Deathless 
By 

Jeremy Harper 

Note –  The Astonishing X-Men are the property of Marvel Comics and are used 
without  
permission.
 

For Lia Fail.
 

Chapter 3 – Councils 

After returning to the  Xavier Mansion the X-Men gathered in 
the living room, still in costume,  tired and dispirited. Scott and Emma 
sat together on the couch. Hank perched  on a chair, twisting open a 
bottle of painkillers. Logan leaned against a  wall, a bottle of beer in his 
hand. Kitty stood away from the main group,  staring out the picture 
windows, her arms folded and her face stoic. Emma  watched the 
younger woman quietly. Kitty's thoughts were a maelstrom of  fear, 
anger and grief, each emotion clashing against the other with a  ferocity 
that belied her pale, impassive face. Emma sighed and shuttered her  
psychic perception. The grimness radiating off of everyone was 
starting  to give her a headache. 

Scott spoke without preamble. "Logan, are you absolutely 
positive that was  Peter?" 

"I wouldn't  have said it if I hadn't meant it." Logan took a sip of 
his beer. He looked  over at Kitty, wishing he did not have to say what 
he was about to. "I've  known Peter for as long as you have. I lived 
with him, trained with him,  played with him, fought both at his side 
and against him. I'd know his scent  anywhere. Without a doubt, that 
'Nikolai' was Peter."  

Scott sighed, looked  down at the floor and ran his gloved hands 
through his hair. Emma laid a  hand on his shoulder. "Who could have 
brought him back," she wondered out  loud, "and for what purpose?"  

"A few years ago  Sinister approached Kurt," said Scott, "offering 
to create a clone of Peter,  for a price. Perhaps-" 

"It wasn't Sinister," Kitty declared. All eyes turned to her. She 
was still  looking out the window. "He had nothing to do with this. 
Sinister is a  scientist, and whatever is driving..." she hesitated for a 
moment, turned to  face her teammates. "Whatever is driving Peter, it's 
sorcerous in nature."  

"Are you certain about  that, Ms. Pryde?" asked Emma.  

"He had walking  skeletons as flunkies, Frost," Kitty snapped. 
"That's sorta a real big  indicator. I've also had a lot of up-close and 
personal experience with  magic - my best friend was Sorceress 
Supreme of her own pocket Hell, and I  inherited that mantle for a 
time." Kitty looked away. "I know sorcery when I  see it; Peter reeked 
of it."  

Emma glared at Kitty  but refrained from retorting. "Belasco, 
then," Scott ventured.  

Kitty shook her head.  "Belasco never had any interest in Peter, 
and the minions Peter commanded  aren't from Limbo." 

"N'gari?" 

"The N'gari  wouldn't bother," said Logan. "They think humans 
are cattle, good fer  nothin' but food. You know that, Scott."  

"Yeah, I do. I'm just  clutching at straws, hoping for something 
familiar, but I might as well face  facts – we're dealing with someone 
new."  

"Wonderful. First Ord,  now this." Hank swallowed some pills and 
chased them with a glass of water.  "So what do we do about it?"  

"We find out what Peter  stole from the Met. Hopefully that will 
clue us in on his motives, maybe  help us predict his next move. Other 
than that, we'll just have to watch and  wait." 

"And prepare,"  added Logan. "Petey's learned some nasty new 
tricks."  

Everyone fell silent.  After a moment Kitty left without a word, 
walking on air to phase up through  the ceiling, heading for her room. 
Hank leapt off his chair and made his way  to the door. "I'll see if the 
police reports are available yet." Scott  nodded. When Hank had left he 
stood and walked over to Logan, Emma following  him. 

"Are you going to  check on Kitty later?" Scott asked. Logan 
nodded.  

"After I get changed  and let her have a bit o' time ta herself... 
This is gonna be rough on her."  

"It's not going to be  much easier on you or me, either."  

"Yeah." Wolverine  downed the rest of his beer. "It sure as hell  
ain't."


