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They are not willing government agents. They are not always on the side of right. They are not a team.
They are not X-Factor.
Riding a flaming U-Haul truck like a rodeo cowboy as its crowbar wielding driver sped determinedly through oncoming, Manhattan rush hour traffic toward the front doors of the First Empire State Bank, and the high-flying Falcon occupied the driver’s three partners in the path of the swiftly approaching, rolling ball of fire--
--Black Marvel lived for this.
Another morning for the black-clad hero. Everything was a fog. His actions. The actions of others. Nothing fazed him. He wouldn’t let anything faze him. This was his job, and people’s lives depended on him, so he couldn’t let anything faze him. That was why he was so good at what he did.
Even as Wrecker briefly came to his senses and pulled the wheel in an attempt to steer clear of his partners, but only succeeded in turning the truck onto its passenger side, Black Marvel didn’t panic. He leapt into the air and landed on the curb. He didn’t feel his boots hit the ground. He didn’t feel the heat of the smoldering truck--his own handiwork. He didn’t hear the muffled klang! when the truck slid on a wave of sparks onto the sidewalk and leveled the armored Bulldozer. He didn’t flinch when Thunderball pulled away from Falcon and swung his wrecking ball at him.
No, he was on the ride that had begun many months ago in tragedy, and it would not end.
He let his body spin him out of its path. He extended his telescopic, titanium asp with a flick of his golden-gloved wrist. He moved faster than he noticed. He put Thunderball on the ground with three effective swings of his trusty weapon.
He savored the rush of another villain defeated.
“Watch your back, Bee-Em!” he heard Falcon shout from above.
He trusted the Falcon. He’d visited the renowned hero’s hideout. The two had swapped numbers. They’d found themselves on the trail of the same hood more than once in the past few weeks, just as Black Marvel had worked alongside other street patriots. Black Panther. Iron Fist. Daredevil. Spider-Man. He trusted them all, because they were like him. They were real heroes.
He spun on his heels and was greeted by the grimace of the charging, yellow-suited Piledriver. But something hampered the villain, and he stopped short of his stock-still quarry. It was that look in Black Marvel’s eyes. That brooding glare that had earned him a reputation in the superhero community. Apparently word had spread down the gutter, to the city’s rats.
The thump! of fist against skull reverberated through the frenzied street, and the unsuspecting Piledriver’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed limply to the sidewalk. The Falcon stood over him, massaging his overworked fist.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Black Marvel said, extending a gloved hand to the black hero.
“No prob, but we’re not done yet. The rest of the Wrecking Crew may be down for the count, but the Wrecker’s getting away.”
Black Marvel cocked his head, and his icey stare froze the street in the direction in which the unseen Wrecker had escaped. “You take the rooftops. I’ll smoke the crook out on foot.”
The Falcon patted Marvel’s shoulder in agreement and pushed himself into the air, letting his feathery, man-made wings carry him away over the storefronts and alleys. Black Marvel started down the sidewalk, but the vibrating pager attached to his belt buckle stopped him, and his heart sank. He glared down disgustedly at the pager’s digital display.
5
The fifth mission. The fifth mission for the United States government. The fifth mission that would send him after mutants for whom he had no regard--mutants he honestly wasn’t concerned with, especially when there were criminals like Wrecker running loose. The fifth mission that would hold his wife Jeannie’s life in the balance, for if, somehow, he were to fail on this mission, a government assassin’s bullet would make its home in her head; she would meet the same fate if he simply refused to heed the call. The fifth blasted mission that would take him from his job. He looked around at the surrounding bystanders, who regarded him with expectancy. He looked into the distant skyline, at the gliding hero above--the Falcon would be flying alone this morning. The fifth mission that would disappoint them all.
He wrapped an infuriated fist around the pager. They had no idea about disappointment.
The day Guido Carosella had come home from his strange journey through the Bermuda Triangle,* he’d asked Abigail Maggart--his friend Lorna’s roommate--out on a date. She’d accepted, though she plainly admitted that she wasn’t sure why. The next night, they’d had dinner at one of Lexington Avenue’s more trendy--and expensive--restaurants. Mere minutes into the date, it had become obvious that this was not Abigail’s scene. She’d informed Guido of this all night, and hadn’t spared his feelings. “I should have known you would do this to me,” she’d told him without emotion, though the overdramatic statement had clearly been meant to hurt him. Then she’d accepted his offer for another date the next night.
