Sounds were too lazy to be heard. Tufts of grass sprouted from the much- abused earth beside the road, stubbornly clinging to each other for support.
Into this environment roared a motorcycle, dragging a concentrated stream of dust behind it. For precision's, sake, it was a lovingly maintained 1961 Harley-Davidson Custom Pan Shovel. It sported a matte black base coat and a small blazon on the sleek lozenge shape of the gas tank that read "Devil's Brigade". It careered over the hard, corrugated brown earth beside the road, shaking violently as it did so.
Two figures sat astride the iron horse, one hunched forward over the handlebar, the other facing backward, clinging precariously to the pilot with one arm. All around them, the growl of the engine stubbornly clamoured against the wind, which followed them closely.
The pilot was a man, with a grim expression on his face. He had black, wiry hair, swept back from the temples by the wind. The tanned skin of his forehead was wrinkled in concentration. His broad back and wide shoulders were covered by a tattered, threadworn denim jacket bare of devices, old enough to have tarnish on its copper rivets. His jeans were newer, but in worse condition. Constant flexing of his calves had split them along the seams, and little cotton streamers snaked out of the jagged edges.
The boots were black, with leather as creased and worn as that of a baseball glove. He stood a little in the stirrups, riding out the rough terrain. His eyes glittered, and the muscles in his hands flexed as he made minute alterations in the course of the cycle.
His passenger was a woman, who favoured a snarl of frustration. She also had black hair, which lashed out behind the motorcycle like a thing alive. The beaten brown stetson that she wore, scrunched low on her head to keep it from being torn away, made her look like a bit like a tiger lily in a plain brown wrapper.
Her arms, coppery skinned, were bared for the unseasonable heat. One of these was wrapped tightly around the neck of the man, and indeed her ribs rubbed through the cotton shirt she wore against his back. Her other arm's delicate-looking hand worked furiously at the rawhide ties of a deerskin saddlebag. She did not watch the progress of this task, however, instead tilting her face to the sky.
"Turn!" she screamed above the noise.
The man made a soft right, forcing the bike deeper into the ditch. A bolt of lightning tore up the hard earth along their former course, splashing the two with heat. The man closed his eyes against the concurrent flash of light, but not quickly enough. They were riding blind.
"How the hell did that miss us, Fox?" he snarled. "We got enough metal here that she's gotta be workin' not to plug us!"
"We're being herded!" the woman yelled back.
The motorcycle hit a rut that the man had not anticipated. The woman's hand thrust too hard, then, against the saddlebag. Its ties broke and it was whipped away.
"There goes your phone, Logan! We've got no backup!"
The man groaned. "Nothin' for it! You better turn around-- can't see shit now!"
Fox glared up one last time at their pursuer. It was a woman, borne aloft by the wind and easily keeping pace with their motorcycle. She had smooth, dusky skin that seemed to be unaffected by the grit that rode the wind, covered by an oversized yellow T-shirt and brief denim shorts. One foot wore a hiking shoe, ludicrous over a doubled sheath of bobby socks. The other foot was bare.
Her straight nose underwrote a pair of milky white eyes, the picture of serenity. Behind her streamed a fan of hair, molten silver shot with green. She raised her hand, dramatically, and pointed it at the motorcycle.
"Left!" Fox shouted.
Logan veered back to the left, narrowly avoiding another lightning strike. This time, it passed so close that his jeans began to smoulder.
Fox swung her legs around, wincing at the blisters already forming on them from the heat. She leaned to the left, watching the ground ahead of the cycle over Logan's shoulder.
"I told you we couldn't trust her." Fox muttered.
*****
Some time earlier...
The motorcycle blazed along a highway in the chill of an early morning. Its tires creased the shiny frost that sat on the road surface, and its chrome flashed in the youthful sun.
Logan leaned back, at ease, comfortable in his flannel shirt and jeans. Silver Fox snuggled close, wearing his jacket and hat and luxuriating in their closeness, in his smell. The air was calm, and the wind stirred up by their passage lazily tugged at her hair.
"Where are we headed, Logan?" she asked carelessly.
"New York. A place called the Xavier Institute o' Higher Learning."
"And what are we going to do there?" she smiled.
"I wanna introduce you to the prof. Professor X. He's our big brain mutant expert. He's helped me out a lot over the years, an' I think he can help you."
She frowned. "What do you mean, 'our' mutant expert?"
He harumphed. "I'm workin' for an outfit called the X-Men now. All mutants. Pretty much above board, even if we gotta sneak around."
"Why would you have to sneak around if you're above board?"
"Anti-mutant sentiment. 'Specially in the government. We're pretty much the bogeymen of the world, right now."
"So, you're not working for the government." she pressed.
"Ha! After the way they screwed us over? No way. I'm done with that crap. No black ops, no wet works, none o' that."
Silver Fox smiled again. "Sounds nice. What do you do, then?"
"Well, we basically tangle with mutants that got their heads screwed on wrong. Y'know, angry types. We're working toward peaceful coexistence between humans and mutants, and these bozos ain't helping."
"Anyone I know?"
He chuckled. "More o' the bozos than the X-Men, that's for sure. Creed and Raven are both stirring shit up. Raven's a big problem, 'cause she's got a mission. You know Creed. He's just yer run o' the mill psycho."
"He's not working for anybody, then?" she asked.
"Creed? Nah. He's gone right off the deep end. You'd be surprised. Arkady gives us trouble, every now 'n' then. Still the same pain in the ass that he ever was. You remembering any of these names?"
"Yes. Keep talking. This is interesting."
"'Member ol' Cyber?"
"No." she said.
"Mmm. Not sure you ever met him. My old commander in the Brigade. He was still kickin' around until recently."
She caressed the gas tank, ignoring the heat. "The Devil's Brigade?"
He smiled. "You remember. Yeah. That was a long time ago. I was just a stupid kid, back then."
"I don't think you were ever a stupid kid, Logan." Fox said.
"Sure I was. Kind o' you to say otherwise, though."
"Tell me more about these X-Men."
"Sure. We got a pair o' teams, so's to handle multiple problems at once. The one I'm on is led by a girl name o' Rogue. Little bit of a wild one. You mashed up her face a bit."
Silver Fox sighed. "Great."
"We got a telekinetic that goes by Psylocke. She's an old hand in the business, but pretty new with her powers. Not bad hand-to-hand."
"I hope she's better than Rogue."
He chuckled. "Rogue gets by. Tell me you never let your reflexes carry you a bit."
"I never did." she said piously.
"Heh heh. Anyway, we also have this big Russian, name o' Colossus. Turns to metal. As strong as Arkady, or maybe stronger."
"He must come in handy."
"Yep. Nice kid, too. Good heart on him."
"That must get in the way."
He shook his head. "Not often. We're not out to geek people, Fox."
"Since when do you think of enemy operatives as people?" she asked.
He grunted. "I guess it started back in sixty-eight, just after you bugged out. This one job we were on really got to me. There was this Russian cosmonaut that we were supposed to sanction. Basically out o' jealousy, as I understand it. He came out o' the same program that made Arkady."
"Reason enough to kill him, if he was anything like Omega Red." Fox interjected.
