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GENERATION X vs. THE BLACK PACK Part One: "All's Fair..." written by Multi-Facets and Z 0xxxx)>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>j>
Z. adds: Well, girly-girl 'bout summed it up, but she forgot one very important person.… herself! Thanks to Humber12 AKA Blackwolf for bringin' this story to life. Hope y'all dig it!
H12/B sez: Dedicated to Bizzy, Li'l Horn, Tigrr Wildcat, Lady Saint-Croix, Primal, Synch, Z, and anyone else I might've forgotten. Thanks for everything, y'all!
WARNING: THIS TRILOGY IS RATED R. READER DESCRETION STRONGLY ADVISED.
PROLOGUE:
He sat alone in the darkened corner of the bar, absently fiddling with the empty shot glass and running a continuous loop of thought within his nearly numbed mind: No good. Killer. Worthless. Life's wasted. You're damned. No good. Killer. Worthless. Life's wasted. You're damned, he thought over and over. He knew he had good reason to: He'd murdered too many to count, he'd robbed, and pretty much condemned himself, so he thought. Without his past drug addiction to cloud his senses, his better half had finally made itself known, berating him. Perhaps it would be better if he ended it all that night; if he paid penance with his life-
"Zed Saunders."
The low, velvety, frost-tipped voice startled Zed Saunders out of his self-pitying reverie. He forced bleary eyes upward to the speaker, hoping he didn't look as smashed as he really was.
The speaker was a young woman in black. She was slim and tough-looking; Her hair was glossy black and very ruffled, falling to the middle of her ribs. Her eyes were dark violet, fringed with lustrous, sooty lashes, and decorated with a devilish, arrogantly confident gleam. She speared Zed with a look filled with calculated cunning and the need for challenges; filled with disrespect for any authority save her own.
In his somewhat sozzled condition, she was the most exquisite creature Zed had ever seen.
"You are Zed Saunders, aren't you?" the lady demanded impatiently.
Zed snapped out of it. "Yes," he replied, slurring the word slightly. "Please, siddown," he offered, gesturing to the chair across the way.
The lady pulled it up and sat in it backwards. "I'm Tawny Black," she said without preamble. "I'm looking for a partner-in-crime. I was told you'd suffice."
Zed sat up a little straighter. "Who told you that?" he asked. Tawny jerked her head in the direction of the club's bouncer in reply. Zed nodded understandingly. "How long will you need me?" he inquired, getting back to business.
"If all goes well, a very long time," Tawny answered, a wicked smile teasing her full, softly curved lips. "See, I'm the leader of a small group-"
"You?" Zed interrupted skeptically. "You can't be more than fifteen."
"I'm older than I look. Now shut up and listen, crack-ass," Tawny snapped.
"I should shoot you for that," Zed drawled, testing her.
The next thing he knew, Tawny had pulled a gun and was holding it to his forehead. "Can you get your gun before I give you a lobotomy?" she queried, a new depth of harshness riding her voice.
Zed lifted his hands in surrender. Tawny placed her gun in whatever holster she'd drawn it from. "As I was saying before I was so rudely cut off: I lead a small group. We do the basic criminal stuff, but sometimes we do the big villain gig. I need one more member to watch everyone else's backs. I know you're.... different from the rest, and experienced in a lot of fields. The pay is pretty good, with lots of bonuses; the excitement is incredible, and the freedom and challenges are worth all the danger." She stuck out a hand. "So, are you in?"
Zed pondered it. "What makes you so sure I won't turn the lot of you in the instant I join?" he baited.
Tawny inhaled carefully so her chest was accentuated. Zed couldn't help but take a quick glance. "For starters, you like my breasts too much," Tawny jibed.
Zed burst out laughing. "All right, all right. You're one up on me, kid," he said after he calmed down. He took Tawny's hand. "I'm in. Call me Wraith."
Tawny smirked. "Call me Sureshot. Or Boss, whichever comes easier," she returned. "Care for a drink before we go?"
LATER....
Sureshot swept her gaze over the small group she had assembled. Long lashes flickered as she blinked and stood in front of them, nailing their attention with an authoritative stare. "I'm glad you decided to join me," she began. "Now that we've assembled, it's time to lay down the rules: What I say, goes. Once you're in, there's no out. What you find, you keep. What we take, we do with as we please. We never abandon each other unless it's under my orders." Her eyes became especially piercing. "And most of all: We. Have. Fun." Her voice was slow and measured. "We act like vandals and have fun doing it. Got it?"
Positive affirmations reached her ears. Sureshot smiled, a nefarious grin, and her eyes danced. "Good." She lifted a gun from a hip holster and raised it in a salute. "Welcome to The Black Pack. Hope you survive the experience."
End prologue.
Where else? The Massachusetts Academy.
The television clicked to life at the touch of a button. It seemed to usher noise forth from its meticulously hidden wall-speakers even before the screen itself had begun to glow with full intensity. Angelo Espinosa, better known as Skin, snorted. Despite its size and sleek design, he guessed the TV was at least a dozen years old.
"-reign of terror, which began in the greater Boston area and has stretched as far east as Westfield," the anchorman began, right in mid-sentence, "holds all of central Massachusetts in its icy grip." As the static cleared from the telly, Angelo could see it was Brent Thomson (Channel 9's own blonde beefcake) who spoke in that somber tone.
"Channel 9 will do its part to bring you more information as the situation develops," Angelo predicted glibly.
"Channel 9 will do its part to bring you more information as the situation develops," Brent parroted. Angelo chuckled at the anchorman's predictability.
Striking synthetic strings-and-brass music piped up as Channel 9's evening news cut to commercial. Angelo furrowed his brow in thought. It made the pale gray, slightly distended skin on his forehead look more unnatural than usual.
"What's the prob, Ange?" a small but brash voice questioned, more from beside than behind him.
"Looks like there's trouble a-foot, Jubicita," he answered, trying to sound less like a poor kid from the barrio and more like John Wayne. He failed. Miserably.
"Be a little more specific, Angelo," Jubilee retorted, mildly annoyed.
