This story features Neo-X and related characters, which are characters of Psipher and Shaylinn; X-men are
trademarks of Marvel comics. This is an unauthorized work and no profit is being made on this work.
This work is © of Psipher 2006. Please do not archive without permission of creator.

For the most part, Sonja Valle didn't care much for the lyric she had just recorded. In her opinion it was "way too pop-mainstream-bubble-gum-sellout-bullshit-drivel". But that's what sold albums and paid the rent - at least the brainless wonders at the record label believed. Sonja strongly disagreed.

Danse Macabre had worked hard making a name for itself hitting the bar circuit and underground venues scraping and clawing to garner its legion of loyal fans. The big question in Sonja's mind was, would that same fan base cozy up to "Lunatic Shimmy"? Co-writer Darla Hinkle assured her that they would. She had written and co-produced the band's debut album, and had a knack for keeping their sound fresh, hip and on the cutting edge. "Fortune's Fate" had gone quadruple platinum, and the expectation was that the current album would top even that.

Still, Sonja wasn't sure that a throwback to the sound of vintage hip-hop R & B was right. Secretly, she also wondered how much the first album's success was due in part to the notoriety the group gained by causing a major ruckus during the previous year's "Phoenix Day" celebrations. Reluctantly she called out to the recording booth, "Basil, I want to do that last verse again. Stay with me, I may free style a little and grunge it up a bit."

"Sure thing love." Basil Kirkwater, AKA Hooligan, spoke softly into his microphone. "I guess princess wasn't happy with that take." He had previously laid down the percussion for the track while Darla and bass player Angeline Duchense had recorded some rather intricate strings and electronic accompaniments.

"I'm really getting tired of her friggin' prima donna attitude." Darla complained. She reached over Basil's shoulder and toggled the mic switch. "Just sing the shit the way we rehearsed."

Sonja rolled her eyes and tossed her hands up in mock defeat.

Basil "scrubbed" the digital mix effect back to an appropriate intro, tweaked a few settings, and began recording. "Okay, Sonny, whenever you're ready you can pick it up and run with it."

Sonja stepped up to the mic and replaced her headset. She closed her eyes and listened to the music that piped in; giving herself over to the rhythm, she was determined to salvage the tune.

"I dance on your grave
Spit in your face
Dance the Lunatic Shimmy
Soul on fire
Dance of the devil
Ya' bullshit ain't on the level
Never was
Never was
Never will be
Dead to me
Is all you are
Soul on fire
Dance of the devil"

Sonja removed her headset once again and looked over her shoulder. Basil grinned from the control room. He knew the improvised lyric would royally piss Darla off but instead was utterly shocked when Darla and Angeline looked equally pleased, giving Sonja the "thumbs up" sign of approval.

"Damn!" Darla mouthed the expletive through gritted teeth and crooked smile. "I hate when the bitch is right."

"Delicious." Basil chimed into his microphone. "Take five and I'll whip up a down and dirty mix." A veteran on the soundboard, Basil cued up Sonja's vocals and added a basic layer of the pre-recorded orchestration.

While she waited in the studio, Sonja tried to relax by shuffling through her deck of tarot cards. She found that absentminded "readings" alleviated stress and it was a routine she never tired of. In fact, as part of Danse Macabre, she had taken "Fortune" as her stage name.

The first card from the deck was the Two of Pentacles. Fortune chuckled to herself because the card represented life at the edge of chaos. Truer words were never spoken in regards to the chaotic escapades of the Danse.

The next card was the Three of Swords. "The dark gem of separation." She puzzled over the card expanding her consciousness in an effort to divine the true meaning of the portent. Shadows seemed to flicker around the studio and Fortune shivered from a sudden chill.

Reluctantly she turned over the third card - the Five of Swords. "A warning of defeat." Her hand trembled and she suddenly wondered if she wanted to see the next card. Her heart pounded and she felt her cheeks flushing and her breath became labored. The Tower card was drawn next - the symbol of the destruction of everything Fortune believed in.

The shadows began to swirl faster now: a vortex of energy spinning around the room. The tarot deck glowed white hot from arcane energies that poured out from it. In sheer desperation, Fortune snatched the next card from the top of the deck and ran across the recording studio. A thick, soundproof window separated her from the rest of the Danse. Basil, Angeline and Darla were so totally engrossed in the mixing process that they were startled when Sonja slapped the final tarot card against the thick pane of glass.