Logan nodded. "I thought so too. Thing is, he was nothing like Arkady. He wasn't a super-soldier, he was a super-cosmonaut. He wasn't meant for war, or black ops, just going up into space."
"Who was supposed to do it?"
"I was. He wanted it. The Russians gave him a raw deal, makin' him into a monster, and he wasn't real happy about it. He was ready to give up. He had a wife, and a pretty little daughter on the way, but he just couldn't deal with the new body. So, I'm going to kill him, and then Creed comes in and tells me that the op's been called off."
"Right." she prompted.
"I should've made him walk out with me. Instead, he sticks around and kills the guy's wife, basically for grins. To grind his nose in the fact that he had nothin' to live for."
Fox sighed. "That's Sabretooth all over."
"Part of it was to tell me that he knew I was gettin' soft, too. Killed this woman to make a point."
"Maybe you needed it."
He twisted around. "What? What the hell are you saying, Fox?"
"We relied on each other out there. If one of us suddenly went soft, lost his nerve, then he wasn't just risking his own life. He was risking everyone's lives." she said.
He shook his head angrily. "I didn't need a heads-up. The program did. We were out there killing people, for what? For the safety of the world? For national security? Not that time. Hell, no. We were there to kill a guy because his country was going to beat America into space. National pride. What the hell is that?"
"Since when does an operative make policy?" Fox shot back. "How do you know what their motive for sanctioning that man was? Space has a significant strategic position in national defense theorems. You don't protect yourself by giving up the high ground, Logan! You know that."
"So we attack their cosmonaut. As if they couldn't make another one just like him, or send regular guys into space who can do the same job in, what? Twice or three times as long?"
"The policy", she said evenly, "was to attack assets and material, to force them to pursue a spending strategy that would make them go bankrupt. That sanction was directly in line with established policy. Admit it."
"Sure. But has military spending really tailed off since that policy finally did its job? Hell, no. The Russians had to restructure. Their military basically split three ways. They've still got their nukes, but so do a lot o' countries, now. They're out o' eastern Europe now... why are we arguing about this shit, anyway?"
"Because you obviously lost your nerve, and you won't admit it. You can't have a breakdown like that and just ignore it, Logan."
"Guess." he said. "Guess when they finally got around to sanctioning Epsilon Red. Our target."
"They wouldn't have called it off unless he had become irrelevant, not when you were so close to the target. I'll bet he was never sanctioned."
He growled. "Right again. This guy never even got the dignity o' being aced by the opposition. He was pretty much declared 'irrelevant' by both sides. Left to rot."
"I can see why that would bother you, but that's the business, Logan." Fox said. "That's how it works. You're only as good as your last job. They're only grateful as long as you can do something else for them."
"What does that say about the business?"
"That they need the best. Only the best will do." she said. "You and I, we were the best. This Epsilon Red, he obviously didn't have what it took. The Soviets screwed up in their psych profile of him, just like they did with Arkady. The strong eat the weak, Logan. That is the way of things."
"It doesn't have to be, Fox. You can change things." Logan said.
"Why would you want to?" she asked. "Supporting the weak isn't natural. The world has never worked that way. Why not make an environment that encourages people to become strong? The world would be a better place."
"You mean the kind of dog-eat-dog crap that we always got ourselves thrown into? It never worked, Fox. That weakens us, too."
"What?"
"Look at Arkady. He ain't strong all over. In fact, he's pretty soft in the head, but he'll always keep going. His body is so powerful and resilient that his brain didn't matter much. He once came back from imploding in deep space, you know?"
"Omega Red is ruthless. He may not be intelligent, but there are no handles on him. He is determined and almost unstoppable."
Logan pulled over the bike and taxied it to a halt. "I can't argue this with you without lookin' at your face. Let's sit down."
"Why?" Fox asked. "Why not keep going?"
"You in a hurry?"
She shrugged, and the two of them got off of the motorcycle.
Fox stripped off the jacket, laid it out on the shoulder of the highway, and sat down upon it, cross-legged. Wolverine shut off the bike and sat down with his back against the tread of the back tyre.
"So, you really think that Omega Red deserves to live more than most people?" he asked, incredulous.
"Deserves?" she asked. "Since when is life fair, Logan? And more important, why should it be fair?"
"So, it's back to Crowley. 'Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law.' Is that it?"
She chuckled. "I can't believe you'd quote Crowley. No, I don't think that. I think that law is real, but it's made by the strong, upheld by the strong, for the benefit of the strong."
"That's garbage, Fox. The law is for the weak. The strong are supposed to protect the weak."
"That's tribalism, Logan. Your nation or people, the one the law applies to, is strong of itself. The law pertains to the nation and keeps it strong. I have strong parts of my body and weak, but they are all my body. Separately, they are nothing. Together, they are strong. I also work on my weak parts and try to make them stronger. In a body, you don't let a cancer grow in you. You cut it out, or it will ruin the health of your body and make it weak. The same is true in a nation, and that's what the law is for."
"My country right or wrong, eh? Would you really think this way if you weren't strong, Fox?"
"If I weren't strong, Logan, my opinion wouldn't matter."
*****
Sunset cast its pastel shadows over the ocean, charging its deep green contours with a dapple of salmon. A road of light seemed to glimmer on the face of the waters, inviting passers-by to join the ocean as it drank of the sun. A thin, wispy mist was forming there, a mere echo of the dense fogs that had once concealed privateers from their pursuers. That the evening was clear did not diminish the muggy heat.
Rising up from the gentle waters of the ocean was an enormous tooth of an island. The dying light splashed over its high, sheer rocks, and caressed the great house on the mount until it gleamed. It seemed to be the most brilliant light in the fundament, impressive among the gleaming skyscrapers that competed to be noticed. This was Hightown, a triumph of modern technology and architectural vision. The island, sloping down gently to the east as it did, allowed Hightown to cast a long shadow over the less fortunate inhabitants of the island.
Shanty-towns and cloth-stall bazaars rubbed shoulders near the harbour, which hosted a number of Japanese and Malaysian ships. Even a great supertanker, visiting the island to make desperate repairs at ruinous cost, was brought under the long shadow cast by the island, whose name was Madripoor. A price for everything, the inhabitants said, and everything with its price.
A maze of more permanent buildings could be found upslope from the harbour, but these looked no more reputable than the worst slums of America or Britain. Here a pornography shop, there a sailor's dive, and a dental office that had seen better days, and better dentists. The streets were strewn with trash, and at this time of day, alive with people sifting through the debris for a glittering treasure. Even a discarded bolt or piece of glass was quickly stowed and jealously guarded, for the few pence it might earn at the enormous salvage scow permanently moored in the harbour.
And so it went up the slope, with shabby, teetering tenament buildings overlooking pawn shops and neighbourhood grocery stores, factories elbowing aside warehouses, until the Gates. The Gates were a pair of walls, sixty feet tall, twelve feet thick, two hundred feet apart. Between them lay a killing field of razor wire and caltrops, smooth-looking buttresses studded with glass. At the centre of the Gates was a building, a colosseum where the rich and the poor almost met across carefully separated seating sections.
