9

HUH—PLACE don’t look all that different. I was half expectin’ all the skyscrapers t’be replaced with flamin’ castles.”

_ Turning from the spectacular view he had of Manhattan as it

appeared just over the treeline, Wolverine adjusted the wide brim of his darkly tanned Stetson and shot a glance at the other X-Men and Carol. They were seated in a Metro North railway car, seven (hopefully) ordinary-looking passengers among a dozen others spread out around the air-conditioned compartment, inconspicuously making their way down from Westchester County to the center of Manhattan. After spending the night in a Bedford Hills motor lodge, to heal their injuries and get a much-needed rest, they had arose this morning to find an assortment of clothing, a wide variety of breakfast foods, and a small pile of cash, all gathered by the industrious Gambit while they’d slept. He explained that some of the shops and Automated Teller Machines in town had been more than happy to make “donations” to their cause, even though such “contributions” had been received between the hours of one and five a.m. Cyclops had thought of chastising his thievish teammate, but opted instead to let the matter slide since they were in need of everything Gambit had provided. The X-Men quickly sat down to feast on sweet rolls, sticky buns, pancakes and sausages, toast and marmalade, and hot coffee and tea. (Never let it be said that, despite their great powers, mutant super heroes are immune to the lure of copious amounts of sugar and caffeine.)

When they were finished gorging themselves and had changed into their “civvies,” the team at last settled down to discuss the first order of business: getting into Manhattan. Carol had shot down any ideas of commandeering a transport truck from the camp since large, black ve-hides on public roads had a tendency to draw unwanted attention to their occupants; she suggested they make the trip to The City by rail.

Boarding the train at the Bedford Hills station, they had been able to see the aftermath of their night raid when they passed through Salem Center: it appeared that some concerned citizens had alerted the authorities about the rather large explosions that had scorched the night sky and rudely tossed them from their beds—the town, and Graymalkin Drive, were as warm with hordes of armored soldiers, crisply-uniformed guards, members of the New York State Police, and construction crews apparently dispatched to rebuild the tom and pitted facility. Logan had had to be psychically rendered unconscious by Jean when he realized that, despite his demands to the commandant, the camp had not been leveled; he’d almost managed to leap from the moving train before she was able to send a psi-bolt shooting into his brain to shut him down. When Wolverine finally regained consciousness and calmed down enough to hold a civil conversation, Cyclops reminded him that it was far more important that they get to Doom—if they could reverse what he’d done, then the camps, the tortured prisoners, and the tyrant’s position as master of the world would all fade away like the last remnants of a bad dream. Scott’s argument had been a sound one, and even Logan had to agree with it. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though; he’d sat, brooding, for the last fifteen minutes before at last uttering his remark about the New York skyline.

Now, as the train stopped at the Mt. Vemon station and its doors slid open, Rogue stood up to stretch her legs, taking care not to disturb Remy, who snoozed peacefully beside her. It was clear to see that Rogue was acting more like her old, outgoing self, now that her bare skin was again protected from any casual contact with passersby—-somehow, in his nocturnal foraging, Remy had managed to locate a new leather jacket and a bodysuit to replace her tattered outfit; this one, though, was colored red and black instead of yellow and green, and lacked the distinctive “X” emblem. Upon first seeing it, Nightcrawler had quipped that, with the darker clothing, she was perfectly attired for operating in “stealth mode” when she flew at night.

Unfortunately, unlike the rest of his teammates, Kurt himself was a major problem when it came to the matter of avoiding detection. With his blue skin tone and unusually-shaped hands and feet, he more often than not stood out like the proverbial sore thumb in a crowd, so finding something for him to wear in increasingly warm June temperatures had been a challenge for Gambit, but one the Cajun had been willing to meet. His solution: dark clothing all around—slacks, shirt, a knee-length raincoat worn open, large military-style boots—and a pair of circular sunglasses to hide Kurt’s yellow eyes. “If anyone asks ’bout why you got blue skin, or why you wearin’ all dis in de summer, mon brave, ” Gambit had said, “you jus’ tell ’em you one’a dem Anne Rice fans.” As it had turned out, Gambit had done an admirable job of assembling a wardrobe for the team. Sneakers, jeans, and a crimson blouse for Carol. A light, flower-print summer dress and open-toed sandals for Jean—Scott had decided not to pursue the question, for now, of how the wily ladies’ man could know his wife’s exact sizes—and tan shorts, green Polo shirt, and low-topped canvas sneakers for Scott; Jean carried their costumes in a large canvas beach bag. Shopping for Wolverine was even easier: work boots, jeans, plaid work shirt, and a cowboy hat. Gambit had settled for sneakers, bicycle shorts, a white muscle T-shirt, and his ever-present duster; like Kurt, his eyes were covered by sunglasses.