*****
 
The column of flame erupted, illuminating the shadowy 
vastness of the  sorcerer's hall. Nikolai Black Sun stepped forth from 
the fire's twisting  crimson core. The column guttered down and died 
as he strode towards the  great dais of polished onyx stairs. Solovey sat 
on the bottom step, running  a whetstone along his saber's edge. 
Myedvyed Tsar laid sprawled out to the  dais' left, panting hoarsely. 
With the corner of his eye Nikolai caught a  glimpse of scintillating 
metallic colors, and heard a jangle of metal as  Vutariax stalked about 
the edge of the hall. At the base of the dais Nikolai  stopped and 
bowed, his right hand over his heart. "Father, I have returned.  Did you 
receive the icon?"  

In the shadows that  cloaked his malachite throne the sorcerer 
tilted his head slightly,  agate-hard eyes gleaming in the darkness. "I 
have. You moved with  commendable speed and precision, and for that 
I praise you. However, I am  forced to question your wisdom." Nikolai 
straightened and looked up at his  father, his golden eyes bright and 
sharp. "You had found the first part of  the key," continued the 
sorcerer. "You needed but to open a portal and step  through, your task 
accomplished. Instead, you send Vultariax back, so you  can stay to 
fight an unnecessary battle, one easily avoided. Why?"  

Nikolai did not answer  right away, carefully mulling his response. 
He was not quite sure himself on  why he had sought conflict against 
the heroes who destroyed the _zalozhniy_.  The feelings of recognition 
stirred again as he thought of them, the  brown-haired young woman in 
particular preeminent in his thought. The void  within him cracked 
open slightly and he recoiled from the feelings, sealing  them away. "I 
wished to test myself, Father. For over two years I have been  fettered 
in your hall. The temptation to fight against the heroes of the  mortal 
world, I could not resist." It was not quite the truth, but close to  it. 

The sorcerer  shifted on his throne. "How did you fair?"  

"We did well."  

"Are they dead?"  

"No."  

"Why not?"  

"It did not seem  necessary to kill them at this time. Needless 
slaughter is a wasteful  expenditure of energy." 

"So is needless battle." The sorcerer rose from his throne and 
walked down  the stairs, stepping out of the shadow. He was tall and 
terribly thin, his  skin but yellow parchment stretched drum-tight over 
his bones. White wisps  of hair radiated wildly from his skull, and his 
cold agate eyes were sunk  deep into their sockets. His thin black lips 
were curled back, his sharp,  prominent yellow teeth bared in a snarl. 
He wore a gold circlet on his wide  brow, and a rotting caftan of 
crimson silk swathed his cadaverous frame. In  bony hands he carried 
the icon of Saul stolen from the New York Metropolitan  Museum of 
Art. He reached the bottom of the dais and stepped towards his  son, 
looking hard into his eyes. Nikolai did not flinch. They stared at each  
other for some moments before the sorcerer spoke.  

"You are the most  powerful of my warriors, Nikolai. You are my 
eyes and my fist. I have no  intentions on spending you frivolously. 
Fighting these heroes was an  unnecessary, dangerous indulgence. Do 
not do so again, unless they stand  between you and our immediate 
goals. Accomplish what I send you to do, then  return – no more, no 
less. There will be fighting enough for you once I  ascend. Do you 
understand?"  

Nikolai bowed his head.  "Yes, Father." 

"Good.  Go and rest for now. Soon I shall send you out again." 
Nikolai nodded,  turned on his heel and strode towards an arch leading 
out of the hall.  "Nikolai!" The sorcerer called out. Nikolai stopped and 
looked back. "Are  you all right? Your thoughts seem... troubled."  

"... I am fine,  Father," Nikolai answered. The sorcerer nodded and 
Nikolai left the hall.  The sorcerer watched him go thoughtfully.  

"Solovey," he said. The  bandit-troubadour set down his 
whetstone and stood.  

"Yes, my lord?"  

"Describe these heroes  that you fought." 

