Shiro Yoshida stared at the weathered face of a blue-eyed man, looking at it hard and close. Faint old scares crisscrossed the face’s cheek, running up underneath close-cropped blond hair. It was a face filed not with obnoxious confidence, but with a cool assurance that spoke to hard, yet casual strength. It was, Shiro decided, a dangerous face.
“Target’s name is Sean Cassidy.”
Yoshida pulled his gaze away from the projection to study the group’s reaction. He watched Creed’s honed muscles tense against the table he leaned on. Laynia Petrovna’s reaction was hidden by the blond bangs covering her downcast eyes. Sokal and Braddock had exchanged a quick glance, and Shiro caught Elisabeth’s tiny nod and the way her ruby lips turned up in a small, reassuring smile. Drake seemed positively bored, his icy frame sprawled out over his chair. Yoshida caught it all in at a glance, but the person he lingered on was Ororo Monroe, their newest recruit. Her eyes, quickly filling with muted fear, were locked on Cassidy’s headshot.
“Current location: Belfast, Northern Ireland.” Creed slowly worked his measuring stare across the team until it landed on Braddock, “Elisabeth will make contact with the locals. Orders from on high, Cassidy’s a special case. Command wants him alive.”
Shiro hadn’t been watching Victor up until then, but at the last words his head whipped around.
“What?” It may have been formed as a question, but Yoshida’s low growl had the imperious air of a command. Across from him, Sebastian Sokal audibly sucked in air. Creed met the Japanese mutant’s demanding eyes levelly.
“Orders are clear. Non-lethal only.”
Robert Drake no longer looked bored, as he inched forward on his seat.
“And will Seany-boy play as nice?” The sarcasm that dripped from Drake’s question got no response from Creed. Long bone claws made a faint screeching sound as they dug into the glass tabletop. Petrovna looked up at the sound, two of her fingers digging under her black jumpsuit
where the uniform hugged her neck.
“What’s so special about this guy?”
Creed’s gaze flicked over to the Russian woman immediately, but Victor paused for a moment before answering.
“Classified.”
“Perfect.” Drake was almost out of his chair completely, frosted air billowing out of his hard, frozen lips. “So we’ve got a mutant who has managed to avoid detection for years, has had decades to hone his powers, who engages the particular interest of the international community,
and we’re getting handcuffed from the word go.”
Shiro turned to Drake, not bothering to hide the contempt for the man in his voice, “We’ve also got our orders.”
Drake slumped back into his chair, bringing a hand up to stroke his forehead.
“Perfect.”
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MARVEL 2000 PRESENTS..."FIRE, SCREAMS, AND
WHISPERS"
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Ororo had discovered that her new jumpsuit clung to
her in all the comfortable places. How SHIELD had known her exact
measurements was an issue she didn’t want to think about, but did
anyway. For some reason, of all the little secrets she had tried to keep,
of all the little privacies she had tried to maintain that were probably
right now being picked over clean, it was the idea that someone had gone
into her dresser and read her cup size that fixated her. It was typical of
the way her thoughts had been running these past few days. Focus on the
minutiae, the obscure, the irrelevant. It was all much safer than dwelling
on the larger situation she found herself confined within. What had happened in that room? Her new team had been troubled, dismayed, maybe even angry that they wouldn’t be allowed to kill a man. Ororo had heard it in their voices, the way they had automatically thought of their new “target”. They looked at the picture and didn’t see a man with a life and history, they saw an animal needing to be put down. How had Cassidy gotten those scars on his face? A childhood accident? A selflessly heroic deed? Did the man have any idea what was barreling down on him, about to violently shatter whatever he had known before? She had been afraid when Creed had shown them that picture. She hoped the others thought it was from the fear every rational person had of mutants. But no, it hadn’t been. She had been scared because in that moment, Ororo knew she was in a room surrounded by psychotics. She was wandering aimlessly through the corridors, no destination in mind, just walking because… sometimes you need to walk. Ororo turned a corner and was confronted by a door, light shining through its cracks, voices filtering softly outward. A poster was hanging on the door, and Ororo thought she recognized the American city of Chicago. Crumpled pavement and buckled roads, there was broken glass everywhere. The Sears Tower looked like a melted candle, dripping with blackened concrete. The words “Never Forget” had been printed in large, red block letters along the bottom . Twenty years past, most of the world was trying to forget the American Terror had ever happened, but here in Whiteground it was the soiled blood of life. Ororo