X-Men and the Avengers: Lost and Found, Page 5

  Storm regarded her fallen foe with grim satisfaction. She generally strove to consider all living things sacred, but the Brood tested that resolve more than most. Not for nothing did Wolverine often refer to these beings as “sleazoids,” a colorful but apt description. They were unclean creatures, existing only to propagate themselves through the pain and exploitation of others.

  Would that the whole of their breed could be defeated so readily... Storm thought.

  Meanwhile, the Beast, no longer compelled to battle all three Brood at once, went on the offensive against the sole Brood still intent on skewering the hirsute X-Man. Letting go of the elevated power conduit with his astonishingly dexterous feet, he flipped through the air, landing piggyback on the short, stumpy neck that connected the insectoid’s flared skull to its squat torso. The Beast’s added weight sank the flying creature to the floor, while squashing its buzzing wings.

  “Stop! What is this?” it screeched. “Get off me, mammal! Get off, get off!”

  The warrior drone shook its head violently and hopped about like a gigantic grasshopper, hoping to buck the Beast from his perch, but failed to dislodge its unwanted passenger, nor could it get at the Beast with its now useless forelimbs, which flailed angrily at the empty air. Its lethal tail twisted backwards, its lethal stingers coming dangerously close to the Beast’s hairy back—until a precision blast from Cyclops’s visor shattered the bony spikes, disarming the tail.

  The Brood hissed in agony. “You will suffer for this, you mutated mammal!” it vowed.

  “Ride ’em, cowboy,” the Beast wisecracked, undaunted by the drone’s threats. He straddled the creature’s back, holding onto the upper portion of its skull as though it were the hom of a saddle. “I’ve heard of flea circuses, but this may well be the world’s first insect rodeo. Assuming we were currently residing on a world, that is.”

  Storm paid little attention to the Beast’s typically lighthearted banter. She would never entirely understand his predilection for humorous repartee even in the midst of the most life-and-death struggle, but she had long ago grown accustomed to it. Certainly, Henry McCoy’s perpetual witticisms had never interfered with his ability to hold his own in combat, at least not that she had ever been able to tell.

  Perhaps he is merely blessed, she thought, with an exceptionally carefree spirit.

  Even now, as he indulged in yet more adroit japery, the Beast grabbed hold of the irate drone’s upper and lower jaws, being careful to keep his oversized fingers away from the insectoid’s stiletto teeth. Powerful muscles flexed beneath a thick layer of blue fuzz as he strained his simian arms to pull the ferocious jaws apart. Storm found herself reminded unexpectedly of one of the Beast’s favorite old movies, King Kong, in particular, the scene in which the mighty ape wrestled thus with a voracious Tyrannosaurus rex. As in that classic film, the drone’s jaws broke apart with a brutal crack, and the injured in-sectoid fell limply onto the grilled metal floor, a repugnant green ichor leaking from its mouth. Storm could not tell if the creature still lived, nor, to be honest, did she care overmuch. The floor rattled beneath the vanquished Brood, lending it a semblance of animation while reminding Storm of the greater danger to the station itself. The telltale clangor of imploding steel beams sounded ever closer behind them. The walls around her groaned alarmingly, and the smell of noxious gases permeated the enclosed atmosphere.

  This delay may cost us dearly, she realized.

  Was the battle concluded at last? For a second, she dared to hope so. Then, on the opposite side of the corridor, the drone sent tumbling by Cyclops re-entered the fray. Lying awkwardly upon its back, its four tiny legs kicking at the air above it, it employed its coiled tail to flip right-side up.

  “Watch out!” Cyclops shouted as the Brood warrior charged at Storm, ducking around its two insensate hive-mates to avoid Cyclops’s line of fire before sailing through the air at the mutant weather witch. The buzzing of the monster filled her ears.

  Lacking a straight shot at the insectoid, Cyclops aimed upward, ricocheting his forcebeam off the ceiling so that it slammed into the drone from above, coinciding with Storm's own defensive lightning bolt. Unable to withstand two such devastating assaults, the sleazoid’s mottled brown exoskeleton exploded, spraying the walls and ceiling with pulpy goo and bits of cartilage.