"He means the rash of burglaries," replied the lofty voice of Monet Saint- Croix, which came from over Jubi's left shoulder; high over her left shoulder, in fact. The lovely, dark-skinned girl also called M willed herself closer to the floor and continued. "Nine break-ins during the past five weeks, all at the homes of the state's most wealthy and prolific families. Seven late-night bank heists in which the security guards seemingly let the thieves in, and then casually forgot the whole mess, and last, a single raid on a National Guard armory in which an estimated $20,000 worth of military weapons were stolen."
Jubilee let out a surprised whistle.
"Would that be twenty-grand street value or...." Angelo began, seeking to irritate Monet. He succeeded.
"The local police," M interrupted haughtily, "have no leads. As always with this sort of crime spree-"
"-It's assumed a super-powered team of criminals (read: mutants) are responsible," Paige Guthrie/Husk broke in as she entered the room, newspaper sloppily doubled over in her left hand. She stepped forward and pointed to the glaring headline: ANONYMOUS GANG OF MUTANTS BLAMED FOR RECENT CRIME-WAVE.
"Last night they killed two men during a bank job; that's what all the flap is about. You can rob us blind, but once there's been blood spilled, the shinola hits the fan." Paige continued, trying to seem untroubled and not pulling off the acting job so well. "According to the paper, there's talk of government intervention; FBI, CIA, SLED...."
"MiB," Angelo laughed. The sound turned into a growl. "That's all we need. More suits creepin' around trying to pin this on the first available group of mutants."
"Deja vu all over again," Jubilee muttered. She sounded thoughtful, distant even. "Just another Operation: Zero Tolerance waiting to happen." The very thought made her shiver with apprehension.
"We better get Ms. Frost and the others and let them know what's going on," Paige stated matter-of-factly.
"Whoop-de-doo," Angelo groaned, lifting his right index finger into the air and dragging it around in a roughly circular motion. "Exactly how I wanted to start my weekend."
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A long, well-shaped nail traced circles around the first word of the local rag's headline; the dark, blocky, ugly word "ANONYMOUS." Dark lilac pools that less poetic men had referred to as merely eyes skimmed the page. Dammit, the facts were all wrong: They'd offed four men last night. The first two (the ones the paper acknowledged) had been the night watchmen who had seen Hotwire, the hacker, slip in via the phone line and had to be dealt with, while the other two had been real police officers. Heavily armed pigs at that, placed in the bank vault itself.
Disgusted, Sureshot pulled a well-worn black jacket over her shoulders and stepped through the door of her private chamber. For a moment, she was distracted, pleased with how quickly the construction workers had converted the abandoned warehouse into suitable accommodations for her small army. The motivational power of the American dollar had never ceased to amaze her, despite being the daughter of a government-paid scientist. But while the individual quarters were aptly posh, the main room was still bare and drafty. Its high ceiling and hollow acoustics gave it the feel of a dusty high school gym. The grunts of a man lifting free-weights didn't take away from that feeling, either.
By the time Tawny had made her way down the creaking metal stairs to the center of the great room where two shadowy figures dwelt, the head hit-man Leon Edenfox/Sphinx had already begun his bench-press repetitions while Wraith, the proverbial Jack-of-all-trades, hung over him, smoking.
The two men were Tawny's best, professionals like herself. She could, if she chose to do so, even be casual with them. As casual as one in her position would dare be, at least. Despite her earlier suspicion the two would often clash, they had become surprisingly fast friends. They had found common ground: survival. During their foray on the Armory, Sphinx had found himself taken by surprise by a trio of guardsmen while he was traversing the wide garage. Tawny had toyed with the idea of leaving him (men such as he seldom talked, despite torture or fear of incarceration), but Wraith (with the help of the young girl, Hotwire) had slipped back in and helped his comrade. In the three weeks since that night, the two from such different worlds had been nigh inseparable.
As the weight bar rose and fell above Leon's torso, Tawny could hear his rhythmic breathing. It seemed to time rather uneasily with Zed's periodic exhalation of smoke. As she approached, Sphinx rose from the bench.
"Good evening, boys," Tawny greeted coolly. (Which was really funny because she was younger than they.)
Her voice, thought Wraith, was like silky caramel, though he had know idea what that meant. "Ev'nin', luv," he returned, almost without realizing it. No one else could have gotten away with such a remark (in fact, Tawny would show them what she learned in kick-boxing if they tried to get away with it), but Wraith had earned his place in the Black Pack and the whole team knew it.
Sphinx shook lightly with laughter. He was always amused with the ease at which his friend spoke to the lady. She was, after all, their boss. He nodded his own greeting and raised his first two fingers and thumb in a half-wave after smoothing his dark brown dreadlocks.
"Gentlemen, you do remember my ground rules, don't you?" Tawny inquired, getting down to the point of her visit.
The men nodded, not knowing exactly what she was getting at.
"Well," Tawny pulled her tone up an octave until she almost sang the phrase, "someone didn't look like he was having fun last night."
"Aw, hell," Sphinx complained, nearly under his breath.
"Killin' rent-a-cops ain't exactly my idea of a good time, Miz Black," Wraith began gingerly, slipping slightly into his native drawl. "The fuzz in the vault were askin' for trouble, but the other two...." He dropped the butt of his cigarette as he spoke and ground it thoughtlessly beneath his heel.
"Wraith, please-" Tawny started.
"Zed. Ream me out for insubordination if you must, but call me by my name."
"Zed, then." Deity, she despised that name. It was the same as a villain's on a cheesy kids' show she used to watch, just spelled differently. "We did what had to be done. They'd seen too much."
"I could have mind-wiped them," Zed protested. "I coulda-"
Tawny tossed an accusing look his way, raising one perfect eyebrow. "Excuse me?" she hissed. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. Mind-wiped them? You? Oh, puh-lease!"