There, they shared the spectacle of circus of blood, watching gladiators that fought and sometimes died for money or notioriety. Some fought to claw their way out of Lowtown, and some fought to improve their position therein. Reputations were made there, in the Pit. No one crossed a successful pit fighter.
Along the walls of the Pit, some ten feet below the reach of the wealthiest spectators, hung the banners of the most successful pitfighters. These men and women had names like Carcass. Domino. Zaran. Vidian. Patch. Mighty names. Names to be feared. People died under those names.
In the Pit, a spectacle was underway. In the days when the Dutch controlled Madripoor, there were beasts that had contested in the Pit with the men. No more. No beast could provide a reasonable match against the competitors that dominated the lists in modern times.
This spectacle was not unique. One contestant oozed black blood from a great wound in her calf, but fought gamely on against her foe. She was blocky, with a physique that would have been surprising even on a man, but she was too slow. She was also gasping in exhaustion, a victim of the sticky heat. Her opponent was cool and cat-quick, with blades built into the toes of his boots. He had bled her many times. She had not been able to tag him once. Even the bookies had stopped accepting bets.
There was an excellent turnout that evening; the main event was less than an hour away, and betting was heavy even on small bills. The noise from both sections was deafening. Of course, the only thing separating the upper crust from the dregs on Madripoor was money. The rich section was as full of pirates and thieves as the poor.
At the lowest point of the Hightown section was a spectator's box, large enough to comfortably house twenty. That evening, it housed four. Two of them were men, of one height and width, who wore military uniforms that recalled the American servicemen of the second world war. The weapons they carried, by contrast, were state-of-the-art Hydra gauss rifles. Each affected not to see what their charge was doing to her guest with her feet, standing with a suitably stoic manner. These men had been chosen for their discretion and lack of imagination.
The third man was seated, and well-dressed, and more than a little flustered. He was middle-aged, handsome in his way with a strong jaw and well-kept hair. He was sweating more than the admittedly steamy night would strictly require. His eyes darted back and forth like hummingbirds, alternately drinking in his host and looking at his surroundings, perhaps considering escape routes. He had the air of a man used to being in control, and was a little panicked to discover that he was not.
The last occupant of the box was a woman. She had long, smooth legs that tapered down to slender ankles, and bare feet which slowly caressed the calves of her companion.
Her sarong was almost difficult to look at, with its garishly green colour and alternating panels of sheer and opaque silk. Far more striking than her outfit were her eyes, emerald jewels sparkling with a vicious gleam in an angular face, with a milky complexion. Her pert nose overlooked her brightly smiling mouth, whose lips were wearing jade lipstick (slightly smudged). Her face was framed by a perky bob of green hair that revealed the back of her neck, but swept forward to graze her collarbones.
"So, admiral..." she said.
"Captain." he replied nervously. "I am a captain."
She smiled disingenuously. "Of course. Captain. Are you enjoying the spectacle?"
"Well, it is a little violent." he said lamely.
She frowned. "Only a little violent? Damning my island with faint praise, captain. Or may I call you Joshi?"
"Errr... we hardly know each other, Madame."
"I know, I know." she smiled. "It's just that I have so much trouble remembering your rank. You seem more like an admiral to me than just a captain."
"Thank you."
"Are you having difficulty adjusting to speaking English, Joshi? You seem to be a little uncomfortable. Perhaps we could speak Russian, instead?"
He paled.
"No? Well, I'm sure my poor Russian would just confuse you. After all, you do seem to get a fair bit of practice with it, don't you?"
"Madame, I..."
She put her hand on his. "Calm down, Joshi. We're friends, aren't we? Friends keep each other's secrets. Friends help each other."
"Y-yes." the captain said, looking trapped.
"You do want to be my friend, Joshi. Admiral." she said breathily. "Don't you?"
He stammered, flushed, and visibly groped for the proper response. When there came a knock at the bulkhead at the rear of the box, his shoulders sagged in relief. One of the guards stepped away from the bulkhead and couched his rifle, while the other plinked away at a console.
"Retinal scan says it's one of the messengers, sir."
She smiled. "Good. Bring him in."
The guard, not one to waste a word, nodded smartly and opened the bulkhead.
A skinny fellow, almost aggressively nondescript, stepped into the box. His eyes focused on the woman, and he brought his fist to his temple. "Madame Hydra! When one head is cut off, two grow to take its place."
She flicked her fingers at him in a 'get on with it' gesture.
"Madame, as ordered I have brought you the news that the woman has left the island."
Madame Hydra twitched slightly, narrowed her eyes, and directed the blade of her gaze at the messenger. "Elaborate."
"There were flashing lights. The appearance of the building flickered between a rustic cabin and some sort of high-tech facility. The woman ran out of the building, jumped into a boat, and pulled out to sea."
"And was she alone?"
"Yes, Madame Hydra."
"Where did she go?"
"Marseilles. There, she sold the boat and bought a stand-by ticket to America with the proceeds. She got on the plane and our agents temporarily lost her."
"Why?" she demanded.
"They could not get a ticket. Instead, they recorded the flight number, and passed it on to our American agents. However, there was a miscommunication, and the wrong flight was watched. She remained out of our reach for a while."
"You are making us look poorly in front of my guest." she purred dangerously.
The man continued as if she had not spoken. "We picked her up again thanks to the ingenuity of one of our agents in the New York City police, who managed to find her trail again in a warehouse. I recommend promotion for this agent."
"So noted. Carry on."
The captain stood. "I don't want to intrude on your private business, Madame. I'll just say goodnight."
Madame Hydra directed her attention at the officer. "Please, captain, sit down. I insist."
He gulped, and sat.
She waved her hand again.
The messenger cleared his throat, and continued. "The man Wolverine was also present at the warehouse."
Her nails dug into the palms of her hands until one of them snapped, audibly. The captain jumped.
"Also, the X-Man, Storm. They had an argument and left separately, but both pursued the trail of the woman into Canada. Our agents could not follow Wolverine closely, of course, but were able to trail Storm until she reached northern Alberta, where she disappeared into the forest."
"That mutant tracking device we stole from the Hellfire Club. Frost's little toy. Do we still have that?" she demanded of one of the guards.
"Yes, sir."
"Direct one of the more trustworthy students to bring it." she said, and then turned her attention back to the messenger. "Tell me, messenger, why was I not informed the instant that she left the island?"
"I could not leave my post without the leave of the Supreme Hydra, and all of my staff were otherwise employed." he said with equanimity.
"And when you leave here, you will report everything to the Supreme Hydra." she said.
"I am a senior messenger." the skinny man said. "The Supreme Hydra relies on my training and discretion. I will of course report everything."
"That is what I thought." she said, with no small amount of disgust. "Take him down to the pit and drug him. He'll be in the next match."
One of the guards immediately moved to seize the messenger. For the first time, the skinny man looked less than sure of himself.
"Reconsider." the messenger said in a high voice. "I have powerful friends."
"The dead have no friends." she replied. "When one arm is cut off, two grow to take its place."
To his credit, the messenger didn't scream or plead as he was hauled away. Over the noise of the crowd, it wouldn't have done any good anyway.
"My husband, dealing with Silver Fox. That I don't like. I don't like that at all, Joshi." the woman mused. "It makes me wonder what he's up to."
