X-Mans XV: Villains on Villains on Villains

by D D

The X-Mans must survive a desert ambush by the towering Apocalypto while Professor Z struggles to save Jeanetta from a malevolent mental presence.

Comic Book

comedy

012

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61 scenes

X-MansPart Fifteen The gun was getting longer. Stormisha watched Gorge fit another piece of stolen machinery beneath its barrel. When he had started, it had looked like something a man might carry. Now it occupied his lap, the empty space beside him, and part of Ice Tray’s patience. “If that shit go off in here,” Ice Tray said, “I’m haunting you personally.” “It won’t.” “You said that real quick.” Gorge turned a small connector between two fingers, found the correct socket without looking, and pushed it home. A blue line brightened along the housing. Their driver glanced into the mirror. “No weapons in the vehicle.” Reen looked at the rifle, then at the claws withdrawing into his own hands. “Little late for that policy.” The open-topped safari truck climbed a shallow rise, its long passenger compartment rattling over the broken road. Behind them, the temple had vanished beneath distance and blowing sand. Nessa leaned against Ellis with her eyes closed. His skin was human again, except for a rough patch along one wrist that had not softened. Nightwalka sat near his mother. She kept trying to wipe the blood from his eyebrow with a damp cloth. “You rubbing the cut off or my whole face?” “Hold still.” Scambit checked his phone. No signal. The photographs remained unsent. Gorge lifted the finished weapon. He had used a transport sling to make a broad shoulder strap, reinforced with wire beneath the fabric. The gun’s stock fitted against his shoulder as if he had built it over several careful weeks instead of a few miles of bad road. Stormisha asked whether Gorge had named it. He shook his head without taking his attention from the exposed connections. “Call it Please Don’t Explode,” Ice Tray said. Gorge almost smiled. For the first time since they had entered the ruins, the people around him had begun to loosen their grip on whatever was nearest. Ellis let his head rest against the seat. Nessa watched the road slip behind them, her hand still tucked into his. Their exhaustion had become something they might survive with sleep and clean water. Stormisha wanted to believe that was all they needed. She let herself lean back, feeling the moving air cool the sweat beneath her collar. Then the truck stopped. Nobody had seen the driver brake. They lurched forward, hands catching seats and shoulders. Gorge held the gun away from Nessa’s head. “What now?” Scambit asked. The driver pressed the accelerator. The engine strained. Sand trembled beneath the rear tires, but the truck did not move. He shifted into reverse. Nothing. Reen looked over the side of the truck. A thin distortion curved around the vehicle. Sand struck it and slid downward, tracing the shape of something almost transparent. Stormisha leaned toward the windshield and told the driver to cut the engine. He hesitated, his foot still worrying the pedal, then turned the key. In the sudden quiet, they heard a low vibration beneath the seats. Far beyond the hood, a shape rose through the dust. At first, Reen mistook it for part of a cliff. Then an immense leg moved, and the shape took another step. “Oh, fuck that,” Ice Tray whispered. The figure’s shoulders cut across the low sun. Sand rolled from an armored shin taller than the truck. His face appeared above them, immense and blue-gray, with dark color laid around a mouth that looked almost carefully painted. Reen stared upward. “Apocalipstick.” The giant stopped. His eyes narrowed, and his reply cracked across the desert. “Apocalypto.” His voice thundered over the exposed seats. One of the mirrors cracked. “I knew it had something to do with lips,” Reen muttered. The figure began to shrink. His shadow drew back across the sand. Armor folded into smaller proportions without a seam opening, and the horizon reappeared behind his shoulders. He stopped at nearly ten feet tall. The smaller shape was easier to see and somehow harder to bear. At a distance, his size had allowed them to think in terms of cover and escape routes. Now they could see his expression. He examined the passengers with an unhurried attention that belonged to someone choosing among things already in his possession. Around the truck, the clear field held its curve. The driver kept one hand on the dead ignition. Gorge had gone very still. Apocalypto looked directly at him through the windshield. “You have made another weapon.” Gorge’s fingers tightened around the stock. “You’ve found more people to put in cages.” “I gave you work worthy of your abilities.” “You chained me to a bench.” Apocalypto’s gaze passed over the other passengers, then returned to Gorge. “And you repay opportunity by breaking my equipment.” “The people you kept under that temple weren’t equipment.” “No. Most were considerably less useful.” Nessa opened her eyes. Ellis moved his hand over hers. Gorge lifted the gun slightly. “Say that about the Zolari.” For the first time, Apocalypto smiled. “Still grieving a world that could not defend itself?” Stormisha looked at Gorge. His expression had closed so completely that she knew better than to ask. Misty stood in the narrow aisle. Apocalypto’s smile disappeared. “There you are.” Nightwalka rose beside her. “You missed me?" Misty said. “I gave you a simple