by Neil Gow

" Hi, this is Kent Clarkson for Astra TV, live from the Millennium Park in London's docklands and wasn't that a wonderful set by the Spice Girls? As midnight approaches and the millennium draws to an end, all around the country, and indeed the world, people are gathering to welcome in this new age. Astra have brought you some grand occasions over the years, but this reporter can't remember an event quite like this. The crowd has gone silent as they wait for the chimes of Big Ben to echo across the river from the Houses of Parliament to here at Greenwich."

Clive Reston cradles the exquisite crystal glass in his hand and swirls the whisky around. Reston had never liked office parties but this was more than just an office party - it was the official Ministry of Defence Millennium celebration, with a full quota of civil servants and defence industry movers and shakers in attendance. The irony of holding it is the Millennium Tower had not escaped Reston - but he could still hear the voices of his teams when he forgot to blank out the memories. The irony of course is that he had just received the paperwork that morning to sign off the demolition of the Tower in the new year. This party was really a wake for a project that the Ministry had decided was too expensive to continue to funding. They had ShockForce and they had the Metahuman Development Project - that would suffice.

" A penny for them?" Clive jumps at the voice at his shoulder and turns to see the rather dour face of Commander Stephen Harkness, the former leader of the Crusaders.

" Just looking at all these prats and wondering whether they realise what they're throwing away?"

" You got the orders then?"

" This morning...of course, I forgot they've given you a new assignment in Logistics haven't they?"

" Yeah - apparently my 'talents' are needed making sure that everything in the new system is co-ordinated properly. Kate's making a lot of demands to ensure that ShockForce is state-of-the-art when they go fully on line. Hell, I even get to chinwag with Lomax from Psi - it's a regular old-home week. Except without Dai, of course.."

" Yeah...Dai" Reston shakes his head," Bastards....anyway, you sound like you're having a great time..."

" Oh yeah, three months ago I was co-ordinating a battle save the country and probably the world from the powers of darkness, now I'm making sure that those essential spark-plugs get to the right people at the right time! What about you?"

" Oh they haven't quite got rid of me yet. Theoretically I should still be cleaning up after that mess with the Hellfire Club and then I'll be off to the MDP. The great mutant hunt continues - we've spent years encouraging the buggers to hide themselves and now we're putting out virtual 'your country needs you' signs!" Reston turns slightly and raises a glass to the portrait of a noble, bearded man on the wall - Sir Dennis Nayland-Smith - his late mentor. " Congrats, old man, you created something really special!"

My name is Linford and this is my third set of foster-parents. My social worker says that I'm still traumatised by 'the events that lead to the death of my parents'. My foster mother's adamant that it's the negative role-models the media presents for young. black boys. Me, I know exactly why I keep running away..

..when my dad disappeared, a man said he would help me find him. He was called Union Jack and he was a superhero. He said he would find him and that means that the social worker is wrong. Who would be right, a social worker or a superhero? My foster mother says that Union Jack is dead too, but when grown-ups say people are dead they are usually lying - like Union Jack proved. So I keep running away because I need to find Union Jack so he can find my dad.

I hope I find somewhere to stay soon.

Robyn Locke crouched high above Parliament Square, hidden behind a gargoyle carved into the building. Psi-Division has been spot on with their predictions, although it hardly took a genius to work out that on the night that the world was going to be partying, some of the criminals would try to take advantage of the chaos. Still, it had been a little incredulous when they had envisioned an attempt to bomb the Houses of Parliament. It would be such a symbolic gesture for whatever lunatic fringe was carrying out the attack that it would burn their name on the nations psyche forever and Robyn had to admit that there were a number of new groups that had come around recently after the re-appearance of Lyonesse - right wing groups scared of the threat to their precious anglo-saxon heritage.

And as if to underline the sheer scale of the threat, a white transit van comes screeching around a corner and guns it's engine, sending it smashing through a barrier fence and across the lawn towards the House.