Solovey sheathed his saber. "There were five of them, my lord. 
Their leader  was a svelte man cowled and dressed in black leather, 
whose eyes shot red  force. I will kill him at my earliest convenience. 
There was a blond woman  who can change her flesh into diamond and 
make you see things. She I will  have fun with before killing. A short, 
stocky man in yellow and black, with  metal claws sprouting from his 
fists; he will be hard to kill - The _knyaz_  set him on fire, and it barely 
slowed him. A blue ape with the head of a  great cat, very swift and 
agile. And last another woman, younger than the  rest, small and 
slender, with brown hair. Good looking, too. She walked on  the air." 

The  sorcerer's eyes glittered at the mention of the last hero. "Is 
this the  young woman you saw?" He gestured with a hand and an 
image manifested,  floating before him. It was a miniature of Kitty 
Pryde, her hair cut short,  dressed in a black trench coat, holding a 
funerary urn in her small, gloved  hands, her expression one of 
depthless grief. Solovey leaned close to the  image, his black eyes 
narrowing. He nodded to himself.  

"Aye, that is she. Her  hair is longer now, tied up in a tail, and she 
wore a suit of yellow and  black, but that woman was with those 
heroes, my lord Koschei."  

Koschei the Deathless  inhaled sharply through his nose. His eyes 
burned with a strange, menacing  light. "The weavings of the 
_Rozhanisty_ are mysterious indeed. Not even I  nor the Baba Yaga can 
predict their whims." He glared at the image of Kitty  Pryde. "They 
have wound strong threads between my son and this girl, ones  that will 
be difficult to untie. But it matters not – I shall sever them. I  will not 
be thwarted." He took hold of Saul's icon with both hands then  
released it. It hovered between his hands for a moment before 
exploding  into a cloud of wooden splinters. The splinters pattered 
down against the  floor, leaving floating behind a golden ring. The ring 
was twice the width  of a man's eye, and jutting from it was a thin 
milled rod, like a screw  shaft. Koschei grasped the ring between a 
bony finger and thumb and peered  through it. "The day of the Third 
Rome draws nigh. I will swallow my doom...  and the world will be 
mine."


***** 
 

Logan hesitated  in front of Kitty's door. He had showered and 
changed, dressed casually in  flannel and jeans. He rapped on the door.  

"Who is it?"  

"Me, Pun'kin."  

"Come in." Logan opened  the door and paused a moment at the 
threshold. This was the first time he  had been in Kitty's new quarters 
and he glanced around curiously. It was  spacious and a little messy. 
Her black and yellow uniform lay crumpled at  the side of her bed, 
along with a bathrobe. Some large posters decorated the  white painted 
walls - a Casablanca and a Star Wars movie posters; a blown-up  
reproduction of the cover art from an Anne McCaffrey novel, 
depicting a  golden dragon and its rider soaring over an alien 
landscape; a poster of  Stevie Hunter in ballerina kit, striking a pose, 
her face angelic. It was  probably an old promotional from before her 
accident. The poster was signed:  _To my Kitten. Love always, Stevie._ 
Against the right hand wall stood a  clothes bureau, its top cluttered 
with make-up and toiletries, and a large  bookcase. The bookcase was 
packed with computer tech manuals and trade  magazines, along with a 
large selection of science fiction and fantasy  novels, all arranged in no 
discernable order. On the nightstand next to the  twin sized bed rested a 
lamp, the latest Larry Niven Ringworld novel, book  marked with a red 
tassel, and a framed photograph of a thirteen year old  Kitty posing 
with her parents. A large, spiral bound album lay open on the  bed. 
Logan peered at it and realized it was one of Peter's old sketchbooks.  
On the left hand page was a sketch of Kitty, a teen-aged Illyana  
Rasputin and Doug Ramsey. They were lined up in a row, Kitty in the  
middle, their arms around each other shoulders, smiling large, happy  
grins, with Illyana and Doug flashing victory signs. On the right hand  
page was a self-portrait of Peter, sitting on an old tree stump, whittling  
a piece of wood with a jackknife, his expression one of deep  
contemplation. 

