DISCLAIMER!!!! Full disclaimer will appear in the end of the final bit.
Suffice to say, I'm ripping off a bunch of Marvel characters and I'm not
paying them for it. Then again, I'm not getting any money from this either,
so they should have no reason to fuss.
WARNING!!!!!!!!! This is a fanfic only for the mature. It is NOT a happy
story, or a "fluffy" story. People die in here, usually messily. If you're
reading this, you probably read "Devil's Due," so you know what you're in
for. If you have not read "DD" then I suggest you go read that first, cause
this won't make much sense otherwise. You can find it on Lori McDonald's
page.
NOTE!!!!! This story does take place in continuity (or at least I tried).
Go into your back issues to the time around X-Mas '96. After the whole
Onslaught mess. That's when this story begins. For anyone unfamiliar, this
one is Interlude, the sequel to Devil's Due. It was meant to be the set-up
for a mini-series that would conclude the Devil's Due time line, but my
interest in it was not up to the task. This story picks up right after DD
and should fit vaguely into that timeline
Laersyn

                                 Interlude
                                  Part 4
       the in-between story of "Devil's Due" and its upcoming sequel
                                 by Laersyn

        Scalphunter frowned deeply, scratching his stubbled chin. Harpoon
and his team were not checking in. There could be no good reason for that.
Of course, it made no sense at all to think these...**children** could take
down Prism, Harpoon and Vertigo. He checked the radio again to see if was
busted.
        "Come on, Scalp, let me at them," Riptide was almost quivering in
excitement.
        "Not yet, Rip. I put you in reserve for a reason."
        Riptide knelt down and started picking disinterestedly at the
grass.  "I **hate** playing back-up, boss."
        "Tough," Scalphunter snapped. "We've got problems. Harpoon isn't
responding."
        "Probably forgot which part of the radio to talk into," Riptide
muttered.
        "Shut up, Rip. We'd better go-"
        Scalphunter was one of the few people who would instantly recognize
a heavy-round fired through a silencer as instantly as he did. With veteran
reflexes, he had his short rifle out and was scanning the surrounding area.
        Riptide was staring in confusion at the blood trickling down his
chest.
        The second shot came just before Scalphunter saw the figure in the
trees. The sniper's bullet took Scalphunter in the skull, snapping his head
back and sending him sprawling.
        Riptide glanced around blearily and then fell face forward into the
dirt.
        Cable climbed out of the tree that he had so carefully assumed
position in and checked over his two marks. He had not arrived soon
enough...had dawdled too long...burying...his friends. To be fair, and he
always tried to be fair, he had not expected the students to still be here.
His message to Frost had been quite specific.
        Apparently she had waited too long too.
        He had come here to double-check and possibly lay a trap for the
murderers if they did show up, only to find the aftermath of a full-fledged
war. A war....
        "They were just kids," he thought with a deep ache in his heart.
"Not soldiers like me and my...my parents..."
        Everything was hurting right now, but he did not have the time to
allow for it. Frost was still alive, and maybe others could be saved.  He
had to try.
        "Nice work," Guido approved suddenly.
        Nathan started to bring his gun up, but stopped when he saw who was
coming into the clearing. The grotesquely twisted mutant was standing in
front of an obviously frightened and confused girl he believed he had been
told was Penance. Cable holstered his gun. "Is she...?"
        "The only one?" Guido finished. "Seems so."
        Cable nodded slowly. "I see."
        "I've been out of it, Nate, what's been going on?" Guido asked.
        Cable felt bile burning in his throat. "Sinister apparently decided
he'd had enough of us, and ordered his Marauders to take us out. He hit
X-Factor, Banshee and Siryn first, then took on the X-Men. My team and I
were going to go hold up somewhere, but before we got there, the Marauders
ambushed us. I...got away..." He shuddered.  "Sunspot took the hit for me."
He shook his head, wondering why such a young, vibrant man had traded his
life for an old soldier's carcass. "Excalibur got blown out of the sky, and
now... well, it's over."
        Strong Guy was ashen-faced. "What should we do now?"
        Cable rubbed his weary eyes. How long had it been since he'd
slept...?  "You two should go underground, hide, wait and see what happens.
Me, I've got to handle this my own way."
        "Hey, I thought we X-types stuck together," Guido pressed, his own
desire for vengeance showing plainly on his face.
        Cable's expression was grim. "We do, but the rules have changed.
This is bush-work; guerrilla warfare. You aren't trained for this."
        Guido sighed and looked down at Penance. "I suppose that's for the
best. I gotta take care of her, anyway." He held out his hand. "Good luck."
        Cable grasped it firmly. "See you in hell," he returned with a
tight grin.
                                   *****
        In the late evening of that day, only one person moved on the
grounds of the Massachusetts School. A worn, battered figure still hurting
from his awful ordeal at the hands of the Marauders, sat alone in the quiet