The captain, singularly upset at being at all involved with the situation, shrank further into his chair.
*****
It was a long, lonely trip back to Westchester, but Storm had decided that she would enjoy it. She would not call the Blackbird, and she would not fly.
She was sitting in the passenger seat of a slightly run-down farm truck, a three-axle monster that rumbled its way down the highway toward the next small town, belching illegal quantities of black diesel smoke into the air. The boy that drove the truck looked no more than fourteen, and certainly too young to be driving legally. He seemed to be very nervous to have a woman in the passenger seat of his truck. Ororo suspected that they had already passed his turn.
It had felt good to track Silver Fox from New York all the way to Alberta. Sometimes, with all of the high-tech equipment and assembled power that the X-Men had, it was easy to lose touch with cherished skills. Ultimately, it was the weight of experience and teamwork that allowed the X-Men to win, time and time again. The synthesis of skills, and the careful marshalling of those skills, were the advantage they had over all the Brotherhoods and the Reavers and the Genoshas of the world.
Marshalling those forces was something that she was no longer charged with. That burden had passed on to other hands.
Sometimes, people tiptoed around her, wondering if she was resentful that she was no longer in command. The truth was, she didn't want to think about being the leader with Scott gone.
In the beginning, when she first took up the mantle of leadership, she could get through tough situations by imagining that Scott was there, directing her, taking her through the motions in a voice that only she could hear. When she could hear his voice the most clearly, it was smooth sailing. When she could not understand what he was saying, trouble always followed. Without fail.
She grew into the role herself, to be sure. In honesty, she and Scott had different styles, and there came times when they argued over the right way. He tended to a conservative style that was effective over the long run, whereas she was more reactive and daring. Their styles complimented each other very well.
Even when he had left the X-Men, it was always comforting to know that he was out there, somewhere. Now he wasn't. Now he was truly gone. She didn't know how to deal with that. Like Jean, she was hesitant to accept it. The only thing she knew for certain was that she didn't have the heart to lead. Not now. Maybe when the hurt had faded a little.
If she was daring, though, Gambit was positively reckless. He was a self- admitted gambler, a man in love with the long odds. The antithesis of Scott. Cyclops would take a bad bet if there was a principle at stake. With Gambit, bad bets _were_ the principle. He knew his team, though, and somehow, his cheerful brilliance rubbed off on the squad. They always pulled through.
Rogue was in charge of the other squad. Ororo wasn't sure how she felt about that. Rogue had always had the luxury of being the wild child of her squad, the member that didn't have to think, and she was used to indulging that luxury. Logan or Kurt would have been more reliable choices, but for some reason, it was Rogue in charge. Still, the young woman was certainly intelligent enough to lead, and Ororo wasn't about to undercut her. Rogue would grow into the job, as she had.
She came out of her reverie to find the truck passing a small farming village. Her driver was casting small, nervous glances at her. The boy would probably drive her all the way to Montana if she didn't do something.
"This is my stop." she said. "Thank you. You are kind to take me so far." She smiled at him.
"No prob," the boy mumbled nervously into his chest, and brought the truck to a shuddering halt.
She climbed out of the cab, and waved cheerily at him before slamming the door shut. The truck coughed, and picked up its pace again where it left off. Storm smiled when she saw that it took the first available turn, no doubt to head back the way they had come.
She stood on the shoulder of the highway and gazed at the settlement, with its twin grain elevators that towered over nearby houses. "Stavely", she said to herself. "Where is Stavely on the map?"
Ororo put down her shoulder pack and opened up the flap, fishing among empty food wrappers to find, at length, the road map that she was looking for. "Stavely...Staveley... ah! Here it is. Hmmm. It seems so close to the border, but I suspect that getting there is quite another matter." Heaving a sigh, she stuck out her thumb. It seemed likely that Stavely didn't have a place to meet truckers.
After about five minutes, a grocery truck pulled over to the side of the road, and Storm ran lightly to meet it. She planted her foot on the step- plate and pulled open the door. Inside the truck sat an older woman, perhaps in her middle forties. She had greying brown hair and scars running up her forearms, which were of a considerable size. Ororo estimated that they would be about the same height, but the other woman likely outweighed her by thirty pounds or more.
"Where you headed, honey?" she asked in a voice that had turned gravelly from years of smoking.
"To New York." Storm said hopefully, "but I am willing to take what I can get."
"Perfect. I'm Janice."
"Ororo."
Janice nodded. "Nice name. Never heard that one before. Then again, we don't see too many black folks up here."
"No, I do not suppose that you would."
Janice set the brake and gave Storm an appraising look. "You're pretty thin, but you look like you might be strong to me. You mind helping me out in the back?"
Ororo raised an eyebrow. "What do you need?"
Janice grunted. "Just turned off of the 527. I think my load shifted on the corner. It takes two people to straighten it out."
"Of course."
They climbed out of the cab and headed around the truck towards the back, a refrigerated compartment. Janice opened it up to reveal rows of grapes that had, indeed, shifted to the right.
"Temperature's delicate, Ororo. We're gonna have to climb in and shut the door after we do the front three rows. There's a light."
Storm swallowed nervously. "I am not comfortable with close spaces."
"Shit. Well, are you willing to try?"
"Yes."
Janice smiled weakly. "Thank God. I can't haul these flats around by myself. Here, get in and grab that far end."
Storm climbed in. "Janice?" she asked.
"Yeah?"
"Why are you bringing a load of fruit to the south, when it must have come from there?"
Janice smiled, a touch nervously. "Calgary's the shipping center. I picked these up from Calgary, headed down to Claresholm. They came in from the Okanagan." She grunted, and they moved a flat about six inches to the left.
"The Okanagan is in southern British Columbia, is it not?" Ororo asked, moving to the next flat.
"Yeah."
"I have been looking at the map. Would it not have been simpler to ship the fruit along the number three highway to Fort McLeod, then north to Claresholm?"
Janice jumped down off of the truck. "Yeah." she said quietly, and slammed the door shut. When she drove the bolt home, a hissing noise indicated that the compartment was filling up with some sort of gas. She closed her eyes.
A car crossed the median of the highway from Stavely, and pulled up behind the truck. The passenger door opened, and a tall, striking, green-haired woman climbed out. She sauntered over to the truck.
"Well done, Janice." she said. "Commendable. You followed the plan to the letter."
"Thanks, Viper." the big woman said in a small voice.
Madame Hydra's face crinkled in mock concern. "Are you suffering pangs of conscience, Janice? Does what you've done bother you?"
"No, ma'am."
"I'd hate to think so. After all, there are plenty of entusiastic agents in Hydra. It's not a hobby. Or did you think you would never be called upon when you signed up?"
"No, ma'am."
"By the by, I didn't give you permission to call me by my name. I'm glad that you've recognized your error, but I think we still need to maintain discipline, hmmm? Perhaps a transfer to headquarters will be your reward. To get you deeper into Hydra's real operations. Make you more of an... active part of Hydra. You would like that, wouldn't you Janice?"
"Yes, ma'am." Janice replied in a strangled voice. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Some mistakes you can't take back, Janice. Remember that." Viper remarked over her shoulder, as she opened up the compartment. Inside, Ororo slumped against a flat of grapes, her hair taking on a greenish tinge.
