****************** Title: Vendetta 1/9 Author: John Duffin (poet@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** The Past: There were mountains, old as the Earth itself, green- shouldered giants that waited, with practiced vigilance, for a day that only they would recognize. They were as familiar as a loved one's face, or the smell of a favourite meal. That morning, as every other, they stood in a ring around a verdant valley. Their gentle flanks resembled soft, rolling hills, covered with an intermittant blanket of spruce and pine. In the centre of those hills lay a sprawling house, painted a flamboyant aubergine. It was surrounded by a soft effulgence, punctuated by the reflected brilliance of the early morning sun in the windows. That heavenly body was just showing itself between the shoulders of two of the mountains, laying down the morning's first light. Across the face of the valley, in a green pasture framed by the trees, a small herd of horses grazed, chestnuts and bays and greys who dragged the dew-covered grass from the ground with their teeth. They were healthy and well-cared for, handsome quarter-horses bred for their friendly dispositions as well as their confirmation. Their eyes were cast downward and their ears flicked lazily as the herd took in the morning meal. One horse, a mare, flicked her tail and paused in her grazing to regard a man who was walking around the corner of the house. He was dressed in purple camouflage fatigues that made him difficult to pick up against the backdrop of the house, and he carried a weapon. To be more precise, it was a 7.62 mm NATO rifle, designed for field combat. He walked slowly across the face of the home, casting his gaze out over the meadow, fiddling idly with the binoculars that hung from his neck. The horse lost interest. The man and his ilk were a common sight around the house. Moreover, they never carried food. She went back to her grazing. Unwatched by the horse, the man carried on around the corner. Moments later, the blinds twitched back from one of the windows, and another such man peeked out with binoculars, watching the hills. He stayed in that posture for some time, waiting for the first man to complete his circuit before he would withdraw his attention to the interior of the house. Instead, he was surprised by a glob of transparent, sticky gel, which struck the outside of the window before him with audible impact. Before he could duck, or locate the source of the mess, a silent bullet followed its trajectory, boring a hole through gel, glass, and man. He tumbled out of sight, with a sticky mess and a small, neat hole being the only evidence that the event occured. A moment later, the first man came again around the corner of the house, treading slowly and carefully. He was visibly taken aback by the state of the window, but did not have much time to reflect, much less raise an alarm. A bullet took him in the temple, and another followed through his armpit. He crumpled. Among the horses, a man rose to his feet. They paid him little mind. He'd been staying among them for hours, after all. The man was clad in green camouflage gear that was covered in foul-smelling (and tasting) grasses. He was strong, and lean, with a weathered face and a white western mustache that drooped to his chin. It did nothing to soften his angular features, even though it was limp with dew. Nor did it draw much attention from his eyes, which cut rather than glittered. His hair was grey, stringy, and a bit past shoulder length. Over his shoulder he bore a bandolier, which was hung with ammunition and grenades (both carefully blackened with grease). He also had a pair of semi-automatic pistols, one holstered under his left arm, the other on his right hip. A hold-out pistol was strapped to the back of his neck, and there were knives strapped to his forearms and thighs. A fifth knife was sheathed, cunningly, in the thick and heavy sole of one boot. This was the man who had come to call that morning. He was not the one for whom the mountains waited. They raised no alarm. The man left his rifle where it lay, knowing that time was of the essence, and swung onto the back of one of the horses. She was a bay, and unlike her companions, she had been fitted with a hackamore. She was surprised by the man's move, but not enough to buck him off. She was used to men on her back, even if she was not accustomed to bareback riding, or this particular man. The two of them travelled at a sprightly canter toward the house. The house was as impressive outside as inside, if no more tastefully appointed. The floorboards were hewn of old barnboard, twisted and knotty, but well-worn and sanded smooth. The furniture was old, perhaps antique, and looked uncomfortable. The rooms were large, the tables were broad and long. Rugs abounded. There was an embarrassment of fireplaces, few of which showed any evidence of use. There was a bookcase in every room, each full to bursting with books. Most of these were worn paperbacks-- detective novels, romance novels, self- help books. There were also a few corpses, gurgling out their life's blood from slit throats onto rug and floor, but these were not normal features of the decor. Most of the doors in the house hung ajar, but there were two that did not. From behind one of these issued voices. "Mmmm. Light's coming in. What time is it?" a woman murmured in a light, sharp accent that recalled Australia, but with soft, gutteral consonants that might have come from Germany, or the Netherlands. "Gmph. Lemme see." a man replied sleepily. "Hmph. Clock stopped." "Why didn' one of the guards wake us up?" He grunted. "Dunno. Gotta be at least six." A brief knock at the door. "Yes?" the woman asked. The door opened, revealing not a guard, but the hard-eyed man. His pistol spat four times. ***** The Present: "I can't tell you how happy I am that you're going to be working for me." the man said. "At last, a competent administrator and field agent in the fold." The man looked weak. His hair was a dishwater brown, going a bit to grey, but his baby face made him look young. Whatever his facial features or hair said on the subject, he was certainly approaching middle age. He had a beatific smile that was belied by his darting eyes, which missed nothing. He was clad in a business suit, well-tailored. He sat easily in the back seat of a car, addressing his companion as if he were at ease. A fat vein, however, throbbed under the surface of the soft skin of his throat. His companion was a woman. She was as attractive as he was plain. Unlike the man, she was dressed very casually, in a light cotton shirt and a pair of shorts. Both of these were covered with a black, tarry-looking substance that had hardened into stiff peaks and sheets. Her long, coppery- skinned legs were also dirty, with a series of angry blisters on the insides of her calves and outside of her right thigh. Her hair, black as a raven's wing, was caked in dust and crusted with the same hard black substance. Her small mouth was drawn into a slight frown, and her bright brown eyes were speculative. "I think Hydra needs me, Simmonds." she said. "I would never have allowed you to come out into the field that way. One guard. A foolish risk." He frowned in response. "It is my place to judge the risks and benefits of Hydra's operations, Silver Fox. Don't forget that." "You are a competent administrator." she said, echoing him. "Perhaps even a good Supreme Hydra. However, you don't have the profile of an elite field agent. Hydra's strength is its manpower." "Hydra's strength is its intelligence." he replied. "Agents must not be revealed casually." Silver Fox crooked an eyebrow. "If our strength is intelligence, then surely the man who receives and interprets that intelligence cannot be risked in the field. His capture or death would hurt Hydra, as such incidents have always hurt us." The Supreme Hydra nodded, almost involuntarily. "You belong behind a desk, Simmonds." she pressed. "You are an intelligent man, an excellent manager. You don't have a military background, you've spent very little time in the field, and I'll bet that you still have less than six hours on the firing range. I've been profiling operations and directing in the field since before you could walk. You need me, Simmonds. That's why you executed this operation. You need me." He sighed. "I can't give you want you want, Fox. My position is not stable. For a woman who isn't even Aryan to take a high-ranking executive position in Hydra? Unthinkable. We'd both be pulled down. Fenris would never stand for it. Don't think that the Baron is gone forever, either." Fox shrugged. "We'll present the results as your own work. A Supreme Hydra that leads from the front will be respected. You never need promote me beyond my original title. You give me the power, I keep you alive and successful." He nodded slowly. "That might work. I'd have to approve everything that crossed my desk, of course." Her eyes narrowed. "You need a friend in Hydra, Simmonds, and one that knows what she's doing. You could no more revise my operations than I could manage the financial side of things. Do yourself a favour and buy a rubber stamp." "I will need to read before I approve anything." he said. "No exceptions. I need you, Zora, but I'm not stupid enough to trust you." She frowned. "Where did you hear that name?" "Zora de Plata? That's your name, isn't it? Silver Fox is just a moniker. I've been over your personnel files many times. Zora de Plata, the silver fox of the Sierra Maestra. Born in San Salvador in 1941. Father one of the Marxist-Leninist intellectuals that Castro so admired. Your own leanings have always been distinctly Marxist-Leninist, with a keen eye to being part of the dictatorship of the proletariat. Father killed in Mexico City in 1966. You don't know who your mother is." "That's very complete." she said quietly. He shrugged. "Thumbnail sketch. I've got far more about you and your life in the archive, going back to your earliest childhood, and including such professional embarrassments as an obsession with the American counter- revolutionary Emilio Garra. Your capture and reprogramming by the CIA during the early days of Castro's government." "I'd like to have a look at those archives." she said. The Supreme Hydra stretched. "The most sensitive content will have to be detached, of course, but I'll direct you to your file. We wouldn't want your memory problems to compromise your usefulness to Hydra, after all." She waved off his concerns and changed the subject. "What are we going to do about Fenris?" "Do? About Fenris? They're part of the first family, Fox. We can't do anything." he said. She gave him a flat stare. "That's not the Supreme Hydra talking. That's a mousy little desk-jockey. You identify potential problems and neutralize them before they erupt, Simmonds. How many Supreme Hydras have the twins pulled down?" He swallowed. "I'm not secure enough, Fox. I don't have the power base. Even if I eliminated Fenris, someone in middle management would use that as an excuse to pull me down." "You don't have to do it. I'll do it." she said. "Why are we talking about this?" Simmonds demanded. "This is dangerous even to think about, much less say out loud. Even in a rental car. You know, the minutes paint a picture of a calm, cautious, careful Silver Fox. Not this reckless creature that I'm sharing a car with." "Fortune favours the bold." she replied. "And those without the liver to play the game should stay out of it. Caution is necessary, sometimes. Gambles are often necessary, too. Leave it to me. I'll take the heat for this if I fail." ***** The Past: Johannesburg was stinking that evening, the air thick with the stench of a fire that raged outside the city, and rotting garbage which had lingered for too long in the alleys. The stars were obscured by a cloud of smoke and pollution. The night spots were suffering a slump in business because of the smell. The skyline was mostly dark, but here and there a light shone, speaking of a security guard on his rounds, or an executive staying late to finish a project. In a particularly tall building, faced on four sides with smoky glass, one such window was lit. The shady pane revealed little. From the streets, where crime was uncommon but by no means unknown, a person could pull out a handgun and train it on the exposed heads of any number of busily toiling executives, visible for hundreds of yards from behind their fragile glass walls. The chances of reprisal, legal or otherwise, were small. The smoky building was different. The windows could each take fifteen rounds from a .50 calibre rifle loaded with depleted uranim slugs swimming in mercury at a muzzle distance of five yards. The manufacturer swore that they would stop a LAW rocket. Inside the lit office, an intercom buzzed. "Mr. Danzig? A Mr. McLeish is here to see you." The man behind the desk paused in his paperwork, and his finger hovered over the intercom button. He was as bald as an egg, with heavily pitted skin that looked like it had suffered from both acne and pox in its day. It also did not lack for wrinkles or blemishes. A weal, all the anger aged out of it, ran along the side of the man's face, drawing up the corner of his mouth into a half-smile that he could dispel only with effort. A tiny arteriole pulsed visibly on the left eyelid of his deeply hooded blue eyes. He could have been any age between fifty and seventy, judging by his face, but his body was young and hale. He pressed the button at last. "Send him in." the man said, in a soft Austrian accent. His hand drifted then to a button underneath his desk. McLeish strode into the room, looking a bit edgy. He stalked over to a chair in front of the desk, and sat carefully. He was tall, lean but muscular, with a thick, wild white moustache that drooped to the point of his chin, and long snowy hair that lay about his head and settled on his shoulders. His face was angular, and his eyes were hard. He fixed his gaze on the man behind the desk. "I've complaited the contract, Strucker", he said in a slurred Scottish lowlands accent. "The man is dead." "Good." the bald man smiled. "Your money will be wired to your account. You do excellent work." "Is that a fact?" McLeish asked. "So you've seen the scene, then." "We had men on the scene shortly after you left." Strucker replied. McLeish nodded. "Care t' explain why you contracted me t' kill a man guarded by Hydra agents?" he asked. "No." Strucker said. "I wondered what a high muckety-muck Hydra boss like you would want wi' a killer like me." McLeish said. "Inside job." "You have it exactly, Herr McLeish." "Doesn't make me feel too safe. Aisy for you to tie up loose ends." The Hydra man frowned. "McLeish, are you drunk?" The assassin ignored the question. "That's why I made sure. Yuir agents didn't tell you the wherabouts of the man's daughter." Strucker's eyes narrowed. "She's nothing." McLeish laughed rudely. "Nothing? She's the granddaughter of the Hatemonger. I wouldn't call that nothing. Not to you lot." Strucker stared at him balefully. "Great poker face you've got there, Herr Baron." the Scotsman remarked. "Give her over to me, McLeish, and you will live. Perhaps. If you don't, you die." "I don't think so. See, she's ma security. Blood of the Hatemonger in her veins, an' all that crap. Bet she'd be a source of big trouble for you, if I were t' disappair." He stood up. "Don't flatter yuirsel', thinking you could kill me and find her on ma backtrail. If I don't see that money by tomorrow, she comes out. If I die, she comes out. It's all a matter o' when." "You're playing a stupid game." Strucker said quietly. "You don't have the resources to tangle with Hydra." McLeish walked to the door. "I'm not tangling wi' Hydra, Strucker. I'm tangling wi' you. Make a wrong move, and you'll be the one tangling wi' Hydra." The plane touched down in the midst of an inarticulate drizzle that seemed to have started sometime in the distant past and would pause for breath sometime in the distant future. It was night, not that it mattered. After the business and first class passengers left, the economy passengers were finally allowed to file out of the plane and into the rather antiseptic, unfriendly terminal. Angus McLeish was one of these, carrying a shabby bag and a scuffed plastic briefcase. He shambled blearily out into the terminal, too tired and drunk to cut a very impressive figure. "Boy! Where are you, boy?" he bellowed. The effort started him coughing, and it turned into a great lung-squeezing fit that encouraged him to fumble around in the pockets of his greatcoat for a packet of cigarettes. A woman cleared her throat. "O..over here, Mr. McLeish." The older man's head swiveled around to regard the woman. She was in her early twenties, with straight soft brown hair that hung to her belt, a multitude of freckles on her face and arms, and rather watery brown eyes. She wore a deerskin jacket that was speckled with waterstains and a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans. He grunted and approached her. "What possessed him to send you?" "He's busy with a report. I took a cab." she said. McLeish shook his head. "And what if I needed help wi' ma bags? You'd have been useless." The woman extended a hand toward the briefcase. "I can help." McLeish was already walking, and his upper arm caught her shoulder, half spinning her around. "And I suppose you'll want to jabber at me in the cab, too. Bloody woman." She followed him out to the car, cursing so far beneath her breath that even she couldn't hear it, and moved to sit in the front with the cab driver rather than occupy a bench seat with her father-in-law. He forestalled her, and sat in front instead. The cab driver looked on nervously. "Back home, sir?" he said. McLeish twisted around. "Di' you call this cab from ma house, woman?" he demanded incredulously. She froze. "Y-yes." The cabbie went for the gun in his pocket, but he wasn't quick enough, far too slow, and it was his brain that splattered against the window of the cab instead of that of the Scotsman. McLeish ducked immediately, just as a pistol fired at him from outside of the cab at close range, shattering the window. He slammed open the door, catching the would-be assassin in the midriff and bowling him over. A single, precise shot behind the ear was all he wasted, and he let hydostatic shock do the rest. Young Mrs. McLeish screamed, holding her hands to her ears and crying. The old man kicked open the cabbie's door and dumped him onto the sidewalk as he gunned the engine. The cab jerked forward into the street. His daughter in law was still shrieking and crying in the back seat, rocking hysterically. He sneered at her in the rear view mirror, and cast around for the button. There it was. The cab's back doors locked, and a second sheet of plexiglass dropped behind the first, sealing the two sections of the car apart. Airtight. McLeish hesitated over the second, killing button, but finally put his hands on the radio instead. He ripped it out with blocky fingers, rolled down the window, and tossed the wreckage into the street. "If ma boy's dead 'cause of you, I'll kill you slow, like you deserve." he said quietly to the unhearing woman in the back seat. She seemed to be calming down. The stupid bitch had no idea that she was sitting in a death trap. "We'll have to move now, away from the coast. Maybe go the other way. I hear British Columbia's a good place t' raise a child." he muttered. ***** The Present*: Silver Fox, or perhaps Zora de Plata, leafed through a file that had several sections blackened out during the photocopy process. No originals for her. It listed a date of birth that corresponded to the information that Simmonds had given her. Zora de Plata, revolutionary. She'd spent a lot of time in exile from her country, El Salvador, until it had ceased to be her country at all, and she was a sort of communist revolutionary without portfolio, travelling across Latin America, fomenting revolution and creating class consciousness wherever she went. Eventually, it was hard for her to go anywhere in Latin America, so she published an underground paper from an apartment in San Francisco. The Red Eagle. A poke at Spain and America, both. Fox closed her eyes. She could see it. The raid. They were in a warehouse in Windsor, Ontario, and she was with her cell. They'd just received a shipment of firearms and other ordnance, Soviet issue mainly. They'd received it in Canada because the CIA had started watching them a little two closely. Andre had sworn that they couldn't cross the border. There were four of them: Zora herself; Carlisle, a former Black Panther that had been converted to the cause when he lost faith in the leadership of his old organization; Morse, a disaffected hippie who believed in the beauty of Lenin's dream; and Andre, their ideological saint and leader. Then, the door got kicked in by the C.I.A., and she knew that face. Never mind that it was shaven, or that he wore his blond locks in a pony tail. That was Sabretooth. "Everybody freeze!" he yelled. "Hands up! Move it!" But they were already handling the arms. Morse: "You said the pigs couldn't come across the border, Andre!" He pulled up his fully automatic weapon and let out a six-round burst at Sabretooth's partner, recognizable as Wolverine. They were dressed in C.I.A. gear. Wolverine took three in the chest, but Sabretooth's marksmanship put Morse away, sure enough. Wolverine went down, and Sabretooth called for his backup. The big man. Mastodon. He came bursting through