Crusade: Part 5 

by Alicia McKenzie

 

 


DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Marvel, and are used without permission for entertainment purposes only.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many thanks to the usual suspects....;) You all know who you are. Warning to younger/sensitive readers: some language, violence.


He'd never quite appreciated how much he missed teleporting. Apocalypse's portals were a completely different matter than bodysliding, of course, but there was the same feel to it--the same exhiliaration of breaking the boundaries of time and space just because you willed it that way.

*Will shapes the universe, Nathan,* Apocalypse had said to him, not long ago. *There is no power, no strength, that is not based on will. It is the driving force of the world.*

Truthfully? The idea grew on you. It was better than deluding yourself and imagining that the driving force was love, and infinitely better than destroying yourself by pretending it was hate. Not that hate didn't have its place--

The portal seized him then, and there was no more time for contemplation. Down he went through a lightning-shot tunnel of blue light, and out the other side, all the while laughing inside. He was almost always laughing inside, these days. At himself, at the world. Sometimes he thought mockery was his sole refuge--

Cool mountain air touched by the smell of spruce filled his lungs as he took a deep breath and let the laughter out, let it crash against the cloudless sky.

"What--a--RUSH!"

"WOULD you shut up?" Longrifle hissed, coming through the portal a step behind him.

Cable turned, and grinned at the Dark Rider. "Flonq yourself," he suggested cheerfully, and wandered off to the side while the rest of the Riders came through, still chuckling quietly to himself.

Not bad, as far as changes in scenery went, he thought idly, inhaling deeply. He'd always liked the mountains, and these were considerable less awesome, as far as mountains went, than the Himalayas had been. If there was anything guaranteed to piss him off lately, it was being awed. Only children, or delusionary idiots indulged in a sense of wonder--

"Everyone's through," Longrifle said curtly from behind him. "Your turn, Dayspring."

"Would you shut up?" Cable said, irritation surging up inside him like a tidal wave, every bit of amusement crumbling before it. "I told you not to call me that!" He hated that name. Hated it. His jaw clenched involuntarily, and he shook his head angrily. "Be quiet," he snapped. "I need to focus."

"--among other things," he heard Longrifle mutter as the Dark Rider turned away.

*I swear, if that man doesn't stop muttering under his breath every time I speak to him, I'm going to rip his heart out.* Longrifle hadn't been quite so infernally annoying at first, but in the weeks since they'd left Tibet for the base in New Mexico, the man's attitude had been getting progressively worse. *He doesn't like taking orders from me.* Poor, unappreciated Longrifle. Constantly whining, but usually not worth the token effort it would take to shut him up.

"Dayspring!"

Usually. Cable glanced at Longrifle. The Dark Rider glared at him angrily for a moment, and then abruptly paled, clutching at his throat and gasping for air as Cable tightened his telekinetic grip bit by bit.

"One of these days," Cable said very quietly, "you're going to learn to watch what you say." Raising his voice wasn't necessary. He'd learned that, these last couple of months, once he'd started to actually WORK with the Dark Riders, rather than simply use them as handy targets for his anger.

Learned--more like relearned. He'd known that truth before. He'd just--forgotten it, somehow, let the anger get in the way, cloud his mind--

"D-Cable," one of the other Riders said softly. "You're killing him."

Cable glanced back at Longrifle, absently noting the odd shade of purple his face was turning. "So I am," he muttered, and let go. Longrifle crumpled, wheezing, and Cable shook his head. "Next time I crush your throat, Rider," he said harshly. How often did he have to repeat little scenes like this before all of them learned not to challenge him? "Now shut up, all of you."

He closed his eyes and extended his perceptions outwards. The building nestled against a rock outcropping, a considerable way down the slope, was psi-shielded. Given that it was a bioweapons research facility, illegal under international law and that of a few dozen different nations, that wasn't all that surprising.

The surprising part was that he could see right through them. *Apocalypse was right, then.* A psi-shield was nothing more than a wall, really, made of energy, rather than stone or steel. And like any wall, it was built to stand up to a certain amount of force; in this case, a certain level of telepathic power. Against a beta-level telepath, the usual sort of spy. Maybe even a weak alpha.