The public address system speakers crackled loudly as, somewhere on the train, the conductor made his latest announcement: “Next stop, 125th Street. 125th Street, Harlem. Following 125th Street, this train will be making its last stop at 42nd Street, Grand Central Station. 125th Street, next stop.”

A bell chimed pleasantly, and the doors slid closed. With a slight lurch, the train pulled out of the Mt. Vernon station.

“Won’t be long now,” Rogue said, leaning down toward Jean and Scott. “I just hope somebody’s home when we come a-knockin’.”

Scott nodded grimly. “That makes two of us . . .”

Warren had already left for his office by the time Betsy awoke.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten to rouse her from her coma-like slumber before he departed. When she finally got around to rubbing sleep-encrusted eyes and rolling over in bed to glance at the alarm-clock on the side table, it was already 10:30.

“Oh, bollocks!” she screamed, now fully awake, and clawed her way out of sheets that seemed to have purposely wrapped themselves around her like a mummy’s shroud to impede her attempts to get out of bed. She eventually won the battle, though, and was soon racing for the shower.

Moving with a speed she’d never known she possessed—a curiously welcome effect bom of equal parts adrenalin and sheer panic—she danced quickly through the shower, blow-dried her hair (noting that she would have to pick up a new bottle of lavender dye, since the color was starting to fade), and began a nerve-racking juggling act that involved running from bathroom to closet and back again, trying to divide her time between applying the proper makeup while searching for the right kind of outfit one should wear when meeting the Minister of Entertainment for the first time.

She was ready to go by 11:45.

Made-up perfectly, perfumed so just, hair done up in a stylish twist, and clad in a dark blazer and matching miniskirt, Betsy stopped to admire the stunning image she presented in the hallway mirror. She arched a delicate eyebrow and, haughtily looking down her nose, cast a withering gaze at her reflection.

“Beg for me, little man,” she purred in an overly dramatic Russian accent. “Beg for me, and perhaps I shall perform in your charming, little show.” She giggled wildly.

Then, with a joyful laugh, she bolted from the apartment as another adrenalin rush kicked in.

Fortunately, it was a short distance from Battery Park City to the World Trade Center; so short, in fact, that Betsy could have walked there ... if she had the time. Luck was with her, though—another tenant was just stepping from a taxi cab as she arrived in the lobby. In less than a minute, she was on her way to meet her destiny.

The New York office of the Minister of Entertainment was located on the seventy-fifth floor of the south tower of the World Trade Center. It was not open all year round, since the Minister rarely visited the city, preferring to stay at his Washington, D.C. estate. When he did visit, though, a cleaning crew moved in with all the precision of a military strike team several days before his arrival and scrubbed the place down until it literally gleamed.

Today, of course, was one of those rare occasions when he opened the doors of his office and made himself available to the few people in town he was interested in seeing. Those he was trying to avoid were escorted back to the elevators that led down to the lobby—with or without all their teeth.

The Minister didn’t mind fawning sycophants. He just hated it when they did their fawning during business hours.

Betsy stepped onto the main hallway of the seventy-fifth floor, pausing a moment to recover from the pressure on her ear drums created by a higher altitude and an elevator that rose at a speed of 1600 feet per minute. Pinching her nose closed with her thumb and forefinger, she blew hard, then opened her mouth, and was rewarded with the sensation of having her full hearing restored.

And that was when the butterflies in her stomach began flitting about.

“Oh, give it a rest,” she muttered to herself. Taking a deep breath, she held it for a moment, then released it, and pulled herself up to her full, spike-heel-assisted height. “Right,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

Confidently, she strode down the tiled hallway toward a set of oak-paneled doors; gold-leaf lettering was set into the wood:

MINISTER OF ENTERTAINMENT

OPEN:

WHENEVER

BUSINESS HOURS:

DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH WAITING

Betsy’s eyes were drawn to another line, inscribed above the door frame:

ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER

“Wonderful. . Betsy murmured. Screwing up her courage, she grasped the doorknob, turned it, and walked into the office.

It was like stepping into a child’s version of how an office should be designed. Instead of the typical furniture one would expect to find, the reception area was a mass of candy-colored tables and chairs with intentionally twisted legs and seat-backs. Above the receptionist’s desk hung ceiling-mounted monitors, on which were being broadcast cartoons and situation comedies and the classic movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Betsy smiled, feeling a pleasant chill run up her spine as she watched actor Gene Wilder as Wonka bend down to whisper to the child actress playing the obnoxious Veruca Salt. “We are the makers of music, and we are the dreamers of dreams,” Wilder said softly. Betsy mouthed the words along with him.