Basil keyed opened his microphone. "Sonny - what the hell is going on in there!" Darla and Angeline - respectively Cradle and Cayenne - struggled to open the studio door, but unseen forces blocked it shut.

From the midst of the maelstrom, a menacing figure appeared. Impossibly tall with glowing red eyes, he held a pack of ravenous wolfhounds on leashes made of inch-thick chain links. The lead hound shifted forms, becoming something in between human and lupine and let loose a terrible howl. Drool spilled from his lips and barred teeth; long strings dangled in thin lines that eventually oozed onto the floor.

The creature tested the air, taking in deep breaths as it eyed the trio behind the relative safety of the thick glass wall before it advanced.

"Find him!" Fortune shouted. The studio microphone carried her voice into the sound room. Echoes of shadows hissed across the windscreen of the studio's microphone and eerie moans swirled about.

"Find him!" Fortune repeated. "He's our only chance!" She pressed the tarot card as hard as she could onto the glass and managed to catch the corner edge in the miniscule groove between the pane and chrome molding of the window.

The wolf-thing and other shadowy forms enshrouded Sonja's body, completely obscuring her features. Long sinewy arms and spirals of distorted limbs pulled the panic-stricken singer from the window and towards the cascade of energy spilling from the tarot deck. With a final surge of power, the control room was flooded with a blinding light that quickly faded to reveal an empty recording studio. Sonja Valle had disappeared, leaving only her divining deck behind; the final image of The Magician card remained plastered to the sound booth's window.

* * * * *

"How are you feeling, kiddo?" Warren Worthington sat on the edge of the infirmary bed. Jade Logan looked up from emerald green eyes, groggy, but alert. Her face was swollen and heavily bruised, yet those intoxicating eyes held a glimmer that marked her inner fire and courageous spirit.

"I have been better." She gave an ironic smile. Jade was a redactive empath, and hers was a unique ability to heal virtually any injury in others by drawing the infirmity into herself. She had recently overtaxed her system by healing massive internal trauma in an ally, Vachon LaCroix. Destructive nanites that had ravaged his body leached their way into Jade's and temporarily impeded her ability to heal. Jade's injuries should have been reduced to minor annoyances, but it seemed that her recovery would take considerably longer than normal. The verdict was still out on whether or not she had sustained any permanent damage.

Warren himself was pretty banged up as well. A confrontation with the Wilding left him with a fractured shoulder, and he would be wearing a sling for some time to come.

Looking around the Infirmary, it actually reminded Warren of a war zone. Jeannette LeBeau was sitting up in her own bed directly opposite him. She did her best to force down some soup, but didn't have much of an appetite. IV's dripped nutrients into her arms. The same encounter with the Wilding, in particular the member known as Blindside, had left her exhausted and in a mild coma for several days. Blindside himself was recovering in stasis several beds down. Discordant baffles prevented him from accessing his mutant ability to teleport. Once he was sufficiently recovered, he would be remanded to local authorities for his attempted murder of Jeannette.

On the far end of the facility, Doctors Hank and Richard McCoy looked at a series of x-rays. They seemed encouraged by what they saw and turned to Uzuri Munroe who sat on an examination table behind them. He too had taken a pretty heavy pounding during the recent melee in Louisiana.

"Good news!" The elder McCoy glibbed. "You're not pregnant." He looked down over the edges of his bifocals. "Oh my stars and garters. I'm looking at these things upside down." He twisted one of the images at an angle and then back in the opposite direction. He gave a broad smile revealing a set of pearly white teeth that were accentuated by a set of exceedingly long incisors. It made Uzuri uncomfortable.

"You are going to live. A few bumps and bruises, but otherwise, none the worse for wear." Hank patted him on the back. "I should think an ample dose of acetaminophen would do the trick." The blue furred doctor ambled over to a medicine cabinet and retrieved a bottle of white pills.

"In other words..." Richard interpreted, "...take two aspirin and call him in the morning."

Uzuri was dismissed and sent to go about his business with a stern warning to "take it easy". As he made his way to the dressing area, he couldn't help thinking how, in spite of his total lack of modesty, hospital gowns made one feel totally vulnerable and somehow exposed and violated.