She knew Zed couldn't have mind-wiped both of the guards. In fact, when Zed had entered that body of an old, bearded watchman, he leapt out with such force he'd nearly split his skull on the linoleum. The watchman had demons; dark, deep-set demons that bit and tore at Zed's soul while within the man's skin. It had seemed, he felt at the time, as if he were drowning in bubbling-hot road tar.
"Do the whole Pack a favor and pitch the lame excuses, Wraith," Sureshot ordered.
Zed nodded limply.
"Now that that's settled, on to the business at hand. We need to make our- selves known. What's the use in having an underworld rep if no one knows your freakin' name?" Tawny snorted, shifted back into what Sphinx called "leader mode". "It's time for the 'Anonymous Gang of Mutants' to become 'The Black Pack', in living color!"
There was stunned silence. Wraith looked pained.
"Get the others. We meet in the Board Room in ten minutes. Move it!"
As much as Tawny loathed to admit it, even to herself, she hated that sudden, vulnerable look in Zed's eyes. He was noble, and though she admired that, perhaps he was far too noble for any of their own good. This, however, like putting up with his jovial spirit, was the price she paid to have such as him in her service. He had been a fine addition, and his "intuition" had already proved to be another valuable tool. And, Zed hadn't had a drink since the first night they had met, though Tawny knew he burned for one.
The voices of the two men trailed off as they walked to gather their companions.
"You need anything, bro?" Sphinx's bass voice boomed, despite the distance.
Zed knew what he meant. "No. No, bud, I'm past that," he responded. As the last vestiges of Zed Saunders slipped away and the first of Wraith crept over him, he tossed a backward glance at Tawny Black. Even in her ratty jacket and jeans, and surrounded by the murk of the old building, she was beautiful. Beautiful, cold, and flawless. Wraith admired her as a child would admire a knife in a glass store-case.
Tawny was also as sharp and untouchable as the out-of-reach knife. Pretty amazing for a seventeen year-old.
---------------------------
Sean Cassidy, the Banshee, eyed the newspaper, sighing as he took the information in. "Ye're right, lass," he told Paige. "This is trouble for all o' us."
"But Mr. Cassidy," Everett Thomas (AKA: Synch) began, "what can we do? How do we know when they're going to strike next, or if they're even gonna strike again?"
"Aye, Ev," Sean chirped, "they could breeze outta here just like they breezed in."
"But they won't," Paige argued as all eyes cast her way. "Not yet, at least."
"Is there some kind of pattern…." Monet started to inquire, but stopped her-self once she realized she had just asked a question. It was odd for M to sound so eager, and even more so for her to ask anything of Paige.
Paige answered anyway, half awed from M's display. "Yes.… no…. well, kind of." She flipped her paper to the local weather section and began to draw on the map a series of scattered dots with the pen she usually reserved for doing the Jumble. "You see, the first of the crimes occurred in Boston, the next about twenty miles out of town." Paige drew a line between two of the dots. "The third also occurred in Boston, the fourth in a distant suburb. The fifth and seventh crimes happened in or directly around Boston. The eighth occurrence was the armory heist, which happened near Westfield. Do you see it yet?"
"Yeah!" Angelo exclaimed as the skin from his fingers extended past Paige's pen point and tapped the paper. "It's like a huge 'tic-tac-toe' board, right?"
Monet scoffed. She was not amused.
*No,* Jonothon Starsmore/Chamber's strange non-voice corrected from all around them. *They hit Boston and move on, hit Boston again and move on again.*
"Exactly," Paige responded, trying not to seem so thrilled it was Jono who had caught her message. They had history and not all of it good.
Sean was impressed by the young lady's observations. But what to do about these ruffians? he wondered, and brought his hands up to his chin. This was quite a thoughtful gesture. "This is what we train ye for, I suppose," he remarked, scratching his five o'clock shadow. "Let me confer with Ms. Frost and figure a plan of action. In the meantime, ye children have some fun. It is the weekend, ye know."
"Amen to that, amigos!" Skin cheered through his way-too-wide smile.
----------------------------
Tawny tapped her lip carefully as she examined the Social Events section of the newspaper. One announcement in particular caught her attention: A new museum opening in Boston the next day. The opening would be televised, and the place would be showcasing rare artifacts, gems, and objects d'art. Tawny grinned. Those would fetch major bucks on the underground market! She slapped the newspaper onto the smooth surface of the dark wooden table. "Listen up!" she commanded. "Tomorrow, we hit the new museum in Boston when the cameras start rolling," she said, tossing out the article for all to see. "Be ready: It's our big social debut!"
There was a murmur that circled around the room like "the wave" at a high school football game. The gang was, quite literally, all there. Around the large and somewhat proto-professional-looking oaken table sat the Black Pack in all their glory.
Sureshot stood at the head of the board table, her sleek arms pressed hard against the tabletop, back arched and chest again accented. Wraith did his best not to peek from his chosen seat to her far right, but he couldn't exactly help it. Gloria Kelley/Hotwire had settled in two chairs down from Wraith, and directly across from her, Haley Mulroy/Jumper, the team's "transport" sat quietly with her tiny hands piled on the table and her silky, dark brown hair flipped back from her face. At the far side of the room, beneath the still-blackened window of the now former ware-house, Greg Craven/Thunder, another heavy hitter, looked distracted as he fiddled with the blood-red gloves of his new uniform. Around the corner of the table, Sandra Henson/Flame, their main distracter, twisted her brilliant crimson hair absently. She cast a coy smile at Sphinx, who had taken the position to Sureshot's left.
These were, Sphinx reflected, when the room had again fallen silent of whispers and the creaking of chairs, his new family.… his new gang. But the pay was great, and that meant his little brother Terrel had a good life. Leon turned his attention reverently back to Sureshot as she continued.
"Like the commercial says," she said with her trademark smirk, "'You only get once chance to make a first impression.' So I want this fast, furious, and fun. But most importantly, I want us in and out as clean as possible. Don't be afraid to mug for the camera, but be aware that more press equals more heat."
"So we're pulling another Boston job, even though we hit that metro bank there last week?" Jumper questioned curiously.