Kitty was sitting at her computer desk, peering at the monitor. 
She wore an  over-sized Cats Laughing tee shirt that hung down to her 
knees and black  sweatpants. She was bare foot, her ankles crossed 
beneath the desk. She  smelled strongly of good clean soap and honey 
shampoo. Lockheed was curled  up on the desk, to one side of the 
monitor, watching his mistress pensively.  

Logan quietly entered  the room, shutting the door behind him, 
and sat down on the bed, right  behind Kitty. He did not say anything, 
and Kitty did not acknowledge his  presence. She continued to look at 
the monitor, occasionally clicking her  mouse. Silence stretched 
between them, taut and uncomfortable. Logan watched  the growing 
tension in her shoulders. He remained quiet.  

Finally Kitty spoke.  "Well?" she demanded impatiently.  

"Well what?"  

"Aren't you going to  ask me if I'm all right?"  

"No need ta. I can see  that you ain't." 

Kitty  whirled her chair around and glared at Logan. He looked 
back unperturbed.  Kitty held the glare for a moment, then her 
expression crumpled. She turned  back to the monitor, her shoulders 
starting to shake, buried her face in her  hands and sobbed. Lockheed 
climbed into her lap and cooed softly, trying to  comfort her. She 
grabbed him up in a fierce hug, pressing her cheek against  his head as 
she cried. Logan leaned forward and put a hand on her shoulder.  "It's 
okay, Kitty," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, his own eyes burning  a 
little. "It's okay."   

After a few minutes  Kitty's sobbing subsided. She wiped her eyes 
and sniffed. Logan took a  handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to 
her. She wiped at her eyes again  and blew her nose. Lockheed licked 
at her face and continued to coo. She  smiled weakly at the little dragon 
and gave him a little peck on the head.  She handed back the 
handkerchief to Logan, who folded and re-pocketed it.  

"Feel a bit better?" he  asked. She shook her head. "Can't blame 
ya."  

"God, Logan," she said,  voice hoarse from her crying, "I thought 
I was over him. I thought I had my  feelings for him buried away, and 
then this happens and it's like someone  reached in and tore apart 
everything inside of me. It makes me want to just  curl up and die." 

"I  know. I feel a bit like that myself. So does Scott. We're not 
hurtin' as bad  as you are, Pun'kin – nowhere damned near as close – 
but we still hurt. I've  known Petey since he was fifteen, an innocent 
hick kid fresh off o' the  farm; he was my friend. Seein' him, back from 
the dead and changed the way  he is, it was a kick in the gut."  

"I kept telling myself  all throughout the fight that it was a hoax," 
Kitty confessed. "That someone  like Sinister or Shaw or Arcade had 
created a replica of Peter to throw us  off guard. But then I confronted 
him... He knew me, Logan. His eyes turned  blue. He couldn't 
remember my name, but he knew me..." Kitty trailed off and  looked 
out the window next to her bed. Outside the light was dimming.  

"Last year," she  continued, "on the anniversary of Peter's... going 
away... I saw someone who  looked exactly like him. It was uncanny. I 
thought – I _hoped_ – that he was  back. Considering the life that we lead, 
it wasn't out of the realm of  possibility. But he wasn't. He was a police 
officer, a real nice guy named  Danny. But I so wanted him to be 
Peter... I was missing him so bad." Kitty  wiped at her eyes again. "But 
a little later I realized something. Something  that you'd think you'd 
know right away, but takes time learn. I realized  Peter would always 
be in my heart. That I would always love him and he would  always be 
my friend and nothing would change that, not even death." She  turned 
towards Logan, smiling slightly. "After a year of grief, I was  finally 
able to live again." Her smile faded and her face became hard. "And  
now this happens. Some goddamn bastard sorcerer brings him back,  
desecrates him, turns him into a monster..." Her lips trembled and tears  
brimmed in her eyes. "I don't know how to deal with this, Logan."  