Richard sighed and let his shoulders sag. He was tired and felt ready to pass out.

"How did you do it for so long, dad?" he asked. Keeping the Neo and Mutatis kids patched up had turned into a fulltime job, and he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

"Because it was necessary, I suppose. The greater good, and all that." Hank McCoy was quick to reply. He had seen his share of hardships in his decades spent as both an X-Man and as an Avenger. Beyond the scrapes and bruises, he had lost many of those close to him. It was inevitable that in time, Death came for everyone. Still, as was his jovial nature, he always managed to cling to a higher ideal that in spite of whatever personal tragedy might fall, there was always hope for a brighter tomorrow. Charles Xavier had taught him that.

He felt swept up in the nostalgia of days gone by to when he first became a student at the Xavier Institute - of how he got along with teammates Cyclops, Marvel Girl, Angel and Iceman. He was humbled by the sudden realization, and acceptance that he was the last surviving member of the original team of misfits.

He grieved in silence, yet at the same time his heart swelled with pride seeing the legacy that surrounded him. True, the children were banged up and bruised, but were really none-the-worse-for-wear. And then there was his son, Richard. The rambunctious little tyke had grown into a man seemingly overnight. And though he had failed to inherit any of his father's mutant traits, his intellect and skills as a doctor were unparalleled among his peers. Hank McCoy was exceedingly proud and said so often. Still, he had no clue that Richard felt he could never measure up to his father's legend. The boisterous blue-furred Beast was a hard image to live up to.

Together, the two men continued their rounds in the infirmary.

* * * * *

Valence lost count of how many times she reviewed the holoempathic image. It was like watching ghosts repeating the same scene over and over again.

"I wasn't sure what else to do with it, but thought that given the circumstances, you should have it." Caleb Rodriguez felt nervous and uncomfortable. As Dante, he and the rest of the Nexus team had been unceremoniously dumped into the laps of Neo-X. From the very beginning both teams clashed. Disparate spirits, strong and opposing personalities on both sides were at constant odds. The quiet atmosphere of the Xavier Institute was disrupted by the raucous, rambunctious nature of the Nexus tribe.

"I found it in Kayo's personal affects. I know you've heard her account of what happened the night your brother disappeared, but there might be something on the recorded image that gives you some insight or a bit of closure or...I don't know." Caleb's frustration level escalated and he turned to go when Katya Rasputin stopped him.

"Thank you." She managed a weak smile. "I know our groups didn't get off on the right foot, but things will work themselves out somehow." Save for Caleb, the entire Nexus team had been swept up and lost in the timestream for some time now. "You'll find them. I know you will." Katya offered a glimmer of hope - returning the favor Caleb had given her. She extended her hand in a gesture of truce and acceptance. Her petite digits were completely engulfed by the metalic armature of Dante's adamantium flesh. The silvery glint of his arms reminded Katya of her brother, Nikola's own metal skin.

Relieved, Caleb took his leave and stole off to his own room. Katya resumed studying the holovid. The recording had been made from Kayo's memories of what she saw months prior when Nikola Rasputin, Alloy, went on a murderous rampage. The hologram showed the graphic details of that night - of how Shadowcat and Colossus fought their own son, using brute strength and a powerful neural disrupter to bring him down. The holovid went on to show the arrival of Magik, The Scarlet Witch, and Clea Strange as well as the removal of some sort of parasite that had been dwelling within Alloy's armored flesh.

"It means we are seeing the beginning of Hell on Earth." Clea's final words before she spirited the ensemble away disturbed Valence nearly as much as the visuals themselves had.

"Ohmygod! What are we going to do?" The young girl wondered out loud.

Her question was answered by a haunting silence.

* * * * *

Daniel Wagner stood immobile - conflicted by guilt of a betrayal of which only he knew, for the sin was of his own making. The young man seemed transfixed in the mansion's atrium, his eyes tracing the pattern of the stylized lapis lazuli, jet and gold mozaic "X" on the floor. Guilt weighed on him mightily, but for propriety's sake, he would endure the secret a moment longer. Still his heart was heavy. He should have told Katya of what he had done - of the pact and binding spell he made with her missing brother. His memories flashed back to Harry's Hideaway some months back. Daniel had confronted an extremely upset Nikola Rasputin.