the window, but Andre saw what was happening, and alerted Carlisle... Carlisle? Tall black man, early forties, lean. Who did he look like? Carlisle shot Mastodon in the gut, but the big man didn't go down. He took Carlisle in the face with his sawed-off shotgun. Andre unloaded on Sabretooth, but then his gun quit. "Jammed! Get him, Silver Fox!" Sabretooth, meanwhile: "I'm empty! Get it together, Logan, or we're all dead meat!" She remembered kneeling, pulling and pulling at the gun in Morse's hands, but his fingers had stiffened around it, and she had to break his fingers. Andre was shrieking. "Blow him away, you stupid squaw!" Then Wolverine shot him. Three bullets, centre of mass. "Pig!" she screamed. "Stinkin' runnin' dog fascist pig! You just blew away a true revolutionary and a certified military genius! You're dead!" "Drop the gun." he said through his pain. "I.. won't hurt..." "No!" she returned, but she couldn't raise her gun fast enough. He smashed it from her hand. "She said 'no!', Logan! Do her!" He reached down and grabbed her medicine pouch... medicine pouch? Irrational juxtaposition of images. Memory implant. Zora de Plata was a lie. * Portions of this section excerpted from Wolverine #48 ***** -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics ****************** Title: Vendetta 2/9 Author: John Duffin (poet@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** The Past: Angus McLeish awoke to the sensation that someone was standing over him. He tried to roll off of the couch while raising his hands. Sometimes a bullet could intersect with the wrists and be deflected away from vital targets. He'd seen it happen. His gun was sitting on the coffee table. Three metres away. If they hadn't rearranged the furniture, roll handspring roll pull fire. His wrists deflected a descending curtain rod instead. He twisted his wrists and grabbed the rod, pulled it. His assailant was too slow to let go. He smashed his fist into the man's face as it descended, kicked with crushing force into the space between his attacker's genitals and anus. He was half way through the roll before he recognized his son's cologne. "Josh? Wha'the hell are you doing, boy? Could'ha killed you." he slurred. "You son of a bitch! Erin left me, you fuck!" the boy, the man, sobbed from the floor in the dark room, writing in agony. "Wha?" he asked, confused. "Erin! My wife left me! She's gone! You scared the shit out of her with your fucked up shit!" "Wha' the hell you talkin' about, boy? She's not gone. She'll be back." "She's gone!" McLeish didn't know what to do. The woman was gone. Well, she was useless, but the boy didn't think so and wouldn't appreciate his opinion. "Look, Josh, s'not s'bad. It was an accident. She called the cab from the house, here, an' some bad people who wannae piece of me took a'vantage. I' you hadn' sent her..." "This is my fault?!" "No! S'hers. D'snae matter. She'll be careful in the future. She'll be back. Loves you, does she nae?" "Speak English! We're not in fucking Edinburgh!" "You shut t'hell up abou' that! You're as much as Scotsman as I am, damn you, an' I'll not have you pretending you're not my son! You were conceived in Dundee, born in Edinburgh. Quit yuir crazy-arsed whining and whinging. She's coming back, Josh." "She's pregnant." McLeish grunted in surprise, sat down on a straightbacked chair. Josh pulled himself painfully to his feet. "My son." Josh said, icy calm. "And she doesn't want him anywhere near you. And I sure as hell can't blame her. You are a sorry excuse for a man. You could have gotten a job, like any other man, and lived a productive life, but that was too hard for you. That was honest work. Instead, you kill people for a living." "There's people as..." "Oh, aye, there's peiple as neids killin'." his son mimicked. "By you? You're a fucking coward, Da. Get shot, die in a bottle, I don't care, but stay the hell away from me and mine." Angus blinked back a coward's tears as Josh limped out of the dark room. He could have stormed up, maybe killed him, but that would have set the boy's words in stone. No. He sat in the dark and let the boy go. He waited there until morning, but Hydra never came to kill him. ***** The Present: Much of what was in the file, obviously, was suspect. It was easy enough to hack into the local mainframes, she discovered. By all appearances, she had designed the security systems. It was both satisfying and a little frightening to discover that she still thought in much the same way. Simmonds might well have been trying to run a game on her, Silver Fox decided, but all of Hydra's information on her indicated that she was Zora de Plata, a mestiza from San Salvador, a Leninist-Marxist revolutionary who had been in turns inspired and disillusioned by Castro's regime in Cuba, and the various "communist" dictatorships in smaller countries. Apparently, she entered Hydra because of the discovery that she had wanted power, not peace. Probably true, implant or no implant. Fair enough. That was then. The material that Simmonds had blacked out appeared to be random. Some of it was composed of seemingly innocuous sentences, often not even including a name that might have been sensitive. She shrugged. She had expected him to play a few games to try to keep her in line, or chasing shadows. As an opening gambit, this was fairly poor. In any case, video footage saved to file indicated that she had used the name, even in her most private meetings and correspondances. That she had been fooled by such a naked implant was a bit disturbing. What was it that Logan had said on the road? 'Ferro had this thing, see, where he would tag the implants onto trauma. Usually physical, but there was a psychological part, too. Way he figured it was that the mind shies away from lookin' at pain too close. Especially the really strong stuff. That gave him an easy handle to slip the implants in, an' kept us from thinkin' about 'em too much.' Of course. Now, she had to carefully examine every memory that came to mind, to suck the marrow out of it. They were coming back, but they were still patchy. For some reason, the oldest memories came back first. The more recent ones had a lot of holes. Probably just old age. She brushed all of that aside. There were a lot of things to attend to before she could afford the luxury of contemplation. The first would be getting rid of Fenris. Then, the personal projects. Eliminating the twins would be as difficult and dangerous as Simmonds had claimed. They were canny, bright with malice, and endlessly suspicious. They also had a large following within Hydra. Part of that, of course, was their much- exalted bloodline, but another part was their calculated sadism. No one wanted to cross them. They rarely vented themselves on trusted and loyal agents. They also had an extensive internal intelligence network. It would be next to impossible to make a move against them within Hydra, even if she found a collection of men that would not betray. Someone would. Someone would notice that a particular group of agents were acting outside channels, and the twins would hear. Therefore, she could not keep this as an internal matter, which was regrettable. Fox frowned. Contract assassins did not have long life spans, but it would be necessary to use someone that she knew as trustworthy. Trustworthy and effective. Deadpool. Big mouth. Too risky. Bullseye. Hmmm. Psychotic, and the diversion of funds necessary to hire him would be noticed. Elektra. A possibility. She would have to look at Elektra's price list. Reiko. A cold feeling clenched her stomach. Rei-- where did that name come from? Reiko? Not Reiko. Maybe someone new. *knock knock knock* Congressman Glass looked up from the brief on his desk, irritated. His secretary never remembered to avoid bothering him during lunch. He liked to relax, catch up on his reading, and eat. All in peace. He had long since learned to disconnect the wires on the intercom at lunch, but she never got the hint. "What is it, Cathy?" he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance. The door opened. It wasn't Cathy. It was a pair of women, tall, Asian, severe-looking. They wore identical pantsuits. He stood. "Do we have an appointment?" he asked. "Yes." one of them said. She and her silent companion sat down without his invitation. He ground his teeth. "Sorry." he said. "I don't remember what this is about. My secretary knows that I never receive people during lunch, but she has a brain like an eggbeater. It's only good for one thing." He sat down. "What can I do for you?" "We are reliably informed that you are going to seek re-election." the chatty one said. "That's no secret." Glass replied. "I plan to serve the people of my constituency for as long as they'll have me." "You may have some difficulty." she said. "You are not independently wealthy." "No" he smiled tightly, "but that doesn't matter as much as people say. I've got a number of supporters who share my vision, and their financial contributions are always generous." "Suppose", she said, "that those contributors withdrew their funding? You would be in a great deal of difficulty." His face went flat. "They wouldn't do any such thing. Besides, my vision for this country is one that we can all agree on. I can find new supporters." "Do you think so? Suppose that they found out that you are a mutant?" Glass's face went cold. "I'm no mutant." "So sure, are you?" she said. "My constituents would never believe it." "I'm not really concerned about them, Congressman. I think that it's more important that you understand a few things about yourself. You are, most certainly, a mutant. Not all of you can fly or shoot flames from their hands. You, Mr. Glass, have an intuitive understanding of music." "What?" he said in a flat voice. "You learn to play musical instruments or duplicate a tune that you hear in a fraction of the time that it would take a normal human. You do remember your high school band, don't you, Mr. Glass?" "Don't try to substitute something unnatural in place of God-given talent." he said angrily. "There is nothing unnatural about mutancy, Congressmen. You are as human as I am. As decent as you appear. Talent is genetic, sir, or would you care to deny that?" "I am no mutant!" "Really? Have you ever met or heard of anyone that achieved your level of skill in music without many long years of practice? In a way, it's a crime that you're in politics. You should be composing a symphony somewhere." "Shut up!" "Mr. Glass, you are a decent man with a blind spot." the woman said. "You support anti-mutant legislation. The fact is, you're supporting something that will have you and yours locked up and killed some day. The reason why we know that you are a mutant isn't because we examined your past. We have a device that is essential to something you know as Project: Wideawake. A mutant detecting device." Glass went pale. "That spells out your condition as clear as day, to anyone who happens to have one. Particularly those mutant-hunting Sentinels that are being proposed in that private member's bill." The Congressman said nothing. "We reverse-engineered it. It's not a very sophisticated device, as such things go." She looked at the silent woman, who pulled a small handheld device resembling a Geiger counter from her handbag. "Do you recognize it?" she asked, taking the device and turning it on. "Yes." he choked. "Here." she said, and placed it on his desk. "We have dozens. This is for you." Glass clutched it, and pointed it at the women. It continued to register a null signal. She laughed. "Care to turn it on yourself, sir?" His hands shook. He put it back on the desk. "What do you want from me? Money?" "We have all the money that we could ever need, Mr. Congressman. No. We want you to think about yourself, and the minority group that you yourself have been helping to oppress. Then we trust that you will come to two conclusions. "One, the withdrawal of your support for Bill 28. Publicly. Say that you've had a change of heart, and that you realize that oppressing and persecuting a group of human beings this way is wrong. I think that your conscience will force you into this direction, anyway. "Two, I want you to support Senator Robert Kelly's bid for the presidency. He has learned a pro-mutant stance through constant contact with your people. He is not himself a mutant. "Do both of these things and we will all be able to sleep at night. After all, how comfortable were you really, supporting state-sponsored hate crimes?" Glass shuddered. "This is political suicide, at best. My life is over." She smiled and stood, as did her companion. "Not if many people start to feel the same way, Congressman. Then, you'll be a pioneer instead of a martyr." He put his head in his hands. "Mutants aren't going away, Mr. Glass. They can't be stamped out. Cut off one of their heads, and two more will grow to take its place." ***** The Past: "Are you gauny get up?" the older man asked the little girl. She was only partly awake, but understood the content of the question. She was lying on a pull-out cot in a hotel room. The blanket was scratchy, but apart from that, the cot was pretty comfy. She opened her eyes, though, despite the urge to try to go back to sleep. "Yes, sir." she said. She slung her skinny little legs over the edge of the cot, and gazed up at the face of her parents' killer. He was old, but handsome enough, with strong cheekbones and jaw. He was wearing an expensive-looking white button-up shirt, open to the waist, over a cotton undershirt and a pair of white slacks. He had well-defined muscles and a barrel chest, which was hairy. His hair was snowy, maybe a bit greasy, with a few traces of black here and there. It was shoulder- length. He had sideburns and a long mustache and a small beard, all white. "Don' look a' me like I'm Methusaleh. I'm forty-five." he said. The whites of his eyes were a bloody red, but rather than being watery, they glared with intensity. "Sorry." she said. "Where's the water closet?" "Over there." he pointed, and rubbed his face. The girl walked into the bathroom and stood on tip-toe to stare at herself in the mirror. What was wrong with her? She was afraid of him, a little. She almost couldn't recognize herself. "Do you know who I am?" the man demanded when she came out of the bathroom. "Yes." she said in a small voice. "Who am I?" "You're the man who killed my parents." she said. "You snuck into our cabin and shot everybody and killed my parents." He leaned down and glared. "So you hate me, then." "Yes." she said, a bit uncertainly. "Doesn't sounds like it. You hate me or no?" "I hate you." she said, more firmly. He grunted. "I don't think you know i' you do or no." She tried to muster a glare, but couldn't manage it. "Did you love yuir parents?" "Yes, I loved my parents!" she said angrily. "I don' think you did." he said, sadly. "Or you'd hate me." "I do hate you!" "Do you? Or no?" he asked. "Yes." "No, you don't. I don' figure it, but that's the way it is. I've seen hate, and you don't have it." "I do! I hate you!" she said. "Really?" He threw her a gun. "Shoot me, then. Yuir parents will thank you." She bobbled the catch, and the gun clattered loudly to the floor. As quick as she could, she bent over and picked up the gun, and pointed it at him. "It isn't loaded." she said challengingly. "Isn't it? Why don' you pull the trigger and find out?" he asked. She started to sweat. "First thing you've got t' learn in this world, is there's people as needs killing. No better example of that than me." "Did you hate my parents?" she asked. He looked startled. "What? No. No, I didn't hate yuir parents." She dropped the gun on the bed. "How can you kill somebody that you don't hate? I try to shoot you, but I can't do it." "If I had hated yuir parents, I'd have not shot them the way I did. Right through the medulla oblongata. Vital part of the brain. They died before they knew they'd been shot." She stamped her foot. "Why did you shoot them, then?" "It's ma job. Yuir parents had made some very powerful people very angry. If I ha' not come to shoot them, somebody else would. Maybe somebody who wouldn't have shown them mercy." he said. "What kind of a job is killing people?!" she demanded. He swallowed hard, composed himself. "Some people need killing. I'm no' the one that decides that, I'm the one who does it. Suppose", he said, "that I'd been around in the 30s. I might ha' been hired to shoot Hitler. He was a man who needed killing." "Are you saying', she said in a flat tone, "that my parents were like Hitler?" "Do you know that they weren't?" he asked seriously. "If you're so good," she said, "then why do you need killing, too?" He shook his had sadly. "Did I say I was good? What I do is important, but tha' doesn't make me good. Now, pick up that gun and decide. Do I need killing, or no?" She stared at him intensely for a few minutes, but then her shoulders slumped. "How can I tell? How do I decide if you need killing? I don't know how." She sat on the bed. "If you don't hate me, and you don't want the responsibility of makin' the decision, then you can't kill me." he said. "Not unless someone else makes the decision for you. And I won't do it. I don't want to die today." He sat down on the bed with her. "I don't hate you." she said softly. "I don't think I know how." He gave her a strange look. "That makes me a monster, doesn't it?" she asked. "Have you ever hated anyone?" he replied. "I don't think so." she said. "I know that Daddy hates people, like the Jew bankers, and the Yankee capitalists." He frowned. "Why does he hate them?" "They control everything." she said. "Really? How does he know that?" "I dunno." she said. "He just does. He talks about it whenever he gets mad at the news. Daddy knows lots of things." The old man grunted. "Maybe he was sure of a lot of things, or believed a lot of things, but that doesn't mean he knows. I think that's a bunch of crap." "And what does a killer like you know?" she demanded. "I know that real men don't blame other people for their problems. I know that most people have problems that they made themselves, and then bitch and moan about them. That's what your Da was doing. Tryin' to make out like the world was out to get him." "It was." she said. "Somebody decided that he needed killing." "The fact that a bunch of people were born diff'rent from yuir Da was enough raison for him to hate them. I hate people because they're all alike, na because they're diff'rent." "When are you going to kill me?" she asked. He sat quietly for a minute. "I'm na gauny kill you. One of the things that a real man -- or woman -- does is take responsibility for the things he's done. I helped take away yuir parents. They needed killing, but that doesn't mean I don't owe you summat. I'm a classy man, you see. "I'll take care of you, raise you as my own, until yui're old enough to make it. Maybe teach you what I know." The girl knocked the gun to the floor and kicked it across the room. "I don't want to know what you know! I don't want anything to do with you." He raised an eyebrow. "Really? Then I suppose we'll take you off to yuir family, then. Where's yuir nearest aunts and uncles?" Her silence gave him all the answer that he needed. ***** -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 3/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** The Present: He was an older man, maybe in his forties or fifties. Time and care had turned his hair snowy white, though it hadn't given him many wrinkles. He was a big man, six foot six, with a broad musculature that discouraged any tests of his temper. He was also a handsome man, with a square jaw, blocky cheekbones, and a broad forehead under a well-kept mane of hair. One of his eyes glittered in dim light. The man wore a blue-grey jumpsuit that showed off his physique to advantage, with a belt that bristled with pouches for important gear and gadgets. "Come in." He obligingly opened the door, and walked into the room that was obviously a man's private study. The man looked younger than he, but was certainly older, maybe in his seventies. He was bald, and also wheelchair bound, but had broad shoulders. Aggressive brows somehow softened the effect of a sharp face. The man's countenance, however, bore a stern expression. He was seated behind a broad mahogany desk. "Please, Cable, sit down." the man said. The big man grunted acquiescence, and took a seat. "What is it, Charles?" "Have you seen this?" Charles pushed a copy of the Chicago Tribune across the desk that separated them. Cable picked it up and scanned a few lines of the open page. "A pro-mutant editorial? Charles, this is fantastic!" "Mmmm. Perhaps. I collect many newspapers, Cable. This man once worked in the Sentinel, a small self-published paper in Massachussetts with a pro- mutant stance. In fact, he worked at that paper as recently as last month. This is his first article for the Tribune, and it made the editorial page." Cable frowned. "Hmmm. So it wasn't you who arranged this, obviously." "Hardly. Carlsson is regarded in the journalistic community as a crank, a Don Quixote. He was arrested during the Zero Tolerance affair. He hardly qualifies as a respectable journalist, which is why I wonder." Cable nodded. "Why did the Tribune hire him, and how can we make it stick?" "You don't understand, Nathan. I don't want to make it stick. Carlsson is belligerent. He will do our cause more harm than good. I was comfortable with him in a small market, because a few people would believe, and many wouldn't take his rantings seriously. This