Disclaimer: None of the characters mentioned in this story belong to me. They are all owned by Marvel Entertainment Group. Neither am I making any money off this. Feedback and flames are welcome. **** I shouldn't have come. It's foolish to risk it all today, of all days. And besides... it always depresses me. You always depress me. Ten years. Ten years it's been. They did you justice, you know. In death, if not in life. I am no art critic but this statue was brilliantly crafted. Pity it's in white. I told them it should be in blood red, but they didn't listen. Didn't want to. Yet, that young kid - well he was young then, anyway - he did all right by you. Everyone says so. As if you're alive and ready to jump off the pedestal and lead us any moment. I'm not sure why he made you young... Yes, he did you justice. And yet it's dead. It's dead to me. The beautiful lines of the face, the long hair flowing in the breeze as if it was silk and not marble. Dead. Dead to me. Dead to anyone who knew you, seen you, heard you. Ten years. A decade. A decade of putting my mind back together. Of building a mask. It seems so massive now, what we've… what _I've_ done. So big. Looking back I am impressed at myself, you know. An illusion, of course. We just took it day by day. Piece by piece. And now we're ready. Well... we were ready a while ago but I guess I've grown timid with age. Kept fussing. Almost put it off for too long... but that's all right. It will work. Everything is in place. Magda Square. I remember when you dedicated it, you know. Typical of you... Naming the center of your city for someone who feared you. Rooting a constant reminder of someone who couldn't accept you for who you were at the very heart of your dominion. A man of passion, you always were. That's why we followed you, that why we fought for you. That's why we loved you. That's why this stone idol is just that to me - a dead stone. There is no fire in its eyes. There is no passion running like a current of electricity through its veins. Still... it's very pretty. They wanted to nix the monument altogether but didn't dare after we took to the streets. So they gave it to us. Threw us a bone. Our democratic government... Patted themselves on the back for their clever maneuver and then renamed the square. Unanimously, they voted 'Aye.' Unanimously... even HIM. So now you stand in the middle of Freedom Plaza. What fools. As if mere words could erase your memory. As if street names mattered. They were thorough though. Only the City renames the same. Ironic in a way. It has survived it all. Genengeneers. The Revolution. The War. The riots. You. Hammer Bay, the city of blood and broken dreams. Are you weeping? No... Damn. It's raining again. A decade. It's been a decade. I fell tired. So much done. So much left to do. It was hard, you know. Sitting by, playing dead as around me everything fell apart. As the country we built slid into the gray horror of poverty and illiteracy. We, we who once made the world tremble. It was hard. And I did nothing. We all did nothing. They moved fast. Their "peacekeepers" flooded the streets and before we even buried you they installed their puppets. The democratic government indeed. The brought back the flatscans and re-enfranchised them. And we, the poor fools, unused to their games. We protested by not voting. How they must have laughed. It's still the same you know. In ten years practically not one face had changed on that Cabinet. Democracy... They will learn. A decade. It's been a decade. ten years since they came and murdered ur hope and promise, in this very place. I've waited ten years, Erik. I have to go now. It should be starting soon... *** The lamp light shone bleakly through the closed curtains. The music carried faintly, just loud enough to be tantalizingly unidentifiable. The evening shadows moved in a slow macabre waltz as the slight wind danced carelessly through the branches of the ancient oak. The tree protested, the noise of the leaves and branches striking each other filling the night, almost blocking out everything else. Almost. The music in the house appeared to reach the crescendo, as close to two dozen darkly-garbed figures crossed the yard melting into the shadows, their snub-nosed machine guns unerringly covering the door and the windows of the modest house on a hillside in the Hammer Bay environs. *** "Adam? What's up with you? What's taking so long?" "Coming, Jean. Coming. Dieu... I swear you are such a child sometimes." Jean Paul Beaubier grinned lazily, burrowing deeper into the blankets, the light sheen of sweat on his shoulders merrily reflecting the candlelight. "Hey, it's my birthday. It's your turn to cook. And I'm starved." "You're always starved!" "Not always. Mostly after