Not him.

"Fifteen scientists," he murmured, 'tasting' each mind to make a positive identification before he moved on to the next. "All clustered on one level. Twice that in security personnel, plus two. Six posted on the same level with the scientists--the others split between two areas at the north and south end of the building. Checkpoints, maybe. No one's walking the perimeter."

He glanced over his shoulder at the seven Dark Riders he had with him--seven including Longrifle, who had staggered back to his feet, apparently mostly recovered, to judge by the thoroughly evil glare Cable was getting. Not just a glare, either--

"Longrifle," Cable snapped. "If I sense you making the decision to draw on me, and I WILL, you're going to wish I'd killed you."

"Tough talk," Longrifle rasped, rubbing at his throat. "One of these days we'll have to see if you back it up or not."

Cable's eyes narrowed. #I don't have time for these petty little dominance games at the moment, you pitiful son of a flonq,# he projected as acidly as he could. Longrifle flinched. #If you're that eager to die, come find me when we get back to the base.# He could hope, couldn't he? #Right now, we have a job to do.#

*And you're jumping to do it, aren't you?* another part of him asked sarcastically. *Apocalypse's faithful dog.*

Cable closed his eyes for a moment, banishing the voice. "Remember," he said aloud, his voice coming out as cold and level as he could want. "We want the scientists alive. No one else."

***

Seven against thirty-two. Longrifle had expected it to be easy, more or less--after all, these were only flatscans, if well-trained ones--but he'd had doubts about Dayspring's plan. It had seemed too complex, and he'd always gone with the adage that simple was better. As a general rule, not just when it came to battle plans.

But the other Riders - *and you, you coward,* his conscience growled at him disgustedly - had done exactly what they'd been ordered to do, at exactly the right time, and the plan had come off with near-surgical precision. There wasn't even all that much damage to the building--understandable, considering that Dayspring had said, with one of those fucking crazed grins of his, that he'd take any damage he deemed unnecessary out of the hide of the person who caused it. *What we're after is FRAGILE,* he'd stressed cheerfully. *You break it, you buy it. Figuratively speaking, of course.*

Longrifle didn't even know what specifically they were after, only that it was on the laboratory level. Which was where he was now, with three of the other Riders and the scientists, who'd been easy enough to round up once they'd killed all the security personnel. The other three Riders were dragging the bodies outside and disposing of them.

Inside what had been a clean room, Dayspring opened the refrigeration unit. His whistling, some tune Longrifle didn't recognize, was audible from here. It was clearly unnerving the scientists. Longrifle eyed the white-suited figures sideways, wondering if they realized that the rest of their lives could be measured in a few minutes. The only reason they were alive now was in case Dayspring couldn't find what he was looking for.

"You wouldn't believe some of the labels on those vials, Longrifle," Dayspring said almost gleefully as he came back out, a single, sealed test tube in his hands. "I didn't even recognize some of the names. Isn't it just APPALLING?" He proceeded to shove the test tube against the techno-organic steel of his arm, and Longrifle watched in something close to sick fascination as the T-O fibre--swallowed it. There was no way else to describe it. "Stuff like this going on in the middle of this pristine wilderness," Cable continued, shaking his head with a tsking sound. "Almost indecent if you ask me. Someone should really do something about it. I used to donate to the Sierra Club, you know that?"

"Cable--" Longrifle started.

Cable blinked. "Oath, it completely slipped my mind," he said. "We were going to kill you anyway." He grinned at the scientists. "There. Problem solved. I'll be doing my bit for the environment and recycling some wasted flesh at the same time. It's a win-win situation."