Robyn Locke has spent years doing this but she still feels terrified sometimes by the responsibility placed in her hands, not as Robyn Locke, not as Agent 27 but as Sherwood. She raises her hand and produces the familiar silver tube that shoots out into a full-length bow. She plucks her finger across the electromagnetic 'bowstring' and a bolt of white-hot plasma shoots out, vapourising the right, front wheel of the van. It swerves as the driver fights to regain control and a second bolt melts the other front wheel, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering halt.

Realising that the game was up, the man driving what would appear to be a suicide bomb scrambles out of the drivers seat and begins to run, staggering across the grass. Another bolt of plasma causes the ground beneath him to explode and send him cartwheeling through the air. Sherwood lowers her bow and releases her breath. That was a lot closer than she would have liked. Dropping her comm-unit to her mouth from beneath her hood, she clears her throat.

" This is Sherwood. The threat has been dealt with. We'll need a Rapid Clean Up team and a bomb squad. I think the nutters still alive, so someone from Psi-Division as well. Sherwood out."

" Patrick!!! Patrick!!! Turn the bloody music down will you?? We're trying to listen to the telly!" His mother's voice roars up the stairs as Patrick sits in his room and lets the pumping guitars of his favourite thrash band assault his ears. He doesn't care about her or the rest of his bloody family.

He was sick of them and he was sick of living here in Derry and having to put up with the shit that went on here. The three years they had lived here had been a living hell - oh yeah, there was some sort of peace now, that's what the papers might say, but in reality you still have to keep some distance from the nutters that would wreck your kneecaps rather than look at you. He'd stuck around to help out his dad with the business, but he really had no interest in the garage and Joe was eighteen now and he was far more interested. Patrick really wanted to get out of this city and spread his wings and to do that he was going to have to get out of Ireland.

" Patrick, turn that down before your dad comes up there and turns it off permanent like!"

Patrick shakes his head and turns the volume notch up slightly. As if by magic he can hear the heavy footsteps of his father as he stomps up the stairs and along the landing. The door to his room slams open. " Turn that bloody noise down, it'll wake the dead, so it will!"

Patrick mouths a string of swear words at his father and turns his head away. A couple of seconds and then the music goes dead as the older man rips the plug out of the wall. " I've had about enough that I can stand of you, you lazy little.."

" Don't bother Dad, I know how hard you are, I know what you and your mates used to get up to when you were younger, so save your breath, OK?"

" You little..." Patrick's father raises his right hand and takes a step into the room and then stops stock still, his mouth falling open and his eyes like saucers. Before him, his son looks shocked at his father's reaction, but then he realises what he is staring it.

His hands, his arms and the rest of his skin have become covered in a strange, swirling blue pattern of tattoos.

" Jesus, Mary, mother of God! You're possessed!!"

Betsy Braddock shifts from one foot to another as she waits for the damned departure board to change from the seemingly infinite 'delayed' sign. Her eyes flicker back and forth, scanning the morass of humanity that makes up Terminal Three, Heathrow. All she wants to do is get out of this country and get back across to the States and the X-Men. At least they treated her with a modicum of respect and decency, not like the bastards at STRIKE! Betsy had worked for years with the various incarnations of the UK superhuman services before she finally took on her Psylocke identity for good and joined the X-Men. She even took on the role of Captain Britain for a while, but that proved to be disastrous.

And what did they do to her? When they needed her powers, when they needed her loyalty, they got some sneaky scum from Psi Division to ambush her and set up some sort of psionic lock in her mind that made her want to come back and work with them. Hell, if they'd just asked she would have probably come back anyway! What made it worse, what made it a hundred times worse was that it all just came apart at once, without any warning - as if the barrier they had set up had just been shredded by something and now... well, now she wanted nothing to do with them.

Things didn't get much better. When she left the Crusaders project she had to leave certain other luxuries behind too - like the handy little image inducer that they gave her to cover the scarlet lightning mark that the Crimson Dawn had left across her face. Now when you're a mutant anti-hero, these things don't bother you that much. but now - well, thank the Lord for the current penchant the nation seems to be having for bodyart! All they think she must be is a way extreme oriental chick.

