X-MEN ETERNITY

X-Factor #7: Apocalypse Then! (Part One of "Signs of Apocalypse")
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. This is also partly a work of historical fiction; all characters are either fictitious or used fictitiously, and no infringement or insult is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place after "X-Factor #1-6" and X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. It is encouraged to read those stories first.

*****

PREVIOUSLY IN "X-FACTOR: ETERNITY"

An alternate ending to the House of M scattered the X-Men across five timelines and resulted in the creation of the reality-hopping villain Slayer. One team awoke in the American Civil War of Reality 915, where they accidentally changed history at the Battle of Bull Run.

Feeling responsible for the damage done to this timeline, Rogue leads her team back into the past to right wrongs as X-Factor, minus two heroes lost in battle with the Slayer: Warren Worthington, the Angel, and Jonothon Starsmore, Chamber...

*****

Autumn 1861
Alternate Reality #915
Approaching Wilmington, North Carolina

The deck creaked and swayed beneath Raphael Semmes' feet as he scanned the horizon for the first hint of trouble, a singular figure sporting commander's bars and a black mustache, ever alert. That was the trick for a blockade runner-- spotting trouble before it spotted you.

These days, trouble had a sharp eye. Semmes' ship, the C.S.S. Sumter, was fast gaining a reputation as one of the most successful Confederate commerce raiders in the business. If any one of the Union warships making up Lincoln's damnable blockade should spot her, so close to the Carolina coast... well, it would be quite the feather in her skipper's cap to catch the infamous ship, and it would absolutely make his career to sink her.

Semmes gave a tight smile. Let them try. They wouldn't be the first Yankees to engage the Sumter-- most of the others had learned the folly of it, along with a good number of merchant vessels.

Semmes had meant to teach a few more before returning home, but he'd been interrupted at their last port by a mysterious, swarthy stranger offering a proposition Semmes-- and the Confederacy, already knocked back on its heels by the unanticipated defeat at Bull Run (* X-Factor #1)-- could not refuse. He offered to pack the Sumter's cargo hold with gold, supplies, and munitions desperately needed by her fledgling nation. In return, the ship had only to transport one other item, and that not to be opened under any circumstances. Accepting the deal made Semmes feel like a common smuggler, but refusing would have made him a traitor and a fool. He agreed to transport the cargo, but he remained puzzled.

While the fellow was loading his cargo, paying special attention to the item-- a large, stone slab resembling nothing so much as a sarcophagus-- Semmes had sought him out and attempted to get some answers. What could be in there, so valuable that the stranger would pay ten times the value of the ship itself to get it safely to the Americas? But the man would not answer.

Semmes had grabbed his shoulder, been brushed off easily as a child. The man's collar slid down, revealing something-- an odd tattoo-- on his neck. But he shrugged the collar back into place before Semmes could get a good look at it.

"Wait!" the naval officer said. "Wait... please. I do not understand this. With such resources at your disposal, why come to me?"

"Because, Commander," the man said, grinning, "you're the best."

Semmes grunted, didn't know whether to be flattered or suspicious. "In whose judgment, sir?"

"History's," said the stranger, and he walked away.

Semmes still thought over the exchange, and still didn't like it. A devout Catholic and zealous advocate of the white-supremacist Confederacy, he disliked taking orders from what he considered a heathen, let alone allowing such to dictate his cargo without explanation. But what could he do? Politics made strange bedfellows. War made stranger ones.

He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun off the water and swept them across the horizon. No unfriendly sails, no hint of trouble, not yet. It would come. No need to hurry it. Semmes took a deep breath and tried to relax.

Beneath his feet, imagined but unseen, the gray sarcophagus lurched from side to side with the rocking of the ship, as though it, too, were biding its time.

****

Richmond, Virginia

Remy LeBeau stepped out onto the street and exhaled a cloud of steam. The night felt unseasonably chilly. People said Virginia was warm but to Gambit, a native of steamy Louisiana, anything that wasn't summerlike was too damn cold. The news he'd just received from Guillaume, their Thieves' Guild contact in the 19^th Century, didn't warm him up one bit.

He got only a few steps and still hadn't decided what to say to the others when a young blonde appeared at his side, forcing the issue. Paige Guthrie, the metamorph called Husk, was presently the shakiest member of Rogue's new incarnation of X-Factor, the X-Men who had returned to the past of Reality 915 to set right their mistakes.

Unfortunately, not *all* of them had returned. Losing her lover, Warren Worthington, and one of her dearest friends, Jonothon Starsmore, all at once (* see The Crossroads) had been a crippling blow, but Paige soldiered on in a manner that was either admirable or psychologically unhealthy in the extreme. Either way, Remy hadn't been thrilled about her refusal to take a leave of absence, but according to Rogue, sometimes you had to let a gal work through things in her own way. Rogue would know.

“So what'd he say?” Paige asked. “Are we in business?”

Remy sighed. “Not here. People been askin' too many questions 'bout de strange group of folk been bustin' up this city. Quel surprise, eh?”

Paige shrugged. “They're gettin' bent out of shape about a couple of buildings? They oughta see what the Fantastic Four would do to this place...”