"Yeah," Thunder, who had obviously tired of playing with his gloves, inter-jected. "What the hell happened to the 'weave and bob' technique we've been using?"
"Hey, wait a minute," Leon interrupted, "weren't you the punk who thought that plan was a bad idea? How did you put it-"
"I said as far as Boston's concerned, we should hit it then forget it, but that was before I realized Hick-from-the-Sticks' plan actually confused the fuzz into thinking there was no plan of attack. I don't like tossing off a perfectly good method at an old man's whim," Thunder retorted hotly.
Wraith cut his eyes at Thunder. The gaze was so sharp, Hotwire supposed the other man could feel it even through his ridiculous bodyarmor. This could be trouble. Gloria winced. Thunder was the jock type. He didn't like to feel inferior, and upon realizing Zed was only a year and a few months older than he (thus making Wraith the elder of the team), but also a more seasoned veteran, he had treated him with nothing short of contempt. The usually amiable Wraith always returned the favor in spades.
Wraith sat up ramrod straight in his chair and started to speak, but he stifled himself and merely shook his head. He let out a small, challenging laugh that through his tight-lipped smile sounded more like a series of low snorts. Flame responded with a resounding giggle that escalated to a half-crazed cackle before she realized the rest of the room was again dead silent.
"And special thanks to Sandra," Sureshot growled semi-sarcastically, "for lightening the mood."
The redhead cast a toothy grin at her new employer, not understanding she'd made a spectacle of herself, only that she had helped defuse the situation. She turned her attention back to Sphinx.
That girl is mad, someone thought. Wraith heard the thought, as he sometimes did. Mad as a hatter, he thought himself, and tried his best to launch that thought back towards Sphinx, whom he was sure he had heard in his head a split-second earlier. There was no response, verbal or otherwise. The bond was growing between he and his new friend, as it always did when Wraith worked around someone for any real length of time. It was weak now, but it would grow stronger. In time, he thought, in time.
"For the record, Greg," Sureshot added, "you take orders from me. Wraith and Sphinx are my advisors. You'd do well not to question any of us. Particularly me! The decision to make an appearance at the museum was mine alone, though I'm sure these fine men will back me up on this one." She nodded to her left and right respectively, and cast a swift glance at Wraith. He didn't have to read her mind to know what she was thinking: Say something, dammit!
"Tha's right Mi-az Black," he commented, laying on the accent syrup thick. He knew it bugged the hell out of Thunder. "Ah was just a-thinkin' to myself, Ah was thinkin'.… 'self, maybe we should change up our plan a little teeny bit. Ye-as Ah wuz."
Sphinx roared with laughter, and Flame was all too eager to join in. Hotwire and Jumper snickered loudly. Tawny even joined in with a chortle while Thunder only shook his weary head. "Then it's settled," Sureshot concluded, regaining her usual business-like composure. "Tomorrow, we make our first televised appearance. Dismissed."
Thunder was the first one out the door. Sphinx followed with Flame in tow, and Jumper approached Sureshot. "Sorry 'bout what I started," she said apologetically. "I just had to speak my mind."
"Not a problem, Haley," Tawny assured her. "You're our transport, and I know how you feel about 'porting into places you've never been before. Hey, Gloria: Hack into city records and get Haley the floor and landscape specs on the museum."
"You got it, Boss," Hotwire answered with a sly smile.
Haley smiled thankfully and followed Gloria out the side door. Zed stepped toward the door, stopping only when he felt a warm hand grasp his bare right arm. He turned his gaze to Tawny.
"Thanks for backing me up back there," she murmured to his ears alone.
"No problem. It's my job," Wraith returned with a smile. "Greg's got a big mouth, and he's a little bastard, but so are most of the folks in this business…. er, present company excluded."
"Thanks. About earlier," Tawny started again, "you understand why I had to get on your case, right?"
Zed nodded. "That's your job." He dropped another smile.
"I'll make sure we do our best to keep the casualty count low, but no promises," Tawny cautioned.
"Oh, of course.… and thank you."
"No problem. Hey, have you thought about what you're going to do with your share of the pull?" Tawny inquired.
"I dunno. Keep it in a gym sock underneath my mattress, I s'pose," Zed joked.
"Hmph. Buy yourself something nice, Wraith. You've earned it." Noticing she still held his arm, Tawny dropped it as if it were suddenly on fire. She gave a half-embarrassed grin, turned on her heel and sauntered out of the room. Zed stood there for a moment rubbing his forearm. He laughed to himself quietly.
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"My idea of a good time don't include starin' at dinosaur bones and life-size replicas of woolly mammoths," Angelo protested sharply from the area of the van affectionately referred to as the "wayback."
"You're thinking of the Natural History Museum. What we're going to is an Art Museum. There is a difference, bonehead," Jubilee retorted, proud she knew that difference.
"You'll like it, Ange," Everett said kindly. "I'm sure there'll be lots of pictures of the Madonna that every good Catholic boy would love!"
Angelo managed a smile. Well, a stuffy museum opening sure beat sitting around his dorm room all day. At least it got him off campus for a while, where he and his fellow Gen Xers could find some excitement.
"I think Angelo will be much more impressed with the Renaissance-era nudes displayed in the west wing," Monet added. Her tone was even more smug than usual. It was almost as if riding shotgun in the Academy's new custom minivan made her feel even more special. Jono had truly hoped Paige would sit next to him as he drove the busy streets of Boston, but she had nestled between Jubilee and Everett in the back seat. Monet had snagged the front seat before Angelo could even blink, banishing him to far back of the vehicle. Jono feigned what passes for a smile to a boy with half a face as he saw Angelo scowl at Monet in the rear-view mirror. Then his gaze fell on Paige. She looked beautiful as she sat snugly stuffed between two warm bodies. Her hair was tightly drawn back in a long ponytail and her thick glasses rested low on her nose. Jono could make out its tiny sprinkling of freckles as that nose began to twitch.