knocked on the door. The man who opened it was short, with runny brown eyes that peered out from behind thick-rimmed glasses. His uniform was all eggshell white, with a silver metal nametag reading “G. Ancic”. Head tilted lazily to one side, he wore his startled _expression so naturally that Ororo expected it be his perpetual outlook. “Umm, ah, can I help you?” Ororo hesitated. What was she doing, knocking on this door? Even if this man wasn’t hard at work, what were the odds he’d talk to her, a mutant? But she couldn’t keep running around these corridors like a scared jackrabbit, too timid to even look people in the eye. She was here, in this place, now, and it was time for her to start facing up to that. “Just passing by,” she said, trying to sound casual about it. Ancic stepped back from the doorway, bobbing his head as he did so. “Sure, sure, come on in. Haven’t, ah, had time to go out and introduce myself to the rest of the staff yet. They sort of just rushed me in here.” “Yeah, they do that.“ Ororo smiled at the shuffling technician, who didn‘t quite meet her eyes when he spoke. She recognized this kind of awkwardness. It was a little nice to be intimidating as a woman instead of being intimidating as… something else. “Woah.” She stepped into the room, staring at the far wall where sheik black plastic mingled with bundles of copper wire and neon chronometers. Red lights softly strobed along the surface, giving the room faintly surreal lighting. Ororo felt Ancic’s breath over her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s something, isn’t it?” “What,” she looked around at the other, barren, walls searching for clues, “What is it?” “A recording station.” He stepped past her, approaching the machine, and softly laid a protective hand over it. “Preserves the field team’s communications for later review.” Ororo was tempted to ask exactly what kind of ‘review’ was being done, but stopped herself, unsure if she wanted to know the answer. Her every step would be watched now, and she instinctively understood that to be just good sense. She cast her attention back to the wires, and tried to give them a closer study. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said, completely certain she was right. Ancic nodded slowly, a knowing look in his eyes. “Not many people have. The Russians have someone deep inside, churning stuff like this out all the time. Sometimes they throw a toy our way.” The two of them grew silent, and the room was filled only by the soft hum of technology. “Oh,” she shook herself, trying to clear her head, “Sorry, I’m Ororo.” Ancic’s eyebrows rose just a little, and her rocked back on his heels. He finally met her eyes, but only for a split second before turning his head away again. “Oh, so, ah, you got left behind?” “What?” It was not exactly the reaction Ororo had expected, but then, she hadn’t really known what to expect at all. Ancic motioned toward the immense machine. “They’ve been talking about you.”
Belfast smelled like death. It was the stench of burning gasoline mixed with smoldering asphalt and exposed sewage. Opening a door to the outside streets and alleyways slammed the odor into the noses, eyes, and mouths for those few citizen venturing out into the morning sun. Their
numbers were few, however, as the latest string of violence and reprisals had put the entire region on edge. In a curious way, Laynia Petrovna was glad for the situation in the city, as it made her job appreciably easier. Operations in urban centers almost always went bad. No matter how much warning they gave the locals, when the women started flying and the men started burning, the panic was nearly inevitable. But here… what were a few supernatural flare-ups next to centuries of blood and hate? “How long do we wait?” The man in the blue suit turned only slightly, his mirror sunglasses catching the sunlight. “As long as it takes. He’ll be here soon enough.” “You’re sure?” The suit didn’t respond again, but Laynia had not really expected him to. SHIELD’s local contacts were almost never the friendly type, and in the hour or so they’d been staking out this shoddy little neighborhood, this one hadn’t seem inclined to break the mold. Elisabeth knew him though, Laynia could see it in the easy way she stood next to him. There was a familiarity there, even if they hadn’t exchanged three words between themselves. The rest of the team noticed it to, and they were giving both of them a wide berth, while pretending like they weren’t. Transparent, of course, but every one of them put stock in appearances, even the blatantly false ones. Blake was making an ice sculpture. He used no blades or picks, no tools of any kind except his mind. The sculpture grew out of the ground, layer by thin layer, like it was melting in reverse. It was a car, a kind that Laynia didn’t recognize. No, it was a wreck, a flaming wreck of a car, frozen blue flames erupting from the hood. There was a man beside it. A flaming wreck of a man, lines of pain and terror etched onto the face. Sebastian spat on the ground beside it, showing exactly what he thought of the