"You've got what you want!" one of the scientists, a younger woman, said tremulously. "You don't have to kill us--please--"

Longrifle raised an eyebrow. Stupid or courageous? Stupid, he decided, but was drawn out of his little mental debate by the sudden change in Cable's expression. The grin had vanished entirely. He looked calm, speculative. Vaguely interested by something, almost--

"No," Cable murmured, and came over to stand in front of her, moving slowly and unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world. She stared at the floor, trembling, and he put a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face upwards. Her eyes kept sliding sideways, almost as if she was fighting the urge to look at him. As Longrifle watched, she lost, and stared, wide-eyed, up at Cable. "I don't have to kill you," Cable continued in that same even voice. "You didn't have to be born. It's all chance, really. And it evens out, in the end."

A whimper wrenched its way free of her throat. Cable let his hand fall to his side, and regarded her intently. She stayed frozen in the same position, staring into his eyes as if she were hypnotized. "You're afraid of me," he said.

"Y-yes."

Cable closed his eyes, his expression changing rapidly, surprise to disgust to something almost like pain, before it settled into a slight, infinitely amused smile. "You don't have to be afraid," he whispered, and opened his eyes as his smile grew. "It'll be over very quickly."

He gestured with one hand, his eye flashing. Longrifle almost staggered at the screaming that erupted as the scientists toppled to the floor, howling in pain, thrashing wildly as blood seemed to pour from every orifice of their bodies. He took a step back, swallowing back bile.

*Damn you, you crazy old Egyptian bastard, what have you created?* Killing people was one thing. Going at it like it was some kind of performance art was just--

It lasted for only a minute or two, but by the end of it, his mind was simply refusing to put what he was seeing together into any whole picture. All he could process were contorted limbs and dead eyes and so much blood--

And Cable, standing right there, watching, his armor splattered with blood and that same smile playing on his lips. "I can't promise it won't hurt, though," he murmured, and turned away. He scrutinized the lab for a moment longer, and then clapped, once, his grin widening as he looked back at Longrifle and the other Riders. "Okay, job done. Who wants to grab lunch before we head back to the base?" They stared at him, and he gave a martyred sigh. "No sense of humor, any of you--"

"Cable--" Longrifle stopped and swallowed, before he continued in something closer to his normal voice. "We need to--get the item back. To the base. Wasn't--that the plan?"

"Oh, that," Cable said thoughtfully, rubbing the place on his arm where the T-O virus had swallowed the test tube. "Right. The item."

That speculative look again. Rattled, Longrifle slung his gun over his shoulder. "Um, anytime you're ready," he said unevenly.

Cable blinked down at the bodies for a moment, and then walked past him out the door, without so much as a backwards glance.

***

It was just after ten in the morning. Barely into the day, Domino reflected from where she was huddled in the corner of the expensive-looking and uncomfortable leather couch in G.W.'s atrociously furnished living room. Barely into the day--too bad she was already halfway through the bottle of Scotch.

*You're slowing down in your old age, Dom.* The voice was wry and warm and teasing, and yet concerned as well, the unspoken question lurking beneath the surface. She knew it was a figment of her imagination, but it sounded so real. So real--but it wasn't. It couldn't be. Nathan wasn't here, and after three months, three hideously long months of trying to recuperate from her injuries and deal with what had happened that day in Tibet, she had almost convinced herself that he never would be again.

Almost. Maybe a little more Scotch would help. Domino drank directly from the bottle. *Fuck the glass--* G.W. would yell at her if he found her drinking this early in the day, Domino acknowledged to herself. They'd have That Argument again.

He thought she was losing it. He seemed to disapprove most of the drinking, although he'd had a few choice words for her attitude, too. *George Washington Bridge, the eternal optimist--*

She wasn't trying to drink herself into an early grave or anything. She just wanted to--take the edge off things. Especially off the psi-link that, despite everything, was still there. It was only a thread, really, but a thread that pulsed dully at the back of her mind every so often. What she sensed from it frightened her. And cold--it was so cold, even the warmth of the alcohol couldn't touch it.

They'd offered to sever it--Jean and Xavier both. Xavier had tried to insist, the bald bastard. Claimed it would be 'detrimental' to her health to leave it intact--that Nathan could use it to kill her, in other words.

She'd told him no. He'd pushed. She'd told him where he could shove his concern for her well-being.