On the other side of the room were a collection of pinball machines and old-style video arcade games, their bells and whistles and electronic music battling for attention and combining to create a white noise that rumbled across the black-and-white checkered carpeting to send a tingling sensation through Betsy’s toes. And at the far end of the reception area was a wall constructed with a false perspective, so that it appeared the office continued on for another hundred yards. Betsy raised a quizzical eyebrow. Despite what Warren had told her about the man in advance, it seemed that the Minister was an odder egg than even her beau had known.

Her eye was drawn to hung an immense, framed poster hanging on a wall near the front door; it was a promotional item for the hugely-popular animated television show Obnoxio the Clown. Sitting curbside on a cobblestoned street, holding a fishing pole that dangled above an open manhole, the star of the show, repugnant in his grotesque green-and-white makeup and costume, glared out at the viewer, as though angered that he was being observed; either that, or he was annoyed by the fact that a dog standing behind him appeared to be urinating on the back of his costume. A word balloon hung above the clown, its tail leading to yellowed teeth sunk into the end of a smoldering cigar: “There ain’t no free lunch!” Obnoxio was saying—an infamous, and incredibly overused, catchphrase that he often muttered on the show.

Betsy slowly shook her head. She’d never understood what was supposed to be so humorous about the violent, often vulgar, program, though Warren seemed to think it was outrageously funny. He’d once commented that her reaction was a prime example of the differences between men and women. He called it “Three Stooges Syndrome”: a condition in which men thought Moe, Larry, and Curly were the be-all and end-all of slapstick comedy, and women thought it was all incredibly stupid. She just thought it was a lack of ingenuity—though it was to be expected in a country that had never possessed the sophistication to create a Blackadder or a Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

Americans. . . Betsy thought, and shrugged.

“Can I help you?” asked a strong, feminine voice from behind her. Betsy turned toward the source of the question, and found herself facing an attractive Japanese woman; clad in a bright red dress that seemed two sizes too small, she was in her mid-twenties, dark hair cut in a shoulder-length pageboy style. Light green eyes coolly studied her from beneath inky bangs.

Betsy smiled. “Good afternoon. I have a twelve o’clock appointment with the Minister.”

The woman looked her up and down for a few moments. “Braddock,” she finally said. A sneer creased her perfect, pale-white skin. “Worthington’s little songbird.”

Betsy started. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, surprised by the venom in the woman’s tone. “And just who the hell are you?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, locking eyes with Betsy. “I am Miss Locke, the Minister’s personal assistant,” she said, almost growling, “and I am not impressed by pathetic little nobodies who must rely on their boyfriends to suck up to government officials to give them work.”

“Oh. Slept your way to the top, then, did you?” Betsy asked tersely. The butterflies in her stomach were quickly forgotten, replaced by a roiling surge of anger-laced bile that made her throat bum. She folded her arms across her chest and planted her feet squarely on the carpeted floor, almost daring this uppity secretary to try and throw her out of the office.

The intercom on Locke’s desk suddenly buzzed, breaking the tension. Clearly angry that she was forced to break eye contact with Betsy, Locke hurried to answer the summons.

“Yes, Minister?” she asked.

“Miss Locke,” said a voice that sounded to Betsy like a cross between singer Paul Williams and a young Mickey Rooney, “do I hear the beginnings of a cat fight out there?”

Locke glared at Betsy; the heat between them was almost palpable.

“I’m sorry, Minister,” Locke finally said.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” the Minister replied. “I love a good cat fight—gets the blood racing. Unfortunately, I need to speak with Miss Braddock while she still has a throat to sing with. Could you send her in?”

“At once, Minister,” Locke said, still staring at Betsy. The lavender-tressed “songbird” grinned broadly like a Cheshire Cat. Locke sneered and gestured toward the wall behind her desk. “This way.”

Betsy followed her around the separation, down a short corridor that ran behind the reception area, and to another set of double-doors. Locke rapped softly on the dark wood.

“Come on in! Don’t be a stranger!” shouted the Minister.

Locke opened the doors and, with one last heated look at Betsy, stepped aside to usher her into the office. Once Betsy had crossed the threshold, Locke closed the doors—just managing to avoid clipping Betsy on the funny bone.

Now rid of her surly escort, Betsy took a moment to look around. The office was much like the reception area, decorated in the same Wonka-esque style; Betsy half expected an Oompa-Loompa to come sauntering out of a hidden panel in the walls. On the far side of the room stood the only piece of “adult” furniture: a long, wide, oaken desk, on which sat telephones, a personal computer, toy figures—“action figures,” she believed they were called—an assortment of papers, and issues of Daily Variety. Beyond the desk was a large, black leather chair, its straight back turned toward her; past the chair was a spectacular view of upper Manhattan and the New Jersey Palisades standing proudly across the Hudson River, all on display through windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.

