X-MEN ETERNITY

X-Force #7: When They Came Marching Home (Part One of Our Imperial Ancestors)
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 "X-Force #1-6" and X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. It is encouraged to read those stories first.

*****

PREVIOUSLY IN "X-FORCE: 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 World War II era of Reality 758, a world where Pearl Harbor never happened and the Axis powers had their own super-soldier formula.

Reluctantly leading this team, Wolverine struck a deal with an American agent named Talbot to fight for the Allies as X-Force. Eventually they returned home to help defeat the Slayer-- but were forced to abandon Betsy Braddock, Psylocke, to the enemy. Now Logan must lead the team back into a world at war, to save a woman he has begun to fall in love with...

*****

Vilnius, Lithuania
Late Spring, 1942
Alternate Reality #758

"Well... this is quite a mess you've made, Baron Zemo. Quite a mess, indeed, for the Reich to clean up." (* translated German)

Baron Heinrich Zemo stood in the remains of his ruined installation, feeling the sun shine on his shoulders through a ceiling that no longer existed, wishing he could have a moment alone to swear or scream or otherwise vent his frustration. Why, today of all days, did he have to receive such a visitor as this?

Zemo could have named many things he disliked: Captain America, the Allies in general, all the enemies of the Reich. Rainy days, whining children. What the Americans called "jazz music." This sort of thing he disliked, but he remained a scientist, and commended himself for tempering his dislike with reason. Few things in life, he allowed himself to hate openly.

Heinrich Zemo *hated* the Red Skull.

Johann Schmidt, *der Schädelfuhrer*, template for the army of Skull super-soldiers in service to the Axis, stood with him in the rubble, flanked by bodyguards, concealed by his grotesque red mask. Only his eyes showed; Zemo was glad his own eyes were concealed, lest they reveal his contempt.

Schmidt was a terrorist. An ideologue. A petty bully whom the Fuhrer allowed to order around his betters-- and worse, required those betters to answer to him.

Zemo cleared his throat. "We believe an Allied strike force entered the facility and..." (* X-Force #6)

"You refer to X-Force. The new American super-soldier team."

"Yes." Zemo growled low in his throat. "Wolverine..."

"I have heard of this man," said the Red Skull. "Canadian, isn't he? The Fuhrer wants him dead."

Zemo shrugged. He wouldn't have known the man's nationality himself. The Red Skull had eyes and ears everywhere. "He has caused a great deal of damage-- and was responsible for our defeat at Kharkov."

The skull mask bored into him. "No, Freiherr, that defeat was the result of your *failure*."

"I have not failed--"

"Failure is defined as that state in which the Fuhrer's orders have not been carried out. You have lost Magneto, have you not? You have lost this Jew subject you mentioned-- the Pryde girl? Your shadowy partner has abandoned us? All of this is true?"

Zemo hissed. "I only need time to--"

"Time is not your ally. Your *life*, Freiherr, can be measured in hours, while you remain a *failure*."

Zemo stared at the Red Skull, mask to mask. He could not believe the gall of this commoner.

"Have a care, Herr Schädelfuhrer. I am 12th Baron Zemo. My ancestors were lords when yours were begging for crumbs. Even now, I am not without influence in Berlin. You have no right to come in here with *threats* and--"

"Freiherr!" called the leutnant in charge of the cleanup. Zemo moved through hip-deep wreckage to the area where the stairwell should have been. "We've found something..."

"Magneto?" he said hopefully.

"No, Freiherr. There is no trace of him. However--"

The young officer stepped aside, revealing two of his men pulling plaster and brick off the bloodied form of an unconscious woman.

"She is alive?" Zemo asked.

"Ja, Freiherr. Her pulse is strong."

"In the midst of this destruction?" The Red Skull sounded unhappy.

"This is the telekinetic, Herr Schädelfuhrer. She may have unconsciously protected herself somehow." Zemo turned to the leutnant. "Excellent work. Get a Skull in here with a telepathic inhibitor."

"Jawhol!" The young man hustled off to give orders, leaving Zemo and Schmidt to study the long, lithe form with odd, purple hair-- the Allied operative the S.S. was calling Psylocke.

The soldiers were studying her, too, as soldiers will. Abruptly two of them started giggling.

"Something amuses you?" said the Red Skull.

The men turned silent and pale. None of them wished to run afoul of this man's reputation.

"Well, speak up, mein herren. I enjoy a good joke as well as the next man."

One of the men cleared his throat. "Well... Herr Schädelfuhrer... I only said to Karl that it was worth losing an old man to claim such a lovely prize..."

"I see." Calmly, the Nazi leader drew a pistol from its holster and shot the boy. His friend cried out, until that terrible mask skewered him with its glare. "That was not a good joke. We do not joke about failure under my command. Understood?"

"Jawhol, Herr Schädelfuhrer!" said the remaining man, shaking like a leaf. His comrade's lifeblood seeped down into the wreckage as he dragged the man away. His fellow soldiers pretended not to notice. To do otherwise would have been folly.

The man who'd been born Johann Schmidt holstered his weapon and turned back to Baron Zemo, saying in a pleasant voice: "I suggest you take the lesson, Freiherr."

Before he could reply, the Skull arrived, and they began preparing the woman for transport.

He told the leutnant, "Bring her to my laboratory in--"

"No," said the Red Skull. "You have no need of this one. I know where to send her."

