My first attempt at a fanfic. Let me know if it's good, bad, or whatever. Having never done this before, I'd be definitely interested in suggestions on improvement, things I did wrong, etc. Most that appears here is included simply to lay the groundwork for parts that follow. I will continue to post the story, if others are interested. Otherwise, I shall continue the story for my own evil amusements and not torture others with it. ;) Each part of the story will be from a slightly different POV, be it a member of the HFC, Gen-X, or mercenary groups. I apologize in advance if there's anything unusual about how this shows up on the newsgroup. I used a plain old text editor, but when I copied it over I kept having problems getting it to space paragraphs properly. The Ever-Imporant Disclaimer: All of these characters belong to Marvel Comics. I am not writing this story for profit, but to alleviate boredom. My usage of Marvel's property in this story stems from my deep enjoyment thereof, and is in no way an attempt to violate their copyright. ______________________________________________ The Inner Circle: Smoke & Ashes - Part One ______________________________________________ Light pouring through open windows illuminated an exquisitely decorated room. A faint breeze caressed it's way between the expensive taupe-hued curtains, stirring the edges of papers laid out haphazardly on the floor and strewn across a large oaken desktop. A single chair sat behind this desk, and a few smaller ones were laid out between it and the room's single exit. Two of these latter chairs were occupied, one by a woman engaged in study and one by a man actively doing absolutely nothing at all. "The Jenkins boy might work." "Oh?" Tessa tapped the print-out with one finger, summarizing it briefly. "He's 16 years old, his parents are divorced, and he's somewhat on the introverted side... He's a member of the Club's youth society. The scan we ran there suggests that he has moderate mutagenic potential. He's scored rather poorly on IQ tests, but those aren't always..." Her companion waved a hand dismissively, sighing. "No good. The last thing we need to be dealing with right now is an idiot child." "I didn't SAY he was an idiot child..." "Well, that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it? Please, Tessa, go on to the next profile." The dark haired woman frowned darkly and shifted in her chair, depositing the sheet of paper she'd been perusing on the tabletop beside her. She picked up the next page in a stack tucked on her lap and began scanning it. "Well, this is interesting." "Do tell. How my heart fairly palpitates with excitement." "Jessica Meyerson. 17, both parents prominent members of the Club. Slightly overweight, but otherwise in good health. Speculation as to her mutant power suggests some form of teleportation, but..." "No good." "What? I can accept the assertion that we don't want stupid Hellions, but I fail to see how being a little chunky warrents disqualification." "It's not that. It's because she's a teleporter." "What the hell are you talking about?" Tessa demanded, feeling more than a little impatient. "They get tired of being used for nothing but ferrying things about like some sort of pack mule. Makes them resentful. The next thing you know you're sprawled out on the kitchen floor, suffocating to death, with your lungs draped over a tree-branch halfway across the country." "That's ridiculous. I'm putting her aside for further consideration." "Your funeral," her companion replied casually, trimming his fingernails with an ornate knife and flicking pieces over one shoulder. "I remind you, however, that I am perfecly qualified to know what I'm talking about here." "Trevor," Tessa said softly, tone free of inflection. "Yes?" The man responded, peeking in her direction. "Shut the hell up." Trevor smirked and turned away from her again, resuming his bladework. Tessa shook her head and rooted up the next piece of paper. She patted her stomache with one hand as it grumbled fitfully, demanding food. She dislodged it from her thoughts and looked over the page. "Eric Dyson. Age 19, and in good health despite a few slight disfigurements..." "Slight disfigurements?" Trevor stroked his green-hued goatee thoughtfully. "I have a hard time reconciling those two words in the same sentence. What kind of 'slight disfigurements' are we talking about here?" "What can I tell you, Trev? It just doesn't say. What it does say is that he's above average in intelligence and that his mutation, whatever it may prove to be, is of decent strength." Trevor rolled his eyes. "Hooray. With our luck that means he's able to sharpen pencils with his nose." Tessa glared at him and slapped the paper down next to Jessica's. "Consider him a potential recruit." "Joy and