"So who are these new pups you wish me to train, Xavier?" rumbled the old man, his bent, gnarled, cloaked form resting silent in his specially-designed wheelchair. "They are the next generation of leaders in the mutant movement." Xavier replied, his blonde hair swaying slightly with the motion. "And they are yours to mold. Make me warriors, make me spies, make me what I need." The cloaked figure rasped out a croaking laugh that quickly degenerated into a hacking, sick-sounding cough. After far too long, the spasm subsided. "I may be old, Charles, but I'm not dead. This Survivor still lives." Charles Xavier, founder of the X-Men, nodded slightly. With a slight smile, he replied "You're far too ornery to die. And I cannot, as far as I can tell. Quite the pair, we are." "Indeed." rasped the cloaked figure. "When these old bones are dust, it will be yours to continue my work, Charles." Charles, overcome by words, nodded quickly. "Now then, back to business, Nur. Today I've got the final selection of pups." Flipping through his notepad, although in truth he had their names, their powers, and their exploitable weaknesses long-since memorized. "First we have one Warren Worthington. A sad case, really, and not one I'd ordinarily consider. But the boy's mutations can come in quite useful behind the scenes. Seems when the lad turned 14, he began to lose cohesion on every bone in his body. Fortunately for him, his gift and intercepting and altering E-M band transmissions also surfaced at the time. The boy's tied to a exoskeleton for mobility, but his gift's too precious to waste in the field. With his parents gone, and his company floundering, he is ripe to be approached." Nur, the cloaked figure, nodded slowly. "This one, hmm, this one shall require much training." Sliding the hood back from his face, he allowed the feeble light of Xavier's War Room to wash over his shriveled, waxy skin, stretched tight over bones older than most in cemetaries. "But so did you, that hot day in Cairo, so long ago. You survived, so will he." Xavier proceeded as if Nur had not spoken. "Next we have one Betsy Braddock. Doted daughter of a rich British family, her mutant gift of winged flight surfaced early on. Between daytime flights around the family grounds and night-time fencing lessons with the best masters to be hired in all Europe, the young lady has neglected her familial duties. And with her middle brother Brian being ravaged by alcoholism and a reality-warping power he cannot control, and eldest brother Jaime assuming the role of England's mystical defender, she can afford to. She will make a perfect addition to the team, assumning her exuberance can be channeled more productively. She calls herself Angelique, and she's active already in the English superhero scene." "Fools." snorted Nur. "But the girl may be of use to us -- if we can break her to the leash. If not, then the sword." Xavier nodded absentl, then continued. "Next is one hacker par excallance, Hank "The Beast" McCoy. Seems the boy has the gift of tongues. Assuming we can acclimate him to Warren's new appearance, he'd work hand-in-glove with Warren. We've already got the Cerebro gear ready and waiting, tuned roughly to both McCoy's and Worthington's mutations. Between the two of them, very little electronic is sacred." The old man nodded in agreement. "Spies. Thieves in the night. Such are useful tools, when used properly." Xavier plowed onward, determined to finish. "Next we have one Scott Summers. Seems the poor lad's let his life be ruled by his mutation -- but then again, having diamond-hard, monofilament-like skin and being fire-engine red would do that to a shy Nebraska boy. Seems his older brother was rescued from the orphanage first, and he's been left to rot. The only downside to the boy is that from what I'm given to understand his mind's a mess, and he's not spoken a word to anyone in years. Still, as a front-line combat machine the boy has potential." Nur merely growled his assent. "Any more pups?" he growled, yellowed claws idly shredding the padding to his wheelchair's armrest. "A few more." Xavier said blithely. "Next, oh, you'll like this one. Lad's name is Piotr Rasputin, calls himself Deathwave. His mutant power is apparently some sort of mutant death spore. Anything living that the spore infects, dies. Sometimes within seconds, always within minutes. A messy, brutal death, from what I'm led to believe. In some ways, the spore's like an accelerated airborne version of the Ebola virus. Seems the boy killed everyone on the farm where he grew up when his power slipped its leash, and the GRU's been trying for years to put enough of his mind back together to make the boy a weapon. I've arranged his transfer and visa to the States." Nur smiled at this, his yellowed teeth catching the light obscenely. "Excellent." he purred, his gnarled body stirring restlessly in the chair. "There is a complication." Xavier noted calmly. "Seems the boy has imperfect control at best, and the spore "needs" to feed on a life force every few days. If it does not, the boy's control slips further and further, until it finally snaps. I'm sure the depopulated GRU bases quarantined in Siberia might still be considered a hot zone for the spore." Nur rose slowly, aged joints protesting his every move. Inside his withered frame, aged tendons snapped, reformed, snapped, and reformed again, their snapping nearly audible. "I am En Sabah Nur." the wizened old man whispered, his fanged teeth glemaing in the wan light. "I am the Survivor. And I will train your pups." Xavier smiled as he too stood. Using his own mutant gift, he stretched out a hand, which snaked its way across the room to open the door to the Mansion proper. "Shall we go begin the new age in mutant liberation?" Charles asked, with a gleam in his immortal eye. Redhawk PS -- Alara, some days you inspire the WORST in me! PPS -- all usual disclaimers apply. Archive_OK, !MST_OK. PPPS -- Is this worth following up on? Erik Larson "Pardon me, but who is this God person you are redhawk@deeptht.armory.com referring to?