sculpture. “You pull this shit out of your head, Drake?” The icey man gave a thin smile, and Laynia marveled at it. What was his body made of, that it could seem so hard and cold, but flow so easily whenever he wanted it to? “Not really. It’s amazing what they show in newspapers here.” Sebastian looked down at the sculpture, its limbs twitching, its back a mass of sparkling fire. “I hate this country.” “I think it’s pretty.” Drake turned to her and his smile got wider. Laynia smiled back. She couldn’t help thinking that everyone moved on with time, so she should too. No need dwelling on the past. “Here we go.” Victor’s voice cut through the air, and the sculpture was forgotten. On the street below, Sean Cassidy was getting out of a car, his head down, his hands in his pockets. He wore a simple beige trench coat that swirled around his legs, and Laynia thought that for such a dangerous man, he looked like every other native. That was a trick though. Beneath that exterior, who knew what lay? In SHIELD, complacency got you killed. Cassidy went directly into the house across the lane, just like the man in blue said he would. The sun was bright overhead. Laynia had heard it always rained in Ireland, but apparently no, it did not. “Elisabeth?” Victor’s eyes never moved from the closing door, his manner growing stiffer with every breath. “He didn’t see anything unusual.” “Good.” Creed nodded. “We’ll give him a minute.” Laynia rolled her shoulders, cracking her back. Her uniform always seemed too tight when she got nervous, and it drove her to distraction. In this heat, the thing was baking her alive. She could see Sebastian’s mouth moving silently, counting down the seconds. Behind her, Shiro was muttering something in Japanese, which might have been a prayer. What did Japanese people pray to, or who did they ask mercy from? Laynia had no idea. “Drake, you’ve got point. Laynia,” Creed’s eyes finally broke from the door, and when he looked at her the Russian woman quailed at what she saw in them, “Shut him up.” The Dark Force energy sprung to life, and it felt good, like it always did. It was as easy for her as the sculpture had been for Drake. A simple box of rippling black energy, darker than any night, formed around Cassidy’s house, with a single open end, facing the street. There were no back doors here. It was a large manifestation, and it took her all her concentration. It would be worth it, if it kept this from spilling onto the pavement. Drake was over the ledge in a heartbeat, and Creed was just a second behind. The blast of heat Shiro generated when he flew into the air partially melted Drake’s sculpture, the dying man dripping into water. Laynia saw the suited man take a step back, saw the sweat spring up on his forehead. Good. He should be afraid. Drake burst through the front door in a crash of splintered wood and screeching metal. Victor plunged up the driveway, fast on his heels. “Wait,” Elisabeth said, and the word whipped Laynia’s head around like a gunshot. When Creed stepped onto the threshold, the house exploded.
Elisabeth’s arm hurt where flying debris had sliced into it. Her ankle hurt, since the concussion blast had knocked her backward, and she had twisted it in the fall. Mostly though, her pride hurt, because she hadn’t seen it coming.
All things considered, the team had actually been quite lucky. Drake had been the only one in the home itself, and he had patched himself together in minutes, cobbling up a new body to house himself in. She didn’t think anything could kill him, but he was still in shock. Feeling your flesh, even your mutated expendable flesh, disintegrate around you was enough to do that to anyone. Creed had also recovered nicely, his healing factor erasing all evidence of the black, bloody burns and cuts. Their largest casualties had been their uniforms. Now they were all gathered at Belfast’s Mutant Affairs office, ready to do it again. “So I think,” Shiro began, “He just might have known we were there.” Elisabeth shook her head, adamant. “He didn’t. I swear he didn’t.” Laynia piled on. “So, what, he flees through underground tunnels every time he goes home?” “Plus rigs his house to turn into a firestorm, so he can barbecue the mailman. Sure.” “I’m telling you, Cassidy was thinking about dinner tonight. He was planning on chicken. Nothing ever crossed his mind..” “Besides,” Sebastian spoke up, coming to her side, “That place was rigged was through. He knew we were coming for him. Knew where we’d hit him too.” Drake joined in the conversation, looking up from where he’d been playing with his newly formed hands. “You’re saying…?” Creed’s gravelly voice slipped in, and silenced them all. “I’ve talked to command. They agree with Sebastian.” Emerald eyes tightened, Creed’s fists clenching. The fire had scorched most of his hair, the one thing that didn’t grow back, and Victor had shaved the rest off to match. “There may have been an informant.” The only sound was breathing. Deep, ragged breaths, short quick breaths, and breaths violently expelled after being held for to long. Elisabeth could feel the