"But her skills--"

"Forget them. I have another project in mind for you. I am confident you will not fail twice. And should that occur, you will certainly have no chance to fail three times."

"I... am at Herr Schädelfuhrer's disposal, of course."

"Yes, I know," said Johann Schmidt, and he walked away.

Zemo stood in place, trembling, wondering if there was a level of emotion beyond hate to describe his feelings for the Fuhrer's pet terror-monger. If one existed, Schmidt would certainly find it, and inspire the whole world to hate him that much. That, after all, was his job.

****

Reality 616 (sort of)
Xavier Institute for Higher Learning
Present Day

Sunrise, streaming in through the window of a small, sterile hospital room. Logan crept through the room silent as a ghost, left a card on the nightstand, and bestowed a kiss on Jubilation Lee's forehead. The sleeping girl stirred, murmured something, and fell back asleep without opening her eyes.

"Happy birthday, darlin'," he whispered. "Make me proud."

Logan left his cowboy hat at the foot of the bed-- a gesture Jubilee would remember, and hopefully understand. He padded out of the room in silence, then all the way out of the mansion.

He watched the sunrise from a little hill, crouching near the ground, taking in the scents and sounds. Men like Logan weren't supposed to have a home... but he knew he had one here, a place where he would always be welcome, and would always remember... even if he never saw it again.

Deliberately, Logan held up his fist and-- SNIKT!-- stared at his claws for a long moment. Then he drew them across the skin of the opposite arm, creating three long, bloody gashes in his own flesh. He observed the results...

The wounds healed. Not quickly, by his standards-- almost grudgingly-- but they healed. His healing factor was returning, as predicted. So why the hell wouldn't his head stop hurting?

Logan remembered Hank McCoy's diagnosis when he'd first returned from the past: Possible neurological damage, not healing quite right. No way to tell how badly he'd hurt himself long-term when that little telepathic stunt of Emma's had kept him going. (* X-Force #6 and The Crossroads.) Would he suffer from headaches permanently? If it was only pain, that wouldn't be so bad. He dealt with the claws, he could deal with this. If it went further...

He shook off the thought. If it did, it did, and that was all. He'd made his bargain, trying to save his team. He'd make it again. Just maybe with a better plan.

A whisper of air behind him-- a familiar scent, of the earth and the wind, yet always intoxicating in its femininity-- and Logan smiled. Here came the better plan now.

"Are you ready, Logan?" said Ororo Munroe's voice. The mutant called Storm had agreed to accompany him to the past-- as his conscience, as much as anything. Logan didn't like being a leader, and was far from satisfied with the way he'd done the job, the first time.

He'd have liked to hand to role to Storm, period. But she didn't want that-- she had stuff going on in her own head-- and Logan had to admit it wouldn't have seemed perfectly fair. He wasn't the type to create a mess and leave it for his friend to clean up. But damn, he had to admit it would be good having her at his back this time.

"I been ready since we got here," he said, as Storm stepped to his side. "Thanks for doin' this, darlin'."

"For two of my dearest friends, I could do no less. Logan... we shall save her. I swear it."

"Don't swear yet." Logan looked up at her. "Need you to make me a different kind o' promise. I'll worry about gettin' Betsy out. You worry about gettin' those kids home if..."

Storm frowned at him. Her eyes, a piercing blue, met his. "You do not believe you will return."

"Hey. C'mon. I promised Jubes I would, didn't I?"

"But you do not believe it." Storm crouched beside him, studying him. "It is one thing to confront your doubts, my friend, but to act so... defeatist... what has gotten into you, Logan?"

"I dunno, darlin'," he said, frowning out toward the sun. "But I don't like it..."

****

"I do not believe you should go."

Kitty Pryde buttoned the last two buttons on her costume, debated for a moment, and slid on the mask to go with it. She did a half-spin in front of the mirror.

"What d'you think?"

"I think I do not believe you should go. Was I speaking Russian?" Piotr Rasputin-- Colossus-- frowned at her. "Is that your old Shadowcat mask?"

"No, I borrowed it from Batman." She turned, lowered the mask, and winked at him. "I repeat: What'cha think?"

"You look lovely..."

"There ya go! Was that so hard? We'll equip you with social skills yet, Pete. Now kiss me-- I *know* you can do that."

She wrapped her arms around him-- or tried. Actually she phased through him on first attempt and accidentally bonded molecules with his shirt on the second. She lost a layer of skin off her hands undoing that one.

"Ow! Geez... There was this dumb kid back in Deerfield who used to lick flagpoles in January. I'll bet he hurt *almost* this much..."

Piotr crossed his arms over his chest. "This would be *why* I do not believe you should go."

"A *supportive* boyfriend would stop gloating and get me a bandage!"

Piotr did fetch a bandage from the nearest cabinet, sat down beside her on the bed, and helped her wrap her hands once the molecules settled down. "Katya, your phasing is still out of synch. (* from injuries suffered in The Crossroads) Henry has not yet stabilized you..."

"Telling me stuff I already know counts as gloating."

"Katya!" He reached out and, for a wonder, was able to grab her forearm on the first try. "Logan already scratched you from the team. I agreed with him. Why are you so determined to do this?"

"Betsy's my friend."

"Betsy has many friends," he countered. "Why must *you* go?"

"Because..." She looked down. "The Slayer picked on different qualities of different people. For me, it was anger. (* in X-Force #4-6 and The Crossroads) Do I seem like an angry person to you, Pete?"