It had been Subway that next night. He’d wolfed down four foot-long subs, she’d picked at her veggie sandwich. This setting hadn’t suited her either. Over the next week, he’d taken her to every place from Elegante to the hot dog stand on the corner, and no matter where they went, there was no charming her. It wasn’t that he was a mutant--she could have cared less. It was something else. They’d held hands. They’d kissed! Still no luck. She’d say hateful things. She never laughed at any of his countless jokes. It was just her personality. He couldn’t explain it--in the two weeks, Abigail’s background had come out like boogers from a stuffy nose--excruciatingly slow--and none of it told him what would make her such a snob. Not that it mattered. Though she’d never admit it, she had to have been happy with him. Eleven dates in thirteen nights were proof of that.
And in the two week process, Guido had realized that this was the perfect girl. These had been trying months for him, what with his involvement in the government’s band of mutant-hunters, and his addiction to his heart medication. It was good to be able to talk to Abigail without having to worry about pleasing her, because that wasn’t possible. Sometimes opposites attract--sometimes they thrive on each other.
“Order number seven-oh-two!”
The Golden Arches this night. Guido handed the pimple-faced clerk his ticket and carried his tray through the bustling, grease-starved customers. His massive stature and bald head didn’t attract their attention--this was New York City, after all. He set the trayful of food on the tiny table, where Abigail waited. Painful as she made their outings seem, she’d always been sport enough to dress for the occasion. It was a black, hooded sweatshirt tonight, with her light, brown hair tied up in a bun, and her wee, sweat pants-covered legs pressed against her chest, her white sneakers resting on her creaky swivel chair. She looked best in black. It lent more credibility to the idea that she could jump from a bridge at any moment--the image that her pale face and large, moody features implied.
She took the measly order of fries that would sustain her waif-like figure, and he dumped his half-dozen Big Macs and McNuggets on the table. “I’m gonna go wrestle my snake before we eat,” he told her, gesturing toward the restroom.
“Must you announce it every time?” she asked, carelessly biting off the end of a grease stick.
“Nah, only when you’re around,” he muttered as he left the table.
Crack addicts shot up in the alley. Alcoholics drank in the closet. Teenagers drooled on porn under the bed sheets. Saints fans taped the games to watch when no one was around. And Guido Carosella, he popped pills in the john. It was quick and inconspicuous--it just so happened that he was alone this time, but it wouldn’t have mattered if anyone else was in the restroom--they’d have no idea what the pills were for, nor would they know that he took them three times a day, even though his heart had healed long ago. But if Abigail knew that he was addicted, well, that might have ruined the sweet deal he’d fallen into.
Pill on his tongue, a handful of sink water, and swallow. All done.
As he replaced the cap on the bottle and dropped the pills in the side pocket of his khakis, he heard a soft-toned bass from behind say, “Interesting.”
He turned and found Abigail leaning against the counter, arms crossed sternly.
“Er...who’s watching the food?” Guido stammered. Hey, strange things come out in moments of stress.
“You never told me you took medication,” she continued, ignoring his question.
“What are you doing in here, anyway?” he asked. Maybe if he placed the blame on her, turned the troublesome tables. It appeared that he’d been caught, but there may have been a way to salvage the charade.
“Someone once told me you can’t say you love someone until you’ve seen them use the restroom.”
“Huh?” The bumrush of confused anxiety was momentarily halted when Guido realized that Abigail stood curiously in the bathroom doorway. “Come here,” he implored, effortlessly lifting her stiff, seemingly weightless body. He carried her into a stall and set her on top of a toilet seat cover, then shut and locked the stall door. Relatively hidden together, he whispered, “Now, you snuck into the bathroom to watch me pee because...?”
“I told you. I love you,” she replied. She would have sounded the same if she’d said, “I told you. I have a third nipple,” Guido noted. Her mildly alarmed tone seemed out of place, but maybe it was just him.
“And...and you felt the need to prove this by supervising my bladder maintenance. Is this the normal custom in Stuck-Up Pixie Land?.”
“But you weren’t going to the bathroom. Why didn’t you tell me you were taking pills?”
Though he wasn’t sure how to respond, he was content to blubber his way out of his corner.
But she interrupted, “You’re in trouble. I know it. I’ve been there.”
“You have?” he asked. Somewhere in the back of his mind came the realization that this now ranked as their longest conversation.
“When I was thirteen, my family equated a bad attitude to mental illness, and had me sent to an institution.”
“You in a loony bin? Nahhhhhh!” Guido quipped out of discomfort, as he’d been known to do.