“Don' take it personal, cher. We just a bit ahead of our time.” Remy looked both ways and waited for a horse to cross the street. He did not think he would be getting used to that scent soon. “Same story in New Orleans. Guillaume thinks it's best we disappear for a while.”

“Disappear... like to where?”

Remy winked at her, his red eyes barely visible in the dimness. “Dey tell me out west is de place fo' an enterprising young mutant in this century.”

“The West?” Paige blinked. “You mean like with Indians? Um, Native Americans?”

“Best stick to 'Indians' here, petit,” said Remy. “Mebbe you noticed de Confederacy lackin' in what we call political correctness.”

“Fair enough,” Paige grunted. “But what're we gonna do out West? We're supposed to be keepin' track of the War.”

“Nothin' big supposed to happen on this front fo' a while, according to Sam. We keep an ear to de ground. Meanwhile, Guillaume got some ideas, an' he gonna pull de strings, so we be set up when we get there...”

The girl's nose wrinkled. “I don't trust him.”

“Good. Suggest you trust dat ol' fox 'bout one notch less than you trust me.”

A beat passed. Paige's comeback should have been quicker. Gambit noticed.

“You oughta know we trust you, Remy.”

“Yeh. Ought to break dat nasty habit, petit.” He laughed. Paige didn't. Remy stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Paige said stiffly. “Great. Don't ask, actually.”

“Too late.” He squeezed her arm. “Anytime you want to go home, you say de word. You don' always got t'be so strong.”

“Got nothin' to do with strength.” She still wouldn't look at him as they moved through the streets. “You met my momma, right, Remy? There's nobody stronger than her. But there's a little piece of her that died and got buried with my daddy, an' she won't ever get it back. I'm scared it'll hurt forever like that, and more scared it won't, 'cause Warren deserves to be remembered.” She shivered. “I'm glad Sam's here. I don't think I could do this without him. Don't tell him that.”

“Secret's safe wit' me, petit.” Remy paused at a street corner. The rest of the team was supposed to be waiting outside the city. “We best bed down for de night, get a fresh start in de morning, non? I'll tell Rogue...”

“You wait here,” Paige said, stepping forward. “I'll send her the message.”

Remy made a face. Things had been odd between him and Rogue since she'd made a deal to amp up her powers for use against the Slayer (* in X-Factor #5), but this was ridiculous.

“How she expect to run this team if she won' talk to me?”

“It's not like that, Remy,” Paige said, clasping his shoulder. “I think she's just having one of her bad nights...”

****

Lightning flashed as Dr. Cecilia Reyes climbed the little hill, illuminating a solitary figure atop it. The figure neither turned nor stirred at Cecilia's approach, just stared off into the distance while her cloak whipped about her in the wind. Cecilia worried about that girl. Somebody had to, since the lady called Rogue did everybody else's worrying for them.

Cecila stopped beside her, caught a glimpse of the white streak in Rogue's long hair, disheveled by the wind. She held out a hand and caught the first drops of rain as they fell.

“This your doing?” Cecilia asked quietly.

Rogue laughed once-- snorted, really. “You mean, am I channelin' Storm? Sorry, Doc. This one's just Ma Nature pitchin' a hissy fit.”

“Good,” said the doctor. “I have it on good authority that things get scary when you start manifesting multiple powers.”

“How 'bout when I'm manifesting extra minds?” Rogue hissed; Cecilia noticed her fists, tightly clenched at her sides. “Dammit. I'd like to kill that nasty ol' swamp rat. I been out of my head ever since I went to see him.”

Cecilia shrugged. “I wouldn't exactly say I told you so, but... hell with it. I told you so.”

Rogue turned just enough to glare at her. “Yeah, I know. It didn't work, an' then the Slayer used it against us an' it blew up in my face. (* X-Factor #5-6). I had to try somethin', Ceci. I'm supposed to be in charge.”

Cecilia shuffled her feet. “Y'know, Rogue... my first couple of months as a resident, I took everything pretty seriously. I couldn't get past the idea that lives depended on me, so I had to do everything *perfect.* You know what my patients got out of that? An uptight, surly doctor who didn't listen to them. I had to screw up a few times before I figured out how to deal.”

Rogue grunted. “Says you. I made a career out of screwin' up.”

“You know that's not true.” The doctor patted her friend on the shoulder. “Bottom line, Rogue, the worst that can happen is, we all die horribly. No big thing. Trust me, I've been dead, I know.”

That got her a genuine laugh, though a small one. “Yeah, yeah, we all been dead. Ceci... call me Anna, huh?”

“Sure,” said Cecilia. “I know you're pretty private, so... I'm honored.”

“Well, it ain't such an honor. I'm just afraid if nobody uses my name, I'll forget it.”

A long roll of thunder punctuated that remark. Cecilia glanced across, trying to read her. “That bad?”

“Hell.” Flash of lightning. Cecilia wondered if those tracks on Rogue's cheeks were raindrops or tears. “It's like I'm the tip of the iceberg. Sometimes I think I'm Carol Danvers again. Most of the time, I'm just the Rogue, an' that ain't nobody. I just remember bein' people. Whatever Guillaume put in me... I don't know how to get it out, an' I don't know how long I can ride herd on it.”

“You should talk to Remy.”