"Well..." he frowned. "There was that time I ripped your 'Star Wars' poster..."

"That was a collector's item, ya doofus!" Kitty offered a weak smile. "This isn't just about him warping my feelings for you anymore. He warped *everything*. I was this close to killing Jubilee. The Slayer didn't even *want* me to kill her. I would have killed her for the *fun* of it. Where'd he dig up that much anger?"

"I don't know," Piotr admitted.

"It's all still inside me. I can feel it. Now, I never hated anybody the way I hated the Nazis. So... if I can go back there, fight them, and keep on top of this, then I'm okay. I'm in control. If I lose it again--"

"If you lose it again, we may lose you."

Kitty nodded. "That's the chance I'm willing to take."

"But I am not." He reached for her again--

She dodged, and was halfway across the room in a moment. "Yeah, well, unfortunately it's my life. I'm sorry if you don't understand. I thought you would."

"Katya..." he sighed. "Why the mask? You have not worn one in some time."

Kitty stopped at the door. "Right now, Pete, I'm scared of what I'd see behind it."

She was gone. Piotr felt himself change to organic steel as his hands clenched into fists. He sat there for a time after she was gone, wondering why he could never find the right words.

****

Victor Creed-- the mutant assassin Sabretooth-- smelled a trap the moment he stepped into the abandoned farmhouse three miles from the Xavier estate. He kept walking anyhow; sometimes it was fun to let a trap be sprung, for the sake of cutting his way out of it.

As much as he *could* cut. His arm, severed a couple of months ago in battle with the X-Men, was finally trying to heal now that Wolverine had trashed its prosthetic replacement (* Generation: Eternity #1). But it wasn't done yet, and Sabretooth was still working with one set of claws.

It would have to be enough. Creed had an idea where Mystique might have obtained that prosthetic for him; from the same person whose multiple sets of fingerprints were all over this clumsy attempt at ambush.

Fair enough. It had been too long since Creed killed something, anyway. If this witch thought she could screw with his body and then top it off by playing mindgames, she was going to...

There was no scent. There was no sound. There was only a sword slashing out at his neck and Creed dropping beneath it, coming up slashing with his remaining claws. He tagged something, but just a glancing blow. His opponent faded into the dark.

Creed licked blood off his hand and grinned. "Knew it'd be you, babe. Heard you had a job for me."

"Are you still in the business, Mr. Creed?" said a woman's voice, out of the dark. "My information says you've got soft."

He flashed his fangs. "C'mon out, if you believe that."

"...teaming with the X-Men, adopting this girl Blink," she continued, ignoring him. "You're really just a big teddy bear, aren't you, Sabretooth?"

"GrrrrARGH!" Creed lunged at where he thought she was, but he was chasing ghosts. A sword stroke cut into his side. He whirled, slashed again, got kicked into the wall for his trouble.

"Huh. Unimpressive. Perhaps you're not up to this job. I'll just go back and tell my employer you're not the star attraction you used to be. Everyone fades, Creed. It's nothing to be ashamed of..."

*Clack!* A pebble hit the ground a meter from the sound of her voice. Her sword flashed, struck empty air--

--WHAM! Sabretooth plowed into her from the other direction, knocking her down, landing on her chest with his claws at her throat.

"Heya, Spiral," he said to the alien woman on the ground. Six hands tensed into fists, but he only needed to clench the one and she knew it. "Ready to die, babe?"

"For years now," she told him. "Point taken, Creed. Now get off me before I--"

"Let's talk business. What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Should I tell you all my secrets so you can report them to the X-Men?" Spiral flashed a smile. "That is what you're doing these days, isn't it?"

"If it *suits* me," he growled. "I don't gotta kill any more than I gotta be nice. I do what *I* want to do, babe. Always."

"Really?" she said. "And what do you *want* to do?"

"Depends on the payoff."

"Suppose the payoff were untold wealth, a fully restored arm, and a chance to kill the Wolverine?"

Creed backed off her, allowing Spiral to get up. Potentially a fatal mistake if she was bluffing, but he didn't think she was. He stroked his chin.

"Keep talkin'..."

****

Logan had been hoping for a nice, quiet getaway; only Jean Grey was supposed to be meeting his team in front of the Xavier mansion, and she only because they needed a telepath to open the dimensional portal. One person-- all he expected to see, and all he *wanted* to see. So of course there was a whole flamin' sendoff waiting.

Storm smirked when she saw his reaction. "Courage, Logan. Surely you can be polite for a few moments."

"I can? How long you known me, darlin'?"

Dazzler and Longshot hadn't showed yet-- Ali always liked to make an entrance-- but Kitty and Piotr were already on-hand, chatting with Rachel Grey and Kurt Wagner, while Jean stood with Scott Summers a little distance away. Logan, with his ultra-sensitive ears, could mostly make out their competing conversations:

"--not gonna get all mushy on you, Pryde, I'm just sayin' that if you're not home safe inside a month, I'm searching the Multiverse. So you'd better come home safe, 'cause I freaking *hate* the Multiverse--"

"--how much I wish I could go with you. Are you certain we cannot convince Logan to delay the--"

"--gonna be fine, Ray, I swear. Scout's honor. But if I *did* get lost in time an' space, it'd serve you right. You see these grays hairs? You think I'm supposed to have gray hairs already? I got 'em when *you* pulled that stunt..."