assignment.” “Yeah. Kill a pregnant woman’s baby. Real simple.” “You accepted.” “I changed my mind.” “You mistook permission to leave my presence for freedom from my service.” Misty’s hand settled against her son’s chest, keeping him behind her. “You ain’t my employer no more.” Apocalypto looked at the hand. “No. I can see that you have found something else to value.” Misty felt Nightwalka shift behind her. She had spent years learning which silences meant danger in Apocalypto’s presence, and this one left her measuring the space between her son and the edge of the truck. There was no safe direction to send him. She kept her hand against his chest until she could feel his breathing through the fabric, then lowered it before Apocalypto could enjoy watching her hold on. * * * Claudette had put the photograph facedown again. She had looked at it after Z left, longer than she intended. Devin at seventeen, one shoulder raised, protesting the camera even while he smiled. John had taken the picture. Neither of them had known then how often she would remember the moment. Now she stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a cup she had already washed. The doorbell rang. She dried her hands. Through the narrow pane beside the front door, she saw a durag and the familiar line of her son’s jaw. Her hand stopped above the lock. “Ma.” He could see her through the glass. For a moment, she considered stepping away. Instead, she turned the lock. Devin smiled when she opened the door. “You cut your hair.” “Yes.” “Looks nice.” “Thank you.” He waited, as if he had come home late and expected a lecture about dinner. She moved aside. He entered the house, looked toward the stairs, and took a long breath through his nose. “Still smell the same.” Claudette closed the door carefully. Her phone lay on the sitting-room table. Devin glanced toward it, then back at her. She offered him water or coffee. The ordinary question gave her hands something to do, though she could not make herself walk past him toward the kitchen. Devin glanced at the cup she had left by the sink. “You always did make coffee this late.” His smile held for another second. Then it left. “You snitched on me.” Claudette’s fingers tightened around the dish towel. “Devin—” “You let them lock me up on that island.” “I told them what happened.” “You told them what I was.” “I watched your father kill those people. I watched you kill him.” Devin glanced toward the sitting room. His old photograph lay facedown beside the lamp. “I saved your life,” he said. “And you put me away.” A flicker of purple glimmered across his skin. Behind Devin, the reflection in the window changed, though nothing outside had moved. * * * Apocalypto walked around the trapped truck. The field parted before his hand and closed behind it. The passengers had nowhere to go. “You have seen what humanity builds for you,” he said. “Camps. Registers. Rooms with locks on the outside. They will invent a cleaner name for each one before admitting its purpose.” “So your plan is more cages, just with you holding the keys?” Stormisha asked. His eyes moved toward her. “I build what comes after.” He turned to face the passengers across the open side of the truck. “The human world will end. Its governments, its armies, its little agreements about who may live where. I will clear the ground. A new order will rise under one will, defended by an army that does not hesitate.” “Yours,” Gorge said. “Mine.” There was no embarrassment in the answer. No attempt to disguise it. Stormisha had heard men promise protection before. Usually there was a little patience required before they revealed what they expected in exchange. Apocalypto dispensed with that courtesy. Beyond him lay miles of empty ground, and his certainty made the distance feel fenced. She looked toward the others. Nobody needed to signal what the answer would be, though she could see how afraid Nessa was when she lifted her chin. “You possess abilities wasted on defending creatures who would celebrate your deaths. Serve me, and you will help shape what survives.” Scambit leaned forward. “What’s the compensation looking like, Apocalyptus?” “Apocalypto.” The truck’s side panel buckled inward beside Scambit’s knee. He pulled his leg back. “Damn. Benefits question next, I guess.” Gorge stood between the seats, lifting the gun with him. “You don’t get another world from me.” Stormisha rose beside him. Reen slid his claws free. Nessa shook her head, and Ellis pushed himself upright despite the cracks returning along his forearms. Misty met Apocalypto’s eyes. “We’re done.” He watched them gather around one another. Then he spread his hands. The truck split down the middle. Metal shrieked beneath the seats. Two rows of passengers lurched apart as the floor tore between them. “OUT!” Reen shouted. Nightwalka caught his mother and vanished with her. Stormisha threw wind beneath the falling passengers, breaking their impact against the sand. Scambit rolled clear of an axle. Ellis pulled Nessa over the buckled side panel. The driver kicked his door open and ran. Apocalypto barely turned. His hand closed. The driver’s body folded in the air. A short cry ended before his feet reached the ground. Blood struck the sand where he fell. For a moment, even the wind seemed absent. Then Gorge fired. Blue-white force struck Apocalypto across the chest and drove him backward. His heels cut two deep trenches. A piece of armor broke from his shoulder. “Move!” Gorge shouted. Stormisha