X-Force #8: Company of Heroes (Part Two of Our Imperial Ancestors)
Rated PG-13 for violence and language

by R. John Burke

DISCLAIMER: The X-Men are a copyright of Marvel Comics. I don't own them, but this is only non-profit fan fiction. No money is involved and no infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place after "X-Force #1-6" and X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. It is encouraged to read those stories first.

--

Pacific Ocean
Late Spring, 1942
Alternate Reality #758

Betsy Braddock wanted desperately to kill something.

The mutant telepath Psylocke didn't know how long she'd been imprisoned; could only guess from glimpses and snippets she picked up in the mind of her infrequent visitors, and then only when they grew careless. Most of the time, they wore telepathic inhibitors in her presence, and Betsy couldn't learn anything at all. She never saw the sky, knew she was on a ship only from the slight lurch of the deck beneath her feet and the queasy way her small and very occasional meals settled in her stomach.

They were taking her to Imperial Japanese territory, or so it seemed. (- see last issue) The woman who'd told her as much, Lady Michiko Yashida, was not identical to the beautiful mistress of Clan Yashida who'd almost married Logan, but there was a better-than-average family resemblance. Her grandmother? Her aunt? Some relative who hadn't even existed in Betsy's reality?

She called herself Sunfire; Betsy had detected hints of power from her, the fear of her in the minds of the men, and guessed her power to be roughly equivalent to that of the 616 Sunfire, another relative. In Betsy's timeline, that power was a mutation. What was it here? A -potential- mutation, its appearance in the Yashida bloodline accelerated a few decades by the Japanese variant of the Super-Soldier formula? Maybe; Betsy made that her best guess, not that it mattered. Either way, she was the Lady's prisoner. She wouldn't be learning or doing anything else until the voyage was over.

Or until she could escape. Betsy had considered that option about a thousand and one times since she awoke; she liked it better and better. But escape to where? Her teke wouldn't take her across an ocean. A lifeboat wouldn't get much further. Even if they had a -plane- up on deck, she couldn't fly it. The Blackbird was one thing; it practically flew itself. But a 1940's-era Japanese Zero? Not a prayer.

Logan could probably fly it, she thought. Now that he had his memories back, Logan knew all sorts of things that would be useless in 60 years but were helpful now. He'd only have to parachute down out of nowhere and take her away from all this...

Betsy's brow furrowed-- furrowed even further, for she wore a perpetual scowl as she paced the tiny cabin. She wasn't some silly damsel in distress waiting for her prince to rescue her (not that Logan made for anybody's idea of a traditional prince). When they got where they were going, her captors would find that out.

And if Logan himself thought she'd wait around until he got back... -if- he got back, she thought suddenly. For the first time, Betsy allowed herself some doubt. What if the team she'd nearly died saving (- X-Force #6) hadn't managed to beat the Slayer? What if Logan's injuries were too severe for him to heal this time? What if she never got to...

To what? Confessing her innermost feelings wasn't Betsy's style, and here she didn't even know if there was anything to confess. There'd been a brief flirtation, yes (- mostly in issues #5-6), while they were all stuck in Europe. She wouldn't know if it went deeper unless they got to spend some time together... peacetime, ideally. Given their respective lifestyles, what were the odds of that happening?

-Forget about Logan, then,- Betsy thought, and sat down to stew on her bunk. -I still have plenty of reasons to escape these people. There's...-

She drew a blank. Her brother Brian, although she adored him, had always gotten along pretty well, with or without her. The rest of the world had thought her -dead-, not so very long ago. She'd lost Warren and Neil both. Her friends in the X-Men needed her, but not-- she grudgingly admitted-- so badly that life wouldn't carry on in her absence. Betsy's world revolved around the fight, as it had for years. She'd never liked considering what would be left of her once the battle ended.

-Why- escape, then? When you came right down to it... why, really?

-Because I want to,- Betsy decided, grimly setting her jaw. -And they don't want me to, and that's motivation enough for now. These people think they can contain -me-? Good luck. And if Lady Sunfire thinks she can get in my way... well, we'll put those powers of hers to the test, won't we?-

--

The sun rose over a city in ruins, a skyline smeared with black smoke and the scars of a hundred raids. For London in 1942, in this reality, just an ordinary sunrise. Logan wondered if there'd be anything left of this reality when the Skulls were done with it.

Turn the question on its head, though, and it became: -Will there be anything left of the Skulls once -we're- done with them?- Logan liked that one better. He voted no, too.

The woman beside him would probably have something to say about that-- one of the very few inconveniences of having her along. Ororo Munroe must have been a hell of a lady, because she could tell Logan not to kill stuff and he hardly resented her for it.

“So,” he murmured, “how d'you want to do this?”

Ororo's eyes clouded over-- she summoned the power of the Storm to wash away some of the lingering flames.

“I wish to go,” she told him. Logan hadn't expected anything different.

“Okay, that's how you -want- to do it. Now how do you think we -should?-”

Storm looked away. The other day, a man named Talbot had promised them his help in finding Betsy if they'd only do a few things for him-- like leaving three of their six team members here in London to fight the Blitz. (- last issue)

“You wish me to stay,” she said, not as a question. “You still fear for the others.”

“Ya read my mind, darlin'.”