"You'll find a way,  Pun'kin, and we'll help you. It'll be hard, but 
you'll make it through.  You're the toughest woman I know."  

Kitty picked up  Lockheed off of her lap, set him down on top of 
her monitor, stood up and  hugged Logan hard. "Thank you, Logan."  

"No problem, Kitty."  Logan patted her back. Kitty let go and he 
stood up. "You hungry? I'll  rustle you up some grub."  

Kitty shook her head.  "Maybe later. Right now I'm looking up 
something. Those beings with Peter–  Solovey and Myedvyed Tsar – 
their names sounded familiar to me. I want to  find out why." 

"Okay,  but try ta get something in you before too long. Today 
was hard and long,  and ya need ta keep up yer strength." He headed 
toward the door. As he  opened it Kitty called out to him. He looked 
back at her.  

"Peter did recognize  me," she said. "His memory is buried, but 
it's there. I know it. Do you  think… " She hesitated, biting her lower 
lip. Her eyes were bright with a  fearful hope. "Do you think we can get 
him back, somehow?" she finished in a  rush. 

Logan did not  answer immediately. "I don't know, Pun'kin. All 
we can do is try. But we  will bring him home, one way or the other. 
And whoever did this ta him will  pay. I promise."


*****
 

Emma Frost sighed in contentment, rolled onto her side, 
propped up  her head on her hand and looked at the man lying next to 
her in bed. Scott  stared up at the ceiling, his head pillowed on his 
hands, his eyes hidden by  opaque red safety glasses. The love they had 
made minutes before had been  furious, Scott taking out his frustrations 
on Emma's pliant, willing body.  She hadn't minded; she liked it hard 
and rough. Point of fact, with this man  she liked it any way 
whatsoever. But none of their previous sessions had  been anything like 
this, and the change troubled her. Emma sidled her naked  body against 
Scott and laid her slim arm across his narrow, defined chest.  

"Penny for your  thoughts," she murmured as she kissed his cheek.  

"I don't know if  they're worth that much," he replied.  

"They are worth a  considerable amount to me."  

Scott slipped an arm  from under his head and wrapped it around 
Emma. He gently stroked her arm  while she traced the flat, hard planes 
of his chest and stomach with her  forefinger. "Why don't you just read 
my mind?"  

"I'd rather hear you  tell me. In many ways the spoken word is 
more potent than pure thought. It  is definitely more cathartic." Scott 
glanced at her curiously, then nodded  and looked back up at the 
ceiling.  

"I trained Peter, you  know," Scott said. Emma nodded. "After 
Krakoa – God, it feels like a  lifetime ago – Charles stepped back and 
left the bulk of the training of our  new team to me. I taught Peter 
everything I knew about being a superhero, an  X-Man. He learned 
fairly quickly and he was pretty good. Hell, he was damned  good, 
better than he ever gave himself credit for. And he was a good man,  
too. Warren once told me he thought Peter was the most honest, 
honorable  person he ever met, and I agreed with him. Peter deserved 
so much better  than what he ultimately got... I wasn't here when he 
committed suicide. I  wish I had been. Maybe I could have stopped it... 
Maybe..." Scott shook his  head and sighed. "When Charles and Jean 
told me about what he did... it was  Thunderbird, all over again. I 
blamed myself for John Proudstar's death. I  felt like I had failed him. 
If only I had been a better teacher, or made a  greater effort to be his 
friend, then perhaps he would still be here. With  Peter it was worse, 
because he was my friend, as well as my student, and I  wasn't there 
when he needed me."  

"If you could have  helped them, Scott, you would have. But both 
of them were out of your reach  because of circumstances beyond your 
control. Peter and John's deaths are  not your fault." 

"I  know, Emma, but I couldn't help the way I felt then, just as I 
can't help  what I'm feeling now. Seeing Peter today, alive but 
changed, warped almost  beyond recognition, brought all that guilt 
back up again." Scott laughed  bitterly. "It's the story of my life. Jean, 
Proudstar, Warren, and now  Peter... Watching them die. Seeing them 
turned into monsters. Not being able  to do a damn thing about it. I 
wonder sometimes why I even try."  

