OUTSIDE, THE rain pounded down. Lawyers in suits strode through the deluge, umbrellas held high. Young women ran between awnings, purses balanced over their heads. A pair of tourists paused in front of an old building and pointed, curious, at the stylized “H” and pitchfork on its façade.
A homeless man stirred, shivered. Pulled his wet sleeping bag tight.
Jean Grey felt it all. All their thoughts, their pains, their joys. Her power was a drumbeat inside her, a relentless pounding. It no longer sang, no longer spoke to her in words. It simply was—and it would not be denied.
She climbed the back staircase of the Hellfire Club, boots clicking on concrete, cape swirling around her. Her stride was steady, measured. Her back was straight, forced upright by the merciless corset of the Black Queen.
The corset. Its laces dug into her skin, forcing the breath from her body. But she needed it, just a little while longer. Needed to hold everything inside.
Until the end.
As she passed the main floor, chaotic thoughts assaulted her. Old men fantasizing about waitresses, young couples making out beneath tables. A drunken stew of lust, ambition, and despair. She quickened her pace. Soon, she knew, all this would be done. Soon vengeance would be hers.
Despite herself, Jean’s thoughts strayed to the X-Men. They were her friends, her teammates… in a very real way, her family. Her mind reached out, back down to the subbasement, and touched…
* * *
PETER RASPUTIN.
Colossus stood sparring with Donald Pierce, the cyborg squire of the Hellfire Club’s Inner Circle. They danced around like boxers, stepping in and around the wreckage of the tables.
“Get away from me,” Pierce snarled. “You freak.”
Colossus’s thoughts went dark at the insult. Oh, Peter, Jean thought. You were so young, so innocent when you joined the X-Men. I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you.
To all of us.
She surveyed the room. Over by the door, Nightcrawler and Storm were engaged in combat with Sebastian Shaw. Logan sprinted across the stone floor, chasing the frightened Leland. There was no sign of Scott.
Colossus clenched his fists. “You speak as though I am less than human, Pierce.”
“Because you are!”
Pierce leaped through the air. Colossus transformed his body to solid steel, increasing his mass in an instant. Pierce landed before him, grinned, and reached out to grab Colossus’s metal hands. Then, slowly, he forced the young mutant backward.
“On your knees,” Pierce hissed. “Mutant dog.”
Colossus’s eyes went wide as his opponent continued to press him down. Jean could feel his surprise at the man’s strength—and something else, too. Shock, disbelief.
“Are you…” Colossus winced. “Are you not a mutant yourself?”
Pierce’s mind erupted in outrage. Jean found herself drawn to the source, wrenched away from Peter Rasputin into the chaotic thoughts of…
* * *
DONALD PIERCE.
Hate you hate all mutants joined Inner Circle one purpose one goal kill the others take back wealth for real humans. Shaw Wyngarde Leland all of them all mutants freaks abominations not human slaves animals kill them work from within bide time exterminate kill kill mutants
Rage erupted in Jean, echoing Pierce’s own.
His bigotry, she realized. It’s… familiar. The dehumanization, the hatred so strong it requires utter domination, total erasure of the other person’s self.
It’s the way Jason felt about me.
Pierce cried out at the force of Jean’s thoughts. Colossus seized the opening, spreading his arms as wide as he could. Before Pierce could break the grip, his left arm came loose in a shower of sparks and wires. He screamed.
Colossus tossed the severed arm aside. Then he lurched forward, grabbed Pierce by the lapels, and dangled him in the air.
“I am proud of who and what I am, little man,” Colossus said. “And I have no need to destroy others in order to justify that.” Pierce’s arm stump flashed harmlessly in the air. Colossus reared back and threw him across the room…
…and Jean’s consciousness jumped again. Into the body of…
* * *
HARRY LELAND.
He looked up just in time to see the blond-haired missile flying toward him. He scrambled, stumbled, held up his hands—and then Donald Pierce slammed into him, sending the two of them crashing to the ground in a jumble of limbs. Leland rolled over, groaning in pain.
“Get off me!” Pierce yelled, scrambling to his feet. He looked down at Leland, pure hatred in his eyes. “Mutant bastard!”
“So, old boy,” Leland growled. “Your true colors shine through at last.”
“I’m through with you.” Pierce turned and marched away. “Through with all of you mutant scum—” Abruptly an Adamantium-reinforced elbow jabbed out to block his path. Pierce’s chin made contact, hard, and he dropped again. This time he stayed down.
“Scum and proud,” Wolverine snarled.
Jean could feel Leland’s momentary amusement at Pierce’s misfortune. He deserved it, she thought. The elite—they’ll turn on anyone. Even their own.
“How ’bout you, Harry?” Logan asked, turning to face Leland. “You got something to say about mutants?”
“You misjudge me, dear boy. I am a mutant.” Leland raised an eyebrow in contempt. “But I have nothing in common with gutter filth like you.”
“Guess there’s all kinds of hate in the world.”
Leland’s mind was a stew of resentment: How dare this rabble invade my sanctum? Challenge my power? As Wolverine drew closer, he recoiled at the odor. “Have you literally been in the gutter?”
“Rather be there than here.” Logan unsheathed his claws. “Say your prayers, big man.”
Leland’s hand flashed out, power flaring. Wolverine toppled forward, his mass increasing to the point where his legs could no longer hold him upright. Instinctively, he lunged forward, claws outstretched.
Too late, Leland realized his error.