  “Well, that’s quite revoltingly visceral,” the Beast observed. He stepped away from the fractured drone beneath him, being careful to avoid stepping into a spreading puddle of viscous green fluid. Wet, scaly flakes of Brood dripped from the ceiling. “I think I prefer trashing Sentinels. At least when they come apart, all that’s left are gears and computer chips.”

  Cyclops didn’t crack a smile at the Beast’s levity. He seldom did. “Time’s wasting, folks,” he reminded them. His trim brown hair, visible above his visor, had not a strand out of place. He nodded in the direction of their waiting shuttle. “Let’s head out... pronto.”

  But, before they could even begin to leave the trio of Brood behind, the grillwork under their feet snapped like a whip, throwing them all off-balance. Storm felt the floor yanked out from beneath her, and she hastily summoned a wind to lift her off the treacherous walkway. The wrenching sound of metal sheets tearing asunder came from directly below her.

  “Goddess!” she exclaimed in horror, realizing at once that they had won their fight with the Brood only to lose their race against time. Aghast, she saw the hull of the space station break apart in a dozen places.

  In space, it is often said, no one can hear you scream, but within the station Storm could still hear the agonized shriek of futuristic steel alloys pushed beyond the limits of their endurance, followed by a roaring whoosh that sounded in her ears like the coming of a hurricane. Their air supply rushed out into the vacuum, carrying with it bits of debris and broken insect parts. Although Storm exerted all her meteorological powers to hold in the fleeing atmosphere, she could not stop the freezing emptiness outside from greedily stealing away their oxygen and their lives.

  Pieces of the collapsed walkway flew past her face. Fingers aching, she clung frantically to an exposed piece of piping, watching in dismay as first Cyclops, then the Beast were sucked into the void, so that only she remained aboard the disintegrating hulk of the alien space station. The suction pulled at her remorselessly, until her fingers began to slip free from her black gloves. The silver belt around her waist succumbed to the strain, breaking apart at its weakest link and flying off into space. An icy cold enveloped her, chilling her to the bone. Her lungs gasped for air.

  I can do no more, she realized with fatalistic certainty. We have lost.

  “End simulation,” she stated distinctly.

  The disaster in space disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by the familiar sights and sounds of the Danger Room. The fierce suction gave way to the ordinary pull of terrestrial gravity, and Storm found herself lying prone upon the floor. Exhausted by her ordeal, she climbed slowly to her feet, still feeling a lingering chill from the artificial environment. Shivering, her arms clutched tightly across her chest, she marveled once more at how astonishingly lifelike were the holographic simulations created by the advanced Shi’ar technology installed in the X-Men’s training facility.

  That was almost too convincing, she reflected.

  Several yards away, across the empty gymnasium floor, her “deceased” teammates were recuperating as well. Judging from the deepening scowl on Cyclops’s face, he was not at all pleased by their performance in this latest exercise, designed to keep their survival skills, as well as their ability to function as a team, in peak condition

  Nor should he, Storm thought, although she allowed that there were extenuating circumstances. Where are Rogue and Wolverine?

  “Not good, people,” Cyclops pronounced soberly. Storm could not see Scott’s eyes through his visor, but she could imagine how frustrated and unhappy they must look. “If that had been a real space mission, we’d all be dead now.” His fists remained clenched at his
sides, his posture taut and unyielding. Sometimes, Storm worried about Cyclops—all the pressure he imposed on himself could not be good for his health. “I blame myself as much as anyone, of course.”

  “It may be that no one is to blame,” Storm said evenly. She recovered her broken belt from the floor, then walked across the chamber to join the Beast and Cyclops. After the clamorous demise of the space station, the Danger Room felt as quiet and still as a museum after hours. “As I recall, Shadowcat programmed that scenario to include Logan and Rogue, as well. With five X-Men we might well have defeated the Brood in time to reach the shuttle.”