"We try because the  alternative is to surrender, to go gently into 
the night. All we can do is  try to do our best, and your best has saved 
the world again and again."  

"What good is saving  the world when I can't even save the people 
I love?"  

"You're saving me.  Every day I'm with you, I want to try to be a 
better person than I was  before. You helped save me from a path that 
would have led only to  perdition. Maybe it's not much, rescuing a 
tarnished harlot like myself, but  it's something." 

Scott  turned on his side, cupping Emma's cheek with his hand. 
"You're not a  harlot, Emma." 

Emma  smiled sadly. "How nice of you to say, but we both know 
the truth."  

"You're not." Scott  kissed her hard. She moaned against his lips 
and embraced him. After a while  they pulled away and lay silent and 
still in each other's arms.  

"Emma," Scott  whispered. "Thank you..."  

"You're  welcome..."


*****
 

Hank rocked back  and forth on the rocking chair in his room, 
listening impatiently to the  phone ringing at his ear. "Come on, you 
big lug," he muttered. "Pick up." On  the fifth ring there was a click 
and a deep, somewhat tired sounding  baritone voice spoke. 

"Hello?" 

Hank's mouth  split into a big grin. "Greeting and salutations to 
the Left Coast. How is  my favorite red eyed boy?"  

There was a brief  pause, then hearty laughter echoed over the 
line. "Hank? Goddamn, I can't  believe it! How are you doing?"  

"Not too shabby. How  'bout yourself, Simon? You keeping 
busy?"  

"Oh yeah, you can say  that," Simon Williams answered. "Damn, 
it's good to hear from you. I've been  meaning to give you a buzz, but 
– I know it's a poor excuse – I've been on  the go a lot out here –"  

"So many starlets, so  little time." 

"Ah, nuts  to you, you hypocrite." Hank laughed.  

"All right, I'll be  serious, hard as it is. How's Second Chances 
going? I've been reading a lot  of good things about it in the news rags 
– Time and Newsweek and all."  

"It's going great, Hank  - far better than I ever expected. The 
people I have working for me are a  great crew and we've been able to 
help a lot of people over the past year.  The events and banquets we 
sponsor are raking money in hand over fist. I'm  still recovering from 
last night's outing. We were charging a thousand  dollars a plate and 
the hall was packed almost beyond capacity. It was a  zoo. You should 
have seen some of the celebrities that turned out."  

"I wish I did. And I'm  not surprised at how well you're doing 
with the Hollywood set. I mean, how  can hanging out with Orlando 
Bloom or Julia Roberts compare with meeting a  living, breathing 
Avenging superhero?"  

Simon laughed. "Good  point. Hey, maybe I should have you 
come co-host one of our events. With two  Avengers maybe we could 
get twice the turnout and donations."  

"Thanks but no thanks.  All the ladies would want of a lock of my 
hair. I'd end up coming back to  Westchester bald." 

"Maybe they'll scream in adulation and throw their panties at 
you, instead."  

"Perhaps if I did my  Elvis impersonation. Hmmm... Tell me, is 
there the possibility of Catherine  Zeta-Jones being one of my potential 
groupies?"  

"Yeah, pretty good  chance. She was at the charity dinner last 
night."  

"Then I'll be over on  the next flight. I'd tug on Doctor Doom's 
cape and moon him for the chance  to get a pair of Cathy's panties."  

"And what would you do  to get in her panties?" 

"I'd tell you, but I don't want to offend your delicate sensibilities, 
Si."  

"Ha! You do know she's  married to Michael Douglas."  

"A trivial obstacle!  Does Michael Douglas have my animal 
magnetism? My suave poise? My  sophisticated wit?" 

"No, no and no. But he does have a whole lot more money than 
you."  

"Good point. In that  case I think I'll settle for a quick smooch and 
goose." Both men laughed.  "Anyhow Simon, you're not putting too 
much on your plate, are you? You  sounded a bit ragged when you 
answered."  