"--need time to heal, tovarisch. If only Katya would agree to follow your--"

Logan put two fingers in his mouth and unleashed a long, shrill whistle. It probably hurt him more than the others. "Yo! Hey! Anybody who ain't got tickets for the 1942 Express better get off this ride now. Pun'kin, that oughta include you."

Kitty frowned at him through her new mask. "You're gonna be calling me pun'kin when I'm 45, aren't you?"

"I'll be callin' you pun'kin when you're ninety."

"She's already got the gray hair," said Rachel. She hugged Kitty tight, then kissed Logan on the cheek. "You're not gonna talk her out of this, old man. I tried. Just take good care of her."

When she stepped back, Kurt took her place: "Logan, I wish you would reconsider..."

"Don't start."

"A week. Three days. Two! Give me two days to--"

Logan growled, just loud enough to interrupt him. "The way I see it, elf, you got the hard job. You gotta keep Drake an' Havok from killin' each other when they're supposed to be savin' the world."

Kurt groaned. "Don't remind me... but Logan, I mean it. I cannot help but feel responsible for what happened to Betsy. If I had fought the Slayer harder..."

"You are no more responsible than any of us, Kurt," Storm said. "Perhaps less. You, at least, saved TJ in the bargain." (* X-Force #5)

Kurt sighed. He knew they were right. He hated that they were right. He took Storm's hand and kissed it, but addressed his words to Logan:

"I am jealous, of course. You're stealing away the most beautiful woman in the place."

Logan noticed, if Kurt didn't, the *look* Rachel sent him for that. Ororo only laughed: "I see I'll have to depart quickly, while I still have strength to resist your charms."

"If you *must* resist, I suppose, leibling. Ororo... be safe."

She smiled and kissed him quickly. Logan stood back, enjoying the moment in his own way: None of the later X-Men would ever be connected in quite the same way the original five were, but Logan wouldn't have traded his own history with Nightcrawler, Storm, Colossus, and Kitty Pryde for anything. The core of Xavier's second team, the ones who'd stood together against everything from the Hellfire Club to the Morlock Massacre... these people were Logan's family.

Moment like that, naturally somebody was going to ruin it. Logan couldn't have picked a better guy. Scott cleared his throat:

"If you have a moment, Wolverine, I'd like a word before you leave."

He grunted. "I got a choice?"

"Not really."

"I figured."

A look passed between Scott and Jean-- Logan, for all his hyper-acute senses, couldn't interpret it. He wondered if they'd get back together. He surprised himself by not hating the idea. 'Course, Jean could still do better-- and Scott hadn't done so bad for himself, either; in Logan's opinion, Emma Frost had turned out to be better people than most of the others realized. But *if* Jean and Scott picked up where they left off... Logan realized he could live with that. He didn't feel the old jealousy. That creeped him out some.

The two men walked a little distance away.

"Which lecture is this? The one about not disemboweling people?"

Scott frowned. "I am a little concerned about some of the accounts I've heard of your team. The X-Men aren't soldiers. I'd like to respect the Professor's vision where possible."

"Right," said Logan. "So I'll head back to the Big One, hand the Nazis a bouquet a' flowers, an' ask 'em if they won't please surrender outta respect for some bald dude's vision. That's gonna fly."

"Logan, you know I'm not--"

"No, I don't know, an' neither do you. You know zero about what we went through back there, or what Betsy's goin' through now!"

That red visor looked at him squarely. "I know you're concerned about Betsy-- maybe too concerned. I think your personal feelings might be--"

"'Least I wasn't married when I developed 'personal feelings' for Betsy, huh, Slim?"

Cyclops grabbed a handful of his shirt. Logan needed every ounce of his control not to pop his claws. *Now* the resentments started coming back-- maybe they'd never been about Jean at all. Maybe they just hated each other. Who'd have thought?

Before the two men could come to blows, someone cleared her throat. Alison Blaire-- the Dazzler had finally showed. "I hope I'm interrupting something."

Grudgingly, Scott released the other man. "What is it, Alison?"

Turning to her, they saw that Ali was in full period dress, decked out in a skirt, jacket, and hat that would have been the envy of the Big Band Era. Logan, who remembered such things fondly, let loose a wolf whistle.

Alison winked at him. "Found a costume shop with some golden oldies. I thought we might like to be in style for a change. Longshot's bringing stuff for everybody-- what do you say we pack a suitcase, boss?"

Scott frowned. "I really wouldn't know about--"

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm asking Logan."

"We're calling Logan 'boss' now?" Scott's eyebrows jumped behind his visor; Logan didn't know whether to laugh or be really uncomfortable. Finally he nodded.

"Good call, Ali. Hope you picked me out somethin' stylish."

"I did my best. They don't really make Cary Grant elegance in Munchkin sizes."

"Get outta here," he said, with a playful growl. She hurried to join the others. With a sigh, Logan turned to Scott Summers: "I know what you're gonna say. I'll talk to her--"

"No." Scott held up his hand. "You're her team leader. She *should* look to you. I'm actually impressed."

Logan grunted. "Wait. I been dissing you for ten years; all I had to do to get your respect was get somebody *else* t' do it?"

"You've had my respect. Although I must admit, I didn't think you had this in you."

"Couple years ago, I didn't." Logan shrugged. "I guess I learned a lot... from people."