exultation." "Kathy Marston, age 9." "Nine? Scraping the bottom of the barrel here, are we?" "No evidence of mutation yet, but it does run in her family. Average development and intellect for a girl of her age." "I'd like to avoid joining Xavier's School of Cradle-Robbing, if you don't mind. Considering that she may or may not even develop a mutatation, it seems reasonable to me to exclude her from the equation alltogether." "Touche," Tessa said, unable to come up with a decent argument. She placed the paper atop the pile of rejected candidates and paused to rub her temples. She found herself caught up in a yawn and stretched her arms outwards, cinching her eyes shut. She recovered from the yawn in time to catch Trevor glaring at her over the edge of the chair he was sprawled in. "Do you mind?" He inquired. "Not at all," she snapped, rising from her own chair. She grabbed the bundle of unreviewed papers in her right hand and stuffed them at Trevor. "Here, YOU read these for a while. I'm going to catch myself a bite to eat." He sighed and began sifting through the papers. He examined the first and shook his head sadly before flinging it, barely read, over one shoulder. He continued in a like manner, several papers gliding in slow circles to the floor even as Tessa headed out the door. "I suggest you put a little more effort into the search," the woman said sharply, turning back to face him. "Sebastian wants us contacting the first of the recruits as soon as possible, and I don't want to be the one to tell him it's your laziness that made that impossible." Trevor looked up at her, eyes dark, and forced his lips into the semblance of a friendly smile. "Consider me warned." ---------------------------------------------------- Madelyne Pryor sighed, resting her chin heavily on the palm of her left hand. Her elbow in turn rested on the well-cushioned armrest of a large brown chair facing the room's outside wall. Thin, bright bands crept between downturned venitian blinds, painting narrow slats of light across a tufted carpet. Before her, a poker table had been set up and something much like a chessboard with hex-shaped spaces rested upon it. A number of small stone figurines in black and white occupied the gameboard in various positions, facing several different directions. There were half again as many white pieces as there were black, and the woman seated across from Madelyne wore a small, self-satisfied smile on her pale lips. Maddie absently twined a lock of her long, red hair between the fingers of her left hand, ignoring the bit of it that partially obscured her vision. Even had she been fully absorbed in the game, there was nothing that could salvage it now. "An interesting move," her opponent said dryly. The white-skinned woman shrugged, her long blond-white hair bunching where it collected at her shoulders and hung over the front of her white robes. "I can't say that I would have tried it, but... there we are." Madelyne tapped a finger of her right hand impatiently on the tabletop. "Yadda yadda yadda. I'm still learning how to play the stupid game, remember?" Scribe sighed and let her gaze linger on the playing field for a moment. Her pinkish eyes glowed slightly with their own ambient light as she ran her fingers over the captured bodies of a good number of Madelyne's playing pieces. "You're just unhappy because you're losing," the other woman decided at last. "The game may be many things, but it is certainly not stupid. In my time--" "Oh, brother," Madelyne muttered, rolling her eyes. "Here we go." "--this was the game of the affluent, of the elite. Only those with the highest order of taste tried their hand at Exile, as the commoners disliked it greatly. It is certainly not a game for the unintelligent." "Not to be rude or anything, but I'm about to puke over here." "Now, Madelyne," Scribe said patiently. "You're the only one among this wretched hive of villainy that I've been able to persuade to join me in a game. Give it time. You're a natural." "What I am," Maddie said, somewhat unpleasantly, "is annoyed." Scribe let a small smile touch her lips as she reached over the gameboard, lifting a small white figurine shaped like a sentinel. "Think of it as a distraction. Something to dispel the tedium. I know you aren't any fonder of club politics than I am, which is to say not at all, and I think it's nice that we gals get a chance to chit-chat." Madelyne raised an eyebrow. "Gals?" Scribe brought up her arms in a gesture of mock terror, sentinel suspended by it's head between her thumb and forefinger. "A thousand pardons, oh great mistress." She brought her arms down and placed the sentinel back on the board, where it sat diagonal to one of Maddie's pieces. She then straightened in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. "Yes. Us