LINKS IN THE CHAIN

X-Men fan fiction by Mitch Kelly

The X-Men and all the characters therein are the property of Marvel
Corporation. No infringement is intended. Shadowflash, Stalker and The
Highest Society belong to me!

There is some sexual content (innuendo really) and some of the language is a
bit strong! You've had yer warnin'!

Prologue

A sound. Faint, but there. Most people would not have noticed. This man did.
There it was again. He looked around him, seeing his surrounding: a damp,
dirty side street in one of Manchester's less agreeable areas. And four men:
youngish, untidily dressed, rough looking. One holding an axe handle,
another a length of chain, a third an empty wine bottle. He looks around
again. No way past them, no way out - except through them. It's happening
again, he thinks. Why won't they leave me alone? He speaks:
"Come on lads, what d'you want? Money? Well, look at me: I'm skint. You can
have my clothes, if you want." It is a deep, reasonable voice, with the
accent of the south of England. One of the younger men looks nauseated at
the prospect of the man's clothes.

"Old twat! We're after a laugh, and you're it." The lone man shakes his
head. It has come to this again. Kids out to pick on and beat up a
defenceless tramp. Or that's what it seems. They're more than that, of
course. Think that they can just make unfortunate problems like him
"disappear" with violence, and enjoy themselves into the bargain. Well, it
might be that the laugh is on them this time.

The four spread out, moving around the lone man, who takes off his
threadbare greatcoat. They rush at him, and find that he is no longer where
they thought he was. He moves like a ballet dancer: the rough clothing
belies the speed and grace of his movements. The first one strikes out with
the axe handle, and a kick from the lone man connects with his groin. He
drops the axe handle and falls to his knees, vomiting. The lone man is on
the move constantly. He nonchalantly blocks a blow from the empty bottle,
dodges the whirling chain and catches the bottle-wielder a massive punch to
the jaw. He drops, his head striking the pavement hard. The bottle falls
with a crash, shattering. The lone man dodges the chain again, then slips,
and half falls. He curses as the broken glass cuts his leg. The chain whips
around. The man raises his arm, and the chain whips around it, tangling. He
pulls the chain wielder, trying to drag him off his feet, but the youth is
well-balanced, and pulls back. They wrestle for a moment. The fourth youth
has pulled out a knife and is advancing on the lone man, on his blind side.
He turns, seeming to detect the threat without any of his senses, but
realises he can do nothing, entangled as he is with the chain wielder. He
knows that the end is coming.

There is a sound like a sheet of metal being torn. The knife wielder is
hurled against the wall, and falls to the ground unconcious. The chain man,
with a look of amazement on his face, takes his attention from the lone man.
He suffers for this lapse. A stone hard fist cracks against his face, once,
twice, three times. He falls. The bottle wielder has recovered a little and
is cowering in the alley. The lone man looks up to see another. This man, a
little under six feet, stocky, with long dark blond hair, looks at him. Of
the assailants, two are unconcious, and one is on his knees, whining softly,
with his hands pressed to his wrecked genitalia. The newcomer speaks.
"Best we get ourselves out of here. Plod'll be along shortly." A
Yorkshireman, thinks the lone man, who nods. He picks up his coat and the
two walk off down the street without a backward glance. The Yorkshireman
speaks: "Happen we'd better get that cut cleaned up. I know somewhere where
we can." 

The lone man nods, watching his newfound ally, then speaks himself.
"I'd have managed it you know. Taken all of 'em. I've done it before, loads
of times. But thanks anyway." The newcomer grins a little: a wolfish
expression. "You're a mutant, aint'cha?" It is a statement, not a question,
really. The newcomer's face hardens a little, then he nods. "Thought so. I
am too, but not so's you notice."

"I am. And you do notice." The newcomer removes the dark glasses he has been
wearing, to the confusion of the lone man. The lone man sees his eyes: black
orbs into which light simply sinks. They do not reflect the moon, or the
streetlights. "Name's Paul Shearer. They call me Shadowflash." The lone
man's face betrays nothing.

"Graham Palmer. Sometimes called Stalker." He extends his hand. The other
takes it: the grip is strong, confident in both directions. 

"Come on." says Shadowflash. They walk until they find a pub. Shadowflash
walks in. The barman appears on the point of saying something as Palmer
follows, then catches the look he gets from Shadowflash, and thinks better
of it. Shadowflash directs Palmer to the gent's and speaks to the barman. A
bandage and a safety pin is forthcoming from the first aid box. Shadowflash
orders two pints of Taylor's Landlord, then takes the bandage into the
toilet to Palmer. A few moments later, Palmer rejoins him in the bar. He has
taken the opportunity to wash himself, and looks better for it. Shadowflash
gestures to the beer, and Palmer takes a sip.