sex... After good sex." "Well..." "Hey!" "I'm kidding, I am kidding. Drink your wine, I'll be right there. Needs just a little more salt..." Northstar shook his head ruefully and lazily reached for the beautifully crafted goblet to his right. He savoured the sugary sweet taste, frowning a bit as for a second the wine seemed to leave a strangely sticky and metallic taste in his mouth. The feeling passed and he shifted restlessly, turning the cup carefully by its stem, admiring the intricate metalwork. The goblet has been a gift from Adam for their 4-year anniversary. Jean-Paul shook his head again, this time at himself. More and more lately he found himself making time to disappear into the Old Quebec and just... walk. At a certain point he would outrun the reach of the throngs of gaping tourists and sometimes he'd find some really beautiful things. Who'd have guessed that he of all people would develop a weakness for antiquing. He had always tried so hard to avoid becoming a gay stereotype. Too hard at times, perhaps. A lot had changed since he met Adam of course. Adam Burke... he let the name roll leisurely off his tongue, feeling a warm, goofy smile spreading across his face. "Hey! Chef Boyardee? What are you spitting a boar in there? C'mo... agh... uggh... oh.. Ada... Adam...." As soon as he saw him re-enter the bedroom, Jean knew it. Superspeed that was his gift screamed the signs at him and the pieces fell into place. The throat-raking cough ripped through him again and he convulsed, feeling his stomach contracting. Adam.. that man with the face of his lover stood motionlessly in the frame of the door, those familiar blue eyes lacking any sign of life as they took in his agony. The forgotten goblet rolled of the bed, thudding dully as it hit the carpet, leaving wet bloody smears on the linen. Oh God, it hurt.. it hurt so much... And he... he couldn't feel his speed any more.. Oh Jesus.. He needed to... needed to get up... get up... get to the window. Fly... he needed to fly... everything would be all right once he was flying... His vision lost focus somewhere along the way and he whimpered as another jolt of pain lanced through him. He felt more than saw the presence next to him and the warm kiss on his mouth. It seemed to last for eternity. It seemed to last but a second. Adam straightened looking dispassionately at the body curled into a fetal position on the bed. Calmly he collected the stained bed-linen and threw it into the bag. The goblet followed. He disappeared into the kitchen again and came back a second later with the dishrag. All evidence, all prints were to be extinguished, Control was very clear about it. The rest of Alpha Flight would be able to produce photos of him of course, but faces could be changed. He paused at the door giving the body one last glance. It scared him still that somewhere inside him there was a virus. He knew it was safe. Knew it consciously that it was tailored specifically for the man now laying dead on the bed. Knew that it had to be activated by a specific catalyst to become active and he could feel the antidote rushing through his blood but still... Paradoxically it excited him. He WAS Death. He WAS the agent of Fate. The lips of the man who had called himself Adam Burke for the last 8 years quirked in a proud smile as he looked on to the corpse of Jean-Paul Beaubier. He wondered suddenly at the brief twinge deep inside of himself. Was he a different man, was it a different time could he have loved Northstar…? Burke narrowed his eyes disgustedly - it mattered not. He was who he was. One of the privileged few - a Neophyte. His was the privilege to carry the burden. His was the reward of honoring the great man. He stepped into the lobby, softly closing the door behind himself, whispering the words to himself. He was almost positive that Northstar heard them before he died, but in the end it was irrelevant. "Magnus lives." *** "She threw you out again, then?" "She did not! I left!" "Riiight. Well, you can crash on my sofa, till Sophie's back. So you better solve your marital issues in 4 days, Vinnie, 'k?" Vincent Caparelli glared briefly at his partner but kept his peace. Pete was a pain in the ass, but until Maria cooled off, that sofa would come in really handy. He sighed and wiped his forehead. With the gas and utility prices hitting all time high, the AC became a rarely affordable luxury for the NYPD, and for a man with Vinnie's... girth, that proved to be somewhat of a trial. Not to mention the fact that as usual the heat was making everyone in the City nuts. Crazy maniacs were popping up all over. Robberies were up. The Punisher came out from his retirement again. One didn't even have to look far for the proof, the station was practically deserted, only