“This happened a few times, actually. The doctors shoved pills down my throat until I was ‘normal’. They had me in flower dresses and watching sitcoms and enjoying cookies and milk.”
“That’s how I feel when I take these! But it’s not just a mental thing--I feel the same way physically. I can’t feel the pain my mutant powers cause no more. I feel so normal!”
“The pills only provide the illusion of normalcy. There is no normal. There’s only you. You could take the pills your whole life, until you’re a walking pill. As long as you’re medicated, you’ll never be you. And I’ve got no respect for that.”
That was her way of telling him that if he didn’t lose the pills, he’d lose her. That scared him. She was right, though, and that scared him more. He had no business as a mutant anymore--he was tired of all the fighting, the steps forward and double steps backward in the name of The Dream. But as she’d told him, he had no business surrendering to the medication, either.
“So, what can I do?” he humbly asked of her unexpected wisdom.
“There must be some other way to purge yourself of your problem,” she told him.
And then, suddenly, it all made sense to him. The rest of his life, laid out in front of him like yellow highlighted directions on a road map. He kissed her cold, pouty lips, and smiled into her clear blue eyes. And then, his pager chimed.
5
Perfect timing. He never thought he’d say that about a mission, but this...well, if it worked out right, this would be his last mission.
“Ah yeah...oh yeah...” he smiled with cognizant pleasure. He patted Abigail’s arm and started out of the stall, his glow of joy glistening off the bathroom tile. Once out of the stall, he found an old tourist washing his hands, an appalled look on his face. Strangely disgusted by that glow, the old man scurried out of the bathroom as fast as his cane would take him.
“No, no, it wasn’t what you think...” Guido said to the shutting door as Abigail made her way out of the stall, with the first hint of a smile he’d ever seen her wear. Everything was going to work out.
So far, so good. Patricia Alcaraz had a job as a filing clerk at the Pleasantville Sheriff’s Department. She had two healthy, happy, kids--using the identification and documentation equipment around the station, she’d even made their adoptions look legal. She had friends--most remarkably, Sheriff Ned Barrett, considering the turbulent past she’d hidden from everyone in the sleepy town, save for her daughter Angela. She owned a three-story townhouse on a two acre estate, paid for with money acquired through those who would neither need it nor miss it. Patricia Alcaraz had a good life.
Sometimes, she’d even forget that Domino was a powerless mutant and reluctant tool of the government’s. More and more these days, she’d forget who Domino was.
Alone at the station, standing in a pool of paperwork, with her shoulders swallowed in the top drawer of a file cabinet, she was thankful for tonight. It beat hunting mutants by a long shot.
“You’re still here?” Ned Barrett asked. She poked her head out with a smile and saw him hanging his coat on the rack beside the front door. The Sheriff had returned from another needless patrol. Pleasantville made Mayberry look like Compton.
The rewards of policing a town like Pleasantville were apparent in the handsome sheriff. He’d held on to his dark, well-groomed hair--even his dark mustache showed no sign of age. He’d modestly divulged that his trim and tone form had come naturally. His boyish looks added to his faultless charm.
Patricia and Ned had gone out a few times since she’d moved to town, but there’d been nothing romantic. They had a bond, in that they felt like outcasts in their pristine environment. As such, they’d confided in each other. Ned had comfortably told the story of a thirty-eight year old widower and the father of a seventeen year old hellion. Patricia had no damning chapters, and so Ned knew all there was to know about the thirty-seven year old widow. Domino...she was a closed book gathering well-deserved dust. In a locked safe. Under the bed. In the basement.
“I told you to go home an hour ago, Mrs. Alcaraz,” Ned scolded jokingly.
“I’m pulling in all the overtime I can get,” she replied.
“Sure, like you need it!” He started a pot of coffee, and offered her a cup, and she accepted. “I’m a fool to pay you anything for filing that paperwork, seeing as how you’re the one who generated it in the first place,” he said.
She blushed at the mention of the FBI raid on her home weeks ago.* “It was all a ruse to overwhelm you with paperwork so that you’d have to hire me,” she chuckled.
“Your angel of a daughter makes my devil of a son happy--seems to keep him out of trouble, even! So I’d do all I can to make her divine mother happy.” He tensed at his half-joking confession.
Angela was a special daughter--a special person--Patricia thought. She only hoped that Brad Barrett’s infamous attributes and history had not influenced Angela.
She stepped away from the cabinet and took the freshly poured cup from Ned.
“It’s hot,” he warned.
“It’s coffee.” She took a sip, and smiled at his caring protectiveness.