"That's my own personal venom, Storm." Viper laughed. "Remember it? I'm the only snake who can turn enemies into allies with a single bite."
*****
The motorcycle pulled onto Circle Drive not much past noon, and weaved through the local traffic in a lazy-looking slalom.
"You want some lunch, Fox?" Logan asked.
"Is this really Saskatoon? I don't remember it this way at all." she said.
"You probably haven't visited here since the seventies, Fox. You hungry or not?"
"Yes, yes. Let's get some food. Oh! Look, an A and W." she said excitedly.
"What? Oh, Fox, you've gotta be kidding. Greasy burgers, this time o' day?"
She pressed her lips together. "I'm not kidding. That's where we're going. Remember? We went on our third date there."
Logan kept silent, but obligingly turned into the parking lot, and pulled into a stall.
"You remember that, don't you?" Fox asked. "A drive-in movie that they played on the side of the grain elevator, and burgers at the A and W, and then a trip to Stanley Park?"
He sighed. "What year was that, Fox?"
"I don't know." she said. "I can't see it."
He waited for her to get off of the bike, and then swung his own leg over. "What year does it sound like?"
"Well, it would have to be around... 1910, wouldn't it?"
"No drive-in movies in 1910, Fox. No A and W. Plus, we were in Alberta back then. Where's Stanley Park?"
"Calgary." she supplied.
"Not back then, it wasn't. Maybe not even in Vancouver."
"But it was our third date." she said, bewildered. "I know it was."
"You don't know that, darlin'. You remember it that way because o' what Il Topo left in your head. That scene would've been in the fifties, at the earliest, and I don't remember seein' you at all in the fifties."
"What?"
"You know that prom date of ours? The one you told Storm about? You remember me pickin' you up on my bike, back on the reserve? That ain't the way I remember it at all. I remember pickin' you up at your Dad's house in a Thunderbird. Might have been the sixties or seventies. I can't really tell. Point is, Il Topo wanted to mess with my head where you're concerned, so he changed some o' the facts and maybe inserted some stuff that never happened."
"Why would he do that? Change our memories of each other?"
"Come on." he said as they walked into the restaurant. "You were lecturing me a little while ago about thinkin' things through, and you can't see this? It was meant to make us loyal to each other as a group, but not as individuals. If I'm too attached to you, I can't leave you behind on a mission if you get caught. I'll go back an' maybe screw up everything."
"Right. Of course." she said, and frowned.
"The little incongruities between our memories, that I don't understand. Maybe it was the Vole leaving us an out, leaving loose threads for us to unravel in case he got screwed by the department. You know, limiting our long-term usefulness to the program. He sure left himself a bunch o' back doors into our heads to nail us with in case we ever crossed paths with him."
Fox sighed.
"Look, don't get all depressed on me." Logan said. "We can have some greasy hamburgers and the best root beer in the world. Lunch. Sit down. I remember what you always get here anyway."
She rewarded him with a smile and sat down in a booth. A few minutes later, he sat down with a tray of food.
"Let's talk more about the X-Men." she said as she unwrapped a hamburger.
"Sure, darlin'. What do you want to know?"
"Is she one of them?"
"Storm, you mean. You're gonna have to let go o' that, Fox. She's a good friend o' mine and I don't give those up on anybody's say-so. Not even yours."
"Storm." she said. "Is she one of them?"
"Yep. Signed on the same time I did. Don't get to see her as much as I'd like these days, as she's on the other squad."
"She's got designs on you, Logan." Silver Fox said. "I don't like that."
"First off, where did you get that idea? Did she tell you that?"
"I can tell. She wants you. Everything she does tells me that."
Wolverine shook his head. "You're wrong, Fox. We're close. We're friends. That's it."
"She doesn't see it that way." Fox persisted.
"I do, so it doesn't matter how she sees it." Logan replied. "And that's the end of it. We're talking about the X-Men, not Storm."
"Fine. I trust you, of course. You haven't given me much detail about your tactical advantages, or even your modus operandi."
He grunted around a mouthful of burger. "Mmm. Yeah. As I was sayin' earlier, we're basically lookin' to improve the relationship between mutants and normal humans."
"Well, that's your mission statement, yeah. And you do this by fighting other mutants who disagree?"
He nodded. "Basically. I mean, we tangle with a couple of real nuts, like Apocalypse and Mr. Sinister, who just want to take over the world or make it over into somethin' they like better..."
"Apocalypse and Mr. Sinister? I don't remember those two."
"You wouldn't. I didn't meet 'em until I was an X-Man. Anyway, apart from the psychos and the small-timers, our big opposition are guys who also think about the big picture, but've got different ideas about it. Guys like Magneto, who figures he's the Malcolm X of mutants."
"Not peaceful coexistence, then. Magneto thinks that mutants will have to fight for everything they get." she said.
"Exactly. Problem is, his methods pretty much make everyone want to fight him no matter what he wants. He's pretty heavy-handed. He's dragging the movement down. He figures that he's leading it."
"Maybe he is. Maybe you're dragging him down. In war-time, I think the X-Men would be called apologists, or even sympathizers."
Logan nodded. "That's true, but we ain't at war, and humans ain't our enemies. Not yet. Nobody ever did any good by running around acting like he was at war when it was peacetime. Wars start that way. You need different methods when you're not engaged."
Fox nodded. "So you're in the policing module of the strategy. You try to help mutant P.R. by taking care of the nutcases, right? You try to score points with the humans by making sure they don't have to fight the Magnetos of the mutant world."
"Yep. That's it."
"Hmm. Who's in the media module?"
"Well, we got a couple of writers that support the cause, you know, but I don't know who they are, exactly." Logan said.
"Well, I guess you don't have to. Maybe you shouldn't, in case you get taken by hostiles. Who's coordinating the media?"
"Nobody. I guess Charlie finds 'em, and asks 'em to help out, print a few articles and editorials. We're trying to convince the regular folks, you know?"
Silver Fox narrowed her eyes. "So, you don't have media blitzes? Coordinated campaigns? Spin doctors to put your public maneuvers in the right light?"
"Ha! I wish."
She shook her head. "That's stupid, Logan. Do you have contributors in any major papers? International appeal? The New York Times? Washington Post? Chicago Tribune? Daily Bugle? Globe and Mail?"
"Nope. Not a one that I know of, anyway. That ain't my department."
Silver Fox nodded. "Who's in charge of thinking of those things?"
"Professor X. It's his dream, his money backin' it."
"Which politicians are yours?"
Logan shook his head. "We don't have pet politicians, Fox. There are a few senators and congressmen that are pro-mutant, or at least not anti- mutant. They ain't in our pocket, though. That's not the way we do things. We try to persuade people that our way is the best way to live."
"What? One person at a time? Taxi drivers and sailors and paramedics?"
"Yeah. It's the run o' people that you have to convince first, not the leaders."
Silver Fox snorted. "How do the police like you?"
"We got a couple friends in the NYPD."
"The commissioner? The chief?"
"No. Fox, what is with you? It ain't just the leaders that can get things done. In a democracy, you have to convince the people, and they'll elect leaders that think the same way."
