“Great,” the Hulk groused, his voice several octaves deeper than Storm would have thought humanly possible. ‘‘Just what we need, the human popsicle. The Leader must be getting the chills already.”
“Watch your mouth, bub,” Wolverine said, spinning around to confront the green-skinned titan. Silver claws jutted from the backs of his gloves and he dropped into an aggressive stance. “I don’t see you doin’ too much at the moment, except takin’ up too much space.”
“Oh yeah?” the Hulk shot back, clenching his anvilsized lists. His heavy tread shook the medlab, rattling the loose instruments on the discarded tray, as he stepped toward Wolverine, eager to renew their longtime rivalry. “Says the sawed-off runt who let that Hulk-Sentinel get away!”
Wolverine bristled noticeably. A low growl escaped his, lips, promising havoc on the horizon. “Hey, wait a second, guys,” Bobby protested, as alarmed as Storm at the prospect of a super-powered brawl breaking out in the medlab. He stepped between the Hulk and Wolverine, attempting to play peacemaker, but the Hulk effortlessly brushed him aside. Although little more than a tap, the Hulk’s gamma-charged backhand was enough to send Bobby tumbling backwards. Only the quick reflexes of Iron Man, who grabbed onto Bobby’s shoulders with both gauntlets, kept the de-iced Iceman from landing flat on his back.
“That is enough!” Storm declared with righteous indignation, punctuating her words with a resounding thunderclap that captured the attention of everyone in the infirmary—and probably the rest of the island. “Must we quarrel amongst ourselves even in the presence of our wounded companion? I thought we were united against the Leader, or have you both forgotten that?” Moira beamed in approval, clearly impressed by
Storm’s no-nonsense attitude. “You go, lass!” she whispered audibly.
Blessedly, Ororo’s heartfelt admonition had the desired effect; even the brutish Hulk looked slightly abashed. His gigantic fists retreated to his sides and he withdrew to the hallway outside the medlab, his disheveled emerald scalp barely clearing the top of the exit. Wolverine retracted his claws, but his glowering eyes tracked the departing Hulk until the bellicose giant lumbered out of sight. “Sorry about that, darlin’,” he muttered to Storm. “Guess there’s a time and a place for everything.”
“Indeed,” she affirmed. Wolverine’s reckless behavior disturbed her. The Goddess knew the Hulk was obnoxious, and Logan w’as not exactly the type to willingly turn the other cheek, but she would have thought he knew better than to rise to the Hulk’s bait in the middle of the medlab. For all his deeply-rooted ferocity, the Logan she knew was a wiser and more pragmatic warrior than that, one generally capable of keeping his most violent impulses under a tight rein when necessary. But picking a fight with the Hulk during a vital mission. . . ? That wasn’t like him.
Or so she liked to think.
CNN was the first to report an unconfirmed nuclear explosion in the upper atmosphere high above the Scottish isles. Due to the high altitude at which the blast occurred, no casualties were anticipated, although various nations in Europe and elsewhere had already accused their respective enemies of being responsible for the radioactive explosion, which they condemned in the strongest possible terms. No country or terrorist organization had yet come forward to take credit (or blame) for the unprovoked nuclear incident, but many commentators and self-described experts, in the absence of any hard evidence one way or another, pointed ominously at the remote Balkan nation of Latveria, long suspected of concealing a nuclear arsenal. “Has Dr. Doom finally come out of the thermonuclear closet?” Bernard Shaw asked during a special news bulletin. “We’ll be back with that question, after this brief commercial break.” Doctor Doom indeed! I should say not. Tapping gently on his lighted control panel, the Leader muted the audio component from that particular broadcast, one of many he monitored on the profusion of screens laid out before him. Over two hundred thousand miles from the hubbub, securely sequestered in his private control room on the moon, the intellectually over-endowed supervillain sighed in disappointment. Judging from the distressingly deathtoll-free details of the bulletin, he
reluctantly deduced that the Hulk and his occasional allies had survived the explosive death spasms of the captured Gamma Sentinels. I should have known it was too good to be true, he thought ruefully.