Suddenly, Paige spun her torso toward the rear of the van. The textbook she had been lost in tumbled between her knees. "Angelo Espinosa, you put that out this instant," she ordered loudly, and grasped Angelo by his thin right wrist. He cradled a lit cigarette between the first two fingers of the adjoining hand. It was only a moment before the others (with the exception of Jonothon, who had no sense of smell) smelled the offending smoke.
"I cracked a window! C'mon!" Skin said wearily.
"Miss Frost'll skin us alive if she knows you smoked in this van!" Paige exclaimed, grasping the cigarette with her free hand. With a deft flick of her wrist, it spiraled out the open back window.
"You know I'm havin' a nic-fit here," Angelo stated matter-of-factly.
"Sorry, bud," Jubilee chirped, "but you're going to have to keep your cancer to yourself."
Skin looked at Synch, his best friend, desperately. "No help here, bro," Everett answered, "I'm with the ladies on this one."
*We'll be there in twenty minutes, Ange. You can last that long,* Jono remarked.
"Well, if I go postal, don't say I didn't warn you."
"Hmmph," Monet snorted, unable to curb her disgust any longer.
Angelo snaked his long tongue out at the very top of the young lady's long black mane, the only part of her clearly visible from his exile. Jono noted this in the rear-view mirror and almost smiled genuinely.
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It was Everett who first noticed the line, or more exactly, who first placed the herd of moping, milling people as a line. He could see hints of a pair of red velvet ropes outlining the gobs of people shuffling and murmuring quietly beneath the midday sun.
"This must be the place," he said with a smile.
"Looks like this could take a while," Paige commented.
"Well, just more time for me to burn one, I suppose," Angelo spoke slyly, snapping a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket.
"'Fraid not, cowboy," Jubilee snickered. She jerked her thumb at a sign sitting merely feet in front of them. In smart gold letters, it read:
WELCOME TO THE GRAND OPENING OF THE
BOSTON METRO AREA'S
HERBERT W. WALLIS MUSEUM OF ART.
FOR THE COMFORT OF OTHERS WE ASK
THAT YOU REFRAIN FROM SMOKING IN LINE.
Angelo let out a brief moan.
As the line advanced the children made their way past the huge fountain marking the front entrance. They could see rows of neatly pressed people settling into black folding chairs before a small stage crowned with a podium. This area was practically drowning in fresh cut flowers and black microphone cables. On either side of the stage, television crews were frantically trying to get the "perfect shot" of the crowd. Skin noted that several of the stuffy old men in black suits sitting before them chomped on cigars, but the others didn't seem to care.
A well-bred and equally well-groomed family of four passed between Gen X and the fountain. A mere speck of a girl, surely no more than two, looked awe-struck at Jono from over her mother's shoulder. Sensing her amazement, the young man tried his best to break from her gaze, and startled a bit at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Jubilee standing before him, her arms now crossed over her chest.
"Earth to Jono. I asked if you had your student I.D.? You'll actually hafta, like, pay to get in here if you don't."
*Ah.... Yeah, gel, yeah. I got it,* Jono responded hurriedly.
Jubilee shook her head. Sometimes boys could be so strange… particularly mutant boys with severe head trauma.
After presenting their identification cards to an old man in a burgundy coat with bright gold trim, they were shown in. While the enormous size of the building was quite obvious from the dimensions of the its exterior, none of the Xers had counted on the sheer breathtaking splendor that engulfed them as they stepped through the arches of the museum's foyer. The ceiling was high and domed. So much so, in fact, that it conjured up memories of the Academy's former Bio-sphere. Also, a painting on a canvas fifteen feet tall of an oldish gentleman (which Paige rightly assumed was Herbert W. Wallis) stared kindly down at the thralls of people making their way through the entrance. Everything in sight (save Mr. Wallis) was a marriage of gold and alabaster.
After a few taking a few moments to regain composure, the gang decided to split up in order to explore their respective interests.
"It's a quarter till one now," Everett declared.
"So we'll meet back here at 2:30?" Paige asked.
Everyone nodded in tacit agreement.
Jubilee convinced Everett to go with her to the main exhibit hall, where a number of famous works that had been loaned from other museums were making their temporary home. Monet and Paige both opted to take in the sights on the museum's east wing, where much of the prehistoric and Egyptian exhibits were housed. This left Jono alone with Angelo. The two young men stood amid the hustle and bustle of the lobby for a moment more before Angelo spoke.
"So, where ya wanna go, buddy?"
*I dunno. Any suggestions?*
"Well, first I gotta attend to some business," Angelo said, turning on his heel towards the door marked "Gentlemen" on his right. Jono shrugged and followed.
Inside the restroom, Jono moistened his hands under the faucet and slid them through his dark auburn hair. He shook off the excess wetness and straightened the bandages that covered what used to be his face. While Chamber no longer required the use of such facilities, he still spent a fair amount of time in Men's rooms. Keeping a gaping hole in your body concealed when among the mundanes was a full-time job, and one often required a mirror to do it properly. Thankfully, the restroom was vacant, save for Chamber, Skin, and a small, strange man who sat perched on the countertop at the far end. The stranger's right leg was tucked under him, while his left dangled limply above the linoleum.
A flush resounded, followed by the bursting open of a stall door. Skin strode to the sink beside Jono and began to pump antiseptic soap into his gray hands. Chamber noticed Angelo's upraised eyebrow almost instantly. He turned to face his friend. "Dude," Angelo began slowly, "do you smell somethin'?"
Jonothon cast his eyes helplessly skyward at Skin's obvious joke.
"No, man, smoke! I smell smoke," Angelo insisted.
"Oh, that'd be me," a voice cracked from behind them. The man balanced on the end of the counter hopped down speedily. On the far wall, on which his back had until recently been resting, there was set a large sign that read "NO SMOKING." He looked to be slightly older than they, with a face that promised youth but the walk of a man that has lived too much and slept too little. "I really had to have a smoke," he spoke as he approached, "Calms the nerves, y' see. Damned 'Safety Nazis' are tryin' to take away my right to have a butt just about anywhere. Care for one?" he said, almost as an afterthought. He extended a half-gone pack of Lucky Strikes.