Betsy smiled whimsically as she gazed at her bizarre surroundings. She had heard of the “Peter Pan Syndrome”—a psychological term for men who refused to grow up—but until today she had never seen evidence of anyone who actually suffered from it.

“Quite a view, innit?” asked the Minister. With a start, Betsy realized he was sitting in the leather chair, with his back to her.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. She softly cleared her throat and approached the desk. “I’d like to thank you for coming to see my act, Minister—I know we didn’t get a chance to speak at the theater, what with your busy schedule and all—and for taking the time to see me today.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Braddock,” her host said cheerfully. “Any friend of ol’ bird-boy Warren is a friend’a mine, right? Besides, if you didn’t have the kinda pipes I heard last night—and the kinda looks I got a gander at—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” He swiveled the chair around to face her.

When she laid eyes on him, it was all Betsy could do to keep from laughing.

The Minister wasn’t very tall, and his suit was as brilliant a white as his unruly mop of hair was red; Betsy was reminded of a dish of vanilla ice cream topped with a maraschino cherry. His lack of sartorial tastes went even further beyond belief, as evidenced by an off-putting pistachio-green shirt and an oversized, clownish bowtie with red polka-dots. All in all, he looked less like a high-ranking government official and more like a circus ringmaster—or a used car salesman.

And yet, there was something familiar about the man, though Betsy couldn’t quite put her mental finger on it—something that made her wonder if they had met before ...

Eyes sparkling with dark mischief, he practically leapt from his chair to greet her.

“And please—don’t call me ‘Minister,’ ” he said. “The name is Arcade, sweets.” He smiled broadly and extended his hand in greeting.

“All right, if you call me ‘Betsy,’ ” she replied. Betsy reached out and clasped his hand in hers—

And stiffened as something akin to a powerful electrical current suddenly surged through her body, pinning her to the spot.

She screamed in agony—a short, brief note—just before darkness overwhelmed her.

“BETSY!"

Standing on the comer of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, Jean Grey came to a sudden halt, eyes widened in shock. Beside her, the other X-Men and Carol Danvers gathered around as Jean stared off into the distance, her fingertips touching her temples. They did their best to ignore the lunchtime crowds who jostled and bumped into them, though Nightcrawler clearly felt uncomfortable by the open-mouthed stares directed his way.

Scott moved closer to his wife. “What is it, Jean?”

“It’s Betsy,” she replied. “For just a second, I detected her thoughts—but they were jumbled, confused.” Jean turned to gaze at her husband, her bright green eyes filled with concern. “She was in pain, Scott—terrible pain. And . . . Arcade was with her.” She paused, and turned her gaze downward. “And then she ... stopped sending.”

The X-Men silently looked at one another, their expressions grim.

“And what does that mean?” Carol asked.

“It means,” Kurt explained through tightened lips, “that Betsy is either unconscious, or. . .” His voice trailed off.

Carol didn’t need a further explanation.

There’s an old chestnut that claims that, just before you die, you see your entire life flashing before you, from childhood all the way to your last moment on Earth.

If such were the case, Betsy Braddock could not understand why, then, she was seeing the life of the Minister of Entertainment being played out before her.

It wasn’t his complete life story, thankfully; more like a highlights reel of his career. But what made the situation even more peculiar was that she was seeing events that could not possibly have happened—at least, not the sort of events one would associate with a member of Emperor von Doom’s cabinet. Scenes of costumed men and women, like those in the “comic book” movies, running through mazes and avoiding movie serial-like death traps and being bounced about in giant pinball machines.

And all of the devices were being controlled by Arcade himself.

I don’t remember ever hearing about the Minister playing at being a cinema villain, Betsy thought. Although with that suit of his he could almost have stepped straight out of one of Roger Moore's James Bond movies. ..

But now other images—not images, but memories, she realized with a start—began to form: of herself a few years ago, in a different—and decidedly non-Asian—body, shopping in London (she could tell it was supposed to be her—the lavender hair was a dead giveaway); of a handkerchief being pressed over her face, and the smell of a powerful anesthetic; of that snooty cow Miss Locke carrying her from a van into something called “Murderworld”; of her brother, Brian, dressed in a bright red costume with a yellow, lion-shaped silhouette emblazoned across the chest—like an outfit worn by one of those outlandish super heroes—calling himself “Captain Britain,” and coming to her rescue.

And above it all, like a giant, grotesque sculpture of a demonic head displayed at the entrance to an amusement park funhouse ride, hung the sinister, leering face of the Minister of Entertainment.

What’s all this about? Betsy wondered. How could any of these be my memories, especially when—thank God—I’ve never even met the Minister’s “personal assistant” before today? And that nonsense about looking Caucasian—when did my imagination get so bloody colorful?