hit him with a concentrated gust as Reen came in low. Nightwalka appeared behind Apocalypto, seized Scambit’s sleeve, and brought him close enough to throw two charged cards into the damaged armor. The explosions lifted sand around all four of them. Apocalypto staggered. Ellis hardened and drove his shoulder into one enormous knee. Nessa struck from the other side, pressure bursting from her palms. Ice Tray blew frost across Apocalypto’s forearm, sealing his fingers together. For three seconds, they had him surrounded. He looked down at their coordinated movements. Interest replaced anger. Then he grew. The circle they had formed broke as his body rose through it. Scambit stumbled away from an expanding boot. Reen withdrew his claws from armor that had begun carrying him upward, landing badly and forcing himself upright before the pain settled. Their brief success had depended on keeping him off balance. Now every distance they had judged was wrong. Gorge backed across the sand, lifting the barrel higher, searching for a target he could still reach. * * * The clouds began to darken before Z saw anyone approaching. Inside Jeanetta’s mind, pale clouds drifted around them, concealing any horizon. Beneath their feet, mist lay thick over a surface Z could feel but could not see. Now gray spread through the white, gathering in slow, heavy folds. Jeanetta tightened her grip on his hand. “That’s him.” A man emerged from the deepening cloud. Darkness gathered behind his shoulders, spreading outward until the last pale light around Jeanetta dimmed. He wore a dark coat with a high collar and a pale diamond at his throat. His skin had the smooth, bloodless appearance of something kept from daylight. His smile suggested he had arrived precisely when expected. “Professor.” Z placed himself between him and Jeanetta. “Who are you?” “Mr. Diabolical.” Jeanetta stared at him. “You gave yourself that name?” His smile thinned. Z did not look away from him. “You have no place here.” “And yet.” The man lifted one hand. The clouds behind Jeanetta thinned, revealing a memory Z recognized: the shattered camp, the examination table, a blanket stained beneath her body. Jeanetta turned her face away. “Don’t.” Mr. Diabolical lowered his hand. Dark vapor rolled across the memory until it disappeared. “She was very difficult to reach before that morning,” he said. “Then all that power tore through her, and afterward there was so little strength left to keep me out.” “You entered while she was unconscious.” “Someone had to keep her company.” Z reached toward the presence before him. Pain flashed through Jeanetta. She cried out, folding at the waist. The clouds buckled around her, drawing inward as though caught in the same pain. Z withdrew immediately. He had entered frightened minds before, and minds determined to keep him out. Jeanetta’s resistance felt different. Each strand he touched carried some recognizable part of her: the dread of losing her baby, the shame of needing help, the memory of pain she had endured without waking. The stranger had placed himself among those things with deliberate care. Z could not pull blindly. Jeanetta was already struggling to remain whole. Mr. Diabolical regarded him with quiet satisfaction. “You see the difficulty.” Z could feel it now. The intruder had threaded himself through her fear and memory, drawing every attempt to separate them across something living. Jeanetta caught her breath against Z’s shoulder. “Get out of her head!” he shouted. Mr. Diabolical leaned closer. “Finders keepers, old man. Her weakened mind belongs to me now.” * * * The foot came down where Reen had been standing. He rolled through a wash of sand, came up bleeding, and watched the cut on his wrist close. Above him, Apocalypto rose until the wrecked truck looked like a discarded toy between his feet. Gorge fired upward. The blast struck an armored thigh. Apocalypto shifted, but this time he did not fall back. A vast hand swept across the battlefield. Stormisha threw herself into the air and pulled Ice Tray clear with a gust. Ellis planted himself in front of Nessa. The impact carried both of them backward. Nightwalka appeared beside his mother behind the crushed rear half of the truck. “Stay with me,” he said. Misty looked past him. Apocalypto’s eyes had found them. “Move, Noah.” She shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. The giant’s hand struck the sand between them. Nightwalka vanished on instinct. He reappeared beside Reen, coughing, already turning back. Misty was against the truck. A band of clear force held her above the sand, arms pinned against her sides. She tried to change. Her face shifted, then snapped back as the pressure tightened. Apocalypto bent toward her. “You were permitted near my enemies because I trusted your usefulness.” “Should’ve asked for references,” she gasped. His fingers curled. The metal behind her folded. Nightwalka screamed for her and disappeared. He emerged on the torn edge of the truck. His hand reached toward blue fingers. Apocalypto flicked his free hand. The blow caught Nightwalka across the chest and sent him spinning into open sand. Reen ran for him. “Mama!” The crushed vehicle closed around Misty. Metal met metal with a deep, final impact. Then the fuel caught. Fire rolled through the wreckage. Sand and black smoke struck Reen’s face as he dragged Nightwalka away from the spreading flame. The boy fought him, trying to rise, trying to jump again. “Let me go!” Reen could see