“Not now. Just makes it harder. Sometime, when I got control again, I'll make it up to him.”

Cecilia frowned. “You just said you didn't think you could get control.”

“Yup. Ain't that a kick in the head?”

With a sad little smile, Rogue turned and walked away. Cold rain poured down on Cecilia Reyes; she let it wash over her for the longest time.

****

Jamie Madrox sat in the corner of a darkened Richmond tavern, wishing he could duplicate the money in his pocket as easily as his body-- he could have bought drinks for the house, and more importantly, enough drinks of his own to quench his thirst.

Madrox was exhausted; he hadn't done so much walking since his youth, back on the farm. He'd been making the rounds of the city in search of his friend Guido Carosella, “Strong Guy,” who was supposedly trapped somewhere in this misbegotten past. (* see X-Factor #6 and The Crossroads) No luck so far; if Guido was here, he was keeping a low profile... which, for Guido, would have been somewhat remarkable. So Madrox and his friend Rahne Sinclair, the latest additions to X-Factor-- a team which, Madrox was quick to note with good-natured bad humor, had stolen his agency's name-- were left with a wild goose chase.

Of course, Rahne being a werewolf, she might enjoy the taste of wild goose-- if they could only catch it.

Madrox heard a familiar voice; his ears perked up.

“The city's so quiet,” Rahne said as she approached. “'Tis a wee bit disconcerting.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sam Guthrie-- Cannonball-- Rahne's old teammate from the New Mutants. “They're hunkered down for a fight... assuming it ever comes.”

“True, tha'. What th' devil's keeping yuir famous bluecoats? Anyone can see it's the time to attack!”

Madrox had to smile. When they'd returned to the past just recently, Rahne's knowledge of the Civil War had extended as far as “Roundheads and Cavaliers” (which, the others were quick to point out, hailed from an entirely different Civil War). After a couple of days under Sam's tutelage, she was arguing the finer points of 19^th Century American warfare like a veteran.

Sam, the voracious reader who possessed more actual knowledge about the War than the rest of them put together, only shrugged. “Near as I can tell from the papers, General McDowell keeps dancin' somewhere between Washington an' Richmond. He was pretty much a nonentity in the original timeline-- 'till we handed him a victory at Bull Run (* in X-Factor #1)-- so I reckon he'll wash out 'fore long. Most of these Union generals do.”

“That'd be grand, though,” Rahne said. “The faster this timeline puts itself back in order, the better for us.”

“I dunno, I still got a feeling it'll throw us a curve before it settles down. I mean, we disgraced Stonewall. By rights, that oughta be *huge*...”

Madrox cleared his throat, a polite way of saying he couldn't possibly give a damn about history class. His two teammates jumped. Awfully absorbed in the conversation, it seemed. Madrox nodded to an empty chair and a couple of extra pints.

Sam, who could hold a surprising amount of beer for such an innocent-looking farmboy, sat down and drained his mug gratefully. Rahne cast him a disapproving glance and sipped at hers.

“Might as well drink up,” Madrox told her. “If they tighten that blockade anymore, this stuff'll get scarce.”

“Don't remind me,” Sam said. “That comes next... and it's only gonna be worse where we're goin'.”

“Going?”

The blond youth nodded. “Rogue an' Gambit think it's too hot 'round here right now. We're gonna try this thing from another direction.”

Madrox leaned forward. “Fine, then. Good luck to you, I guess. Personally, I'm here to look for Guido, and that's what I'm going to do.”

“If he's here, he's certainly keeping mum,” Rahne said quietly. “Not exactly th' great bampot's strength. He must have moved on.”

“I'm not ready to give up yet.”

He and Sam locked eyes, the bar around them fading to a staring contest. “Me an' Rogue can still airlift folks back an' forth. That's how it works 'round here.”

“Not good enough. We need somebody here on the ground. I'm staying.”

Rahne looked from one to the other. “Jamie, have ye gone daft? Dinnae answer that, 'tis nothing new. But still... listen to Sam.”

The waitress interrupted with another round. Rahne waved it off; she was still working on her first. Sam and Jamie accepted theirs, and the Multiple Man tipped his back with a grin he imagined to be cooler than it actually was.

“Maybe this is for the best,” he said. “I've never been exactly an X-Man. I work better this way. The rest of you should go.”

His redheaded friend's glare intensified. “Yuir likely to need a tracker.”

“Wouldn't mind, but I'm a grown man, Rahne. I'm a private investigator--” The youth snorted, giving her exact opinion of *that*. Madrox hid his embarrassment with another swig. “You should go with your friends.”

“We're supposed to be *your* friends, too,” Sam said.

Jamie Madrox laughed. “Thanks, but I'm all the friends I can handle, really. Except Guido. I owe the big guy a lot.”

“We both do,” said Rahne, “so we'll both stay.”

“Look, I'm telling you--”

“Is that an *order*, M'Lord Head of X-Factor? I'm not yuir employee anymore--”

“Right, so you owe me nothing. You can choose where you want to go.”

“I just *did!*” Rahne snapped, and stood from the table. She tossed her hands in the air, and one of them landed atop Sam Guthrie's. “Ach, talk a wee bit of sense into this minger, will ye? I need a breath of air...”

