Going in, no one thinks they’ll break. It’s a problem with the culture, a willful disassociation with reality. We’ve seen it so many times in movies and read it so many times in books, we think we know it, think we have some understanding of what it means to be tortured. Every time some sadistic villain torments the hero, bringing him to the very brink of death, there is always a pause when we believe that maybe this time… but no. The hero always goes to some deeper level of resolve, drawing upon their hidden reservoir of will power to come up with some pithy little line, and we know, we know they’re going to make it through. So, when we imagine ourselves in such a situation, we always think there will be that inner strength, that heart of steel that will carry us above it all. But this is a lie. The truth is far more unpleasant. The truth is, when they go to work on you, and every nerve in your body is screaming in agony, and you can’t remember anything but the pain, there are no pithy little lines. The truth is, everybody breaks.
Sean Cassidy sat on a black metal stool in a dark room. It was common knowledge that when one sense was deprived, the others heightened in compensation, and that was the case here as well. Sean could see nothing, but he could hear the soft footsteps of someone slowly circling around him. The voices that questioned him from all directions were sharp and distinct, their hard edges sometimes whipping out, and at other times drawing back, whispering his name like a caress. He smelled his sweat and blood, his constant companions, accompanying him throughout his trials. The taste of both ran over his lips, harsh and bitter. At one point in his delirium, Sean had been so thirsty that he had began to greedily lick them up, but then he came back to his senses, and the personal disgust had ripped through him. And finally, the last heightened sense, was of what he felt. There were the ropes, of course, tethering him in place, keeping him immobile despite his most frantic thrashings. He could move only one part of his body. With some effort, he could stretch out his left knee to activate a small buzzer placed nearby, signaling his readiness to answer one of their questions. Audible response was impossible. His throat was numbed through, and he actually counted it as a small blessing. It was the only part of him that didn’t burn with the pain.
Once, early on he thought, Sean had pressed that button to buy himself a moment of release. The invisible oppressors had loosed his bonds just a bit, and pressed a crayon in his shaking hand. A small light had clicked on, illuminating a black metal desk and a sketchpad. Sean had then written, in large, legible letters, an old Irish curse he had learned from his brother. There was a long pause that stretched on and on, until Sean heard something… snip right next to his ear. He tried to lash out with his freed hand, but a pair of black plastic gloves flashed out of the darkness, catching his fist, pressing it down against the table. He did not know how much time had passed since then, but the fire that had been ignited when they took his pinky had not yet faded.
Every so often, they changed their methods. One of the recurring practices were jolts of electricity, bursting through the stool, and coursing from his toes through his skull. Question, silence, jolt, question, silence, jolt. And just when he was growing accustomed to the pattern, if not the pain, they would stop, and then it would be time for the needles. Or maybe the burning irons. Once they had injected Sean with something that had torn at every nerve and split his head in two. Mercifully, he had passed out within a few minutes of it.
How long had this been going on? Hours, certainly. Days, perhaps. Weeks? Possibly. Sean had hated the voices at first, their dispassionate interrogation a dull monotone that droned on and on endlessly. Now he thought of them as old friends, his link to some distant source of sanity.
Time passed. The pain did not.
Sean could not say what precisely drove him over the edge, what finally snapped the last vestiges of resolve. They had been dripping water on his forehead, little beadlets falling again and again on the same spot. He had tried to count them as they went, to focus his mind on something besides the questions, the stink, or the constant pain. He had lost his place, tried to start again, and found his mind either unwilling or unable. Enough. It was enough.
And it was then, that Sean Cassidy broke.
Sebastian
Sokal could not remember it ever being warm at Whiteground. Nestled into
the Russian countryside, miles and miles removed from civilization, the
compound was subjected to the brunt of the swirling steppe winds. The
high brick walls provided no barrier to nature’s hand. He could
see soldiers in their little gray uniforms, curled up against their machine
guns, huddled against the biting cold. It was autumn, and so the wind
brought dead leaves with it in browns, yellows, and reds. Reminders of
a world beyond Whiteground, and beyond the confines of SHIELD.
“Think there‘s another storm coming in?”