  Cyclops shook his head. “That’s not good enough. You know as well as I do that we can’t count on having a full house the next time we come under attack.” Storm noticed that some of the pouches on his yellow bandoleer and utility belt had been tom open by the holographic space station’s spectacular decompression. She imagined that they all had acquired some new bruises beneath their uniforms or, in the Beast’s case, below his fur.

  “Take now, for instance,” Cyclops continued. “Jean and the Professor and half the team are off in the Savage Land, helping out the Fall People, so they’re essentially incommunicado for who knows how long. Bobby is way off in Scotland, assisting Moira’s research, and none of this is very unusual. We can hardly expect our enemies to wait until everyone is home before they stage an assault on one or more of us.”

  “Granted,” Storm said. “I was merely observing that, in this particular instance, the odds were—by design— against a successful outcome.” She made no attempt to conceal a trace of irritation in her voice; although she sympathized with Cyclops’s concerns, she disliked being lectured to. Storm suspected Jean’s prolonged absence might also be contributing to her husband’s bad mood.

  Perhaps to change the subject, the Beast somersaulted through the air, landing precisely between Storm and

  Cyclops. “That reminds me,” he said. “Where are Rogue and Logan, anyway?”

  A good question, Storm thought. “As you know, Wolverine could be almost anywhere,” By temperament and inclination, Logan went his own way, and was very much in the habit of indulging his wanderlust without notice, sometimes for lengthy periods of time; this was an intrinsic aspect of his personality to which they had all become accustomed. “Rogue’s absence puzzles me, however. She left this morning for a shopping expedition in the city, but I believe she had every intention of returning in time for this scheduled exercise program.”

  Cyclops’s expression grew even more somber, if possible. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He adjusted his uniform as best he could, then headed for the exit. ‘ ‘These are dangerous times for any mutant to go AWOL. Especially an X-Man.” A pair of gleaming metal doors slid apart, permitting them to leave the deceptively-empty Danger Room. “Who knows what kind of trouble she might be in this very minute?’ ’

  A healthy degree of paranoia, Storm reflected, was perhaps essential to life as an X-Man, especially for a team leader. And yet...

  “We should not leap to the conclusion that Rogue is in danger. She may have simply lost track of time, or perhaps missed a connection at Grand Central.” Then again, she thought, even if the train left without her, Rogue could have always flown home under her own power. “I share your concern, however.”

  “Might I suggest we resolve this conundrum by efficiently ascertaining the present location of our elusive Southern belle?” the Beast proposed. His knuckles brushed against the floor, his simian stance making him seem shorter than he actually was. Unlike the others, he wore only a pair of blue trunks, just a shade darker than his own indigo fur; with his dense, hairy pelt, he had little need for clothing, except for the minimum modesty required. A large capital “X” adorned the buckle of a bright yellow belt.

  With Storm and Cyclops in tow, the Beast hopped nimbly through the lower level of the sprawling mansion that housed what was now called the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. Safely locked away from prying eyes, this section of the mansion had the feel of a high-tech research facility. Sterile white hallways connected with well-equipped laboratories, the ground floor of the Danger Room, and an emergency medical center capable of treating everything from radiation bums to bite wounds.

  “Certainly,” the Beast added, “the means to do so is readily at hand.”

  Cyclops nodded. “Cerebro,” he said tersely, leading the way to Professor X’s personal laboratory.

  At the center of the lab, connected to an impressive array of streamlined computer banks and monitors, was a helmet-shaped apparatus secured to the ceiling by two flexible steel cables. This was Cerebro, a cybernetic tracking system designed to locate and identify mutants throughout the world; nearly all of the X-Men had been initially recruited via Cerebro. If the device, the brainchild of Professor Charles Xavier, couldn’t find a missing mutant, then that mutant had gone to enormous efforts not to be found.

  Cerebro worked best, Storm knew, when used in conjunction with a powerful telepathic mind, such as Professor X’s or Jean Grey’s, but, in their absence, any one of those present should be able to use the device to confirm that Rogue was safely on her way home. After all, her unique mutant signature was already on file in Cerebro’s capacious memory.