He offered Cyclops his hand. The other man shook. A little awkwardly, they made their way back to the group. Longshot came hustling up with a duffel slung over his shoulder. That was the whole team. Logan took a deep breath.

Jean kissed the cheek Rachel had missed. "I know she's alright."

"Well, darlin', Betsy's like you an' me..."

"Too mean to die?" Jean suggested. Their eyes met. Logan saw a little of his fire reflected in them.

"Not what I was goin' for, but yeah."

Jean gave a knowing little smirk. She closed her eyes, summoning her telepathic power, and a brilliant white portal spun into existence before them. The team stared for a long moment.

"So..." Alison said, "who wants to go first?"

Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin squared his shoulders. "Well, comrades... nothing ventured, eh?"

He stepped through the portal, and X-Force again became part of history.

****

London, 1942
Alternate Reality #758

To all outward appearances, Peter Wisdom was thoroughly, staggeringly, blind drunk. In reality, he was only thoroughly, staggeringly, HALF-blind drunk, a distinction that made all the difference in the world to him.

Wisdom lurched his way toward the door of the pub, sloshing his drink around, breathing fumes into the face of anyone in his path, quietly amused by the impression he created. His target had just excused himself rather abruptly, which made Wisdom suspicious. Actually, had a lifetime spent in the intelligence business had made Wisdom suspicious; this fellow merely piqued his curiosity.

He stepped out into a chill night; Summer was approaching fast but hadn't quite arrived yet, and the difference was palpable. A little distance ahead, Wisdom saw the silhouette he sought. He staggered in that direction, singing drunkenly-- "Jerusalem,"actually. Wisdom thought he was in especially good voice tonight, and hoped the wanker appreciated it.

He passed a blind alley without looking at it-- it took a deliberate effort not to look, actually, for Wisdom couldn't possibly have made such a stupid mistake without trying.

His target didn't know that. Wisdom felt himself picked up in mid-verse by rough hands and slammed into the nearest wall hard enough to dislodge plaster. The fellow holding him aloft was about six and a half feet tall, with sandy hair, dark eyes, and forearms the size of police boxes.

"Looking for someone?" he said in a deep voice.

"Matter of fact, I was looking for my mates: John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Maybe you've seen 'em? Young kids, longish hair?"

WHAM! He almost went through the wall that time.

"Forget it, then! I won't even *ask* about my brother Elvis..."

One of the man's beefy hands clenched around Wisdom's throat. "I think you're looking for me. I think you're with the Secret Intelligence Service."

Wisdom fought to keep a sneer off his face; he lost. "No, I'll tell you what you think. You *think* you're a Mark II Nazi Skull, super-strength approximately Class 80, enhanced endurance and short-range flight capability. You think you're in this country as a sleeper agent, and some fine night-- I'll guess tonight-- you're going to set this town ablaze, for the glory of the Fuhrer. You further think you've just kept your secret safe by capturing one of the good guys. But here's where you're wrong, friend..."

While he spoke, Wisdom brought one of his hands up and patted the big man's cheek-- then clasped it firmly. He called upon his mutant power, creating "hot knives" of thermal energy that seared the Nazi like a branding iron. The man dropped him and screamed, clawing at his face.

Wisdom hit him with one-- two-- three punches, dropping him, then a kick in the gut for good measure. He knelt beside the super-soldier, still speaking in a conversational tone:

"...I'm not a very good guy. Now, let's talk about the plan for tonight. How many of you are there? When--"

One of the Skull's hands shot out and caught Wisdom, gagging him. The big man's glare was no prettier for the hand-shaped black scar now criss-crossing it.

"This is not good," Wisdom said, just before he flew through the air.

He tucked into a ball as best he could, but he still hit the pavement hard. He climbed to hands and knees and saw the hulking figure coming toward him from out of the alley.

*All right, mate, remember you wanted it this way...*

Wisdom lurched to his feet and *blasted* with his knives, blowing the Skull back into the alley with enough thermal energy to cook him like a Christmas goose. He saw the fellow's broken body leaning against the wall. He struggled for a moment, then slumped. Wisdom swore. Somehow or other, he always ended up killing people. Bad habit, that. Worse, he'd lost his chance to pump the fellow for information. Why, any moment those damnable Skulls could come raining down on London again, renewing their Blitz with...

"Buh-buh-buh-" said a voice behind Wisdom. "You-you-you-"

He turned to behold a rather long-faced fellow in a cap, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The fellow kept looking between him and the smoking corpse in the alley with huge eyes.

"Sorry, that was rude of me," Wisdom said. He held out a single knife toward the man's cigarette. "Care for a light?"

The man spat out the cigarette and ran. Wisdom watched him go, shrugged, then picked the cigarette off the pavement and lit it for himself. Couldn't afford waste, after all. There was a war on.

He'd barely gotten two puffs before the ominous silhouettes appeared against the darkening sky overhead. Four, six, eight... twelve of them tonight. Several of them Mark II's.

"Bugger," Wisdom murmured, and stamped out the cigarette. In the 1940's, as in any other decade, it seemed his work was never done...

****

Two Skulls split off from the others and addressed themselves to the biggest building in the square, using their weapons to set it ablaze. In moments, light from their fire cast the streets of London in a ghastly pallor, like a flickering projector in a movie theater full of screaming people.

One of the Skulls, possessing Mark II strength, addressed himself to the brick walls of another building and began smashing it with his bare hands, tossing aside hundred-pound blocks of stone as though they were tissue paper. In moments, there was no wall left his path.