no way into the flattened metal. Burning fuel overwhelmed every breath. Before he could get closer, the ground heaved beneath them. Apocalypto drove them backward with another blow. Nightwalka hit the sand and lay stunned. Across the wreckage, Stormisha saw the fire. She saw Reen’s face. Her wind faltered. Gorge caught her arm before she dropped to her knees. “Keep moving.” Nessa screamed. Ellis stood beneath Apocalypto’s descending hand, both arms raised. Stone spread over his body until his face became a hard gray mask. For an instant, he held. “Run!” he forced out. Nessa struck the giant’s wrist with both palms. The pressure burst drove sand away in a widening circle. Apocalypto grabbed Ellis' body with a tight grip. His stone shoulders broke. He disappeared beneath the hand he had tried to stop. Nessa ran toward him instead of away. Stormisha reached for her with the wind. Too late. A narrow sheet of force struck Nessa and drove her into the sand. She did not rise. Her hand lay open beside the place where Ellis had fallen. Gorge fired until the weapon whined against his shoulder. Apocalypto turned. The barrel twisted out of line under an invisible pressure, tearing the gun from Gorge’s hands. It landed beyond his reach, its strap trailing through the sand. Stormisha’s next gust broke against a clear barrier. Scambit’s cards burst harmlessly above it. Ice Tray inhaled, blood bright on his lip. Apocalypto lowered his hand. The pressure hit them together. Stormisha felt herself leave the ground. She saw the truck burning, Nightwalka trying to crawl, Reen reaching for him. Then the desert went dark. * * * Claudette had not moved toward her phone. Devin stood between her and the sitting-room doorway. His voice had become almost conversational, which frightened her more than shouting would have. “They kept lights on all night. You know that?” “No.” “Some nights you couldn’t tell if your eyes was open or closed.” “I wrote to you.” “I know.” “Then you know I didn’t forget you.” He looked at the towel in her hands. “You still scared of me.” She tried to answer. The truth was already on her face. Devin walked into the sitting room. He picked up the photograph and turned it over. For a moment, his expression changed. He looked younger, studying the boy he had been. “Dad took this.” “Yes.” “He told me stop making that face.” “I remember.” Devin placed the frame upright beside the lamp. “You remember everything.” Claudette stood just inside the doorway. “I remember my son.” He looked at her. “I’m right here.” Purple light appeared beneath his skin again. This time it stayed. Claudette gripped the doorframe. “Please,” she said. * * * Jeanetta stood upright again. Z felt her pull her hand from his, slowly, as if deciding whether she had ever wanted him to hold it. Mr. Diabolical watched from the dark clouds a few steps away. “They’re frightened of him,” Jeanetta said. “Of whom?” Z asked. “My son.” “They’re caring for him.” “Until he does something they don’t like.” Her voice was familiar. The expression around it was not. Z kept his hands open. “Cyrus is sitting beside your bed. He has hardly left it.” “Cyrus needs somebody to need him.” The cruelty landed with enough precision to make Z pause. Jeanetta’s eyes brightened, red gathering around the pupils. “Reen wanted to win. Everybody arguing over me like whoever got the baby got a prize.” “You were hurt by that. You have a right to say so.” “They don’t deserve him.” “Jeanetta—” “He’s stronger than all of them combined. They know it. They want him where they can watch him.” Mr. Diabolical moved behind her. “She has been thinking for herself. You should encourage it.” Jeanetta pressed a hand against her forehead. “No.” The red flickered. Z stepped toward her. “Listen to your own voice.” “I am.” Her eyes blazed again. “They should be afraid.” Then she caught his sleeve so suddenly he almost lost his balance. “Professor,” she whispered. “I don’t want to say that.” “I know.” “Help me.” He reached for the frightened part of her that had spoken. The mist dropped away beneath his chair, though he had not been sitting a moment earlier. For one disorienting second, he could see the hospital through the cloud, its familiar shapes dissolving before he could hold on to them. Mr. Diabolical placed two fingers against Jeanetta’s temple. “You have other obligations, Zachary.” Z went still. “Your former sweetheart has a visitor.” “Claudette?” “Her son has questions about loyalty.” A distant ringing passed through the darkened clouds. Z tried to hold Jeanetta’s hand. Her fingers slipped through his as if neither of them had substance. “What have you done?” “Me? I merely listen when Devin speaks. He was quite determined to see his mother.” Mr. Diabolical smiled. “And your little expedition has reached its end. Apocalypto will dispose of your X-Mans when their usefulness expires. Then the Kings of Tomorrow. Such optimistic names.” Jeanetta’s mouth opened. Z heard her call him once. Then something struck him out of her mind. * * * He came back with his hand locked around the arm of his chair. The hospital room was quiet. Cyrus sat beside the bassinet, folding a clean cloth. Rougie looked up from her phone. Jeanetta lay peacefully against the pillow, her breathing slow, her face unchanged. The baby slept. Z stared at her until Cyrus stood. “Professor?” Z took a breath that would not quite fill his chest. “Was she speaking?” “No.” Cyrus looked toward the bed. “You moved your hand. That was all.” Z