Watching her walk away, Sam Guthrie said, “She grew up.”

“Stubborn,” Madrox agreed.

“She ain't alone. C'mon with us. Won't kill you to play by the rules, and you oughta trust Rogue's call-- she's been a hell of a team leader.”

“No doubt, but Guido works for me.” Putting down the mug, he glanced at Sam Guthrie's hand, still draped on the table where Rahne had touched it. “Huh.”

Sam removed the hand, self-conscious. “Thought you just said you didn't count the X-Factor folks as employees anymore.”

“Well, that's the thing about me, Sam.” Jamie Madrox make a fist and thumped softly on the table. Suddenly there were two Madri present, one of whom snagged Rahne's abandoned mug and toasted himself.

“I contain multitudes...”

****

Northwestern Tennessee

Not ten miles from Fort Henry, the first of the Confederate outposts defending the vital Cumberland River on the Kentucky border, a man in a plain gray tunic without insignia sat on an overturned box in a tent under the stars. Squinting at the improvised writing tablet set before him by candlelight, former Confederate Captain Richard Everett dipped a pen into his inkwell and wrote:

My Dear Doctor Reyes,

It is with some apprehension that I renew our correspondence. I am ever conscious of the wrongs I did you at our previous meeting (* X-Factor 1-2), as well as the danger to you if your ability to read and write-- much less practice medicine-- is discovered. I fear our modern society has been a grave disappointment to you, and increasingly, to myself as well.

Fate, or perhaps Providence, now sees fit to force my hand, and I have no recourse but to seek your aid once--

RRRRRIP! Two forms crashed through the tent, bowling over Everett in a jumble of thrashing limbs and flashing claws. He took a couple of blows before he managed to extricate himself, one of them a rather merciless shot to the kidneys. Everett thought he knew who to blame for that one.

Sure enough, when he managed to force the two combatants apart, one of them smiled and faded to blue-- this was Raven Darkholme, the shape-shifting mutant whom Rogue had called Mystique. Here, in the 19^th Century of Reality 915, she was a much younger woman, theoretically aiding Everett and his band of runaway slaves.

The other woman in Everett's tent was one of those slaves-- or Morlocks, as they had been christened. They were disfigured, most of them, survivors of horrific experimentation by a man named Nathaniel Essex to activate what he called their X-Gene. (* X-Factor #2) This particular case was svelte, wiry, almost predatory, possessed of sharp claws and glowing eyes. Cecilia Reyes had called her a lycanthrope: Essentially, a werewolf.

Everett called her Lenora, and even in this mutated form, she remained the love of his life. He had risked a great deal to hire X-Factor and free her from Essex. (* issues 1-2, again) Together they had won her freedom, but not before she was half-transformed into one of his Marauders. Now Lenora was well again-- mentally, at least-- but she never had taken a liking to Raven, whose motives for joining the group were unclear at best. Everett shared her misgivings, but that didn't mean he wanted them crashing through his tent.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, mostly addressing the shapeshifter.

Raven shrugged. “Your lady's been a bit excitable since the procedure, Captain. Are you certain they put her brain back together right?”

Lenora growled. “She was creepin' 'round the camp. Ask her why.”

“Can't a lady take a moonlight stroll?” Raven countered, still smiling.

“No, you can't,” Everett said. “We've discussed this, Mystique. Until I am satisfied as to your personal honor, you're to be kept on a short leash.”

“I despise leashes. They chafe. So does honor, for that matter.” Raven turned to Lenora, sneering at the other woman's mutated face. “Some of these claw marks are deep. You don't have any... diseases, do you?”

Lenora started to lunge at her again, but Everett remained in her way. With a heavy sigh, he turned to tell Mystique what she could do with herself-- in the most gentlemanly way possible, of course--

At that moment, the shapeshifter smiled. “Oh, and by the way? They've come for us.”

“Who? Who do you--”

That's when he heard the unholy scream from the perimeter of the camp, and all hell broke loose. Everett put pen to paper again and hastily scratched out the remainder of his letter-- now greatly abbreviated-- and handed it to Lenora, who bolted with it.

By that time, the enemy was at the gate, or at least the flap to his tent. Everett drew his sword, and turned together with Mystique to face them...

****

January, 1862
Two Months Later

“How do I get myself into these things?”

Standing in a little clearing in the woods on the border between Tennessee and Kentucky, Remy LeBeau could only offer Cecilia Reyes a weak shrug. “Reckon you just a wonderful person, chere.”

Cecilia grunted. “What's your second guess?”

They were waiting for Rogue and Wolfsbane to return from an errand to the nearby town of Dover. If all went as planned, they'd have a trio of runaway slaves in tow. Once they'd been checked out and, if necessary, treated by Cecilia, they'd be passed on to Sam Guthrie, who would carry them safely into northern territory, or perhaps as far as Canada. As long as X-Factor had to remain here, Rogue figured they might as well keep busy. Lacking a decent supply of super-villains to fight in the 19^th Century, working for the Underground Railroad would suffice.

Cecilia approved of that part; it had been largely her idea. Few things had ever angered her so much as a Confederacy that claimed to fight for freedom while keeping people who looked like her in chains. The part she didn't like was the one where she was here in the first place, at risk of getting shot because God or evolution or whatever made mutants had decided she was some kind of superhero.