She laughed derisively. "Of course. And how do the people form opinions? They believe what the media tell them. They believe what their leaders tell them. You said that you had to hide from the government. Is that right?"
"Yeah."
"So your enemies control the apparatus of government, and the apparatus of media, don't they? There are a lot more anti-mutant editorials than pro- mutant editorials, aren't there?"
He grunted.
"So, basically, you have to fight these 'wrong-headed' mutants in public, or your activities go unreported and have no P.R. dividend, but your enemies can give the public their version of events and you have no way to answer them. Am I right? Your battles can be presented as a dangerous, irresponsible mutant civil war that threatens innocent bystanders. Your P.R. dividend becomes a net loss, and you're hurting your own cause."
"That ain't the way it is." Wolverine growled.
"No? It seems to me that you're a professional outfit led by one or more amateurs. Your policies are ineffective, and as a result your proactive operations fail to accomplish your goals. It seems to me that this dream you're talking about is nothing but that."
"I ain't exactly the best guy at laying out the facts of our operation." Logan said. "You know me, I'm not a diplomat."
"I don't think you have any, or you wouldn't be losing. And you are losing, aren't you?" she demanded.
"We're still here." he said.
Silver Fox shrugged. "You would have been, individually, if you never joined up, I'd bet. Are you any closer to accomplishing your goals than you were when you joined up?"
Logan sat there for a moment, and then sighed. "No, Fox. No, we're not. But I believe in the dream, and in the Prof, and I've got to keep fighting."
"I don't disagree with that." Fox pressed. "I think your dream sounds beautiful, but you've got to change your methods. You've got to make your organization more effective."
"You mean, we've got to stop fightin' fair. Use the same sort of tactics that we used back in the day. Fox, I got out of the game because I was sick of that. I don't want to go around stickin' people who aren't soldiers, and I don't think I'd be comfortable in an outfit that was manipulating the government and the media, you know? Because those sorts of tactics lend themselves to other stuff, too. Once you got your tentacles in, it's easy to use 'em to get other stuff you want, too. That's what Department H did, and look at them now. Hudson set that place up with the best of intentions, an' now it's a nightmare."
"Done?"
"Yeah."
"Good. You're right. You've got to pick your people carefully. You can't let the organization get too fat, or the wrong people can get in. But the fact remains, you can't beat the devil unless you fight like the devil."
Wolverine snorted. "Just how many incorruptible people do you think are out there?"
"None." Fox said. "But if you get want you want done before things in the organization go to shit, if your goal is that important, then it will all be worth it. I think your goal is important enough to justify this."
"We're supposed to be makin' things better for people, Fox."
"Lots of people, Logan. Maybe everybody. That's a noble goal. If a couple of people go bad and have to die in the process, that's a small price to pay."
"Ruining and killing is never a small price, Fox. People are people. It took me a long time to figure that out. People are people."
She slurped her root beer.
"What, you're gonna let me get the last word?" he asked.
"You don't really believe your dream can work, Logan. You'd really like to. You feel better fighting for it. There's no point to arguing with you. You agree with me."
He smiled, exasperated. "You are one obnoxious piece o' work, Fox. I'll agree with you on one thing; there's no point arguin' it. I'd like to hear you argue it with the Prof, though. Care to get back on the road?"
*****
The wind howled, demented by the force that pushed it beyond nature's law. The dry earth, starved for moisture the summer through, had become grit that rode the air in ever-increasing concentration, until it formed a continuous spray that drummed on the motorcycle and its two riders.
It had been getting gradually warmer, and then very hot, for the past half hour. Neither of them had considered that the temperature might be unnatural until its author arrived. Now, the asphalt was as soft and sticky as molasses, the motorcycle was overheating, and heat stroke was a very real possibility. Not that heat stroke was the greatest of their problems.
"Heads up, Fox! I'm gonna try somethin' stupid. Let go, lean back some, and get ready t' take over the wheels real quick."
Silver Fox gritted her teeth against the rattling gait of the motorcycle and clapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgement. Hopefully, she thought, it wasn't going to be what she thought it was. She took her arm from around his neck, and burned her legs even more than they had been before by clutching the motorcycle with her calves.
"Road clear?"
"As clear as it'll get!" Fox replied.
Logan leaned forward into the gale until his shoulders were directly above the handlebar, and then unfolded himself into a quivering handstand. Silver Fox shook her head in admiration as she scooted forward, and laid her hands on the bar, steadying it. She quickly ducked as Logan folded back over and ended behind her.
"Nice." she said, in a voice that amounted to a whisper in the gale.
"Save the applause." Logan replied. He laid his hands on her shoulders, and stood up on the back of the cycle.
"She can see what you're doing, Logan." Fox said. "This is not a smart play."
"Maybe not, but since I put myself into a precarious position, she ain't fired one lightning bolt. I don't think she wants us separated. We can work that."
Keeping one hand on her shoulder, he turned around and dropped into a crouch.
"Hold 'er steady." he said.
"Why don't we just abandon the bike, Logan? In this situation, it's a tactical handicap!"
He leaped at Storm, instead.
"Jumping blind at a mobile target from a mobile platform over unstable ground." Fox muttered.
Storm was of much the same opinion. "You jumped low." she managed to say when she saw that Logan was going to pass underneath her.
He was twisting in mid-air, though. He reached up and caught her ankle on the way by, and his torso continued to twist. Even with the support of the wind, she whipped around at the end of his strong arm, and smashed into the ground. He tumbled over her and kipped up to his feet.
"You all right, 'Ro?"
He heard the rustle of cotton before she blasted him with lightning, but the interval was too short, even for Wolverine. His skin blackening, he collapsed.
"You are a canny fighter, old friend, but your concern betrays you." she said. The sound of the approaching motorcycle alerted her, and she spun to blast the bike. It was already riderless.
A fist-sized stone, thrown from outside Storm's field of vision, smashed into her upper arm. "You X-Men talk too much!" Fox shouted.
Storm gasped at the numbing impact, but had the presence of mind to transform the gale into a twister. Silver Fox, helpless, spun up into the air to be struck several times with fist-sized stones until she went limp. Then, she was lowered gently to the surface of the asphalt on a cushion of wind, the detritus of the dying tornado. "And you are too fond of your own intelligence to believe that other people can think." she said to the unconscious woman.
The wind also lifted Logan off of the ground, and dropped him into the soft black morass. He sank, on his back, until his ears disappeared from view. Most of Silver Fox's body could not be seen at all; only her chest and face were still visible. Storm smiled slightly at her handiwork, and the temperature began to drop. She was careful to make sure that it dropped slowly enough that the asphalt did not crack as it hardened.
When the temperature was approaching seasonal levels, she fired a lightning bolt straight up into the sky. That done, Storm sat down, cross-legged in the settling dust, and waited.
It wasn't long before a grocery truck came rumbling up the newly hardened highway. It came to a halt in front of Storm, and the passenger door opened, disgorging a very satisfied-looking Viper. A car followed, and parked a discrete distance away.
"You were supposed to drive them into the ambush we had set up, Storm." Viper murmured.
"They mounted a counter-attack. I was forced to react to their assault, though the result was the same." Storm replied.