"What about the.…" Angelo began, but was cut off by the man's upraised hand. Angelo followed its point with his eyes. High above their heads, a smoke detector hung bound in a damp bandana. Skin smiled in admiration and plucked a cigarette from the pack. He lit it with his own lighter and inhaled deeply. "You're a lifesaver, man," he said between puffs.
"No sweat, bro," the stranger answered, extending his hand. "Name's Zed. Pleases t' meet ya."
Zed. Jono wasn't surprised. He detected a slight southern accent in this man's voice, and with a name like that he could easily be one of Paige's country cousins.
"I'm Angelo, and this is Jono. Um.… he don't talk."
Zed shook their hands heartily. He smiled and nodded at Jono as he shook, almost as if he knew the boy's secret. That made Jono quite uncomfortable.
"If you don't mind me sayin'," Angelo commented, noting Zed's blue jeans and untucked shirt, "you don't look like a big fan o' museums." And then noting his own, similar style of dress, laughed and went on to say, "'Course, neither do I!"
Zed cast the boys another cheerful smile. "Actually, I'm a big fan of the arts, and speakin' of which, have you fellas checked out the Dali exhibit upstairs? No? It's some wiiiiiiild stuff. Y'all should check it out. Cut through the main hall and up the stairs on your right. It's on the top floor, so plan to do some climbin', but it's well worth it."
Jono watched the man's hands as he spoke. They seemed to trace out every one of his verbal directions. The knuckles on those hands were enormous, almost like spikes protruding from his thin arms. This didn't help to settle his rapidly growing anxiety.
After the men had finished their cigarettes and engaged in some more idle chatter, Zed took both of the butts and flushed them down a convenient toilet. He nodded politely to the others and wished them a good day as they filed out of the swinging door.
Skin and Chamber watched as he glided toward a young woman with short black hair and visible blonde roots. He wrapped one hand around her waist and casually slipped into the conversation she was having with a tall dreadlocked man. The three conferred for a minute more and then made their way towards the exit. Zed caught the eye of his new friends and tossed them a knowing wink. He then pointed up, reminding them of the Dali exhibit.
"Man, he was a pretty cool dude," Skin said with a grin.
*Uh-huh,* Jono retorted sarcastically, *a regular Marlon Brando.*
"Oh, shut up."
Just then, from the corner of his eye, Jonothon noted a set of oaken office doors burst open. A tall, dignified man with graying temples walked briskly and spoke through stone-chiseled lips. Following him was a camera crew, and to his immediate right was a pretty face he recognized: Trish Trilby. He had seen her many times on the telly, usually in the wake of some big superhero/supervillain brawl. Jono seemed to remember one of Jubilee's many X-men stories involving her and an older member, perhaps Dr. McCoy, but he couldn't recall for sure. Now, however, it looked like she had been reduced to covering museum openings. Next they'd have her doing tacky human-interest stories. Poor gel.
*Looks like the media's got their eye on what's going on out front,* he finally spoke into Angelo's mind. *Maybe we should take the hayseed's advice and head upstairs. The last thing we need is our faces on the evening news.*
"Amen to that, amigo," Skin agreed, and followed his friend up the stairs.
MEANWHILE.…
Meanwhile, Trish and her crew were holding an interview with the museum's curator, right where Jubilee and Everett were wandering. Ev turned her attention to the news cast and suggested they try to get on TV. Jubilee enthusiastically agreed, and reached Trish just in time to hear the start of the interview.
"I must admit, I'm very impressed. All these displays must have taken you quite a while to set up," Trish commented.
"Oh, yes. But thankfully, the museum staff had a competent design crew and generous funds, so the building and displays were up faster than they would have been, had we been forced to wait," the curator explained.
Trish piped up. "I couldn't help but notice the large amount of security and police officers here. Why take such drastic measures?" she questioned.
The curator laughed. "These are priceless artifacts, Ms. Trilby," he said. "As the curator, I took it upon myself to ensure the safety of all these treasures. And now, I think nothing will be able to upset this opening."
SH-BLAMM!
Everyone yelled in surprise as blinding light flashed through the room and ebbed, leaving dancing spots on one's vision and hurling everyone to the floor.
"What was that? What happened?!" the curator cried frantically, leaping to his feet.
"We happened!"
Seven young adults strode out of the smoke, wearing black and packing heavy-duty weaponry. "I'm sooo sorry. Did we crash your party?" the apparent leader cooed viciously. "All right people, you know the drill: Get down or we'll shoot you up," Sureshot barked, aiming her laser pistols at the masses. "No need to die for money and accessories. And you! Cameraman! Keep that thing going if you wanna keep breathing." She turned her attention to her team. "Hotwire, hack those computers and shut down the security. Sphinx, Flame, you cover her back. Wraith and Thunder, keep an eye on those people. If they try anything, kill 'em. Jumper, be ready to 'port us outta here, loot or no. Move, Pack!" Sureshot ordered.
The Pack swept into position and got to work. Sureshot herded more people against a convenient wall, forcing them to fork over valuables. She encountered Trish, who blurted, "Hey, hold it! Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
Sureshot snickered. "We're the Black Pack. And we're doin' this 'cause it's so freakin' fun!" That said, she slammed Trish on the forehead with a pistol and filched her fancy watch.
"This is so major! Jubes, we gotta get these people out of here and find the rest of the team," Everett whispered.
"But first we gotta get into uniform. What's the use o' superheroin' without our fancy duds!" Jubes said slyly.
Ev and Jubilee snuck off, dragging other, still-free people along and herding them out a back way. Thankfully, the curator managed to retain his wits and take up the shepherding job, which gave the mutant opportunity to slip away and peel off their civvies, revealing the bright yellow and red costumes of Generation X.
"Hey, Sureshot!" Hotwire called. "I got the displays open."
"Good. Thunder, break the glass. Sphinx, 'Wire, Flame and Jumper, go for it!" Sureshot hollered, shoving a woman against the wall and grabbing her necklace.