But then, the slaves here hadn't asked for their fate, either. At least Cecilia had her psioplasmic force field to protect her-- a power she got more adept with by the day, working with Remy and Rogue and Sam (whose blast field worked on a similar principle) to improve her fine control. What did these people have, besides the short end of the stick?

That thought didn't precisely encourage Cecilia Reyes, but it did keep her rooted to the spot while everything around her was a pitch-black mystery and every sound might mean the approach of the enemy. She tried to take her cue from Remy; *he* didn't look nervous. But then, he never did.

*Snap.*

Cecilia held her breath; her force-field shifted into place while Remy turned with a deceptively casual air toward the source of the sound, his bo staff held ready.

“Who dat?” he said, almost a whisper.

No reply. Cecilia tensed-- a couple of weeks ago, they'd run afoul of a detachment of Confederate cavalry. If they'd come back with friends, things could get unpleasant-- at least for Cecilia, who felt the physical pain of every weapon that impacted her force field. These people were liable to be bearing a *lot* of weapons.

“Remy, what d'you think--”

“Boo!”

“HOLY--!” Cecilia jumped, turning 180 degrees in midair, and swung a forcefield spike that would have decapitated the person behind her-- if that person hadn't been Rahne Sinclair, who morphed down to all fours and allowed the spike to whistle through empty air.

“Jumpy much, Doc?” Rogue asked, stepping out of the trees behind Wolfsbane. Cecilia responded with a string of Spanish so foul that even a lady raised by Mystique managed to look impressed. Then Rogue's attention shifted to Gambit, who still held his staff high, with a glowing playing card clutched between his fingers. She arched an eyebrow, and he lowered the staff-- but didn't know what to do with the card, which was about ready to detonate.

“Give it here,” Rogue sighed. Then she showed off her restored invulnerability, closing the card between her hands so that it exploded with a barely-audible 'pop.' Cecilia couldn't help feeling impressed-- and worried. Could Rogue have absorbed that much of Gambit's kinetic energy without blinking the *first* time she'd had her Ms. Marvel powers? The doctor wasn't sure.

While Rogue wiped her hands of the debris, Remy took a look around. “Where yo' friends?”

“Ain't coming.”

“Oh, no,” said Cecilia, fearing the worst. Even superheroes couldn't be everywhere at once, and a lot of their clients didn't survive to reach X-Factor's protection.

“Ain't like that, either,” Rogue said. “Follow.”

She turned back into the woods and gestured the others after her.

“I'll bring the Guthries,” said Wolfsbane, who crept off in the other direction in her transitional state.

A few minutes and a nervous trip later, Cecilia stood on the outskirts of the sleepy little town of Dover, Tennessee... a town which was no longer sleeping. To Cecilia's eye, it appeared to have been ransacked. Windows were broken, doors off their hinges or left half-open, broken glass scattered across the dusty main street. From the town hall at the far end of the street to the stores and houses and stables on either side, not a building had been left untouched.

“What the hell?” Cecilia murmured. “What happened here-- General Sherman?”

“Not hardly,” said Rogue. “Sam said the boys in blue ain't supposed to be here yet-- anyway, neither side's got a motive for this.”

“Who, then?”

A sudden *crash* interrupted Rogue's reply, and somebody tumbled out through the doors of the town hall. A large man, bulky in a way that suggested flab rather than muscle, limped toward them in a daze. Cecilia automatically moved to help him, but Remy held her back.

“Hold up, chere. This gon' be bad, bad,” he murmured, staring at the man.

At first, Cecilia didn't understand. Then the portly fellow stared right at her-- with eyes that glowed faintly red. Looking closer, she could see that his suit was ragged and torn, and... were those *claws* instead of hands?

She started to ask how it was possible, but then a memory fell into place-- the unfortunate slaves whom this world's Nathaniel Essex had kidnapped for his experiments, transforming them into monsters. Could he have worked a similar trick upon an entire town? But how? And wasn't Essex supposed to be dead?

In theory, sure. In theory, time travel wasn't possible. Theory pretty much sucked when it came to the X-Men.

“Sinister...” Remy breathed, following her train of thought.

The mutated man was very close now. Rogue took a step forward.

“Hey there... um, y'all don't know us, but we're friends, 'kay? Do you understand me? Can we help--”

“DIE!” hissed the mutant, and he pounced.

It was instinct, one-hundred proof, that caused Cecilia Reyes to place her forcefield between him and Rogue. If she'd been thinking clearly, she'd have remembered that whole invulnerability thing and held back. But it was lucky she didn't.

It *burned* where the mutant touched her forcefield. Cecilia swore-- it took all her concentration not to drop the field. The burning sensation spread out from his touch, enveloping her, shaking Cecilia right to the soles of her shoes. She was under attack-- not from a mere touch, but on a cellular level. Even with the forcefield for protection, Cecilia felt unclean.

“It's a contagion!” she hissed, when she could breathe again. “Or... or something! Don't touch him!”

“Wasn't plannin' on it,” Rogue said. “I'm in no hurry to absorb *that* sucker's look...”

