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T H E P O I N T O F A S C E N S I O N
T H E P O I N T O F A S C E N S I O N
T H E P O I N T O F A S C E N S I O N
"The Distant Future"
Logan moved through the silence of the Man-Machine Supremacy like a ghost made of rusted iron. His footsteps, once heavy enough to crack forest floor cedar, were now silent against the shimmering, self-repairing glass of the preserve's walkways. Above him, the sky was a bruised violet, choked by the Dyson-rings of a civilization that had outgrown its home planet a thousand times over.
He passed a containment field where the last of the Morlocks sat like statues, their mutations slowed to a crawl by the dampening fields. They didn't look at him. He was doubtful there was anything left within the bio-frozen remains of their consciousness.
"Stay sharp," he rasped to himself, his own voice sounding like grinding stones. It was the first time he'd spoken in a decade.
His senses, dampened by a millennium of captivity and the Librarian's "mercy," were finally screaming back to life. He could smell it now — past the ozone, past the scent of sterile data-banks and chrome.
Moira.
Logan reached the threshold of the Spire of Ascension. His claws slid from his knuckles with a wet, metallic schlikt, a sound that hadn't been heard on Earth in years. It was an ugly, primitive noise in a world of artificial perfection.
He didn't need a map. He followed the scent of the woman who had started it all, knowing that to save the future, he'd have to gut the only other person left who remembered what a sunset actually looked like.
The plan had been in place for decades. Moira and Logan were confined to separate parts of the mutant reserve, the idyll prisons that the posthumans had confined them to. When Moira had learned enough of what had gone wrong across their distant past, she would find a way to bring him to her. His job was a simple one — kill her, and let the process begin again.
Logan did not know what had triggered the plan into action, who or what had caused the walls of his enclosure to fail, but he knew enough not to question. The mutants of the past, of all potential futures, depended on it. Just in time, as it were, for Ascension was nigh, and once that horizon had been crossed it would be the end of their last remaining chance at a future that wasn't this.
For all the terrifying power of Posthumanity, he was finding their security response to his escape underwhelming. Their power was so total that even a single point of failure was hardly worth considering, and even if there was an escape, what could their preserved mutant pets really do with that freedom?
Hubris was a flaw that had contributed much to the failure of mutantkind. It was refreshing to wield it as a weapon.
With the days of true humanity long gone, the planet beyond the many artificial habitats would be lethal to almost any living being. In truth it was lethal to him, but you needed something worse than death to keep the Wolverine down. With a snarl in anticipation of sudden horrific pain, Logan barreled through the glass of the observation window before him, looking out on a world lost to the long march of technology.
The howl of a hurricane hit him immediately. The wind alone would have been enough to eventually kill a mortal man, but what it carried was far worse. Chemical burns immediately blistered across his skin before daggers of silicate glass ripped through them. His voice, so unused for so long, rasped as he howled against the pain. His adamantine skeleton gave him enough force, with his momentum, to continue his fall, even as the wind attempted to rip him further skyward.
Seconds passed in what felt like an eternity of suffering, before Logan crashed through the dome that housed Enclosure-B.
It should not have been possible. The electromagnetic field surrounding each of the habitats had been designed to withstand not just the lethal environment of the current Earth, but also sabotage from forces far more powerful than even an adamantine skeleton moving at speed could produce. But under that field, with it disabled, the habs may as well have been made of cardboard. As he broke through, the lethal environment followed him for a few moments, a howling gale of breathable air rushing out into the thin vapours of what had once been an atmosphere beyond. A handful of seconds passed before the shield was raised once more. At least one keen observer was on his side then. A moment later he crashed into the habitation, a preserved tree splintering under his bulk as his limbs cracked under impact.
He didn't wait for them to heal before he was moving again, dragging a shattered ankle as it slowly reknit itself.
Logan burst into a clearing, the scent he had honed in on for decades now flooding his senses as he drew close and spied a woman running towards him.
"Now Logan! Before it returns!"
Logan had known Moira longer than he had known any other being. The long centuries of sputtering revolution, the shared captivity and finally their time as glorified zoo exhibits here on the habitats. Every other bond he had ever known was a brief sputter of a ghost next to their countless decades of shared suffering.
He didn't even blink as his claws ripped into her, one in the head, one in the chest, making sure there was no shred of her left for the Posthumans to keep enough of alive to spare their timeline. As he saw the light go out behind her eyes, he allowed himself a small sense of hope and victory, because in those eyes he saw the one thing that would make it worth it.
Bitter, hateful, revenge.
The Wolverine, the last true mutant, didn't even have time to pull his claws free before Nimrod landed. One moment he existed, and the next he didn't, blown apart to a dust of atoms decorating the metallic hide of the final sentinel.
