Mountjoy: Monsters
by Bayeux (fractuslux@yahoo.com)

Disclaimer: Mountjoy and the Black Queen are property of Marvel
comics. I am receiving no money for this work. Even on Christmas
predators hunt . . .
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     "Ahhh, winter. The wind through my hair, the snow under my
boots, the derelicts freezing beneath my fingers . . .
delightful, don't you agree, my queen?"

     "Whatever suits you, Mountjoy," the Black Queen of the
London Hellfire Club replied, sipping her brandy as she stared
out the hotel window. It was a suite, of course, and the best
money could buy. Absently, she rested a hand over her ribs. They
still ached from where that wretched Braddock had struck her, and
likely would for some time. The cold was not improving things.

     The bodystealer, Mountjoy, had healed completely. It was
moments like this that the Black Queen almost envied him his
absorption power -- it allowed him to lose his wounds in a sea of
countless victims, spreading the damage so thin amidst the
incorporation of foreign matter that it had been completely
repaired in a matter of days. This was rather impressive, as he
had been quite literally hit by a ton of bricks only a month
before. He was currently draped across the king-sized bed, a
glass of wine in one hand.

     "I fancy going out this evening, my queen," Mountjoy said,
his deceptively-pleasant tenor rolling across the silent room
like a lazily-stretching feline. "Would you care to join me?"

     "No, Mountjoy, I believe I can find entertainment of my
own," the Black Queen replied, sipping her drink. "Besides," she
added, favoring the dark liquid with a cursory glance, "I confess
to finding your dining habits to be somewhat distasteful. Really,
did you have to make a meal of the Scribe?"

     "My my my, my dear. Are we having second thoughts about our
arrangement? She served her purpose."

     "I merely question the wisdom of using those under my employ
as an alternative food source. My reputation is already quite
tarnished after that regrettable affair with the Red Queen and
the devil under London, and good help is so very hard to find."

     Mountjoy pulled himself into a sitting position with liquid
grace. "Your point is taken. I will feed on your help no more . .
. without your permission, that is."

     "Thank you."

      "Of course," he continued, rising to his feet, "that
doesn't change the fact that I am still utterly famished. By your
leave . . ?"

     "By all means." The Black Queen stepped away from the window
as Mountjoy approached, shrugging on his tattered trenchcoat. She
had urged him several times to acquire a new one, but somehow it
never seemed to happen. It had some sentimental value, she
supposed.

     The mutant opened the window and took a deep breath of the
sharp winter air, his long auburn hair stirring in the breeze.
For a moment he stood there as if transfixed, his coat flapping
gently around his slight, almost girlish build, staring into the
darkening sky.

     "Exquisite," he breathed. "You don't get nights like this in
the future, you know. Too many screams. Try getting a decent
night's sleep in the middle of a crossfire."

     "I can only imagine," the Black Queen answered. And she
could, truly, after the experience with the Devil Under London.
The streets filled with blood and madness, shrieks and sobs
echoing through the night . . .

     No, she decided, black magic of that degree had most
certainly not been the path to take. Perhaps next time she should
plan things more carefully . . . if there was a next time, that
is.

     "Now, my queen, I will bid you adieu," Mountjoy said,
presenting her with a courtly bow. The Black Queen inclined her
head slightly. She had long since learned that it was best to
indulge him.

     Thus satisfied, Mountjoy took a flying leap off the
windowsill and landed on the fire-escape of the building
opposite, some thirty feet below the window. The Black Queen
shook her head. He was a monster, to be sure -- a courtly
monster, admittedly, but a monster nonetheless. What did it say
about her, that she was working with him?

     Alone in her suite, the Black Queen finished her brandy and
watched the sun go down.

[_*_]

     Mountjoy bounded from rooftop to rooftop, his long hair
whipping frantically behind him. The bitter wind cut through his
expertly-tailored clothing, drenching his thin body in cold. It
hardly mattered. Hunger lent an edge to the sensations, a dull,
throbbing red undertone to the slice of winter, consuming his
keen senses. This is what he lived for: the joy of the hunt.

     The Black Queen distrusted him still, of course -- she
trusted no one, except perhaps to betray her when it served their
purpose. There was something mildly infuriating about the woman,
so calm and collected, so utterly in control of her situation.
And yet, there was the attraction . . . the strange quality that
had so fascinated him when he had first met her. So cunning a
mind, coupled with such power -- he longed to make it his own.

     _Always wanting what we can't have, aren't we?_ he chided
himself as he leapt from a fire escape into an alley. It was true
that the Black Queen was an unattainable prize. Her mutant power
made her immune to not only his basilisk field but to his mental
melding as well. He had tried it, once, before he had known
precisely what she was, in hopes that he could gain use of her
position in the Hellfire Club. All had not gone exactly as
planned. The melding had gone smoothly until he had attempted to
assimilate her mind into his, and then . . . a wall. A psychic
shock so great it had jarred him from her system and left him
gasping on the floor, nose bleeding and vision dark. Surely there
was some way to overcome her . . .

