X-Force

• a week ago, washington d.c.

“Look sharp blondie. You’ve got a visitor.”

Valerie Cooper looks up as her cell door slides open. She quickly gets up from her cot at the sight of her visitor.

Creed smiles at Valerie. “Please, don’t get up on my account frail. I prefer the sight of you crying into yer pillow, all pitiful and such. What were ya crying about when I came in? Yer brother or yer boyfriend? Or did Primrose kill somebody that I hadn’t heard about?”

Valerie Cooper wipes her eyes, wincing only a little at the pain coursing through her blackened right eye. It isn’t enough that she’s in this hell hole for doing the world a favor, but to have Victor Creed see her like this...

“I was crying over my brother,” Valerie states, trying to hold onto her dignity. “I’m still in shock over Edmond’s death. Hell, for all I know that was just something Primrose said to push me over the edge.”

“Looks like it worked too,” Creed replies with a smirk. “An’ it was all a waste too. The good Rep’s set to make a full recovery. Ya should’ve aimed fer the head.”

Valerie fumes, and blinks back another set of tears, this time tears of anger. Of course. Primrose should have been expecting her to lose it and come after him, and he would have been prepared. So she’d lost it, tried to kill him, and for what? Edmond and Shawn are still dead, and X-Factor’s no longer in her hands.

“What the hell are you doing here Creed?” Cooper asks boldly. With the leash Creed’s usually on, there’s no way he’d be allowed into a government holding facility, especially alone.

Creed’s grin widens. “Simple frail. It’s only polite that you meet your replacement as X-Factor’s baby-sitter.”

The blood in Cooper’s veins go cold. No, this cannot be happening. “You can’t mean...”

“That’s right girlie. I got promoted ta yer job.”

• several nights before, washington d.c.

Lying in his hospital bed, Representative Primrose jerks his head in the direction of the window. The curtains are billowing in a breeze, but he remembers seeing the nurse lock it.

“Wh-who’s there?” Primrose asks loudly. His right hand fumbles over the call-button, pressing it rapidly.

Victor Creed steps out of the shadows, a smile on his face and a playful glint in his eyes. “Don’t bother Mickey. I’m a hired killer, remember? Cutting the victim off from rescue is standard procedure.”

Mickey P. Primrose looks up at Creed with defiant eyes that hide a trace of fear. “Are you here to finish what Cooper started then? Unlikely Sabretooth. The device we implanted you with ensures my protection against you.”

“I got no beef with you Mick,” Creed replies. Slowly circling Primrose’s bed, Creed runs a clawed finger along several of the wires and tubes hooked up to Primrose. “So, one of the Agents Cooper decided ta plug ya, eh? Couldn’t’ve been Val. Besides her brother, she’s got an ex-hubby to worry about.”

“Edmond Atkinson was found dead the morning of my attack. I told Valerie when she confronted me after finding her brother’s body.”

Creed tsks. “Even fer a politician, yer an idiot. ‘Less maybe you had a reason to be the confident piece of trash you are? You got a dirty little secret, Mr. Member of the House Committee of Mutant Affairs? Bullet-proof skin? A healing factor? A little mind-trick ta make Val think she was wasting ya while she was really just taking her frustrations out on a portrait of ol’ George?”

“Nothing so glamorous animal,” Primrose replies. “Being in the position I am in, I’ve become the target of numerous attacks. For that reason, I’ve opted to wearing government-standard body armor beneath my suit.” Primrose rolls his eyes in pain. “Though I’m afraid it didn’t allow me to leave unscathed.”

“Now ain’t that a shame,” Creed says, lowering his hand over the sheet covering Primrose’s mid-section. “Yer own fault though, killing everybody Val was close to. Her brother an’ her lover in the same day. If it’d been me, there wouldn’t have been enough of you left to fill a thimble.”