Finally, after an eternity, the departure board began to flicker and change - and it was not the only thing that changed. Something inside Betsy Braddock's mind changed - the result not of a STRIKE Psi Division operative, but that of the telepathic member of the Hellfire Club's Inner Circle who shredded the barrier that kept her with the Crusaders and replaced it with...

Betsy Braddock turned on her heel and headed out of the terminal to the taxi rank, her only thought to get the central London and take her rightful place.

The stooped figure of Merlyn shuffles along the corridors of the Starlight Citadel. He was amazed at the regenerative qualities that Otherworld gave his home. The old place had faced a massive battle only a few months ago and yet now there wasn't even a scratch on the towers to show for it. Truly amazing.

" Merlyn! Are you coming to watch the festivities?" The vivacious blonde figure of Meggan floats down the corridor to meet the mage. Her new life in Otherworld has released her from the societal norms that made the empathic changeling in her take her normal form. Now she takes a mid-form between her blonde elfin state and her natural, incandescent pure form. She is utterly gorgeous.

" No child, I need to speak with Brian. You run along and have some fun. I'm always amazed how many people here in Otherworld still cling to their old traditions."

Meggan leans down to kiss the mage on the head and flies on. Merlyn shakes his head and continues down the corridor until he enters a state room with only one inhabitant, the imposing and awe-inspiring form of Brian Braddock, Captain Britain.

" Ah, Merlyn, is everything OK?"

" As ...'OK' as it ever will be Brian. I'm sure you want to get back to Meggan so what can I do for you?"

Brian was a little taken aback by the short nature of Merlyn's reply, but then again, with Roma's mysterious pregnancy on his mind, he could be excused. " I wanted to talk about the situation on Earth, my Earth. It's been a while now and we haven't heard anything from Linda. We need to recruit a new Captain Britain for that reality."

" No we don't."

" Every reality needs a Captain. That's part of the pact with the forces of Otherworld that gives us our powers. We need a new Captain."

" You only need a new Captain when the old one has died or the reality is reset in some way."

" What are trying to say Merlyn, this isn't a time to be cryptic!"

" I'm being very clear, Captain Britain...I do not see any real changes in the reality that you hail from."

" So Linda is still alive?"

Merlyn smiles at Captain Britain and disappears before his eyes.

" Look guv'nor, you really don't want to be going down that alley. We think there's three, maybe four bodies down there...but we can't quite be sure - there's an awful lot of bits scattered around the walls. Blood everywhere, guts too. And the strangest thing, they took the time to scrawl some words on the walls - 'blood' - which is pretty obvious to me?"

Dai Thomas slumps further down into his familiar padded armchair in the corner of the cluttered room he calls home. He is surrounded by half read books, crumpled newspapers and empty bottles. His eyes are dull and lifeless and his face is covered by a week's stubble. Through an open window, the sound of the bells of Big Ben echo across London, alongside the joyful cries of hundreds of thousands of revelers.

Dai looks around the room and his eyes fall on different things. A framed picture of his late wife Maggie during a visit to Blackpool in the eighties. She has a kiss-me-quick hat on and he is sporting a very tacky pair of comedy breasts. After that he spots a pile of old magazines, with some very familiar faces on the front. He had kept them all when the Crusaders had died. he wanted to keep some memory of them all; Linda, Joey, Sanjay, Scott, Molly, Jacquie, even Hywel. They were his friends and now they were gone. His eyes fell on the answerphone next, the red light blinking on and off repeatedly. Robyn has been calling him for a while now trying to get him to answer but he doesn't want to talk to her.

Finally, his eyes settled on a crumpled letter. It was a letter he had never believed he would receive, especially after so many years of service to Queen and Country. STRIKE, WHO, MI6 and the rest had all had a piece of Dai Thomas and he had always thought that would be the way he would go out, but not this way.

Commander Dai Thomas of WHO had been given compulsory early retirement in a cost cutting exercise and he honestly didn't know what he was going to do.

A series of computer banks gently hum as the small team of medical staff that the Braddock Trust have hired to watch over the comatose body of Jamie Braddock settle down to watch the festivities. Behind them the smooth medical environment casket holds Jamie's inert body stable until someone can find a way to shackle his reality-altering powers.