But, more importantly, if I’ve died, then why is it that my head hurts so . . . ?

“Hey, you okay there, Betsy?” It was Arcade’s voice, but it sounded as though it was being broadcast through a bad transmitter, like the muffled sound made by someone speaking into a telephone with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.

Slowly, Betsy opened her eyes. She was lying on a sofa shaped like a pink-colored carp, her head resting on a pillow that looked like a giant lobster from some children’s cartoon; a dampened handkerchief sat coolly on her brow.

“I-I’m not dead ..she whispered, partly in disbelief.

“Not by a long shot, sweets,” Arcade said, “though you had us going there for a minute.”

Looking up, Betsy saw him standing beside her, bent forward, hands resting on his knees. Behind Arcade, Miss Locke sneered at her—

“Try not to cause us too much trouble, little girl, ” she said, reaching forward to tie a paisley-colored handkerchief over Betsy’s mouth; the cloth smelled faintly of lilacs. “Arcade prefers that all participants play the game in their own way, without outside assistance. ”

She checked to make certain that the gag was knotted securely, then stepped back to look at her employer. Arcade, leaning on a thin, bamboo cane, a straw skimmer sitting at a rakish angle on his head, flashed a wicked smile.

“Now, the fun begins ...” he said.

“Back again?” Arcade asked cheerfully. “You know, Warren didn’t tell me you were a narcoleptic.”

Betsy blinked twice and stared blankly at Arcade, who was now sitting on a chair beside the couch. Obviously, some time had passed since their last brief exchange.

With a start, she realized that she had blacked out again.

But why had it happened? What had caused it?

She was certain it had everything to do with that surge of electricity she had felt when she touched Arcade’s hand—but was it something he had done intentionally? If so, for what reason?

And what were these visions she was having during her bouts of unconsciousness—these melodramatic scenes of facing dire peril at the hands of the Minister and his assistant? She had had the odd feeling that they’d met once before, but surely it must have been at a party, or at the ballet, or a movie premier she had attended with Warren—not as a helpless kidnap victim being used as a prize in a bizarre game intended to trap her brother. Maybe it was just her fear of failing Warren—of failing herself, really—at play here, and her subconscious mind was causing her to see the Minister and Miss Locke as a threat to her desire to finally make a name for herself.

Couldn’t that be it?

And yet, there was something about the visions—something that her mind was insisting was real; that they were not fanciful manifestations created by an overactive imagination, but actual suppressed memories of an actual terrifying event in her life.

But why, then, couldn’t she remember experiencing it?

What in God’s name was going on with her?

A soft grunting noise drew her attention back to reality and over to Arcade’s assistant. Clearly disgusted at the sight of a woman who appeared to have had a fainting spell brought on by all the excitement of meeting the honest-to-God Minister of Entertainment himself, Miss Locke turned on her heel and left the office.

“W-what is happening to me. . . ?” Betsy asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, sweets,” Arcade said. “Soon as we shook hands, you went stiffer than Tony Stark on a three-day bender and keeled right over. And then, just as I was about to explain all that to you after you woke up, you plopped down again and took another catnap.”

Betsy paused to replay the initial event in her mind. She nodded slowly as it all came back to her. “But, didn’t you feel the shock when we touched? The electrical shock?”

Arcade stared at her, obviously confused. “Shock?” He chuckled. “Well, I left my joy buzzer in my other pants, so that couldn’t have been the cause of it. But I might’ve accidentally rubbed my feet on the carpet before we touched . . . although that’s not the kind of thing that can knock you out, you know?”

“No, I suppose not. ..” Betsy said slowly. Pushing off from the lobster-pillow, she sat up and removed the cold compress from her forehead. “I’m sorry for all the melodrama, Minister. That’s never happened to me before.” She shook her head. “God, I feel like such an a—” “Hey, it’s all right,” Arcade said, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. “No harm, no foul. Besides, you’ve just provided proof positive of what I’ve always suspected: I’ve got a real electric personality.” He reached out a hand to her and smiled, and—

“I hope your brother gets here soon, ducks, ” the leering gamesmaster said to her. Betsy tried to lash out at him, to claw at that insipid, arrogant face, or kick him in the groin to wipe away that infuriating smile, but bound as she was, hand and foot, to a gleaming white wooden stallion on a merry-go-round, such actions were impossible.

“I’d hate to see such an exquisitely beautiful woman—such as yourself—wind up splattered across ten square meters of Derbyshire, ” he continued, “because their super heroic sibling was off rescuing cats from trees when he should have been watching out for his loved ones. ” He reached out to stroke Betsy’s cheek with a gloved hand, and—

“—your boyfriend can attest to that fact,” the Minister was saying. Betsy started. “W-what.. . ?” She looked up to find herself sitting in front of Arcade’s desk on one of the candy-apple red chairs scattered about the office. The Minister was back in his big leather seat, white-booted feet resting comfortably on the desk’s ink blotter.