“Yes, Shawn Cooper’s death was unfortunate,” Primrose whispers. “But it wasn’t on my orders. No doubt he’d been killed after Edmond by a third party, with the reason being to drive Valerie over the edge. I knew she loved her brother more. I never would have expected her to come after me over her ex-husband’s death, if for nothing more than fear for her brother’s life. I know better than to waste such an advantage.”

“I’m sure you do Mickey,” Creed says. He lightly presses a finger against the sheet, and gives a light chuckle at Primrose’s restrained groan. “Heh, don’t hold back on me Mickey. Let me know how much it hurts.”

“Uhn...gra....argh!” Primrose finally cries out. Laughing, Creed lets off on the pressure a little.

“Wh-what do you want, you animal?” Primrose gasps, his voice tremoring with pain.

“One Cooper is dead,” Creed growls. “An’ the other is locked up fer trying ta blow yer ass away. You need somebody else in charge o’ yer little mutant mercs. Let’s just say I’m submitting my name fer review.”

Primrose manages to bark a small laugh through the agony he is going through. “Y-you? X-Factor is falling apart as it is. Putting you in charge would be tantamount to disconnecting a dying man’s life support!”

“Funny you should put it like that,” Creed rumbles. He runs his clawed finger along Primrose’s IV. A long thin tear appears on the tube, with fluid swiftly oozing out. Primrose eyes this, shaking. Creed licks the fluid off his finger and smiles at Primrose. “Not that I’m giving you a choice or anything Mick, but putting me in charge’d be in yer best interests. In more ways’n one.

“Take f’instance where we’ve been operatin’. What’s the point of limiting our missions to the US? What we’re doing is illegal anyway. Mutants’re everywhere Primrose. Genosha, China, Russia; everywhere. We’re a natural resource Mickey. It’s time you made the most of it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Sabretooth,” Primrose says. “We don’t have the manpower to operate on that large a scale. It’d be impossible to control so many mutants properly, and-”

“’Course we can,” Creed cuts in. “I’ve been with something similar Mickey, remember? Just put me in complete control, answerable only t’ you. I can put together a world-wide intelligence network to discover and pinpoint activity, as well as answer this activity with field-troops in a matter of hours. I’m talking about several small teams, each specializing in espionage, containment, elimination, an’ recruitment, with each o’ the current members in charge o’ each particular team.”

Creed leans over Primrose, baring his teeth in a vicious smile. “But I’m getting off-track here. It’s very simple Mick, leavin’ me in charge o’ X-Factor’ll maximize their effectiveness. Gimme a few months, an’ I can guarantee influence over at least twenty percent o’ the mutant population.”

Primrose looks up at Creed, weighing his options. It would take time to find a proper replacement for the Agents Cooper, and Creed’s proposal appears sound. Of course, there is always the chance of Creed’s betrayal, but Primrose is prepared for that situation. There is always the implant, after all.

Primrose extends his hand. “Mr. Victor Creed, congratulations on your promotion as head of Project: X-Factor.”

Smiling, Creed accepts Primrose’s hand. “You won’t regret it, Mickey.”

“No,” Valerie Cooper states viciously. “You’re a killer Creed. You’re worse than an animal, you’re a cold, sadistic killer! Even Primrose isn’t demented enough to put a thing like you in charge.”

Creed’s only response is to chuckle with amusement. “Ya ferget frail, I’m also a military man. Primrose may be a bureaucratic pain in the ass, but he recognizes talent.” He gives Valerie a smarmy smile. “So don’t worry yer pretty self. While yer rotting in here, completely unacknowledged by yer government, I’ll be in charge of X-Factor. An’ trust me, they’re in good hands.”

As Creed walks out of Valerie Cooper’s cell, he turns his head and gives her a smarmy smile. “An’ another thing, thanks fer the compliment. I’ve worked hard to maintain that image. Glad it’s being noticed.”

Creed strides out of the cell and down the corridor. The cell bars slide back into place. Valerie Cooper is alone in her cell, with nothing to keep her company save for her worst nightmares come reality.