Wolverine’s claws pierced his coat, his vest, his chest. Leland tumbled backward, pulling his attacker on top of him. Logan’s increased mass forced his claws all the way through Leland’s torso, exit wounds staining the floor with blood. Leland let out a horrible gasping sound.
As he did, Jean leapt away, out of his mind. Into…
* * *
LOGAN.
No. No, no, she couldn’t bear that—not now. Wolverine knew too much. He understood her too well. She cast about desperately, randomly, for…
* * *
KURT WAGNER.
Nightcrawler was jumping up and down in the air, disappearing and reappearing, striking a blow every time he came down and then teleporting back up again. As Jean slipped inside his head, she saw his target: Sebastian Shaw.
“Enjoying yourself, Herr Shaw?” Nightcrawler vanished again, only to reappear two meters above. “I am.”
He is, Jean realized. Kurt had led a difficult early life, shunned for his demonic appearance and paid starvation wages by his employers in the circus. But his acrobatic ability, the thrill he felt whenever he executed a difficult maneuver—that had always brought him joy.
Shaw ignored the blows. He crouched down, feeling his way along a line of wide stones set in the wall. His moves were careful, unhurried.
As Nightcrawler lashed out again, Jean realized his mistake. Shaw absorbs kinetic energy. Kurt’s attacks aren’t hurting him— they’re making him stronger!
She considered warning Nightcrawler, sending him a direct telepathic message, but decided against it. That might distract him at a crucial point in the battle.
Nightcrawler dropped down, fists swinging. Shaw smiled, reached up, and swatted him out of the air. Kurt cried out and flew across the room, gasping for breath. Jean flailed, disoriented, and flashed out of Nightcrawler’s dazed mind…
* * *
SEBASTIAN SHAW.
He turned back to the wall, continued testing the stones until he heard a clicking noise. The thrill of triumph, of dominance over his enemies, surged through him. He was the White King, leader of the Hellfire Club’s Inner Circle. He already possessed more wealth and power than any monarch in history, and soon he would control the greatest currency in humanity’s future: the mutant X-gene.
Jean reeled, stung by the arrogance of his thoughts. You, too, she thought. Anything you see, you must dominate. Anyone who will not bow to you, you would destroy. Her anger roiled. You abusive, prideful men. I will bring you down. I will bring you all down.
The temperature dropped suddenly, shockingly. Wind whipped against Shaw’s bare chest, and ice began to form along his skin. He shivered and spun around.
“Storm,” he spat.
Ororo hovered a few inches off the floor, holding out both hands to summon the blizzard. Jean had rarely seen her in her true majesty, her mastery of weather on full display. She was wild yet controlled, unimaginably beautiful in the use of her power. The power that was her pride, her heritage, her birthright.
For a split second, Shaw felt panic. Then Jean sensed another presence in his mind, watching from a distance. A telepath like herself, monitoring and manipulating everyone in the room.
Emma Frost.
Shaw moved toward Storm, forcing his way step by step through the maelstrom. Before he could reach her, Jean leaped away. In the end, it wouldn’t matter—but she didn’t want the White Queen to learn of her presence here, not yet. Better to leave Shaw to his fate, and move on to…
* * *
ORORO MUNROE.
Storm’s power was a simple, perfect melody, a chorus of notes rising to a crescendo. Jean recognized the sensation with a profound sadness. Once she had wielded her telepathy with the same ease, the same sense of control. Once she’d been happy.
No more.
Shaw pressed toward Storm, his teeth gritted against the wind. He planted his legs, like tree trunks, on the cold stones—but the assault was weakening him. This time, Storm wasn’t attacking him with kinetic energy. Her power was altering the environment of the room, from a distance. Unlike the other X-Men, she could actually hurt him.
Raising her arms, Storm summoned the full fury of the elements. An icy gale gathered and swirled, almost lifting Shaw off his feet. For a moment, his muscular form was lost in the blinding storm.
When the wind died down, he was gone.
Storm dropped to a crouch, waving away the last of the wind with a swift gesture. She reached out to touch the wall—just as a hidden door slid shut.
“Damn,” she said. She felt along the wall, searching for the trigger mechanism. But there was no trace, not even a visible seam where the stones had resealed themselves. Shaw had made good his escape.
Storm rose to her feet, turning to survey the room. Wolverine lumbered over to join her, wiping blood off his claws. Nightcrawler picked himself up off the floor, rubbing his head.
Colossus paused above Donald Pierce’s unconscious body. He bent down, frowning, to pick up Pierce’s severed arm, and stared at the smoking stump with an odd expression. To Jean, watching from a distance, it seemed more like sorrow than rage.
Suddenly she was overcome with emotion.
This is it, she realized. Time to say goodbye.
Ororo, she thought. Of all the new X-Men, you were my closest friend. The sister I never had. I wish you peace, happiness, fulfillment for all your days.
I wish it for all of you.
And then she was gone.
* * *
JEAN CLIMBED the final step to the top floor of the club. The sounds of revelry, the screams of horror and ecstasy, had faded to dim echoes. She was alone.
All at once, a new sadness came over her. She paused a moment to identify the source. Shaw, she realized. He and Emma are snakes, manipulators. Neither of them truly trusts the other. Their nature is betrayal, their entire lives a game of feint and thrust. The only thing they crave is power, in all its forms.
And yet, they share a bond. A mindlink. Just like…
She forced the thought away. That part of her life was over; those thoughts could only lead to maudlin, pointless despair.
The corset. So tight, so binding.
Soon, she told herself. Soon we’ll be free.
She pushed open the door and entered the library. Then, like a predator in the shadows, she settled in to wait.