Betsy shook her head to clear her thoughts; her cheeks reddened. “I-I’m sorry, Minister. My mind must have .. .”

“Taken a little stroll?” Arcade asked. Betsy bobbed her head once without looking at him. Arcade shrugged. “Happens to me all the time.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Betsy nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, I am. I’m fine.” She saw Arcade’s eyes narrow as he studied her face. “Really,” she insisted.

“All right. Just checking,” Arcade said. “Anyway, I was just saying that Warren can back me up when I say that I thought your stuff was outstanding last night. You put a lot of heart in your performance, and it really showed.”

Betsy blushed. “Thank you.”

“And that little number you threw Warren’s way. That poem?”

“ ‘Spring Rain,’ by Sara Teasdale?” Betsy offered.

Arcade thumped a fist on the desk. “That’s the one! Fantastic number! I saw how the audience was just eating it up with a spoon—wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the time you were done yanking on their heart-strings. A regular Celine Dion ballad.” He shrugged. “Not exactly Wayne Newton, but hey—it’s a helluva lot better than ‘I Think I Love You,’ and it’d have the Empress crying all over her party dress, and that’s what’s important.” He paused. “You have permission from this .. . this ...”

“Teasdale.”

“Right. Her. You have her permission to use that song?”

Betsy suddenly found it difficult to catch her breath. Was this conversation going where she thought it was heading . . . ?

“Well?” Arcade asked. “Is this Teasdale going to cause any trouble?”

“Uh, no,” Betsy replied. “She passed away quite a long time ago.” “Perfect!” Arcade exclaimed. “I love quick and easy solutions to potential problems—they make my life so much simpler.”

“Umm . . . excuse me, Minister . . .” Betsy began.

“Arcade, ” the Minister happily insisted.

“All right. . . Arcade.” Betsy paused, part of her brain screaming at her to ask the question, the other part warning her not to back him into a comer and force him to make a decision too soon. She had to know, though. “I don’t mean to be too forward,” she said slowly, “but are we talking about me actually participating in the anniversary gala?”

“Well, for now, we are,” Arcade admitted. “But I can’t set anything in stone until I hear back from some of the other acts I’ve been talking to. Believe you me, the last thing I’m about to do is tell The Wayouts that I’ve gotta bump ’em from the schedule so some unknown chanteuse from a midtown Manhattan lounge can take their spot and serenade the Royal Couple instead.” He shivered. “Those guys would rip off my legs and beat me to death with ’em before I could choke out an ‘I’m sorry, and I’ll make it up to you.’ ”

“But you are saying I have a chance?” Betsy asked. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears, she wasn’t even certain she had put forth the question.

“Sure—everybody’s got a chance, sweets, but I really won’t know for sure about the line-up for another day or so.” Arcade shrugged. “You’ll just have to bear with me until you hear back one way or the other. Fair enough?”

Her mind suddenly a blank, Betsy found it difficult to do anything more than simply nod.

“Any luck?” Scott asked.

Jean shook her head. “I can’t detect any other activity from Betsy.

It’s like her ‘signal’ was cut off in mid-transmission. And without knowing the direction it came from, I can’t get a fix on her location.”

Depressed, she glanced at her husband, who smiled encouragingly. After receiving Betsy’s psychic SOS, the X-Men had elected to move to the opposite side of Fifth Avenue in order to get away from the constant flow of pedestrian traffic that crowded the busy intersection; for the past fifteen minutes, they had been sitting quietly on the stone steps of the New York Public Library, waiting for Jean to track down their missing colleague. Off to one side, Carol and Nightcrawler sat at a small table, conversing quietly as they sipped at cans of soda; his unusual skin coloration was concealed, for the time being, by the shade of the open umbrella that jutted up from the center of the table. Rogue and Gambit were also sitting together, snuggled close, heads almost touching as they talked in hushed whispers. They looked like any other couple gathered on the steps: two people—not mutants, not super heroes—deeply in love and enjoying their own company.

As for Scott, Jean, and Logan, they were still focused on the matter at hand: trying to reach Betsy. Scott was sitting back, elbows resting on the step behind him, watching the nonstop hustle and bustle that was New York at lunchtime; it seemed that not even the machinations of Victor von Doom could do much to disrupt the faster-than-life speed of the Big Apple. Beside him, Jean looked thoroughly annoyed, chin resting in the palms of her hand as her elbows balanced on her knees; she stared into space, brow furrowed. Slouched on the steps on Jean’s other side, Logan was doing his best not to look like a third wheel as he sat beside the happy couple.