Her ex-husband and lover is dead, murdered by Primrose as punishment for her failure to control X-Factor. Her baby brother is dead, killed by an unknown party in a successful attempt to drive her over the edge. Primrose survived her attempt to kill him, leaving him free to continue with his inhuman plans while she is out of the picture permanently. And now Victor Creed, Sabretooth, is in charge of a government-run militia of mutant mercenaries.

Valerie Cooper collapses back onto her cot, her tears flowing freely.

• present day, burkittsville woods

Creed rubs the animal-minded Gibney’s head, this time affectionately. Somehow, during the course of Creed’s talk, Gibney calmed down dramatically.

“Yeah yeah,” Creed murmurs with annoyance as Gibney rubs against his leg. “There’s a good dog-boy. Now where was I? Oh yeah, the folks you’ll be working with. I don’t think you’ve met Domino. She was the frail gettin’ killed an’ resurrected while my teammates an’ I beat the snot out of you an’ yer friends. Heh, she’s probably the easiest merc to control right now. The stupid bitch has a couple o’ adopted brats, as well as a bunch of friends in this nice, disgusting town she lives in.”

• pleasantville

“As we give,” Father Donahue preaches before his congregation, “Let us pray for those souls not with us today. Dear Carol MarCarthy continues her long battle with breast cancer...”

As Father Donahue gives his prayers and condolences to those absent members of his congregation, the collection plates are passed through the pews. One plate in particular is passed to three individuals seated in the fifth pew on the far left.

“Brad, put that money back!” Sheriff Ned Barrett hisses to his son in a low voice.

“I’m just trying to make change,” Brad Barrett whispers in his defense.

“Not with church money!” Ned whispers harshly. “Now put the money back and pass the plate along!”

Grumbling under his breath, Brad tosses the two dollar bills back with his fiver and passes the plate along to Angela Alcaraz, aka. Angela Campbell. Accepting the plate, Angela takes out the envelope her ‘mother’, Patricia had given her. Setting this down amidst the bills, coins, and other envelopes on the collection plate, and passes it on to Ned Barrett.

As he places several bills on the plate, the Sheriff of Pleasantville notices a thin red streak on the back of Patricia’s envelope, right on the seal. Holding the plate a moment longer, Ned grins and leans to whisper to Angela. “Must be your mom’s not too sick, Angela, if she’s still taking the time to put on lipstick.”

Angela turns to Ned with a surprised look on her face. Then she notices the red streak on the envelope and gives a frown, shaking her head. “No, Mr. Barrett, that’s...my mom’s blood. She cut her lip licking the envelope.” Angela bites her own lip, holding back laughter Ned imagines.

Brad looks over, a grin on his face. “Man, that’s rich. I swear Angela, your mom’s got the worst luck in all of Pleasantville!”

“That’s enough Brad,” Ned whispers, though he’s fighting a smile himself. “It could have happened to anybody. Everybody has a run of bad luck sometimes.”

“I guess so,” Angela agrees. “She’d had a long run of good luck several months ago, I guess she was probably due.”

“-And let us pray for Ms. Patricia Alcaraz,” Father Donahue continues, his voice carrying throughout the church hall. “Who has become the first victim of what will apparently be an early flu season. I urge you all to take the necessary precautions against this unforeseen event.”

Somehow, Angela doesn’t think anybody else will get the flu for the next few months. Patricia Alcaraz, or Domino, is just experiencing some more bad luck.

“Then there’s that hero-wannabe Black Marvel,” Creed snarls, scratching Gibney behind the ear. “Standard case of a war vet gone nutso. The guy gets some freaky weapon, an’ he thinks he can take on anybody. I can’t figure out why, but I’m actually starting to like the useless little runt.”

• new york city

Troy Malone parks his 1978 Oldsmobile in front of the church, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles are white. While he’s out protecting the innocents of the night, and doing the government’s bidding to keep her alive, she has the nerve to keep doing this.

