Well, here's part nine (I warned you). In our last installment, we all
about Logan's recent affliction, Jean and Scott's wedding, and
Nightwing's next adventure (in England, that is). Oh, and some
revelations were made that will affect Tolken in the next half of the
story...on with the tale:
remember to keep both hands within the vehicle at all times, and do not
get up until it comes to a complete stop....

THE HAMMER AND THE CROSS
Chapter Nine: "Two Nights in Londontown"
by Jim Cannon

         Dick Grayson settled into the uncomfortable wooden chair,
trying desperatly to keep awake, and regarded the man on the opposite
side of the desk.
         He was a British beauracratic type, which meant he squashed
his short, round body into an ill-fitting dark suit and kept his
graying hair cut short. His face was heavy with long years with
Scotland Yard and dealing with paranormal occurances in Great Britain,
and the weight of middle-age had settled firmly around his waist.
But his eyes showed a finely trained intelligence and an almost
fanatical zeal; he was dedicated to his job and damn good at it too.
His name was Dai Thomas, and he was a man with a problem.
         "Thank you again, Nightwing, for coming so quickly on such
short notice."
         Dick nodded, fighting jetlag. "The message you left on my
machine mentioned the Joker..." he prompted.
         Thomas nodded wearily, and fished in his jacket pockets for a
cigarette, ultimately coming up empty handed. Thomas smiled
self-consciously. "Forgot; I'm trying to quit," he said. "The Joker:
Yes, we're afraid he might have relocated to London. Why, we're not
sure -- I'm hoping you'll be able to shed some light on the situation.
The body count is up to thirteen," he said, handing Dick a manila
folder.
       Dick looked inside, already knowing what it would contain.
Pictures. Forensic data. Witness's reports. He opened it up and looked
inside. As he examined the information, Thomas continued to talk.
       "All victims are clergymen; two vicars, a bishop, three monks,
and seven priests. All the victims were disfigured with a sharp, bladed
instrument -- eyes and tongues were cut out -- and then beheaded. The,
uh, bodily fluids were scattered throughout the areas in which the
bodies were found."
        Dick had seen atrocities during his decade and a half as a
costumed superhero, but he had seen little that could compare with the
visuals in the folder. He felt his gorge rise in his chest, and
silently congratulated himself for not eating on the plane.
        "This isn't the work of the Joker, Thomas," Dick said hoarsely.
He cleared his throat. "The Joker goes for more elaborate means of
homicide, usually involving his smilex gas. This isn't his style." *And
there haven't been enough deaths yet*, he added silently.
        Thomas sat back in his chair, folding his hands before his
expansive belly. "I know, Nightwing. In fact, up until three days ago,
I thought I had a normal psychotic killer loose in my city. But six
witnesses saw a man in harlequin makeup leave the scene of the last
murder at 15 Darwin Street; Father McGoohan. Four out of the six later
identified the man they saw as the Joker."
      "The other two?" Dick asked.
      "Were hesitant to finger the Joker. They saw the figure in the
shadows, only made out the greasepaint."
      Dick considered. It was possible the Joker was loose in London,
murdering men of the cloth. But for Dick, the scenario didn't feel
right. The only man who knew the Joker better than he was the Batman
himself, and Dick suspected the Joker wasn't involved in these
killings. There were a number of supercriminals who utilized a clown
motif; Dick wagered it was one of them involved in the slayings.
      Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't help out.
      He hefted the folder. "Mind if I keep this?" he asked.
      Dai Thomas spread his hands. "Not at all, I made the copy for
you." He paused, then fixed Dick with a piercing gaze. "What do you
plan to do?"
      Dick smiled and stood. "Why, I'm going to catch the bad guy."