"True, true. I rarely argue with results, but in this organization, I find that it's usually best to discourage original thinking. For one thing, it indicates that the venom is already losing its potence. We may need to give you another dose. Yes. Step into the back of the van."
Storm nodded her acquiesence.
The car's driver-side door opened, and one of Viper's personal guards emerged. He walked over to the back of the truck and opened it up to allow Storm to climb inside.
"Well, Silver Fox and Wolverine." Viper said as she strolled toward them. "This is quite a catch. My old rival and my no-good husband. You know, I think there's a reward on his head in Madripoor?" she remarked to no one in particular. "I wonder if the Prince of Madripoor can collect her own rewards."
The guard declined to comment.
She frowned. "How are we supposed to get them out of this asphalt? They don't have to be in perfect condition, but I'd like to have them alive for a while at least. Well, no. I'd like to have Wolverine alive for a while. On balance, keeping Silver Fox alive is not a great idea. Bring me a gun."
The guard nodded, and pulled a pistol out of his shoulder holster, which he handed to her butt first.
"Mmmm." Viper said. "Crummy death, Fox. Half buried in a highway, where every passing car is going to run over your face. I really couldn't have thought of something more fitting."
"You shoot her", Wolverine managed through cracked lips, "and you better shoot me right after, 'cause I'm gonna kill you. Promise or no."
"Shoot you, Logan? Oh my, no. The bullet would probably bounce off of your little tin head and hit me in the leg. By the way, you smell even worse than usual."
"How long you been savin' that one up?"
"A while." Viper admitted.
"End o' this, Viper, and we're done. I mean it. I'm gonna formally withdraw my protection from you, and the crime bosses of Madripoor are gonna tear you down. Rose was wrong about you."
Viper sneered. "Rose always knew what was in my mind, Wolverine. And so did you, your comfortable lies to the contrary. It takes someone like me to run Madripoor. It's booming like it never has before. More money in town, more ships in port. More influential players living there. You don't have what it takes to do something like that, which is why she left you the bar. I got the greater prize."
"Someone like you?" Wolverine said. "Who are you without me backin' you? Dead, that's who. Or dancin' on the end of Hydra strings, like you were back in the day."
"I never danced to anyone's tune." she said, and shot him in the knee.
He disdained to grimace. "You act from the heart, girl, and that means you dance to the tune of the first musician who comes along. You're plenty smart, but a player you ain't. Dabbler, maybe."
"This from a man who's never even been a dabbler." Viper mocked. "You don't have the brains or the balls."
"I've been in the business since before you were born, girl, and I've seen players come and go. You survive partly from dumb luck, and mostly because you're a moveable asset. Anybody who sits at the board can play with you. You're like a nickel prostitute in a gold rush."
"I'd cut out your tongue, but you'd just grow it back." she spat.
"You know why Fox always out-maneuvered you? Always out-thought you? Because she knew what the game took, and she was willing to play heads up. You always just figured you had what it took, without havin' much idea what that was. Small wonder the Supreme Hydra always liked her best."
"Who cares what the Supreme Hydra thinks?" Viper smiled. "I'm not some little girl he can dandle on his knee, begging for his favour. He's just a man. How many Supreme Hydras have there been since I joined the business? Six. And how many Vipers? Just me. Just me, Wolverine."
From behind her, a car door opened. "I never knew that you thought of me that way, Viper."
The man looked young, perhaps thirty-five, baby-faced with dishwater brown hair running a bit to grey. He wore a smart-looking grey business suit of Spanish cut, and held a cellular phone.
Viper gawked. "How..."
"Think it through, Viper. Your guard is loyal to Hydra. I am Hydra. Your day-to-day business, small treacheries, guests, operations... all of these things cross my desk promptly at eight a.m. every morning."
"You mean that guard is from Hydra?" Wolverine mocked. "That was damned stupid of you, girl."
"Shut up." Viper hissed.
"We weren't willing to cross the Vole, but now that he's gone, a valuable asset can be returned to the fold. And, it seems that we can settle up with an old enemy at the same time. You've been messing around in our business for far too long, Wolverine."
"I gotta be me." Logan replied.
The Supreme Hydra chuckled. "Not for much longer, you don't. Viper, I'd like to say that you've gone too far this time, but I don't want to run the risk of a power vacuum in Madripoor, so you get to live. Again. Of course, we'll substitute Hydra guards for Wolverine as far as your protection goes."
Viper clenched her teeth. "A visible Hydra presence on Madripoor will strangle it until it has nothing left. It'll make Beirut look like Singapore by comparison. No one will make landing any more."
The Supreme Hydra raised his eyebrows. "How dreadful. You'll be the governess of a deserted outpost. Fate, I've noticed, is often cruel."
Viper just tightened her hands into fists.
"Now then. How are we going to get Silver Fox out of this mess? I suppose that we'll need the woman. Let her out."
The guard opened the back of the van, and Storm stepped out.
"Melt the asphalt." he said.
Storm ignored him.
The Supremem Hydra grunted in irritation. "Tell her to melt the asphalt around Silver Fox."
Viper shot him a rebellious look, but did not pursue it. "Do as he says."
"I cannot localize the temperature so without killing her. To do what you ask would require a lightning bolt." Storm said.
"Talky one." the man remarked.
"She's building up resistance." Viper replied, a bit sulkily. "I have several formulations, because my new friends build up antibodies against the poison fairly quickly. Unfortunately, I have only one formula with me, and it's the one that she's already dosed with."
"Hmm. Any chance that the venom would work on Wolverine?" he asked.
She laughed derisively. "He'd be all mine-- for about twenty seconds."
"Could she open things up around them and then harden things up again in that time?"
Viper looked at Storm. "Answer the question."
"Yes." Storm replied.
Viper frowned. "I don't trust my hold over her. This is a bad idea."
The Supreme Hydra shrugged and pulled out a gun. "If she tries anything, I'll shoot her. It's as simple as that. Her usefulness is finished after this, anyway."
Viper shrugged in turn, and stepped toward Wolverine. "You're the one in charge. I take no blame for this." She bent down and kissed Wolverine on the lips, pulling back when he tried to bite her.
"Poison kiss? You've been reading too many bad Japanese novels." the Supreme Hydra remarked, as he stepped backward off of the road.
"Melt the asphalt!" Viper said.
The temperature soared, so quickly that some of the softer tar on the surface began to settle as the highway melted. The guard retrieved Fox as quickly as he could, just as Viper gave the order to harden the asphalt again.
The temperature plummeted, and there was a sound that resembled tearing rock as the asphalt cracked.
"Shit." the Supreme Hydra muttered.
"Idiot." Viper muttered at much the same time, and she ran toward the fallen motorcycle.
Wolverine surged to his feet, with blocks of quick-frozen asphalt dangling from his shirt.
Snikt.
"Not a move, Wolverine, or I shoot the girl." the man snapped, as he pulled an unconscious Silver Fox to her feet. He held his gun to her temple and started backing toward the car.
"Your best asset?" Wolverine asked as he stalked forward, slowly.
"I'm my best asset." he replied. "Not one more step."
Wolverine halted, realizing that the man wasn't bluffing, but held himself ready to leap if he saw the opportunity.