When he gets home, all he wants to do is eat his hot meal and go to sleep. How can he possibly do that when he comes home to find a cold dinner and a note from Jeannie saying she’s out ‘talking’ with Pastor Marks. Troy Malone, the vigilante Black Marvel, is no fool. And he’s not about to let that ungrateful bitch get away with making him look like one.

Kicking the car door open, Troy starts to reach for the titanium asp sitting under his seat, but stops himself. No, not unless he’s in uniform. Not for personal business.

Slamming his car door shut, Troy Malone strides towards the church doors, armed only with his fists and his fury. He throws the large church doors open with such force that they swing against the outer walls with cracking impact.

Troy steps into the sacred church, searching it with eyes virtually devoid of sanity. The church appears empty, however it is illuminated by the pale light of candles. Someone must still be here, to watch over the candles.

Troy’s eyes focus on the confessional an instant before he moves towards it. Of course, where better to ‘talk’, than in a private room such as the confessional.

His hand reaching for the handle, Troy hears the faint sound of his wife Jeannie’s voice. He hurls the door open.

“Ahhh!” Jeannie Malone screams in surprise. She is alone in the small compartment, and had been kneeling next to the window. “Troy? Wha-what...you can’t come in here!” She cries.

“Come on Jeannie,” Troy barks out, grabbing her arm roughly. “You’re coming home with me. Now!”

As Troy drags his wife out of the confessional, the neighboring door opens to reveal the young Pastor Marks. “Mr. Malone please, this is a holy ceremony you interrupt,” the Pastor pleads. “If your wife does not finish cleansing her soul and take the required penance, the consequences to both you and herself are-”

“Your little religion and its consequences don’t amount to a hill of beans!” Troy Malone snaps. He lets go of his wife’s arm, causing her to fall to the floor roughly. “I’m taking my wife out of here, and if I can help it she’ll never be back. If you want to argue with me Pastor,” Troy states while stepping in close to Pastor Marks. “Then please do so.”

Pastor Marks holds up his hands in a peaceful, and somewhat fearful, gesture. “Mr. Malone, I understand that your life of violence has taken you far from your faith. I understand that you rely on more violence to wrestle with your inner demons, but-”

Pastor Marks is harshly interrupted by a vicious backhand dealt by Troy Malone. Knocking Pastor Marks to the floor, he turns to a rising Jeannie angrily. “How much did you tell him?” He yells, his fists clenched. Taking a step towards her, Troy raises his fist. “What goes on between us is our business, you bitch! I’m not about to get judged by anybody, least of all your friend here!”

“No!” Pastor Marks implores from the floor. “You must not do violence in a house of God!”

Pausing, Troy Malone turns to look down at Pastor Marks, rage in his eyes. “You’re the one that wanted to get involved in this, Pastor. Maybe it’s time to received some first-hand knowledge.”

“Cripes, if there’s anybody I’d be spooked about, it’d be Mystique,” Creed admits to Gibney. The Wildchild is back with his head against the ground, his time with Creed’s large foot pressed down against it’s side. The leg-rubbing had started to become something more, and Creed isn’t into that.

“When I first met Raven,” Creed continues. “She got the better o’ me. Seduced me fer a one-night stand, gave me the lay of a lifetime, an’ took off with a kid I never knew I had till recently. Bitch probably thought she’d end up raising a killing machine.” Creed smiles. “Turned out she was right. Just wasn’t one she could control. A little rabid dog that had to be put down, just like his old man. I’m just sorry it wasn’t me who did the deed.”

Finishing his cigarette, Creed tosses the butt into Gibney’s hair. “Mystique’s a sadistic, manipulative bitch, pure and simple. If I don’t like ya, I just gut ya and end it. Well, I might have some fun with yer loved ones first, but that’s as far as I’d go. Raven can spend years torturing people with little lies and half-truths. She’ll kill people, making ‘em think it was a loved one that did them in. Hell, she’s ruined more’n one career with a famous face, a kid, an’ a camera.