Inside was almost a whole family-- mother, two boys, and a girl. The father was probably in the army, or dead. The children were a rarity-- lot of them had been sent away to the country, or to America, for the duration of the Blitz. This family had tried to stay together; they would pay the price for that devotion. The Skull advanced.

*Thump*. Something hit the ground behind him. He half-turned...

"Hey, fellas! WE'RE BACK!"

WHAM! Five feet, three inches of adamantium hit the Skull claws-first, knocking him through the hole and skewering him against the opposite wall, while the family inside scattered. Outside, the Colossus who had thrown this particular fastball grabbed the other Skull by the ankle when he tried to fly away. He flew anyway-- Colossus spun him once and flung him against the brick hard enough to shatter bones.

Inside the building, Logan pulled himself off his target and started cleaning his claws-- then he noticed the small boy standing nearby. Kinda Harry Potter waifish, staring with eyes as big as saucers.

"Brilliant," the boy breathed.

"Uh, yeah--" Logan cleared his throat. "Don't try that at home, huh? An' eat vegetables. Lots of 'em. For breakfast, even. Gotta go."

The mom's mother grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him mutely out of the way as Logan stepped back into the night. He tipped an imaginary cap to her. She gave him a dirty look.

Outside, Piotr Rasputin was sizing up the fire. "I miss Nightcrawler's teleporting right now, tovarisch. He could have put out this blaze in--"

"We'll get 'Ro to do it," Wolverine interrupted. "Where is she?"

"I am not certain. Ali and Longshot are across the square, holding their own. As for Ororo and Katya..."

He didn't get to finish the answer, because another Skull landed and nearly knocked his head off with a roundhouse punch. Logan hopped onto his friend's shoulders and fell on the Skull with claws extended-- BAM! He got punched halfway across the square, his bell soundly rung.

In a sick kind of way, it *was* good to be back.

****

The Skulls were puzzled when first they saw her. For one thing, everyone else in the square was running *away* from them, whereas the dark-skinned woman with the strange eyes sauntered *toward* them, moving gracefully but casually, a black cape fluttering behind her in a breeze she seemed to create herself.

One Skull frowned at his companion. "Vas ist das?"

The other shrugged. Then he made a remark about her skin color and the opinion the Fuhrer and his ministers held of her race. Both Skulls agreed the Allies must be terribly hard-up for super-soldiers, if they were recruiting not just women, but women of *her* kind. They started to laugh together. They let her approach to within a meter before they even bothered to raise their weapons.

The woman smiled at them. "Greetings, gentlemen. You may call me Storm. I'm afraid you are creating a disturbance here. I offer you three seconds in which to surrender peacefully."

The super-soldiers turned to each other and frowned. The woman saw they did not understand her. She held up three fingers.

"*Ein. Zwei. Drei.*"

Nothing happened. Laughing, the Skulls advanced on her. The woman's eyes turned pure white. The sky overhead rumbled.

****

ZRRRRACK!

Peter Wisdom watched in mild fascination as two Skulls crashed into the building next to him, propelled by a blast of pure electrical energy. He frowned down at the soldiers-- unconscious, not dead. All that power, and precision too.

Wisdom shook his head. "Sorry, gents. Appears she's not amused. If it's any consolation, I'm sure you'll be the last of your kind who fail to take her seriously."

Not that Wisdom didn't have problems of his own to take seriously. A fist dented the wall beside his head, while he dodged. He threw a couple of knives, but this one was wearing body armor. Heat-resistant, far beyond anything they should have had in World War II. The combination of the Slayer's advance knowledge and Zemo's genius had been a productive one for Nazi scientists. Wisdom had been able to teach the Allied side a few tricks, and they'd learned a few more from reverse-engineering, but he wasn't a technician and they could only reverse-engineer so far before running into places where they struggled just to understand the basic concepts. As bollixed as this timeline had been to start with, the Slayer's cameo appearance had turned it that much worse.

Wisdom resorted to hand-to-hand combat, but his training wasn't doing a lot of good against a fellow with the strength of Colossus. (Having gone a couple of rounds with the *actual* Colossus once, Wisdom figured he ought to know...)

The Skull hit him with a body blow that doubled him over. Wisdom wondered if it'd be too sporting to put a couple of knives down the fellow's shorts. Alas, he didn't have time before the Skull grasped his head firmly, about to squeeze.

"'Scuse me," said a voice from behind. "You haven't seen a small, purple dragon, have ya? I know I left one around here somewhere..."

Wisdom's eyes snapped open. "Kitty Pryde? What the devil are you doing here?"

The Skull unloaded a punch on her. Kitty dodged. "Well... I was gonna enlighten this guy about the crushing effects of fascism on the human spirit, but he's really not in the mood, so maybe I'll just phase him out of his body armor an' you can fry him. Sound good?"

"Sounds *perfect*, luv."

But even as Kitty grabbed hold of the Skull's armor, Wisdom knew something was wrong. His old flame wasn't phasing the way she used to. She couldn't reach through the armor. The Skull clipped her a glancing blow along the side of the head and she fell.

"HEY!" Wisdom cried, finding his feet. "That was bad form, you ugly sod!"

He leaped at the Skull, in his fury summoning more thermal energy that he had in years. Maybe he could find a vulnerable spot or--

--but he couldn't control that much energy for long. He let go of half a dozen knives, which would strike the heat-resistant armor and expend themselves uselessly.

