeted landing zone.

Then Theresa's cape caught the slightest gust of wind she hadn't accounted for; her sensor silhouette jittered the tiniest bit.

“No--” Rachel said. Warpath shouted something without words.

A line of brilliant tracers streaked through the sky and bit into Siryn's right side.

--ARGH!-- Pain blossomed in her mind, and Rachel felt it with her. Terry stopped screaming and fell, dazed. Rachel did what she could to steady her, to keep her coherent. She didn't feel Terry's life ebbing, so if she didn't crash and break every bone in her body, she might be okay...

Rachel didn't get the chance to find out. Having suddenly lost his guide, Alex punched the accelerator, trying to squeeze the Blackbird through a narrowing window of opportunity--

One of the electronic readouts emitted a solid, strident squeal. Tone lock.

“Ah, he--” Alex began, but the sudden BOOM! cut off the rest.

****

Wanda Maximoff fluffed her pillow for the third time, tossed it down on the bed in the Infirmary, and threw her head back as though she hoped for a concussion that would finally put her to sleep. No luck there, either. Her eyes opened and she stared out into darkness, focusing on nothing in particular, simply... alone.

*What was it Nietzsche said?* She half-recalled the line: *If you stare into the abyss long enough, it will stare back at you.*

Her entire life lately had been staring into the abyss. Futures, Universes, realities... Wanda Maximoff had held fate itself in her hand, and found it to be more trouble than it was worth. So much thinking, choices and patterns half-remembered... it exhausted her, yet it did not lend herself to a good night's sleep. She could not even express the things she'd seen, had utterly failed to relate them in physical terms, yet they unsettled her to the core of her being. Wanda doubted she would ever sleep soundly again.

Then she realized two yellow eyes were staring back at her, their owner all but invisible in the element that had given him his name.

“Oh--!” she said, and sat up, pulling her blanket up over her nightgown. “Kurt, I-- you startled me...”

Kurt Wagner came a little closer; still Wanda's eyes could barely pick him out, but at least she knew he was there. “Forgive me. I wished only to check on you. You really should allow us to fix up one of the bedrooms. Then you wouldn't have strange-looking men wandering in and out.”

Wanda smiled. “Not so strange. Thank you, no, I... when my powers fail me (* as last issue), it is better to be here. I don't wish to endanger you all, you've been so kind.”

Kurt shrugged. “That is the trademark of this place... of Herr Professor Xavier's vision. It is a refuge for the hopeless.”

“Is that what I am?” Wanda kept the words gentle, to show he'd given no offense. “You all seem to love it so.”

“It is... easier here than in the world. I often think it gives us a false sense of security. But without that security, we could not do what we do.” Kurt looked troubled; then the storm cloud passed. “Can't sleep?”

She shook her head. “Just... overtired.”

“I know this feeling.” He perched on the edge of the bed, strange eyes still intent. “I remember after they killed the Morlocks... I was injured, most of the team gone... as I recovered I lay there, and I would not close my eyes. There were children in the tunnels... slaughtered by Sabretooth and men like him. No one ought to die like that... and by the hand of their fellow mutants. I understand... have always understood why humans fear me. I will never understand what we've done to ourselves. It was many months before I was able to...” He shook himself. “Ach, but why am I talking like this? I am sure you didn't need to hear me ramble...”

“No, it's alright,” Wanda said. Almost unconsciously, she reached out to him. His hands were so strange... “It helps to remember... we all have our nightmares.”

“Something like that.” Kurt looked away. “I spoke with TJ earlier...”

“She is a wonderful girl.”

“I think so.” The elf looked uncomfortable for a moment. “You mustn't mind her attempts at matchmaking...”

“I don't,” Wanda smiled. “To tell you the truth, she makes me wonder what might have been.”

“Do you think it really could have?”

It seemed to be an honest question, so Wanda gave an honest answer: “Well, I always thought you were wonderfully... mysterious...”

Without meaning to, she inched closer to him. At this distance, Kurt didn't look so strange at all. Wanda was suddenly very conscious of the temperature of the room-- a little too warm-- and her heart thudding in her chest...

And then the alarm screaming in her ears. VREEEE-OOO- VREEE-OOO- VREEE-OOO!

“What?” she drew back with a start.

“Stay here!” Kurt leaped off the bed and-- BAMF!-- was gone before he hit the floor

Wanda appreciated his concern, but utterly ignored his command. She ran from the infirmary, relieved that she wouldn't have to try to sleep...

****

BAMF!

Kurt reappeared in Sage's loft, wondering if he loved or hated that alarm for going off when it had. He honestly hadn't meant to get too close to Wanda when he went to the Infirmary-- but he couldn't sleep thinking about the rest of the team in danger.

Granted that the pain ripping through his gut every time he tried to 'port provided Kurt a vivid reminder of the reasons he'd been left behind, he still felt guilty. And, he grudgingly admitted, perhaps TJ's words weighed heavy on his mind. Either way, he needed a friend. Considering he and Wanda had a twenty-year-old daughter, he thought it was long past time they knew each other better.

Now all such thoughts were forgotten, as the man called Nightcrawler hurried to the source of the alarms to find... a knot of chewed-up wires?

Kurt released the breath he'd been holding; that was all it was, a minor equipment problem. Probably for the best, since he wasn't in fighting condition. It must have been caused by a rat or--

Something tiny scurried from the scene of the crime. Then another something, and another. Kurt frowned, hesitated, then stomped on one. Vaguely disgusted, he held it up to the light.

Ants?

Something tickled on his ankle, then his leg. Kurt frowned down. *More* ants. Dozens, in fact, then hundreds swarming out of the damaged sections. The room was covered with them...!

Someone flicked on the light. Kurt groaned as he turned...

“Doctor Pym, I presume?”

From the doorway, the slightly reluctant ex-Avenger known variously as Yellowjacket, Giant-Man, and Ant-Man (depending on which way his particles happened to be spinning that particular week) offered him a sheepish smile: “Nightcrawler. This is awkward...”

“Not nearly so awkward as it's going to be, mein herr.”

Kurt took a step forward and-- BAMF!

****

“Owww...” Rachel Grey groaned, stretched, then inhaled sharply when she realized she'd probably broken her arm. A string of impolite words later, she groaned, “That's the *last* time I fly coach...”

“Shh,” said her uncle from the seat beside her. Alex Summers remained alert and uninjured, which at a glance put him ahead of most of the other heroes aboard the Blackbird. He was watching something intently. Before Rachel could ask what it was--

BOOM! Something blew the doors in. A couple of men bearing rifles hurried inside. Rachel took exception, the Phoenix emblem appearing over her eye...

Then she saw who they were escorting. A heavy *clank* of armored boot on metal announced his approach, and then he turned with a swirl of cape, seeming to stare *through* her from the cold black eyes of his fabled mask.

“X-Men,” he boomed, “your uninvited presence constitutes a grave offense to the Latverian people. However, we shall overlook it for a time. You shall know our full hospitality until you have recovered... and until we have explained how you may be of service to Doom.”

END

In Issue #9: Hell on Ice!
See the other Eternity series: New X-Men, X-Force, X-Factor, & GenE, online now!
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