skeleton crew manning it. And the natives, i.e. the prisoners, were getting restless.... Detective Caparelli was rudely jerked from his meandering by his partner's exclamation of surprise. "What?" "Hold on a second, lemme finish... Daaaayaaam." "What?!" "Check this out." Pete gestured with his right hand, pressing the button and increasing the volume of the battered Panasonic in the corner. "... and while the police have declined to comment at the present time, anonymous sources confirm that the body belongs to one of the prominent members of New York community..." The shrill ring of the old-fashioned dial phone drowned out the rest of the sentence, Vinnie spat disgustedly and picked it up, keeping his eyes on the screen, "Hellhole. Damned Soul #32 speaking." "Caparelli?" "Yo, Rico. What's up?" "Is Ratface there by any chance?" "Kowalski? Nah. Just us, me and Pete, couple of others and the uniforms. Why?" "I been trying to get a hold of him for 20 fucking minutes, man. Didn't you hear what happened?" "The thing on TV? So?" "What are you fuckin' kidding me? Do you know who that is that got offed?" "Some teacher, right?" "Some teach.. Unbelievable... It's Hector Rendoza, estupido!" "Rendoza... Rendoza.. Hmm.. Hey, Pete where do I know the name Rendoza from?" "Umm... didn't we bust him last summer for possession?" "Madre de Dios... THE Hector Rendoza! The Wraith!" "The mutie politico? Oh shit.... You think it's The Mangler again?" "Nah, this ain't no psycho slice and dice. This was professional. A message. They fucking skinned the poor bastard. Took off his head too. Then laid it out all nice and neat on his desk. Lindsey is trying to calm the kids now. I think two are in shock or something... " "Mayor is gonna be pissed..." "Tell me about... Oh shit! Oh shit, I gotta go! Cap-!" Vincent frowned at the receiver as the voice cut off abruptly. Shrugging he hung up and turn around, "Weirdo-freak." "Wazzat?" "He was looking for Kowalski. They can't find him. Hey did you know that who the big corpse of the day is? The freaking Wraith, of all people! And Rico is saying it looks like a message or something..." Vinnie paused in mid-sentence looking puzzled expression at his partner. Who in turn suddenly went stiff. "What?" "Get yer piece. We gotta go." Familiar with the tone in which the statement was delivered, Vinnie held his patience until they were in the car. Then he inquired into the matter with his usual tact and subtlety, "Where in the holy fuck are we going?" "Kowalski is watching The Brickhouse today." "Shit." **** "Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck. Fuckety-fuck on a fucking tricycle." "Watch your language, Pike!" "Oh, put a sock in it, chiefie." Shooting the man kneeling next to him a challenging glare, Pike turned away. "Fuck!" "Some reverses were to be expected. The plan was sound..." The pale man in the black business suit shifted, reloading his submachine gun mechanically. His face showing nothing except a slight embarrassment. "Oh yeah? At what point exactly did we decide that plan should include 20 percent causalities in the first 3 minutes? Huh?! No? Then shut the fuck up, Ascet!" "Watch your mouth, Pike! I'm still the lance chief." In the room across the hall another trio of the armed men exchanged a wry look. Ascet's rebuke was interrupted by a woman's snort reverberating through the headphones of the assault team, "Kids, kids, if you haven't noticed we are getting a little bit slaughtered here. Can we postpone the pissing contests? Just for couple of seconds?" "I caaaaaaan hear youuuuuu." The singsong baritone carried easily through the demolished expanse of the once opulent house. The mocking challenge was punctuated by a sharp burst of a semi-automatic. The hollow point bullets tore easily through the wall and smashed into the Ascet's side. "Agh!" "What's that I hear? Hurts, don't it? I bet it hurts. Come on you slimy sons of bitches! Mess with Paulie Provenzano? Up in my own house?! I'll bust you up!" Pike snarled softly, dragging Ascet behind the up-turned couch. He tapped the communicator, reloading his own gun, one-handed, "All right, chief is down. Change of plan. Torch?" "Here." "Tank?" "I'm good to go. Barb is here too, but his com is busted." "Right. All right... All right.. Shit. All right. Here how this is gonna go, then..." The silence that followed Pike's whispered strategy was telling, weighing heavily between the men. Tank, the short redhead whose forcefield shimmered like a pale blue flame about him, spoke first, "Well this is crazy... but assuming that it works, how we getting outta here? No way Jumper has the strength to take us all... with Ascet dead." Pike smiled humorlessly, "In case you haven't noticed there're a bit less of us now. Well within