“No, Logan. I seem to be the only woman in your life who -cannot- read your mind. It is sometimes inconvenient.” He laughed at that. Ororo didn't. “It is your team. I will not disagree with you in front of the others. But-- privately, my friend, I must wonder why you brought me here, if only to leave me behind.”

“Didn't count on this,” Logan said, which was only partly true. Storm didn't need to be a mind-reader to know it, so he continued, “'Cat ain't right. Pete ain't right from worryin' about her. Ali an' Longshot ain't gonna stand up to Talbot. Who else I got?”

“You say the sweetest things,” Storm observed, which did not count as disagreement. “Very well, I shall remain. Which of them do you wish to take?”

“I need luck more'n I need a night light, an' a sneak artist more than a bruiser. That means Longshot an' Kitty.”

Storm frowned. “Kitty's powers have been as erratic as her attitude. Do you think she's up to it?”

“I got some experience with erratic.” Logan nodded once, decisively. “Kid'll come through for me.”

“Fair enough.” Storm's eyes swept the city, looking for more trouble spots. Logan's senses told him she was a little off, herself. That played into his decision, but not much. Storm would deal; she always did. “Logan... how much do you trust Talbot? He struck me as entirely too eager to split us up.”

Logan shrugged. “I don't figure he'll cause that kind of trouble. He's got his own problems. But if he does...”

“If he does?” His friend arched a delicately curved eyebrow.

“Give 'im my regards,” Logan said in a dry voice.

“That, my friend, will be a pleasure.”

If Storm's tone, or her eyes, were a little harder than usual when she said it... well, Logan pretended not to notice. Even a goddess had to cut loose once in a while. For Talbot's sake, though, Logan hoped the enigmatic Yank would mind his manners.

--

A couple of people walked past, and Victor Creed ducked into an alley. The man called Sabretooth wasn't ready to be seen. Not 'till he'd picked out a lucky customer.

Three minutes later, here she came. Young, pretty, hair pinned up beneath an elaborate hat. Fancy broad-- the kind who'd take offense at the idea of being -touched- by a filthy mutant. Creed liked that about her.

He waited, counting footsteps. Three more... two...

The woman stepped in front of alley. Sabretooth released a tiny, satisfied growl; the woman couldn't even manage that much as he snaked an arm around her throat and covered her mouth with a claw. He had -both- claws again, finally (- see last issue), and it felt like an age since he'd had any fun.

Creed's victim shivered in his grasp. He bowed his head to whisper in her ear: “Go ahead an' scream, sweetness. I need the publicity.”

He uncovered her mouth. The woman obligingly screamed-- a shrill, piercing sound that almost blew out Creed's enhanced eardrums. That annoyed him, making it easier to finish business:

SKRIK. He twisted the woman's neck just so; she collapsed without another sound, quick and painless. Normally Creed liked to play a little longer first, but time was an issue here.

He dumped the woman's body in the alley and scaled the wall, cutting little handholds with his claws. Then he watched from the rooftop, feeling proud of himself; for all the crap alternate London had taken in the last few years, they hadn't seen fun like -this- since Jack the Ripper. It wasn't even a minute before a constable skidded to a halt in front of the alley. He blew on his whistle repeatedly. Showtime.

It took longer for a crowd to gather than Creed expected; too many Brits were off defending the flag or digging their countrymen out of the rubble. While he waited, he idly toyed with the idea of dispensing with the bobby, too, but no sense in literal overkill. Not yet.

A few minutes later, he got what he -really- wanted. A dork in red, blue, and white tights floated to Earth beside the body. He exchanged words with the constabulary, while Victor Creed licked his lips. -Here- was the big game. Justin Braddock, Captain freakin' Britain in this timeline, was supposed to be a tough customer. He was also supposed to be in contact with Wolverine's X-Force. Time to find out, on both scores.

“Hey!” he cried-- almost a lion's roar. “Anybody seen a little rag-doll of a frail? Know I dropped 'er around here someplace...”

Somebody screamed. The bobbies started toward the building he'd chosen, but Captain Britain gestured them back. A moment later, he'd ascended to the top of the building, only a few feet from Sabretooth.

“It's not safe up here, friend,” the hero said, mock-pleasantly. “Haven't you heard, the Skulls are liable to come 'round at any time?”

Sabretooth laughed. “Thanks for the tip. Fact is, though, I think them fancy Skulls oughta be worryin' about -me-. An' so should you.”

They squared off; the Brit was no coward, Creed had to give him that much credit. He even sounded confident.

“Did you kill that woman?”

“Yup.”

“To get my attention?” Now confidence turned to outrage.

“Pretty much.”

“Very well, then. You have it,” said the hero, and he attacked.

He was fast as the real Captain Britain-- or rather, fast as the one Sabretooth knew, but since the big mutant gave credit to nothing he couldn't detect with his own senses, 'real' worked, too. But this dude wasn't invulnerable-- at least not completely, for he yelped when Creed dodged and slashed both claws across his back.

Creed licked the blood off, as he usually did. He'd tasted better. It was still nice to have both sets of his favorite tools back in the game.

“C'mon, man. You can do better'n that.”

“And so I shall!” said Justin Braddock, and he looped back around.