Except that didn't. The Skull howled as Wisdom's knives struck home, and its body armor-- *shattered* right off, as brittle as sandstone. Wisdom and the Nazi both stood for a moment with comical looks on their faces. Then the Skull staggered, kicked squarely in the back of the head by a recovering Kitty. Wisdom hit him from the front with a couple more knives, and the git dropped. About time.

Wisdom and Kitty stared at each other through the space where it had been.

"Um... hi," she said.

"Hi. Kitty, what did you..."

"I don't know," she said. "I have no idea whatsoever."

Wisdom opened his mouth. Somebody else screamed in the distance. He sighed. "No rest for the weary..."

They ran to help.

****

An hour later, with the fires out and the Skulls either down or fled, Logan's team returned to the hospital annex in Brentwood, Essex, where they'd been staying before their return home. Peter Wisdom led them to a small office in an administrative building, where they found a nondescript, slightly pudgy man with small, dark eyes and listless brown hair sitting behind a desk.

"Talbot," Logan said with a nod. "How's the war goin'?"

"Badly." Talbot made a sour face. "Worse, since your unanticipated departure."

"Sorry. We had a prior commitment."

"Your commitment was to me. We made a deal, Logan."

Logan shrugged. "Deal was to get us home. Turned out, we didn't need you."

"But I need you." Talbot's gaze took in the rest of the team. "Just Logan, for now. The rest of you can go... mingle."

"Oh, mother, may we, please?" Alison deadpanned.

"Ali." Logan sighed. "Go on. Go find Celeste. We'll be okay here."

Still with a poisonous glare for the American agent, Alison excused herself and took Longshot with her. Kitty and Piotr hung back for a second, but then a glance passed between Talbot and Wisdom, and the latter guided Kitty out the door. Piotr followed, looking unhappy. That left Logan and Storm.

Talbot waited for the door to click shut. "Miss... Munroe, isn't it? You can leave, too."

"I prefer to remain," said Storm, and they locked eyes. Talbot nodded.

"Mr. Wisdom-- whom I gather you've met before-- he tells me you're a... what's the term... weather witch?"

"Elemental goddess, if you prefer," said Storm with a smirk.

"I really don't. I'm sure it's very useful to be able to make rain and such, but what good is it to me?"

Logan growled. "Who says we gotta be any good to you?"

"Well." Talbot shuffled a stack of papers on his desk. "You had better be, if you want my help recovering Elisabeth Braddock."

Logan almost jumped on his desk. "You know where she is?"

Dark eyes met his. "Oh, yes. You'll find my sources are quite reliable."

"Like Pete Wisdom? What the hell's he doin' here?"

"Working with the Brits. Beyond that... search me." Talbot spread his hands. "What the hell are *you* doing here, Logan? I woke up one morning, and you'd dropped into my world. I don't make the conditions, I just manipulate them."

"Fine." Logan leaned on Talbot's desk. "Can you manipulate us a way to get Betsy back?"

"What's in it for me?"

Logan's fists clenched-- his claws would have come out-- but then he felt Ororo's hand over his. She practically radiated calm. He took a deep breath.

"Of course," Storm said, "we will continue to assist you against the Axis for... a reasonable period of time... once we have secured Elisabeth's safe return."

Talbot laughed. "Look, princess--"

"Goddess," Ororo said, "or just Storm, if you prefer the informal."

"I prefer to have the team I bargained for. The original X-Force was a well-balanced covert strike force. You had a teleporter. You had a ninja. You had a girl who could possess her enemies and learn their secrets. Now you come back to me and you want the same deal, and what do you bring me? A kid with a bad haircut who's supposedly 'lucky,' and *this* person, who is going to have a hell of a time fitting into my era."

"Why?" Logan grunted. "'Cause she's black? Maybe you missed it, but the dude she's replacing was *blue*."

"I don't believe in luck," Talbot said, body language entirely closed. "And I'm not entirely certain I believe in *her*."

"You will," Ororo promised.

At length, Talbot pushed out of his chair. "I want three of you."

"What's that?"

"I'll help you find Ms. Braddock, Logan. Three of you may go to her rescue. The other three remain here, in London, at my disposal."

"Like hell!"

Talbot looked out his window and shrugged. "I want some assurance you won't go AWOL on me again."

"You got my word."

The pudgy man laughed. "Now tell me another. Three of you, including at least one heavy hitter, or we have no deal."

Logan stepped around the desk, about half ready to beat some answers from him; again, Ororo's presence held him back. "I misjudged you, Talbot. I thought you were a decent guy."

"Please, don't insult me." Talbot kept looking out the window as he spoke: "There's nothing more dangerous than a decent man. Your average degenerate can be bought. He can be controlled. A decent man answers only to himself. He's unpredictable and irresponsible. If the world's to end in fire, it'll be some decent man who lights the fuse." He turned back to them. "So... I guess the question, Logan, is... are you a decent man? Or can you be bought?"

Logan shared a glance with Ororo. She didn't look happy. He wasn't, either. They took the deal.

****

"...wish I had some grand explanation for it, but I'm afraid it's the same as yours. I went to sleep in the normal world and woke up in the House of M. Then I went to sleep again and woke up here." Pete Wisdom quirked an eyebrow at Kitty Pryde. "It's enough to turn a man off sleep. Fortunately, I have better ways to spend my nights."