closed his eyes briefly. “Someone is in there with her.” Rougie put her phone down. “Who?” “He calls himself Mr. Diabolical. He’s holding on to parts of her mind I cannot separate safely.” Cyrus reached for Jeanetta’s hand. “Can she hear us?” “Yes. Keep talking to her.” Z called the nurse. He waited while she checked Jeanetta, watched the readings remain steady, and asked that the doctor be informed immediately if anything changed. Then he tried once more to reach Jeanetta through the clouds. He found only dense, lightless cloud. Her presence remained somewhere beyond it, but he could no longer find a way through. Rougie saw the answer in his face. “The others?” she asked. “He threatened them too. We need to reach them.” She called Stormisha. The call failed. Scambit’s number did the same. Z looked toward the door. “Rougie. We need to check on Claudette.” Cyrus turned. “Now?” “Devin may be there.” The room seemed to contract around the name. Z moved close enough to meet Cyrus’s eyes. “Stay here. Watch Jeanetta. If anything changes, call me immediately. Keep the baby with you, and make sure the staff know where you are.” Cyrus nodded, though his grip on Jeanetta’s hand tightened. Rougie was already picking up the keys. * * * Stormisha woke to someone saying her name. At first, she thought she was still in the truck. Her shoulder throbbed. A white light floated above her, too steady to be the sun. “Stormisha.” Gorge sat beside a narrow bed, one hand braced against its edge. His face was bruised along the jaw. She tried to rise. Pain pulled behind her head. “Don’t touch it,” he said. Her hand stopped at her neck. The room had two beds, a steel toilet screened by a low partition, and a wall of thick glass facing a corridor. Beyond the opposite window, pale cloud slid past the building. She stared. “Where the fuck are we?” “Above the desert.” Two guards walked past the glass door, electric clubs hanging from their hands. Blue sparks snapped between the contacts when one adjusted his grip. Their measured footsteps continued along the corridor, pausing at each occupied cell. Across the corridor, Nightwalka sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his empty hands. Ice Tray stood nearby, moving carefully as if one side of his chest hurt. The boy had not looked up when the guards passed. Stormisha followed his gaze to the fingers resting motionless against his knees. She remembered him reaching toward the burning truck and shut her eyes. Gorge stayed beside her without speaking. Two doors farther along, Reen woke with Scambit crouched beside him. “Get up.” Reen pushed himself onto an elbow. “You always this gentle after a date?” “Look out the window.” He stood, swayed once, then approached the glass. Clouds moved beneath them. Far below, through a break in the white, the desert appeared in patches of dull gold. Reen could see part of the tower bending away beneath their floor: broad sheets of glass held in bluish-silver ribs, descending farther than he could follow. He touched the window with one knuckle. “We ain’t jumping out this motherfucker.” Scambit did not smile. Reen turned toward the corridor. “Misty?” Scambit’s eyes lowered. The fire returned to Reen in a rush. Blue fingers. Folding metal. The boy fighting his hands. Across the corridor, Nightwalka lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, his face unnaturally still. Reen approached the cell front. “Kid.” Nightwalka looked at him through two layers of glass. Reen had faced men with rifles without finding his mouth this dry. “I couldn’t get to her.” Nightwalka looked down at his hands again. “I should’ve saved her.” “You tried,” Reen said. “I was right there.” He pressed both palms against the wall, forehead lowering between them. The memory of her fingers disappearing inside the folding metal stayed clear no matter how tightly he closed his eyes. Ice Tray came closer but did not touch him yet. Gorge watched Stormisha turn toward the bed. She covered her mouth with the heel of her hand. For a while, the only sound was Nightwalka trying not to make one. Reen stayed at the glass long after there was anything he could say. He had spent the fight trying to keep the boy alive, and now Nightwalka could hardly look at him. Scambit stood a few feet back, letting the silence remain. Across the hall, Stormisha wiped her face once and lowered her hand. None of them had clean clothes, a door they could open, or even a place to gather around the person grieving hardest. * * * The loudspeaker clicked. “Stand.” Apocalypto’s voice. Reen looked toward the ceiling. “Come down here and ask nice, Apocalicious.” “APOCALYPTO.” The reply struck through every speaker in the corridor. “Stand facing your doors.” Nobody moved. A sharp pressure caught the back of Reen’s head. He flinched. Beneath his skin, something warm spread around the small foreign object lodged near his skull. His jaw tightened, then released. Across the corridor, Stormisha stood. She had not decided to. Her face told him before her mouth did. Gorge rose beside her, fingers trembling at his sides. Scambit stepped toward their own door with a look of startled disgust. Reen remained where he was. The warmth behind his head became a brief, deep itch. His healing closed around the intrusion, fought whatever it was trying to send through him, and the pressure faded. He looked at Scambit’s rigid shoulders. Then he stepped into line beside him. “Hands behind your heads.” They obeyed. Reen copied the