This time he got in past Sabretooth's guard and popped him solidly in the jaw before the big mutant could react. Creed slashed at his eyes, managed only to rip his mask in half and cut his scalp. Creed tossed away a handful of golden hair.

“Better,” he said. “Gettin' better. Can't stop me, Cap. You may be a badass here in the back-end of noplace dimension, but back home? I'm the best there is.”

“I've seen better.” This time, instead of doing a flyby, the phony Cap consented to engage Creed at close range. They traded blows-- claw for claw, punch for punch. Creed slammed a palm into the side of Braddock's head and sunk his teeth into the other's neck. Braddock persuaded him to let go with a solid knee to the bread basket.

“Groin shot would've hurt more,” Creed hissed in his ear.

“Wouldn't have been fair,” Braddock replied.

“You always play by the rules? Good way to die, that.”

“Then I shall die... as a man, not a beast!”

Creed laughed. Anybody else might have been offended. Him, he -liked- playing the beast. He was enjoying the hell out of himself. He sliced Braddock across the face, one last mark to remember him by...

BOOM. Goaded by pain, Braddock managed to push him away and bring his superior strength to bear. Creed sailed through the air, toward the edge of the roof, laughing all the way...

A portal obligingly appeared to break his fall. Creed tossed Justin Braddock a jaunty salute as he fell headfirst into nothing...

...and then he was gone. Justin Braddock was left alone on the roof, to tend his wounds and wonder what the hell he'd just witnessed.

--

In the middle of nowhere, Victor Creed didn't have to lick his wounds. They disappeared right on schedule, thanks to his healing factor, while he grinned at the six-armed woman who created the passage.

“How'd it go?” Spiral asked..

“Just right,” said Creed. “Those freaks never should've given me any ideas. I been waitin' for a chance to try that tracking-device thing. (-used on Creed by the X-Men in “Uncanny #1-2”)”

Spiral frowned. What she made up in extra appendages, she lacked in whimsy. “You could have found the X-Men yourself, about as easily as Captain Britain.”

“You're not gettin' how this game is played, babe. I don't wanna ambush my boy Logan, I wanna cut out his heart, a little at a time. Don't worry, I'll do the job you're paying for.”

“You'd better. You still have a primary target to address.”

Creed sighed. “I gotta do that one?”

“It's part of the contract. You don't want to double-cross my employer. That's a good way to end up canceled.”

“Yeah, I know. Gonna be boring, is all.” The man called Sabretooth waved a claw. “Okay, babe, you win. Take me to the 'primary target.' I'll get him done in about five minutes, and then we can go back to the fun part.”

Spiral nodded. Her mystical 'dance' transported them across realities again, toward the next stop on their list. Creed just enjoyed the ride. Then he remembered something.

“Hey... you did your bit, right?”

Another short nod. Spiral wasn't much for conversation these days. She used to be lots more fun.

“Glad ta hear it. I can't wait to see the look on the runt's face. They say he's in love again... that's always my favorite time to hurt him. One thing I gotta give him, he's got great taste in women.”

Spiral, who had been known to murder her own past lovers, only shrugged. This was a job to her. To Victor Creed, it was going to be pure pleasure.

--

Two American GI's tried to stop Logan's rescue team from getting into Talbot's borrowed office in the Brentwood, Essex hospital annex. One of them went through a window face-first, and the other backed down when he heard the distinctive sound-- SNIKT!-- that demonstrated Wolverine was not in the mood to play nice.

Talbot was conferring with British operative Peter Wisdom when he arrived; they turned as one, almost like they were expecting him. Maybe they were. Logan was more familiar than he liked to be with the ways of intelligence types. -Never be surprised- was a maxim to a lot of them.

“Okay, bub, here's my team, now... cards on the table. Where's Betsy?”

Talbot frowned. “Where are your manners, Logan? There are ladies present. Miss Pryde... always a pleasure.”

“Whatever,” Kitty said, taking her lead from Logan's attitude. He noticed a look that passed between her and Wisdom; he wasn't sure what to make of it, but he was glad Piotr Rasputin wasn't there to see it. “What're you doing here?”

“Going with you, actually.” Wisdom flashed an unpleasant smile. “That should be fun, eh?”

“Whoa, hold on-- you said you were looking for a--” (- last issue)

“Yes, -well-,” Wisdom cut her off, annoyed at the near-breach of secrecy. “As long as I can only watch half of you at a time, I might as well go with the half I like best.”

“Didn't know ya cared, Wisdom.” Logan glared at him. “But you're not on my team 'till I say you're on my team.”

The British agent squared his shoulders. “I kill Skulls and I take orders.”

“...OK, join the team.”

“Logan!” Kitty protested.

“You know we can use 'im, 'Cat. Unless you don't trust him?”

She gave Peter Wisdom a sour look. Grudgingly, she admitted, “I trust him to be a pain in the butt.”

“Close enough.”

Talbot stepped around his desk, shuffling papers into a folder as he did so. “I will be personally grateful for his presence. Mr. Wisdom and I understand each other.”

“You ain't exactly helpin' his case,” Logan said.

The American agent shrugged that off, studying the long-haired blond next to Kitty. “Well... what am I supposed to call you?”

“I'm Longshot.” The kid stuck out his hand. “Hi.”

“Hi... now what's your -real- name?”