“Beautiful night out,” he observed. He sauntered to the window to appreciate the breeze-blown spruces and moonlit night.
As he did, Patricia snuck a moment to appreciate him. She’d be relegated to Pleasantville for the foreseeable future, she thought with a bittersweet reverence, and he was the hand that reached out of the scrambled darkness of the life she used to know. Domino’s life. And, as much as she hated to admit it, a part of her missed that life. A fairly substantial part, despite the necessary precaution she took in oppressing that history. If Ned Barrett was to be the lone tether that merrily connected Patricia Alcaraz to Domino--sweet, charming Ned Barrett--well, maybe her luck hadn’t run out after all.
“Do you actually use a mirror when you trim your mustache?” she asked, walking resolutely to join him under the moonlight.
He patted his lip searchingly. “I shave in the shower. I miss a spot?”
“Here, let me get it,” she said in a hush, and her lips met his. He hadn’t expected it, but he didn’t fight it, either. An awkward moment later, he broke off.
He wore a look of confusion. “That was...let’s do it again!”
They did, for how long. Until a tormenting chirp startled them apart.
“You’re beeping,” Ned told her. He was nervous, and he felt for that imaginary, misfit hair.
“Yeah, must be Angela,” she sighed. She knew better.
5.
Yes, sometimes she forgot who Domino was. And sometimes the reminder was cruel.
by Sam Everett
OCTOBER, YEAR FOUR
Agents Shawn and Valerie Cooper made their way to the third floor briefing room of the FBI’s New York office, briefcases in hand. His steps were breezy and confident, as was his nature. Hers were curiously light and airy.
“You’re seeing Ed again, aren’t you?” Shawn detected with a devilish grin.
Valerie gave a playful slap on her younger brother’s arm. “That’s none of your business.” Then, an equally shameful grin crept across her lips. “Twice before breakfast.”
She and Major Ed Atkinson had divorced years before, but had stayed in touch, both professionally and on a personal basis. Following their meeting in Florida weeks earlier,* romance had re-sparked, however subtle it had been at the time. There’d been nothing subtle about it at seven this morning.
“What would Representative Primrose think of your...reunion?” Shawn asked her.
“What do I care?”
“Well...the distinguished gentleman is our boss. But more than that, there’s a good chance that Ed’s your designate.”
“So?”
Shawn chuckled at her naiveté. “So, I’m saying maybe it’s not a good idea to get romantically involved with a person that Primrose could have offed if our merry mutants fail one of their tasks.”
His words still seemed to fall short of her understanding. “First, we don’t even know for sure if Ed’s my designate--just like we don’t know who yours is. Second, let’s just say I find some other putz in a bar and fall in love with him. What’s to stop Primrose from making that person my designate?”
“Whatever you say, Sis.”
They stopped outside the door of the briefing room. Shawn slipped her compact from her purse and ran discerning fingers over his close-cut brown hair, then around his clean-shaven baby face. “How do I look?” he asked her, straightening his suit jacket, eyeing his glistening shoes.
She chortled and started into the briefing room. “You don’t even like our ‘merry mutants.’ You don’t like any mutants. Some of them are my friends. So why is it that I practically roll out of bed and come to work, and you’re always worried about your appearance around them?”
“Because you’re not as cute as I am.”
Val rolled her eyes, then checked her watch. “You reckon Agent Jackson’s late?”
“I reckon he is,” Shawn replied. “We’ll start without him, hope he shows up.”
She opened the door, revealing the mercenaries seated around a large, oak table, their shared, gloomy expressions reflected on its surface. Mystique, Black Marvel, Domino, Polaris, Guido Carosella--the self-styled Strong Guy--and today, the neural chip-controlled Sabretooth. For them, the start of every mission must have been like the first day of school, Shawn mused.
The bell had rung. Class was in session. “Morning, class,” he chided. He set his case down at the head of the table, opened it, and pulled out the mission folder. “For your improved performance during your last two missions, we’re sending you on a field trip to sunny California.”
Guido raised his hand. “Can I pass this time? I peel real easily.”
“Nice try. I’m sure Agent Cooper will let you borrow her sunblock,” Shawn replied, gesturing toward his sister, who was busy reviewing her copy of the folder. Of all the blasted mutants, he probably liked Guido the most. More than the very human--and very uptight--Black Marvel, in fact. None had earned his trust, however, and none ever would.
“Strange situation out in the City of Angels,” he continued. “A band of mutant drug-runners have appropriated a mansion and the surrounding estate. For what purposes, we don’t know.”