     _Patience, patience,_ he urged himself as he slipped out of
the alley and into the streets. A thin frosting of snow had
turned into even thinner slush in the streets thanks to the
traffic of the day, but more would replace it soon enough. _Bide
your time, wait for your opportunity, then strike. She must have
a weakness, all you need do is find it._

     Still, she made a useful tool, for the time being. Mountjoy
enjoyed the finer things in life, and if there was one person who
could supply them, it was the Black Queen. At the very least her
taste was on par with his, and he did so enjoy the decadent
trifles of the twentieth century.

     But now was not the time for idle thoughts. For the moment,
Mountjoy turned his attention to finding his meal for the
evening. He had been instructed to range away from the hotel, if
possible, but this didn't suit him. It was getting late, and
tonight of all nights people were leaving the streets in a hurry.
What did this wretched century call it again? Ah, yes, Christmas
Eve.

     Try as he might, Mountjoy had never understood the customs
of the past. There had been little to give thanks for in his
native time, and even less now, if that were possible. True, prey
was far easier to come by now with the distinct and appreciated
absence of the X.S.E., but the sheer atmosphere of the era
nauseated him. Everyone seemed so damnably *cheerful*. . .

     Mountjoy shook his head. It was somewhat depressing,
actually. All the dirty little humans running around this sty of
an age, acting as if their pathetic lives and paltry affections
meant something. Sad to think that he, too, had been like them
once. Right up until the day he had eaten his parents.

     He hadn't known any better at the time, of course, but it
had been the first step on the road to realization. It was a
mutant-eat-mutant world (quite literally, in his case), and if
you didn't do what you could to survive in it you were as good as
painting a target on your forehead and wandering onto the X.S.E.
firing range.

     Mountjoy kicked over a pile of light snow. Instead of
scattering across the edge of the walk, as he had intended, it
scattered across the edge of his boot instead. Horrible, flaky
stuff it was, but he had to admit the color was much improved
from the dingy grey he was used to. Odd that such a filthy time
could produce such clean snow.

     Just then his ears pricked. There were sounds nearby.
People, two of them. A struggle, it seemed, and muffled voices.

     Dinner.

     With a quick glance around the street Mountjoy ascertained
that there was no one else within range of the noises and walked
briskly towards the alley, hands in his trenchcoat pockets. His
red-brown eyes gleamed with anticipation -- two victims for the
price of one. His night was made.

     He turned into the alley he had pinpointed as the source of
the noises and was unsurprised to find two figures, a man and a
woman, locked in the stereotypical pose of what appeared to be
the beginnings of a robbery. Too easy. Too easy by far. Still,
beggars couldn't be choosers . . .

     With a massive burst of energy Mountjoy sprung onto the
pair, hands outstretched. The man had a knife, but that mattered
little to him. Within seconds he had absorbed both the assailant
and the victim, holding the struggling (but steadily weakening)
forms close. A wide, almost gentle smile spread across his
features as he leaned against the wall, hugging himself as his
meal attempted to claw its way through his skin. Silent shrieks
of agony reverberated through his bones, insubstantial tears
coursed down nonexistent cheeks. He fought them down, swallowed
them up, and took them into himself. Within moments it was over,
and Mountjoy was quite comfortably full.

     "Delicious," he murmured. The thief had been somewhat
stringy and a touch on the sour side, but the woman had been
quite tender. Females often were, he had discovered. He had never
been quite sure why.

     Satiated, Mountjoy stretched languidly and strolled out of
the alley. He supposed that some would regard him as monstrous.
The "gallant" thing to do would have been to take the thief and
leave the woman. _Gallant, pah . . . impractical,_ Mountjoy
thought as he wandered in the general direction of the hotel.
_Why on earth would I pass up such an opportunity? Twice the meal
for the effort of one._

     No one understood, not really. Not the Black Queen, and
certainly not that imbecile Bishop or the rest of the X-Men. This
is what he was. There was no way to "behave," and less reason.
There was no good or evil, only survival -- and what was he
supposed to do, cease enjoying himself simply because most saw
his actions as "wrong"?

     No, Mountjoy thought as he stared at the dark sky of London,
he was what he was, and he was a hunter, a skulker. The nasty
little creature that nibbled at the corners of humanity, weeding
out the weak and stupid right alongside the strong and quick.
Equality for all, and sustenance and pleasure for himself. Oh
yes, he thought with a dry chuckle, what a monster he was to seek
to perpetuate his own survival and use those he saw fit to
fulfill these needs. Ah, the naivete of humans and mutants alike.
It never ceased to amaze him.

     It began to snow. And there, in the dark, Mountjoy lifted
his face towards the stars and laughed.

End.