“Um... it's Longshot, I think.”

Talbot frowned. “What if I just call you Mac?”

“Is that American for 'Longshot?'”

“It's American for 'I'm trying my level best to take you seriously.'” Talbot frowned past them, at the final member of the team. “You don't bring her, Logan. Not a chance.”

Logan glanced back at Celeste Cuckoo, the teenage telepath who stood in the doorway, trying not to be noticed. In fact, Celeste wasn't in any condition for a fight; when they'd left her behind in this timeline, she'd been hurt pretty badly by a Slayer-possessed Magneto. (- X-Force #5-6) He reluctantly liked Talbot a little better for objecting.

“We just need her to open the portal. Once that's done, we send her right back. Scout's honor.”

“Good.” Talbot crossed his arms. “I'm not in the business of killing children.”

“Just soldiers an' super-heroes.”

“Yes, well there's the difference, I -like- children.” Talbot held up the folder. “Bet you'd like to see what's inside here.”

“Better be Betsy's location.” Logan held up a claw. “If it ain't, you're gonna eat it.”

Talbot opened the folder and handed him an aerial photograph. “Are you familiar with a little island called Madripoor?”

“You're kiddin', right?” said Logan, and he grinned.

--

The Japanese sailor dropped a small bowl-- containing Elisabeth Braddock's breakfast, lunch, and likely dinner, too-- on the floor and stepped back quickly, while his companion covered her with a rifle. Only one of them was wearing an inhibitor, however; they seemed to have fewer of them to go around than the Skulls. When he moved forward, for an instant, Betsy could see his mind.

She saw the geography he'd noted while on deck-- the Strait of Malacca, she thought. And that meant the city he'd glimpsed in the distance was...

Madripoor. Perfect.

One of the sailors reached out to close Betsy's door. She offered them a beatific smile.

“Well, gentlemen,” she said in Japanese, “my thanks for a lovely time. Sayonara.”

She pushed -up- with a burst of teke, straight through the roof of her cabin--

-- and crashed out into open skies on the top deck. Salt air and partial sunlight smacked Betsy in the face, and she laughed. The balance of the sky was gray, producing mist that obscured the skyline in the distance, but she recognized it as well for herself as she had in the man's mind. How ironic, after the time she and Logan had spent here...

Gunfire rang out from below her. The soldier with the rifle was trying, belatedly, to correct his mistake. Betsy telekinetically shoved some of the debris from her passage down on top of his head to deter him. Then she turned to look for a boat that would get her to shore...

“-Konichiwa, Psylocke-san.-”

Betsy whirled; there, coming up from below, was Michiko Yashida. She carried no weapon and was clad in simple, loose-fitting clothes that reflected neither her station nor the flamboyant costume fashions taking hold in the West. Betsy got the distinct impression these were her work clothes, and that the first part of her escape had been made so easy because the second part was going to be serious business indeed. The warrior inside Betsy welcomed such a chance, while another part of her groaned to be entering combat after days of poor food and little sleep. Nevertheless, she squared off with Michiko, bowed slightly, and manifested her psychic katana.

“Shall we?”

“I think we must,” Michiko said.

She returned the bow. Then she attacked, blasting straight up into the air in a burst of flame, then streaking down on Betsy like a shooting star.

“-Yamato Damashi!-”

At the last instant, she released a gout of energy that might have gone straight through the boat and boiled the sea underneath them if Betsy had not-- barely-- blocked it with a telekinetic shield. She swept with her katana as Michiko streaked past, scoring a minor hit. She turned on her heel, keeping her guard in place for the next strike, but she had no idea if she could absorb another strike like that.

Michiko Yashida nodded to her. “First blood to you. The advantage remains mine.”

“I don't think so,” Betsy said. “We're fighting on your ground, my Lady. You have to be far more careful of this ship than I do.”

“This ship and the people on it are mine to risk, as I am the Emperor's. You, Psylocke, are to be mine as well. I do not wish to hurt you.”

“Oh,” said Betsy. Upon due consideration: “I'm afraid you're going to have to. You won't stop me, my Lady, without killing me.”

“I admire your spirit, but you are not the first beast I have tamed.”

With that, Michiko streaked forward again, surrounded by tongues of fire and trailing a faint smell of burning ozone. This time, she didn't pull away, but wrapped herself up in a glowing shield of energy and hit Betsy with repeated blows that burned when they struck home. Betsy dodged-- dodged again-- calling upon all her training from the Hand, and still she was barely fast enough. Michiko attacked with a ferocity that bordered on recklessness, but how could Betsy respond in kind when she had to devote her telekinetic power to not getting broiled?

Answer: Resort to something a little rougher. Drawing just enough teke away from defense to protect her fists from Sunfire's aura, she went on the offensive the old-fashioned way. Precision blows lashed out too fast to see, but not too fast for Michiko Yashida to block-- again, barely.

“We're well-matched,” Betsy said through gritted teeth. “What are we accomplishing?”

Michiko didn't answer, but left a fiery trail as she somersaulted over Betsy's head, stopped short in mid-air, and blasted with both hands. Betsy covered up inside a telekinetic shell, but the heat was incredible... she gasped...