movement a fraction late, hiding the delay inside a wince. Nightwalka fought his own arms, teeth bared. Ice Tray’s hands rose despite the tears gathering angrily in his eyes. “These implants are not instructions you must remember,” Apocalypto said. “They are instructions your bodies will obey.” Stormisha tried to speak. Only a strained breath emerged. “The temple’s relay network was crude. This tower has its own systems, and you have been fitted accordingly.” Reen watched a black lens turn above the corridor. He kept his face slack. “You will be allowed to move, speak, eat, and work. Disobedience will result in correction. Cooperation will spare you the indignity.” A pause. “Lower your hands.” Everyone did. “Now you understand.” The pressure left the others. Scambit staggered into the glass and caught himself. Stormisha bent, breathing hard. Reen let his knees soften. He made himself look at the floor instead of the camera. The effort frightened him more than he expected. His body had always done its work without asking permission: bone knitting, skin closing, the damage disappearing while the memory stayed. This time survival required him to conceal the repair. A glance too sharp, a hand moving before the order, and Apocalypto would know. Reen concentrated on Scambit’s breathing and copied the exhaustion in his posture until his own anger had somewhere to hide. Inside his hands, his claws stayed hidden. * * * Nightwalka waited until the loudspeaker fell silent. Then he fixed his eyes on the corridor beyond the transparent door. He could see the landing place. Clear floor. Nothing in the way. Smoke gathered around his shoes. Pain snapped through the back of his head. The smoke broke apart. He struck the floor on one knee without moving an inch beyond the cell. Ice Tray caught his shoulder. “Stop. They watching.” Nightwalka tried again. This time his hands locked at his sides before the smoke could form. He stood helpless, breathing through his nose, until a red light above the door went dark. A message appeared across a panel in the corridor. APOCALYPTO TOWER. UNAUTHORIZED TRANSIT PREVENTED. Nightwalka stared at the words. Ice Tray sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m here,” he said quietly. Nightwalka did not answer. After a while, he sat beside him. The glass gave them an unobstructed view of freedom they could not reach. Nightwalka kept finding places to land: the corridor, the space beside Reen’s door, the elevator farther along. Every one of them remained visible. He could feel the familiar instinct to jump answering each glance, and beneath it the new threat waiting inside his own skin. Ice Tray sat close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, keeping him company without demanding he speak. * * * Rougie checked the van’s straps twice before leaving the hospital. Z noticed her hands shaking during the second check. “Rougie.” “I got it.” She pulled the last strap firm and folded the ramp. When she climbed into the driver’s seat, she tried Stormisha again. Nothing. Z called Claudette. The phone rang until a recorded voice answered. He ended the call before the tone. “She might not have her phone,” Rougie said. “Yes.” Neither believed the word provided much comfort. They left the hospital behind. Traffic held them at a light beside a pharmacy. A man crossed slowly with grocery bags cutting into his fingers. Z watched him reach the opposite curb. That morning, Claudette had taken his hands at her door. Her face had brightened before either of them remembered what they needed to discuss. He looked down at those same hands resting in his lap. Rougie drove as soon as the light changed. * * * Gorge recognized the fastening on the cell door. Stormisha noticed his attention settling on the fastening. When she asked whether he could open it, he shook his head. From inside the cell there was nothing he could reach, but the mechanism was familiar enough to hold his gaze. She sat beside him, leaving enough room that their bruised shoulders did not touch. “Back in the truck. What you meant about another world?” Gorge rubbed his thumb over the seam of his trousers. “Orukai. The Zolari lived there. Some still might.” It took Stormisha a moment to understand that he meant another planet. Gorge confirmed it without any change in his voice, as though the distance had long ago become less important than what had happened there. Stormisha looked through the window at the cloud below them. “Usually I’d have more questions about that part.” “They sent a ship for me. A survey crew had reached Earth, found out what I could do. Their defense network was failing. They wanted help fixing it without shutting down the cities it protected.” He had gone alone, expecting six weeks of work. Saying it now, he looked almost embarrassed by how little he had thought to bring with him. He looked at the door again. “They were good people. Patient. They wanted me to build things that made their lives better. Weapons were only for protecting people.” He described pale buildings above warm water, gardens suspended between towers, children who took apart their toys to see if he could improve them. One little girl had brought him the same mechanical bird every morning after deliberately removing a different piece. “She knew I’d sit with her until it flew again.” Stormisha smiled faintly. “Smart little thing.” “She was.” The past tense settled between them. “Apocalypto and a man named Mr. Diabolical arrived. Said they were looking