control room. In his arms lay the bloody, mangled form of his baby sister.
He could hear the police outside, moving around, scoping out the crime
scene. They would come upon him soon enough. Then they would take Paige
away, put her in a van and bring her to the morgue.
        "Hush little baby don't say a word..." he half-sang, just like all
the times he had sang her to sleep. Tears streamed down his face in an
unimpeded stream. Great, racking sobs shook his frame like a great wind
rustling fragile leaves. His heart was lead in his chest. He had lost
everything this day. His friends, his sister... Everything.
        Sam Guthrie cursed himself for not having gotten here quicker. He
cursed God for having abandoned his poor little sister to this fate.  And
he cursed his own body's double-edged gift of immortality that being an
External brought him.
        For Sam wanted nothing more then and there but to join his friends
and Paige.
        The door opened. They took her away from him. They tried to ask him
questions, but he spoke to no one. He simply stumbled out of the school and
soared off heavenward, heading home to tell his mother that he had broken
his promise to keep Paige safe.
                                   *****
        //A month later\\
        The dirty, reeking figure skulked into the hospital, careful to not
be seen. His matted blonde hair was held back by an old Yankee's cap he'd
found in the same dumpster he had gotten his ratty coat from. The scraggly
beard he had gave evidence to how long he had gone without seeing the
inside of a bathroom. His eyes, once kind and gentle, were now filled with
a soul-deep, lost-child madness.
        He found John Doe in a large wing reserved for the indigent and the
nameless patients. John Doe was asleep, the curtains closed around his bed.
The homeless man slipped through the curtains and surveyed the damage done.
A thick swath of bandages was wrapped around his eyes and his right leg was
tightly wrapped and suspended.
        For a long while, there was only silence. The homeless man was
shaking, though, and for the first time in months, the fog behind his eyes
was gone.
        "They'll pay, Scott," Alex Summers croaked. His voice was raw and
dry from long disuse. He had not actually spoken at all since... His mind
recoiled from memories of Onslaught. From the knowledge that he had been a
puppet to the madman. Those memories were the sledgehammers pounding into
the foundation of his sanity, and he had to ignore them. He had something
he needed to do. "They will pay for doing this to you. For k-k-killing Jean
and...and...and Lorna..."
        His voice broke at the last and tears crawled down his grimy
cheeks.  It was a cleansing, fortifying grief, though, sluicing away all
the inconsequentialities and leaving him with only one unwavering thought;
one hunger.
        Revenge.
                                   *****
        //Two months later\\
        John Carlton sat at his desk, staring at the grizzly pictures
collected from Massachusetts, New York, Washington D.C. and Vermont.  A
massacre on a scale he had not seen since that ugly business down in the
tunnels. He frowned and picked up the photos from New York.  That was the
worst part. Not only had one of these mass murders taken place in the same
tunnels as the one years ago, but it was obviously the work of the same
team.
        The main difference was that this time, thankfully, evidence had
been left behind. A host of clues that identified the murderers. A trail of
blood and mangled corpses that lead, inexorably, to the doorstep of Nathan
Essex.
        What bothered John Carlton about it all was that the M.O. had
changed.  The Marauders were undoubtedly dangerous, cunning and brutal, but
they had never shown any inclination towards this sort of deliberate,
malevolant plotting. The specially constructed secret passages in the
tunnels, surveillance cameras -everything... it all pointed to a
well-conceived plot.
        Carlton had already made a mental note to himself about not
underestimating the killers himself.
        There was a polite rap on the door and John looked up. Anna
Mayfaire came in, her serene gaze somewhat critical. "John, you need
sleep."
        "You won't get any argument from me, but I just don't have time,"
the senior agent replied. "A cup of your coffee and I'll be good as new."
        She smiled faintly. "I'll be right back with it. Sergeant Heathers
is here, sir."
        John Carlton nodded. The sergeant had been the investigator first
on the scene in New York. A credible detective, he had yielded this
investigation to Carlton with nary a protest. "Send him in."
        Anna nodded and left. Jim Heathers was a typical New York
detective.  Too many hoagies and cigarettes had made him into a chubby,
sallow-faced man. He settled himself in front of Carlton and leaned back.
"You wanted to see me?"
        Carlton nodded. "Yes, I needed to ask you a few questions about the
mass murder in New York. I was reviewing your reports and I came across
your notation that initially you counted the remains of twenty bodies. Then
you revised that number to nineteen. I am curious as to why?"
        The sergeant shrugged. "A miscount, it happens."
        Carlton picked up the report in question. "Sergeant, you are a
veteran investigator. You know as well as I that in a case such as this
great care is taken to not make that kind of error. Now tell me about his
missing body."
        Jim sighed gruffly. "Well, look, I think it was a miscount. I mean,