The shield gave way. Betsy threw herself to the deck as flame scorched her hair. Something behind her caught fire and exploded. She could hear sailors shouting, racing back and forth. She could also hear Michiko descending to the deck beside her.

“A test of wills,” the Lady said, after a deep breath. “That is what we have accomplished. My will has consumed your own.”

“Wrong,” Betsy said, and came up swinging her katana in a lethal arc. Sunfire barely dodged, lost her balance, and Betsy stepped in for a final thrust...

Someone held her back, a strong hand resting on top of hers. Betsy's mind fairly tingled with the intensity of the mind she felt-- all animal passion, barely controlled. For a moment, she battled astonishment. Then...

“Logan!” she breathed, and turned to hug him. Maybe it wasn't so bad being -semi--rescued, anyway. “You're right, I shouldn't kill her. Let's just...”

SHLIKT! Too late, Betsy caught something else in that sense. A familiar mind, yes, but unfamiliar thoughts. Realization came along with a stab of pain in her gut, and Betsy's world spun...

The mirror image of the man she knew retracted a set of bone claws, still wet with her own blood, and stepped over her body to claim a place at Michiko Yashida's side.

“-Arigato,-” the Lady murmured. “-Domo arigato-... my love.”

Red haze swallowed Betsy's consciousness. Last of all to disappear: The image of Logan's double in the Lady's arms...

--

Peter Wisdom stalked away from Kitty Pryde just as Storm and Colossus approached them outside the hospital annex. From her kitten's body language, Storm could tell they'd just finished an argument-- or perhaps they hadn't finished it, but merely postponed it to a more convenient time. She feared Piotr would not see what she did, and sure enough Wisdom had barely stepped around the corner when the big man said:

“Katya! Ororo tells me... are you really going with that... person?”

Kitty made a face. “Actually, Pete, he's goin' with -me-. What d'you want me to do, talk Logan out of it?”

“You could try.”

“Ha!” She tossed up her hands. “Shows how much you know Logan. His skull was plenty hard -before- the adamantium.”

“I know Logan very well-- but I begin to wonder how well I know you.”

“Piotr--” Storm began. Why did men always pick the worst possible times to argue?

Regardless of why, the damage was done. Kitty jabbed a finger in her boyfriend's chest. “Do -not-. Do not go there. I am so not in the mood.”

Piotr crossed his arms. “If he goes, I should go.”

“What for? To -claim- me? I don't need condescension from him, an' I don't need it from you!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Storm stepped between them; clouds rolled through the skies overhead, reflecting her mood. “You are both saying things you do not mean.”

“I dunno what I mean anymore! Stay out of--” Kitty bit off the rest of that sentence, wisely, and turned on her heel. “Sorry, Ororo. I didn't mean to... I'm gonna take a walk.”

Storm watched her go. Things had been most difficult since the Slayer, for all of them. Perhaps no one understood that as did Ororo, who had been at least as badly shaken by the experience as Kitty herself. But to be at each other's throats like this...

Next to her, Piotr Rasputin sighed. “I did not handle that well.”

“Really?” Storm said mildly. “I could not tell.”

“Why does she shut me out? I would not worry about -him- if I knew her as I used to. But lately... everything is hard.”

Storm touched his shoulder; the clouds above subsided. “Little brother... Kitty has loved you since she was a child. I do not think another man could ever hold her heart as you do. But she is a woman now, and you cannot always protect her... least of all from herself. Do you understand?”

“Da,” Piotr said at length. “I am an idiot.”

“Well, yes. But love makes many idiots. Would you like me to talk to her?”

Colossus shook his head. “No. You are right, I think. I hope she will talk to me soon. When she is ready. And if not...”

He left the sentence unfinished, which was perhaps for the best. Storm couldn't possibly be cold-- the climate around her automatically adjusted to her preference-- but she shivered anyway. She began to wonder if the things the Slayer had unearthed in them all could ever be reburied...

--

Wolverine was leaning against a wall, puffing on a cigar, when Peter Wisdom walked past. The British agent kept walking, but he knew it was coming. He waited... waited... and there it was, just before he got safely out of earshot:

“Y'know what I can't figure out?”

“At a guess... grooming procedures?”

“Can't figure out why you'd go way the hell out to Madripoor. You don't work for Talbot, you ain't an X-Man, an' you ain't that close to Betsy. Main thing you care about is England, and England needs ya about ten times more right here.”

Wisdom shrugged. “Let's pretend for one brief, shining moment that I actually owe you an explanation. I do love my country. -My- country. This alternate Britain is a pale imitation. You people are the first thing I've seen in months that's real to me.”

“Don't you mean, -she's- real?” Logan puffed his cigar, ignoring the secret agent's glare. “You still got feelings for her?”

“Like you, Wolverine, I feel very little unless it's convenient to the job.”

“Uh-huh. Right.” Another puff. “Think that load a' crap is big enough yet, or d'you want to shovel some more on?”

Wisdom turned red. Then he caught his temper would both hands. “Fine, then. Suppose I did have feelings. They wouldn't matter, would they? She belongs with him.”

“Yup.”

He just stood there, a hairy gnome in a self-generated cloud of filthy smoke, watching Wisdom with cold eyes. He thought distractedly that Logan might have made a hell of an interrogator, once upon a time.

Then he blurted: “'Yup?' Is that your best shot? Even Cyclops could give better relationship advice!”