Jumper's limit, if we shorten the distance. Anything else?" "Gonna be tricky with density control..." Tank pursed his lips, whistling soundlessly. His comment simply an observation, while he was already working out the solution, "I never compressed it that much. Doable though. Yeah." "Well you better not screw up the timing, 'cos ... you know..." "Chill, Matchstick." "Yo, you might wanna hurry up. New York's finest are aiming to be here in less than ten minutes. All of them, from what I can tell." On the surface Jumper's voice appeared to be of the same lightly bantering, needling tone, but to those who knew her the worry was as clear as if it had been shouted in their ears. "All right. All right.. I'll take the point - we need to get Tank and Torch into visual range. Barb... do you fucking best, awight?" "No-" Pike started at the weak protest and looked down. "Holy fuckpuppet..." Ascet gritted his teeth, his left arm vainly trying to hold his side together. "I'll lead you out." The wet racking cough swallowed the rest, but Ascet's glare remained steady. As the cough subsided he dragged himself stubbornly to the wall, ignoring Provenzano's continuing stream of curses and bullets. Keeping his eyes on Pike, Ascet propped himself up, "C'mon." After a momentary pause, Pike nodded suddenly and pulled him up, shoving a gun into the slack fingers as Ascet draped his other hand around his neck. Picking up his own modified Uzi, Pike barked a harsh command into the com. As they neared the door, Pike grinned thinly, "You know, I never liked you, Ignatio. You just don't know how to relax and have a good time." Ascet laughed harshly, inky blood bubbling in the corner of his mouth. His eyes, normally cool and calculating, now alive and burning with a holy fire, "Magnus lives!" As they spilled into the corridor Pike whispered, almost soundlessly, "Fuck the dead man. This for you, Spanish." Ignatio Alvarez died on his third step toward the bedroom, the bullets from Provenzano's twin guns tearing mercilessly into his chest. Or at least that how it should have happened. Paulie Provenzano AKA Omerta AKA The Brickhouse would have sworn on his life that he emptied a good half of his both guns' clips into the crazy motherfucker, but the guy still kept coming, firing his toy pistol or whatever that was. And his friends behind him. Please! Paulie once survived a direct hit from a Mark II grenade launcher. He was fucking indestructible! He was The Brickhouse! The first non-Sicilian who would make Capo di tutti Capi one day! Paulie grinned as the bullets shredded his shirt and trained his guns on the others, as the pointman slumped to the floor, his gun thudding to the floor, his eyes empty of life. Provenzano bared his teeth in a savage snarl of victory. Their human shield gone, these sons of bitches were so much dog meat. "Torch!" He laughed out loud as the hurricane of flame erupted from the hands of one of the assailants and enveloped him. Not bothering to shield his eyes, he fired aiming from memory as his vision became hopelessly obscured. "I am Paulie Provenzano, you sorry scum-suckers! I don't fucking go down!" The next command was unintelligible to Paulie in the roar of fire, but a moment later he could have sworn he saw a faint blue shimmer. *** 'There is still no sign that the target realizes how close the hunters were. Still...' The black gloved hand reached out and pressed the com-unit, the soft whisper carrying through the radio and the quiet Genoshan night to the rest of the team poised to strike, "This is Cat 1. Be careful, remember this is no ordinary Crow we're dealing with here. Watch for the booby traps." "Check" "Check." Tam Anderson, the once and again Chief Magistrate of Genosha sighed and chopped her hand shortly, racing through the yard just as the masked soldiers of the President's Own broke down the door of Johanna Cargill's house. *** "I'm telling you it doesn't make a lick of sense." "Does to me. I mean everyone knows he and that Rendoza-mutie were tight. So they got to him first as a warning to Paulie. Simple." "Bull. If that was a warning to Provenzano, why did they move on The Brickhouse so fast? Didn't even give him the chance to get the message. And why wasn't he ready at all? It this was a warning, that means either they were moving on his turf or vice versa, and either way it wouldn't be a surprise to him." "Damn, Pete. Why you always got to complicate things? So the Wraith was a message to the rest of Provenzano's boys, not to get fresh once they took the boss out. And he wasn't ready. 