***********************************************************************

     Kurt Wagner sat forward in his plush chair, resting his elbows on
the burgundy arms. Several dozen feet below him, on the stage of the
Prince Albert Hall, Wotan and Logi debated how best to weasel out of
their deal with Fafnir.
     Kurt himself looked like he belonged in a fantasy setting. His
lithe build, sharp features, and distinctly pointed ears gave him the
nickname "elf," while the short, indigo down that covered him from head
to three toed foot added the adjective "fuzzy." A mop of short,
curly hair decorated his crown, and his eyes were seas of yellow, the
pupils almost hidden within their gilded expanse. He was dressed in an
expensively tailored suit, a gift from his friend Brian Braddock.
     "Ugh," a small voice said at his side. Kurt turned to the young
woman sitting in the chair next to him. She was wearing a blue dress
with cream stitching and hemlines, a complement to her fair complexion
and contrast to her dark hair and eyes. While barely sixteen years old,
those eyes had seen and experianced more than most octogenarians.
Still, she was a teenager.
     "Is the Ring Saga not to your liking, Kitty?" he asked, his mild
German accent making the words sound harsher than they were. "It is
merely beginning; I promise it does get better."
     Katherine Pryde shook her head. When Kurt invited her to the
opera, she had been expecting something relatively light, like
Pagliacci. In retrospect, she should have expected Wagner. Of course
Kurt would want to see *German* opera. But why couldn't it have been
Tristan and Ysolde? Why did it have to be the Nibelung?
     "No," she whispered. "Just a little stomach ache."
     Kurt's eyes narrowed in concern, and then he turned back to the
opera. "You didn't *have* to come, Kitty," he said out of the corner of
his mouth. "I wouldn't have minded if you stayed at home."
     "Yeah, well, I needed to get away from the island for a bit."
     Kurt nodded in understanding. Now that Peter was back with them,
making the Muir Isle Irregulars complete, things were no longer the way
they used to be. Especially with Pete Wisdom on the team. Kitty was
being torn between the girl she was, and the woman she was becoming.
Small wonder that she leapt at the chance to head into London, even to
see the opera.
        Kurt was about to suggest they retire, and leave the opera for
less solemn pursuits, when a flicker of movement caught his yellow eye.
He froze, focusing his gaze across the gulf of the amphitheatre, to the
balcony across the way and up one tier from his.
       Kurt's darkness-sensitive eyes made out a dark garbed clown
crouched over the lip of the balcony, a head of brilliant purple
hair in wild disarray. His face was as white as snow, and his lips were
blackened, painted into an upturned grin. The area around his eyes were
blackened as well, and vertical slits of black paint were drawn across
each eye, stretching across the orbs to decorate forehead and cheek.
       The clown hopped up onto the edge of the balcony. The clothing
he wore was black, consisting of leather jacket, gauntlets, and dark
jeans tucked into engineer's boots. Most alarmingly, a naked katana
gleamed in the man's right fist.
       Kitty gasped beside him, finally noticing the figure across the
way. Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler, burst into action. While it was
conceivable that the figure exemplified some new interpretation of
Siegfried, Kurt was fairly certain his gut reaction to the clown was
the right one.
       He was a bad guy. And Kurt was a good guy.
       Blue lips pulled back to reveal elongated canines, as Kurt
smiled. A "good guy." Not Catholic, not German, not mutant, nor any of
the other labels society stuck on him; he was a hero. However he might
jest about his profession, he knew there was no other way to describe
himself. Too much Dumas and Flynn as a child, he supposed.
       He shrugged out of his jacket as the clown dropped from the
second story balcony to the floor. On stage, the opera continued with
Wotan and Logi arguing over the payment of the giants. In the audience,
a few pople noticed the specter with the naked blade, but most affixed
their attention on the play.
       "Kurt," Kitty whispered, "what is going on? That's not part of
the opera, is it?"
       "It most certainly is not," Kurt enthusiastically agreed. *How
to deal with the figure in black? With the minimum of force,
certainly*, he thought. A moment later, he concentrated, willing him-
self to travel through space and time, and he disappeared in a burst
of pink smoke and brimstone. Kitty wrinkled her nose in disgust and sat
forward, waiting to see what Kurt intended to do, and whether he would
need her help.
       Even as Kurt disappeared from the balcony, he reappeared next to
the menacing clown, accompanied by another pink burst and the "bamf"
of displacing air.
       Kurt reached out, grabbed the clown by the back of the jacket
before he could react, and then teleported once again, carrying the
clown along for the ride. Due to the nature of Kurt's teleporting power,
the clown had no time to react; the trip was instantaneous. It carried
Kurt and his passenger several miles away, to W.H.O. Headquarters,
Britain's chief organization for the investigation of the paranormal.
It was also the only place in the city Kurt knew of that might be able
to incarcerate a superhuman prisoner.
       As the two of them materialized within what Kurt hoped would be
an empty cell, the clown reacted to Kurt's attack. Seemingly nonplussed
by the mode of transport, he swung out at Kurt with the shining katana
in his right hand. But the blade whistled through empty air as Kurt
winked out of existance a split second after letting go of the strange
man.
       Kurt reappeared just outside the cell with his trademarked
"bamf" and burst of pink light. He looked through the bars at the
harliquin inside, as the man completed his swing, realizing that his
target was no longer there. The clownish features twisted into a
mixture of rage and confusion. He looked wildly about him, trying to
make sense of what happened.
        His green eyes fell on Kurt, smirking on the other side of the
bars. He raised his blade, and with an inarticulate scream of rage,
launched himself at the elf. Kurt stood stock still, his grin still
wide, knowing that the cell was designed to incarcerate paranormal
criminals. Whoever this strange being might be, he would not escape
and cause any harm.
        Or so Kurt thought.
        The bars of the cell were supposed to be electrified, capable
of unleashing enough current to stun a full grown African elephant or a
superstrong meta. Of course, such was not the case now. Kurt had lucked
out in finding an empty cage, as he figured the clown would have harmed
any other occupants. But since there were no other occupants....the
bars were not charged.
        Kurt watched in horror as the katana sliced through the steel
cage, sparks flying as the cables within were severed. Only his
reflexes, honed by countless hours of training, enabled him to evade
the deadly arc of the blade. As it was, he escaped with a wicked cut
across the abdomen. Blood began to well up, staining the shining white
fabric of his shirt.
        *Time for Plan B*, he thought, flipping backwards to land on
his hands and bounce away from the attacker. Behind him was another
cell, and he almost hit it as he came out of his tumble. Before he
connected, however, he teleported upstairs to alert W.H.O. of their
visitor...