He passed a containment field where the last of the Morlocks sat like statues, their mutations slowed to a crawl by the dampening fields. They didn't look at him. He was doubtful there was anything left within the bio-frozen remains of their consciousness.
"Stay sharp," he rasped to himself, his own voice sounding like grinding stones. It was the first time he'd spoken in a decade.
His senses, dampened by a millennium of captivity and the Librarian's "mercy," were finally screaming back to life. He could smell it now — past the ozone, past the scent of sterile data-banks and chrome.
Moira.
Logan reached the threshold of the Spire of Ascension. His claws slid from his knuckles with a wet, metallic schlikt, a sound that hadn't been heard on Earth in years. It was an ugly, primitive noise in a world of artificial perfection.
He didn't need a map. He followed the scent of the woman who had started it all, knowing that to save the future, he'd have to gut the only other person left who remembered what a sunset actually looked like.
The plan had been in place for decades. Moira and Logan were confined to separate parts of the mutant reserve, the idyll prisons that the posthumans had confined them to. When Moira had learned enough of what had gone wrong across their distant past, she would find a way to bring him to her. His job was a simple one — kill her, and let the process begin again.
Logan did not know what had triggered the plan into action, who or what had caused the walls of his enclosure to fail, but he knew enough not to question. The mutants of the past, of all potential futures, depended on it. Just in time, as it were, for Ascension was nigh, and once that horizon had been crossed it would be the end of their last remaining chance at a future that wasn't this.
For all the terrifying power of Posthumanity, he was finding their security response to his escape underwhelming. Their power was so total that even a single point of failure was hardly worth considering, and even if there was an escape, what could their preserved mutant pets really do with that freedom?
Hubris was a flaw that had contributed much to the failure of mutantkind. It was refreshing to wield it as a weapon.
With the days of true humanity long gone, the planet beyond the many artificial habitats would be lethal to almost any living being. In truth it was lethal to him, but you needed something worse than death to keep the Wolverine down. With a snarl in anticipation of sudden horrific pain, Logan barreled through the glass of the observation window before him, looking out on a world lost to the long march of technology.
The howl of a hurricane hit him immediately. The wind alone would have been enough to eventually kill a mortal man, but what it carried was far worse. Chemical burns immediately blistered across his skin before daggers of silicate glass ripped through them. His voice, so unused for so long, rasped as he howled against the pain. His adamantine skeleton gave him enough force, with his momentum, to continue his fall, even as the wind attempted to rip him further skyward.
Seconds passed in what felt like an eternity of suffering, before Logan crashed through the dome that housed Enclosure-B.
It should not have been possible. The electromagnetic field surrounding each of the habitats had been designed to withstand not just the lethal environment of the current Earth, but also sabotage from forces far more powerful than even an adamantine skeleton moving at speed could produce. But under that field, with it disabled, the habs may as well have been made of cardboard. As he broke through, the lethal environment followed him for a few moments, a howling gale of breathable air rushing out into the thin vapours of what had once been an atmosphere beyond. A handful of seconds passed before the shield was raised once more. At least one keen observer was on his side then. A moment later he crashed into the habitation, a preserved tree splintering under his bulk as his limbs cracked under impact.
He didn't wait for them to heal before he was moving again, dragging a shattered ankle as it slowly reknit itself.
Logan burst into a clearing, the scent he had honed in on for decades now flooding his senses as he drew close and spied a woman running towards him.
"Now Logan! Before it returns!"
Logan had known Moira longer than he had known any other being. The long centuries of sputtering revolution, the shared captivity and finally their time as glorified zoo exhibits here on the habitats. Every other bond he had ever known was a brief sputter of a ghost next to their countless decades of shared suffering.
He didn't even blink as his claws ripped into her, one in the head, one in the chest, making sure there was no shred of her left for the Posthumans to keep enough of alive to spare their timeline. As he saw the light go out behind her eyes, he allowed himself a small sense of hope and victory, because in those eyes he saw the one thing that would make it worth it.
Bitter, hateful, revenge.
The Wolverine, the last true mutant, didn't even have time to pull his claws free before Nimrod landed. One moment he existed, and the next he didn't, blown apart to a dust of atoms decorating the metallic hide of the final sentinel.
"Marvellous." Essex thought to himself as he stood back from the terminal. Life as a posthuman had suited him well enough, after they'd dealt with the inconveniences of nation states, democracy, mutants, all that. The Unified Posthuman Earth had been a splendid achievement, many star systems had fallen to their technological superiority and he had been happy to play his humble part.
Of course, then they'd gone and ruined it. Whatever meeting had occurred where Nimrod and that Omega bitch had managed to convince the rest of the Council to accept the offer of Ascension, his own invite had been mysteriously missing. Eternal life and power within the greater conscience of the Phalanx? He already had both eternal life and power — why would he wish to share his thoughts with a thinking metal box? No, not for him. He might have even gone along with it if the others hadn't suggested there was no means of opting out, it was an all for one sort of thing. Essex definitely preferred an all for me kind of deal.