Logan pushed away from the wall. “You're assumin' I give half a damn about yer broken heart. Trust me, I don't. I care about getting Betsy back. If you're on the team to help us do that, great. If you're only here to hit on the kid while she's vulnerable, you won't ever have to worry about Colossus findin' out. You get me, Wisdom?”

He brought up his claws between them, the tips poking against the breast of Wisdom's rumpled suit. The two men locked eyes.

“Fair enough,” said the secret agent. “But I can care about her without wanting her back, can't I?”

“Maybe. Do ya?”

Wisdom nodded. “The Kitty I met here is not the one I remember. You say she's vulnerable... I tell you she's hurting badly, much worse than you think.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Wolverine said slowly.

“Do that. I'm surprised you didn't know. I've lost count of the number of times Kitty told me about your enhanced senses and abiding friendship. Yet you brought her back here, to this hell. Maybe the rest of you have been through too much to see it... or maybe you care -so much- about getting Psylocke back, the rest of it doesn't matter. Not even your prize pupil.”

“You sonofa--” That brought Wolverine's claws back up; this time, Wisdom met them with a burning fist and the threat of a few hot knives.

“You can gut me, Logan, but that still won't make it -my- fault if she gets hurt.”

At some point, Logan had dropped his cigar. A thin tendril of smoke from it wafted up between the two men, almost a physical barrier between their not getting along and killing each other. Finally, Logan stamped it out and took a step back.

“Glad you're here to keep me honest,” he growled.

“You should be,” said Wisdom, and he walked away.

--

“I wish I didn't have to go,” said Longshot, as he walked outside the annex with Alison Blaire-- Dazzler. “I want to help Betsy, but... I wish I didn't have to go.”

He reached out for Alison's cheek; she dodged. “Actually, I'm... kinda glad.”

“Oh.”

He dropped the hand. Alison felt bad, but she so wasn't ready to dredge up all the history between her and Longshot. How could you let yourself fall in love with a guy who might not remember you next time he saw you? That wasn't a life, it was an Adam Sandler vehicle!

“Aw, don't be like that,” she said. “I just mean it'll be good to concentrate on business for a while.”

“I don't -know- my own business,” he said, all but kicking the pavement as he trudged along.

“Start with Betsy.” Alison grabbed his hand and winked at him. “Bring 'er back to us, hero.”

His 'lucky eye' gleamed. “What will you do while we're gone?”

“Protect London, I guess. And there's someone I want to...”

“Miss Blaire!”

Speaking of heroes... out of the sky, bronzed and chiseled like a demigod from another age, came the alternate Captain Britain. He made his landing right in front of Alison and Longshot; not a very pretty landing, either. The Dazzler had a bit of history with this guy (- from X-Force #6) and maybe a bit of a crush, but she'd never seen him with a hair out of place until now. His mask had ripped;there was a jagged red line trailing out from under it, and another bloody tear on the neck of his costume.

“Cap? What th' heck happened to you? You step in front of something in the Underground?

“Ran into a new friend.” Justin Braddock made a face. “Disagreeable sort. I thought you might be able to tell me something about him-- he reminded me of your Wolverine.”

“Logan?” Alison froze. “Like... how?”

“Well, he had the claws and the animal instinct, but he was a good deal larger...”

“Sabretooth!” Alison said a word Captain Britain had probably never heard from a lady in his time period. He actually jumped back; but he rallied...

“Then you are acquainted with the brute?” Justin's lip twitched. “He's a murderer. Dispatched a woman in cold blood. Did you know he was here?”

She shook her head. Sabretooth. Why? Could he be an alternate Sabretooth, and his appearance just a coincidence? Maybe-- the sucker was supposed to be old enough. But Alison didn't think so. Sounded more like he'd shown his face deliberately... maybe to send a message to old friends?

“I can find him,” Longshot said. “I know I can find him. Do you want me to look?”

“I guess--” Alison stopped. “No, don't. Go back to Logan. Don't tell him about this. We just answered the question of what I'm gonna be doing while you're gone.”

Longshot and Cap both tossed her quizzical looks. She knew what the former, at least, was thinking: She wasn't in Sabretooth's league, and was likely to get herself killed. That was true, and Alison of all people was in no hurry to take chances. But...

But Logan would see Sabretooth as his responsibility. If he found out his arch-nemesis was off on a killing spree through London, he'd feel obliged to stop him. He might delay the mission for Betsy; even if he didn't, he'd be torn in half. Alison didn't have to let that happen. She knew what it was like to be missing someone you cared about, to want to help them more than anything. And it wasn't like she didn't -have- big guns to call upon...

“Go on,” she told Longshot again. “I'll take this to Ororo, soon as you're gone.”

“Alison...”

“Take care, hon,” she said, and kissed his cheek. Then she nodded to Justin Braddock. “C'mon, Cap. Let's get you cleaned up. You'll like Ororo. She gets all haughty about goodness and truth and such, too.”

Alison looked more confident than she felt, trying to call the play in such a big spot. For a moment, she feared Justin wouldn't follow. Then he did, and she felt better.

She probably wouldn't have if she'd seen the two bright, deadly eyes peering at them out of the shadows.