***********************************************************************
INTERLUDE ONE:

      After my talk with Charles, I went outside into the spring air to
fly and to think things through. The task I chose to undertake was
a large one, and would require a substantial amount of my time and
resources. I would need to renovate the house, convert a wing or two
for students, and probably install a Danger Room. And I would need to
contact the children and their parents, of course. Find out who wanted
my help, and who needed it.
      I would probably have to give up running Tolken, Inc. But that
was a small loss. I had been missing for eight months, and the job of
running the corporation was probably in the hands of Tasha or my
vice-presidents. I never really enjoyed the responsibility, anyway. I
mostly did it because of my father.
      But becoming a teacher was MY choce. MY decision. And I felt
pretty damn good about making it.
      After my ordeal, flying was so fantastic. To feel the wind in my
hair and the sun on my skin was heaven. I flew high over the clouds,
skimming through billowing expanses of water vapor, feeling it soak
into my skin, and then dry as I burst out into the sunlight.
      As I dropped back below the clouds, I saw another figure swooping
through the air, thin spans of silver extended to catch the winds.
Warren Worthington III was in his element. I watched him for a moment
as he glided, and I realized that, while I knew a thing or two about
flying, the Archangel was the master. Small wonder.
      He noticed me, and angled towards me on the winds.
      "Beautiful day, isn't it?" he observed, buzzing past me. I
nodded, not saying anything. The last time I saw Warren, he was still
distant, cool, and slightly inhuman. Still wrapped up in the persona
Apocalypse gave him, still acting like the Angel of Death. Back then,
he gave me the creeps. And he still kind of did.
      He flapped off, and I descended once more to earth, being careful
to move fast enough that the neighbors wouldn't notice me. I landed
by the pool, and let myself in through the patio doors.
      Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten much in the last
few days. I drank a lot, sure, but I hadn't had any solid food. I made
my way to the kitchen, intent on remedying the situation.
      I saw Gambit when I entered the kitchen. He was playing solitaire
at the table, while devouring a club sandwhich. He nodded at me and I
returned the gesture. Polite. Thats about as far as I'll ever go for
Gambit.
      I raided the refrigerator, found some grinder rolls, and made
myself a couple of hero sandwhiches. Half a gallon of milk and three
turkey grinders later, I felt much more human. Plus, Gambit had
finished his meal shortly after I made my first sub, and he departed.
That made my meal that much more enjoyable.
       As I cleaned up the mess and looked around for the wastebasket,
Betsy Braddock sauntered into the room, dressed in a leotard that left
very little to the imagination and mopping sweat from her brow with a
white towel. She got some water out of the fridge, leaning over to reach 
in back for it.
       My eyes almost shot out of my head. My brain shut down
completely; I doubt I could have crafted an intelligible sentence if my
life depended on it. I was slick though; I acted nonchalant. When Betsy
walked past me to grab a glass out of the cabinet, she never noticed I
was a pig. At least I hoped she didn't.
       She asked me how I was doing, I told her I was fine, and then
asked her if she knew where Tasha was. I was better off getting out of
there quick than making a total ass out of myself (if I hadn't already)
She told me Tasha was up in the third floor of the West wing.
So I headed up there to find her.
       I found the room easily enough, and knocked softly. No one
answered, so I eased the door open and checked inside. Tasha lay asleep
on the bed, her armor in a pile on the floor. I smiled, eased my way
into the room, and quietly shut the door.
      I tiptoed into the room, and then eased down on the side of the
bed. Tasha looked gorgeous, even asleep, her long red hair spilling out
like a halo, the silver jumpsuit clinging to her like a second skin.
*Funny how I never noticed that before* I thought, even as Tasha rolled
over and opened her eyes a bit. I smiled.
      Her eyes snapped fully open, and launched at me, wrapping me into
a tight embrace that I carefully returned. "You're okay!" she said.
      *Now or never* I thought.
      Without a word, I pulled her closer and lowered my lips to hers.
I kissed her. She seemed surprised, but a heartbeat later, she returned
the kiss, with a fierceness that surprised _me_. A few minutes later,
we surfaced for air.
      With her hair tousled, and a goofy grin on her face, no doubt
mirrored by me, she said, "What...uh...what brought that on?"
      "I've had some time think about some things," I started
carefully, pulling slightly away from her. "My parents, my past, my
future...you. And then I realized how much I didn't want for us to
continue as 'me' and 'you,' but rather as 'us.' I realized something
that I've been lying to myself about, afraid to face." *In the home
stretch now, Gerry; time to finish* "I...I love you."
      She sat there a moment, not saying anything. I felt a sudden
panic blossom in my chest. "Well?" I croaked.
      Her smile widened. "Not the most romantic of setups, I must say,
but the last three words were something." She paused. "I love you
too."
      I pulled her to me again. When we broke away a few moments later,
I stood up. "I have so much else to tell you," I said. "But I need to
get out of the house. Lets go somewhere."
      Tasha's stomach growled. She blushed slightly. "How about
somewhere to eat?" I nodded, grinning. Neither one of us remarked on
the availability of a private bedroom. Without saying a word, we both
understood neither one of us wanted to rush things.
       "Oh no," she said, looking down at her outfit. "I don't have
anything to wear for real life!"
       "Well," I said, feighning careful consideration. "You're not as
top-heavy as the rest of the women in the building, but I'm sure we can
find you something..."
       She threw a pillow at me.