  Bright Lady, Storm prayed, let our fears be unfounded. “Would you care to do the honors, Ororo?” the Beast asked, addressing Storm by her true name. His long arms reached up and pulled the helmet down to eye-level. “I believe you may have the most affinity to our absent compatriot.”

  “Very well,” she agreed. Although she and Rogue came from radically different backgrounds, she and the younger woman had indeed grown close over the years. Storm removed the stiff black headdress that rested upon her lustrous white hair, and placed the metallic helmet over her head. A blinking red sensor fell into place between her eyes, just above the bridge of her nose. It was a tight fit, but not uncomfortable. “You may proceed when ready.”

  “Just give me a second,” the Beast said, the sound of his voice muffled somewhat by the helmet covering her ears, “while I call up Rogue’s profile.” His enormous fingers manipulated a control panel with surprising dexterity, and Storm heard Cerebro hum to life. Cyclops looked on stiffly, unable to relax until he learned the truth. “There we go. Commence scanning now.”

  Storm closed her eyes and visualized Rogue, looking just as she had when Storm had last seen her: casually dressed in civilian attire and enthusiastic at the prospect of a carefree day in the city. Despite the cumbersome apparatus enclosing her skull, Storm did not feel at all cramped or confined. If anything, she felt the exact opposite: she could feel her awareness radiating outward beyond the walls of the Institute, sending out finely-attuned tendrils of thought that spread out for miles and miles in every direction, with herself at the center of an unfolding psionic web. The sensation was not unlike that of calling upon the wind and the rain, except that now she was searching for a single individual spirit instead of a compliant cloud or cold front. Wherever Rogue might have strayed to, she could not remain undetected for long.

  And yet, as the seconds rushed by, becoming minutes, doubts began to assail Storm. In theory, Rogue should have gone no further than Manhattan, merely a couple of hours away from the X-Men’s residence in Westchester County. Why then did she continue to elude the far-reaching sensitivities of Cerebro, which had been known to chart the emergence of an unknown mutant power even half a world away? Her mind was traveling at the speed of thought, yet Rogue remained beyond her reach.

  Where are you, my friend? What has become of you?

  Storm opened her eyes to see her fellow X-Men watching her with growing apprehension. Even the Beast’s natural ebullience appeared dampened by her continuing inability to find their missing friend.

  Finally, after many long minutes that felt like hours, the Beast shook his shaggy head and deactivated the device. The blinking sensor between her eyes switched off and Storm felt the extended feelers of her artificially-a
mplified consciousness withdraw back into her mind, grounding her within her physical body. She slowly lifted the helmet from her head and let the steel cables retract so that the headpiece ascended toward the ceiling once more.

  If only my fears could be lifted from me so readily, she thought mournfully.

  “It is no use,” she reported to Cyclops and the Beast, confirming what they no doubt already knew, “I could sense no trace of Rogue—anywhere upon the Earth.”

  //f” o. I hear this scream and I come running, and the w first thing I see is the puppets attacking the Witch— is it okay if I call her that?”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Iron Man said to the nervous security guard. The Avengers interviewed the man, a retired cop named Rodriguez, in the lobby of the folk art museum. Staffers and patrons looked on excitedly, whispering among themselves, as the armored Avenger, along with Captain America and the Vision, pursued their investigation of the Scarlet Witch’s apparent abduction. The Vision’s knowledge of Wanda’s itinerary had indeed led them to the museum—and to an increasingly bizarre mystery.

  Puppets? Iron Man thought. Wanda was ambushed by puppets?

  “ ’Course I didn’t know it was her at first,” Rodriguez continued, gulping uneasily as he spoke to the costumed heroes, “but then she said she was an Avenger and told me to get that other girl—I mean, young woman—out of there. I didn’t argue the point. I figured she knew what she was doing, especially after she started waving her hands around and all that weird stuff happened. Besides the puppets, I mean.” Despite the museum’s air conditioning, the guard wiped his forehead, remembering. “So, anyway, I made sure the other woman was safe, then hurried back to see if the Witch was okay. But when I got there, they were all gone. The Witch. The puppets. Everything.”