walls around them, feel how close they were, feel how confining they were. An informant? Madness. Idiocy. Desperation? Out of habit, she reached out to the other minds in the room, to see what they thought. But it was hardly any good. In the best of times, Laynia’s Dark Force connection made her thoughts scattered and half-formed. Creed’s mind was a labyrinth without an entrance. Drake was a cloud, slipping and scattershot, his recent trauma making it difficult to get a handle on any of it. Only Sebastian and Shiro were open to her, and the mix of fear and anger that swirled in them was enough to overwhelm anyone’s senses. “I can find him. Cassidy.” She looked around at the team, each of them struggling with their own demons. “I know his mind now. If he’s still in the city, I can track him down.” Creed nodded. “Do it.” Elisabeth got up, and headed for the door. Before she got there, she stopped, and turned back to look at Victor. “SHIELD wants him alive. But he’s just one man, living underground in Belfast. He couldn’t get a spy into SHIELD by himself.” Elisabeth didn’t need to read their minds to know they were all thinking it, even if no one would say it. Well, she would then. “Victor. What’s Cassidy involved in? If there’s an informant, who are they informing to?” He didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t even try. Their leader just started studying another picture of Cassidy, in another one of his trench coats, smoking a cigarette. “Classified.” Elisabeth walked out the door. Jack was standing on the other side, maybe even waiting for her. Somehow, his blue suit hadn’t even been smudged in the explosion. He had always had an almost preternatural way of staying clean, no matter what the situation they were in. They didn’t say hello, didn’t do a single thing to acknowledge the years they had behind them. Elisabeth handed him a small note that she had written earlier, on a spare piece of scrap paper. Very innocuous. On it were printed two simple words: How’s Brian? Jack read it slowly, before slipping it into his breast pocket. From the same pocket, he pulled out his own little note, apparently prepared ahead of time, in anticipation. It was about the same size as Elisabeth’s, with only a handful of more words: Don’t ask questions about dead men. She nodded, accepting it, since she really hadn’t expected any more. Slowly, deliberately, she tore up the message into as many pieces as she could. It seemed so morbid, that this was her life now. This was where loyalty got you: old friends ignoring you, your family cut away, and yourself being used like any other tool of Her Majesty’s government. She slipped past Jack without a word, mentally steeling herself. She had a mutant to catch.
They passed through another checkpoint, the boys in blue quickly waving them through once they saw their credentials. One unshaven guard, who might have been twenty two on the outside, trembled when they went by, his shaking rifle pointed a little to close to their van for Creed’s
comfort. In his experience, flimsy papers and flimsier words from their bosses didn’t stop the bigots or the fools. Usually, even when the bosses wanted to stop them, they didn‘t know how. He watched the shaking boy through tinted glass, his own face hidden in the dark van. Let the punk try something. Because, Victor Creed, he did know how to stop them, and he knew it very well. They rolled on down the road, and Victor rolled his head over to look at Elisabeth. She sat there, eyes closed, forehead scrunched up in concentration, and it let him begin to relax. He had no doubt she’d find her quarry, because she always did. It was uncanny the way she was able to sift through the minds of thousands, searching for that elusive psychic fingerprint. She’d find Cassidy, and then they could put this business behind them. Victor didn’t like what this one was doing to his team’s nerves, didn’t like the way they kept getting surprised, and he didn‘t like being kept in the dark. Over the years, he had learned that it was best to do things by routine, that it just made things easier when it was part of a system. Wake up at seven, work out at eight, eat lunch at noon, kill a mutant by three. Make it flow like that, and people could get on with the thing. Getting set on fire at five wasn’t supposed to be on the agenda, not ever. It wasn’t polite to try to blow up international agents. Cassidy was going to learn some manners. “If he’s still in the country, he’s an idiot.” Sebastian broke the silence, and Victor was happy he did it. They could all do with a bit of livening up. “This city’s on lockdown, been that way for weeks. People just don’t leave.” “City this big?” Drake leaned his head against the window, frosty breath making a thin layer of fog. “No way. Someone’s getting in, someone’s getting out. Guaranteed.” They were all looking out the windows now, looking at the buildings gutted with fire, and the pavement, torn and shattered. “Bet there are more getting out than getting in.” Sebastian said it, but others nodded. Only Shiro wasn’t paying attention as he drove down the