Val closed her folder. “Looks like its your job to deliver the eviction notice and return the property to its rightful owner.” Her tone was much more inviting than her brothers--as long as the two had worked together on this project, she’d felt the need to compensate for her brother’s smug, patronizing attitude toward the mutants.
“Why do I get the feeling the eviction notice involves explosions and an overabundance of testosterone-friendly quality time?” Polaris said.
Val cocked her head apologetically.
“Sounds fun,” Victor Creed--Sabretooth--snorted.
“Just who is the owner?” Mystique asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Shawn replied. At least, that’s what Representative Primrose had told him and Val at their briefing. It appeared that the mercs valued that response as much as the Coopers had.
“Okay, then who are the dealers?” Polaris asked. “Or does that not matter either?”
“Can’t say,” Val replied, reviewing the mission statement carefully. “But we don’t have a positive ID. L.A.P.D. hasn’t been able or willing to get close enough to the place to get a read.”
“Why not?” Black Marvel asked.
“Cuz they’re the L.A.P.D.” Guido replied.
Val wondered how long it would take for the mercs to tire of the run-around and make note of the slippery details of the mission. But the door at the back of the room opened, and the arrival of the visitor would not give them the chance to say anything.
“Agent Jackson, glad you could make it,” she said.
He lifted his eyebrows and gave a curt wave. “Sorry I’m late. I got delayed by some lolly-gagging security guard downstairs.” Jackson was a handsome black man. He sported a shaved head and a goatee. He was taller than anyone else in the room, save for Creed. He wore a bright suit, no tie. He carried a stiff stance the others let themselves guess about. A briefcase in his hand more expensive than both of the Coopers’ combined. A gleaming, gold ring around his pinky. His tone indicated his frustration at the guard. His suppressed drawl had him born in the south; his file told the Coopers that he was from Virginia.
“This is Agent Jackson,” Shawn announced. “He’s from the Drug Enforcement Agency. Since your targets are drug-dealers, we thought it best that you work alongside someone with experience in that field. Michael Jackson, these are the government’s secret, mutant-hunting mercenaries. Emphasis on ‘secret’.”
“Wait--Michael Jackson?” Guido confirmed, trying to hide a smile.
“Yeah,” Jackson replied, trying to form a smile. He began to turn red.
“That’s...that’s funny,” Polaris giggled.
“Like the singer,” Creed noted humorously.
“Yeah. The singer,” Jackson mumbled.
“Bet you’re a real thriller, eh?” Guido mused sardonically. “Real bad. Real dangerous. Too bad for the likes of us.”
“Yeah, why don’t you beat it?” Creed said. “Just beat it.”
The table erupted in childish laughter. Everyone held their ribs, except Black Marvel. Even Val broke her composure, just a little. Jackson shifted nervously. He tried to laugh, it seemed.
“Nah, we’re just messing around,” Guido said diplomatically. “You must get that all the time.”
Jackson seemed relieved that the others had shown some understanding. “Oh, yeah. What do you think the delay downstairs was all about?”
“No kidding,” Guido nodded. “You think ‘Michael Jackson’’s bad? I once ran with a guy named Jack Schidt.”
“Whew!” Jackson sympathized. “That’s rough.”
“Sure, but you don’t know Jack Schidt.”
The squeal of laughter filled the room again. At Jackson’s expense. Again.
Val shook her head at their sudden, comical delight. She rapped at the oakwood to spare Jackson some dignity, but also to interrupt the eerie image before her; Mystique, Strong Guy, they were sharing a laugh with Victor Creed!
“And now the bad news,” Shawn Cooper announced.
“Wait, what was the good news?” Polaris asked.
“What I told you before.”
“You’re supposed to give us the option of receiving the bad news before the good news,” Guido informed him. “It’s standard protocol. I’d have thought Val would have taught you some conversational etiquette.”
“Look at it this way: there is no good news. Would you like to tell them, Agent Jackson?”
“You go ahead,” he said, embarrassed.
“Well, during each of Agent Jackson’s last three busts with the DEA, he’s lost at least one partner.”
The mercs glanced up at Jackson with a cautious fascination. Like staring down the barrel of a fully-loaded and cocked gun, his heavy, looming finger around the trigger. He tried to ignore their piercing eyes of condemnation.
A clumsy silence resounded until Polaris said what everyone else was thinking: “So, basically, one of us mercs will die on this mission.”
How to respond to that? How to confirm it? There was almost no denying it. So there was no answer. The meeting ended on that note.
One of the mercs walked out of that room for the last time.