Sebastian asked, glancing up towards the gray clouds above them. Victor
Creed towered beside him, matching Sebastian’s casual walk, their
trenchcoats rippling out behind them. Creed’s hair was still buzzed
close to his scalp after being burned away weeks ago. That, coupled with
the thick cords of muscles threading down his neck and the confident swagger
in his step, made Sebastian think of the common type of street thugs back
home in Marseilles. Sure, Victor Creed looked dangerous. Deadly even.
But someone to be feared on a global scale? It was hard to link this restless
man to the blood-stained warrior they had recently seen outside a posh
hotel in Victoria. “There always is.” Small talk was not easy
between any of his teammates. There was so much between them that discussing
the weather, or the latest sporting news seemed incredibly banal. So with
those two innocuous comments, the conversation moved on to the real business. “She’s not ready,” Sebastian muttered
after a long pause. They walked along, tracing the perimeter of the yard.
His shoulder blades itched where he knew a dozen different automatic weapons
were being trained, aimed by trigger-happy guards who were just hoping
Sebastian crossed that boundary line into the no-man’s land. Then
they could go home bragging about the rogue mutant they had bagged. “Who is?” Creed replied. If he felt those
spiteful gazes, his voice gave no indication. Privately, Sebastian wondered
if what Creed said was true. It seemed to him their team leader had been
born into his role of mutant-assassin, and there had probably been very
few questions on the first mission Creed had been assigned to. But he
knew if he asked, he would get no answer. Victor Creed’s memories
of a life before SHIELD were hidden away, buried deep within his psyche. “Ororo needs more confidence, more control of her
talents.” Was that true, or was Sebastian just trying to protect
the girl, trying to delay the inevitable moment where she would be faced
with the decision they had all faced? Was he concerned for her safety,
or her soul? Sebastian cut off that line of thinking, moving his mind
up and beyond it, as if it had never been. After so long, the act was
second-nature to him. Creed’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, his
gaze sliding from Sebastian and onto the path before them. “Don’t
get complacent, Sokal. No one controls the mutations, not even us. All
we can do, for ourselves and for her, is guide, and pray. Pray
for what, Creed? Sebastian asked himself, keeping his face as blank
as possible. That her name doesn’t show up on some bureaucrat’s
black list tonight, and we’re forced to poison her cereal tomorrow? Sebastian felt his resolve stiffening, its spider-silk
tendrils wrapping around his spine. He would help Ororo, if he could.
He could not stomach another failure. Shiro Yoshida
watched impassively as Cassidy shivered in his sleep. The Japanese mutant
stood exactly how he had stood for much of the past few weeks, feet spread
slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, eyes unflinchingly trained
on the captive mutant. That Cassidy would try to escape, and soon, Shiro
had no doubt. And this was one watchman that refused to be caught unaware. It was an unfortunate coincidence that, at the moment,
standing guard meant standing with Robert Drake. But Shiro was used to
making sacrifices. “So you don’t find any of this, maybe, even
the least bit suspicious?” Drake lounged on a tabletop several meters
behind Shiro. He had been there ever since the soldiers had dragged Cassidy
back from the interrogation room. Surely the icy mutant had something
better to do? “I find everything about this man suspicious, Robert.”
Shiro did not bother to turn around while speaking. Perhaps his teammate
would take the hint. Perhaps not. “Well, yeah, besides the whole shadowy, mutant-sympathizer
conspiracy Cassidy may, or may not, be connected with. I meant this confession
of his. If that’s what you can call it.” The captive mutant turned over, gingerly shifting to
his side. After a moment, Cassidy’s breathing returned to its regular,
even pace, and Shiro unclenched his fists. “Betty sifted through this freak’s mind end
to end, and didn’t pick up boo about any of it. But after a little
time in the dark room, it’s flowing out of his mouth like a river.” Shiro’s head started to twist about to regard his
teammate before he quickly checked it, and returned to the prisoner. “Elisabeth is not infallible.” Shiro paused,
considering his own statement. Infallible, no, but certainly resourceful.
He had witnessed her powers many, many times over the years they had worked
together. “Regardless, I’m sure we will investigate.” “Great.