“Hmph, she’s a dangerous gal, Mystique is. With her shapeshiftin’ powers, she can heal pretty fast. Not as fast as me or Logan, of course, but a bit faster’n yer average joe. She can copy powers, clothes, fingerprints, retinal patterns, even learned to alter her glands recently. Means she can hide her scent, the only way I was ever able to spot her. Hasn’t learned to copy scents exactly though, so if I already know the guy’s scent I can figure it out. That was how I figured out Mystique could do it. That’s one advantage at least, knowin’ something she doesn’t know I know.”

Creed kneels down on Gibney’s head and scratches it, leaving behind thin lines of blood. “Mystique’s been the only frail ta ever really challenge me. Half the time I don’t even know what to do against her.” Creed barks a rough laugh. “Some people’d call that a symptom of love. I prefer to call it a problem ta fix.”

• detroit

The warehouse has been empty for years. During the last recession, it had been purchased by an anonymous buyer, and to all appearances it had been vacant ever since. At least, trucks had never been seen shipping cargo in-and-out of the warehouse, and nobody has ever gone inside. In fact, nothing, not even something as small as an insect, has ever gotten into the warehouse.

Tonight, however, a small tabby cat jumps through a broken window of the warehouse. It lands gracefully on the dusty floor of the pitch-dark warehouse. To this tabby’s keen eyes, however, the interior of the warehouse is clearly visible in light hues of green.

This old, seemingly abandoned warehouse is packed with piles of junk. Garbage that is tossed about haphazardly, with virtually no reason or pattern in their placement. In actuality, this facade of worthlessness hides sophisticated technology rivaled only by the likes of Reed Richards and Tony Stark.

In the center of these mountains of camouflaged electronics, a large shimmering globe floats. Standing below and in front of this pulsating sphere is a short, stocky man. Resting on either side of his spindly legs are heavy braces connected to his thick arms, clearly meant to assist in supporting the man’s more than considerate weight.

As the tabby cat approaches, the stocky man speaks up. “I appreciate you coming to meet me. I’ll turn up the lights.”

One-by-one, strips of the warehouse are illuminated by bright lights with no apparent source. Once the strip before the tabby is lit, the shadow cast behind it is not the shadow of a cat. Rather, it is the shadow of a tall woman with hair just beyond shoulder-length. The next strip of light reveals this woman in place of the tabby cat.

Any man who would consider this woman beautiful would be wrong. Whatever curves she may have are concealed beneath a loose white dress with a belt of skulls that does nothing to reveal a waist. Her hair is a dark, dull red that grows straight to just below her shoulders. Her face is a mask of anger and hate, stretches tight in a constant and ugly snarl, with sharp eyes that seem to constantly judge whatever they glimpse. The skull that rests on her forehead does not appear to hang from anything, as though it is a physical part of the woman.

Her every step exuding with confidence and impatience, this woman, the shapeshifting mutant known to all as Mystique, approaches the large crippled genius.

“How is he Sledge?” Mystique asks with a demanding voice. “After all the time you’ve had, after all the advancements made recently, you must have made progress!”

Slowly turning, Sledge greets Mystique with a somber demeanor. “I managed to acquire this new cure, Mystique, but unfortunately I can’t use it on Trevor.”

“Why not?” Mystique barks out, stepping towards Sledge threateningly. “Numerous other victims have been cured! It has to work Sledge, so why won’t you use it!”

“The key word here is ‘can’t’, not ‘won’t’”, Sledge replies. He gestures up at the pulsating sphere, which appears to have the faint image of a young man within the center. “Trevor’s reality warping powers have been amplified to such a degree where it’s taking all my knowledge and technology just to keep him from tearing the planet apart. Anything that touches the pocket reality that he has become is instantly warped and altered into something else entirely. By the time the cure reached him, it wasn’t the cure any more.”