***********************************************************************

       Dick was leaving the police station when he heard a commotion
behind him. He turned and saw Dai Thomas, huffing and wheezing,
hurrying towards him. Dick waited for the portly British policeman.
When Thomas reached him, he skidded to a halt and opened his mouth to
speak. Instead of uttering a coherant syllable, he continued to wheeze
painfully. Dick was patient, and was soon rewarded with some actual
words.
       "Our man...," he gasped, "has been appre...hended. But
he...escaped...is loose."
       Dick's eyes narrowed under the domino mask. "Where is he?"
       Thomas wheezed. "W.H.O."
       Dick clenched his teeth in frustration. "Not who, Thomas!
Where?"
       "Exactly," Thomas said, finally gaining control of his
breathing. As he tugged Dick towards the door, he began to explain.

************************************************************************

       With the W.H.O. staff alerted to the problem, Kurt felt he was
free to go. But he remained, waiting patiently by the lift that led to
the detention levels, a Brigidier Hamilton Smythe standing nearby. The
tall Englishman was attempting to scold Kurt for creating the
situation, but the German mutant tuned the scowling martinet out.
Rather, he listened intently for the intercom to tell him the clown was
apprehended and in custody.
       Time passed, and no such announcement was made.
       Finally, Kurt broke into Smythe's tirade. "What is taking so
damn long?" he grumbled.
       Smythe paused in mid-yell. It seemed the fact that the squad
sent into the detention levels hadn't returned yet was finally
filtering into the officious brigidier's brain. "I don't know,
Nightcrawler. They should have reported by now...if any of them are
dead, I'll hold you responsible."
       Anger flared in Kurt's breast. "Brigidier, I will grieve for
your people if they are harmed, but I will not bear the responsibility!
If I had not brought that harliquin here, *civilians* would be dying.
Your people have a much better chance of facing him. And that chance
would have improved if you had let me go with them! Don't try to pin
your own bad judgement on me!"
       Smythe's face flushed in outrage. He was about to retort when a
new figure appeared at the end of the hall, walking swiftly towards the
arguing pair. Both Smythe and Kurt turned, and saw a tall, dark-haired
man in a midnight blue costume and mask.
       "Good evening, gentleman. How may I help you?" he said. His
accent was American.
       Smythe seemed stricken. Kurt guessed the man wasn't used to
costumed heroes or murderous clowns rampaging through his facility. He
briefly wished Alysande was still here, or that there was some way for
him to contact Alistaire, but shook his head. Such thoughts wouldn't
help him deal with the situation at hand.
       "You are...?" Kurt said.
       The dark man smiled. "I'm called Nightwing. It's a pleasure to
see you again Nightcrawler."
       "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir," Kurt said.
       Nightwing nodded. "When we first met, a being called Darkseid
was trying to harness the Phoenix force..."
       Kurt's yellow eyes suddenly widened in recognition. "Robin? I
thought you were dead."
       Nightwing shook his head. "That was my... successor. But that's
hardly important now. Whats the situation?"
       Smythe shuddered, his face convulsing with confusion, anger, and
... fear? Kurt realized this man would be no help. In fact, he would
probably impede the quick resolution of this crisis. *Why is it,* Kurt
thought, *so many members of the British military I meet embody the
worst stereotypes of the British people?* Kurt chalked it up to the
cosmic bad luck of mutantkind and turned to Nightwing.
       "The killer is loose downstairs. The W.H.O. anti-terrorist squad