"You see this?" he asked. "It's a blade forged of magic. It can cut through flesh and bone as well as truth. It is a blade of binding as its brother is a blade of severance and finality." Daniel pricked the end of his index finger with the sharp tip of the dagger. Blood pooled at the end of his finger. "Lift up your shirt." he instructed.

"Excuse me?" Nikola questioned, sure that his friend had gone mad.

"Just lift up your shirt and listen to me. DO IT!" he commanded. Nikola obeyed and revealed his massive abs and pectoral muscles that were too perfect to be believed. In a rapid motion, Daniel dragged his bloody finger in the shape of a druid's rune across Nikola's chest. "As my blade is one of binding, so too are my words and my power and my spirit. I place my mark upon you, Nikola Piotrovich Rasputin, and know you this, that I shall ever be your friend in spirit and in truth. This sigil is my mark, and from it my strength shall flow into you. Know you this also, that wherever you go, wherever fate shall take you, I shall be there as well. This mark shall act as a beacon in the darkness, and should you ever become lost, it shall lead me to you." A final flourish of his hand and the incantation was complete. The blood trail glowed of green eldritch light that seeped deep into the armored flesh of Nikola Rasputin.

"I shall deliver you, mein freund. I shall do everything within my power to bring your captors to justice. I swear it."

* * * * *

The shadow of Wundagore Mountain hung ominously over the tiny village of Transia. Rumors of dark things lurking about the fringes of the ages old range struck fear in the hearts of the hamlet's populace. Somehow stuck in an anachronistic setting bereft of modern technology, the little shire never advanced beyond superstition and horse-drawn carts.

The townsfolk had given into mass hysteria, convinced that something evil dwelt within the mountain. Generations of lore and eyewitness accounts of atrocities were whispered in quiet corners of taverns and houses protected by little more than locked doors and heartfelt prayers. Only the foolish traveled about after sundown and dusk was casting an eerie reddish orange corona around Wundagore's ridges.

Deep within the confines of the mountain, a small part of the evil whispered of manifested itself. Ancient machinations of stone and forged metal, of blood and arcane magic pulsed with false life. Spires of sickle-shaped, gyroscopic pistons spun in opposing orbits, filling the seemingly endless cavern with a hypnotic thrum as each concentric ring whooshed past the other.

Feeder bands of energy cascaded over the surface of the device, gorging the central power cell to overflowing, yet the gluttonous orb cried out for more.

Sonja Valle hung suspended high above the Chaos Engine. She was light-headed and felt as if she had been drugged. She didn't seem to mind; didn't seem afraid nor did she even seem to care. Comfortably numb was the thought that went through Sonja's mind. She didn't flinch, cringe or cower when her had lolled to the side and she saw the mass of twisted limbs, faces and other body parts that she had been grafted to. Mentally, she merely drifted off...

"I dance on your grave
Spit in your face
Dance the Lunatic Shimmy
Soul on fire
Dance of the devil..."

Pseudo-organic leads knotted into a massive umbilical several inches thick and trailed off into a receiving pool filled with blood. Arc light sparked along the length of cording, snaking its way into the crimson vat where viscous liquid bubbled and popped like a boiling stew.

Silently, five black-robbed figures filed into the cavern. An attendant carrying stacks of clothing and armaments of various shapes and sizes followed each before moving into waiting positions behind five corners of a pentangle. Once there, the attendants laid out the vestments on stone benches and waited for the ceremony to begin.

Among the attendants, Nikola Rasputin, now called Siege, awaited the culmination of the Blood Canticle that would herald in a new age. He felt uneasy, as if he were being watched from behind. A fleeting sense of paranoia was quashed as Siege returned his focus to the ceremony at hand.

The single file procession made its way to a dais overlooking the blood pool. The lead figure stepped forward, letting her robe drop to the earthen floor. Cradled in a metal rack was a knife forged of iron and shaped like a gazelle's horn. The woman lifted the blade and drew it across her left palm. As she stretched her arm out over the pool, her own blood dripped into the roiling elixir vitae below, quickening the undulation of the crimson flow.

"Oh Maaxa, the powerful. Ever have I worshipped you and have been honored by your overshadowing. Hear my prayer now and accept this blood offering so that your overshadowing may come to an end and your spirit fully indwell your humble servant."

She replaced the knife into its holder and moved to her assigned position at the Western end of the pentagram. One by one the remaining four members performed the ritual with their own prayers of supplication.