Although saddened, he was not too surprised. Nobody knew better than he, after all, how aggrivatingly hard the Hulk was to kill. His own calculations had projected a 48.83 percent probability that the Hulk and his costumed compatriots would escape death on Muir Island.
“Fine,” he murmured softly. He had allowed for that....
Air! I need air!
Logan awoke with a start, surprised to find himself still alive. His freshest memory was of gasping for breath on the moon’s lifeless surface, alongside Rogue and the Scarlet Witch. I’d thought we were goners for sure, he recalled, but, wait, hadn’t there been something after that? Racking his fogged memory, he called up vague, fragmentary impressions of cold, analytical eyes observing him like he was a bug under glass, and of a bulging skull whose pulsing hemispheres resembled cabbages on steroids. That’s right, he remembered all at once. I saw the main sleazeball himself The Leader!
Blinking, he tried to rub his eyes, only to discover that his wrists were pinned to his sides by unyielding metal shackles. “Blast it,” he growled. “Not this again.”
Sure enough; as his blurry vision came into focus, he discovered that he was right back where he started: crammed into a stainless steel casket, like he was already embalmed and fit to be planted six feet under, except that this stinkin’ coffin was leaning upright above the floor. So much for our great escape, he thought sourly. Time for Plan B—whatever the heck that is.
The wall-length mirror that had once greeted his eyes from this same uncomfortable vantage point was no longer there, shattered by Rogue with a single punch during their botched break for freedom. Now he had a clear view into the control room facing his cell, where row upon row of tv screens looked back at him. No sign of the Leader, though; the crumb’s elevated throne sat empty. I guess even a would-be ruler of the world has to take a break every now and then, Logan mused. Fine with me. I ain ’t in a hurry to see his ugly face again.
But what about Rogue and the Witch? He frowned, frustrated by the clamp over his throat. Without the convenient mirror, he had no easy way to check on his partners in captivity. He tried to locate them out of the comer of his eyes, but all he glimpsed were the sides of his cramped sarcophagus. He could smell the distinctive scent of each woman, though, so he knew they couldn’t be far away. Probably trussed up just like me. “Rogue? Wanda?” he called out, hoping to hear Rogue’s familiar southern drawl in response, or even the Witch’s Eastern European accent. ‘ ‘Are you alright? Can you answer me? Rogue?”
A whiff of ozone teased his super-sensitive nostrils, presaging by seconds a flash of bright light that faded quickly, leaving an unmistakable figure behind. Logan recognized the new arrival immediately. If nothing else, the economy-sized frontal lobes were a dead giveaway, not to mention the fungus-green complexion.
“You can save your breath, my atavistic guest,” the Leader said coolly, apparently unruffled by the abruptness of teleportation. His mutated brain was just as bloated as Logan had always heard; he had no idea how the Leader’s skinny neck managed to support its weight. “Lacking your truly remarkable recuperative powers, your female associates are unlikely to regain consciousness as swiftly as you have.”
The future conqueror of humanity was simply dressed, wearing a better-tailored, freshly-pressed version of the same orange jumpsuits Logan and the other prisoners had been dressed in. Black metallic wristbands, adorned with touchpad controls, granted him easy access to his advanced technology. Not much of a fashion-plate, Logan decided; guess he doesn ’t want anything to draw attention away from his overflowing gray matter, which, in his case, I bet is more green than gray. Wolverine’s claws slid out of his hands as he looked forward t
o finding out for himself the first chance he got.
“What’s this all about, brain-boy?” he snarled, straining against his restraints. “You got a reason for draggin’ us all the way up to the moon, or are you just starved for company?”
Glaring at the Leader with undisguised animosity, Logan waited for the inevitable long-winded recitation. These egghead types, he knew from excruciating experience, could never pass up a chance to blab about their ingenious master plans. How else were they supposed to show off their allegedly superior smarts, along with their oversized vocabularies?
The Leader proved no exception. To Logan’s expert nose, the mutated mastermind literally reeked of ego, arrogance, and cologne. “As a matter of fact,” he began, “you and your distaff counterparts have proven an invaluable source of genetic data, aside from a few intriguing and as-yet undefinable anomalies where the Scarlet
Witch’s powers are concerned. Thanks to my in-depth analysis of your mutant abilities, metabolisms, and DNA, I am almost ready to proceed to the next stage of my grand experiment, awaiting only the return of my silent partner in this enterprise.”