“Be like finger-paintin' on the Mona Lisa,” Remy agreed. “Allow me...”

He tossed a playing card at the mutant feet. POW-- the thing jumped back from a smoldering crater. Remy held out his staff between them and Cecilia expanded her force field, while Rogue took to the air.

“Um, hey, gang?” she called down to her team members. “Little bitty problem, here... he ain't the only one.”

Cecilia looked up. Although Rogue had a better view from above, she could see what the other meant: more mutated townspeople, appearing at the far end of the street, staggering out of the houses, popping up from nowhere. *All* of them had glowing red eyes and angry expressions...

“Somebody ring de dinner bell?” Gambit suggested, giving ground a step at a time.

Cecilia Reyes groaned. “How *do* I get myself into these things...?”

****

It had been a long time since Rahne Sinclair had made a habit of traveling by blast field-- since way back in her days with the New Mutants. She didn't remember the experience being quite so stomach-churning, but maybe that meant Sam's had gained in power. Or maybe she wasn't so distracted by the proximity to him, as back when she'd been a schoolgirl with a crush.

Which wasn't to say she minded the nearness at all-- Sam was the closest thing to a constant she had these days, cut off as she was from everything she knew. Rahne had always disliked uncertainty-- one of the reasons she clung so strongly to her faith was that it helped her to know what was what. She stuck with Sam the same way she'd stuck close to Jamie Madrox during their adventure in Camelot (* see the short-lived Excalibur: Eternity). Not that anybody'd heard from Madrox lately.

That bothered Rahne more than she cared to admit. Madrox might have been her employer at one time, but Rahne wouldn't have given two pence worth of credit to his common sense. She held herself responsible for keeping him out of trouble, and she wasn't doing a very good job. Jamie's contacts with the group had been coming less and less frequently, and although he insisted he was still on Guido's trail, Rahne thought he was up to something. He could have at least sent them a few dupes, but apparently the rest of the team didn't even rate copies of his attention. Rahne found it positively infuriating, not least because the others didn't seem overly concerned. More than once she'd resolved to make the trip to Richmond and drag Jamie back into the fold-- by the scruff of his neck, if necessary. Something always came up to delay her.

This job, for example. Rahne sympathized with those poor people on the Confederate side of the line better than most-- she'd been a slave on Genosha, after all, and wouldn't have wished the experience on anybody. But damn it all, did X-Factor have to intervene *now*, tonight? Rahne had been feeling uneasy ever since they left Virginia-- something in the air kept raising her hackles-- and that ghost town she and Rogue had found had done nothing to improve her mood. Rahne's instincts told her something here was Very Bad-- and instincts were something else the mutant called Wolfsbane understood better than most.

She did her best not to let Sam or his sister see her misgivings-- Paige had enough to fret about, poor lass. Rahne had tried sticking close to *her*, too, to provide a sympathetic ear, but so far the girl didn't seem to feel much like talking.

At the moment, that suited Rahne. When they touched the ground just south of town, she took the point without a word and urged the Guthries forward. Rogue and the others had entered from the north, so with luck they could meet in the--

Rahne pulled up short, scenting the air. *WRONG.* Her whole body shivered, and she kept pawing the ground and snarling even as she morphed to her transitional state.

“Rahne?” Sam asked quietly.

She didn't have to respond. They heard it a moment later: Pow-pow-pow-POW!

“Are those--” Paige began.

“Remy's cards!” Sam finished. The sounds of shouting now joined the pyrotechnics. “Stay here; I'll be back in a second.”

He blasted off, but the two women barely had time to register his absence before the mutant Cannonball returned with a stunned expression on his face.

“Yeah,” he said, “this is gonna be fun. Paige, hon, you better husk to somethin' good an' durable. Rahne, hang back. Judgin' by the way they're mixin' it up with Rogue, these fellas pack a wallop.”

“I'll not stay here while--”

“Hang BACK!” Sam commanded, and then he was gone again. With a small shrug, Paige Guthrie ripped off her husk, revealing solid steel beneath, and followed her brother.

“Hang back... I'll hang ye, ye great gangly...” Rahne sighed. She wasn't mad at Sam. He was just being cautious; perhaps even trying to protect her. If that was the case, he ought to have known better by now. Rahne followed the others at a distance, but she did follow.

At least as far as the edge of town. There was a fine scuffle in progess, all right-- X-Factor faced perhaps a hundred creatures who looked bad and smelled worse-- sickly, polluted, a concentrated dose of what had been dogging the edges of Rahne's senses all along. Sam plowed through their ranks, straight to Rogue, who was doing her best to hold them off without making physical contact. Remy and Cecilia Reyes helped out here and there, Cecilia by bouncing those mutants who got too close off her forcefield.

Paige Guthrie had the simplest method. Whatever was responsible for that unclean air surrounding the mutates, her steel form seemed invulnerable to it, so she pitched in as usual, punching and kicking her way to the others. Soon the team stood united on the northern edge of town, close to making a getaway.

Rahne growled to herself. Perhaps she really *couldn't* help in this fight, but it went against every...

Something behind her *growled*. It was not a happy growl-- and Rahne ought to have known, as an expert on the subject. She turned, half-expecting one of those great ugly monsters, but saw nothing. The sound was coming out of the woods, not far away.