for an alliance. Offered protection, trade, help expanding the cities. The Zolari listened.” “Because they’d trusted me, and it had worked out.” Stormisha turned toward him. “That ain’t on you.” Gorge’s mouth tightened, but he continued. He had told himself the history often enough to keep the order straight. Invitations before access. Access before the attack. It helped to preserve the sequence, as though somewhere inside it he might finally locate the exact moment when he should have understood. Stormisha could hear that search in the pauses. She let him speak without hurrying him toward the part where she could offer comfort. “Diabolical studied their systems. Their bodies too. Apocalypto wanted the energy technology, the fabrication equipment, everything that could make an army cheap to build and hard to kill.” “How they take it?” “They let us finish repairing the defense network. Then they used the access they’d been given to turn it inward.” Stormisha said nothing. “Cities burned under their own shields. Ships couldn’t launch. We opened one evacuation channel, and I stayed to keep it open.” “Did people get out?” “Some ships lifted. I don’t know how far they got.” His eyes stayed on the door, but she knew he was no longer seeing it. “They destroyed most of the inhabited world. By the time they took me, there were whole districts nobody answered from anymore. They stripped the machines out of places still burning.” Stormisha laid her hand beside his on the mattress. The first implant had gone in before they brought him back to Earth. After that, the distances blurred into rooms, orders, and equipment he learned to assemble with somebody else deciding where his hands would go. Stormisha understood why the new wound behind his head had frightened him so little. It was familiar. She rested her fingers over his. For a moment, he seemed surprised by the contact. Then his hand turned beneath hers. “I’m sorry,” she said. He looked at her properly for the first time since he had begun. Outside the cell, boots approached. The guard carried an electric club against one armored thigh, its charged tip giving off a low crackle. Neither moved away until the guard stopped at the glass. * * * Reen waited for the ventilation to grow louder. Every few minutes, a deep fan started somewhere behind the wall. He had counted four cycles. The camera above the corridor watched their hands more closely whenever either man approached the door. Scambit sat with his back against the bed, knees drawn up. Reen lowered himself beside him as if his legs hurt. “Don’t look at me,” he murmured. Scambit kept his eyes on the opposite wall. “What?” “The chip. Ain’t working right on me.” Scambit’s breathing changed. “Keep your face straight,” Reen said. “How?” “Healing. Felt it try. Then it quit.” “You sure?” “I was watching you do that hands-on-your-head bullshit. I did mine myself.” The fan settled into its loudest vibration. Scambit shifted one shoe against the floor. “Then we got something.” “We got one thing. Don’t spend it all at once.” Reen looked toward the window. His reflection hovered over the clouds, battered and tired and still alive when Misty was not. “I go loud, they turn all of y’all on me.” Scambit nodded slightly. “So we watch first,” he whispered. “Doors. Guards. Who carries what.” “And we find where they took our shit.” Beyond their cell, Gorge emerged between two armored guards. Reen lowered his eyes before the camera turned. * * * The elevator descended for longer than Gorge expected. One escort stood beside the controls; the other kept an electric club angled across his body, close enough for Gorge to hear its faint buzzing. Through its transparent back wall, he watched a cloud bank rise above him. Then the desert appeared, vast and empty beneath the afternoon light. The tower’s outer skin reflected the horizon so cleanly that parts of its structure seemed to disappear. Bluish-silver beams framed the glass in long, uninterrupted lines. A guard caught him looking. “Eyes forward.” Gorge obeyed. The doors opened onto a workshop larger than the entire underground holding wing. He smelled heated insulation, clean metal, and an industrial lubricant he had last encountered on Orukai. His steps slowed. Apocalypto stood beside a workbench. Gorge’s gun lay on it, the barrel damaged but the central housing intact. The sling had been folded beneath the stock. Gorge had expected the weapon to be destroyed. Seeing it carefully laid out on the bench made his shoulders tighten. Apocalypto noticed where he was looking. “It made me step backward.” “Should’ve made you fall.” Apocalypto looked toward a wide interior window. “Improve it.” Beyond the glass stood an assembly hall. At first Gorge saw rows of armored shoulders. Then a conveyor moved, bringing one unfinished soldier beneath a bank of white lamps. The face tilted toward him. Apocalypto’s face. Another followed it. And another. Hundreds of nearly identical bodies stood at different stages of completion. Some hung inside open frames while machines sealed armor around their torsos. Others waited in ranks, eyes closed, broad hands resting at their sides. A completed soldier lifted a heavy steel block from one belt to another without effort. “They cannot change size,” Apocalypto said. “There is no need. Strength, endurance, and obedience will serve.” Gorge approached the window despite himself. He recognized the assembly arms. The power conduits. A small calibration symbol the Zolari engineers