And I’m sure it’s not a big ol’ trap. Or a
wild goose chase to the ass-end of nowhere. Ever even hear of the place
before?” “Just that the Russians bombed during the Purges.” Shiro heard Drake slide off the table, his frozen frame
making a hollow thud as it rebounded off the floor. “Okay, sure, but like, where is Genosha anyway?” “So
is he lying? Trying to play us?” Elisabeth Braddock turned from the sunlit window she
had been staring through, her SHIELD uniform creaking just a bit with
the movement. She met Creed’s eyes as he took a swig from his beer,
and held them steady there. She shook her head, her jet black hair rustling
over her shoulders. “So you were wrong.” “No.” Elisabeth stepped away from the window,
away from the sunlight, and moved to sit across from Creed in a recliner
identical to the one he occupied. “I swear to you, two days ago
Cassidy didn’t even know the word Genosha. Or if he did, it was
so irrelevant, so trivial, that it never surfaced in his mind, despite
day, after day, after day of my sessions with him.” Creed did not press her any farther, did not point to
out to her the massive contradictions to her account of the facts. Clearly,
Elisabeth herself was well aware of them. He trusted her enough to sort
it out on her own. He trusted her quick mind, and undeniable abilities.
It was the reason he was sitting with her this afternoon. “I guess we can get on with this then.” Elisabeth nodded, leaning forward, placing her elbows
upon her knees, folding her hands together. Her eyes narrowed, the irises
flashes of color against her pale skin. “Then lean back, Victor.” He did, placing
the beer on top of a nearby endtable. “Relax your toes, one, by
one… by one. Think of each one uncurling like a morning blossom.
Relax your ankles. And relax your knees, slowly, without haste.”
The discomfort he had felt at first sitting down began to lessen, seeping
out of his body like from a sieve. “Let your fingers fall. Let them
hang…” She went on, her voice soft. Almost purring. At some
point, he had closed his eyes. He might have fallen asleep, he couldn’t
be sure. “What happened, Victor?” Her voice seemed
to float from no particular direction. Not disembodied, just encompassing. “I had a dream. I think it was a dream.” “Do you really believe it was?” “It felt real. Very real.” “Tell me about it.” “I was in a forest. It was cold, and the snow was
falling.” Some of it had already begun to collect high up in the
barren tree branches. He pushed one shrub out of his way, gently, slowly,
and a light dusting of the stuff tumbled to the ground. Creed paused.
To his hyper senses, the collected flakes had been barely a whisper above
the sound of normal snowfall. But sometimes a whisper was enough. Sometimes
a whisper was too much. Creed stood frozen in that spot, one hand still holding
the little shrub. His breathing slowed, his eyes flickering about this
way and that. If he could have willed his heart to stop beating, he would
have done so without hesitation. He didn’t time how long he stood
there, trying to get some sense of his prey, trying to see the unseen.
Long seconds ticked by, perhaps minutes. The underbrush was thick, even
at this time of year, and the weather further impair visibility. But his
other senses were kicking at full strength. And Victor heard faint movement
upon the trail ahead. He took his steps with care and precision. Each move
was plotted meticulously. The sounds of his quarry drew nearer. He was
undetected. Except… it was too much noise. Too loud, too clumsy.
The sounds came from upwind, or else he would have known for sure. Perhaps
the prey had been wounded already, by some other hunter. Only a few more yards. Time to end the game. Victor stepped from behind the tree, coming out from
the shadows. Before him towered a massive elk, nearly twice his weight,
confident and stinking of its own wretched feces. He stared at it for
a moment in disbelief. Disbelief, slowly giving way to anger, and anger
that burned behind his eyes, eradicating his vision of the elk. “Expecting something else, bub? Or maybe someone
else?” Victor’s mouth stretched thin, a fanged visage
caught between feral snarl and maniac grin. He did not turn around to
face the voice. His spine stiffened, his body arched, coiling in anticipation. “What, no ‘happy birthday’?” Snikt. His vision
blurred. Shifted. Colors ran together, sounds became indiscernible. Pain.