Simon thought for a  moment. "It gets tedious at times. I pull some 
long hours, but I think it's  worth it. But I'll admit, there are days when 
I feel having a throwdown with  Pagan would be a relief."  

"Never thought I'd hear  you say something like that. How's 
Wanda doing?"  

"Oh... I'm not seeing  her anymore." 

"Seriously? I thought you two were rather cozy. What 
happened?"  

"Nothing major. It's  just something we mutually agreed upon. 
We're still good friends, but it  wasn't clicking in the right way. Last 
time I talked with her, she mentioned  she and Vision were seeing each 
other again. They're taking it slow, but  it's fairly serious." 

"No kidding? About damn time."  

"Tell me about. Bro  never stopped loving her, you know. His 
feelings just got buried when those  government bastards took him 
apart. Took him awhile to dig 'em up. Anyhow,  enough about my 
sordid life – tell me what's going on with you. I hear your  team's 
making a bid to improve the X-Men's standings in the public eye."  

Hank hesitated. "Yeah,  we are. Don't know if it's working, 
though."  

"From what I've heard  you guys are handling it pretty well. It's 
about time you did something like  this. A little good P.R. can go a 
long way. Take it from one who knows."  

"Yeah, I guess so..."  Hank trailed off. The line fell quiet for 
several seconds.  

"You okay, Hank?" Simon  asked. "You're not your usual 
loquacious self right now."  

Hank sighed and rubbed  his chin with an oversized paw. "Have 
you seen the news tonight yet?"  

"No. I've been crashing  most of the day. What happened?"  

"My team got into a  fight with some freaks here in New York. 
Failed to stop a robbery, but we  managed to wreck the Metropolitan 
Museum of Art's lobby pretty good...  Simon, do you remember Peter 
Rasputin... Colossus?"  

"How could I forget?  You told me what he did with that vaccine 
for Legacy you were... Oh, shit."  

Hank grinned weakly.  "I'm afraid he's cribbed from you 
playbook, Simon."  

"And he's working for  the other side." 

"Yup.  Pretty good at it, too. Calls himself Nikolai Black Sun, 
now. Cute, dontcha  think?" 

Simon's tone  became deadly serious. "If you want, I can be in 
Westchester in an hour,  hour and a half. I'll requisition a quinjet and 
fly right over."  

"I wouldn't want you to  break any commitments." 

"Fuck my commitments. If you need help I'll be over just like 
lightning."  

"That's the wrong  super-team motto, and you're mangling it in 
the bargain... I appreciate the  offer, Simon, but this is something we're 
going to want to take care of in  house. I just wanted to talk to you. I 
haven't talked to you in a while, and  you always cheer me up."  

"...Okay... I can  understand that. But if you need me for anything 
– fighting, talking,  whatever – give me a shout. I always have my cell 
on me. Here's the number."  Simon recited his cell phone number.  

"Thanks Simon. I  appreciate it, oh bestest buddy."  

"No problem. How are  you holding up?" 

"Better than the rest of the team. I never knew Peter as well as 
Scott,  Wolverine or Shadowcat did, but it was still a shock."  

"It always is. How bad  is it going to get, Hank?"  

"... Wolverine says he  punches like the Hulk. Scott's optic blasts 
barely rocked him. He heals real  fast and knows some nasty magic 
tricks. He probably could have beaten us  single-handed if he hadn't 
freaked out for some reason. On top of that he  has some henchmen 
who are no slouches themselves, along with an army of  animated 
skeletons. I don't foresee myself being bored anytime in the near  
future." 

"Damn,  Hank. You sure you don't want me to come watch your 
back? I'll try to grab  Bro and Wanda too, if you want."  

"Those Beverly Hills  dowagers must really be after you, if you're 
that eager to get into a  super-powered slugfest."  

Simon chuckled. "Hank,  you wouldn't believe it if I told you."  