Besides, he shouldn't have worried. Nathan, in the last three months, had paid absolutely no attention to either the link or her. She was beneath his notice; apparently, even when she'd been delirious with her injuries after Tibet and calling out to him, to hear Jean tell it, he hadn't deigned to pay any attention to her. Was she supposed to be relieved? Domino thought restlessly. Relieved that he was still out there but falling faster by the day, so lost that he couldn't even muster the anger to reach out across the link and kill her for whatever Apocalypse had brainwashed him into thinking she'd done?

Then there were the nightmares, another good reason for drinking this early. Last night had been reason enough all on its own.

*I hate seeing you like this, Dom,* his phantom voice said again. She closed her eyes, reminding herself that she was tipsy, on her way to being drunk, and probably a little cracked besides. She hadn't REALLY felt his hand stroke her hair. Just a whimsy--*You know what you have to do, and getting drunk isn't going to help.*

Good old goal-oriented Nate. Something that wasn't, couldn't be a sob escaped her.

*You know what you have to do.*

She only wished she didn't. That was why she'd kept the link, over all their protests, because it was as much a chink in his armor as it was a gaping hole in hers. Madelyne had understood. So had Stryfe, God help them all.

And that was, in the end, the main reason she drank so much. Every day she wasted that way was one more day until she had to face up to what she felt on the link, and admit that it was too late.

***

"And another," Ororo sighed, leaning back in her chair and studying the display on the War Room's main screen, shaking her head slowly. "I truly do not understand. This is the--sixth such incident we have dealt with in the last several weeks."

"Yes," the Professor murmured, fingers tapping lightly on the console in front of him. "Add that to the incidents elsewhere, and a definite trend is emerging."

Scott sat opposite both of them and listened as he rubbed his shoulder, bruised from when he'd been thrown into the wall by the edge of an bio-blast during the fight with the latest of these mutant supremacy groups that had been popping up at a distressing rate lately.

The Professor was right. There was a trend developing, and not a good one. All of these groups were operating independently, or so it seemed, and far too many of them, according to Charles, were made up at least partially of disaffected members of the Mutant Underground. Thankfully, those old ties had provided the X-Men with just enough information to counter at least the incidents that happened here in the States--so far. The pessimist in Scott knew that would change, that the amount of intelligence they'd gotten so far had been pure luck.

And the opposition was getting tougher, each time. Today, it was almost as if they'd been expected, Scott thought grimly. Few of his teammates had escaped unscathed, and both Bobby and Hank were down in the infirmary, under Cecilia's watchful eye. Neither were seriously hurt, but that was the only bright spot in the whole sorry picture. Maybe it was overconfidence on his part, but to take this kind of damage from a tussle with a minor terrorist group hurt more than his pride.

"Scott?"

He blinked, and realized that both Ororo and the Professor were watching him, Storm with compassion in her eyes, the Professor speculatively. "I'm sorry--what?" Ororo tilted her head, glancing back at the Professor almost pleadingly, and Scott frowned. "I wasn't paying attention, I realize--"

"You were--distracted this afternoon, as well," Ororo said hesitantly, her gaze drifting back to him and turning intent. "If Rogue had not broken your attacker's concentration, that energy blast would have struck you directly." She didn't bother pointing out what the end result of that would have been.

Scott blinked again. He hadn't seen Rogue intervene; frankly, he'd been too busy trying to pick himself up off the ground. "I'll have to thank her," he muttered.

"Logan noticed a similar lack of concentration on Jean's part, as well," Ororo continued, more firmly. "This is not the first time in the last few months, Scott, for either of you--"

He bristled; he couldn't help it. "I'm well aware of that, Storm," he said tightly. "We've both--been distracted."

Distracted. Such an innocuous word for it. He should compliment Storm on her use of euphemisms. Being 'distracted' or suffering from a 'lack of concentration' were much nicer ways to put it--

"I know, Scott," the Professor said, very gently. "You're grieving, and it's perfectly natural--"

"I am not--" Scott swallowed, continuing in a more moderate voice. It was hard, though. Charles had just crossed the invisible line that had been there since Tibet. They weren't supposed to try and get him to 'share his feelings' about his son. Concrete suggestions for how to deal with the issue, information as to where Nathan was, any of that would be welcome.