Piotr Rasputin rather unsubtly placed himself between them and draped an arm around Kitty. Wisdom laughed.

"I meant spying on the Nazis, of course."

"Of course," Kitty said. She glared at the metal giant beside her. She didn't like his over-protectiveness. Somehow it concerned Wisdom deeply that she should take his side.

He led the pair into a side room which he'd commandeered and turned into a disaster area. Papers and maps with push-pins and the remains of several meals were scattered everywhere. Wisdom cleaned off the only chair. Noticing something sticky on it that he couldn't identify, he spread his rumpled trench coat on it and gestured for Kitty to sit. Then he cocked an ear.

"Those alarms will be the ambulances. There may be a lot of casualties-- they hit us hard tonight. I'm sure a strong hand would be appreciated out there."

Piotr Rasputin folded his arms and leaned against the wall, making no reply. Wisdom glared at him. *Take a hint, you great silver git...*

"Piotr," Kitty said quietly, "he's right. You can help 'em. I'll be fine."

"Very well." Colossus unfolded, but his eyes never left Pete Wisdom's. "I would hate to see anyone suffer."

He walked out the door. Wisdom sighed. "Charming as ever."

"You're not. 'Course, you never were."

"You remember. How flattering."

"I'm just saying it's worse for you, 'cause you're a British secret agent. People *expect* you to be charming." Kitty smirked. "Then you open your mouth."

Wisdom shrugged. "It's a living, luv. Now... tell me what's wrong with your powers."

"First you tell me why you're *really* here."

"I told you. I went to bed--"

"Yeah, I heard. The thought of you in bed isn't so great that I needed to think it twice." Wisdom winced at that. Kitty continued, "You're not a front-line super-soldier. Not your style. If the Crown hasn't figured that out yet, I'm pretty sure Talbot has. So you're not just fighting Skulls."

Wisdom thought of denying it. Then his shoulders slumped. "No."

"So, talk."

"Do you understand the concept of a spy? I'm rather encouraged not to do that."

Kitty took her mask off. Big hazel eyes bored into his. "Talk."

"There's..." He cleared his throat, fished a bottle out of his desk drawer, and offered it to Kitty. "Drink?"

"I'd rather spit in it."

"Is that a no?" Wisdom took a swig. "We've been monitoring some... interesting signals, passing through to Berlin. SIS believes there may be a mole in operation, possibly reporting to the Red Skull. Could be Talbot, or one of his aides. Could be sodding Captain America, for all I know. But the signals coincide with the time periods when X-Force has been in operation here."

"One of *us?* That's crazy!"

Wisdom started to put away the bottle; Kitty, looking stunned, held out her hand.

"Don't spit in it," he said, and handed it over.

Kitty drank, coughed, and stared at the bottle as though it were more likely to breathe fire than her blasted dragon.

"Crazy," she repeated. "For one thing, we've been kicking the Nazis' butts all over Europe! D'you think that'd happen if we were selling you out?"

"I said signals to the Red Skull. Do you think he wouldn't sacrifice a few pawns, to win the longer game?" Wisdom shrugged. "There have been indications of something. Have you noticed the Skulls showing up with equipment designed to combat *us?* Telepathic inhibitors, goggles against dazzle-blasts, and now that armor today."

"Lot of good it's done 'em." Kitty said. "So what? So the Slayer told 'em all about us."

"Maybe it wasn't *only* the Slayer."

"That's speculation."

"Regardless, if a leak exists, I'll shut it down. Now... let's talk about you."

Kitty shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "What about me?"

"You're not yourself, Miss Pryde. Maybe *you're* the leak."

She laughed at him. "You're not developing a sense of humor on me, are ya, Wisdom?"

"No. But I recognize that look." Lacking another chair, Peter Wisdom knelt beside Kitty's. "It says, 'I've been through the fire already; what do I care how much it burns?' But you do care. Even *I* care, and you're better than me."

Kitty looked down at her hands. "I just... I don't understand what's happening. I don't understand what I did to that guy. I don't understand what I almost did to my *friends*."

"I see." On impulse, he reached for her hand. She pulled it away. Peter Wisdom told himself she'd been right to do so. Whatever had been between them once was in the past. That didn't mean it couldn't hurt.

****

Somewhere

Betsy Braddock felt as though she'd been run over by, at minimum, something on the order of the Rhino. Possibly the Abomination. Perhaps the Rhino and the Abomination had combined to drop a ninety-ton anvil on her head.

She was still thinking up less-than-delightful possibilities when her eyes, somewhat unwillingly, quirked open. She was in a dark room, on a cot that might as well have been a stone slab. And she wasn't alone.

"Excellent," said a voice Betsy didn't recognize, speaking Japanese. "She's undamaged. You may tell your master his gift has met with great approval."

"The Red Skull will be pleased, milady," said another voice, German-accented. "He looks forward to a long and fruitful partnership with your people, and with Clan Yashida particularly."

A female shape stepped out of the darkness. Small, demure... nearly familiar. A beautiful face smiled down at her.

"Welcome, Psylocke. Please don't be afraid. We're taking a journey together, you and I, at the end of which we shall bring grief to our enemies and glory to the Emperor."

"Who... are you?" Betsy murmured drowsily. "I don't..."

"I am Lady Michiko Yashida," said the woman. "But you may call me Sunfire."

END

In Issue #8: "Company of Heroes"
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