So, of course, he had begun to slip information to Moira. Details of how he, and the rest, had fooled humanity and mutantkind all those many centuries ago. It was a drip feed — he couldn't have her triggering her frankly obvious plan to have the Neanderthal murder her too soon. It had to be on the day of Ascension or, should the plan go wrong, he would have to live with his own failure. At least this way if he was found out, he'd just end up a part of a greater machine brain the very same day. A foul thought, but not as foul as admitting he might have been wrong.
Giving Moira the information she needed was something of a double win. The woman herself would of course remember this information in her next life, but her brief return to the loving embrace of death and her mutant nature would bless another force with the details of Nimrod's creation. The Phoenix.
"Yes, you insufferable fire bird, I suppose you win in the end too." Essex spoke aloud. He'd never quite given up that little eccentricity, even when he had shed his mortal form just like every other surviving human.
He was just heading for the door when the shot took him in centre mass, blowing out the majority of his chest in a cascade of power that slammed him back against the terminal he had been using to orchestrate Logan's escape.
"Traitor." Omega-Sentinel's voice was harmonious even with the talons of anger dripping from it. "We were so close, you filthy rodent." A second shot took him in what remained of his right leg. The pain was excruciating but it wasn't enough to keep the laugh from Essex's lips. "That is all you have ever been, Essex, no matter what form you take, a dirty scheming rat."
As she stepped over him, readying for the final blow, his bloodied features looked up at her with a grin.
"Should have probably seen it coming, then."
As far as last words go, he couldn't have chosen them better.
Of course, then they'd gone and ruined it. Whatever meeting had occurred where Nimrod and that Omega bitch had managed to convince the rest of the Council to accept the offer of Ascension, his own invite had been mysteriously missing. Eternal life and power within the greater conscience of the Phalanx? He already had both eternal life and power — why would he wish to share his thoughts with a thinking metal box? No, not for him. He might have even gone along with it if the others hadn't suggested there was no means of opting out, it was an all for one sort of thing. Essex definitely preferred an all for me kind of deal.
So, of course, he had begun to slip information to Moira. Details of how he, and the rest, had fooled humanity and mutantkind all those many centuries ago. It was a drip feed — he couldn't have her triggering her frankly obvious plan to have the Neanderthal murder her too soon. It had to be on the day of Ascension or, should the plan go wrong, he would have to live with his own failure. At least this way if he was found out, he'd just end up a part of a greater machine brain the very same day. A foul thought, but not as foul as admitting he might have been wrong.
Giving Moira the information she needed was something of a double win. The woman herself would of course remember this information in her next life, but her brief return to the loving embrace of death and her mutant nature would bless another force with the details of Nimrod's creation. The Phoenix.
"Yes, you insufferable fire bird, I suppose you win in the end too." Essex spoke aloud. He'd never quite given up that little eccentricity, even when he had shed his mortal form just like every other surviving human.
He was just heading for the door when the shot took him in centre mass, blowing out the majority of his chest in a cascade of power that slammed him back against the terminal he had been using to orchestrate Logan's escape.
"Traitor." Omega-Sentinel's voice was harmonious even with the talons of anger dripping from it. "We were so close, you filthy rodent." A second shot took him in what remained of his right leg. The pain was excruciating but it wasn't enough to keep the laugh from Essex's lips. "That is all you have ever been, Essex, no matter what form you take, a dirty scheming rat."
As she stepped over him, readying for the final blow, his bloodied features looked up at her with a grin.
"Should have probably seen it coming, then."
As far as last words go, he couldn't have chosen them better.
1 4 0 7 G R A Y M A L K I N L A N E
1 4 0 7 G R A Y M A L K I N L A N E
1 4 0 7 G R A Y M A L K I N L A N E
"The Near Past"
1407 Graymalkin Lane was an address that concealed far more than the already grand history of its aristocratic estate.
Inside the mahogany-clad walls of the Xavier Institute, the grandfather clock in the foyer ticked with a rhythmic melody. It was a Saturday morning, the kind that should have been reserved for sleeping in or heading into Salem Center.
In the sun-drenched conservatory, Jean Grey sat with a textbook she wasn't actually touching. It hovered three inches above the wicker table, the pages turning with a soft, phantom flick every sixty seconds, her brow furrowed with the effort of fine-tuning her grip.
High above the manicured lawn, the shadow of a hawk circled the stone chimneys. To the neighbours, the estate was a fortress of aristocratic solitude, the quiet home of a wealthy, wheelchair-bound scholar and his "gifted" wards. A bastion of private, by virtue of ability not finance, education. They saw the ivy-covered stone and the iron gates, but had little and less idea as to the true purpose of the institution.