could cause violence." Cable grunted. "Who do you think arranged his hiring, Professor?" "I don't know. What I do know is that someone has been very busy. You watched the television news last night, I trust?" "That brainrot? No. Why was last night's broadcast important?" Charles nodded. "Certainly. The man who seconded Bill 28 has withdrawn his support from it." "The new budget for Project: Wideawake? That was... Glass, wasn't it?" "Yes. This morning, Tudor, the man who proposed this legislation, also withdrew his support. In fact, he hasn't shown up to session since noon. Someone is leaning on these men, Cable. I fear that it will blow up in our faces." "What do you want me to do about it?" "I fear that I see Mystique's hand behind this, Nathan. I want you to protect Senator Kelly." he said. Cable nodded. "Of course. Is it really that bad?" "I fear so." Charles replied. "If he is harmed, the entire mutant community may be blamed. The future that Kate Pryde prophecied for us will come to pass, if we don't safeguard ourselves. "I believe that the Senator will make the mutant question the central plank in his platform. If he is assassinated, the results could be worse than you or I could imagine." Cable stood. "Does the Senator know that we will be protecting him?" Charles shook his head. "He is a man of principle. He would refuse. That is part of the reason why I chose you. He doesn't know your face. You are our best hope to keep him safe." "I want Logan backing me up at all times, and Ororo or Rogue present for extraction purposes." Cable said. "I can give you Rogue." Charles replied. "Wolverine and Storm have not yet returned from their little excursion up north. For back-up, I have someone else in mind." *knock knock* "Come in." he said. If anything, the new arrival was even larger than Cable himself. Standing perhaps two inches taller and, were it not for Cable's techno-organic virus, weighing thirty pounds more. He had dark skin, stretched over broad cheekbones. His powerful jaw was adorned with a neatly trimmed beard, black in colour, and his hair was done up in dreads. A tattoo crossed over his right eye, sketching an 'M' that identified the man as a mutant, at least to a native of the late 21st century. "You wanted to speak to me, Professor?" asked the man in a rich basso. "Yes, Bishop. I have an assignment for you, if that is not too much to ask so soon after your return." "It is not." Bishop said. "I want you to provide backup for Cable, who will be protecting Senator Kelly from any assassination attempts. You will wear makeup to hide your tattoo, and carry light arms or none at all." "Understood." Bishop replied. "Who are we protecting the Senator from?" "Mystique." Cable supplied. Bishop frowned. "Without Wolverine, we stand precious little chance, Professor. We need someone with the ability to identify her. Without that, we will have to exercise complete control over the senator's environment to be sure of his safety. With two men, that's impossible. Surely, more of the X-Men can be spared for this assignment?" "No. Unfortunately, Magnus is showing signs of considering hostile action again, perhaps against Wakanda. I can spare no other X-Men. In any case, Cable will be able to identify Mystique with telepathy." Xavier said. "You will be in the area at all times, ready to pick her up and neutralize her before she can cause any harm." Cable frowned. "The last time she attempted to kill Kelly, she brought the entire Brotherhood with her. Collectively, they may be more than Bishop and I can handle. We certainly couldn't keep our identities under wraps, and we may not be able to save his life." "That is why Rogue will be available to offer extraction." the Professor said patiently. "As per your request." "Very well." Bishop said. "Whatever my concerns, this is necessary." "Let's get ready." Cable said. "I've got a few ideas about how we can improve the coverage, if I can get into a trusted position on his staff." The two men turned to leave. "Good luck." Xavier said. "You will send Wolverine to help when he returns, Professor?" Bishop said. "Of course." the Professor replied. "What the hell? Look at this, 'Ro." "What is it?" Storm asked, taking the newspaper from her companion and scanning the page. She sipped at her shake. Logan looked queasy. "How can you drink that crap?" he muttered. They were sitting together in a diner, in a small town in western Ontario. Wolverine's plate was empty, recently being occupied by the largest, greasiest burger that he could order. Storm, by way of contrast, was picking at a rather wilted boxed salad, and drinking a tofu shake. "Don't get me wrong, I like bean curd." he said. "But I think that drinkin' it has got to be the most disgusting thing I ever heard of." "It is." she said serenely. "I was not going to give you the satisfaction of being right." He chuckled. "What do you think o' the article?" "A rather flattering profile of Northstar." she said. "It even mentions the fact that he is a mutant. Interesting." "You'll note that it makes out like it was wrong to strip those skiing medals from him." "Yes..." "An' it identifies him as an important activist in the gay community." "I see that. I take it that an article of this sort would not normally appear in the Globe and Mail." she said. "Not with this slant, darlin'. Not hardly. See this? Reuters. That means it's probably gonna show up in the Calgary Herald, Vancouver Star, Winnipeg Free Press. Nation-wide coverage, we're talkin'. Guess the Olympics are comin' up, but that's a weird kind of article t' syndicate, you know?" The lady behind the counter interrupted. "That's nothin'. You should have seen the special on CBC last night. You know that 'Life and Times' bit they do every Sunday?" Logan turned around to face her. "Sure." "Life and Times of James MacDonald Hudson." she said. "Talked all about his pro-mutant ways, and whatnot. Made him out to be a national hero, you know? And another funny thing is, they were comparing him to Trudeau on the show, right? And mentioning that old PET had some mutant friends, too." Logan laughed. "That old cuss didn't care what anybody thought. I liked him." "Yeah." the lady said. "Me too." Logan turned back, and frowned for a while at his plate. Ororo touched his arm. "What is bothering you, old friend?" "Trust." he said. ***** The Past: "Why do I have to change my name?" the girl asked. "Why do we have to move again?" Angus McLeish frowned. He was used to this with his son. Through all the years that he had spent raising the boy, he'd never come up with a truly satisfactory answer to those questions. He shrugged, and tried the truth. "There are those who want to kill you, because of who yuir parents were. They'll recognize yuir name, and that'll be that. So we have to change it. Eva's a beautiful name, but too dangerous for you. We'll change it to something you like." The two of them were lying on their bellies on a bed that was of a height with the sill of a window. They were facing the window, and each had a rifle sitting nearby. The girl had grown, some, but was still small for her age. She had black hair that curled a little at the ends, refusing to behave, and skinny legs, and knees that seemed to be perpetually skinned. She waved her legs around in the air, revealing the scabs whenever they folded enough. "How about Joan?" she asked. "That's a little plain. Plus, can you answer to it?" She frowned. "How about Edina?" he offered. "Edina? That's pretty." she said. "What does it mean?" McLeish smiled. "Names are important to you, then?" "I just want to know what it means." she pleaded. "It's the old-time name for a beautiful city called Edinburgh." he said. She nodded. Paused. "If we're trying to hide, isn't a plain name good?" McLeish chuckled. "You don't ever want t' be ordinary, girl. You'll need a reputation, come the day, and a good name'll give you summat to hang it on." She sighed. "I like Edina, I guess." "Now, why don't we go back to learnin' to shoot?" he said. "Why do I need to know how to shoot?" she asked. "I'll never do it. I can't." "Sure you can." he said. "Even if you never become a killer, girl, you've seen that the world is dangerous and unfair." "Yeah." "Someday, it may come down to a clair case of you or him. And whoever he is, you deserve to live more than him. The skills are the thing." "All right." she said, couching the rifle again. "Today, you have a scope." McLeish said. "You may na have that every time, so we'll work on that later. Hold the rifle steady. Don't put yuir eye right up to the scope, girl, there's recoil on this thing. You'll hurt yuirself. "Elbow down. Don't be sloppy." he said. She corrected herself. "Don' tilt yuir head like that, either. Keep it straight. That's a bad habit that we don' want to bleed over into yuir pistol work." She made the appropriate adjustments. "Good. Now, keep paintin' people like that for the next hour or two. I'll be back." he said. She nodded, and put a balding man into her sights. McLeish said. * He was addressing a Chinese man in his early fifties, dressed in a white lab coat, and holding a McDonald's cup flat full of flasks. The two of them were standing in an industrial lab, talking in low voices so that the man's coworkers would not hear. the man asked. the Scotsman replied. McLeish grunted. the doctor said. he said. McLeish replied, handing over an envelope. * <> Translated from the Cantonese. ***** The Present: The young woman walked at last into Silver Fox's new office in Delaware, looking cool and collected. She wasn't very tall, with raven-black hair and dead-looking brown eyes that somehow seemed to take in everything. She wasn't particularly slender, but that wasn't due to any surplus of fat on her body. Rather, the woman had a lot of muscle. Her body didn't have a particularly feminine outline. She had a delicate jawline, though, and thin, featherlike brows and a nose that was both broad and pert. "You come highly recommended, Vendetta." Silver Fox said, gesturing to a chair. "I am one of the best." the young woman replied, with the merest trace of a strange accent. "The best of the young." Silver Fox pressed. "I've seen your record. Very impressive. I understand that you're a little picky about your contracts." Vendetta shrugged. "Not really. I don't choose them. My contractors choose me. If you don't really want your quarry to die, I won't hunt them. It's that simple." "Fine. How do you make that decision?" Silver Fox asked. "I always know. Leave it at that." A knock at the door interrupted them. Before she could open her mouth to forestall the new arrival, he opened the door and strode in. It was Simmonds, otherwise known as the Supreme Hydra. "Zora, I'm interested to know why you're subverting a bunch of congressmen and television producers without my leave." he said, ignoring the assassin. "That's part of my job." Silver Fox replied. "You have more important things to do than to approve every new member of Hydra." "If I thought that you were recruiting for Hydra, Zora, I wouldn't be wasting my time with you. Your new toys don't seem to know who they're working for." She sighed. "Do we have to be transparent all the time, Simmonds? Hydra does not employ enough sleeper agents. Not nearly enough. Viper knows the value of sleeper agents. Why don't you?" "Sleeper agents are difficult to keep track of, and have questionable loyalty." he said between gritted teeth. "They are off-the-book assets, you mean." she replied. "Get your brain out of accounts, Simmonds. A transparent organization is easy to pick apart. That's not what Baron Strucker had in mind when he founded this organization. You know, I was talking to Andreas the other day." He went white with rage. "Andreas Strucker?" he squeaked. "The same. He laments the fact that so many of Hydra's highest-level men seem to be bureaucrats. Lacking imagination or creativity. Don't you agree, Simmonds?" He stalked out, evidently not trusting himself to speak. "Is he my target?" Vendetta asked. "Pardon me?" Fox asked. "This is an inside job, or you wouldn't be talking to me. Are you angling for the Supreme Hydra?" Silver Fox's eyes narrowed. "No." "Who is my target?" she repeated. "Why don't we speak about this elsewhere?" Fox asked. "I meant to ask you to lunch." "Fine." The brownstone was pretty run down, and it wasn't in the best part of Washington. In fact, it was in one of the worst. That fact was clearly foremost on the mind of the young bicycle messenger who had been dithering in front of it for more than a minute. A fat man gazed out at him from between the blinds. "Little friggin' flatscan's been sittin' out there for I don't know how long, jus' starin' at us. You don't suppose he's one o' them Prime Sentinels, do ya?" he said. "Bollocks." a man in the next room said as he came out. "He wouldn't be so obvious, Fred. Your mind is as flabby as your body." "Shaddap, ya little Aussie freak. Whaddyou know, anyways? Here he comes up t' the door. Bet it's a bomb." "So he sat there, while it ticked down, staring at your bulbous outline through the blinds? He's either a congenital idiot or a chubby chaser." The big man grunted, and opened the door just as the boy made to knock. "Package for a Raven Darkholme?" the messenger said timorously. "Give it here." Fred said. "I'll sign for it." He took the clipboard away from the boy, and scribbled his name on it. "Get lost." The messenger climbed onto his bike and rode off as fast as he could. "Heh heh. Punk." "Raven!" the man in the kitchen called. "Package for you." The click of heels on the stairs presaged the arrival of a woman, exotically beautiful. Her skin was a deep indigo in colour, and she wore a simple white garment over it that was little more than a shift. Her eyes, tilted slightly, were a gleaming lemon yellow. Her hair, bobbed fetchingly to shoulder length, was a deep red. It bounced a little as she walked. Deep curves pushed out at the shift, drawing every eye in the room. "Give it here, Blob." The big man grinned stupidly. "You flushed, Raven? Been makin' time with hubby again?" She raised an eyebrow at him and favoured him with a disgusted glance. "If I have, then you'd better worry, Blob. He doesn't like you much." Slender fingers tore at the unmarked wrapper that adorned the box. The Blob snorted. "You're only indestructible when you're awake, Fred." the Aussie said in a sing-song voice. Raven smiled. "What is it?" the Aussie asked. She held up a pair of earrings. "Recognize these, John?" "Not off-hand, no." he said. "Psi-baffles. We have an anonymous benefactor." ***** The Past: "Have anuther drink, Logan." "Still workin' on this one, McLeish. Thanks." "Suit yuirself." the old man said. "Tell me, what do you do for a living?" Logan grunted. "I ain't really one to talk much about that." "Ha! I knew it. You have the look about you." "Another drink, guai loh?" a passing waiter asked. "Gimme anuther bottle o' White Cassle. Look about in the back f'r more. I know you have 'em." McLeish watched him go, chuckling to himself. "Cheeky bugger." "What look were you talkin' about?" Logan asked. "The mark o' the predator, Logan. You have it. Yui're like me." "You tellin' me I'm a professional killer?" Logan asked. "Professional, sure. That's why you came t'sit with me alla the time, innit? We have a lo' in common, you and I." "Aw, go on." "I made ma first kill when I was only thirteen years old. Been killin' ever since." McLeish grinned. "And I like it, you know? It fits me. Not all men have it. I can see it in you." "There's more to a man than killin', McLeish." "Oh, sure. But killin's what keeps him alive f'r those other things, innit? Killin's what makes his blood pump, and his heart beat. Law of nature. By nature's law, I am the biggest cat i' the bunch." "That so." "Kill or be killed. You know it. Don' deny it. That'd be like denyin' yuirself. I can see the talent in you, the desire. One day, you'll be among the graits, I tell you." "Heh heh. You got some nerve, McLeish. Why are you goin' at it so hard tonight?" "Jus' got some bad news. Seems ma own daughter's one o' yuir lot." Logan's eyes went flat. "What lot is that, Scotsman?" "A mutant." he hissed. "Oh, g'wan wi' you. I don' care about that. I'll no' out you, if that's what yui're worried about. It's an edge. I've seen yuir claws. I've seen your body close up bullet holes like they were never there. We've been over this." "Then why is it bad news?" Logan asked. "I'd hoped f'r a better life for her, you know? Not t'have the weak and ign'rant tryin' to pull her down her whole life." "Right. So what's she got? What makes her a mutant?" "I... I don' think she can hate, Logan." "What?" "I don't think it's in her. At all." "That can't be all there is to it." Logan said. "Maybe no'." "Lissen, McLeish. I can't stick around." "Goin' to the movies wi' that Chinee chippee, are you?" he asked. "Right." McLeish chuckled. "Enjoy yuirself." And he watched as his drinking companion walked out of the bar. "Threy o'clock o' the mark, every Thursday. Yui're a man of habit, Logan. And I am grateful f'r that." He took another pull of whiskey. ***** -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 4/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** The Present*: The two women walked into a rather swank bar and grill, not so far from the White House. They were immediately ushered past the assembled diners into a back room, where a variety of very private booths, soundproofed, served as meeting places for the most powerful people in government. That day, there was already someone waiting for them. She was pale, and wore a slick black raincoat, proof against the worst of Washington's weather. A matching wide-brimmed hat sat on the table, so her verdant bob of green hair was revealed. So, too, were her glorious emerald eyes, which softened in a transparently false simper of welcome. "I adore your new outfit, Fox." she said. They sat, disdaining to draw the curtains that the restaurant thoughtfully provided for maximum privacy. "I have as many guards here as you do, Viper, so let's not have any repeat of our unpleasantness in Canada, shall we?" Viper smiled. "Of course not. I am fully aware of your... close position with the Supreme Hydra." Fox favoured Viper with her own hard-eyed smile. "Good. You'll also be happy to know that I've replaced the entire kitchen staff for the duration of the meal, and my people have brought their own stores. Including wine." "Good." Viper said lightly. "I understand you have excellent taste... at least where food is concerned." In fact, the meal arrived immediately. Only the third woman would not eat. "Who's your friend?" Viper asked pointedly. "This is Vendetta." Silver Fox replied. "My personal assassin." Vendetta didn't correct the identification. She merely nodded. "Ah, yes. The famous Vendetta. Edina McLeish, isn't it?" Viper asked politely. "That's right." the young woman answered. "We all miss your father." Viper continued. "He was a credit to his profession." "Thank you." "The reason why I brought you here, Viper, is that I think certain elements of the leadership in Hydra have become stale. I think we need to reassess things at the top." Fox said. "Leaving you in charge, of course." Viper replied. "That doesn't sound very appealing. What's in it for me?" "You get to keep your promise to Rose. I will return Madripoor to you. I will supply the bankroll you'll need to fund your own private army there, with the latest AIM hardware, and give you carte blanche over that little dungpile." she said. "Generous." Viper replied. "You must really need me. I don't really need the army, though. After all, I've got Wolverine." "Not any more." Fox said grimly. "After what happened in Canada, Wolverine is all mine." Viper raised her eyebrows. "Truly? Oh, how wonderful. You've come to appreciate him as the rest of us do. Do let me knock him off." "He's mine, Viper. That's not negotiable." Fox said. Viper sighed. "Fine. Never let it be said that I couldn't keep my eye on the bigger prize." "Who is that woman?" Vendetta interrupted. Both Fox and Viper swivelled their heads to look through the plexiglass barrier into the hall. There was a woman looking in on things, all right. She was blonde, very tall and trim, with long, slender legs that peeked out from under her trenchcoat. The glasses she wore could not entirely conceal her surprise. "That's Leni Zauber." Fox breathed. "Excuse me a moment." She stood up from the table, and signalled to the blonde woman that she wanted to speak privately. The woman nodded, and caught the sleeve of the waiter. "I will only be a moment." Fox said to her two guests, and she opened the plexiglass door, stepping out into the corridor. Vendetta nodded, and finally took a drink from her glass of water. "So." Viper said brightly, after Silver Fox disappeared from view. "Are you averse to taking on multiple commissions?" Fox entered the booth after the blonde woman, and the two of them sat down across from each other. Leni twitched the curtain shut. "Raven?" Silver Fox asked. "Is it really you?" Leni Zauber smiled slightly. Her face became pliable, mutable, for a moment, and her whole body took on colour until she had indigo skin and lemon-yellow eyes under a smooth shock of deep red hair. "None other." Mystique replied. "I am very surprised to see you, though. Wolverine told me that you'd been killed by Sabretooth. Apparently not." "Apparently not. What possessed you to use that particular shape? I thought that Leni Zauber had been outed as dead years ago." Raven laughed. "Nothing dispels rumours of