But all any of them seemed to be willing to do was pick away at how he FELT about all of this. Was he really being that enigmatic, that they couldn't just GUESS? "I am not grieving," he said, trying to keep the snarl out of his voice. "Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?"

"Scott--" Ororo started, the compassion back in her eyes.

"No, Ororo. I am NOT talking about this." He took a deep breath. "You've brought the problem up. I'll mention it to Jean. We'll handle it."

#Can it be that simple, Scott?# the Professor's voice said softly in his mind. #Or are you simply trying to convince yourself that it is--#

"No!" Scott said, a little more violently than he'd intended. Ororo jumped, and Scott clenched his jaw, embarassed at his own outburst. "Are we almost finished here?" he asked harshly. "I should go and check on Bobby and Hank."

#You and Jean MUST deal with the reality of the situation, and how it affects you,# the Professor insisted. #It is unhealthy for you both and dangerous to the rest of the team. Perhaps you and she should take some time away, regain your perspective. You cannot bury yourself in your responsibilities forever, Scott--#

Had they'd had this discussion before? Scott thought bleakly. *I can bury myself in whatever I damned well want, Charles,* he shot back as he rose and left the War Room.

Outside, he nearly ran into Logan, who took a step backwards, raising an eyebrow at his expression. "What's the matter, Cyke? You look like you ate something that didn't agree with you."

"Nothing, Logan. I'm fine." He tried to step around the other man, but Logan moved to block it. Scott gritted his teeth. "Logan? Do you mind? I need to go check on Hank and Bobby."

"Headed in that direction myself. Mind some company?"

"Fine." Scott strode in the direction of the infirmary, trying to ignore Logan's presence at his side. It worked until they got into the elevator, at which point Logan leaned forward, hit the hold button on the control panel, and regarded him thoughtfully.

"Let me rephrase," he said dryly. "What's eating you?"

"It's none of your business, Logan."

Logan grunted. "Chuck at you again? Not that I don't think someone needs to give both you and Jeanie a heads-up, considering the way you two were acting out there today."

Scott glared at him. "It won't happen again," he said, very slowly, enunciating each word clearly so that there was no chance Logan would misunderstand him. "As far as I'm concerned, that's all that needs to be said."

Logan's eyes were unreadable. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Scott hit the hold button again, and the elevator resumed moving.

"Fair enough," Logan said, very quietly. "Suppose there's not much to do but wait, anyway."

Maybe it was an opening, but Scott didn't take it. He wished they'd all get it through their heads. He wasn't going to talk about it. He didn't WANT to talk about it, except maybe with Jean, and even then, they didn't do much actual talking. His pain--his sense of failure, wasn't something he intended to share.

But he wasn't grieving. You grieved for the dead--or for what you'd lost when you'd lost them, he'd never been sure which. Either way--

"I'm not ready to give up yet, Logan." It took a moment for him to realize he'd said that aloud, that the whisper had been his. He nearly cursed himself for letting it slip, for--

"Sometimes that ain't enough, Scott," Logan said, almost as quietly.

They went the rest of the way to the infirmary in silence.

***

Irene Merryweather closed her laptop, and sat in the darkened room, thinking. She was alone, in the apartment she'd rented a few months back, after she'd taken J.J. Jameson up on the job offer he'd made her back during the whole mess with SHIELD. He'd been surprised - and rather pleased, she thought - to see her again. Certainly, this was what she'd wanted for a long time, a job at a real newspaper like the Daily Bugle--

And she'd been doing a GOOD job. But in six months, she hadn't been able to 'get on' with her life. Not really. Domino had been right--there was nothing that ANY of them could do, now, to help Cable. What Domino hadn't said, that there was very little that an ex-tabloid reporter could have done in the first place, hadn't really needed saying. She'd seen the record of the fight with Apocalypse, as well as the one Blaquesmith had set the safehouse's systems to make, before Nathan had killed him. She knew how out of her league she was.