Rahne took another look at the fight, and decided she could afford to check this out. If these mutates were spreading themselves to other towns, that was something X-Factor would need to know. She inched back into the woods, turning fully to the wolf as she did.

Her perceptions were very sharp in this form. Scent, sight, sound. She could practically feel the other presence, its labored breathing, the smell of its sweat. Injured. Frightened. Now it was Rahne's turn to growl.

Her keen eyes picked out a hint of movement, the swish of something darting behind the thick tree in front of her. She hesitated. If it *was* one of those creatures... but she didn't think so, now. She pounced, rounding the trunk in a sudden burst of speed--

“YIPE!” Sharp claws sliced across her nose, obscuring her vision with blood. She couldn't get her bearings, had to morph--

And that caused someone *else* to howl in terror. Now in her transitional state, Rahne wiped the blood from her eyes, hoping she wouldn't end up with a bad scar.

The creature in front of her... was not a creature at all. It was human-- a woman, albeit one with shining eyes and a strange, feral appearance. The other woman frowned at Rahne with an equal amount of puzzlement.

“You-- Morlock?” she bit out, finally.

Rahne shook her head. “X-Man, actually. Next time, could ye possibly question first, an' claw later?”

“You'd have done the same,” the woman said, which was possibly true. Rahne didn't always have a perfect handle on the wolf's actions. “X-Man... You know Miss Cecilia Reyes?”

“*Doctor* Reyes,” Rahne said. “Wait... Morlocks. You're one of those people they saved.”

“Lenora,” the woman said. Rahne saw that she was bleeding from the shoulder, a nasty-looking wound. It smelled infected. “Don't know you. Don't trust you.”

“I'm... new here. I'm a friend, ye have my word.”

“You gonna help us?”

“Aye,” Rahne said, but considering that the wound *also* smelled like those monsters back in town, she wasn't sure what she and her friends could still do.

****

“Y'know what I need?” Rogue ripped a hunk of wall out of the nearest building as she spoke, and threw it at the mutant who was sneaking up on Remy LeBeau from behind. “I need me a vacation.”

“Think I join you, chere,” Remy panted. He turned a somersault, leaping out of the way of a mutate's attack, landed behind it, and knocked it down with his staff. “Someplace tropical?”

“Mm. Sounds nice. White sand, blue ocean... can I get one a' them drinks with the li'l umbrellas?”

“Yo' wish be my command.”

“Then you got a date, sugar.” Rogue grinned. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad between her and Remy after all. It was easy enough to focus here, in the heat of battle, when all the voices in her head were focused on survival, and if she could do it here, she could learn to do it else--

WHAM! Something struck Rogue solidly across the back of the skull, and she went down hard. The suckers were stronger than they ought to be. She saw red...

And then she lost control. “Bub, you just made a bad mistake.”

She would guess later-- based upon the 'Bub'-- that she had been channeling a bit of Logan's berserker rage. She'd absorbed him enough times over the years that his voice was one of the louder ones in the chorus. At the time, she didn't know or care where it came from. She was too busy enjoying it.

Rogue leaped to her feet and ripped out a whole big section of the wall she'd been working on. The building shuddered, then collapsed, while she brought the section of brick down on her attacker's head like... well, like a ton of bricks, or at least a few hundred pounds. The mutate crumbled, but she didn't stop there... she lit into it, pounding until the light went out of its eyes, until the air was thick with the scent of disease, until she'd touched it enough to get snippets of its memory-- a stranger in town, tall and arrogant. Suspicion, then terror as the people of Dover started getting sick. A patrol from the nearby fort that came to check things out and never went home again...

These things only made Rogue angrier. She grabbed the thing by both arms and prepared to make a wish...

“Rogue! ROGUE! ANNA!!!” Cecilia Reyes swatted Rogue with a forcefield that knocked her to the ground, but didn't hurt her more than a bite from a flea. Rogue found her feat and turned on the doctor.

“That's ENOUGH!” Cecilia snapped, bringing a forcefield spike up under her throat. “What, were you gonna tear it apart? It's dead already! It was dead before the fight started! Look! Go on-- look at it!”

Rogue did. What she'd left on the ground was in the vague shape of a woman, but barely recognizable between the mutation and the way she'd pounded it. Rogue took a deep breath, in and out, then gasped. The red haze started to clear.

“Ceci! Aw, Ceci, I'm sorry. I didn't mean...”

“It's okay, I think. C'mere and let me get a look at you.” Rogue permitted Reyes a quick examination, with a thin force-field clumsily doubling for a clean pair of gloves. After a moment, the doctor sighed. “You are one lucky *chica*. Unless this contagion works a lot more slowly than it felt like, I don't think its touch affected you. I guess you really *are* invulnerable. Hell of a way to find out, eh? You can go back to pounding them, if you want.”

“No.” Rogue breathed again, steadying herself. “No, I think I'm done. Obliged, Doc.” She looked over the battle, still being fought defensively by her people. “Sammy, make us a hole! We're getting out of here!”

“Wait, and miss this fun?” Paige asked, a bit of halfhearted sarcasm punctuated by a punch in the face for some unlucky mutate.