Groaning softly, Jean leaned forward to grasp her sandaled feet and hang her head in frustration between her legs, allowing her hair to flow down and conceal her features. Scott reached out a hand to gently rub her back.

“I don’t understand it,” Jean muttered from beneath her mountain of crimson locks. “Even if Betsy were unconscious, I should still be able to pick up some trace of her subconscious—a random thought, a brief replay of the last few seconds before she blacked out. . . Something. ”

“You sure she’s in the immediate area, Red?” Logan asked, his cowboy hat set low over his dark eyes. “If her mental hollerin’ was as loud as you say it was, maybe she’s someplace else in the five boroughs. Hell, she coulda been sendin’ that message from Hoboken fer all ya know.”

Jean’s head snapped back up and she stared at Logan for a moment. Then, wincing as though in pain, she growled softly, and sharply rapped the sides of her head with her knuckles. “Dumb, dumb dumb,” she muttered. “The image of Arcade that she broadcast was so clear, the sensation of his threat so evident, I just assumed Betsy was somewhere in our vicinity.” She looked at Wolverine. “Thanks, Logan.”

“No charge fer the service, darlin’,” he replied with a half smile. “Any news?” Carol asked as she and Nightcrawler walked over to join them. She glanced at a large clock suspended above the entrance of a cigar shop of the comer of Forty-second Street—it was 1:30 p.m. “Time’s a-wastin’ if you folks want to try and track down some of your long-john brethren.”

“That can wait for the moment,” Scott said. “Right now, we’ve got a friend who appears to be threatened by one of our most dangerous enemies. She might be in need of our help and, Doom-controlled world or not, the X-Men always take care of their own.”

“Pretty words, Summers, but ultimately useless,” Carol said, with the tone of someone who no longer believed such sentiments. “Try saying them again with the same conviction if you ever wind up in one of von Doom’s camps like I did. I promise you: one week of beatings and starvation and fighting for crumbs of food, and that ‘all for one, and one for all’ Musketeer crap will become just a faint memory as you focus on more important things—like battling each day just to keep yourself alive.”

“Well, Carol,” Scott replied slowly, clearly avoiding being drawn into an argument, “if we succeed in our mission and set everything back to the way it all should be, it’ll be this version of the world that becomes the faint memory. And locating another X-Man is just as important as contacting the Avengers for help now—it’s one more ally lending her powers to our cause.” Not bothering to wait for Carol to respond, he turned to Phoenix. “Jean, I want you to run a telepathic scan as far out from this spot as you’re able to go. Start with the island, then sweep the other boroughs. If that fails—” he glanced at Wolverine, and smiled wryly “—follow Logan’s suggestion and try Hoboken.”

“All right, Scott,” Jean said. “It might take a while, though.”

“You take all de time you need, Jeannie,” Gambit piped in. “We not goin’ nowhere till you finished with what needs doin’.” Jean turned in his direction and saw that Remy was lying on one of the steps, head resting comfortably in Rogue’s lap; he grinned broadly as his Southern Belle ran slender, gloved fingers through his dark, unruly hair.

Jean smiled. “Thank you, Remy. I appreciate your patience.”

“My pleasure,” Gambit said.

Jean’s grin broadened. Dat Gambit, he a suave one, no? she thought.

Drawing her legs up, Jean assumed a meditative lotus position and closed her eyes. Slowly, she willed herself to tune out the ear-throbbing urban sounds around her, then slowed her breathing and cleared her mind.

Betsy, are you there? she broadcast. Betsy? It’s Jean. If you can “hear” me, please respond. Betsy.. . ?

Down at the World Trade Center, Betsy had just stepped into the elevator that would take her back down to the lobby when the screaming started in her head.

BETSY! PLEASE ANSWER ME! IT’S JEAN! BETSY, YOU’VE GOT TO RESPOND!

It was sudden and demanding and so completely overwhelming— like an icepick being driven through her eye and into her brain—that the pain temporarily blinded her. She stumbled forward into the car and slammed against the far wall, clutching the sides of her head. Thankfully, the elevator was empty, so she didn’t need to try and mutter some lame excuse for her behavior to a fellow passenger; not that she could have said anything at this point—the throbbing in her brain was so intense she could barely form a coherent thought.

“S-stop i-it. P-please st-stop i-it. . .” she mumbled pitifully, tears streaming down her cheeks. But the pain didn’t let up, and her legs were suddenly unable to support her weight any longer; she slid down along the wall to lie in a heap on the cool, tiled floor.