--

“There you are!” Logan barked when he saw Longshot running up. The kid had held up their departure nearly twenty minutes. “What the hell kept you?”

“Nothing! Sorry. Nothing.”

He was a bad liar. Logan would have worried about that more if he wasn't impatient already. Instead he rounded up Kitty, Wisdom, and Celeste-- all of whom were dressed in street clothes for a nice, quiet incursion-- and nodded to Talbot, who'd come to see them off.

“You better be tellin' the truth... but you knew that, right?”

Talbot shrugged. “I want Psylocke back, too. Her opponents' casualty rates rival yours.”

“Don't rub it in.” Logan took a deep breath and then, as an afterthought, slipped a black patch over his eye to complete his ensemble.

“What the hell is that?” the American asked.

“Oh. It's a kinda tradition.” Logan winked with his good eye, then turned to Celeste: “You ready, kid?”

“Let me at 'em,” she said, only a little shakily.

“Atta girl. Take us to Betsy.”

Celeste's eyes glowed brilliant white, and a portal of the same color ripped the fabric of the Multiverse between them and Talbot. Too bad the Yank was on the other side; Logan would have liked to see his face. But he nodded to Kitty and they stepped through--

--straight onto the docks in Madripoor. Logan took a healthy swig of ocean air, mixed with the exotic scents of night in the port city he knew so well. Even several decades out of date in an alternate reality, this place never changed.

“Yeah, that's the stuff. Good job, k--”

“WHOA!” Celeste cried. She pitched forward, and the portal seemed to shimmer behind her. It stretched and skewed as in a fun house mirror, then just... folded itself up and disappeared with a POP!

“What just happened?” Kitty said.

Logan was afraid he knew. “Get it back!”

Celeste frowned in concentration. “I can't...”

“Dammit, kid!”

“I CAN'T!” Her eyes shone once more like she'd flicked on the brights; then the glow faded. “It's just gone.”

“So... you don't actually -control- this portal, then,” said Wisdom. “You just flit about the Multiverse like some sort of delightful traveling sideshow.”

“Kitty...” Logan said, and she obligingly punched him.

“What do we do now?” Longshot asked.

What -could- they do, without their ride home? Logan didn't see any options save one, and that one made his head hurt even worse than it had for days.

“We do the job,” he said. “We do it the old-fashioned way...”

--

Betsy Braddock winced and swore at the hapless sailor who bound her wounds. It wasn't that it hurt like the devil-- although it did-- but she was mad at herself, too. She'd been taken in like an amateur, had victory snatched from her grasp by a blatant cheat, and now matters were worse than ever. She wondered if thrashing the sailor would make her feel better, but decided against it. He was at least trying to ease her suffering, and even in her present condition, he'd hardly be worth breaking a sweat. So she limited herself to profanity and glaring.

A small sound at the door. It creaked open, and again that strange almost-Logan sense filled Betsy's mind. His counterpart nodded to the sailor and spoke in perfect Japanese:

“It is time to move her.”

The sailor looked distinctly grateful to make Betsy someone else's problem. Almost-Logan seized Betsy by the arm and led her out of the cabin. His grasp was unyielding, but not especially rough. Nothing save the roiling currents in his mind betrayed any hint of emotion whatever.

“No psi inhibitor,” Betsy noticed. “Aren't you afraid I'll break your will and get away?”

“No,” he said, and nothing else.

Betsy sighed. The -real- Logan's past was such a tangled web, she wouldn't have known quite how to approach him back in 1942. This alternate version might as well be a stranger. She took to thinking of him as Samurai X, a nod to both the Weapon X program and the samurai ethic he'd apparently adopted. Although that led to another question...

“I beat her,” Betsy murmured. “I beat her fairly, and you intervened. You took me from behind, left me no chance to defend myself. Doesn't that offend your sense of honor?”

For a long moment he didn't answer. Then: “My honor is second only to my allegiance to my Lady.”

“That's where you differ from him, then. His would have come first.”

The other Logan didn't waste words responding to that. Betsy filed away what little she'd learned. Some of her bitterness faded as she did so. She couldn't begrudge Michiko Yashida such devotion from her champion. Indeed, she found she almost envied it as he guided her deep into the Madripoor night.

--

“Ahh! Ehh! Uhh!”

Justin Braddock was too much of a gentleman to fall back on four-letter words as Alison Blaire swabbed out the wound on his neck. He was trying gamely not to even admit he was in pain, contenting himself with a sharp intake of breath every time she hit a nerve.

“Easy there, pal. Somebody outside might take all that heavy breathing the wrong way.”

“My dear Miss Blaire!” He caught her arm as she reached for him again, blue eyes popping. “I assure you I am a gentleman!”

“Yeah, story of my life. Now c'mon, let me do this...”

At least Alison could console herself with the knowledge she'd finally won her bet with Kitty Pryde. The new Captain Britain seemed so mysterious-- and looked and sounded so perfect, with the mask in place-- the two women had a playful bet as to who could unmask him. This meant ten pounds in Alison's pocket.

The overall effect turned out to be slightly less than she might have hoped. The unmasked Justin Braddock was almost too handsome to be handsome, if that made any sense-- not so much an attractive man as somebody's airbrushed drawing of an attractive man. He struck Alison like one of the plastic types she would have met in Hollywood, except no cosmetic surgeon in the world could have achieved such an effect in 1942. If Emma Frost was a guy, she'd be Justin Braddock.