road, keeping a careful eye out for… whatever it was Shiro always kept an eye out for. “Hey, Victor.” Laynia looked over, eyes wide, blinking slowly, “Yo’ mamma’s so fat, Milky Ways orbit around her.” It took a second, but after that, Sebastian made a noise that might have been a laugh, but since the force of it came through his nose, it sounded more like a wheeze. Victor stared on blankly, but Drake was clearly trying to suppress a smile. “God,” was all Drake said, shaking his head a little and dropping it back on the window a few times. “What did I tell it wrong?” Laynia frowned, and she looked so puzzled and confused that Victor had to look away before he laughed too. “Maybe my translation was off? Milky Ways? Like the candy bar. And the… the galaxy?” “Just,” Drake closed his eyes, Sebastian was holding his face down by his knees, his whole body quaking, “Just stop, girl.” Laynia shrugged and looked back out her window. “He’s not running.” At the sound of Elisabeth’s voice, Shiro hit the breaks, tires squealing and rubber burning. The British woman’s eyes snapped open, and Victor could see the adrenaline pumping through her. “Everyone out!” There was no hesitation, no questions, it was just door, air, pavement for all of them. Victor rolled as he hit the ground, springing to his feet in the same motion. A sound split through the evening like nothing he had heard before, like nothing he had imagined. It filled his ears, his mind, his skull, ricocheting inside of him, growing there. His feet pounded against the asphalt as he stumbled out towards the sidewalk. He felt a flash of heat behind him, and he turned to see their van go up in flames. He didn’t hear the explosion, because the noise continued, always continued, so that Victor couldn’t get his thoughts straight, but he felt the air swirl, and smelled the smoldering metal. A figure darted to his left, a blond head, a brown trench coat, and a black metal rebar. Cassidy swung at Elisabeth, who had been doubled over clutching her head, blood seeping out of her ears. A concussive blast of Dark Force hit Cassidy in the chest before he connected, sprawling him backward. The screeching hiccupped for a moment, enough for Victor to get his bearings and stand upright. Laynia rushed forward, black energy swirling around her ears, shielding them. A second bolt of concussive force flew from her fingertips at Cassidy, but the Irishman wasn’t there to meet it. He wasn’t on the ground at all. He was in the air, his back arching, his arms outstretched, and the piercing cry resumed. Shiro shot through the air in a swirl of fire, tackling the rogue mutant, wrapping flaming arms around his chest. The smell of burning cloth and skin filled Victor’s nose, but he shrugged that off. You got used to it. What you didn’t get used to was the damned scream, which increased in volume and intensity as Cassidy writhed in Shiro’s clutches. One elbow, two, three to the nose and the Irishman was free, and for a moment Shiro was falling. Just for a moment though, and then the pursuit was on. Laynia was up there with them, juking around, trying to gain position to attack. And then Cassidy’s body spasmed, crumpled up, and it was him that was falling. Falling towards the ground, falling towards Victor. It looked for a second like he might recover, like he might fly away again, but then he was on the ground, and Creed had his ankle. The Irishman was spun in the air, and once again he was stopped dead, his head bouncing hard against… nothing. Victor let him drop to the ground, then leaned over, and punched him right in the jaw. There was a crack and Sean Cassidy’s eyes rolled up in his head, and his body slumped over at Creed’s feet. Sebastian let his illusion fall, and Drake’s solid wall of ice glittered in the light.
Ororo leaned over and pushed the volume slide up again, her ears still ringing from the initial outburst. Ancic sighed and took his hands off his head, leaving dark red marks where they had been. “Man, at least we know this thing’s got range.” “Yeah,” Ororo breathed, letting herself slump back in her chair. She had no idea what had just happened. One second, Elisabeth was screaming to get out of the van, and for the next minute all they had heard was the most god-awful shrieking. Victor’s voice came over the speakers, “Target is captured. Requesting pickup.” The chatter continued, but Ororo wasn’t really listening now. When they had tried to take Cassidy the first time, she had been pensive, unsure. This second time she had emotions only slightly more distinct. She had wanted to run. She had wanted to run to Belfast, to help the team… or she had wanted to run the hell away from Whiteground. She couldn’t be sure of anything, except that she wouldn’t be on the sidelines forever, and hesitation in the field… “Cheer up. We got the bad guy.” Ancic was looking at her, all nervous smiles. She couldn’t help but give him a little one back. “Yeah. We got the bad guy.” Now she wondered what they’d do with him. NEXT ISSUE: Sean Cassidy, in the hands of
SHIELD!
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