gals." Madelyne chose to ignore the incongruous comment, studying the gameboard. When she had first met Scribe they were competing for the role of Black Rook in the ranks of the Hellfire Club's Inner Circle. She had defeated Scribe in personal combat to prove her superiority, and in so doing uncovered the other woman's secret. Scribe had developed a symbiotic relationship with a body-stealing mutant known as Mountjoy, who was most decidedly not a 'gal'. A peculiar aspect of Scribe's own mutant powers made it impossible for him to 'digest' her, as he normally did with his prey, and while in residence he had complete control over her every action. When he was not in residence, Scribe was a near-mindless husk. That much, at least, he had accomplished in the course of his occupancy. Madelyne groaned inwardly at the notion of having a personal conversation with her opponent, but forced herself to ask the question. If nothing else, successfully stalling would grant her time to plan her moves out better than she had been. "What's on your mind, Mountie?" "Oh, this and that," the woman said, noncommital. Madelyne felt a brief flare of annoyance and managed to stiffle it. She was tired of others playing games with her, and Scribe's personality leant itself to toying with people. The game of Exile itself was at least honest and fair. She knew where she stood and knew that succeed or fail it was based solely on her abilities and not on the manipulations of someone else. Manipulation was the one thing in the world that Madelyne had absolutely no patience for. She had married, given birth, and died all at the whims of others, be they mad scientist, unfaithful husband, or demonic 'benefactors'. The Black Queen of the Hellfire Club had attempted to use her as well, and had found her plans completely backfiring as a consequence. It was, Madelyne decided unkindly, no less than Selene deserved. "A straightforward approach could be nice," she snapped. "If you're going to bring something up your might as well finish it." "Well," Scribe said, reclining. "I was thinking maybe there was something *you* wanted to discuss with *me*, actually." "Oh?" Madelyne frowned and slid a small, cannon-shaped icon towards Scribe's newly-placed sentinel. She couldn't capture it, but it would force Scribe to move her own piece somewhere else. Preferably back towards the other side of the board. Scribe only seemed to be half-concentrating on the game now, anyway. Not that this kept her from being a fearsome opponent. Even when not paying full attention Scribe was an expert at the game, her skills no doubt picked up during the digesting of some poor unfortunate in the future where Mountjoy was born. It was distasteful, to be sure, but interesting in it's own way. Maddie wondered idly if there was an upper limit to the knowledge her opponent could acquire in just that fashion. "I've been hesitant to bring it up, not wanting to stir the waters any further, as it were..." Maddie frowned, unconvinced. She thought she knew where this was headed. "Oh really." "I'm sure that you are aware of Selene's, well, displeasure over your present... association with Sebastian." Madelyne was suddenly distracted by the fact that her body temperature had risen considerably, and of how hot the conservative black outfit she was wearing really was. What had been moderate annoyance likewise increased a good few degrees, and she closed her right hand into a fist beneath the tabletop to keep it from trembling. She concentrated on keeping a straight face. This was most decidedly *not* a subject she wanted to deal with right now. "Do tell." "I think it might be a good idea if you laid off for a little while, gave some time for ire to cool on all sides..." More games. Scribe was as much a snake as the rest. Madelyne lost awareness of the other woman's words as she clenched her fists tighter yet, nails biting painfully into her palms. Scribe's voice faltered, and she recoiled somewhat when at last Madelyne looked up at her with eyes blazing pure, mindless fury. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Leaning casually against the wall in one of the jet's bathrooms, Martine held her make-up case in one hand. It was open, to reveal the usual assortment of colors and brushes that one would expect to find in just such a kit. The mirror itself had begun to fog over, a dim face that was not Martine's only barely visible within. A small earphone ran via a cord from the side of the casement and into the woman's right ear. "Miss me yet?" She asked coyly, keeping her voice as low as possible to avoid anyone outside the bathroom overhearing her. "Like a chancre sore," a man's voice responded, not unkindly. "How's the flight?" "As nice as can be expected. Benedict's snoring