That face nagged at Alison's memory, too, although she chalkedit up to the family resemblance to Betsy and Brian. He had to be related to those two -some- way, right? This whole alternate reality thing gave Alison such a headache...

She reached in again, and Justin jumped out of his seat. “Yes, thank you, that will do! Now, shall we to business?”

“Don't be in such a hurry, Cap. You've got no idea how bad this guy is. I'd rather shave my legs with a cheese grater than tick off Sabretooth.”

“Charming.” Justin wrinkled his nose. “Actually, I meant other business. Do you recall asking me for information about an American GI?”

“Yeah, the guy who saved my life. (- X-Force #5-6) You found him already?”

Justin nodded, reaching for the door. “I told you it would be no trouble. The chap's name is Garrett. He's a PFC, in stable condition in one of the temporary shelters; I can take you to him, if you like.”

“That's great,” Alison said. “Thanks so--”

While she spoke, Justin turned the doorknob. And then the door collapsed on him, broken down from outside. Something-- a huge, snarling bulk-- landed on the British hero's chest and elicited a yelp with a hearty stroke of its claws. Then the thing turned glittering eyes on Alison, and her brain caught up with her adrenal gland.

“Tag,” growled Sabretooth. “Better run, babe, 'less you wanna be 'it.'”

Alison froze. She couldn't quite make herself leave Justin, even though her every instinct hollered how very bad it would be to end up as a red smear on the wall. Before she could think of anything heroic to break the mental tie, Justin shoved the feral mutant off his shoulders and delivered a thunderous punch.

Sabretooth hit the wall hard, but came up snarling. “Looks like somebody doesn't know when to DIE!”

“Run, Miss Blaire!” said Justin, and he punched again. This time Sabretooth dodged the blow.

“Go on, sweetie.” Sabretooth slashed his claws across Justin's chest, leaving three brilliant red gashes. “Go visit yer sick friend, like the cap'n says. I paid him a visit, too.”

“What?”

The two men grappled; Sabretooth dug his claws into Justin's face and slammed his head against the wall. “Everybody talks about overcrowded hospitals, but nobody else does anything about 'em. No need to thank me, sweetie. I had fun.”

“You-- what?!” Alison turned and-- ZZAP!-- blew out the room's window with a concentrated laser blast. She ducked out with the fight still raging behind her.

It wasn't hard to follow Sabretooth's trail through the hospital annex. He'd made a point of trashing as many of the improvised huts as appeared in his path. Canvas torn, equipment scattered and broken. Here and there, something that might have belonged to a nurse or an orderly poked out of the mess.

“No... no! DAMMIT!”

Alison raced through the chaos, hunting for a specific face. She'd only seen it once, when one of her countrymen had appeared out of nowhere to shoot a Skull off her back. Alison had feared he'd die saving her.

-But he didn't. He would have lived. He would have gone home to his family-- except I had to tell Justin, and Justin led Sabretooth right to him! DAMN!-

There-- at the edge of the annex, half-covered by a torn sheet. There wasn't much left to identify, but what there was, Alison recognized. She stood in mute shock while people shouted and screamed and ran all around her. She realized it was raining; a few drops turned into a freak downpour while she stood rooted to the spot, hands clenched into fists.

She heard a -snarl- behind her, and slowly turned.

“Where's Justin?”

“He's gonna take a little nap,” said Sabretooth, who crouched a little distance away, watching her with hungry eyes. “More fun for us?”

Alison stared at him. All her life, she'd wondered why people in dumb costumes couldn't just leave her alone. She loved music. She was -good- at music. She wasn't such a great hero. What did the world need with one more, anyway?

Right now, it apparently needed somebody to stand between Victor Creed and innocent people like these. Maybe for the first time, Alison knew she could be that person. This wasn't anything but murder. There was no excuse for it. And someone was going to pay. She took a step forward.

Sabretooth laughed. “Love that look in yer eye, babe, but c'mon. Be honest. How d'you think this is gonna end?”

“I think I'm going to burn a hole between your eyes and set your brain on fire,” Alison told him, preternaturally calm. “I don't much care what happens next.”

She raised her hands, fully charged for a laser blast. Sabretooth pounced with flashing claws.

ZZZZRACK!!

He never got where he was going. The blast came not from Alison, but from above, and landed not between Creed's eyes, but between the two combatants. Creed lay on the ground, dazed, while Alison looked up and shaded her eyes... suddenly she knew the reason for the freak cloudburst.

Ororo Munroe came to ground beside Sabretooth. A heavy footstep on his other side marked the arrival of an organic-steel Colossus. The three X-Men surrounded the assassin in a loose semicircle. He looked from one to the next, snarling like a trapped animal.

Storm's eyes were entirely white, her expression grim as she looked around at the ruined hospital.

“You do not appear satisfied with Ali's answer to your question. Perhaps you would be interested in mine? For you, creature, I assure you... this is very much the end.”

END

In Issue #9: “Sins Worth Forgiving”
See the other Eternity series: Uncanny X-Men, GenE, New X-Men, & X-Factor, online now!
Up Next: X-Factor #8: “Unconditional Surrender”