'cos he was an arrogant pissant who though he could take everyone on. Simple. Clear. Obvio-oo-ous." "Riiight..." Vinnie sighed in resigned frustration and was about to extrapolate on the virtues of the Occam's razor when his partner's attention was diverted by a familiar slouching figure. "Well?" Shapiro shrugged fatalistically, " 's gonna be hard. The fire took down most of the evidence. What's Kowalski saying?" "Mostly he's trying remember the number of the bus that hit him. You mean there's zilch? Like, nothing at all?" "Well, let me put it to you this way - the only piece of evidence we have more or less intact is The Brickhouse himself." "Noooo! You gotta be kidding me?! He survived again?!" "What? Heh! Nah, not hardly. Nope, Paulie's lucky streak has come to an abrupt and much deserved end. It's freaky tho'... Come with me." Waving Vinnie down to wait, Pete carefully followed the forensic's lead, as the latter nimbly hopped his way through the still smoking shambles of the house. "I'll tell you one thing, Winifred - this wasn't pretty. True to form, Paulie didn't go quietly into the night. But damn... I wish I knew who put together this little operation. There're about two dozen bodies inside, tough boys - I believe you'll recognize a couple of old friends once the dentals match up. Looks as if at least a third were 'done' outside though and then thrown in. Lookouts, my guess would be... or they were until someone decided that they were about a head too tall for their perfect height. Gonna be fun matching them up, tell you that right now." "Agh... You're sick, Sol." "Suck it up. Ok, here we go - tell me what you see." Pete shouldered one of the photographers aside and squinted, thoughtfully rubbing the side of his nose. "A dead scumbag?" "Ha. Ha. Yeah, you're hilarious." Peter shrugged modestly, "I thought it was funny. Okay, lessee..." The body, presumably Provenzano's, was lying face down in the remnants of the doorframe. Shielding his eyes from the camera flashes, Pete harrumphed thoughtfully as he noticed the spent clips and bullets shrewd across the floor. His frown deepened suddenly, "This is where the fire started, innit? Right here." Shapiro shrugged, motioning for him to go on. "Yeah. Damn this is creepy, look not a mark on him but there is fuck all left of his clothes. Flame-thrower?" Winifred suddenly shook his head, forestalling Shapiro's answer, "Nah, that's not it... what is this about, then?" Solomon grinned, "Noticed finally, eh? C'mon, Detective. Detect." Pete fished out a pen from his packet and squatted down, carefully brushing some of the ashes away, until a definite pattern started to emerge, "Whatta hell... It's an even circle. And the fire was a lot hotter here too, look at that..." Shapiro nodded, his eyes also on a circle of the blackened floor in the middle of which Provenzano's corpse sprawled, "Ayep. Freaky, like I said. Now check out the venerable deceased." Pete looked up briefly, "They're done, then? I can move him?" "Knock yourself out." Fighting the inevitable onset of nausea, Winifred moved closer to the corpse. Unnervingly the skin still felt warm and pliant, not dead at all. Carefully Pete grasped the chin and brushed the hair away to look at the face. The nausea forgotten at the telltale blue tinge of skin, he looked back at Shapiro, "Suffocation?" "You got it. I'm telling you, it looks like someone lit a freaking fire under his ass and then clamped a jar on him." *** Leyu put down the sheaf of paper and sighed tiredly. It was really unfair, she thought. She was only twenty five! When Shiro was her age he did NOT have to read the freakishly boring production reports. All he had to do was fly around and shoot plasma bolts at super villains. Just like him to take the easy way out. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath, before stretching, in as much as the airplane seat would allow. She really should review the report a couple of more times, she knew. But... There was only so many times one could read 113 pages of mind bogglingly DULL collection of numbers before one would decide to finally give into one's homicidal urges. Her glance fell on the magazine laying in the next seat and she narrowed her eyes at the familiar, garishly garbed figure on the cover. "Brother dear. Shiro Yoshida. Sunfire. Suuuuuuure. He gets to pose for the Times and play a symbol of the Japan's newfound economic prosperity. And what does his poor little overworked, strapping and beautiful SINGLE young sister gets to do? Why visit the picturesque Sakhalin Island of course and freeze her buns off. Grrr." The quiet chuckle behind her, prompted Leyu to turn her glare on the second passenger of the jet. "What are you laughing about? You get to freeze right with me." "Yes'm." The young woman, once known as Pyre, narrowed her eyes still further, "I don't see why I need you along anyway, old man. If there is trouble, you're just going to get in my way." The grin lurking in the