god damn, there were bodies down there that had to be put into hefty bags
they were so mangled."
        "However..." Carlton insisted.
        Jim shrugged. "Well, we have a picture of this blonde guy - real
freaky kind of guy with claws and sharp teeth...but when we started pulling
bodies, he wasn't there. With these muties, though, the lord only knows
what happened."
        "Sabertooth," John Carlton thought worriedly.
        His reports stated that the psychopathic killer was no longer
associating with Sinister. It would get very ugly if that were not the
case.
        "Sergeant, I think it is unprofessional to refer to mutants in a
derogatory fashion," he reprimanded the officer mildly.
        Jim snorted. "Oh don't tell me you actually care? Hell, if those
freaks wanna kill each other, I say more power to them."
        Carlton glanced down at the reports with a frosty expression.
"Thank you, sergeant, that will be all."
        Heathers rose with a disgruntled look. "It don't make sense for us
to get mixed up in their affairs," the sergeant told him. "Everytime we mix
with them, one of us gets killed. Look what happened to Captain America."
        "There are at least seven dangerous killers out there, Sergeant
Heathers. It is my job to find them and bring them to justice. No one
deserves to be murdered."
        "Not even those gene-joke freaks?"
        "Sergeant, I am a man of considerable patience, but you are
exhausting them. My wife happens to be a latent mutant."
        The police officer stared at him in shock and more than a little
disgust. Then he turned and started to go.
        "One last thing, sergeant," Carlton spoke up. Jim Heathers paused.
"Before you go off to Smiley's and toss back a beer to celebrate the loss
of thirty plus mutants, think on this: Those were the last defense we
humans had against super-powered criminals. It is now up to the police to
save us from the likes of Doctor Doom."
        The detective left with a scowl across his face. Carlton sat back
in his chair, thinking. It never ceased to amaze him how people could let
such trivial things cloud their judgement. With a shake of his head, he
picked up the latest report and began to read.
                                   *****
        //1 year after the murders\\
        Light.Weightlessness.Joy.Relief.Memory.
        He was constrained, trapped. There was light somewhere, a welcoming
warmth that he was cruelly denied. He struggled against the black weight
dragging him down, desperate for the comfort he sensed so tantalizingly
close. The oily, murky black would not release him. He could not be free of
it. He could not get loose from it. The light
began to fade, leaving him alone and frightened.
        *thump*
        Pain.Fear.Despair.Cold.
        The weight was all around him, enveloping him, choking him. He
could not move or even struggle. He was a prisoner trapped in a
constricting cell. Nothing responded to his command, no matter how he
fought. Yet the path to the light was gone, so this was all that was left
to him. He felt the pain, the terrible, wrenching agony, however, and used
it to push himself onward into the dark.
        *thump...thump...*
        Fire.Loss.Hate.Fury.Love.
        The dark began to waver, yielding to his unrelenting will. He felt
as if he were a statue, immobile - witness to all, participant in nothing.
Still he fought on, swimming through the murky shadows towards whatever
fate lay within them.
        *thump...thump...thump, thump, thump...*
        Blistering, soul-peeling, love-rending agony.
        A scream of the damned.
        The darkness swirled away, leaving him in a purgatory of gray.
        A breath of stale air.
        *Must...*
        *Be...*
        *Free...*
        A fist smashed into the wood above him - and it cracked. Another
sledgehammer blow splintered more crafted timber. Beyond that was cement,
which yielded as well to the unnatural strength of the newly-resurrected.
Desperately, he clawed his way upward, choking on dirt. The earth gave way.
He could feel air on his icy hands now. He pulled, wriggled, thrashed and
did not cease until he at last emerged from the earth like a babe from the
womb.
        Darkness all around. Stars up above. A stone marker at his back.
        He screamed again, a soul-piercing wail as every sinew and bone
filled once again with life and strength. His soul, though, was still
trapped in the murky gray, caught between this life and the hereafter. The
trembling figure collapsed on the ground and went fetal, writhing as the
unnatural sensation of half-life contradicted everything he knew of
existance.
        His bright, pure-white wings wrapped around his convulsing form. A
crow cawed nearby, and he found that he understood it. The black bird was
calling his name, and he knew it was his, even though he did not know fully
who he was. Though somewhere, deep down, he felt his purpose, and he knew
that he would fulfill it.

                              To be continued
                            Return to main Page
in The Crow
Angels Never Die

"Okay, well, maybe not... The response to this story was rather lukewarm
and my ability to write a Crow-fic proved so limited that I chose to not
continue with this thread. Suffice to say, the Marauders had a very bad few
months... " <G> "And there is talk of an official sequel by one of the
biggest names in the fic-community. If it pans out, you'll get to see real
writing in action!"

>>----Laersyn--~^~>