The Genoshan mess hall seemed even quieter than it was. When the Brotherhood had captured it, there'd been a feast. Human prisoners made to serve a banquet to their former captives, food whipped up and brought back to life by Good Doctor, who could revitalize a rotting cabbage as easily as a wounded arm. The taste had been exquisite. No preservatives, no artificial flavoring, just pure life.
Now—nothing. The island of Krakoa was being evacuated. Only a flag presence of combat members were staying, for the time being, ready to put up a defense if and when the humans attacked. But most were being evacuated back to the Savage Land, save for those who simply wanted to leave. There were more than a few.
The mutants had never expanded their hold to the mainland. It had still fallen, but now the country of Genosha was locked in civil war. Neighboring countries, African warlords, Muslim fundamentalists, mercenaries representing corporate interests—all factions infighting amongst each other in the chaos Cyclops had left.
He ate. There was so much to coordinate, so much to do, that even this late at night, he couldn't quite believe there was nothing else but to wait. Madrox was populating the island, covering the evacuation as Gateway teleported out the civilians. Letting the military believe that the Brotherhood wasn't going anywhere—that they had all the time in the world to formulate a response.
Under normal circumstances, Gateway could only teleport ten people a day; maybe make a return trip. On Banshee, he could transport a hundred at a time. Soon, the island would be emptied. That was the one upside in all this. The Banshee. It had proven very useful. But it was no replacement for Magneto.
His power, his charisma, his vision—the world was still convinced he was the real threat, and no one outside the Brotherhood knew if he'd stayed or gone. They wouldn't attack, with all their metal, not unless they'd taken Erik out first. They had no way of knowing Scott had already done it for them.
Scott went over his thoughts again, shopworn as they were. The Ultimates. They wouldn't like being used for a police action, an act that could be thought of as racial violence. Not when Magneto wasn't on Krakoa. Thor, at least, would be against it. He wouldn't like being used as a weapon of mass destruction. But who else? Who wouldn't fall in line, simply because they were given an order? Erik had made it so easy, dammit. So easy for them to be hated...
The voices carried before they entered the room—a few bodies to restore some of the faded luster. When they opened the door, the light spilled in, illuminating the half-finished mutant fractals Skyhigh had been lasering into the walls. A fresco, turning it from a place of death into a celebration of life. Toad and the Mastermind sisters walked in.
"So how big is your tongue, Mort?" Martinique asked, cheeky as ever.
"Let me put it this way. It's almost as big as my—" Toad saw Scott and stopped short. "Oh, hey ya there, boss-man. Me and the birds were just looking for a late-night snack."
"Yeah," Martinique added, rubbing Toad's chest. She'd been hanging on his arm. "We're ravenous."
Regan rolled her eyes. She was, as always, the mirror image of Martinique, despite all they'd done to differentiate themselves. They always came out looking like the before and after in some commercial, though which was which—and what the commercial was advertising—was never clear.
Regan wore a professional black evening gown, even in their informal setting, while Martinique paired short-shorts with a camisole top that cropped just below her breasts. Mort was handsome enough to attract at least one's attention, in an unconventional sort of way. Maybe his green skin was as appealing to them as Mystique's blue hide was to Scott.
Raven...
Regan went to serve them while Martinique lolled indolently across a table, Toad jumping up on one as well. Scott wondered if Regan had lost a bet. "Hey, boss-man," Mort led, "you look good without the shades. Weird, but good."
"Thank you, Mort. Interesting to see your shade of skin."
"Yeah." Mort scratched himself. "Not a bad sack, is it? That Banshee is a helluva thing, guv."
"Yes." Scott agreed. "Would you like to try some? It's very unpredictable. You might complete your metamorphosis. End up a different shade. Regan, Martinique—who knows? Your illusions could be real."
They exchanged looks. "Thanks," Regan said from the kitchen. "But we're good as is."
"Yeah," Martinique agreed. "Messing with our chromosomes got us into this mess in the first place."
"Would you like anything, Mr. Summers?" Regan asked. "A drink, perhaps?"
Scott shook his head. "I'm full."
She brought out plates of reheated food, dropping them in front of Mort, and with a sniff, Regan. Then sitting down herself at Mort's table.
Scott took it back. Them being here didn't do anything to restore this place to its would-be glory. It just made a point of how desolate it was.
"Hey, Scotty," Mort called. "If you don't need the shades anymore—why do you call yourself Cyclops?"
"It is kinda a dorky name," Regan agreed.
"You could do better. Fearless Leader!"
They all joined in quickly. "Slim. Slim Dayspring. Something fantasy..."
"Just Red, I think—"
"Red Summer!"
"Basilisk!"
"Apocalypse!"