Irene shook her head slowly. She was supposed to be doing a story on these mutant terrorist groups that seemed to be popping out of the woodwork all across the world lately. She'd gotten access to all the public information available, even traded on that one-time connection with Bridge to find a few sources of her own in SHIELD. Really, she already had enough to do a respectable story--but there was something that bothered her about it all, something that was hauntingly familiar.

It couldn't be. She was imagining things. And yet--she'd learned a lot about Nathan's past, all the time they'd spent together. She'd quizzed him, countless times, on his life in the future, wanting in particular to know more than generalities about the Clan Chosen. If she was going to be his chronicler, she'd reasoned, she needed to do her research, to understand him better than she did.

One of the few times he'd ever been forthcoming was when she'd asked him about the technical side of his military experience. She'd gotten more than she really wanted that afternoon about his Clan's tactics, how they fought--he'd been almost garrulous.

And the operations of these supposedly independent terrorist cells looked suspiciously like what she remembered of his off-the-cuff 'lecture' that day.

It couldn't be. But if it was--

Irene swallowed. All of them had known he'd be back, but they'd thought it would be out in the open, too much to miss.

Maybe they'd been wrong.

***

Apocalypse heard the door open, but didn't turn towards the sound. The observation dome was the only part of the base visible from outside--or would have been, rather, had it not been holographically cloaked to appear as nothing more than part of the mesa.

He appreciated the perspective the observation dome here gave him. From this height, the land seemed lifeless, yet if he looked close enough, he saw life in many forms, well-adapted to this land and climate, holding tenaciously to existence. He relished it, this visible evidence of the truth he had pursued for so long.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Sardonic as always, Nathan," Apocalypse rumbled as Cable joined him at the window. "I trust your mission was successful?"

Cable raised an eyebrow. "Successful in every way. Do I get a cookie?" he said with a tight smile, and looked down at his arm. The T-O fibre rippled, slowly pushing a test tube outwards. Cable took it, and handed it to Apocalypse, who nodded and held it up to the light for a moment, scrutinizing the contents.

"I see you have mastered the trick of controlling the T-O fibre's internal temperature," Apocalypse said, noting that the test tube was more than sufficiently cold to the touch. "Excellent."

"I'm not really in the mood for a pat on the head," Cable drawled. "Are you going to tell me what it is, or not?"

Apocalypse glanced at Cable measuringly. The impudence was forced, he decided, and the mirth he had become accustomed to seeing in his paladin's eyes was gone. "Something is troubling you," he noted.

"Me? Whatever could be troubling me?" Cable asked with a tight smile. "Mission's done, none of the Riders screwed up--well, I didn't find an excuse to kill Longrifle yet, but I'm sure I can restrain my disappointment on that score--"

Apocalypse shook his head. "I am--how did you term it? Ah, yes--'not in the mood' to play guessing games with you, Cable." He debated for a moment, and then laid a hand on Cable's shoulder. Cable shifted his weight, but didn't move away. "We had an agreement, you and I."

Cable looked down at himself, brushing almost absently at the dried blood on his armor. "I haven't forgotten," he said, his tone deceptively casual. "There's nothing wrong, really. Just--bit off more than I could chew, I suppose."

His paladin's metaphors bemused Apocalypse, at times. "Meaning--?"

Cable's expression darkened, swiftly. "I shouldn't have reacted," he muttered. "But I could feel her fear. I wanted to see how far it could go. I was curious, and it felt--" He shook his head angrily. "My own fault, for killing them all at once and being so--fascinated that I wasn't careful about shielding myself from the backlash. I'm just feeling a little--singed."

Apocalypse considered the slightly-less-than-coherent explanation. "Fear is a valuable weapon," he finally said, wondering what exactly had taken place in the research facility to unsettle Cable to this extent. "But do not become overly fascinated with it. There are other weapons in your arsenal."