an untimely death like a personal appearance. Plus, they'll never find her body." "You look amazing." Fox said. "We shapeshifters age well. I look a handsome thirty. I'd swear, though, that you were no more than twenty-six, when I happen to know that you're eleven years older than I am." Fox smiled. "We Weapon-X types age well." Raven chuckled. "No doubt. So tell me... what are you doing in Washington these days? Still working for Hydra?" Fox nodded. "Working for them again, actually. Sort of. I want to talk to you about that. What are you doing in Washington? Still working for the C.I.A.?" Raven snorted. "No more than you are. I'm here because of the presidential election. Are you aware that that psychopath Kelly is up for re-election?" "Yes." Fox said. "That's what I want to talk to you about. Kelly's had a change of heart." "What?" Mystique asked. "Go on!" "No, really." she said. "I've been working the politicians in Washington for a while, now, getting them to support his campaign. Wait until you hear the speech he has planned for Wednesday. He's trying to get elected on a tolerance ticket." Raven shook her head. "I'll believe that when I see it. I think he's playing a game on you, Fox. He'll use Hydra money to get elected, and then he'll start the pogrom." Fox smiled. "That's the beautiful part, Raven. I want him to make his great tolerance speech. I've got a media blitz going right now, and more waiting in the can, that's pro-tolerance, pro-mutant. Wait until he makes that speech." "Then?" "Then, at the height of the speech, I want you to kill him." Raven missed a beat. "What?" Fox smiled. "It doesn't matter if he's shamming us, Raven. He'll never get to turn around on us. He makes his speech, you kill him and make him a martyr. My media campaign will see to that. Remember all of the reforms that went through after JFK?" "That's brilliant." Mystique breathed. "That's bloody brilliant. We use the enemy against himself. Do you really think your media campaign is going to work?" "If your crew, or that Magneto character, don't do something to screw it up." she replied. "I've got a few wrinkles worked out, just in case it doesn't work. Why is Hydra interested in helping mutants?" Mystique asked. "After this week", Silver Fox replied, "Hydra's only going to have one head." Viper looked suspiciously happy when Fox returned to her seat, but the older woman didn't waste her breath on questions that would only be stonewalled. "Do you agree to my terms?" she asked. "I already said that I would." Viper replied, raising wine to her lips. "You may not, after you hear what I'm proposing. First, we need to eliminate Andrea and Andreas." Viper choked on her wine, spraying the white tablecloth with droplets of pinot noir. "Are you nuts? They're practically untouchable. They're Struckers, for Christ's sake, you stupid bitch!" "I thought that you, of all people, would have the liver for this. This is disappointing, Viper." "How do you plan to get them? If we knock them off, outside job or no, someone will trace it back to us and we get our necks stretched." "You will silence their bodyguard. After all, you're in with Andreas, aren't you? That's saved your hide more than once, Madame Hydra." Fox said. "And?" "Vendetta will move in, eliminate Fenris, and I will handle my end, which will consist of making sure that Simmonds takes the fall for the whole operation." "If you fuck this up, Fox, Simmonds is going to laugh when our heads fall into the basket." Fox smiled sweetly. "That's true if you fuck this up, too. So you'd better not, or I'll make sure that your executioner is one of those jilted wives." Viper grimaced. "The rewards are enticing, but I need more than this, Fox. I need Wolverine." "All of this is beside the point." Vendetta interjected. "I haven't accepted the job yet." "Are you going to accept the job?" Fox demanded. "You'll have to ask me directly about the job." Vendetta replied. "Make the pitch. Then, I'll know." "What's all of this nonsense?" Fox asked. "I have a handicap, you see." the young woman replied. Handicap? Handicapped assassin? Reiko. Reiko, the blind assassin. It was at the Tokyo docks, a few years ago. She was seated in a luxury car with tinted windows and bulletproof glass. The car, and a van full of Hydra agents, were stowed aboard a ship bound for Korea, but they had no intention of leaving Japan. The ship was owned by a mercenary, a freelancer named Kojiro who was heavily indebted to Hydra. He was waiting to be contacted by Reiko, and his patience was rewarded. ** Reiko said to him. She paused. Kojiro replied, only a few feet away from where Fox was hidden. Kojiro said. Reiko offered him some jewelry as a bribe, but Kojiro refused them, as ordered, and opened the van containing her agents. She was indignant. he replied. The agents surged out of the van, armed with rifles, ordering the girl to stand down, offering not to hurt her. Switching to English, Reiko cried "You're going to change your minds about that real soon!", tossing her knives. The kevlar vests that Hydra agents always wore in combat kept the damage down to the tiniest prick, the smallest shedding of blood, but it didn't matter. The screams of the guards were irrelevant. Reiko was a poisoner. Fortunately, Kojiro wrapped her up with manriki-gusari, but he was very upset that he hadn't been warned about the blowfish toxin. And she-- Silver Fox-- had said, "Consider it a test that you have passed. Look at me, girl. You are one Reiko, late of the Dai-Kumo clan in Osaka?" "Who wants to know?" "Zora de Plata." she had replied. "Silver Fox to you. I have need of a poisoner of your skill. And Hydra will be ever so grateful-- and who else but Hydra could help you evade the Hand, hmmm?" "...I have no hate in me..." Ninja pressed their fruitless assault against the castle. They spent their lives against the defenses, mechanical and biological. It was too much. It was just the opportunity that Silver Fox had been waiting for. The master of those ninja was Tsurayaba Matsuo, and he was growing frustrated, sitting outside the castle in his armoured limousine. "This is taking too long!" he said. "I can't keep the authorities at bay much longer, and who knows how long it will take to winkle the lot of them out of that weasel warren!" Very proud of his English, that master of the Hand. "Longer than you've got, Matsuo Tsurayaba!" Fox said. "...Unless you change your tactics and use cunning instead of brute force." "Someone approaches my limousine! Who--?" "Just another arm of many-tentacled Hydra." she said deprecatingly. "I believe this sightless waif is one of yours?" Matsuo stretched out his hand to Reiko. "Bring me that traitorous poisoner so that I may throttle her personally--" "True", Silver Fox said, "the girl is yours to kill, but she is also the means to your ends. Can we talk?" "...so if I am to kill, I must take into me the hate of my employer for my quarry..." So they sat together in the limousine, the master of the Hand and the master of Hydra, while their plot (or rather, her plot) was carried out by the blind ninja, Reiko. The castle was Honto Keep, an outpost of the Yashida clan. "I understand Reiko blooding her sword for us to buy her eyes back", Matsuo was saying, "but isn't she under obligation to Wolverine?" "She doesn't know about his relationship to Mariko." Fox replied. "You have let your hatred run amok", Matsuo rejoined, "like a pack of starving dogs." "...so if my employer does not truly hate the quarry, then I will not take the contract..." On the roof of the castle, two figures could be seen, wrestling for their lives in the driving rain. Screams and shouted threats carried their sounds far into the night, even in bustling Osaka. "I see that Wolverine has been distracted from the main event with the poisoned blade." Matsuo said. "Yes. I arranged for that." Silver Fox replied. "Am I missing something? Won't they demand that the blade be tested on Reiko, first?" Fox smiled. "Reiko has been gradually ingesting minutely larger doses of the toxin for years. She is quite immune." Blowfish toxin. A poison affecting the nervous system that caused an excruciating death, if the dose wasn't sufficient to stop brain activity. A scream floated up into the night from a hole in the roof. "It burns!" A woman's voice. Logan's beloved. One of the figures detached itself from the melee on the roof, and plunged back into the building. "How were you planning to extract Reiko from the scenario?" Matsuo asked idly. "That problem is solving itself... right about now." she said. And inside the building, as Fox knew she would, Reiko took her own life rather than live with the shame of having betrayed Wolverine. "Fox! Silver Fox!" Fox blinked away sudden tears, came to her senses. "What?" Viper laughed delightedly. "My dear woman, I could have stuck an entire ginsu set into your back while you sat there staring into space! We were talking about the contract." "Of course." Fox mumbled. "I must be ill. Perhaps one of my cooks works for you, after all." Viper smiled widely. "What a delicious thought. I'll have to work on that." "Not if you want to grow old." Fox replied with a lump in her throat. She had killed Mariko Yashida, whom Wolverine had loved. Killed her as if by her own hand. "I am ready for the proposal." Vendetta said with equanimity. Silver Fox clamped down on her feelings. Composed herself. It would be fatal to show this kind of weakness to Viper. "There will be three contracts." she said. "Four." Viper corrected. "That's the price of my cooperation. Four contracts. One for Wolverine." Fox glared at her. "You're dreaming." she said viciously, over the biggest lump in her throat that she could imagine. "I want him for myself." Viper waved her hand. "You can't do this without me. Besides, I'll never follow a woman who's going to be irrational whenever her feelings are involved." Fox nodded weakly. "Is four too many?" she asked the woman. "No. If your hatred of them is strong enough, I can certainly manage four." Vendetta replied. "Otherwise, I will refuse the contract." Fox swallowed. There was an out, albeit a potentially deadly one. Vendetta could never accept the contract against Wolverine. She loved Wolverine. She hoped that he knew that. She swallowed, and said, "Vendetta, I wish to contract you to kill Andrea Strucker." Vendetta gazed into her eyes, and nodded. Her expression was grave. "I accept." Fox felt a peculiar wrenching sensation. She glared at Viper, who favoured her with a superior smile. "What was that?" Fox grated. "I've taken your hate for Andrea Strucker into myself." Vendetta replied. "You no longer hate her, but I do. I hate that she is a racist bitch who's always ridden the coat tails of her father. I hate that she's unprofessional, and wastes energy weakening Hydra. I hate the way she looks at her own brother." Fox nodded. "That's enough. I don't have to hate Andrea. Her death is necessary. Now. I wish to contract you to kill Andreas Strucker." Vendetta gazed at her again, and gasped, as if struck. "I accept." Silver Fox shuddered. "I didn't feel the wrench that time." "I can choose to allow you to feel it, or not, as I please." Vendetta replied. "I always make them feel it, the first time." Fox nodded absently. "Still, not hating Andreas is an unsettling feeling. No one deserves hatred more than he does. Let's get on with this." Edina McLeish nodded her acceptance, and visibly steeled herself to accept another contract. "I want to contract you to kill Percival Simmonds." Vendetta stared at her, then shook her head. "I can't accept. You don't hate him. You feel contempt for him, but no hate. Contempt isn't enough." Fox frowned. "I suppose it doesn't matter. His was the one death that could be arranged internally, if we play our cards right. Unless you want to commit yourself, Viper. I'm sure you hate Simmonds enough." Viper shook her head. "Not me. I don't want to shed my hatred of that little toad. I won't enjoy it when he dies, otherwise." "Fine." "One more, Fox." Viper said. Fox smiled thinly. "I don't want to shed my hatred of Wolverine, either." "But you will." Viper said. "This isn't a negotiable point, and you know that Vendetta won't be able to get near Fenris without me." Fox grimaced. "You will owe me a great deal for this." Viper merely smiled. She steeled herself. "I want to contract you to kill Logan." Vendetta gazed at her for a long time, and finally flinched. "I accept." "What?!" "I had to look deep to find your hate for him, but it was there, and it was strong. Three contracts, as we agreed." Silver Fox was stunned. It was impossible that she hated Wolverine. Wasn't it? Vendetta stood. "Wait." Fox grunted. "You need to hear the arrangements." "I took them from your mind." Edina McLeish replied. "I know what you need. Good afternoon. I will be in touch." Fox couldn't even rise when Viper left a moment later. * Portions of this section excerpted from Wolverine #56-57 ** <> Translated from the Japanese. ***** The Past: Edina McLeish, barely fifteen, was just beginning to worry when there came a knock at the door. Mindful of the fact that her father had warned her to be very careful for the duration of their stay in Macao, she looked through the tiny peephole that they'd carved into the wood beside the door. She could hear his voice in her head. 'Never look through the peiphole in the door. That's asking for it. They'll just kick it in, and you with it. Never twitch back a curtain to get a look, either. Then they can put a bullet in yuir head quick as you can blink.' They appeared to be police. Both men had their hats in their hands. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she pulled open the door. "Edina McLeish?" one man asked. "Yes?" she said, not trusting herself to say anything more. "I'm sorry to tell you that your father's been in an accident." he said, twisting his hat in his hands. "He's still alive, but it's very serious. He has damage to his lungs, and his back is broken." "I have to see him!" she said. "Take me to him, please." She reached backward and grabbed her coat from the rack. The other man put up his hands. "Whoa, ma'am. He's being taken care of by the finest doctors in Asia. It's a touch-and-go thing, though, so they can't have you in the room. It's intensive care, and because his lungs are so badly seared, his breathing is very problematic." She dropped her coat, and her hands fluttered to her mouth. "Is he going to die?" she asked tearfully. "We don't know." the first man said. "I'm afraid it's a strong possibility. Even if he lives, he'll never be the man he was." "Take me to him." she said. "I won't stay here and sit on my hands while he dies in some hospital." "Ma'am, we can't." the second man said. "Then I'll go and find him myself." she said, and tried to push between them. They both caught her, one by a shoulder, the other by an arm. The second man leered. "An attractive young lady like you shouldn't be walking the streets of Macao alone." he said. "I think we should stay here and make sure that you behave." She twisted away from the shoulder grip of the first man, and stomped her heel down hard on the arch of the second. He gasped, but did not let go of her. Instead, he swung his other fist. She ducked by going down to one knee, thrusting stiffened fingers with crushing force into his testicles. He groaned, let go of her twisted arm. He almost dropped. The first man caught her arms from behind, pinioning them, so she took the opportunity and added leverage to drive her toe into the throat of the second man. His larynx collapsed under the sudden pressure, and so did he, gasping and wheezing his last moments on the steps. Foolishly, the first man had used both of his arms to pinion hers. That proved to be a mistake that he would not get the opportunity to repeat. She lashed her head back, driving it into his septum and crushing it. He cried out, letting go of her as the sudden pain blinded him to all else. She spun and thrust her palm against the back of his hand, which held his nose. He shrieked in agony, and lost control of his sphincter. The stench assailed her nostrils in that moment, incongruous with the calm that she had entered. She reached for an outstretched wrist, caught it, twisted it until it was taut. She spun towards him, inside the circle of his arms like a dancer, and drove her elbow into the crook of his own elbow. There was a horrible crunching noise as tendons and cartilage gave out under the impact. She came out of the perfect calm of the dance of death. "Where is he?" The man screamed his pain and confusion. She kicked him in the groin , driving him to hands and knees, then stamped her heel down on the back of his hand and ground it there. He shrieked. "Where is he?" she asked again. "Hong Kong police station number six!" the man managed. "Back room. Tong surgeon." "Thank you." Edina said. Then, she reached down with one arm from above him, and wrapped it around his head, cradling the man's chin in the crook of her elbow. She drew his head sideways, bringing the neck taught as he screamed in pain and fear, and drove her forearm against it. The wet snap that followed was very satisfying. She stood there on the porch for a moment, staring at the two men that she had just murdered, and her gorge rose. She muttered, "M-made it you or me." And then she began to vomit. In fact, the officers had been telling her the truth. It was almost three days before she was allowed in to see her adopted father, Angus McLeish. His eyes hadn't been damaged in the explosion, so he could look at her, but his charred lungs prevented him from speaking. She found out from the doctors that there was an almost sixty percent chance that he would eventually walk again. He could never pursue his chosen profession again, though. His aging body had been ruined in one terrible afternoon. A twenty year-old man could not recover fully from such injuries, never mind a man of almost fifty. "Who did this to you, Da?" Edina asked, but of course he couldn't answer her, though his eyes burned with frustration and hate. ***** -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 5/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. The Present: The brownstone had an ugly exterior, to be sure. Even in a rough neighbourhood, nobody thought to break in. The reputation of the people who lived there was enough to deter all but the most psychotic junkies. They only helped contribute to the circulating stories. They tended to be found in rather-- graphic circumstances. Sometimes they didn't find the whole body. Word was that the fat man's appetites had something to do with that. Whether the stories that circulated around the neighbourhood were fact or fiction, the man visiting the house that day was more frightening than anything the locals had seen to date. He was absurdly tall, with broad shoulders, but a narrow waist. In fact, apart from the shoulders, he was gaunt. His arms were very long, and a look at his face gave the impression that it had never been blessed with hair. He moved with a sort of fluid, boneless grace that made it seem as though he was gliding across the ground instead of walking. They were right to be afraid. At the moment, the man was hunched over a table, studying a printout generated from pilfered lab equipment. Beside him was a ream of data, both in print and cursive, written by a crabbed hand. Most of the rest of the house's occupants were downstairs, occupied, anywhere but the room where that man was working. Only two were willing to brave his presence. These two whispered to each other. One was a familiar blue-skinned beauty. The other, a slender blond Australian man. "Raven?" this last whispered hoarsely. "Yes?" "Who the hell is that, love?" he started to whisper, but his voice grew louder as he started to cough. It carried on into a wet, bloody hacking fit. The man looked up from his work momentarily. "My name is Maelstrom, mutant. Address me directly if you have any questions. Or, preferably, gossip elsewhere. Your natter, and your cough, are irritating." The Aussie, John, dragged Mystique outside of the room and shut the door. "Who is he, and what is he doing here?" he demanded, and he wiped the flecks of blood from his lips. "Malcolm Stromberg." she supplied. "He owes me, Pyro. One of the best geneticists anywhere, anytime. He's some kind of Inhuman/Deviant hybird, the way he tells it. Absurdly powerful." Pyro crooked an eyebrow. "How does someone like that owe you? No offense." "There was this time when Wolverine and Spiral and I went to the Big Crunch. Look, it doesn't matter. The point is, he owes me one. I need the favour for our next op." Pyro nodded. "Going after Kelly again. Well, we can't let that bigot into office. So, what do we need Maelstrom for?" "Err... look, John, that's a secret, if you don't mind. I know how you talk when you drink, and if the Blob gets a hold of this..." she tailed off meaningfully. He glared. "Talk when I drink? I do no such thing. Besides", he continued in a more subdued tone, "I haven't raised a glass since I got terminal. I want to live as long as I can, Legacy or no." "Sorry." she said, and walked back downstairs. John stared after her for a while. Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he knocked on the door. "Come in." Maelstrom answered testily. Pyro peeked around the door. "Maelstrom?" "Yes?" the man asked, continuing to work. "Would you like something to eat?" Maelstrom paused. Brightened. "Do you have any cheesecake?" "If I'm quick enough to get it out of the fridge before the Blob gets to it." the Aussie replied. The telephone rang, far too early for Wolverine's tastes. He reached over to the nightstand, fumbled with the motel phone, brought it to his ear. "Hello?" he mumbled over the dial tone. The ringing continued, mocking him. He reached under the covers to pull the phone out of his pocket. Instead of denim, his hand brushed along a soft female torso, coming to rest against his own hairy flank. Rather than shock him out of his reverie, the sensation merely encouraged a pause and a drowsy smile, but the phone continued to ring. Finally, he thought to reach down to the floor, and fished the phone out of the sad pile that his jeans made. Naturally, it stopped ringing once he brought the phone to his ear. The woman moaned in her sleep and snuggled closer, drawing her leg across his body and tucking her hand behind his ear. He was still more asleep than awake, but he had enough presence of mind to nuzzle her check with his blunt nose and offer a scratchy kiss. Apparently, she was at least marginally aware as well, for she tilted her head to meet his lips with her own, which was nice. She had soft lips. He might have disengaged after a moment; after all, he was mostly asleep and it was meant as an affectionate gesture. She had other ideas, apparently. The hand that had rested so peacefully behind his ear tangled itself in his hair, and kept him close. Now, she was kissing him. He didn't mind. She was a good kisser, apparently. Very good kisser. Yes. He wasn't one to argue with a good thing. He shifted his arm up, hooked it around her narrow shoulder, and cradled the back of her head with his hand. She had soft hair, he noticed. It brushed the back of his hand, tickled his cheek. Mmmm. Her lips tasted great. She was getting a little more aggressive with them. Now that he had his hand tangled in her hair, she brought her own back across his jaw. He shivered, a little, as slender fingers caressed his ear. That coincided with her tongue, slow and sensuous, that ran along their pressed lips for a moment, before sliding between them and into his mouth. Verrry nice. Definitely more awake now. Hell of a way to start the day. She seemed to have the same idea. Her hand left his face, traced its way down the side of his neck and onto his chest. Her nails were an enticement. She massaged his pectoral, for a moment. Gathered some of his hair between her fingers and let it run. Mmmm. Yeah. Her long, slender leg, silken and soft, slid up along his thigh. She straightened it, her calf crossing his stomach. Her foot caressing his arm. Back and forth. That was too much for him. He slid his hand out of her hair and it travelled down her back. Her skin was soft, smooth, without flaw. His hand rested in the small of her back. He pulled her closer still, so that he could feel all of her against him. She moaned, a little. His other hand snaked under her extended leg, and his palm came to rest against a soft, pliant breast. She smiled around their kiss, laughed a deep throaty laugh of delight. Trailed her fingertip down the hard curves of his stomach. Smoothed her fingers across the muscles there. Even her breath was sweet. He pulled away from her hungry mouth, ran his nose and lips across her throat, inhaled deeply. Sandalwood. Wolverine's eyes shot open, there to meet two intoxicated, intoxicating blue eyes set in a face storied for its beauty. Her intimate smile transformed into a crooked one. She tilted her head curiously. "Logan?" He rolled out from under her, rolled out of bed without a word and walked into the cleansing sunshine, where things weren't so damned confusing. ***** The Past: In Macao, there was a knock at the apartment door. It wasn't a normal apartment, by any means. It was built into one corner of a heavily fortified warehouse. The concrete, steel, and sand-filled walls were four feet thick, and tapered upward slightly to make the building resistant to earthquakes. The building resembled a bunker, impervious to any assault that man or devil winds could bring to bear. It was the middle of the monsoon season now, so the lashing rain and killing winds were a common form of assault. The door never pretended to friendliness. It was composed of layers of steel, brass, and manganese and looked like the entrance to a paranoid players club. The apartment was all of one floor, naturally, with lots of floorspace. It was heated with water pipes that ran under the concrete tile. Everything was easily accessible by wheelchair. A whirlpool and a battery of exercise machines completed the ensemble. There were also a lot of places to grab cover, and weapons secreted everywhere. They carried alternating loads of soft manstoppers and armour-piercing shells. There were also a few crates in one corner, surrounded by a tangled string of razor wire. The old man, recumbent on a bed, pressed a button that raised a thick bulletproof shield between himself and the door. He nodded to his daughter. Edina glanced at the monitor, which showed a delivery boy carrying a small package. She opened the door. "Graham Todd?" the messenger asked. "His nurse." she replied. "Mr. Todd is indisposed. I'll sign for it." The messenger looked nervous, but was reassured when the old man gave him a grave nod from behind the plexiglass shield. He accepted her signature, handed her the box, and was on his way. Edina closed the door immediately, and turned the crank that would seal it shut. There were no windows in the apartment. The light was supplied by a number of long-life neon bulbs. A large stack of replacements could be found in stainless steel cupboards, along with a stash of canned food and carefully preserved grain. Their water supply was drawn independent of the city's plumbing system. The only hole in their defenses was their reliance on the city sewers for waste disposal, which McLeish had approved as an acceptable risk. Edina worried about him. It seemed that he'd gone completely paranoid. "Well?" the old man said in a ruined voice. "Open it, then. Check it." Edina sighed, ran the box through the resonance imager that they'd purchased at what she would have supposed was ruinous cost. No circuitry or electrical components. Just bullets. She pried the box open, revealing the bullets. She brought them over to the bed as McLeish lowered the shield. He took the box gently from her hands. Cackled as he handled it. "Careful, Da." she said. "Your heart, remember." He waved off her concerns. "D'you know what these are, girl?" "Bullets." she said. "Obviously special ones, though you'd never know it to look at them. Standard configuration over 9mm. Just like the .44 shells we got in February." He smiled. "Every one of these bullets is a life. One life ruined, or ended. These are too special t' waste on the common run o' people. These are all for a very special man." "What makes them special?" she asked. "Guess how much they cost." he said. "G'wan, guess." "Per unit? Thirty American dollars each?" she said, hazarding what she judged to be a ludicrously high price. "What's so special about them?" He cackled again. "Adamantium. Aitch cost me more than ten thousand. B'fore you consider the bribes and the price of research." "Ten thousand American dollars per bullet?" Edina said incredulously. "That means that this box is worth four hundred and eighty thousand American dollars!" "That's right." "Da, where did you get all of this money?" she asked. "Killin'." he replied. "I have inexpensive tastes, you see. Sure, I'd throw a big party every once in a while, but even if I spent ten thousand dollars on such a party, it'd never dent ma wallet." "And now you've got something to do with it." she said. "Right." "Did you ever consider retiring? You could live in high style for the rest of your life on this kind of money." "Girl", McLeish said, "I'd ha' considered retiring if it came out that I'd lost ma edge. If I was no longer the best. Now that chance has passed me by. A man's put me here." "Logan." she said. "Logan. I'm no' long for this world, but I'll be draggin' him down to hell wi' me." he said happily. "Da, you could live for a lot of years yet." she said. "Let me kill him. I can take your hate, just like I did with that doctor. It'll be like you killed him with your own hands." "I'll no' do that." the old man rasped. "You and this hate are all I've got, and I'll no' risk either one." Edina sighed. "Your revenge is going to kill you, Da, and if you miss your chance, I won't be able to avenge you." McLeish cracked a smile. "Sure you will, girl. Sure you will. Logan's no' exactly a likeable sort. There must be hundreds of people who wou' like to see him die. No' Logan, no' I, no' the devil himsel' could stand afore you when yui're fueled by hate." "It makes me a little less every time, Da." He nodded. "I know. You might lose yuir ability to feel anything. So I won' miss. Don' think you have to kill him if I do, either. Just make him miserable. That'll be good enough for me." She sat on the bed and began to cry. "Why isn't it good enough for you now?" He gathered her into his arms. "That's the way I'm built, girl. I can't help it. It's the way I'm built." ***** The Present: The crowd was small, by the standards of such things, and well behaved (relatively speaking), but it was still a nervous business, from a security standpoint. The speech was to be delivered to a Libertarian Party convention. Robert Kelly had already secured their nomination; he was their candidate for the top job in the country. This was going to be a sympathetic crowd, for the most part. The problem, of course, was that securing membership in a political party, the Libertarian Party included, was less difficult than purchasing a firearm. Which was to say, not difficult at all. "Mr. Winters, you worry entirely too much." the senator said. "This is a friendly crowd, receptive to my messaage. We're in the company of friends. Who would want to assassinate me?" His head of security grunted. He was a tall man, most of the way to seven feet, with broad shoulders and a military bearing. He was attentive, and had an intelligent eye. His white hair did nothing to encourage trouble from those who might not count themselves among the senator's admirers. "I know that, Senator. You pay me to worry, and take care, so that's what I do." "All right, Mr. Winters. All right. I'll smell every glass of water before I bring it to my lips, OK?" "Beautiful." The big man cast his gaze around the room, which was full of socialites, liberals of all sorts, and people looking to make some connections. The dinner table already had its spread, and the waiters were circulating with glasses of wine. One such waiter wasn't hard to pick out. He was big, black, heavily muscled. Even without his distinctive 'M' tattoo, it was hard to miss Bishop. He favoured Bishop with a raised eyebrow, and was rewarded with a tiny shake of the head. The kitchen was clear. Cable nodded to himself. All of the staff had checked out. There were no call-ins, no last-minute substitutions of staff, no late deliveries. He didn't really expect trouble at this function-- that wasn't Mystique's style. She'd wait for national television coverage, at a suitably dramatic moment. She'd want the timing to be perfect, and her message to be clear. He also expected her to scout the territory, though, and that would mean that she would be aware that the X-Men were on to her. She could hardly fail to recognize him, or Bishop. She'd be ready for them, somehow. He scanned the room again. Familiar faces, mostly. Familiar minds, mostly. No signs of danger, yet. No one giving off any signs that would indicate hostility. When Senator Kelly sat down to speak to an old friend in the party, Cable took his place behind the man, keeping his attention sharp. He smiled. Bishop had been cornered by a pair of young party organizers, who appeared to be flirting outrageously at him. His look of patent frustration almost made Cable laugh. It was going to be a long night for both of them. "So, as you can see," Maelstrom said around a mouthful of cheesecake, "There are only two common sequences for this section of DNA, commonly described as the Essex factor. In point of fact, this is only the head of the Essex factor. A majority of mutants have this sequence." "Right." Pyro said. "The Legacy virus acts like a designer gene. This part of it, here, is the key. The lock is this series of stations called the common head sequence. If they match, it will bond and the DNA will unravel, starting at the Essex factor. The result is a loss of control over the mutagenic abilities, perhaps even to the point where they disappear. It will affect the whole strand, eventually. The errors will crop up in cell division. The result is unnatural aging and tissue degeneration, as you are aware." "Only too well." "Most baseline humans, or 'flatscans', have this sequence along the Essex factor stations instead, which is called the null head sequence. Now, some mutants don't have the common head sequence, and some humans don't have the null head sequence, but they are the two most numerous variations." Pyro nodded. "So you're working on a cure?" he asked. Maelstorm shook his head. "Possible, of course, but very difficult. No, that's not why I've been contracted. I'm here to mutate the 'key' portion of the Legacy virus." John frowned. "Won't that just make your sample a null sample? Unable to reproduce, even? How will it become the dominant strain?" Maelstrom nodded, took a bite. "It would, but you misunderstand. Mystique wants a very specific alteration to be made to the virus. One based on this sample that she got from some woman named Moira McTaggart." Pyro's eyes widened. Logan walked back into the darkened motel room to the sound of the shower. He could still catch her scent, as it radiated from the sheets, and the air, and everything. He shuddered, and inhaled deeply. "You left me in the lurch, old friend." Ororo said from a chair in a darkened corner. He started. Smiled slightly. "Pretty sneaky, 'Ro. Runnin' the shower so I'd think you were in the bathroom, and wouldn't hear you breathin'." "Who knows you better than I?" she asked with her own sad smile. "Damn few." he replied. He picked up his shorts and sat on the bed to pull them on. "What happened?" she asked, after a pause. "What did I do?" "Nothin' I didn't start." he said grimly. "I'm sorry t' walk out on you like that. I didn't mean any insult by it." "I was worried that I had hurt you, Logan, not about any imagined slight." "Naw. No hurt that wasn't self-inflicted, darlin'." They sat like that for a while. "I woke up a bit disoriented." he offered. "Guess it might've been the booze. I wouldn't've tried anything like that if I'd known what I was about." "You mean, if you had known that it was me." "Aw, I didn't mean it that way, 'Ro. It's just... you know how I feel about Fox." "I know that you have feelings for her. I am not entirely clear about what those feelings are." she said. He grunted. "No, I guess I ain't, either. I'm not sayin' I thought you were her, either." "Good." "So, I don't have any excuses. I don't know what that was." She growled. "Why do you think that 'that' needs an excuse?" "Errr... well, because it wasn't started honest, from my end." "It certainly was from mine." she said. He coughed. "Do you love me?" she asked. He flushed. "Aw, you know I do, 'Ro, but I ain't sure it's that way." "Do you know that I love you?" "Yeah." "No excuses." Ororo said. "None offered, and most certainly none accepted." He grinned. "Deal." She stood up. "And if you ever get fresh again," she said, walking towards him, "I will make certain that you mean it." She bent to kiss him on the cheek before walking into the bathroom and closing the door. Logan smiled, and reached for his jeans. "I think maybe we should start thinkin' about sleepin' in separate beds, though." he chuckled to himself. "Mature adults, my ass." -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 6/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** The staccato grind of automatic fire chewed at the edge of the retaining column in the garage of Madison Square Garden, kicking up sparks whenever a bullet struck the exposed rebar. Andreas Strucker pulled in his arms, trying to make a smaller profile with which to tempt the gunmen. There were four of them. He had been caught walking with his sister and a small escort through an area of the lot that had been emptied of cars. A clear set-up was in progress, and one with enough pull to redirect traffic and even move existing cars. He turned his head, meeting the desperate gaze of his sister, Andrea. They were a full fourteen feet apart. Only she had a firearm, unfortunately an underpowered Walther PP7 that had only three bullets remaining. Normally, they had no need of firearms. They need only clasp hands, and then they could generate enough energy to discourage any assault. They had to clasp hands. When they were apart like this, they were little more than sitting ducks. Half of their bodyguard complement had gone ahead to check the car. Either they had been ambushed or payed off, for they were nowhere in evidence. It was tempting to make a dash for the car, about seventy feet away, along a line that should offer partial coverage after an initial ten-foot dash. The ambush had eliminated the rest of their bodyguard. Now, only Fenris remained. So far, Andrea's pistol had discouraged any move to flank them, killing or mortally wounding one ambitious assassin, but once those last three bullets were gone, they would be helpless. He felt a sudden slash of pain. A bullet had passed along the torn edge of the column and grazed his ear. This was getting too close. The enemy was apparently willing to spend any amount of ammunition to pin them, meaning that either there was another team of assassins moving to flank them, or that they had practically unlimited ammunition. Or both, of course. Never forget the most dismal option. If they could just meet in the middle... *Bdam* *buddabuddabuddabudda* Andreas turned his head to regard the new threat. They'd been flanked... No! The arrival was wearing a Hydra uniform. He grinned. She was pinning down the attackers. They'd been forced to seek cover. That would be fatal. No column of cement and steel would stand up to the bite of Fenris. He met his sister's eyes. She flashed him the electric, private smile he'd seen so many times before. They executed simultaneous dive rolls, perfect timing, perfect form... And they met in the middle. Andreas submerged, melting into his sister and becoming Fenris. The adrenaline surged through their veins. The energy crackled up their arms, and their eyes glowed. Fenris screamed in ecstasy. They moved as one, fired, obliterating one of the pillars and the gunman who had sought refuge behind it. *Bdam* Fenris shattered. Andreas reemerged from his ecstatic state. His thumb was bleeding. Andrea was missing her hand. She opened her mouth to scream. *Bdam* The breath was her last. Andreas watched in horror as her head erupted in blood. A high-calibre slug emerged from underneath her left eye, and hydrostatic shock did the rest, dragging the remains of her brain after it. Splattering on Andreas' chest and leg. He stared mutely at her corpse as it slowly toppled. They had been invincible. It was impossible, what he was seeing. Impossible. She couldn't be dead. She was his angel. She was dead. *Bdam* Evening. The air was sweet, which was unusual. It meant that the wind wasn't coming off of the harbour, where a garbage scow that looked old enough to have seen action in the second War was permanently moored. It had never been observed to move, yet its load seemed to fluctuate. The scow was a source of many urban legends. One such related that an entire family lived in tunnels underneath the garbage, where they lived in stinking obscurity, venturing out only rarely and then at night. The scow provided for all of their needs. Some of the denizens of Madripoor, the island whose harbour the scow inhabited, claimed to have met various members of the family. The legend even supplied them with names. There were humans buried within the garbage of the scow that night. Their needs were few. They wore green uniforms, with crests on them depicting a wolfshead. The costumes would have been handsome, if they weren't so full of bullet holes. Lowtown wasn't exactly quiet that night-- it was never quiet-- but it was subdued. The cause wasn't a sorrowful occasion, or respect, or even bad weather, it was a rare event behind the Gates. It was a Running of the Gauntlet. They hadn't been popular since General Coy had been in charge on the island. The Running of the Gauntlet was saved for the worst offenders, the people whose continued existence had become so offensive to the rulers of Madripoor that their deaths had to be public, humiliating, and without honour. Sixty feet tall and twelve feet thick, the Gates were a pair of walls that ran across the breadth of Madripoor, dividing Hightown from Lowtown and keeping the riffraff from associating with the more successful criminals. They were situated two hundred feet apart from each other, and capped at each end by sloping retaining walls, studded with blades and spires. These last were too dull in colour to glint. They had been liberally smeared with feces, garlic, and trash, which was poured down the sides of the caps frequently. The area between the Gates was a deathground, a nightmare of razor wire and caltrops. Gun emplacements studded the interior of the Gates, some twenty feet up. The buttresses looked smooth, but their