sent down to pacify him hasn't called in. And we can't risk calling
them -- we might put them at risk."
       Nightwing nodded. "What do we need to do?" He, too, was ignoring
the red-faced brigidier.
       Kurt looked at Smythe for a moment, then said, "We're going down
there."

       Kurt and Nightwing materialized downstairs, just outside of the
cell Kurt had tried to leave the clown in. Nightwing clutched his
stomach and coughed a bit. He didn't throw up, though. Not bad for a
normal human unused to the rigors of teleportation.
       "I told you it would be uncomfortable," Kurt offered by way of
apology.
       "That's like saying the Flash can run," Nightwing said weakly.
       "Are you okay?" Kurt said, suddenly concerned.
       Nightwing smiled with some effort. "I'll be fine in a minute."
He looked around, taking in the cut bars, the smashed door at the end
of the hall. "Our clown is a meta," he observed.
       Kurt nodded. "And that sword of his isn't ordinary steel."
       Nightwing walked towards the door. Originally it had been solid
omnium steel, ten inches thick, and magnetically sealed. Now a huge,
man sized hole decorated the middle of the door. Shards of metal lay on
the ground all around the door. Nightwing looked in on the other side.
The lights were out, shattered. The hallway on the other side was pitch
black.
      Nightwing looked back at Kurt. "My mask is equipped with
nightvision lenses... how are you in the dark?"
      The elf grinned. "I'm called Nightcrawler for a reason,
Nightwing." The vigilante nodded. "Just wanted to make sure," he said.
      The two heroes, who had more in common than either would ever
know, stepped into the darkness.

      They found the first body fifty meters down the corridor. It was
a W.H.O. soldier, bisected by the katana. Kurt grimaced and tried to
forget the pompous speech he gave Smythe upstairs. No matter what he
told the Englishman, he knew he *did* feel responsible for the death.
And he knew their would be more.
      Nightwing carefully stepped over both parts of the body, being
careful to keep from slipping on the slick, bloodied surface of the
floor. Kurt, who had long since ditched his shoes, chose to take the
ceiling.
      The two continued down the hall silently. They passed through two
more smashed doors and found two more bodies, both decapitated.
Nightwing's face was a mask, but Kurt knew these deaths were affecting
the young American as much as they were affecting him.
      And then, just beyond another broken door, there he was. Two more
bodies lay at his feet. One was disemboweled, his intestines spilling
all over the corridor, while the other was pinned to the wall by the
clown's katana. The clown himself stood impassively regarding the hole
in the door, and, through it, the two heroes.
     His eyes gleamed feverishly below beetled brows. Kurt and
Nightwing were frozen, horrified. Suddenly Kurt realized that the man
against the wall was still breathing.
     The harlequin reached up to grasp the hilt of his sword. Kurt was
still frozen, stricken with guilt. Nightwing, however, was not. Without
seeming to move, he unleashed several spinning weapons at the clown. As
a half dozen bat-shaped darts blossomed in the clown's chest, Kurt
sloughed off his guilt and acted.
     "Can you hold him?" he asked quickly. He was rewarded with a
barely perceptable nod from the vigilante. It was enough. Kurt
disappeared in a burst of pink light and reappeared at the clown's
side.
     The harlequin had been staggered by Nightwing's attack, and stood
with a stunned expression on his face, staring at his sternum. Kurt
grabbed the man on the wall and teleported him and the sword upstairs
into the med-lab. There was still time to save one of them.
     He just hoped that Nightwing could handle the clown for a bit.