Partner? Logan wondered. What partner? As far as he knew, the Leader had always worked alone. Then again, it had been a long time since Logan had seen any of Department H’s intel reports on the Leader’s activities. One of the few disadvantages to leaving Canada’s intelligence forces had been losing his access to various classified material. He wished he could remember more about the Leader’s reported strengths and weaknesses.
“I don’t know who’d be stupid enough to trust you,” Logan told his captor, “but I’ll lay odds that the X-Men will be here looking for us before your idiot partner gets back. The Avengers, too, I figure.” It seemed safe to assume that the Scarlet Witch’s teammates wanted her back.
The Leader chuckled at Wolverine’s prediction. “You may be amused to know, Specimen #3, that my admirably devious associate has already taken your place in the ranks of the X-Men. Indeed, I can assure you that your mutant colleagues do not even know you’re among the missing.”
“We’ll see about that, bub,” Logan snarled. He doubted that any imposter, no matter how good, could fool Storm and the others for long. “And the name’s Wolverine, bub, not Specimen anything.” A red-hot surge of anger flared inside him, sparked by vivid memories of the experiments performed on him years ago in an isolated laboratory in the Canadian wilderness. Being treated like a test animal again touched a raw and painful nerve; it took all his self-control to keep his temper and bloodlust from boiling over. ‘ ‘What about Rogue and the Witch?” he asked, his voice hoarse with pent-up rage. “You come up with ringers for them, too?”
“That was deemed unnecessary,” the Leader admitted. “One spy in our enemies’ midst seemed more than sufficient.” He stepped out of Logan’s limited line of sight, perhaps checking on the other prisoners. “Besides, to be utterly frank about it, the womens’ abilities would have been significantly more difficult for an undercover agent to mimic.”
Yeah, that makes sense, Logan was forced to concede. Even he wasn’t exactly sure how the Scarlet Witch’s powers worked. He tried to guess who the Leader’s sneaky spy might be. Mystique? The Chameleon? Mastermind? It didn’t have to be a bona fide shape-changer or illusionist, he realized; these days anyone with a working image inducer could look like whomever they wished, greatly expanding the list of possible suspects. He’d have to drag some more clues out of the Leader before he had a chance of sussing out the second half of this sinister partnership.
A moan, coming from somewhere on his right, distracted Logan from his detective work. “Rogue?” he asked. ‘ ‘Is that you?’ ’
“Wolvie?” She sounded groggy, confused. “Wha’ happened? How’d we get back here?” Fury supplanted bewilderment, however, as she laid eyes on the Leader, or so Logan surmised. “Who the—? Ah know who you are!” she blurted angrily, apparently remembering Wanda’s description of the Leader. “Wait until ah get mah hands on ya!”
“Pleased to meet you as well,” the target of her rage replied archly. ‘ ‘Welcome back to the realm of the wakeful, Specimen #1. Good of you to join us at last.”
“Join ya?” Rogue sounded mad enough to spit. “Why ah’ll take ya apart piece by piece, you scrawny, turnip-headed sidewinder!” Logan heard her squirming against her adamantium bonds, keen to teach the Leader a painful lesson in down-home hospitality. He admired her attitude, even if he doubted that it would shake the self-satisfied confidence of the Leader, who pretty much had to have heard worse from the Hulk. “Ah’il kick your fat head all the way back ta Earth!”
As Logan had expected, the Leader ignored Rogue’s spirited threats. “You presented me with a singular challenge, Specimen #1,” he calmly informed her. “As you may or may not be aware, my considerable mental powers include the useful ability to control the minds of any individual I choose to touch, provided they have not also been transformed by gamma radiation. Unfortunately, as you well know, touching you is an extremely problematic proposition.”