"Cover my escape!" Viper yelled as she gunned the engine.
Storm nodded, and started throwing lightning bolts. Logan and the Supreme Hydra were forced to hit the ground, and could only swear to themselves as the sound of the motorcycle faded away. When it was gone, the barrage ceased.
Silver Fox, meanwhile, stirred.
The Supreme Hydra rolled to one side and got up, training his weapon on Wolverine. "Silver Fox, get in the car."
Fox shook her head. "What?"
"Silver Fox. It's me, your leader. The Supreme Hydra." he said, watching Wolverine carefully. "Get into the car. We're getting away."
"My leader?"
"Yes."
She looked at him. "You're not the Supreme Hydra. I remember you. Your name is Simmonds, or something. You used to work for Fenris in R and D."
"And now I'm the Supreme Hydra. There's been a reorganization of the power structure since you left, Silver Fox, but my predecessors spoke highly of you. There's room in my Hydra for you. More importantly, right now you're the only thing between me and Wolverine, and I'd like to add a few miles to that."
She looked at the car. "I can't get in, Simmonds. It's stuck in the asphalt."
He swore with feeling. "We're going to have to call for a pick-up, then."
"What are you doing out in the field?" she asked.
"Dealing with a rebellious underling in person." he replied.
"In the field? With one guard as support?" Fox asked incredulously. "Surrounded by alpha-class mutant hostiles?"
"Errr..." he said.
"Toss me a gun. You can't even cover both targets." she said.
Wolverine smiled. "The two of you can't take me, let alone me and Storm. Come off it, Fox."
"Shut up, Wolverine." she spat. "I'm through with you and your slut. I owe you, but I'm not going to follow you like a lovesick puppy."
"Lovesick? What?" asked the Supreme Hydra.
"Gun." Fox supplied helpfully.
He reached into his pocket and tossed her a pistol.
"You need some serious drilling in field protocols, Simmonds." she said. "Wolverine will free the car and push it out of the rut, and we'll drive out of here."
Logan frowned at her thoughtfully, as if seeing her for the first time.
"Don't make me repeat myself, little man." she said, pointing the gun at Storm.
He shrugged and began using his claws to tear up the much-abused asphalt. Neither he nor the Supreme Hydra noticed that Silver Fox was busily stripping Storm of her T-shirt.
Minutes later, with a final great heave, Logan pushed the car out of the rut. He turned to face the Supreme Hydra, who was pointing the gun at him.
"How much you want to bet that you can't slow me down enough with that toy to keep me from ventilatin' your insides?" he asked.
"How much do you want to bet that your slut dies before you even get to him?" Fox returned.
"Did you hit your head or what, Fox?" he demanded. "What the fuck brought this on?"
"Let's just say that my memory isn't as bad as you would like." she spat. "How long were you going to ride this, Logan? How long were you going to leave me in my haze? Another day? A week? Maybe just until you tempted me into your bed?"
"What?" he asked.
"It was that thing you said in the A and W, about leaving me behind. That was a mistake. It got me thinking, and thinking led to memory, Logan. Oh yes, it did. Don't you remember, Logan? Don't you remember why I hate you? It was a scene almost exactly like this.
"A hostage situation. We were in Cuba trying to kidnap one of Russia's nuclear physicists. We were told that it was a man, and it turned out to be a woman. Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember. Natalia."
"Bad intel. We always had bad intel. That time, somebody had leaked our scrambler codes to the enemy, and they listened to our communications and tracked the signal back to me. They had me dead to rights. No coverage from Creed, who went off to follow you rather than back me up."
"He had secret orders that time. Nothin' to do with you."
"I don't think that's true. I think the important part of those orders was that I was left naked, because the program decided that I was too dangerous, and the fix was in. The Cubans took me."
"But you got off a last comm before their bollix got set, so we knew about it."
"Yes, and since they knew that we were going to be there, they changed the room that they were holding the girl in, but you and Creed and North were too much for their guys, and they were still forced to negotiate. What they didn't know was that you and North had laid a bunch of timed explosives around. That was your ace in the hole.
"So here we were. You had half of the cards, and so did they. You agreed, hostages for their lives. You negotiated. Remember?"
"I remember."
"And they offered to give me to you, and to hold on to the physicist as a surety. And you... you, Logan, you! You refused. You said, 'Give us the physicist instead.' Knowing that there was no time to wait for them to get out and send me back. Knowing, as I did, that there probably wasn't enough time for them to make it to their chopper. And you did it because the physicist was more important to the mission than me. I was expendable.
"And you had made love to me the night before. But that meant nothing. I meant nothing. It was the mission, and the physicist, and you left me to die."
"Fox, I..."
"Shut up! You know, I almost pity her?"
Logan just shook his head in disbelief.
"I choose to live, Logan. Like I did last time. I choose life for you because I owe you that much. But next time we meet, you die. Remember that."
"Fox!"
Silver Fox gestured with her gun, and the Supreme Hydra climbed into the car. She climbed in beside him. Wolverine watched, stunned, as it drove off down the highway.
"But, it didn't happen that way." he said quietly.
*****
Storm came to her senses at last, pushing apart the haze that had lain over her mind since a reluctant Hydra agent dosed her with gas. She was aware of the chill, but it did not touch her, as her mutant power increased her body temperature to compensate for the cold. In fact, the first thing she noticed was a breeze over her chest. She was lying with her head propped up against something warm, wearing only a pair of denim shorts and a demi-bra. She inhaled deeply, and smiled slightly when she realized that the warm object was Logan.
"You back in your right mind, 'Ro?"
"Yes, Logan. Thank you. Where are we, exactly?" she asked, sitting up.
"On the Yellowhead. Quietest I've ever seen this highway, that's for damn sure. Probably some kind o' Hydra arrangement. You feeling OK?"
"I will be fine. Where are the rest of my clothes?"
He shook his head. "No idea. I think Fox stole your shirt, for some reason. One minute you were wearing it, and the next you weren't. Apart from the shirt, and one shoe that I shucked off o' you, this is what you showed up wearin'."
Ororo frowned. "That is a strange thing to steal. I'd like to look around for it, if you don't mind. Did you have your eyes off of her for long?"
"A couple o' minutes."
She paused before asking, "Is she gone?"
"Yeah. She went with the Supreme Hydra. Her idea."
"Why?"
"She hates me." he said.
"What?"
"Leave it, 'Ro."
She nodded.
A few minutes later, they found the shirt. The wind had dragged it along the ground, and it was very dirty. Certainly not the sunny yellow that it had once been. Ororo picked it up and started dusting it off.
"Wait!" Logan yelped, and grabbed the shirt.
"What is it?" she asked.
Holding it open, he sighed. "You mean, what did it used to be? It used to be a message, written on your shirt with a little piece of asphalt, in a way that nobody but me could understand it."
Her face fell. "How?"
"Phonetic Blackfoot. Written using the Cyrillic alphabet. Now there's only one word I can make out." he said, with a strange mixture of hope and dejection.
"I am sorry, Logan."
"Not your fault, 'Ro."
"What was the word?"
"Trust." he said, staring after the long-vanished car.
~~~ To The Next Part => ~~~
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