had stamped into replacement parts to distinguish them from older stock. One of the stolen machines still bore it. “You brought the whole line here.” “I brought what was worth preserving.” Gorge turned. “Those people built shelters with this equipment.” “And now it will build something that lasts.” Apocalypto indicated the gun. “Each soldier will carry one. You will adapt the design for their hands and simplify its production.” “No.” The word came before Gorge could measure what it would cost. Apocalypto touched a control at his wrist. Gorge’s right hand lifted. He stared at it. His fingers selected a tool from the bench. His left hand steadied the damaged barrel. He fought until his jaw ached, but the tool turned, loosening the first fastening. Apocalypto released the control. The tool struck the bench. Gorge pulled both hands against his chest. “You work better when permitted to think,” Apocalypto said. “Do not make me choose between your ingenuity and your obedience.” Gorge looked through the window again. Hundreds of identical faces waited beyond it. “What about the others?” “Your companions are powerful together. I intend to correct the loyalties that prevent them from being useful.” “Ellis and Nessa were useful.” “They were replaceable.” Gorge’s eyes moved toward the nearest guard. Apocalypto noticed. “The woman in your cell will remain unharmed while you cooperate.” Stormisha’s hand over his. Her voice saying it was not his fault. Gorge lowered his arms. Slowly, he picked up the tool. He settled the damaged barrel into its cradle and checked the remaining connections. His hands steadied because the work was understandable, because a loose coupling could be found and a broken contact repaired. Beyond the window, a soldier turned its head in perfect time with the one beside it. Gorge kept his attention on the gun. For the moment, choosing where to look was still something he could do for himself. Behind the glass, another soldier opened its eyes. * * * The police cars were visible before Rougie turned onto Claudette’s street. She slowed without meaning to. Z saw the blue lights against the pale stone of the house. “Pull over.” An officer approached while Rougie lowered the ramp. He asked who they were, and Z gave Claudette’s name as if saying it carefully might change the answer. “I was here earlier today. She’s an old friend.” The officer’s expression shifted. “Sir, I’m sorry. We need you to remain outside the cordon.” Z looked past him. The front door stood open. “Is she alive?” The officer waited a fraction too long. “No, sir.” Rougie’s hand closed on the handle of Z’s chair. He did not move. The answer should have been impossible to misunderstand, yet Z found himself waiting for the officer to add something that would make it less final. Rougie’s hand remained against his chair. He could feel the small tremor passing through it. Behind the cordon, a woman from a neighboring house stood with her arms folded over a cardigan, watching the doorway with the bewildered attention of someone whose ordinary afternoon had become a memory she would keep. A detective came down the path carrying a notebook. She asked when they had last seen Claudette, whether she had mentioned expecting anyone, whether they knew her son. Z answered what he could. Rougie told her they had visited that morning and that Claudette had been alone when they left. “Has Devin been here?” Z asked. “We’re trying to establish that.” “He may have been. You need to be careful approaching him.” The detective studied him. “We know who he is.” Z remembered Claudette telling him that the police had already come after the escape. Knowing a name had not protected her. When Z asked how she had died, the detective would not discuss the findings. Her refusal left him watching the people moving inside the house, looking for an answer in their faces that none of them offered. He looked at the house again. From the path, through the open doorway and the sitting-room entrance beyond it, he could see the small table beside the lamp. The photograph stood upright. Even at that distance, he recognized Devin’s raised shoulder, the reluctant smile. A dark red smear crossed the glass, obscuring part of the boy’s face. That morning, Claudette had left it facedown. Z held the arms of his chair until his fingers hurt. Rougie followed his gaze. She said his name softly, but he could not answer yet. Someone inside the house closed a door. The sound carried down the path. Z thought of all the things he had planned to ask her another day. * * * At the hospital, Cyrus finished changing his son and settled him into the bassinet. The boy stretched one hand free of the blanket. Cyrus tucked it back, then reconsidered and left it where it was. “Your mama would say I’m doing too much,” he whispered. The baby slept on. Cyrus returned to the chair beside Jeanetta. Nothing had changed on the monitor. Her breathing remained even. He smoothed a crease in the blanket and told her about the baby’s latest feeding, about the nurse who had laughed when he asked whether the room was too warm for the third time. “I only asked because they changed the thermostat.” He waited, imagining the answer she would give. Then her fingers moved beneath his. Cyrus sat forward. “Jeanetta?” Her eyelids lifted. For one bright, impossible instant, he thought she had come back to him. Her eyes were fiery red.

X-Mans XV: Villains on Villains on Villains

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