“Like I’d even want your oily fingers anywhere near me!” Rogue retorted, madder than ever. Her inability to touch or be touched by someone without absorbing their memories and characteristics was a real sore spot with her, one the heartless Leader apparently had no fear of poking. “You keep your sweaty green hands away from me, you hairless varmint.”
Her incensed outburst failed to derail the Leader’s train of thought. “My own brilliant super-science has provided a solution to this apparent impasse,” he explained. “Based on close examination of your genetic pattern, conducted over the last twenty-four hours or so, I have developed a synthetic compound that I believe will successfully inhibit the proper operation of your unique absorption process.” He tapped a control panel upon his wrist. ‘ ‘A compound, which, I should probably add, is even now being introduced into your bloodstream via intravenous infusion.”
“You mean, you got a drug that blocks mah powers?” Rogue spoke in a hush, sounding like she didn’t know whether to be excited or aghast. ‘ ‘One that really works?”
“Only a short-term solution, to be sure,” the Leader divulged. “I doubt if my compound can suppress your parasitic talent-for more than a minute or two, but, really, that’s all that I need.”
Uh-oh, Logan thought. I don’t like the sound of that.
, Neither did Rogue. “Wait a sec,” she said apprehensively. “What do you mean?” An edge of panic crept into her voice and Logan swore in frustration, unable to see what was happening less than a yard away. Superstrength rattled her adamantium restraints, but not enough to break her loose. “Get back!” Rogue shouted helplessly. “Stay away from me!”
Her unleashed lungpower, although unlikely to deter the Leader, served to rouse the Scarlet Witch from her drugged slumber. Logan heard the captured Avenger stirring a couple feet to his left, trapped in her own customized sarcophagus, complete with a metal blindfold to prevent her from effectively employing her mutant sorcery. “Rogue?” she called out, and Logan couldn’t help noticing the sincere concern in her voice, quite a change from the cold shoulder she had given Rogue when they had first found themselves trapped together in the Leader’s chamber of horrors. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
The Leader laughed coldly, and Logan heard him step away from Rogue’s upraised casket. “Go ahead and answer her, m’dear,” he said mockingly, enjoying a joke at his captives’ expense. “Tell your fellow test subjects how much better you are feeling now.”
“Yes,” Rogue answered mechanically. “Ah’m fee-lin’ much better.” Logan was shocked by what he heard. The hot-tempered X-Man’s voice had been drained of all spunk and defiance; he barely recognized it. Oh, dar-lin’, he thought bitterly, what’s that scumbag done to you?
Unfortunately, he had a pretty good idea; the Leader’s insidious talent for mind control was well-documented. “There we are,” he announced with smug satisfaction. “No need to keep you locked up anymore.”
Logan heard the click of the Leader’s wrist controls, followed by the sound of metallic shackles springing open. “You may step down from there, Specimen #1.”
“Yes,” she agreed readily. Her bare feet slapped gently against the smooth metal floor as she landed in front of her former coffin. Moments later, the Leader strolled back into view, followed by a compliant and listless Rogue, displaying none of the justifiable indignation in evidence only a minute before. Her arms, which should have been enthusiastically wringing the Leader’s neck, hung limply at her sides. Wide brown eyes, usually full of sass and wicked humor, stared blankly ahead, glazed and unfocussed. Logan had seen Sentinels with more personality.
“Snap out of it, Rogue!” he growled at her, hoping to spark a fire in those snuffed-out eyes. “You can do it, darlin’. Break loose, just like Charlie taught us!”
In fact, Charles Xavier had trained his X-Men in various exercises designed to help them resist telepathic incursions, but just how strong was the Leader’s enormous brain anyway, and how did he stack up against the likes of Mesmero, Karma, or the White Queen? Too bad Chuck or Jeannie ain’t here, he thought, gnashing his teeth. We need one of our own psi-types to level the playing field. He was the best there was at what he did, but that hardly included psionic warfare. “C’mon, Rogue!” he urged her. “Don’t let him do this to you! Shake it off!” ’
For one tantalizing second, he thought he saw a glimmer of the real Rogue in that vacant face. Long black lashes quivered and her forehead wrinkled in confusion. Her lips parted and, for a heartbeat, he thought she was trying to voice her own thoughts and opinions.