One cross-country flight later, the contingent stood along a concrete retaining wall at the end of a cul de sac, the smell of sawdust and stirred dust abundant throughout the unfinished housing tract. The sun was setting, the construction crews had gone home. The sparse presence of the Los Angeles Police Department served as the mercs’ sole company, though the cops didn’t do much serving. What could they do against drug-running mutant menaces? The Agents Cooper would tell the mercs that this mission was prime justification for their existence. Not that the mercs would buy that line.
Fifty feet below and away from the retaining wall, down a grassy hillside, lost in a valley of palm and ash trees, sat an imposing-yet-serene three-story mansion on four acres of land. Intricately designed mortar pillars flanked wrought iron fences that surrounded the whole of the property. A lavish lawn adorned with a fountain and any number of colorful flowers provided a view for visitors motoring up the gravel driveway that led to the front gate, which boasted two letters and a potent flame embossed across a golden placard.
It could have been a musician’s home, or an actor’s getaway. Indeed, many from both professions had driven through those gates, but that gleaming placard read “HC”--that, and the ominous demeanor of the golden flame told the mercs whose house this was.
Mutants across the board had encountered distress from the deceptive Hellfire Club. Between the ever-present internal strife and the various schemes of the Club’s Black King, Sebastian Shaw, the elitist club proved one of the more dangerous elements of the mutant race. It was no wonder their involvement had not been divulged by the mercs’ superiors--some of the mercs might not have agreed to the mission.
Strangely, the realization that the Hellfire Club was embroiled in the matter provided some consolation for the pure-hearted among the mercenaries--at least no innocents were being subjected to the government’s whims.
That silver lining was hideously tattered the second they realized that whoever had besieged the mansion must have been more threatening than its infamous former occupants.
“The Club seems suited to your tastes, Mystique,” Polaris observed. “How come you never vied for membership?”
Her scarlet hair dancing in the evening breeze, Mystique rested her foot on the retaining wall and peered down on the estate through her pair of binoculars. “I tried in the past, but they only take the pretty ones. My pigment never got me past the front door.”
“Too bad you’re not a shape-shifter,” Guido teased. “Hey, waitaminute--”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” she explained. “I’m too old and too jaded to care anymore. They can have their club.”
“I’ve got one,” Jackson said. He was out of his suit and wore a DEA jacket over a standard issue, bulky, Kevlar vest. He, too, spied the grounds with binoculars. “Four-armed guard posted at the far wall.”
Mystique focused her binoculars on that position. “I see him. That’s Forearm.”
“What about short, dark, and scruffy on the other side?”
“That’s Wildchild.”
“Kyle?” Polaris asked, remembering fondly her former X-Factor teammate. “How did he get involved with these folks?”
“There’s Marrow,” Mystique continued. “She’s stationed near the entrance, with somebody else. That’s three guards.”
“You don’t know the last mutant, but his name is Fuse,” a malevolent voice informed them. Her words were hardly heard over the din of the frenzied officers in the distance who gawked at the woman who hovered above the mercs. They looked up and found the source of the commotion.
“Selene,” Domino gasped. Biting confirmation that this was, indeed, the Hellfire Club’s domain.
“In the flesh,” the mutant sorceress greeted. Remarkably, her black mane and flowing dress hung still, despite the evening gusts of Santa Ana’s. “No, no, that isn’t true. You’re seeing an astral projection of myself. An astral warning, more accurately.”
“Why are we here? I’m sure you can take care of the problem by yourself,” Mystique seethed.
“You flatter me, mortal, but recent skirmishes have left me languished and ailing.* I’m afraid I was not present at the time of the siege, nor were any other members of our Inner Circle, but I’ve been enlisted by Sebastian Shaw to see to its end. My first course of action was to inform your superiors.”
“Great, so we’re not only doing the government’s dirty work, but this witch’s, too,” Domino sighed.
“If you weren’t at the house during the takeover, then how do you know that drug-dealers are responsible?” Polaris asked.
“I don’t. I simply hoped to ensure as much offensive presence as could be provided.” She glared down at Jackson. “It’s my luck that your government would send one agent. We’ll all have to make do, I suppose.”
“So who’s responsible for the takeover?” Black Marvel growled.
“That...I won’t tell you,” she cryptically replied. “If you knew, you might underestimate him. And that...would be a mistake at this juncture.” She paused, then erupted in a scalding tone. “The warning: You have one hour to infiltrate the mansion and apprehend its unholy occupants. After that time, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands, and that won’t be desirable for anybody.”