"Cyclops is fine," Scott reiterated.
"C'mon, mate!" Mort cried. "You gonna let someone what's named Professor X tell you what to call yourself?"
Regan kicked the table under him, Scott didn't need to be psychic to read her look.
Too soon.
"Oh," Mort said. "Sorry, guv."
Scott nodded absently. He remembered when he'd first found them. Leading the X-Men. Just finding stray mutants, rescuing them, taking them back to the mansion to be protected and taught. Before the schism. Before the killing, and the deaths. He missed that simplicity. He missed Jean. He missed the look of himself in the mirror, red as it was...
They'd just been students. Not X-Men. Never like him. "I thought it was cool enough," he said shyly, and got up, hearing small laughter echoing in loneliness. "Masterminds, report to the flight deck, full gear and civilian luggage, 0800 hours. We're headed out."
Their affirmatives followed him out of the cafeteria.
Are you missing Magneto yet?
He wondered.
***
The trophy room had been cleaned since Magneto's death—part of their cover-up—but there was no concealing the damage that had been done to the room. In the end, they could merely hope it was taken as leftover from the initial incursion, or evidence of a brawl between two mutants. Not uncommon with the volatile personality of your average mutant terrorist.
Raven noticed this as she noticed all things. They swam in her subconscious, bubbling up when needed, free-thinking, mental association. Before, she had filed away that places in the room were definitely scorched, and had only thought that this was good. It would conceal Scott's involvement. Now she wondered how the concussive force of his optic blast had melted metal in places, singed carpeting, otherwise burnt the room. The Banshee? She wondered—filed it away again as she focused on the coin.
The coin sat on the floor. An old Deutschmark, the German eagle face-up. Rogue stared at it, seated on the floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She still wore her protective costume, even the gloves. Raven wondered if they were more concealment to the rest of the Brotherhood—or a comfort to her?
"It's alright, Marian," Raven said gently, standing in her white dress on the other side of the coin. "You can do it. Move the coin."
Rogue gave her an imploring look—for Raven to do what, neither of them knew—then focused on the coin. It moved. As did every other piece of metal in the room, the floor shifting, medals in their display cases flapping against the glass, Raven's keys flying from their pocket. Rogue stopped before they could glue themselves to her, as they had before.
With a growl, she was up on her feet. "Magneto had a lifetime to learn how to control this—it's not like telekinesis, it's—magnetic waves going through the atmosphere, all up and down the poles, the magnetosphere, and I'm supposed to—"
"Sweetie, no one expects you to learn it in one week."
"Scott does."
Raven reached out and ran her hand along Rogue's arm. "He doesn't. He just wants you to try. That's why he left it to me."
"Yeah..." Rogue looked away. Back off in her own little world—the chorus of souls she carried with her. Raven almost wished she was a part of that background noise. That Marian could feel her love for her wherever she went.
"Let's try a different tack," Raven said, kicking her keys up into her hand. She went to the corner, where she'd stowed a duffel bag between two cases. It'd had a hard time escaping during Rogue's attempt to use Magneto's power. "How are you with controlling metal you're in contact with? Have you been practicing?"
"Yeah. A lot. Not that it's easy, with a billion people around—not like any of them can know I have these powers." Or where she got them.
Raven nodded. She brought out the gauntlets first. "Titanium alloy. Move them, instead of the metal outside yourself. Effectively—you can punch someone with all Magneto's power." Then the boots. "Steel soles. You can levitate yourself, stick to walls." Then the chainmail. "I've seen Erik run a current of magnetic energy through his own armor, protect himself like a forcefield. Wear this under your clothes." Then the helmet. It was almost like Magneto's, except the slit had been filled with ruby-quartz—hiding the face. "Your clothes used to be a hiding place. Now they're weapons."
Concentrating, Rogue managed to pull the helmet to herself. Her reflection filled the red crystal. "This is like Scott's visor." She looked over the helmet to see Raven.
"We wear his colors now," Raven informed her.
"Or... if I ever took his power?"
"A lot of things can happen on a battlefield. Or anywhere else, for that matter."
"He's not Erik!" Rogue protested.
"I know that. I won't let him be. It's just in case he's incapacitated, but we still need him in a fight."
"I don't want him in my head, mother. It's crowded enough."
Raven went to her. She went slowly. Giving Rogue time to feel her approach, her nearness. Then she touched her. Marian gasped. Still not used to the strangeness of touch, much less Mystique's coolness, the raised whorls of her scales. Rogue stared at the hand cresting her chin like it was a supernatural visitation.
"You've given so much for the cause—carrying Magneto's power for us—I am so proud of you. You won't have to do anything you don't want to do. You've done enough."
"Please don't let go."
"I won't, dear."