Mystique gazes up at the being that had once been her young charge Trevor, and her face softens marginally. Too often, Mystique has failed her friends and loved ones. She cannot, she will not, fail Trevor. Mystique won’t fail Irene again.

“You must have some idea of how to get past this little obstacle,” Mystique snarls. “I don’t pay for failure Sledge.”

“And you won’t get it Mystique. Eventually I should be able to dampen Trevor’s power to the degree where I can effectively administer the cure. Failing that, I believe I’ve that Trevor’s warping has a pattern. Once I can figure that out, I can give him something that will become the cure inside of him. There is a solution to every problem Mystique. Eventually I’ll find a solution to this one.”

Sledge’s face falls, and he mumbles on. “However, I’m afraid that I can’t guarantee a solution in time to save him.”

Mystique looks down at Sledge, murder clear in every line on her face. “Then neither can I Sledge. If you can’t save Trevor, then the world be damned!”

“Speaking of old pals, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on with ol’ Maverick,” Creed mutters. “Amateur’s probably still tryin’ ta finish off my assignments. I’d’ve heard by now if any of ‘em were dead.”

Creed leans down and breathes deeply into Wildchild’s face. “Least it’s not my problem anymore. I got bigger fish ta fry Gibney, and that means a much bigger kitchen staff. I ain’t never been about money, or even murder. I’m about the only thing it’s ever been about Gibney; power. The power o’ holdin’ a man’s life in yer hands, of gettin’ a body ta do anything ya want ‘im to. Only reason I ever took that job with Sinister was so I could show the big boys just what I could do. I made an impact then Gibney, an’ I aim ta do it again.

“I ain’t gonna be doin’ this alone neither,” Creed continues. “Oh no, I won’t. I aim ta let other guys in on this, other rookies eager ta make a name fer themselves. Folks like yer pals from back in California, the bitch that hung out with that fake McCoy, an’ even a few up-and-comers from up North. I know talent when I see it, an’ they’ll be useful when push comes ta shove.”

Finally, Creed looks down to Wildchild. “Then there’s you. Not sure why I’ve taken a liking ta you lately. Maybe it’s because you offed Cooper’s ol’ boyfriend when I wasn’t able ta do the deed. Maybe I see you out of yer mind, scratching an’ licking yer crotch, feral as all hell, an’ I’m jealous.” Creed pauses as Wildchild stares into his eyes admiringly. “Or maybe it’s somethin’ else altogether.”

Authors’ Notes

Hi ya. A lot of you may know me as Stephen Crosby, a writer here at MV1. In case you aren’t familiar with my work, I’ll let you know that I’ve written cosmic epics, government intrigues, villain point-of-views, and mutant action/drama. I’ve helped co-write issues of Wolverine and X-Men, and good things have been said about my work.

Sam is among my most ardent supporters here at MV1. He’s given me great review after great review, and talking stories about him has been some of the best fun I’ve ever had. He’s a great writer, and I’m humbled that he thinks the same about me. So when he asked me to help him finish up his X-Factor stories here at Marvel Fanfare, I didn’t bother to hesitate. I just said yes.

So then we talked a bit, discussing plots and characters, where the series would end and what would be resolved. I have only one word for the plans he has had in mind for this from the beginning, and that word is genius. I honestly wish that I could craft such a long and intricate tale so well. I can understand how Sam got burnt out, and I seriously doubt I can make it as far as he did.

But I promise you that I will try. And who knows, you may just enjoy some of the stories I write in the attempt. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to bring Sam’s idea into fruition, and you’ll be able to experience what I consider to be some of the finest work this writer has ever done. This isn’t my story people, and neither will the later X-Factor stories. Just like the others, it’s all Sam Everett. Don’t praise me, cause I’m just the messenger.

Sam Everett & Stephen Crosby (11/07/2001)--Silkee Productions