surfaces shone eerily in the floodlights. That effect was due to the glass shards that studded their sides. Into this hazardous environment, a number of men and women who wore Hydra uniforms were lowered on wires. As they touched down, the wires went slack, leaving the group to try to catch their feet before stumbling into something sharp. The crowd assembled on top of the Gates cheered. Jutting out along one wall was a box fashioned of plexiglass of bulletproof thickness. The sides were scuffed and scratched, but the bottom of the box was clear. The box was large enough to seat six comfortably. It was attached to the wall via runners, and could be made to move, pacing the contestants as they picked their way through the course. "What is this?" asked a distinguished-looking Japanese man of middle years. This man was sitting in the box with two other people. One was a guard, a large man wielding a gauss rifle. He did not bother looking at the spectacle, instead appearing as if he were unable to see anything. The other was Viper, whose green hair had been liberally brushed with sparkles that evening. "What do you mean?" she asked. "This is another one of your barbaric demonstrations; that much is clear." the man replied. "What I'm wondering is, what are a bunch of people wearing Hydra uniforms doing down there?" "They are wearing Hydra uniforms because they are Hydra agents." Viper said in a satisfied tone. "And they are down there because they are going to run the Gauntlet for our pleasure this evening." The man frowned. "Your pleasure, madame, not mine." "My, my, Joshi. Aren't we getting frisky this evening?" Viper said. "Perhaps we our feeling our oats? Don't you like my little show?" "You know that I don't." he replied. "Mmmm. Perhaps it's a reminder of what happens to people who exercise my patience too much. Or abuse my ear too often." Joshi stood up from his seat and began pacing. "This is ludicrous. There must be thirty men and women down there! That's got to be close to your entire complement here!" Viper smiled. "It is." She gave the guard a reassuring look when she saw that he had been tightening his hands on the rifle. "So we're defenseless." Joshi said. "That's what you're saying." "Hardly. I couldn't very well disarm them and throw them into the Gates if I had no manpower, could I?" she said. "The difference is, I prefer a more local flavour to my guard. These costumed, mask-wearing types make me wonder if they have something to hide." "The Supreme Hydra's going to skin you alive for this." Joshi said. "He can't let this go! If I decimated my crew because they displeased me, I'd be executed by my government." "Unless your friends, the Russians, bailed you out." she purred. He waved his hands angrily. "That doesn't change my point. You scared me before, Viper, because you were ruthless. Now, you're scaring me because you seem to be crazy!" Viper smiled. "I'm not afraid of the Supreme Hydra." "You were..." he started. He shook his head. "I was... scared enough of him to allow these troops on Madripoor in the first place? Let's just say that I respected his authority. Things have changed. He's on the way out, and I'm on my way in." Joshi looked startled. "What do you mean?" "By tomorrow night, the Supreme Hydra will be dead." Viper replied. "Now, enjoy the show." The Japanese naval officer shook his head. "That's... they're not doing anything. They're not moving." "Look behind you." the guard said. It was hard to tell who was more startled, Viper or the captain. The guard was not one for speech. Nevertheless, they both turned. A large crate was being lowered by crane, with four wires bearing the load and a fifth, attached to a sliding lid, was slack. "What's in there?" Joshi asked in a subdued tone. "Starving rats." the guard replied, matter-of-factly. Some of the Hydra staff in the Gauntlet must have guessed that it was something of the sort, for they started picking their way carefully through the maze of wire and caltrops, headed toward the colosseum within the Gates known as the Pit. "The rats", Viper said with relish, "are two small to be in any danger from the caltrops, though naturally they must still be leery of the razor wire." She flashed an uncommonly pretty grin. "Rats will turn cannibal if they must, but they have a sense of community, and prefer to eat outside their own species if possible. These rats are very, very hungry." Joshi swallowed. "Sooner rather than later, one of the people down there will be bitten. Or someone will step on a caltrop or run into the wire, and start to bleed. Or a rat will. The scent will drive the whole pack of them into a frenzy. They will attack with their tiny, painful bites, and the people will want to hurry, and that will drive them too quickly across the caltrops and wire, injuring them further and inspiring the rats to greater boldness." "What did these people do to you?" he asked. "They serve the Supreme Hydra." she said. "Wouldn't it have been wise to wait until tomorrow to do this, when he's dead?" Joshi demanded. "This is blatant provocation. It'll tell everyone that you knew that he was on his way out." "By tomorrow night, no one will dare cross me. I will be the second most powerful person in Hydra, a state of affairs that, I assure you, will soon sort itself out." she said smugly. "Second place is not my style." The natural curve of the floor, as it turned out, served as a magnifying lens. Even though the box was twenty feet above the ground, Joshi could make out individual rats as they boiled out of the box. He tried not to be sick. "You would kill people like this because they take orders from their boss?" Joshi said. "That's disgusting. You're not loyal to Hydra at all." She laughed. "Loyalty is a leash, best saved for dogs and men." He stomped over to her. "This is horrible! I can't believe that anyone would actually do this! You have to save them. They would serve you as loyally as they did the Supreme Hydra! They're soldiers." he pleaded angrily. "They take orders." "'A soldier is a dead man.'" she quoted. "'He has merely to walk a ways before he finds his place of rest.'" He shuddered violently and spat in her face, raised a hand to strike her. Viper didn't flinch. She heard the sound of the gauss rifle being armed. She merely wiped her face, and looked him in the furious, frightened eye. He still stood there, arm raised to strike her, but the sight of the rifle had robbed him of his courage. "You might prefer to join them." she said, and pressed a stud on the armrest of her chair. A cunningly concealed trapdoor dropped open a few feet away. The sounds of the outside world stole into the chamber. The crowd cheered and jeered in a dozen languages, melting into each other like a meeting at the Tower of Babel. Some of the people below were screaming, too. No doubt they were too far up to hear whimpers. The smell was even worse. Joshi's nostrils contracted, trying to block out the midden stench, the waft of rust. He stared at the rifle, stole glances at the empty space. He looked her in the eye, and she smiled at him. "Viper." the guard said. "Yes?" "The crowd is peeling off of the top of the wall. Something must be happening." She cursed. "Keep your eye on the ball." she said, and got up from her chair to regard the crowd. "What are they up to?" The guard shifted his foot slightly, striking the lever that activated the brakes on the slowly sliding box. Viper stumbled slightly backward, off balance, and into the arms of Joshi. He clamped down on her with an iron grip, pinioning her arms to her sides. She wrenched back and forth violently, trying to break his hold, but he was too strong. It wouldn't give. "For fuck's sake, shoot the stupid son of a bitch!" she shouted at the guard. "He's unarmed!" The guard lowered his rifle. "What the fuck are you doing, you moron!" she shrieked. "Shoot him!" "Drop her through the hole." the guard said. "Yes, sir." Joshi replied. "What? What? What the hell is this?" she asked desperately. Her eyes bulged. "'The most fertile ground for treachery is fear.'" the guard quoted. "The rats will be between you and the Pit, assuming you survive the fall." Joshi dropped her. Viper managed to grab the edges of the trap door, clinging to life, but he ground his heel into her fingers. "I decided yesterday that I'd rather serve Hydra than serve you." Joshi said. "Hail Hydra, that is immortal." He watched her fall. "Too bad you aren't." he said. -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 7/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** Evening. The air was sweet, which was unusual. It meant that the wind wasn't coming off of the harbour, where a garbage scow that looked old enough to have seen action in the second War was permanently moored. It had never been observed to move, yet its load seemed to fluctuate. The scow was a source of many urban legends. One such related that an entire family lived in tunnels underneath the garbage, where they lived in stinking obscurity, venturing out only rarely and then at night. The scow provided for all of their needs. Some of the denizens of Madripoor, the island whose harbour the scow inhabited, claimed to have met various members of the family. The legend even supplied them with names. There were humans buried within the garbage of the scow that night. Their needs were few. They wore green uniforms, with crests on them depicting a wolfshead. The costumes would have been handsome, if they weren't so full of bullet holes. Lowtown wasn't exactly quiet that night-- it was never quiet-- but it was subdued. The cause wasn't a sorrowful occasion, or respect, or even bad weather, it was a rare event behind the Gates. It was a Running of the Gauntlet. They hadn't been popular since General Coy had been in charge on the island. The Running of the Gauntlet was saved for the worst offenders, the people whose continued existence had become so offensive to the rulers of Madripoor that their deaths had to be public, humiliating, and without honour. Sixty feet tall and twelve feet thick, the Gates were a pair of walls that ran across the breadth of Madripoor, dividing Hightown from Lowtown and keeping the riffraff from associating with the more successful criminals. They were situated two hundred feet apart from each other, and capped at each end by sloping retaining walls, studded with blades and spires. These last were too dull in colour to glint. They had been liberally smeared with feces, garlic, and trash, which was poured down the sides of the caps frequently. The area between the Gates was a deathground, a nightmare of razor wire and caltrops. Gun emplacements studded the interior of the Gates, some twenty feet up. The buttresses looked smooth, but their surfaces shone eerily in the floodlights. That effect was due to the glass shards that studded their sides. Into this hazardous environment, a number of men and women who wore Hydra uniforms were lowered on wires. As they touched down, the wires went slack, leaving the group to try to catch their feet before stumbling into something sharp. The crowd assembled on top of the Gates cheered. Jutting out along one wall was a box fashioned of plexiglass of bulletproof thickness. The sides were scuffed and scratched, but the bottom of the box was clear. The box was large enough to seat six comfortably. It was attached to the wall via runners, and could be made to move, pacing the contestants as they picked their way through the course. "What is this?" asked a distinguished-looking Japanese man of middle years. This man was sitting in the box with two other people. One was a guard, a large man wielding a gauss rifle. He did not bother looking at the spectacle, instead appearing as if he were unable to see anything. The other was Viper, whose green hair had been liberally brushed with sparkles that evening. "What do you mean?" she asked. "This is another one of your barbaric demonstrations; that much is clear." the man replied. "What I'm wondering is, what are a bunch of people wearing Hydra uniforms doing down there?" "They are wearing Hydra uniforms because they are Hydra agents." Viper said in a satisfied tone. "And they are down there because they are going to run the Gauntlet for our pleasure this evening." The man frowned. "Your pleasure, madame, not mine." "My, my, Joshi. Aren't we getting frisky this evening?" Viper said. "Perhaps we our feeling our oats? Don't you like my little show?" "You know that I don't." he replied. "Mmmm. Perhaps it's a reminder of what happens to people who exercise my patience too much. Or abuse my ear too often." Joshi stood up from his seat and began pacing. "This is ludicrous. There must be thirty men and women down there! That's got to be close to your entire complement here!" Viper smiled. "It is." She gave the guard a reassuring look when she saw that he had been tightening his hands on the rifle. "So we're defenseless." Joshi said. "That's what you're saying." "Hardly. I couldn't very well disarm them and throw them into the Gates if I had no manpower, could I?" she said. "The difference is, I prefer a more local flavour to my guard. These costumed, mask-wearing types make me wonder if they have something to hide." "The Supreme Hydra's going to skin you alive for this." Joshi said. "He can't let this go! If I decimated my crew because they displeased me, I'd be executed by my government." "Unless your friends, the Russians, bailed you out." she purred. He waved his hands angrily. "That doesn't change my point. You scared me before, Viper, because you were ruthless. Now, you're scaring me because you seem to be crazy!" Viper smiled. "I'm not afraid of the Supreme Hydra." "You were..." he started. He shook his head. "I was... scared enough of him to allow these troops on Madripoor in the first place? Let's just say that I respected his authority. Things have changed. He's on the way out, and I'm on my way in." Joshi looked startled. "What do you mean?" "By tomorrow night, the Supreme Hydra will be dead." Viper replied. "Now, enjoy the show." The Japanese naval officer shook his head. "That's... they're not doing anything. They're not moving." "Look behind you." the guard said. It was hard to tell who was more startled, Viper or the captain. The guard was not one for speech. Nevertheless, they both turned. A large crate was being lowered by crane, with four wires bearing the load and a fifth, attached to a sliding lid, was slack. "What's in there?" Joshi asked in a subdued tone. "Starving rats." the guard replied, matter-of-factly. Some of the Hydra staff in the Gauntlet must have guessed that it was something of the sort, for they started picking their way carefully through the maze of wire and caltrops, headed toward the colosseum within the Gates known as the Pit. "The rats", Viper said with relish, "are two small to be in any danger from the caltrops, though naturally they must still be leery of the razor wire." She flashed an uncommonly pretty grin. "Rats will turn cannibal if they must, but they have a sense of community, and prefer to eat outside their own species if possible. These rats are very, very hungry." Joshi swallowed. "Sooner rather than later, one of the people down there will be bitten. Or someone will step on a caltrop or run into the wire, and start to bleed. Or a rat will. The scent will drive the whole pack of them into a frenzy. They will attack with their tiny, painful bites, and the people will want to hurry, and that will drive them too quickly across the caltrops and wire, injuring them further and inspiring the rats to greater boldness." "What did these people do to you?" he asked. "They serve the Supreme Hydra." she said. "Wouldn't it have been wise to wait until tomorrow to do this, when he's dead?" Joshi demanded. "This is blatant provocation. It'll tell everyone that you knew that he was on his way out." "By tomorrow night, no one will dare cross me. I will be the second most powerful person in Hydra, a state of affairs that, I assure you, will soon sort itself out." she said smugly. "Second place is not my style." The natural curve of the floor, as it turned out, served as a magnifying lens. Even though the box was twenty feet above the ground, Joshi could make out individual rats as they boiled out of the box. He tried not to be sick. "You would kill people like this because they take orders from their boss?" Joshi said. "That's disgusting. You're not loyal to Hydra at all." She laughed. "Loyalty is a leash, best saved for dogs and men." He stomped over to her. "This is horrible! I can't believe that anyone would actually do this! You have to save them. They would serve you as loyally as they did the Supreme Hydra! They're soldiers." he pleaded angrily. "They take orders." "'A soldier is a dead man.'" she quoted. "'He has merely to walk a ways before he finds his place of rest.'" He shuddered violently and spat in her face, raised a hand to strike her. Viper didn't flinch. She heard the sound of the gauss rifle being armed. She merely wiped her face, and looked him in the furious, frightened eye. He still stood there, arm raised to strike her, but the sight of the rifle had robbed him of his courage. "You might prefer to join them." she said, and pressed a stud on the armrest of her chair. A cunningly concealed trapdoor dropped open a few feet away. The sounds of the outside world stole into the chamber. The crowd cheered and jeered in a dozen languages, melting into each other like a meeting at the Tower of Babel. Some of the people below were screaming, too. No doubt they were too far up to hear whimpers. The smell was even worse. Joshi's nostrils contracted, trying to block out the midden stench, the waft of rust. He stared at the rifle, stole glances at the empty space. He looked her in the eye, and she smiled at him. "Viper." the guard said. "Yes?" "The crowd is peeling off of the top of the wall. Something must be happening." She cursed. "Keep your eye on the ball." she said, and got up from her chair to regard the crowd. "What are they up to?" The guard shifted his foot slightly, striking the lever that activated the brakes on the slowly sliding box. Viper stumbled slightly backward, off balance, and into the arms of Joshi. He clamped down on her with an iron grip, pinioning her arms to her sides. She wrenched back and forth violently, trying to break his hold, but he was too strong. It wouldn't give. "For fuck's sake, shoot the stupid son of a bitch!" she shouted at the guard. "He's unarmed!" The guard lowered his rifle. "What the fuck are you doing, you moron!" she shrieked. "Shoot him!" "Drop her through the hole." the guard said. "Yes, sir." Joshi replied. "What? What? What the hell is this?" she asked desperately. Her eyes bulged. "'The most fertile ground for treachery is fear.'" the guard quoted. "The rats will be between you and the Pit, assuming you survive the fall." Joshi dropped her. Viper managed to grab the edges of the trap door, clinging to life, but he ground his heel into her fingers. "I decided yesterday that I'd rather serve Hydra than serve you." Joshi said. "Hail Hydra, that is immortal." He watched her fall. "Too bad you aren't." he said. "This had better be some kind of sick joke." St. John Allerdyce said to Raven Darkholme as he walked into the kitchen. She was seated at the kitchen table, drawing up a plan of attack for the maneuver against Senator Kelly. Around her sat Dominic Petros, Mortimer Toynbee, Fred J. Dukes, and most ominously, the newest member of the Brotherhood of Mutants, Victor Creed. Avalanche, Toad, the Blob, and Sabretooth. "It's not." she said. "You can't do this." "I have to." "This" he yelled, abandoning composure, "of everything you've ever done, is evil! Twisting the Legacy virus to infect normal humans? What's happening to us?" "You know that offing Kelly is only the first blow." the Toad said. "This is a war. The new Legacy's our genetic tac nuke." "So you knew about this?" John demanded incredulously. "I expected this of Sabretooth, maybe, but not you! How many of you know about this?" None of them would meet his eye, except for Creed, not even the Blob. Creed smiled slowly. "All of you! Bloody everybody except me! And it's not a case of, 'don't tell Pyro, he has a conscience', it's 'don't tell Pyro, he's touchy about his disease'!" "This is necessary, John." she pleaded. "This is for Irene." "When did Irene ever condone slaughter?" he demanded. "When? I never heard it!" Flames began to lick at his skin. He ignored the pain. "This is a clear-cut case of us or them, John, and I'm here to make sure that it's us. That's what we're all here for. Don't you want to get your own back against the flatscans?" "Yes! But not like this!" "What kind of funding does Legacy research get?" the Toad interjected. "None, and it's because it's a mutant disease. You can bet that the dollars will be put into it after this." "I don't want any human being to catch this damn disease." Pyro said. "Not a flatscan, not anybody." "Ain't that sweet." Creed said. "Shut up, Victor. John, please. Listen. Listen!" "You did this, knowing it was evil, knowing how I would feel about it, and you weren't honest enough to tell me." Pyro accused. "It's a necessary evil, John. They've got the numbers, the wealth, the military machine. We've got biology. That's it. And don't think that there won't be infighting on our side, either. Xavier will try to stop us. Magneto will roll right over us if he thinks we're in his way. We need our own weapon, and one that can't be turned back against us." "Mystique." Pyro said. "You can't use this weapon. I won't let you do it. I'll do everything I can to stop you, in fact. "You know I mean it." "I don't care if you mean it or not." Creed said, standing up. "Victor, sit down!" she said. "Shut your yap, Raven. You're wrong on this one." He cracked his knuckles and pointed a finger at John. "Lissen up, Pyro, I don't give a shit if this virus is rainin' on your parade. You don't mean much t' me one way or the other. This is a good plan, though, and I'll be damned if I let a little puke like you fuck around with it. Shut your hole and siddown." Pyro's body burst into flame. "Don't tempt me, Sabretooth. I'll char the flesh off your bones." "John..." "I said shut your yap. Let me handle this." Sabretooth said. "You sit down or I'll cut off your testicles." she hissed. "Haw! That's tellin' him, Mystique." the Blob said. Creed's claws flashed out and made furrows in the Blob's face, until they gently came to rest under his eyes, the sharp tips between lid and eye. "Care t' repeat that, tubby?" Pyro turned and ran, leaping over the couch and smashing through the door, which came alight, as an afterthought, on the porch. He ran into the street. No one at the table had dared to move, still staring at the standoff between Sabretooth and the Blob. "I blink and yer claws break." the Blob ventured. Creed snorted. "You blink, your lids push my claws into your eyes until they pop and squirt juice, and then my claws break. And then I grow 'em back." Mystique pulled out a gun. "I shoot the two of you with this, and you live out the rest of your lives as flatscans." Creed took two steps back. "He's stupid, an' he can't fight worth a damn. He's a liability." "Your treacherous and temperamental nature has you more than halfway there, too." she replied. "Where'd you get that gun?" Sabretooth asked warily. "You're satisfied it's the gun?" she asked. "I seen it before." he said. "I know that damn gun. Point it the fuck at someone else. That gun won't stop me from rippin' you up." "You let Pyro get away." she said. "I should shoot you right now." "Do it", he said, "and it's as much as your life's worth, frail. Trust me." She lowered the gun. "We'll settle this later. Until then, let's work on the plan." "What are you going to do about Pyro?" Avalanche asked. "We will complete this job, one way or another." she said grimly. "Even if it means the death of my dearest friend." "'Ro, darlin', could you get my phone out o' the saddlebag? It's ringin'." Logan said over his shoulder. The two of them were riding a new motorcycle that he had purchased in Winnipeg, which had turned out to be the nearest major city when they'd recovered from Viper's ambush.