"Point taken," Cable said, some of the usual dryness back in his voice. His gaze flickered towards the dome. "Nice sunset. It was my own stupidity, in any case. You'd think I could just be satisfied with killing them, but no, I had to be right there feeling them die. I really need a hobby."

Apocalypse ignored the flippant conclusion. "You are exploring your abilities," he said impassively. "Occasionally you will overstep yourself. Merely make certain that the reward is worth the risk, and any adverse consequences will be passing things."

"That's an optimistic way to look at it. But there's so much even the Askani never thought to explore," Cable continued restlessly. "And Xavier--he's afraid of his own shadow! Every time he stretches his abilities, he wallows in self-flagellation, the pitiful son of a flonq. His whole pitiful code of ethics is just a way to keep other psis under his thumb."

"Then you shall have to make him aware of the flaws in his philosophy," Apocalypse said with a faint, cold smile, contemplating the possibility. "Eventually," he thought to add.

"This isn't going to be one of those lectures about patience again, is it? Because if it is, you can shove it right--"

"Walk with me," Apocalypse said calmly, wondering when Cable's impudence had ceased to be irksome and had become, instead, mildly amusing. Perhaps it was because it was nothing more than a token rebellion, now, his paladin's way of soothing his own stubborn pride, still reeling from the submission to the inevitable. Apocalypse was willing to allow him that--more, even, considering how scrupulously Cable had been carrying out his orders. Lectures on patience aside, he was pleased by the reemergence of the exceptional soldier and tactician Cable was, when he was not half-mad with fury. It was gratifying, to see his own patience being rewarded.

"Another one of the cells you organized has been eliminated," Apocalypse said as they left the observation dome and moved deeper into the base.

Cable snorted. "One of the ones designated as cannon fodder, I'm assuming."

"Yes. By the X-Men, once more."

Cable grinned with a savage sort of pleasure. They'll be looking over their shoulders, now, wondering what all this is about. We probably shouldn't wait too long to activate the next American cell. We WANT them chasing their tails, after all, and the last thing we want to give them is too much of a breather."

"It is enlightening to observe the incidents themselves," Apocalypse said casually. "Even the expendable cells have done a credible job." As they continued down the hall, Apocalypse observed Cable thoughtfully, searching for any sign of regret for the mutants whom his paladin had sent out to die as 'diversions' for SHIELD and the X-Men. He saw no such regret in Cable's expression. "You will of course continue to work with the core cells. Their training cannot be as--perfunctory."

"Actually, I thought I'd do a half-assed job." Apocalypse stopped, and merely looked at Cable, whose mouth twisted in something approaching a smile. "All right. You want me to add something productive to the discussion? Fine. I don't know why SHIELD and the X-Men don't seem to be combining their efforts. Fury's back in charge, after all, and he and Xavier have always cooperated before--"

"Are you so certain they are not?" Apocalypse inquired, resuming his course down the hall and wondering if Cable had realized what their destination was as of yet.

"No, but I'm not seeing any signs of it so far," Cable continued, following him. "It would be useful to know for certain--" He hesitated, and when he spoke again, Apocalypse could hear the edge of glee in his voice. "I could find out. I could just walk right in there, find Fury and--"

"Cable," Apocalypse said, very evenly, "you will not storm the Helicarrier without my permission, is that clear?"

"Oh, give me some credit--" Cable blinked as they approached the door to the lab, and then gave Apocalypse a sharp look. "What the FLONQ is he doing here?" he snapped, the fierce glee gone from his eyes, replaced by uncertainty.

"Calmly, if you please, Nathan," Apocalypse said. The reaction was no less than he'd expected. "He and I have come to an agreement, shall we say. Come." He walked through the door as it opened, and repressed another flicker of amusement as he heard Cable hesitate, then follow him. If there was one thing he could rely on, it was Cable's curiosity. "Indeed, we have come to a mutually beneficial agreement," he said. "Is that not the case?" he asked the figure bent over a console on the other side of the room.

"Of course," Sinister said tonelessly, straightening and turning towards them. "The serum?" he asked, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on Cable.