"Oh mighty Herne; Master of the Hunt. I humbly submit myself to become your strong right hand in the coming Soul Harvest. The Wild Hunt stands at the ready to do your bidding Lord Cernunous. I beg of you; let me become your earthbound vessel in the coming days of glory."

The man's stature was imposing and seemed to fill the cavern. Powerful, corded legs propelled him to his assigned position.

"Dark Lord Beltane, fill me with your all-consuming ebon fire, that I might become as one with the night. Consume this house of flesh and bone and rebuild this pitiful form in your image and make of it your dwelling place."

With the incantation, the third keystone was in place and was quickly followed by the fourth; a sinewy female with skin tones that seemed to shimmer from crimson red to deep violet. Leathery, bat-like wings fluttered in the candlelight, sending eerie shadows sliding across the surface of the cavern rock.

"Mistress Perdition, daughter of Iniquity. You are among the eldest and wisest of all the gods. You were there when the sons of man fell from the heavenly places and rained down like a shower of stars among the waters of Abaddon. You were unjustly and unfairly cast out and locked behind a wall of forbidding that shall soon be rent asunder. I beg of you to make me your swift right hand of retribution as we make way for the Master's return."

The final supplicant spoke with a commanding, velvety voice that belied his modest stature. Pale skin and lean muscles gave little, if any, indication of the power that lay beneath the flesh.

"Samhain, Lord of the Harvest. Gather your children and prepare them for the bounty of souls that shall soon fill the banquet tables of Abaddon. Indwell this paltry human form. Make it your own as we celebrate summer's end and feast on the bones of our enemies."

He took his position at the central apex of the pentagram and once there, continued to speak. "Arise Sheol! Arise from Abaddon and join us once more from the Abyss."

"So it is written...so shall it be done." the four corners chanted.

"Bring forth Apollyon, the one who is called destroyer. May his scorpion's whip fill the halls of Otherworld. We summon eternal Babylon and the spirits of those who have gone before as we pave the way for the Master's day of reckoning."

At this point the bloodtide of the pool was overflowing with a fountain billowing up from the middle. A final surge sent a geyser spewing into the air and the umbilical that had been draped into the pool snapped taught like an overtaxed bungee. A blood-soaked figure rose up, suspended before the supplicants.

Frightening in appearance, Sheol glared at the puny, insignificant creatures before him. A ridge of white bone lined his brow and curled back into a brilliant set of ram's horns. His skin tone was a dark, tuscan red and it was impossible to distinguish where blood and flesh ended. In fact, his skin seemed to drink in the vital fluid he had risen from. His lower extremities ended in cloven, goat-like hooves. He wore an open robe that was as black as pitch and undulated with a life of its own.

"Thy boon has been granted!" Sheol spoke through bared fangs. He threw back his head and stretched wide his arms. His whole body glowed white and as bright as the sun, filling the cavern with an unearthly light. Five balls of energy shot forth from his chest and trailed around the room before converging with the five supplicants. Instantaneously, the five screamed as their bodies became transformed.

This, however, was not their first metamorphosis, for each character in the drama had willfully taken on aspects of their avatars in prior rituals. The overshadowing was fleeting and temporary and only paved the way for full possession of their demonic hosts. Now their transmutations were complete and permanent. Bones stretched, muscles grew beyond imagining and in one case dissolved altogether, replaced by coherent Dark Force energies. The skin of three supplicants blanched white and their eyes glazed over to crimson red. Of them all, the winged Perdition was the least changed, physically.

The Horde, once merely influenced by insidious forces was now fully reborn, completely indwelt by the demonic entities they worshiped.

"Our prayers have been answered." Samhain felt exhilarated beyond measure. The power coursing through him and his comrades was intoxicating. He flexed his muscles and constricted his fingers into tigthly balled fists, testing his improved stature. He watched as Lord Beltane, Maaxa, Perdition and Herne did the same.

The attendants stepped forward with the garments and adornments of their masters and dressed them in full regalia from robes, to armor, to boots and broadaxes. Together they were a frightening sight to behold.

"The mortal coil has been shed. There is much work to do. Now, and forever more, may Hell reign on the earth."


TO BE CONTINUED...

Issue 46

"Hell on Earth" continues in Issue 48

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