Blood. A face he couldn’t see, staring down at him. Manacles biting
at his wrists. That was okay, he had felt it before. Dirt underneath his
claws. A pit made of earth and metal. Someone was beside him drawing thick,
ragged breaths. Pain. Blood. Something burning. No. That scent, acrid,
scorching the back of his throat, stinging at his eyes, it was familiar
to him. Not something burning, someone burning. The hell? Someone? Him.
He was on fire! “And then I woke up.” He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the room’s
dimmed light. He had a headache, a throbbing sensation that raged against
his skull, like it was being split, jagged, down the middle. Elisabeth
took a deep breath, breaking her concentration as well, coming out of
her own reverie. She leaned back against the recliner, eyeing Victor thoughtfully.
He picked his beer back up and gave it a couple of good chugs. It wasn’t
cold anymore, but the smooth glass felt good in his hand. “This is amazing, Victor,” Elisabeth said,
a smile drawing itself up on her face, “After all this time, it’s
finally happening.” “Maybe,” he ran a hand through the blond
stubble on his head, and held it up there. It seemed to ease the pain.
“Maybe with what happened in Victoria, with that mutant mucking
around in our heads, it triggered something.” “Whatever the reason, it doesn’t change the
facts. You’re starting to remember.” “And what if I don’t want to? What if I want
to stop remembering who I was before SHIELD?” Elisabeth rocked back in her chair, visibly shaken by
the comment. She took her time responding, and when she did, every word
had the measured quality of a speech painstakingly crafted. Creed knew
what she would say before she said it. “Haven’t we always said that the known is
better than the unknown? The truth better than the mystery? Whoever you
were, it can’t change who you are.” Can’t it? He didn’t say it, but the unspoken question lingered
in the air between them. They continued on for a few more minutes, Elisabeth
reinforcing helpful mental techniques, Creed encouraging her involvement.
Such a profitable session was just what he thought she needed after the
Cassidy fiasco. When he stood up to leave, Elisabeth stood with him. She
smiled as they exchanged goodbyes, and he nodded calmly, his inner control
reasserted. As he walked to the door, she turned back towards the
window she had been staring out of before. When the door closed behind Victor, Elisabeth let out
a shuddering breath that racked her entire body. Her dark bangs fell over
her eyes and she did not bother to push them back. It did not take long
for her to have company again. Soren Calstanes opened the door without
knocking, and walked through humming to himself, a wandering tune Elisabeth
suspected he was making up on the spot. The SHIELD field team’s
liaison with the larger organization was in a cheerful mood today…
for reasons Elisabeth had no desire to learn. “Well that was interesting,” Soren said,
tracing the watermark Creed’s beer had left behind on the end table
with the tip of his finger. “That’s one way to put it. You were…
listening in?” Elisabeth toyed with the metal bracelet on her wrist,
twisting it this way and that. She was certain the things performed a
dozen different functions that their wearers weren’t informed of.
It was how she would play it, if the situation were reversed. “Of course. I never miss one of Creed’s sessions.”
Soren sat down in the chair Elisabeth had been in moments ago, his head
rolling to one side. “Did it ring true on your end? Is he actually
remembering?” “True enough. But it’s still fragmented.
Sporadic. He doesn’t remember yet.” “And thanks to these sessions, and our own…
tender care, he never will.” Soren studied her from an angle, his
hand running across his lips. He seemed to think of her as a puzzle, one
with interlocking pieces that would all fitted snugly together if he just
took the time to consider them. She didn’t need to read his mind
to know she would be repulsed by what she found there. “I’ll
admit, I never realized you were such a good actress, Elisabeth. ‘The
known and the unknown‘. That supportive presence, that reassuring
attitude.” He leaned forward, and his sparkling emerald eyes gave
her no hints of nameless tunes or coy smiles. “Never forget, that
if the animal should ever slip his cage, we would all be the worse off
for it. You most of all.” She kept her face as smooth as she could. She was calm.