like a drunken elephant, the food's lousy, and a little boy across the aisle tried to throw up on me. Did I leave anything out?" "Let's sincerely hope not." "Ah, the joys of commercial airlines. Shinobi, I really don't know how much more of this I can take. It's bad enough that this isn't one of the club's private jets, but Kine keeps rambling about how you're going to find us anyway and blow the plane up." The indistinct blur in the mirror that was Shinobi Shaw said nothing for a short moment. "It must be infinitely entertaining to suffer from so many mental disorders." "Uh-yup," Martine answered briskly. "I was just checking in to let you know we're two hours from landing in London. Anything comes up, I'll let you know. Anything goes wrong, I'll likewise let you know. Otherwise, expect to hear from me when I retire to my room at the charter house tonight." "Good." The man said simply. Martine frowned, wondering if he really appreciated her situation. Accompanying the White King of the Hellfire Club on a private mission, one which may in fact involve the betrayal of the Manhattan club's entire Inner Circle, was certainly risky. Benedict Kine's acceptance of her loyalty to him might only be a ruse, and if that did turn out to be the case there would be few people in London capable of saving her from his wrath. Few that could risk blowing their cover so early in the game, anyway. There came an impatient rapping at the bathroom door. "I've got to go. Someone's waiting to use the privvy." "You do phone me from the classiest of places, Martine." "I try. I love you, mi'lord," she whispered quickly, beginning to fold away the make-up kit. "And I you," came the soft responce, the last thing she heard as she yanked the earphone from the kit and folded it in one pocket. She snapped the case shut and slid it back in her purse. She flushed the toilet for effect, paused, and then opened the door. An old man glared at her. "Shove it, fats," she snarled, and barreled past him. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tessa purposefully ignored Fitzroy as she left the room. She wasn't surprised to find that she was nearly shaking with anger. There was something about him that set her on edge, something about his mannerisms that drove her crazy. It wasn't just that he was conceited, egotistical, arrogant, sarcastic and overbearing. A good deal of the time his irreverence amused her. Her annoyance was at least partially due to the fact that he had thus far helped very little in coming up with a reasonable selection of candidates for the project assigned them. His only real input was the occasional snide comment. Tessa walked down the hallway, lit by light pouring in through windows framed with dark curtains. The world outside was held at bay by that thin pane of glass, unaware of the mazes of intrigue being woven in the corridors of the mansion they thought of solely as a meeting place for the wealthy and well-to-do. Conspiracy was the blood that kept the body of the Hellfire Club alive, and greed the dark heart that pumped that blood even to the furthest removed of it's organs. She wondered briefly if anyone did indeed suspect the sorts of things that went on here, following the nastiness that transpired with Black Air and Excalibur not long ago. The accidental near-destruction of the entire city of London was the sort of thing that could make for extremely poor public relations. Ironically, it was just that fiasco that made it possible for her Circle, which had been based in Hong Kong, to take up residence. Her stomache grumbled again, unhappily, and she made her way slowly up a stairwell, planning to have a servant bring food to her room. "Idiot," she muttered to herself, thinking of Fitzroy and hoping outside of all hope that he'd make at least a half-hearted effort of selecting reasonable candidates. Honestly, she really didn't understand why the man was involved in the project at all. Some years earlier he had taken it upon himself to brutally murder the children the Hellfire Club was molding into their future elite, destroying years of investment and effort. It had cost the Club not only invaluable assets in the form of these students, but the service of their former White Queen, Emma Frost. Without her, locating new and impressionable young mutants was much more difficult. Considering Trevor's role in those transpirings, it seemed to Tessa, at least, that he should be the last person involved in the selection of new Hellions. Her own involvement was due to her primary mutation, which allowed her to analyze data and make excellant decisions or recommendations based on that data. Her mind was like a computer in many respects, though she had laid that part of herself aside in recent months as she pushed her fledgling telepathic