“Hold the phone, woman,” Jackson said, glancing about in confusion. “This is my mission, and I’m not gonna be ordered around by some civilian freak, whether you own the place or not.”
“I’m anything but a civilian, mortal. I’m a sorceress of nigh-limitless power. You would do well to watch your tongue in my presence.”
“Yeah, well, you’d do well to kiss my hairy, black--” Domino put a swift hand over Jackson’s foul mouth and quieted him with her stern scowl.
Selene’s amused countenance began to fade into the cotton clouds above. “One hour, mortals.”
She was gone. The scene began to calm, slowly.
At a dead snail’s pace, in Jackson’s case. “What’s the deal, mutie?!” he complained, brushing Domino’s hand aside.
“I probably just saved your life, Gloved One.”
The two fuming agents blistered each other with their fiery gazes.
A tense silence ensued, until Strong Guy broke out in song.
“’Dom-i-no is not my lov-er...’”
On a platform of magnetic energy, they descended from the retaining wall, over the far-off hillside and the treetop barrier. Polaris. Strong Guy. Black Marvel. Mystique.
Spotting the indiscreet arrival, the guards converged at the back of the estate--the point of the mercs’ attack--in preparation. Forearm, the multi-limbed powerhouse. Wildchild, the feral, cat-like young mutant. Marrow, the seditious young girl who used her secreted bone strips as deadly weapons. Fuse, the Wakanda-born mutant lightning rod.
It was on.
Black Marvel leapt from the unseen platform onto Wildchild’s waiting form. He pummeled the mutant with his asp. Wildchild struggled. He hit him some more.
Fuse nearly intercepted the black-cowled hero with a bolt of electricity, but Polaris lifted the villain into the air, attached him to the gates surrounding the mansion.
Strong Guy welcomed Forearm’s attack, and was more delighted when Marrow escaped Mystique’s laser rifle fire and joined in.
“You’re sure giddy tonight, Guido” Mystique observed as she dodged one of Fuse’s attacks.
For once, Strong Guy didn’t say anything. He simply knocked both opponents to the ground, then eagerly waited to take on the rest of the world, it seemed.
Polaris spoke over Wildchild’s gnarled shrieks and into the comm-link attached to her jacket collar. “Unit Two, the distraction worked. You’re clear...” Marrow twisted out of Strong Guy’s assault and leapt for her. Polaris barely ducked in time, and Marrow landed face first in the dirt. “...enough.”
The guards quickly recovered--faster than they should have, the mercs lamented.
Round Two.
Domino, Agent Jackson, and Sabretooth had rushed down the hill, through the man-made creek at its base. Through the rockbed. Through the trees. The front gates were in view--the golden flame shone in the starless night.
“Be on alert, Unit Two,” Mystique warned over the comm-link, “Wildchild’s just darted off toward your position. He’s onto the plan. Kid’s near-mindless these days--I didn’t think he had it in him.”
Domino looked beside her, timidly, at Sabretooth. “We’ve got protection.”
Raaaaargh!
Though the inhuman growl put everyone into a defensive stance, when Wildchild glided down from the canopy of trees, they were caught off-guard. He could see in the night, and he was awful quick in his feral state.
Attributes he shared with one other mutant.
Before Wildchild could pounce, Sabretooth tackled him, swatted him into a tree trunk.
“You kids do yer jobs,” Creed growled, staring intently at his enraged prey. “His guts are mine.”
Domino nearly warned the mutant murderer not to kill Wildchild, but she’d fought him on the point on missions past. Even if she were successful in deterring Creed this time, there would be a next time. If Wildchild didn’t die tonight, someone else would meet Creed’s inborn fury the next day. And she would be on Creed’s blacklist. Frankly, the young mutant’s life wasn’t that important to her.
She followed Agent Jackson past the remaining greenery, down to the driveway, and toward the gates. He used his Glock-9 to disable the nearby surveillance cameras before they spotted the two intruders. Then, she pulled her various tools from the pouch at her side and began picking the gates’ electronic locks.
Five minutes later, they were on the mansion’s grounds. Down a corridor of rose bushes, past a rock lawn--its colors were lost to the night--and up to the covered front porch.
“Should we knock?” Domino quipped.
“Hee-hee!”
God, Michael Jackson even laughed like...him, Domino shivered with fright. Poor guy.
Her fingers worked more felonious magic, faster than before under the discouragingly bright porch lamp, and the double doors swung open slowly.
“Unit One, we’re in,” she reported.
“Nice crib,” Jackson said, his pistol prepped in hand, his wary eyes jumping from one corner of the vast corridor to the other.