* They had just entered the United States an hour ago, across the Niagara peninsula, and planned to be home in short order. Ororo obligingly disengaged one of her arms from his waist and pulled the phone out of the saddlebag. "Hello?" "Storm, is that you?" a familiar voice said. "Yes, Nathan. Why are you calling??" she replied. "Bishop and I have been waiting for you to show up for a while now. I haven't been able to raise Logan's cel through the exchange at the mansion, so I had to wait until you were in range." Cable said. "We're acting as bodyguards for Senator Kelly, and we need you two as back-up and extraction." "Ask him he's at." Logan said over his shoulder. "We'll drive straight there." "Nathan, where are you?" she asked. "We're in D.C., at the Libertarian Party HQ. Hightail it, would you? The natives are getting restless, and we really need some help. The Prof suspects that Mystique is getting in on the act again." "Where is everyone else?" "We've got Rogue. Everyone else is on Magneto watch. He's been rattling his sabre in Wakanda's direction." "T'Challa may need our help", she said, "but if he wants it, he will ask. That is his way. Who determined the division of labour?" "Charles, as far as I know." Cable replied. "You and I don't make policy, Ororo. We just carry it out. We both passed those hats over. No regrets." She smiled sardonically. "A hollow phrase." "I think Gambit would give up the seat in a New York minute if you asked for it." "Likely." "I just wish that Charles hadn't stapled my foot to the floor like this. I'd rather be out looking for her than sitting here waiting. She has to know we're here." "Chuck shouldn't be makin' field decisions like that, least of all from an armchair." Logan said. "Thing is, I don't think Gambit and Rogue have got the stones to tell him what's what. Not bein' new to their jobs and all." "We should have been around to guide them." Ororo said. "They might have called us. I wonder why the mansion exchange is out." "What was that?" Cable asked. "Never mind, Nathan. We will arrive as soon as possible." She hung up and replaced the phone in the saddlebag. "He might also have had t' make some decisions that would normally be made by field leaders, 'cause they don't have the confidence, yet." Ororo frowned. "I do not think that such is the case with Gambit. He has enough confidence in his abilities for any two men. His distaste for leadership comes from an aversion to responsibility, I think." "Rogue ain't hit her stride yet. I've been backin' her, but you know how it is." She smiled. "Only too well." "You'll have t' direct me, darlin'. I don't know where this place is. Once we're in D.C., I'm screwed." "Damn it!" Silver Fox fumed, slamming down the telephone. "Somebody has that phone, and somebody is busy on it." "Ma'am?" a Hydra agent asked. "I'm trying to raise an agent on his cellular phone. I was with him when he lost it a few days ago, but he may have retrieved it. I have a vital message for him." she said. "Give me the number, ma'am." the agent said. "I can keep trying to raise him until he answers." Fox gave the agent a penetrating stare. "This is very important. If you betray me, or screw this up, your career is going to be drawn up short." The agent swallowed. "Here is the number." Fox said, writing it down on a scrap of paper. "Don't make a copy, and destroy it once you've raised him." "Yes, ma'am." "All you have to do is identify that you have a message from me. The first phrase after that is, 'You're being hunted again. First on Shiva's list. Number one with a bullet.' That will let him know that the message is legitimate. Are you writing this down?" The agent gulped and pulled out a pencil, scribbling the phrase on the scrap of paper that Fox had given her. "The second phrase is 'The hunter is the daughter of the White Ghost.' That is all you need to say. Do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am." "What is your name?" Fox asked. "Janice." the agent supplied. "And what would you like as a reward, Janice? This is probably the most important thing you will ever do for Hydra." "A transfer to the boondocks." Janice said. "Please. Alberta. I had a trucking job there." "Consider it done-- once the message is delivered. You'll have your transfer papers by the end of the day if you succeed. Use your private phone. The first four digits of that number I gave you are today's scrambling code." Janice grinned under her uniform and headed for her room. * As told in "My Hands Are Of Your Colour" -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 8/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** Vendetta felt the hate bleeding out of her, the surest sign that either her employer or her victims were dead. She walked over to the bodies of Andrea and Andreas Strucker, stripping off her Hydra mask as she did so. Yes, there was no mistake. Fenris had been slain. The first part of her contract was complete. The only remaining mark was Logan. She could feel him more clearly, now that the contract on Fenris wasn't in her head to interfere. He was north of her, coming closer but not approaching directly. He was moving at a fair clip, so it would soon be necessary to secure her vehicle. Fortunately, she had been supplied with one: a restored Harley-Davidson that Viper had given her when she made the arrangements for the parking garage and the guard. She wondered idly what had happened to the rest of the guard. One of her assistants peeked from around one of the pillars, shaken but not harmed. "Are they dead?" he asked. "Yes. The money has been wired to your account." she replied. "How do I know that?" he demanded, stroking his automatic rifle. She gave him an expressionless stare. He made a show of priming the weapon, and pointed it at her. "I said, how do I know that?" "If you make this a matter of you or me", she said, "you'll never find out one way or the other." He glared at her. His finger caressed the trigger. "You thre..." *Bdam* She sighed. His next of kin would probably wonder where he'd gotten the money. The next target, if it was truly the man she thought it was, could not be pulled down by strength of numbers or even bullets, if the stories were true. Any subcontractors she retained would only get in the way. Logan. He was the man who'd killed her Da. She'd trained for years, become one of the best assassins in the world. She'd built her legend, and her skills. All of that was pointed toward the day that she could accept a contract on his head. Once, she would have been unable to conceal her excitement when the woman asked her to kill him. Once. Years of contracts had so deadened her emotions that it was easy, now. Edina doubted that either woman had been aware that she was familiar with the target. In fact, she'd sat in on some of the scenarios that her Da had designed to soften him up, to weaken him enough that a sixty year old prince of murderers could kill him. Angus McLeish had killed Logan's friends, set boobytraps, hired babyfaced hitmen to soften him up. Left mercenaries on the road with adamantium bullets. All of those things were designed to overload Logan's healing abilities, to prey on his mind, so that he could be fought on close to even terms. At the end of the day, she had cradled her father's cooling head in her lap and cried. He'd died without a mark on him, by the looks of things, though it was hard to tell because the body had been burnt so badly. There was no sign of restraints, so it seemed unlikely that he'd been burned alive, but it was possible. More likely, it had been his weak heart. She swore vengeance that day against Logan, but she still didn't hate him. Her vendetta against him was a weak, listless, colourless thing. Even now, she hated him for the wrong reasons. It would have to be enough. Heightened senses. Superhuman healing. Nigh-inhuman skill in hand-to-hand combat. Adamantium skeleton and retractible claws. Even with her powers, victory was far from certain. She would need an edge. The phone rang at the mansion, twice. It was picked up. "Is this the Pritchard Orchard?" a female voice asked. "Yes." a man responded. "What can I do for you?" "It's Raven." the woman said. "I called to tell you about a complication. Pyro has found out about the virus, and he's bugged out. He could tell your friends." "He probably will." the man replied. "I'll see if I can intercept him. If he tells me, I'll try to convince him that I'll pass it along to the Professor." "But you won't." Mystique said. "Of course not." he replied. "I also have a possible complication for you. One call got through the exchange yesterday to Logan, before I could shut it down. I don't think it was connected for more than a second, though. He may have hung up." "Good." "The danger is that he'll be in New York territory pretty soon, and then I have no more stalling tactics." "Your help so far has been invaluable." Mystique said. "Where did you get the equipment?" "My company has been reverse-engineering Forge's designs for a number of years now. The gun I sent you is a production model with a few alterations. You'll only get a few shots out of it before its safety triggers, and the components melt into slag. Five shots, to be exact. If you try to tamper with the gun, the same thing will happen." "Not very trusting of you." she said. "You'd need Forge to remove the autosafeties or duplicate the design. I don't want you running around with that weapon a month from now. Use it if you must, but remember the limit. I assume you've already tested it." "How are you avoiding the attentions of the resident telepaths?" Raven asked, ignoring his comment. "Psylocke has lost her telepathy, Jean is non-resident, and Charles is too busy with events in Genosha to pay attention to the contents of his students' minds." "Perfect." she said. "The plan is safe, then. One thing I don't understand, though, is why you're helping me. I would never have expected one of Xavier's brood to do any such thing." "Let's just say that I'm sick of the dream. It's never done anything for me. The world's finally brought me around to your way of thinking." "Then you agree. A war between mutants and flatscans is inevitable." "Good night, Raven." he said, and hung up the phone. The room was silent for a moment. Then: "War. If only you knew, Mystique. Only the fittest will survive this war." A few minutes later, when they had just pulled onto the highway, Logan's telephone started ringing again. "Could you get that, 'Ro?" "Of course." she said, pulling out the telephone. "Hello?" "Is this your telephone?" a woman's scratchy alto voice asked. "No. It belongs to..." "Don't tell me!" the woman said. "I don't wanna know the name. Could you just give him the phone? Is he there?" "He can hear you." Ororo said. "Perfect. I was told to say to him, you're being hunted again. First on Shiva's list. Number one with a bullet." "Did you get that, Logan?" Ororo asked. "Yeah, I got it. Shit." "That's not the whole thing. The second half is, the hunter is the daughter of the White Ghost. You understand?" Ororo paused. "I get it." Logan said. "Hold the phone t' my ear, 'Ro." She did so. "This is Wolverine." he said into the phone. "You heard o' me?" "Yes." the woman squeaked. "Tell your boss that if she wants me t' believe anything that comes out o' her mouth, she'd better come tell me in person. I'll be at the Libertarian Party HQ in Washington in a couple hours. You got that?" "Yes." "Good." Logan said. "If she hurts you for passin' this message along, I'll lay a world o' hurt on her in return. You believe me?" "Yes." "Good. Do it." he said, and nodded to Ororo. She took the phone and hung up. "What was that about, Logan?" "Same old story." he said. "Number one reason not to kill even the worst jokers out there is that their family comes huntin'." She rested her head on his shoulder. "An' I can't say she's wrong to do it. Her Dad killed one o' mine, and I messed him up for it. Made his life a livin' hell, and when he came knockin' for revenge, I killed him. She's after me for the same reason that I was after her Dad in the first place." "What will you do?" she asked. "Try to reason with her, if I can. Fight her, if I have to. Kill her, if she makes me do it." he said heavily. "Hopefully, she ain't good enough to be a physical threat, or crazy enough to threaten bystanders if she catches up to me in public." "You believe Silver Fox, then." Storm said. "Maybe. Either she hates me, and she's playin' a game on me, or she's just playin' a game with that little display o' hers back in Canada. I gotta admit, I'd like to know what's in her mind." he said. "I am sorry about the message she left you." she offered.* Logan grunted. "Water under the bridge, darlin'. She can repeat it when we see her in Washington." The crowd was not yet seated, instead gathering in clumps. Most of them would be innocent ones. One of them, likely, would not be. Bishop made his way through the crowd at the Libertarian Party HQ, glancing this way and that to make out the one piece that didn't fit. He knew it was likely to be a fruitless exercise. Mystique often assassinated or kidnapped people scheduled to appear at such functions, and took their place days beforehand. The body and voice would be perfect. A consummate actor like Mystique was unlikely to give away obvious cues as far as body language and behaviour went. "Good evening, Senator." he boomed. The woman jumped. He chuckled as he walked on. That senator, at least, wasn't Mystique. He knew that it was unlikely that they would accomplish very much before she made her move. Then, they'd have to be quick to counter anything that she might attempt. He would have felt better if he were protecting Kelly's person, rather than Cable. Cable was better suited to walking through the crowd and sniffing out Mystique in any case. However, his arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Cable had agreed with him, provisionally, but it was true that Cable was marginally more skilled, hand-to-hand, and he could use his telekinesis to protect Kelly from any projectile weapons fire. He'd feel a lot more comfortable when Wolverine and Storm arrived. He expected Storm to take charge of the operation and arrange things more intelligently. Wolverine could free him up, and seek out Mystique, and Kelly would have double coverage. Getting the senator to accept Cable's presence on stage had been difficult. Bishop was still skeptical about the possibility that Kelly had had a change of heart. History didn't record any such thing. That wasn't the important thing, though. The important thing was that Senator Kelly could not be assassinated. So far, he was behind on votes, but it was very close. It might be almost as bad if he took office. Nevertheless, in this case, Bishop wasn't about to accept the devil he knew. "Up your six." a voice said. "Wolverine." Bishop said without turning around. "I am grateful that you have finally arrived. This will make the operation considerably easier." "Just got here." Logan said. "What a pain in the ass this is. Brief me." Bishop shook his head. "Not in this crowd. Let's go to the restrooms. Where is Ororo?" "Talkin' t' Cable." Logan replied. The two of them headed over to the restroom. Bishop made one final visual sweep of the room before following Wolverine inside. He didn't expect Logan to sheath claws in his stomach. Bishop coughed, tried to get a grip on the little man, but he found that his limbs felt heavy. "Mm-M" he said. "Mystique?" Logan asked. And shifted form, growing until he resembled Bishop himself. "You let your guard down, Bishop." Mystique said. "Not what I expected of you. That's curare on the claws, incidentally. Probably enough to kill you, but maybe not. I hope not. I had to be sure that you'd stay out for the duration, though." "Nothing personal." Mystique said in Bishop's own stentorious voice. He was hoisted onto her broad shoulder, deposited onto a toilet in a stall. He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. She pulled an image inducer out of her pocket and attached it to the inside of the stall, activated it. The bathroom was now covered in a seething mess of feces and reddish water. He resembled a sick vagrant. "Night." she said. He wondered, as she left, why she was wearing an earring. He hoped that Cable would notice. "...and he said that if you expected him to believe you, ma'am, that you should appear in person." Janice said. Silver Fox nodded calmly. "Fine. He'll take the warning seriously. I can go after the meeting. Where did he say that he would be, and when?" "He said that he would be at the Libertarian Party headquarters in Washington D.C., ma'am." Fox stopped. "What? Are you sure?" "Yes, ma'am." "Shit. I can't believe this! Did he give a time frame?" "A few hours, ma'am." "God damn it!" she fumed. She paced back and forth, fingering the pistol at her belt. "If I thought that she could... damn it!" "Ma'am?" Fox looked up, saw the stricken look on Janice's face. "Get out of here. Here are your papers. Go to the frigging boonies, today." She pulled a sheaf of paper out of her pocket, shoved it at the woman. Janice gratefully ran down the corridor. Silver Fox ran the other way, jumping over and dodging around various surprised personnel in order to save every second she could. She dashed around a corner and smashed into the Supreme Hydra, bowling him over. "What the hell is this?" he demanded. "Simmonds." she said. "Can't stop for long. Situation developing in Washington. Fenris is dead. Viper got ambitious, tried to get you in the package, too. She wants you dead." He glared up at her. "I know. One of my new people in Madripoor found that out last night." She nodded. "Present the results to the assembly. Hang her out to dry. She's the perfect patsy for Fenris. She was the one who took out their guard." He sneered. "And you had nothing to do with the plot against me." "I'm behind you, Simmonds. In more ways than one. String me up in front of the assembly and I'll gift wrap you and give you to Arnim Zola." She resumed her dash down the hallway. "Ladies and gentlemen, the polls are officially closed. We still have yet to hear from Arizona, California, Oregon, and Nevada, but right now we are out in the lead! Results should be in momentarily." Wolverine drove the motorcycle straight into a hedge and jumped up and over it. He hit the ground rolling on the other side and came to his feet, dashed across the lawn. They should have abandoned the bike earlier and flown. He heard, rather than saw, Ororo coming to a soft landing atop the community centre. Security officers at the door visible braced themselves as they saw him running towards them. He skidded to a halt in their arms. "Jim Logan! Nassau County sheriff's department." he said, pulling out his badge. "Been chasing a pack of nutcases all the way from New York. Huge fat guy come in here with a couple o' shorter, skinnier types? Maybe