A placid lake on a clear day. Calm. She made herself smile, forced it
upon herself, even as her stomach did back flips inside her belly. “Why, Soren, there’s no need to worry about
me. I always remember. Everything.” They stayed that way for just a split second, but it
was long enough for the crimson lights implanted high on the walls to
begin strobing. The urgent voice on the intercom called her away, summoning
her into action. She left Soren sitting there without a word of parting,
and did not look back as the door closed. Milan. One of
the most prosperous cities in the world. A name associated worldwide with
high fashion and cutting edge trends of every sort. Behind the glitz lay
a thriving financial power, home of the central bank of the Coalition
of Democratic European States. It was a place many of the most influential
people in the free world called home. Laynia Petrovna had visited here
years ago as part of the security team for a Russian diplomatic detail
attending a world summit. Today her purpose was more… down to earth. “Petty theft,” she sighed, shaking her head
and taking a moment to appreciate a passerby’s camisole wrap. “We’ve
been shipped out under code red, hurtled through the air several times
faster than the speed of sound, flung half way across a continent, in
order to take down a common criminal.” She stood in the middle of
a wide stone thoroughfare, ordinary people walking amiably by, chatting
amongst themselves. Her dark black uniform drew a few sideways glances,
and she had actually had one girl compliment her on her outfit. She felt
a few curious gazes from the sedate outdoor café across the street.
Laynia supposed they were well deserved, as she and Sebastian Sokal stood
stockstill in the middle of the road, observing the human traffic. “Common criminals don’t disappear in puffs
of smoke after their capers,” her teammate replied, keeping his
eyes trained on their surroundings. Laynia sighed again. “Oh no, he stole an old lady’s purse. Call
up the reserves!” “More than one. You know every criminal action
a mutant takes needs to be responded to with full force.” “Yeah, this guy’s a regular one-man crime
wave. We let this go on, the next mutie might steal, like, a car or something.”
Laynia rolled her eyes, and gave up on the subject. She should have known
Sebastian was too much of a proper little drone to do anything but toe
SHIELD’s line. “Perfect starter mission for Ororo then, right?” Laynia thought of how the younger woman had been such
a jangle of nerves and bustling energy before takeoff. She thought of
her own less… ideal first mission for SHIELD. There might be something
to that. But this was a pointless surveillance operation. A waste of time.
A waste of her time. Time passed. The day stretched on. Elisabeth gave them
all updates every so often. No, she hadn’t sensed any unusual activity
in the areas their fugitive was supposed to be haunting. No, there wasn’t
anything on the police scanners either. Maybe the mutant had slowed down,
gotten cautious. Yes, she would keep searching for anything. It all felt like swatting at a fly with a sledgehammer.
Laynia glanced over to the café, where they were now serving dinner.
Brightly colored parasols decorated each table, and she thought about
how good it would feel to get out of the sun. Her fair complexion was
not meant to stand up to this sort of exposure. Did they serve bruschetti
there? It had been ages since she had had a good bruschetti. “Hello.” Laynia gave a start, her attention suddenly pulled back
into the present. Before her, a man in a dark black suit stood smiling
a gentle, congenial smile. The sun reflected off his bald head, giving
his angular features a sort of harsh, pointed look. The man shoved his
hands into his pockets, seemingly in no hurry to move out of her way. “I said hello, Miss. In these situations, it’s
customary for you to return the greeting.” Laynia was about to respond when she realized suddenly,
she was being addressed in Russian. Not the native tongue. But most everyone
spoke Russian as a second language these days, and she did look out of
place here. Probably just a coincidence. “Hi,” she returned absently. That initial
uneasiness began to fade away as the man’s gaze took her in. Took
her in and lingered in… certain places. He was one of those types
then. Laynia’s thoughts began to drift back to the café. “Yeah, hi. How are you? My name’s Telford.”
She glanced over at Sebastian, who had his back turned on them. He hadn’t
noticed the brief conversation yet, and his body language was clearly
as bored as she felt. “I’m busy,” she said curtly, hoping
to cut him off then and there. “Laynia, who are you talking to?” Elisabeth’s
question buzzed through her earpiece, tinged slightly with a hint of uneasiness
that Laynia could not quite understand. “No one, I’m -” “She sounds worried.” The man who called
himself Telford never let his smile waver. His tone was casual, relaxed
even. “What?” “Elisabeth. She sounds worried.” The SHIELD
radio Laynia wore was nestled close into her ear. The frequency was closed
circuit, and rigidly maintained that way. There was no way Telford had… “Sebastian!” she cried out in warning. Her
teammate was already turning her way, reacting to Elisabeth’s question.