"Okay, okay. I'll run  your offer by Scott, and if it gets real bad 
I'll call you ASAP. Scout's  honor." 

"Cool... Ah,  I'm probably over-reacting, anyway. You guys can 
take care of yourselves.  Muties are a tough bunch."  

"Damn right. I  personally chew on iron nails each morning for 
breakfast."  

"That explains a lot  about you. Anyhow, my schedule is clearing 
up in a month or two. I was  thinking about swinging into New York 
for a short breather."  

"Most excellent! When  you do, come by the mansion. We can go 
hit a new jazz joint I heard  about..."


*****

Nikolai Black Sun sat  in the center of the cavern, his legs 
folded Indian style, hands resting on  his knees, eyes closed as he 
attempted to meditate. Fire pits burned around  him, scalding the air, 
their heat cleansing and invigorating him. Sweat  beaded his body, 
glistening gems of liquid trailing down his powerful frame.  He was 
naked, save for the loincloth knotted about his hips. Arabesques of  
black thorn-vine tattoos ran down the muscular contours of his broad  
chest and back. Twin rings of thorns circled his biceps, linking  
together the vines that ran up his arms. The tattoos glittered like onyx  
in the shadow-dappled firelight, standing out starkly against his pale  
skin. 

A fire pit  roared, its flames leaping higher, licking at the 
stalactites studding the  cavern ceiling. Nikolai canted his head slightly, 
his lips pulling away from  straight white teeth. His meditations failed; 
the visions still plagued him.  The brown-haired young woman danced 
tauntingly in his mind. Sometimes she  was alone, other times the 
blond accompanied her. Nikolai's heart pumped  fiercely in reaction to 
their presence, and his breathing became sharp and  ragged. His hands 
clenched into tight fists. The howling void yawned wider within him, 
resisting all his efforts to wrench it shut. He ached with a  strange, half-
formed desire he did not understand. In spite of the heat, he  shivered. 

Koschei the  Deathless stood outside the cavern, watching his son. 
He entered, striding  towards Nikolai. His boots left imprints of frost on 
the hot stone, and fire  pits flickered and died as he passed. He halted 
behind Nikolai and stared  down at him, his half-lidded eyes glowing 
like embers snatched from the  floor of hell. 

"Father," Nikolai said. He neither turned to face Koschei, nor 
opened his  eyes. 

"What plagues  you, my son?" the sorcerer said, his sibilant 
whisper cutting through the  loud crackle of the flames. "Something 
vexes you, disturbs the cold  tranquility of your thought. Confide in 
me."  

"...I am having  visions, Father. Visions that feel like memories, 
long forgotten, and now  but lately recalled, hazy and imperfect. I see 
people alien to me. Foremost  is a woman – brown haired, slight, 
beautiful." Nikolai shook his head. "The  emotions they evoke confuse 
me, Father, and their origins are an enigma.  They cannot be memories; 
until today, I have not left your hall. I have  never seen this woman, yet 
my heart and my mind scream that I know her. But  that is impossible. 
How can this be, Father?"  

Koschei ran his lean,  bony fingers through Nikolai's long mane 
of black hair. "Do not fret, my  darling childe. These visions are but 
figments of your battle-stirred mind,  conjured by fatigue and 
adrenaline. Banish them, they are not worth  contemplating." Koschei's 
hand glowed with a silver light. The light  enveloped Nikolai, 
enveloping him in a luminous, diffuse aura. Nikolai's  eyes snapped 
open; they were metallic silver now, instead of gold. Koschei  pulled 
his hand away, and the radiance faded. Nikolai closed his eyes, rose,  
turned to face his father. He opened his eyes and they were gold once  
more. 

"How do you  feel?" asked Koschei. 

"I am well, Father." 

"And your visions?" 

Nikolai tilted his head. "What visions, Father?"  

"It is of no moment.  Come with me, Nikolai. It is time for you to 
prepare for your next incursion  into the mortal world. My scrying has 
borne fruit – I have found the  Patriarch's Crosier..."


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