"Been a while," he says. "Longer still since I ate." He eyes the tray of
cheese and ham rolls behind the bar. Shadowflash asks the barman for one of
each, and pays. Palmer demolishes one in three bites, then takes the other
more slowly. A little more slowly.

"Exactly how long HAS it been since you ate?" asks Shadowflash, curiosity
overcoming politeness. Palmer considers for a moment.

"I had a Mars bar last week. And some water about the same time."
Shadowflash's face betrays him. Palmer grins. "Me mutant power. I can go for
weeks without eating, nearly two without drinking. Plus I'm a bit tougher, a
bit stronger and a bit quicker than most. And me senses are a bit sharper.
That's me: like most people, just a bit more so. Handy in me former line of
work."

"Which was?" Shadowflash feels driven to ask the question. If Palmer is
going to be forthcoming, why stop him, he thinks. He told Professor Xavier
that during his time in Britain, he would keep an eye open for likely local
talent. He had promised not to tread on Excalibur's toes, but nonetheless he
had been asked to keep his eyes open. Palmer was the first luck he'd had.
"Formerly, I was Sergeant Graham Palmer, Special Air Service." Palmer says
with a grin, as Shadowflash lets out a low whistle. 

"SAS? Wow. Why'd you come out? Medical discharge? It's just you don't look
like the type who'd have wanted to leave." Shadowflash asks the question
carefully, not wishing to uspet the other man.

"Discharged on account of being a mutant." replies Palmer, with a shake of
his head. "Three years back. They kicked all the mutants out of the
services, said there was a potential for conflict of interest. Chucked the
whole lot of us out." Palmer shook his head. "I was good too. Able to
survive without food or water, keen senses, all that: that's why they called
me Stalker. I didn't miss too much." Another smile, a memory of happier times.
Shadowflash shakes his head. He had heard about the mass dismissal of
mutants from the UK government's employ, but had forgotten. Or wished to.
All sectors, not merely the armed forces, suffered: all parts of the Civil
Service, the Police, even Ambulance and Fire crews had been dismissed. A
supposed conflict of interest. With whom, thought Shadowflash? He looks at
Palmer, and after a moment, asks a question.

"Look, I'm on the lookout for a few mutants as can handle theirselves: you
know, can fix problems, sort out things that other people can't - or won't.
Are ye interested?" 

Palmer considers a moment, sipping his beer.

"Is it all Kosher? Legal and so on?"

"Let us say that them as I'm talking about are on the side of the good guys,
and in general, law enforcement groups leave'em alone." It is Shadowflash's
turn to smile, remembering happier times, and other people. "Anyway, it's
stateside." 

"What, X-Factor, or the Avengers? Heard of them when I was SAS, and I often
wondered why we didn't have something like it ourselves." Palmer is
interested, leans forward in his seat.

"No," said Shadowflash. "Not X-Factor. The X-Men. Of course, at the moment
it's provisional: you'd have to come back with me, do some tests and the
like, satisfy them as are in charge that you're useful and committed."
Shadowflash briefly thought of his own "apprenticeship" with the X-Men, and
how badly he had taken to the whole concept. Still, he thought, Palmer was a
squaddy: leastways he'll be used to Scott bloody Summers shouting orders and
expecting to be obeyed!

The two men carry on talking for a moment, then address themselves to their
beer. They drink slowly and carefully. Neither expects anything to happen,
but both are wary, not merely of outsiders, but of each other. It has been a
long time since either of them made friends easily. Still, they enjoy each
other's company, and find much in common.

Suddenly, the bar room explodes in a flash of light, scattering broken glass
across the floor. The barman dives for cover, and Stalker turns over the
table behind which he and Shadowflash were sitting. The mutants are not
stunned, or even, it seems, very surprised. Shadowflash has loosed a wall of
darkness, warned by stalker's superkeen senses. Men burst into the room as
Shadowflash looses a darkbolt, flattening the first one. 

"Quick, let's get out of here," says Shadowflash. Stalker grunts agreement
and the two sneak toward the back door of the pub, covered by the dark..
Both men fully expect to find someone waiting in the alley. They are not
disappointed. A short brutal fight ensues, and the two mutants race off down
the street, leaving three battered street thugs behind. Street thugs with
stun grenades. After a few moments, Shadowflash looks at Stalker.

"Does trouble ALWAYS folllow you like this."

"Recently it has." shrugs Stalker. "You see, I never could keep my nose out
of things that I think are my business. And someone doesn't want me to tell
anyone what I've found out this time." 

Shadowflash looks sharply at him. 

"You'd better explain." Stalker shrugs, and in two minutes elucidates what
he knows. Shadowflash pales a little, then clears his throat.

"D'ye have a passport?" he asks.

"Yeah," says Stalker, fishing one from his pocket. "Why?"

"Because we are on the first commercial flight to New York I can get us on."