Without a sound, the air next to the casket begins to shimmer and digitise and finally the rather regal figure of Mastermind, the mansion's erstwhile sentient computer system, appears. He lowers his head down to the casket and lets his face pass through the plastic front.

He whispers into Jamie's ear. " I'm sure you can here me, Master James. We, that is myself, Lodestone and Oak, just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year. Sleep well Master James."

And with that Mastermind's holographic image shimmers back into the ether.

Thirty three shots of vodka down the throat, thirty three shots of vodka!

You tips it up and pours some more, thirty four shots of vodka!

Peter Wisdom was alone in the crowd, but he wouldn't have missed this night in Trafalgar Square for anyone. Goodbye old millennium, old memories. Goodbye Kitty Pryde and all you dead Crusaders! Hello the future - and a life of freedom.

Thirty four shots of vodka down the throat, thirty four shots of vodka!

You tips it up and pours some more, thirty five shots of vodka!

" This is Colonel Jeffrey Smythe of the STRIKE Metahuman Development Project. It's 11.55pm on the last day of the frigging millennium and I'm still stuck in this hellhole documenting the last of these reports. Happy New Year everybody. Anyway, the faster I get on with this the faster I can get down to the compound and join the guys from security.

The subject of the tests, code named Hotspur, by the creative types. She is a sixteen year old female, average intelligence and no particularly noticeable physical characteristics beyond those of a woman of her age hailing from a lower class family - slight nutritional deficiencies and a lack of muscular development.

The department's interest in the subject stems from her pyrotechnic mutant ability. Untrained and without any formative work by Psi Division training staff she still can generate phenomenal amounts of fire and heat. I shudder to think how effective she may be once the psi-guys are finished with her. Psych-profiles suggest she will be susceptible to a heroic persona - I would recommend her to be fast-tracked through into the new Crusaders program."

A packed dancefloor of businessmen, their wives and their lovers turns and spins as the orchestra finishes a rather jaunty waltz. The dancers stop and turn to applaud the musicians and wait the next melody. The vast converted Victorian theatre was awash with the very best people, drinking the very best champagne and eating the very best food, but then again they had paid the very best price for the tickets - but a ticket to a Hellfire Club ball doesn't come cheap at the best of times.

At the top of the room, Patch - his rebuilt face itching slightly under the artificial lights, stands with his hand on the waist of his companion, the telepath known as Steed. Her long black hair is piled high on her head and her black dress is just that little bit more daring than anyone else in the room.

" It's been a good year Patch, a very good year." She smiles and sips on her champagne.

" Yes, it has. The Crusaders are gone, and the Shadows have been blown to the four winds. The year two thousand - election year - and we're at the forefront of it all." He pauses and then nods at the door. " And here, m'dear, is the face of the future."

Striding past the rather flustered bouncers comes a powerful female figure. The red silk dress that she is wearing flows around her, accentuated by the wisps of shadow stuff that flow off her skin as he moves through the crowd. Her face is obscured by a hood made of the same material. The crowd parts for her as if she was pushing them out of the way with her very presence. Finally she reaches the space before Patch and Steed and throws back her hood to reveal the purple hair and crimson facemark of Psylocke!

" My name is Betsy Braddock, daughter of James Braddock and I claim the position of Red Knight as is my right and privilege!" She stares Patch in the eye, waiting for an answer.

Patch grins. " And we accept you, Betsy Braddock, as our Red Knight. Welcome to the Inner Circle!"

" And there you are ladies and gentlemen, Happy New Year!!!! Welcome to the new millennium!"

Yes, readers, welcome, to CRUSADERS:MILLENNIUM!

Next Issue - Crusaders:Millennium#1 - The plot thickens as the Hellfire Club gains another convert, Captain Britain begins a quest and everyone else does stuff too - hey, I never said it was going to be quiet!

Oh, and before some smart arse mentions it, no, the events depicted in the story are not flash frames of different people during the strikes of Big Ben - otherwise Betsy would have to get a damned good sprint on! Call it poetic licence!

See you soon!

Neil