Apocalypse smiled, with relish this time, and walked over to place the test tube in one of the racks on the nearest table. "I trust you will find it adequate to the task at hand," he said casually, idly wondering if he was permitting himself to enjoy this too much. But it had been very--gratifying to have Essex return and beg his pardon. Even if it was only a guise, as Apocalypse was well aware that it was. Still, with one of his 'weapons' dead and the other coopted, Essex had been left with few other options than to risk this.

It would be--interesting to see how the geneticist went about attempting to undermine his hold on Cable. *I suspect Essex will be unpleasantly surprised.* It was so much more difficult to sway one whose allegiance had been given willingly, after all--

"I will leave you to your work, Essex," he rumbled. "I expect a status report on this element of the project promptly."

"Yes--my lord." The hesitation was barely perceptible, not noticeable unless one was listening for it, which Apocalypse had been.

Apocalypse gave Cable an amused look. "Feel free to stay and observe, if you so choose. I am certain Essex will inform you as to the nature of his work if you ask."

Cable's expression was absolutely blank. "I'll do that," he said in an unreadable tone.

***

As Apocalypse departed, Sinister stood there and watched Cable for a few moments, wondering what his next move should be.

He had anticipated this moment for some time, now. Once it had been clear that the X-Men had failed, conclusively, in their attempts to retrieve Cable, he had seen no other option than to insinuate himself back into Apocalypse's service and attempt to rectify the situation himself. Nate Grey's death had only hastened the urgency.

"Hello, Nathan."

Cable's utter lack of expression was almost unnerving. Then, abruptly, he grinned. "What do we call this?" he asked, a fierce light growing in his eyes. "A family reunion?"

"Not an entirely appropriate choice of words," Sinister said, keeping his tone neutral. "Family reunions are joyous occasions, are they not?"

"Depends on the family." Cable continued to stare at him, still smiling. "Well?" he finally continued. Challengingly, Sinister thought.

"'Well' what, Nathan?" he asked, going over to the table and retrieving the test tube Apocalypse had placed there. He scrutinized the coding on the tube, and nodded to himself before he went over and placed it safely in the refrigeration unit. He would work with it later, when this initial--conversation was over.

"I don't know," Cable said, with a patently false puzzled look. "I thought you might have something to say to me."

"What is left to say?" Sinister asked levelly, turning back to him. Knowing, without a doubt in his mind, that Apocalypse was somewhere, observing them, at this very moment. It didn't matter. Apocalypse knew why he was here as well as he did. The real work would be done surreptitiously, but if he did not make at least a token attempt where Apocalypse could see--"You have been thoroughly foolish, Nathan, to allow yourself to be manipulated like this. I am tempted to leave you to your own devices, and let you reap what you have sown."

"But instead, you're going to save me from myself," Cable murmured, the smile returning. "I'm touched."

"You should be concerned," Sinister said, letting a note of honest warning creep into his voice. At least on this, he could be forthright--"I will not permit him to continue using you in this fashion, Nathan Dayspring." Cable's smile vanished, but Sinister continued coldly. "One way or the other."

"I'm not your tool anymore." Cable's voice was as low as before, but much, much harder.

"No," Sinister said with a humorless smile. "Now you are his."

For a moment, he wondered if he'd pushed too far. Cable's eyes flashed, the muscles along his jaw rippling, and Sinister was hit by a sudden, overwhelming sense of personal danger.

"We'll see," Nathan whispered, hellfire blazing behind his eyes. "I think you'll be surprised, 'grandfather'. I'm not the man I used to be." The smile returned, slow at first and then growing. "It's a riddle, see? How do you kill the invulnerable man--"

"Do you know the answer to the riddle?" Sinister asked dryly.

"Oh, it's easy. With a smile on your face and a song in your heart, and a great deal of enthusiasm." Nathan strode casually over to the door, hesitating for a moment. "You really shouldn't have come," he said, that smile brilliant, and utterly mad. "But I'm so glad you did."

to be continued...


Part 6

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