There was a soft pop, and a slight shift in the air around her. A cold
that was very, very familiar to Laynia spread over her skin, raising up
goosebumps. Another pop and another shift. Laynia watched as a dark cloud
seemed to form in the space behind Sebastian, but only for an instant.
Then it was replaced by the figure of a bald man with angular features,
fist cocked, and smile gone. The blow connected solidly with the back of Sebastian’s
head, her teammate went down in a heap onto the red cobblestones beneath
them. One of the pedestrians screamed. Voices buzzed in her ear, Elisabeth’s
and Creed’s, shouting out orders to the rest of the team. Without thought, Laynia summoned the darkforce. The unearthly
stuffed wreathed her hands like two poisonous clouds, shifting under its
own malevolent will. She struck out at Telford with a blade of pure energy
aimed straight at his chest, lancing her power through the space between
them. Another pop, another shift in the air, and Telford was
gone, deftly avoiding her attack. The darkforce energy ripped through
one of the café’s parasol’s, neatly cleaving it in
two. Instinctively, Laynia raised a protective shield around
her, to ward off the sort of surprise gambit that had felled Sebastian. “Now, I was trying to have a civil conversation.”
The voice came from above, from a balcony wrapped in meticulously tended
vines and flowers. Beneath Laynia’s assault, the flora was ripped
to shreds, the stone balcony buckling as a large chunk of it exploded
before the bolt of darkforce. “There’s no need to overreact like this.”
People were fleeing in every direction, scrambling for their lives. The
ordered chaos of everyday city life had dissolved into pure rushed panic.
Sebastian was back up on his knees, casting his eyes every which way.
In the air above, a whistling sound was quickly growing louder as Shiro
Yoshida burned through the atmosphere, descending on her position. “I think it’s about it get,” Drake’s
formless body snaked around a corner, Creed actually riding on top of
it, one hand dug grimly into what Laynia assumed to be an icy shoulder.
“A little too crowded.” She struck out again, but she was
just guessing at the direction, hoping to get lucky. Just keep him busy,
she thought, keep him reacting. “So let’s go,” she must have missed
again. Damn, he was quick. “Somewhere a little more private.” He appeared before her so quickly she had no time to
think. His face blocked her vision, his pointed jaw nearly butting up
against hers. His hands were on her shoulders, his breath was on her face,
and before she could process these things there was another shift and
pop. This one was unlike the others. She felt something chill crawl over
her skin, like a million little spiders. From one instant to the next
her mind sorted through this strange feeling of infestation. The crawling
sensation hadn’t even begun to fade away before she acted. The concussive blast of darkforce energy struck Telford
full in the chest, pushing him far clear of her, sending him hurtling
end over end through the air. Through the air and - Laynia’s heart
skipped a beat - staying there? Laynia took in her surroundings. Her mind quivered with
what she saw. Emptiness. Nothingness. White light from no direction, from
no source, yet reaching every surface. She looked at her hands, and they
rippled before her. There was no hint of tender pink skin upon them, only
the merciless darkforce energy swirling in a vulgar imitation of their
shape. She looked up at Telford, and he looked down at her. He was smiling
again. “Where… what have you done to me?”
She was too shocked to continue her assault. He made no move towards her,
seemingly content to keep his distance. “I was trying to tell you, I just wanted to have
a conversation.” She looked at him uncomprehendingly, trying to make sense
of his words like he had just spoken in some obscure cipher. “And this place?” She did not look around
at the blank emptiness confronting her. That oppressive sense of infinite
space, and infinite isolation. “Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. A place
between our home and the realm from which your power flows.” He
spoke patiently, a dotting father explaining something to his naïve
child. It grated on what was left of her rapidly dissolving nerves. “Why?” “Excuse me? Are you repeating yourself now?” “What,” she checked herself considering her
next words, “what could you possibly have to say to me.” Milan.