they're caterers or some shit?" "That sounds like some of the new security guards." one of the men frowned. "Mr. Carson let them in." "He a great big old white guy or a great big black guy?" "That's right. Big Afro-American type. Monster." "Fuck!" Logan said. "You guys didn't do enough of a background check on that guy to know he's got a twin brother?" A guard gave him a funny look. "You serious?" "Let's one o' you guys come with me. Other guy should pull out arms and not let anybody in or out. Get me?" "Got it!" the guard said. He gestured to the other man to follow Logan inside. "You keep an eye out for those new guards. Pull your weapon, back off, and start yellin' real loud if you see 'em. I'm goin' t' put the kibosh on our counterfeit Mr. Carson." Logan said as they rushed along the corridor. "Ladies and gentlemen, the unofficial tally is in, and it has Robert Kelly winning by a margin of 2,455 votes. Ladies and gentlemen, the next president of these United States, Robert Kelly!" Cable clenched up, casting his eyes around the room one more time. No sign of Logan. His psi-scans had turned up nothing. None of Kelly's trusted advisors or the press corp had been replaced by Mystique, seemingly. Everyone stood in ovation to Kelly, which nicely concealed any weapons that they might have been pulling out. Son of a bitch! His eyes met Bishop's, briefly. Bishop shook his head. No sign of Logan. Kelly stepped up to the podium, basking in the accolades, waiting for some of the furor to die down before he spoke. Cable resisted the temptation to step forward with him. The stage they were on didn't even have a hardpoint. It was made of scaffolding and stainless steel slats. No wall behind them for about twenty feet. Just a curtain. He opened his mind up to a maximum level of awareness. Someone was going to make a move. Then he and Bishop would do their best to keep Kelly alive until Rogue could come in for extraction. We wished that he could have kept in contact with Rogue himself, but he couldn't afford the distraction. Bishop was competent enough. "Well, we did it!" Kelly said to the jubilant crowd. Gut check, Raven. Cable's right there. Signal. The boys come in from the back, distract Cable. She takes him out with Forge's gun. They kill Kelly on national television, declare their intentions. Advertise their weapon. By morning, America would be at war with its mutants, but the mutants will have struck first. If there was one thing that life had taught her, it was hit first and hit hard. Irene would want this. Edina got off of her motorcycle and walked toward the front door of the building, falling back on rule number one of assassination: Act as if you belong. Logan was inside. She would fulfil the contract, and her Da would be avenged. The guard challenged her at the door. Strange. "I'm sorry, miss, at this time no one is allowed in or out of this building." "But, I left my purse inside." she said. "You don't understand, my date is a slime. He's probably stealing my rent money right now!" "Miss, at no time did you enter or leave this building this evening. You are not getting inside. Please leave, or I will telephone the police." She fell back on rule number two: create distractions, preferably in a quick and quiet manner. She sprayed him in the face with a small bottle she'd palmed earlier. He got a full dose, and clutched his face. He began to jerk violently, and he fell over, his limbs stiffening. She stepped over him just as foam started to bubble from between his lips. The nerve toxin wouldn't be fatal, and its symptoms resembled a grand mal seizure. Logan was somewhere inside. She would just need to find her edge there. Wolverine walked toward the open doors of the convention hall, where he could hear Kelly giving his victory speech. It would only be a few minutes before Kelly'd be called to the White House. Mystique could hit long before then. Hell, it was possible that she already had, and was up there giving the damn speech! The guards who stood at the doors were giving him unfriendly looks. Shit. "Hold it right there." one of them said, and pulled his firearm up a fraction in its hip holster. "Jim Logan." he said. "Nassau County..." He put up his hands as the guard whipped out the pistol and trained it on him. "What the hell is this? I'm a cop, damn it!" The other guard was speaking into his walkie-talkie. "Mr. Carson? We've apprehended the man you were looking for. He seems to be alone, sir." "Indeed." came Bishop's voice through the radio. "Hold him. This is the most sensitive portion of the evening. I cannot divert manpower to assist you." "Yes, sir." the guard said. "This is the kind o' mistake you don't come back from." Logan warned. "Shut up and grab the wall!" the first guard said. Wolverine clenched his fists and snarled. Edina got off of her motorcycle and walked toward the front door of the building, falling back on rule number one of assassination: Act as if you belong. Logan was inside. She would fulfil the contract, and her Da would be avenged. The guard challenged her at the door. Strange. "I'm sorry, miss, at this time no one is allowed in or out of this building." "But, I left my purse inside." she said. "You don't understand, my date is a slime. He's probably stealing my rent money right now!" "Miss, at no time did you enter or leave this building this evening. You are not getting inside. Please leave, or I will telephone the police." She fell back on rule number two: create distractions, preferably in a quick and quiet manner. She sprayed him in the face with a small bottle she'd palmed earlier. He got a full dose, and clutched his face. He began to jerk violently, and he fell over, his limbs stiffening. She stepped over him just as foam started to bubble from between his lips. The nerve toxin wouldn't be fatal, and its symptoms resembled a grand mal seizure. Logan was somewhere inside. She would just need to find her edge there. Wolverine walked toward the open doors of the convention hall, where he could hear Kelly giving his victory speech. It would only be a few minutes before Kelly'd be called to the White House. Mystique could hit long before then. Hell, it was possible that she already had, and was up there giving the damn speech! The guards who stood at the doors were giving him unfriendly looks. Shit. "Hold it right there." one of them said, and pulled his firearm up a fraction in its hip holster. "Jim Logan." he said. "Nassau County..." He put up his hands as the guard whipped out the pistol and trained it on him. "What the hell is this? I'm a cop, damn it!" The other guard was speaking into his walkie-talkie. "Mr. Carson? We've apprehended the man you were looking for. He seems to be alone, sir." "Indeed." came Bishop's voice through the radio. "Hold him. This is the most sensitive portion of the evening. I cannot divert manpower to assist you." "Yes, sir." the guard said. "This is the kind o' mistake you don't come back from." Logan warned. "Shut up and grab the wall!" the first guard said. Wolverine clenched his fists and snarled. Silver Fox stepped over the convulsing body of the guard. Not at all a good sign. The motorcycle sticking out of the hedge was as clear a calling card as Logan could leave without actually discarding beer cans. His other motorcycle, much abused, was here as well. That meant that either Viper or Vendetta was also here, and she was betting on Vendetta. All of that would mean nothing if Logan interfered in Raven's plan and she had to use her marker. Absolutely, that had to be avoided. A guard turned a corner and saw her as she entered the building. "Hold it right there!" he yelled. She just kept coming. "Last warning!" he yelled. She dropped her head and charged. * As told in "My Hands Are Of Your Colour" -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics Title: Vendetta 9/9 Author: John Duffin (po-@sharecom.ca) URL: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Summary: Some mistakes that Wolverine has made begin to catch up with him in this sequel to "My Hands Are Of Your Colour." An alternate vision of the Dream's End storyline. Disclaimer: The X-Men are the creative property of Marvel. I'm filching them for a few minutes, and plan to return them in much the same condition as I got them. No challenge of copyright is intended or implied, and this work is not for profit. ****************** Snikt. "Holy shit! He's a fuckin' mutie!" shouted the guard with the radio. Wolverine slashed at the barrel of the gun as the other guard raised it, knocking it out of his hand and notching it in two places. He followed through with a punch from the other hand that had adamantium behind it. *Ptchong* The other guard tried to pull his sidearm, but he still had the holster buttoned. Logan's claws relieved him of his gunbelt, which clattered to the floor, and he gave the man the same treatment as the first guard. Broken jaws, maybe some trouble hearing. Nothing permanent. Logan sheathed his claws and left two inert guards lying on the floor as he walked into the convention hall. Kelly was speaking. Everyone was standing, rapt, holding up those stupid signs. Logan could make out Cable standing on the stage, scanning the room with an intensity that betrayed his nerves. It could come at any time. He declined to announce himself to Cable, seeing as that would also alert Mystique. The one mistake she'd made was taking Bishop's shape. Not only was it instantly recognizable, but also tall. If she'd killed him, she'd pay. There she was. Scanning the room. She hadn't seen him yet, but it was only a matter of time. Best to get as close as he could, maybe try to end this quietly. He weaved through the crowd as gracefully as he was able, trying not to draw attention or leave a telltale wake of moving people. He was still about fifteen feet away when Mystique's gaze met his. Son of a bitch. He dropped the shoulder and started moving people. Too late. He could hear her shouting a signal into some sort of hidden mike. The shit was about to hit the fan. "Cable! Heads up!" he yelled. From behind the curtain, predictably, burst the Blob and Sabretooth, wearing security uniforms. "In case ya don't remember us, Kelly, we're the Brotherhood!" the Blob announced. From behind him, Toad leaped to the Blob's shoulders, then catapulted forward toward Kelly. Cable caught the Toad in mid-air and one-armed him back towards Creed, who backhanded the little man in flight and sent him sailing into the crowd. "Get onto the floor, sir!" Cable yelled. :Windrider, if you're there, we need some backup now!: His psimitar spun from concealment into his hand. He thrust it at the Blob, who didn't bother to dodge, simply increasing his mass until it could not possibly penetrate his hide. Thus, he fell into Cable's trap. The rather flimsy stage collapsed under the Blob's prodigious weight, leaving him hung up and surrounded by bent and torn girders. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to immobilize him. Wolverine tried to fight his way to Mystique, but she just bulled her way through the crowd in Bishop's shape, not caring if she trampled people. His heart sank when he recognized the gun in her hand. Avalanche moved through the curtain and pointed his hands at Cable. "Your arm is cybernetic! How do you like this?" he yelled triumphantly. His yell turned into a scream of pain, and his eyes rolled back into his head. "Actually, it's techno-organic, Petros, not cybernetic. I hear you have a lot of trouble using your powers on living matter." Cable replied. "Yap, yap, yap." Sabretooth said as he smashed his shoulder into Cable. He spun and followed through with a backhand across his opponent's neck, which had Cable seeing stars. "Pay attention to the main eventers, not the second raters." he said, kicking the psimitar from Cable's hands. The Blob chose that moment to smash free of the stage, shattering the remaining steel that made it up and dumping both Cable and Sabretooth unceremoniously to the floor. No one noticed a thin man spiriting Kelly towards the door. Or at least, no one other than Mystique did. "Hold it!" she yelled over the noise of the panicked crowd. She pointed her gun at Cable's head. "I fire this, and he loses his powers." Wolverine froze. "That'll kill him, Raven. His T-O virus will eat him alive." "I'm well aware of that, Wolverine." she said. "Tell your friend to stop, too, or I'll shoot him as well." The thin man stopped. "Keep moving, Senator." he said in sotto voice. "Bad advice." Sabretooth remarked, moving through the crowd. He grabbed Kelly by the collar and started dragging him towards Mystique. Suddenly, one of the crowd members standing behind Mystique knelt, and brought her arm sharply up between the man/woman's legs. Mystique gasped in pain, and was relieved of the gun by the same person. "Thanks!" said Wolverine, and started bulling his way toward Mystique. He only took three steps before the woman pointed the gun at him. The crowd moved inexorably towards the exit, but none of them moved between Wolverine and the gun. "Recognize me?" Vendetta asked him. "You're McLeish's little girl." Logan said gravely. "Don't look much like him." "I'm adopted." she said. "That doesn't matter. I'm here on contract to kill you, but I'll pull the trigger as a matter of vengeance. For what you've done to me, you deserve to die." "That little gun ain't gonna kill me." he said. "I don't need a gun to kill you." she replied. "I only need it to make sure that you won't be coming back from the dead." Nobody turned their heads when the doors slammed shut, pinning in most of the crowd, but they did hear the Toad chuckle. The crowd had gone quiet. "There are criminal elements in any minority." Kelly said to the camera, dangling from Creed's fist. "This is a perfect example--" He was punched in the stomach for his trouble. "Shut up." Creed said. "Yes, do." said Silver Fox, who had walked into the room, in full Hydra regalia, before the Toad had closed the doors. She pulled her pistol and fired at the camera. It shot sparks, went dead. "This is not what I had in mind, Raven." she said. "I had to improvise." Mystique replied angrily. "Vendetta." Silver Fox said, screwing up her courage. "Vendetta, I... withdraw my contract on Wolverine. You will not kill him for my sake." Logan didn't even look at her. His eyes remained on the woman-child in front of him. Vendetta smiled slightly. "Sorry, Silver Fox, but I was paid rather well to lie to you. My contract on Wolverine isn't from you. It's from Viper. As such, you can't withdraw it." "Then I don't hate him?" Fox asked involuntarily. "No." Vendetta said. "But I do." "None of this matters!" Mystique shouted. "That gun means nothing. I'm in charge here. I have in my hand a fragile test tube, and it contains a mutated strain of the Legacy Virus. This particular strain only affects normal humans, and there are rather a lot of them in this room." "This is your hole card, Raven?" Silver Fox demanded. "That's pathetic! Cowardly, even." "She ain't bluffin', though. I know her, Fox, and if she says that's a new Legacy, then that's what she's got." Wolverine said. "I would have prefered to use this today." Mystique said. "Without national television coverage, though, I'm not particularly interested in spending my life for something that the government can cover up. So I'm getting out of here! I'm taking Kelly with me, and we'll contact you with ransom demands within twenty-four hours." The Blob gathered up the unconscious body of Avalanche and walked through the crowd toward the door. Toad waited there, brandishing an energy rifle that he had acquired from somewhere. It crackled with electricity. Sabretooth and Mystique began edging their way towards the door as well. "Now." said Silver Fox. Mystique still wore Bishop's body, so it looked all the more impressive when Sabretooth grabbed her from behind, by the neck, and lifted her off of the ground with one hand. One of his finger-claws caressed her carotid artery. He took the test tube from Mystique's hand with delicate care, and held it out. "What do you want me t' do with it, chief?" "Creed, you traitorous cur. You'll bleed for this." Mystique said through her teeth. "Give it to me." offered the skinny man. "I'll incinerate it." He reached up and pulled a latex mask off of his face. It was Pyro. "Two traitors!" Mystique hissed. "We parted company when you tried to use this disease for your own ends." Pyro said. He walked over to Sabretooth and took the test tube. Clasping it between his hands, he incinerated the flask in cleansing flame. Wolverine and Vendetta only had eyes for each other. "You killed my father." she reiterated. "Your other sins mean nothing to me, except to fuel my hatred of you." "I'm sorry about your father." he said. "I'm sorry he was your father. But there's people that need killin', and he was one of 'em." "Kill the runt!" yelled the Blob. Snikt. They began to circle each other. A wide space had already been created around them. "Say the word, Logan, and she dies." Silver Fox said. "Stay out of it." Logan replied, staring down the barrel of the gun at his hunter. The world stood still. "No offer of a fair fight?" Logan asked. "How fair was your fight against a sixty year-old cripple with no metahuman abilities?" she countered. "Wasn't." he said. "Life's like that." "I mean to kill you." Edina said. "That's all. I don't need poetry." "Really? So why all the stalking? Pull the damn trigger and let's get started." She had no reply to offer. "Logan, I have spirited Senator Kelly to safety, with the help of Cable." the Toad said in Storm's voice. The image wavered, and was replaced with her usual appearance. "I also borrowed an image inducer that someone left in the bathroom with Bishop. I believe that he will live." The Blob looked around, startled, and belatedly noticed the still-inert body of the Toad lying on the floor, unconscious since he was struck by Sabretooth earlier. The crowd had concealed him from sight, earlier. There seemed to be a lot fewer people in the room, all of a sudden. Cable smiled widely at the fat man. "Thanks, darlin'." Logan said. "No more distractions." Edina said. "It's time for you to die." Logan stopped moving. "So kill me." Edina's eyes started to fill with tears. She waved the gun at him. "If you shoot him with that, he will die." Silver Fox said. "He needs his healing factor to live. Otherwise, the adamantium on his bones will slowly kill him." "I don't need this gun!" Edina snarled, throwing it aside. It was caught, and floated slowly in mid-air toward Storm, who blasted it with a bolt of electricity. Logan stood, staring at Edina sadly. She made a rushing movement toward him. He stood his ground. She stopped. "Fight me!" she screamed. "Fight me, damn it! You son of a bitch!" "No." he said. "You wanna kill me, you do it in cold blood, girl, just like your Daddy would." "Fight me!" "You can't kill him, can you?" Silver Fox asked. Vendetta's shoulders slumped. "No." she whispered. "Viper didn't hate him either. I thought that I could do it, but I can't." ***** "So she destroyed my message to you? That bitch! And you say that she doesn't have designs on you, Logan?" Silver Fox snarled. "You're blind!" The two of them sat on a hill outside of Washington. Despite the events of the evening, it somehow managed to be a beautiful night. It was warm for the season, and the sky was clear. The stars shone brightly. "It was an accident." Logan said. "She did it right in front o' me, Fox. She just didn't realize what it was. Anyway, I still had the word 'trust'. It got me thinkin'." She smiled. "My position in Hydra is almost clear and stable, Logan." "Bully for you." "Don't you get it? What we talked about on the road? I'll be able to turn the whole apparatus of Hydra toward your dream, Logan. I'll be able to do what you can't do. Results. Real, live results." "I'll be the first t' say that peace can be bought in blood, Fox, but if you buy it in innocent blood, it ain't worth it." "Just Hydra villains so far." she said. "Speakin' o' villains, how'd you get ol' Creed on-side?" Logan asked. "I put him in Mystique's organization to begin with." she said. "He's drawing a big salary off of the Hydra payroll. Besides, did you really think he'd take orders from Mystique?" "You got me there." "A few days later, I ran into Mystique downtown on a lucky break, and got her to agree to do things my way. I just parroted some of her own plan at her, and changed a few details to suit my purposes. Sabretooth was in there just in case she had some crazy idea that she wasn't going to tell me about. Which, as it happens, she did." "So you'd have liked it fine if Kelly got knocked off." "Logan, let's just not talk about the hows. I'm doing what needs to be done to finish the job. Just like always. Effort and expedience. The difference is, I'm doing it all for you." He sighed. "That's what I was afraid of. Look, Fox, I'd be a lot happier if you were doing this because you believed in it." "I do. I just don't have the same vision of it that you do." she said. "But I'm not sure if..." "Hush." she said. "We can argue any old time. Tonight, let's just sit together, all right?" "... yeah. You got it, sweetheart." -- ____________________________________________________________ John T. Duffin poet@sharecom.ca (403)317-1743 The Poet's Home Page: http://liesl.sharecom.ca/poet/ Sarcasm is a poor substitute for personality. ___________________________________________________________ T O P I C A http://www.topica.com/t/17 Newsletters, Tips and Discussions on Your Favorite Topics