Black and white tile peered up at them ominously. Pure white statues gazed in all different directions, set against wood panel walls. Chandeliers lit the twenty-yard length of the manor. Under its normal Hellfire Club occupation, this place would be bustling with house guests and entrenched in a lurid aura. And security would be tight.
Fortunately for Domino and Jackson, security had been run off in the takeover.
Yet...
“Why do I feel like we’re being watched?” Domino wondered aloud.
“Get off it,” Jackson said rather harshly, as if to hide his own paranoia beneath a domineering mask, “it’s just the portraits and statues.”
“Let’s head upstairs--I’m sure these guys know we’re here, and they’d have the upperhand if they could attack us from above.”
“Yeah, friggin’ brilliant,” Jackson mocked. “Woman, please! These fools already invaded this whole spread and kicked everyone out. You think they’re gonna hide upstairs? No. They’re gonna be right here, on the first floor, waitin’ for us to fall into their trap.”
Domino rolled her eyes. “Then what’s your suggestion, Agent?”
“We stay right where we’re at.”
If not for the sake of secrecy, she would have laughed out loud. His reasoning was an obvious excuse not to tread further into danger. She was quickly learning that Jackson was a born government employee put in an authority position--giving orders in a moment, but scared to actually do something.
“Why do I feel like a gynecologist right about now?” she teased.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve got two kids at home that I’m determined to see again, but I also know that we don’t leave here until this mission is accomplished. Plus, we’ve only got an hour to get this done. So grow some grapefruits and let’s go upstairs, or like Creed said, beat it.”
When she saw the sudden rage in his dark eyes, and his bronze tone burned red, she realized that her earlier observation was wrong. It wasn’t a natural character flaw that made Michael Jackson such a jerk--it was his very name.
“Make another crack, lady, and...” his fury choked his threat.
The man had a chip on his shoulder. Another crack would be unwise, Domino noted.
“Let’s...let’s just split up,” she suggested, uneasy. “You stay down here, I’ll head upstairs.” She began to sweat. Was it just her, or was the room getting warmer?
It wasn’t just her.
A screaming ball of glowing fire shot her backward, short of the doorway. Two more, and Jackson was nearly knocked unconscious on the checkered tile. Their fiery assailant marched down the corridor until he stood over their prone bodies. His dark eyes were brooding. He wore a ruthless grin unbecoming of him.
Then again, Sunspot had never been the most delightful young man.
“It’s good to see you again, Domino,” the mutant aflame addressed her. “You and your friend are now prisoners of Shinobi Shaw and the Mutant Liberation Front. It’s your lucky day.”
To be continued...
A review this time, from the writer of DOCTOR STRANGE, MAN-THING, and X-MEN...Shorty himself, Will Short!
-Marvel Fanfare #103 (featuring X-Factor and the Knights Templar), "Oh, What a Knight"
Written by Sam Everett
Overview: Combining one of the stranger X-teams assembled (the second X-Factor was always strange, and this team is very close to that line-up) and the mysterious Bremuda Triangle seems like a stroke of genius, and for most of the issue, it works that way. Strong Guy's attitude gets a little campy at times, but he's still a fun character and he and Tiffany react to each other well. In fact, Tiffany is especially well-written, with her digression and break down. I didn't know much about the character before but I liked reading her in this context. The whole team dynamic is like it should be: their a government team, so now everyone gets along, but they just do their job anyway. With strong female personalities like Polaris, Domino, and Mystique all around, I thought that they would clash and overdo it, but so far they haven't gotten to a bad point with me at all. With the Knights, once again, I don't know very much, and even though they were written finely, I sort of had to go on my instincts and imagination...but hey, that's what reading without pictures is about. The mystery surrounding their transportation and placement is finally solved, and I enjoy seeing the future Lighthouse, but to solve everything that's been brought up, I think Sam had to fit kind of a lot into this single issue. Still, I'm glad someone besides Warren Ellis is putting Nate Grey to good use...
Quick Opinion: A little long, but the characters' personalities shine through and the story is original and interesting. Maybe the team will get their own book, someday?
Over-All Rating: 3.5 out of 5 Shorties
Thanks for the review, Will! An X-Factor ongoing is possible down the road, sure...but don’t hold your breath. For now, just think of MARVEL FANFARE as unX-Factor’s home!
Next issue: Selene makes her move, and a mercenary dies!
Contact Sam Everett at RooMil@aol.com
Sam Everett (7/21/2000)--Silkee Productions