A petty thief. This man? It was all wrong, all careening out of any semblance
of control. It didn’t fit, not even in the slightest ways. “Well, now we’re getting to it then. Umm.
I’m suddenly at a loss for words. You see, I’ve been sent
to make a proposition.” Focus on what he’s saying. Don’t look down.
Don’t look at the abyss. Don’t think about what you are, or
aren’t, standing on. “Which is?” Telford ran a hand over his chin, his black suit had
not even been wrinkled in the battle. For all he showed it, he might have
been out for an evening stroll instead of… whatever this was. “Well you see, my… people. We’d very
much like you to be one of us. To join our brotherhood. The noble cause,
and all that. For the coming struggle.” Laynia laughed, a pitched, shrill laugh, one that leaked
nervous energy out of her body. “You want me to live underground?
Like some fugitive? Some terrorist? Not my style.” “You haven’t heard what we’ve got to
offer yet.” “Which is?” “Your brother.” Whatever growing confidence Laynia had felt slipped away
in that moment. She looked at Telford, caught off guard, and both of them
knowing it. When she began to think straight again, it was with anger.
A simmering, boiling rage she thought she had shed off a long time ago.
Blood pulsed through her head, creating a dull roar in her ears. How dare
he… “My brother. Is. Dead.” “Is he?” The casual, smug way he said it
caught Laynia again, made her back down for a single second, and Telford
stepped through the opening to continue on. “The place was crawling
with soldiers. Closed casket. You, forbidden to see the body. What if
he didn’t die that day, Laynia?” “You’re lying.” The reply wasn’t
as strong as she had wanted it to be. She had meant it to be a stinging
rebuttal, meant to throw his words forcefully back in his face. Instead,
she heard the slightest quiver, that slightest molecule of hope in her
own words. If Telford had recognized it, he gave no outward sign. “No. I’m not.” He sighed, cocking his
head sideways as if listening to a voice when no one was speaking. “Our
time grows short, I’m afraid. Just think about what I’ve said.
Another opportunity will be presented to you. So think, but think quickly.
Because this little chat wasn‘t the only point to my brief adventure
into the seedy criminal underbelly. We also needed a distraction.” One moment he was there, talking to her, and the next
he was gone, drawn away by one of his dark clouds. She was alone in the
white nothingness. Panic seized her heart, and bile rose up in her throat,
choking off her air supply. Then she felt a hand drift across the small
of her back. “Because that struggle I was talking about? It
has already begun.” Another wave of little bugs came roving over her skin,
burrowing under it and down toward her inner core. Milan. She recognized
the skyline instantly, and with a shudder she released the suppressed
terror that had been building up within her for several minutes. The chatter
of her teammates rose in her ears, but she paid them no attention as she
spun around to see if Telford had stuck around for one last parting shot.
He had not. She was alone on an empty roof top, not far from where she
had battled her mysterious foe. With the return of familiar, concrete
surroundings came a return of some sense of reality. Laynia shook her
head, trying to force her mind to catch up to the series of events that
had left it sputtering in the dust. Gradually, she returned to her senses,
and the voices transmitting through to her ear began to become clearer. Some of those voices were talking to her, asking if she
was okay, demanding an update of her status. Many more though, were focused
on other events, happening half a continent away. One phrase was repeated
several times, one phrase which demanded Laynia’s attention, and
demanded her action. Whiteground. Whiteground was under attack. What was it had Telford said? The struggle had already
begun. Next
Issue: the Brotherhood attacks, who will be left standing?
July 2007
MARVEL 2000 PRESENTS...
Brotherhood of Blood - Part 1 of 3
"Mind Games"
Written by
Mark Walsh
Creed
Creed settled down into the stiff brown cushion of the recliner, shifting
his weight around, trying to find a comfortable position. He recognized
that the chair had been designed to gracefully curve into the small of its
occupant’s back, hugging their contours tight and close. It would
have been relaxing, if Creed had been about seven inches shorter. His claws
twisted under the lid of the frosted green beer bottle, and the practiced
sound of metal twisting and cold air rushing greeted his ears. There. That
was relaxing, no matter what his size was.