     Dick lurched backwards, his sensitive nightvision goggls blinded
by the light from Nightcrawler's teleportation. He cursed and backed
away from the the doorway quickly.
     He heard the leather jacket of the harlequin swishing as the
killer advanced, stepping through the broken door into the hall. Just
as Dick's vision began to clear, a white fist flew towards his face. He
blocked clumsily, feeling the bones in his forearm crunch under the
strength of the blow.
     He ignored the pain and lashed out with a low kick. His foot
caught the man in the kneecap. Dick was rewarded with a crunch of his
own, as the cartilage in the clown's knee ripped apart. The clown
howled, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He unleashed a flurry of blows
aimed at Dick's chest. He dodged and ducked, smoothly moving out of the
way of the clumsy onslaught.
     He decided to return the complement, and cut loose with a few
punches of his own. Every single one connected. The man wasn't even
trying to block. His head snapped back under Dick's onslaught, teeth
teeth and nose breaking noisily. Dick pressed the attack, aiming a blow
at the man's solar plexus. The clown crumpled, gasping for air.
    Dick brought his knee up and connected with the harliquin's jaw.
The clown fell backwards, sprawling in the dark corridor.
    Dick stepped back, light on his feet, reday to continue the
beating. He was glad that, while the meta-gene had given the clown
super strength, it had neglected to augment it with bullet-proof skin
or something.
    Just when he was ready to relax and let down his gaurd, the clown
moved. He rolled over and stood up easily. Too easily. That knee wasn't
bothering him at all.
    "Fucking A!" Dick growled. "Everybody I fight these days has a
healing factor!"
    The clown just grinned, his teeth -- not one missing, now --
shining in the darkness. Dick let loose with a roundhouse kick that
sent the clown spinning, spitting blood again. Dick knew now that this
was going to be one pain in the ass fight... one that could only end
one way. Eventually he would tire, weaken, slow down. And then the son
of a bitch would have him.
    *Well, I'm not ready to die yet* Dick thought, his foot connecting
with the harliquin's side. A plan suddenly occurred to him as the clown
fell backwards. A plan Bruce would never approve of. As the clown
recovered, Dick leapt through the the hole in the door and landed
lightly on his feet. He almost slipped on the dead man's entrails but
recovered instantly. "Sorry," he mumbled, scopping up the dead man's
sub-machine gun.
    He pointed it at the clown.
    The hallway exploded in light as Dick opened up.

***********************************************************************
INTERLUDE TWO:

     In a quiet, dark place, he lay, shuddering in pain as his body
changed. His family had been so happy to see him again. He returned the
sentiment with all his being, the horror of his captivity still fresh
in his mind.
     Then his skin color changed. From caucasian to blue-gray in the
space of two hours. Then the more severe changes began. The lengthening
of the bones, the painful elongation of his hands into claws, the
fierce pain in his back as *something* erupted from it. He fled his
home, the site of so happy a reunion, fearful and pained to the bottom
of his soul. How could his family love a monster?
     So he ran, and hid in the old shed on the edge of the Walters'
property, bundling himself in musty smelling sheets. And the changes
continued.
     Horny projections now grew out of his brow, his feet and hands
were huge and ended in sharp, blackened claws. His canines had erupted
and sharpened. Spurs of bone projected from his elbows and knees. And,
even though the pain in his back had not lessened, he now knew what was
growing back there.
     Wings.
     He shuddered and tried not to cry, his now dark-sensitive eyes
piercing the night, allowing him to see through the pitch darkness of
the wilderness with ease.