talents to the limit. Frowning, Tessa found that despite herself she couldn't deny Trevor's intelligence. That was perhaps the most infuriating part of all. That someone of such intellect wasted their time in ill-thought out aggressiveness and egoism. All that aside, even if she lived to be a thousand she would never be able to dislodge from her mind the savagery of the Hellions' deaths, and all that wasted potential. The children had been murdered senselessly, for some real or imagined slight on the part of the late White Queen. Tessa didn't know Trevor's motives, and she didn't care. The man oozed malignancy, and for all his faux charm she would have as little to do with him as possible. She sincerely hoped that some day Emma would find him and pound a stake through his black heart, for all the good it would do her. His ability to absorb and redirect life-force apparently gave him a sort of functional immortality. It was likely the only reason Selene hadn't killed him yet herself, after he had betrayed her and tortured her some time back. She was distracted from her thoughts by a crash and a shout, and raced up the last few stairs into another hallway at the top floor of the mansion. She paused there until she heard a shuddering boom from a door to her left. Hurrying there, Tessa pressed herself up against the wall in such a way that if the door were to be flung open it would miss her entirely. She reached into the chamber with a delicate mindprobe, and the scene unfolding within immediately became clear to her. She yanked the door open and ran into the chamber, even as her mind registered exactly how stupid a maneuver it was. Tessa repressed those thoughts. She was attempting to make herself more human, not basing all her actions on what may or may not be most pragmatic at the time. "Madelyne!" She shouted. "Stop that!" She winced as Maddie raised a wooden gameboard and smashed it down atop Scribe's head, sending pieces flying in wild directions all about the room. Tessa caught one of the small, stone projectiles and clasped it in her hands, kneading it nervously. Scribe was concentrating on defense, but it was apparent that at any moment the woman was going to lose her composure. Madelyne screamed in inarticulate rage and hefted up a poker table, pieces that had been removed from the board earlier cascading off the edge behind her as it tipped wildly upwards. Scribe's expression was grim, and she drove a booted foot into Madelyne's stomach. The other woman, unbalanced, flew backwards into an easychair. The poker table, in turn, flopped over the back of the chair and crashed to the floor with a bang. "Stop it!" Tessa repeated. She moved forward and placed a restraining hand on Maddie's arm. "Madelyne, calm down!" Madelyne looked at her with furious eyes and her arm darted outwards. Tessa had just enough time to blink in surprise, and then she was flying across the room. Sighing dejectedly, she braced herself for the inevitable impact with the rapidly approaching wall. ---------------------------------------------------------- Donald Pierce smirked as he watched Tessa's body sail past a Hellfire Club's upper floor window. It was all visible from his hotel room, as his cybernetically enhanced eyes expanded his ability to see distant details. It amused him to see the Inner Circle in such disarray. Sebastian Shaw had denied Pierce's petition for re-entry following the debacle of the Tomorrow Project, and was now apparently left baby-sitting a good many spoiled children. Rubbing his hands together in sudden anticipation, he turned to look at the telephone, as if he could make it ring by force of will alone, and thanked Shinobi Shaw for the thousandth time. Benedict Kine was the White King of Shinobi's Inner Circle, and apparently a big trouble-maker. He was further suspected of dealing with Sebastian Shaw, possibly helping him in scheming to displace his son's own Inner Circle. If this was the case, Donald and his Reavers were to insure that nothing would ever come of the meeting, save for perhaps a pair of badly mutilated corpses. Succeeding in that would earn him the White Kingship that Kine had squandered. His eyes flicked to a clock on the bedstand, and it informed him that Kine would be arriving in London shortly. Some time after that he was to meet another of the individuals Shinobi had involved in his powerplay in a restaurant nearby renowned for its privacy. It was not a reunion he was looking forward to, though he and the woman wanted much the same thing out of one of the Hellfire Club's members, at least. He had no idea what Shinobi had bribed *her* with, but with Emma Frost at his side it was inconceivable that they would achieve anything less than complete victory. And it would be a most pleasurable victory indeed.