“Exit strategy? My pleasure, ma'am,” said Cannonball; he widened his blast field to its maximum and streaked back and forth between the X-Men and the remnants of the townspeople, for all practical purposes putting up a barrier. Rogue and the others withdrew, and didn't stop until they were well away from the town. Sam joined them a moment later.

Remy mopped his brow. “Light workout, my eye! How old I look t'you? Feels like I get too damn old, too fast...”

“Relax, handsome,” said Paige. “You know you won't ever grow up.”

“Ah, tres belle mademoiselle. You charm dis old Cajun to his core...” In gratitude, Remy offered Paige his trench coat, so she could husk back to flesh without appearing stark naked. She ducked behind a tree to make the switch.

And that was that, Rogue hoped. She explored her mind-- not her favorite pastime-- for some hint of that berseker personality, and seemed to be more or less herself. Just to remind her it wasn't entirely gone, though, some part of her cried out for a cigar. That was *so* wrong. Rogue sighed.

“Hey,” said Cecilia, from beside her. “It's over. You did fine.”

“Yeah...” she said, and that was when she saw the two sets of shining eyes approaching through the forest.

****

Richmond

“Three aces, fella. Maybe you don't fight for the Yankees, but you sure bluff like one...”

Jamie Madrox shrugged and took no offense. In the first place, his pleasure at having convinced the degenerates at the table of his cover as a states-rights Missourian trumped any displeasure he would have felt at losing a hand of poker. And in the second place...

“Full house,” he said, and showed the men his cards. They groaned and cursed and wondered where he'd learned to play like that. He thought of regaling them with the story of how one of his dupes had advanced to the final round at the World Series of Poker, but he guessed they wouldn't fully appreciate it.

“Well,” he said, pushing away from the table with a smile that bordered on a smirk, “I thank you for your time, gentlemen, but I have an early day tomorrow, so I should call it a--”

“C'mon!” said one of the men. “You got to give us a chance to get even!”

“I don't think--”

The man's hand rested none-too-subtly on the holster he wore. So did those of his companions. Madrox looked around the seedy tavern, but saw nobody who was likely to help him. Several people glared back suspiciously. There was a war on; tensions ran high.

“Gentlemen... I'm feeling a little outnumbered.”

“'Zat a fact?” said one of the card players, who shot tobacco into a spittoon. “Might be you should trust that feeling.”

Madrox wanted to laugh. “Well... after all, I'm just one man. What can I do?” He sat back down, but arched an eyebrow at one of the players, a weaselly little fellow with a handlebar mustache. “Er-- but I think I've taken all *your* money.”

The man nodded, reaching into his pocket. “Maybe you'll play for something else, then. I have here a deed to--”

“I'm not interested in deeds,” Madrox said. “I have everything I need... except information.”

“Oh?”

Madrox gauged the fellow, trying to detect any suspicion. He saw only the normal amount. He jerked his chin toward the bar, where a swarthy, solidly-built man with a high collar was pretending to sip his drink. Madrox had reason to believe he knew what the collar hid-- the mark of Clan Akkaba. *Why* exactly Clan Akkaba was here, in the American South, at such a pivotal moment in history was a puzzle the self-appointed Sam Spade hadn't solved yet, but he meant to... and when he did, he would have been willing to eat Wolverine's claws (or appoint a duplicate to do so) if that answer didn't lead him to Guido. He couldn't see two such anachronisms being unrelated. A hunch only, but he thought it was worth a chance-- if he didn't spook his prey prematurely, for which reason he'd been keeping as much distance as possible from the rest of X-Factor.

He said to the small man, “You came in with that fellow, didn't you? I'd like to know his story.”

The man frowned. “He's an odd one. Keeps to himself. Don't know what I can tell you...”

“But you'll tell me everything you can,” Madrox said. “That's the ante for another hand.”

Slowly, the man nodded, and Jamie Madrox shuffled the cards with a theatrical air. He missed his friends-- or certain of his friends-- more than he cared to admit. But right at the moment, he was enjoying himself thoroughly.

“Gentlemen, the game is--”

“Hey, Tommy!” said a voice behind him. “You better go check on yer ride.”

The small man, Tommy, frowned. “She's hitched up outside like always, Hoss.”

“Yeah, well, somebody could've unhitched her. You get what I'm sayin' to youse?”

Tommy reluctantly left the game; Jamie Madrox was frozen in place. Even without their long association, that thick New York accent would have been unmistakable here, where they disliked anyone who talked *remotely* like a Yankee. But *Hoss?* What kind of sick sense of humor would...?

Silly question, he decided, as the big man-- a huge man, really, whose misshapen torso made him look even bigger than he really was-- wedged his bulk into Tommy's abandoned chair.

“So, stranger,” said Guido Carosella, taking off his hat to reveal a ponytail of platinum-blond hair that decorated his otherwise-bald scalp, “what's a guy gotta do ta get dealt into dis here game?”

Unseen by Madrox-- whose attention was fully absorbed by the blast from the future he'd encountered-- the man at the bar smiled, nodded to the bartender, and strode from the tavern with his drink still untouched.

END

In Issue #8: "Unconditional Surrender”
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