Obediently, Thunder focused his concentration and brought his hands together, generation a loud CRASH! that shattered all the display cases' glass. Flame giggled as she hurriedly stuffed gems into a sack. "This is even more fun than all those other robberies!" she stated happily. "Ooooo, pretty!" she squealed in delight, dropping a diamond and ruby bracelet onto her arm.
------------------------------
Despite the somehow mind-numbingly hollow acoustics of the museum, Angelo and Jonothon had no trouble hearing the commotion out front as they ascended the back stairs. Though from there, only the most raucous of noises could be received. They exchanged a knowing glance. That sound meant trouble.
A second series of muffled explosions shook the boys off their feet. Angelo held fast to the railing and swept the skin of his free hand up to shield his face as the glass of the window above shattered into a million tiny shards and spilled from the remaining pane like confetti.
Shrieks of terror rang out from above as a crowd of frightened schoolchildren trampled down the stairs. Angelo snatched Jono up with that same flapping hand and pulled him close to the wall. When the sea of bodies had finally worn down to a trickle, Angelo felt a warm grasp on his shoulder. Behind him stood Paige and Monet, already wearing their uniforms.
"We've got something major out front," Paige warned.
"Really? I didn't notice," Angelo snorted.
*What is it, World War Three?* Jono inquired, ignoring his friend.
"It's impossible to say for sure," Monet commented. "But from our vantage point above, it appeared as though the gentry gathered for the commencement are being robbed."
"Somebody's pullin' a heist? With all those cameras and cops outside?" Skin asked frantically.
*They're crazy!* Jono exclaimed as he peeled off his over-shirt.
-----------------------------------
Two darkly-dressed men paced the rows of squatting, blubbering people cowering on the well-mown grass. The smaller of the two had a red bandanna pulled over his nose that reminded Jubilee of a bad Western flick she and Ange had watched the week before on one of their many late-night film festivals. The pistol in his hand told her this was no movie, however.... this was the real deadly deal.
The other man, a hulking mass in black armor, was visibly unarmed, though Synch had pointed out it was he who had caused the explosions responsible for shattering the display cases (and more than a few car windshields) a moment earlier. Their apparent leader, the girl called "Sureshot," was busy spewing nasty threats into the live-feed television cameras. The paths of the two men crossed, bringing the larger merely a half-dozen feet from the place Jubilee and Synch lay waiting.
Synch turned to tell Jubilee of his plan a second too late. Moving in a flash, she had launched herself onto the shoulders of the large mutant. He struggled against her arms as they circled his throat. She laughed as a hundred tiny spheres of light shot wildly into his unprotected eyes. "Eat hot paffs, big boy!" she crowed as he stumbled about blindly. He fell to one side; cursing and groping for an enemy that was no longer there. Jubilee somersaulted out of harm's way as the big man crashed into a pair of folding chairs, bending them beyond recognition. In a moment, his partner was on her. Jubilee flashed blinding sparks into his face as one gloved hand grabbed her collar.
"Uh uh uh, sweets. Polarized," he drawled, tapping his glasses with one finger. "That was a helluva good try, though! You smashed up Thunder real good, but then again, he's pretty green."
"And who're you supposed to be? Clint Eastwood?" Jubilee asked drolly, hoping to distract him.
"Nope. Name's Wraith," he answered. "And I'm just another fella tryin' to find his place in world."
His hand tightened around Jubilee's collar. She tried to shake it free, but found it was no longer on her costume, but in her costume. She shivered as his ghostly fingers slipped through the skin above her breastbone. She could feel her body and soul rush with wild emotion. Pain wracked her as she wrestled unconsciousness. "Pervert," she managed to say weakly as she went limp and crumbled to the ground.
Sureshot turned toward the general direction of the disturbance. "Teenage superheroes," she began, "oh, sh-"
Synch breezed past her in one fluid movement, cutting her off in mid-thought. His aura rainbowed out, stretching for Sureshot as he reflexively tried to tap her power- Hold it. "You're not a mutant?!" he blurted in stunned amazement.
"Well, duh!" Sureshot snapped, and fired. Everett cried out in pain and fell to the ground as the bullet lodged itself in his shoulder.
"Hey, Boss! You missed," Wraith teased.
"I wasn't aiming to kill," Sureshot replied smoothly, and fired again. "SYNCH!" Jubilee shrieked from her state of half-consciousness and hurled a fiery ball of pyrotechnic glitters at Sureshot, who simply ducked and let them crash into the quartet of brightly dressed teens that had rushed up from behind. M grunted harshly, taking the brunt of the attack, as she was forced back into her teammates. The ball of fire and limbs came to rest sharply against the museum steps. A cloud of dust and debris obscured the scene momentarily.
Synch (now with a pair of slugs nestled in his right shoulder) roared again, and blood began to trickle onto the green grass. He tried to raise his head to check on the condition of his friends, but failed.
Chamber was the first one up. He staggered a bit from the force of the unexpected blow, but was no worse for wear. He helped Husk to her feet as she tore her frayed skin away in sheets. Beneath the crinkled and slightly charred layer of epidermis gleamed a sleek sliver body. To Jono, it made her look like an angel. She brushed off his hands, casually, not standoffishly, as if to remind him that there was work to be done. Then the angel took flight. She charged into the war zone that was now erupting before them.
Skin stretched out his fingers and forced himself up from the rubble. With his hair matted to his head, and the small cut beneath his purpling eye, he spoke harshly: "Okay, amigos, now I am pissed!!!" He slingshot himself forward, using the force of his receding skin to propel him like a rocket. Chamber stood silent for a moment, and then joined in the fray.
Sureshot let loose a hail of bullets on what appeared to be the young man's torso, but the obvious lack of damage told her that the attack had been pointless. Whoa boy, a rattled Tawny thought. "What the hell are you made of, kid? Bulletproof guts?" she questioned rudely.
*Would you really like to see?* Chamber inquired in a half-playful, half-menacing tone as he exposed the bubbling energy core that filled the void of his body.