corner of her mouth robbed the words of their sting. Leyu had followed her famous brother's footsteps into the career of a super heroine when she was just a teenager. With the powers of the sun itself at her control, she would present, and did, when time called for it, a formidable opponent to any villain, super or otherwise who would be foolish enough to try her. She knew better then to write off the quiet, balding, non-descriptive man behind her, however. No one in the Yoshida clan was _that_ foolish. Jon Lee might have been his real name. Most probably not, but it was equally probable that he wore it much longer than the name he was given at birth. Certainly for the quarter of the century that Leyu knew him. Unlike the name might suggest, Jon wasn't Chinese, he was native to Hokkaido. More native than most, actually. Leyu grinned, not many would agree once they would take a good long look at the pale redhead, towering at an impressive 6'3. His eyes, slanted and dark were perhaps the only feature that would prevent him passing for a Viking that had somehow stepped through the uncountable eons. In fact he was Ainu. One of the last in his clan and forever indebted to Yoshida. He never explained why exactly, but his loyalty was unquestioned. Nor was his skill. The big frame deceived some as to his astonishing quickness. And even Logan was reputed to say that he had rarely met Jon's equal with a kendo sword. He trained all Yoshida heirs himself. There were stories about Jon; there were stories about him as long as Leyu could remember. Dark rumors floating around the compound, broken shards of conversations in the ball rooms of Oyabans. She got up the bravery to ask him once, but he just bowed to her in a strange, shallow way and disappeared. Eventually she pieced it together as much as she was able. The sort of tale she would never expect. Something out of a tragic fairy tale. Honor and love, blood and sacrifice. A samurai in love with the lady of his lord... Father knew of course. But had never shown it. Never shown any concern that situation might progress into impropriety. And as he was wont to do, he was proven right... Her train of thought faltered and she frowned, as yet again heat fogged her head. Shaking it off, she reached for the report and froze in momentary panic and disbelief as she realized that her hand was trembling and a slow sliver of fire was winding its way down her arm. "Jon.... " "I'm here." The solid, quietly competent voice reassured her, as always. Jon was here. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. The thought calmed her and she forcefully blocked everything else, draping brittle calm over herself. "Jon. The pills. It's happening again." She fought back involuntary snarl of helplessness. Her powers had not defied her control for the better part of 13 years, but now as then, she was terrified. Years of justified self-confidence and iron discipline were washed away by the memories of merciless tongues of fire streaking from her hand toward her brother. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable. But Jon was there then. Jon was here now. Everything would be all right. "The pills. Please, hurry." "I'm sorry, sparrow." The words hit her hard and bit deep, even before their meaning registered. It was the tone. The deep, dark, self-cursing sorrow dripping as thick oil... Jon Lee looked into the terrified eyes of the young woman he thought of as his own daughter and forbade himself from weeping. He did not deserve the luxury. "I'm so sorry, little one. They have Aisha..." She could feel the build up, the terrible energies battering at her from the inside. In her mind the image came, unbidden of an all consuming fireball hurtling itself at her. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. The last vestiges of control and self-discipline fled, and the terrified girl whom none of her family would recognize as the their 'Wildfire' turned for the succor to the man that killed her. "Uncle Jon..." As a thermonuclear flower blossomed above the Sea of Japan, many would swear that its echo was asking forgiveness. _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com ============================================================ *** CABLE TV BOXES & DESCRAMBLERS *** Why pay high monthly rent charges when you can buy your own! 30 day - No Risk - Money Back Guarantee & 1-Year Warrantee http://click.topica.com/caaacxmaVxiJRaVz48Jf/cable ============================================================ ***** Are you frustrated dealing with your computer problems? Have you ever called tech support, only to hang-up after being on hold for hours? ASK DR. TECH! With ASK DR. TECH, get 24/7/365 toll-free tech support! 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