Jean, along with the rest of the leading edge of the Professor's students — being the X-Men — were enjoying a brief span of leisure time outside of both their studies and their heroic duties. Enjoying might be too strong a word. While she had appreciated some time to herself it grated at them, the reason for their inactivity. The Brotherhood's latest schemes had put the attention of the powers that be back on mutants with such intensity that the Professor had deemed it proper to temporarily ground the X-Men while matters were resolved.
The swoop of wings by the window suggested that 'grounded' was a bit strong of a word as well.
"Hello, Warren." Jean spoke, the flicker of frustration in her voice as her pages were rustled out of the delicate control of her telekinesis fading as she looked up to fix the new arrival with a smile.
"Red, you are doing a very poor job of taking a break." Warren Worthington, the third, was all upper class charm and good looks. The kind that became the focal point of whatever room he happened to be in. That, and he was climbing through the window. On the fifth floor. From the outside. Because as well as being easy to look at and the heir to an extensive fortune, Warren Worthington had wings. Large, beautiful, angel wings. Some people got all the luck.
"Some of us like reading for fun, Warren. Maybe you should try it at some point." She teased back as she stood, willing said book shut with a mental flick, a motion that was much easier for her than the delicacy required to leaf through individual pages.
"Sure you were definitely focused on the reading, and not being a star pupil still practising your powers." He laughed, leaning back against one of the conservatory's doric columns as he studied her, his wings folded neatly in the more cramped confines of the interior. He was entirely right though, which only made the smug look on his face more distracting. Before she could reply again he held up one hand. "I was coming to pester you into doing something actually fun, but Hank interrupted my efforts before they could begin — he wants us to take a look at something, together."
"The team? The Professor warned us not to get involved in anything right now." Despite herself, she was still readying to go, her book tucked under one arm as she patted a crease out of the flow of her skirt.
"I don't think the Professor is involved in this one, Red. Maybe this will be good practice in helping you live a little."
Inside the mahogany-clad walls of the Xavier Institute, the grandfather clock in the foyer ticked with a rhythmic melody. It was a Saturday morning, the kind that should have been reserved for sleeping in or heading into Salem Center.
In the sun-drenched conservatory, Jean Grey sat with a textbook she wasn't actually touching. It hovered three inches above the wicker table, the pages turning with a soft, phantom flick every sixty seconds, her brow furrowed with the effort of fine-tuning her grip.
High above the manicured lawn, the shadow of a hawk circled the stone chimneys. To the neighbours, the estate was a fortress of aristocratic solitude, the quiet home of a wealthy, wheelchair-bound scholar and his "gifted" wards. A bastion of private, by virtue of ability not finance, education. They saw the ivy-covered stone and the iron gates, but had little and less idea as to the true purpose of the institution.
Jean, along with the rest of the leading edge of the Professor's students — being the X-Men — were enjoying a brief span of leisure time outside of both their studies and their heroic duties. Enjoying might be too strong a word. While she had appreciated some time to herself it grated at them, the reason for their inactivity. The Brotherhood's latest schemes had put the attention of the powers that be back on mutants with such intensity that the Professor had deemed it proper to temporarily ground the X-Men while matters were resolved.
The swoop of wings by the window suggested that 'grounded' was a bit strong of a word as well.
"Hello, Warren." Jean spoke, the flicker of frustration in her voice as her pages were rustled out of the delicate control of her telekinesis fading as she looked up to fix the new arrival with a smile.
"Red, you are doing a very poor job of taking a break." Warren Worthington, the third, was all upper class charm and good looks. The kind that became the focal point of whatever room he happened to be in. That, and he was climbing through the window. On the fifth floor. From the outside. Because as well as being easy to look at and the heir to an extensive fortune, Warren Worthington had wings. Large, beautiful, angel wings. Some people got all the luck.
"Some of us like reading for fun, Warren. Maybe you should try it at some point." She teased back as she stood, willing said book shut with a mental flick, a motion that was much easier for her than the delicacy required to leaf through individual pages.
"Sure you were definitely focused on the reading, and not being a star pupil still practising your powers." He laughed, leaning back against one of the conservatory's doric columns as he studied her, his wings folded neatly in the more cramped confines of the interior. He was entirely right though, which only made the smug look on his face more distracting. Before she could reply again he held up one hand. "I was coming to pester you into doing something actually fun, but Hank interrupted my efforts before they could begin — he wants us to take a look at something, together."
"The team? The Professor warned us not to get involved in anything right now." Despite herself, she was still readying to go, her book tucked under one arm as she patted a crease out of the flow of her skirt.
"I don't think the Professor is involved in this one, Red. Maybe this will be good practice in helping you live a little."