     She sat huddled in the center of her room, the joy of the reunion
shattered by the awakening of something inside her, something alien and
frightening. In the doorway of her room stood her parents, looks of
astonishment on ther faces. Both were wrapped in bathrobes and
shivering.
     For every square inch of their daughter's room was covered in a
thin sheen of ice, and ice that was clear and cold and slowly accreting
in a room where it should be melting.
     Tears of shame and fear slid down her cheeks, turning to ice as
they fell from her chin.

     It was good to be home, she thought, good to be free of those
nightmarish two weeks where she huddled in a state suspended somewhere
between consciousness and sleep. But all that was over now, all that was
passed. She was home, dropped off here yesterday by the Avengers, and
welcomed into the waiting, comforting hands of her parents and
grandparents and brothers and sisters.
     It was so good to be home, and in her room, after a nice long
shower, brushing her long, straight black hair. She watched herself in
the mirror as the brush pulled through her hair, seperating the
strands. She was searching to see if she had changed at all, hoping to
find that, like her home, she was the same as before.
     Without warning, her muscles spasmed uncontrolably, her face
contorted into a rictus grin as pain flooded her nervous system. As her
grip on the brush tightened, it suddenly distintegrated in her hand,
snapping into hundreds of pieces that flew about the room.
     She screamed, and the soundwaves exploded out of her mouth,
connecting with the mirror. Shards of glass blew about the room.

     He was back on the res, like nothing happened. One day you're
gone, freed into a slavery like nothing you've ever experienced, and
the next day you're back, two weeks of your life erased, yet everything
is as it was.
     The night was clean and pure out here in the desert. The stars
were bright and glimmering. Just like they always did. Just like
everything was okay. But nothing was okay. He was back in this prison,
back in this colonial minded hellhole, where the hope was bled out of
his people day by day. His father had sought refuge in a bottle and
dissappeared. His mother slaved so much to take care of his siblings
that she couldn't muster up the energy to welcome him home.
      She had hoped he had run away. Escaped. Instead he was back,
another mouth to feed. And his job was gone, replaced a week ago when
everyone thought he was gone. No big deal. He never planned on being a
gas attendant the rest of his life anyway.
      But that didn't smother the helpless rage that gripped him, didn't
alleviate the anguish in his heart. He looked at the stars in the sky
and cursed them for mocking him with their freedom. He yelled
wordlessly, unleashing his fury into the night. But it wasn't enough.
His mind suffused with anger, he attacked the boulder against which he
leaned, attacked it with his bare hands.
      The surprise he felt when it shattered under his onslaught was
enough to clear his head. *What the fuck is going on?*

      And on and on it went, as sixteen teenagers became aware of
their genetic potential, and mutant powers manifested themselves.
Sixteen lives were changed. Some for the worse, some for the better.
But each of them knew that their lives would never again be the same.

***********************************************************************

      Dick cradled his left arm, wrapped snugly in a cast. Nightcrawler
was apologizing again for not returning immediately. It had taken him
some time to locate medical personnel to take care of the wounded
soldier. News was that he was in critical condition, but the medics
figured he would pull through.
      Dick waved away the apology. "It's quite alright, Nightcrawler. I
did fine. The important thing is you got back in time, and the bastard
is now sitting in a high-security cell. Good thing he heals so quick.
He should be dead."
      Kurt nodded, still feeling bad about leaving Nightwing to the
clown's mercy. "Do you have any idea of who he might be? An American,
maybe?"
      Dick nodded. "Once I got a clear look at him in the light, I
recognized the style of the facepaint. He's a Grendel."
      "A what?"
      "A Grendel. They're part of some warrior society. Sometime
assassins. Br -- Batman had a run in with one of them a few years back.
It wasn't pretty. Other than that, I know nothing about him. Or
the other Grendels."
      Kurt shook his head. "I'm not happy to hear that there are others
like him out there."
      "Neither am I, my friend. Neither am I."

***********************************************************************

Nightwing is (C) DC Comics
Nightcrawler is (C) Marvel comics
Grendel is (C) Matt Wagner. None of them were used with permission, nor
am I making any profit on their use.

Siphon, Mars, etc. are (C) James M.G. Cannon, who is not a large,
soulless corporation, but is still possessive about his characters.

Please send all comments, critiscism, and dementia to:
X8CG@MUSIC.STLAWU.EDU

And remember that this story is now archived on Hawk's page:
http://gwis2.circ.gwu.edu/~hawk/fanfic.html