Skin had already begun to wrap his ever-extending fingers around Wraith, yelling a seemingly endless verse of Spanish curses as he did. He could feel the light armor of the man's gray and black covering begin to give beneath the force of his grip.
----------------------------------
Sphinx's braids shook as he turned his head quickly, looking back the way they had come. He dropped the heavy urn into the glowing portal that Jumper had moved two paces to his left with great ease before speaking. "Zed says we got company out front. Two jumped 'em a few minutes ago, and another four just darted out the main entrance.… they must've come down the front stairs while we where in the far wing. Can you ladies finish up in here without me?" he questioned.
Jumper made a squinty-eyed smile and brought to life another portal just as the previous one had faded from existence. With a flick of her wrist she commanded it atop a suit of shogun armor on a great marble pedestal. The portal inverted and crawled down the length of the suit, swallowing it into oblivion. "Easy as pie," she remarked.
"Pie?" Flame piped from the far corner of the room where she and Hotwire were placing smaller items into cloth sacks. "Goody-goody! Where's pie?"
"You are such a freak," Hotwire gasped, looking skyward.
-------------------------------
Husk leaned over Synch, holding his hand in hers. Jubilee couldn't tell for sure (whatever voodoo that redneck used on her made her really light-headed), but she thought the girl was praying. Jubilee turned her attention to her former sparring partner, only to see an exasperated Skin bellow in surprise as the man's form collapsed beneath his gray tendrils.
Skin shivered and bit his tongue as he felt the force beneath his grip dissipate. "Oh God, I killed him.… Christ! I crushed that guy to jelly!" he yowled. Then a powerful feeling overtook Angelo. It was not a feeling of grief (as he had anticipated) but an empty, far away feeling. Angelo's yards of extended epidermis began to crawl, and the huge goosebumps that arose made the partly-paralyzed Jubilee slightly nauseous. Angelo screamed and drew back all of his skin at once. It snapped tight against his bones like elastic. He lay on the ground, gurgling to himself until a lean form rose from his body. Wraith stepped out of the boy's skin and once again into the waking world. He was clad in a familiar ensemble: boots and old blue jeans, crowned by an open and untucked shirt with a white tank-top peeking out.
"Sorry 'bout that, bro," Wraith said apologetically. "You'll feel better in a day or two. Havin' someone cruisin' around in your mind can be a bit taxing, to say the least. I knew there was sumthin' special 'bout you two. I just wished you'd stayed out o' this."
Skin recognized Zed instantly, and would have spoken his name.… had he at that time been aware of his tongue.
Chamber had descended on Sureshot, and they had taken to playing a bitter round of catch-as-catch-can. Chamber would spiral a fruitless spike of energy at the girl, who would dodge and counter with an equally inaccurate attack at one of the boy's more fleshy regions. It bothered Sureshot to no end. She could easily shoot the pull-tab off a soft drink can at forty paces without so much as a quarter-second's aim, but she simply could not hit this faceless Englishman!
Sphinx seemed to have no such problem. He bulleted through the crumbled museum door, sidestepped through time, and smashed Chamber firmly on each temple. Stunned, Jono fell to all fours, static filling his mind. Physical attacks were not usually a problem for him, but the bear behind him had found an obvious weak spot.
"Sphinx!" Wraith cried casually as he approached his friend, "You made it! I was soooo afraid your invitation had been lost in the mail, old boy."
"Why, Wraith," he responded in a mocking, exaggerated upper-class accent, "I wanted so badly to respondez-vous, but you know how hard it is to keep up with the little people!"
A sudden blow to the back of Sphinx's dreadlocked dome interrupted their laughter. He turned to see a lovely, dark-skinned girl in a shredded red outfit. "We must work on your manners," she said smugly, in a voice of high breeding.
"Well, well, well, sister, what would you like to teach me?" the big man flirted.
Sphinx warped himself out of time with the rest of the world just quick enough to avoid the bulk of her attack's impact. She succeeded in grazing his chest, which almost instantly bruised to a sickening shade of purple.
Husk used this diversion to get the drop on Wraith. Her silver arms struck his shins like lead pipes and he howled in agony. He fell to the ground, rolling into a fetal position. With a shout of anger, Sureshot leapt forward, kicked and connected. There was a painful moment when both women felt the shock of impact. Sureshot's foot contorted and nearly snapped; Husk felt ribs give out beneath her slick metal skin. Husk yelped and Sureshot cursed, but managed to land unaided on her feet. She stumbled a bit, but regained her composure once she remembered the cameras. "Knew those kick-boxing classes would pay off," she gloated.
Husk, too, was on her feet in an instant, coughing roughly and preparing for another go, but the strange hands encircling her waist caught her totally off guard. "You really should play nice," a sugary voice purred from behind.
"Get off-a me!" Husk shrieked, and tried hard to break free of an ethereal grasp.
"Shhhhh, my little southern belle," Wraith hushed, "this won't hurt a bit."
With that, a wave of clammy sensation swept over her.
Paige supposed that she had led a good life. It had been hard at times, growing up in a family with so many children would have been a chore under ideal circumstances, but after the death of her father things got steadily more complicated. She had spent a good chunk of her childhood wanted to be different, wanting to be special, wanting out. Sam had made something of himself. The good Lord had seen fit to give him powers, to make him something unique, and he was using those powers to make the world safe for his kind: for mutants. Could she do any less? She hoped and prayed and wished for something.… for powers.
In the end, she had gotten her wish. After a season in hell amid the Phalanx hive (an exercise that left one dead and all others changed) she had been chosen to become one of the next generation of X-Men. She had become a member of Generation X. These memories, along with those of her mama and brothers and sisters, where dear to her. Despite how hard some of the times may have been, it was the sum of these experiences that gave Husk worth. Now that worth was cheapened for there was a phantom in her midst, a specter in her mind that numbed her soul and chilled her to the bare bones of her existence. Even the sweetest of times, those spent with him, were somehow hollowed and wiped clean of meaning by the ghoulish hand in her head.
But it was these sweet times, times with a boy with no face and far too much heart, on which she reflected in what she was sure would be the last moments of her life.