And now a torrent of images pounded at her mind: a concerned, redheaded woman; a man with claws like an animal, but the heart of a warrior; a black-costumed man with a goatee, raking razor-sharp fingers across her eyes; an obese, yellow-skinned thing with eyelids held open by metallic pincers that sunk deeply into its flesh, and a smile like that of Satan himself; the English-woman version of herself, trapped in a room filling with water as the Minister of Entertainment/but not the Minister of Entertainment watched, her cries for help cut off by a colorful strip of cloth; the correct, Japanese version of herself, but dressed in a dark blue swimsuit and leggings of some kind, a swash of red color—like paint, or a tattoo—running from just above her left eye down to her left cheekbone; a blue-skinned demon with a pointed tail, leaping at her; a peaceful world that looked nothing like Earth, watched over by a kindly, dark-haired woman in white who lived in a floating citadel; a baldheaded man in a wheelchair.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean? And why wouldn’t the flood of indecipherable visions stop? Why wouldn’t they get out of her head before she was driven to the brink of madness, for surely that wasn’t long in coming?

But still the images formed and dissolved, moving faster and faster, and still the voice echoed through her mind, growing louder in volume, demanding that she respond.. ..

A few blocks away, in a building on Pearl Street, an alarm began sounding.

The offices of the Imperial Agency for Superhuman Activities, New York Center, were located in a forty-story, Art Deco-designed building that, from the outside, looked no different from any of the hundreds of other glass and steel and stone structures that towered above the thin, winding streets of lower Manhattan.

Unlike the other structures, however, the glass was capable of withstanding a point-blank burst from a laser cannon, the stone was thick enough to shrug off a blow or two from the Hulk, and the beams that supported the building were composed of steel mixed with adamantium and a variety of other super-strong elements. In short, the building could withstand anything short of a nuclear strike on Manhattan, or a gathering of hell-raising Norse gods intent on having a memorable night on the town.

It was almost as strong, some often pointed out, as the woman in charge of its personnel.

In her early thirties, blond-haired and blue-eyed, Dr. Valerie Cooper was that rare kind of person who possesses good looks, an incredible intellect, and an annoyingly superior attitude that, in this case, meant she considered herself God’s gift to science (and there where those in the scientific community who would actually agree with that assessment). For the past decade, she had made a career of keeping superhumans in line, coordinating her office’s activities with those of Anthony Stark’s and Sebastian Shaw’s, and, on the rare occasion, even reporting directly to Emperor von Doom himself. Her rule of thumb in dealing with the superpowered men and women who tended to pop up over the years was simple: you either worked for the Emperor and wore your leash and collar like a good little obedient dog, or you were put down before you posed a threat to the civilian population. After all, nobody liked a bad dog.

A lot of bad dogs had been put down on her watch.

Nine years ago, it had been the good doctor’s people who, at von Doom’s command, had eliminated a good portion of the super-villain community so that the Emperor could focus on more important matters of state. And though some people might call her a killer, and some might consider her a saint, the bottom line was that Val Cooper enjoyed her work, was proud of her work, and wasn’t the type to allow even the lowest Morlock to escape her scrutiny.

Such dedication to her profession, of course, made being assigned to her division akin to a sneak preview of what it might be like to be consigned to the blackest pit of hell. . .

“Kill that damn noise!” Cooper bellowed as she entered the thirty-first floor monitoring room. She turned to a brown-haired, female technician as the alarm cut off. “What’s the situation?”

“TK meters, Ma’am.” The tech—whose nametag said burroughs— pointed to a monitor at her station. “We’re picking up an incredible surge of psychic power—it’s off the scale!”

Cooper folded her arms across her chest and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Location?”

“Midtown Manhattan. Forty-second and Fifth.” Burrough’s eyes widened as she glanced at another screen. “Ma’am, the sender isn’t registered in the systems.”

Now it was Cooper’s turn to register surprise. “An unknown psi-talent? How can that be possible?”

“I’ve no idea, Ma’am,” Burroughs replied. “Your orders?”

Cooper tapped a slender index finger against the tip of her nose as she paused to consider her next move.

“Scramble the Hunters,” she finally said. “Fill them in on the situation, and have them load for bear; we don’t know what we might be up against here. Then notify Psi Division—have them send one of their people over so our team’s got someone capable of warding off a mental assault.” She pointed a demanding finger in the technician’s face. “And make sure they’re all aware that the target’s in the middle of a densely populated area. I don’t want them tearing up half of Manhattan in some senseless donnybrook if they can convince the target to surrender peacefully.” She frowned. “I sure as hell don’t want to have to explain the cause for massive property damage and incalculable civilian injuries to the Emperor.”

Burroughs nodded in understanding, then paused. “And if the target refuses to cooperate, Ma’am?”

Cooper’s eyes glittered with unbridled malevolence. “Then the Hunters are to terminate the target—with extreme prejudice.”