SPITFIRE

by Kostmeyer

ISSUE 37
"Dark Times"

Cover art by Kostmeyer.

This story features SPITFIRE and related characters, which were created by Kostmeyer 2005.
Also features characters and organizations which are trademarks and copyright of MARVEL COMICS
a division of MARVEL ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, INC.
This is a work of fan-fiction and is being written for entertainment purposes only; no profit is being made by this work.
Copyright © 2006 Kostmeyer. All rights reserved.

The mysterious beings called the Horde have attacked the Earth, imprisoning the world's most powerful psychics and magicians in a machine called the Chaos Engine. Their leader, Samhain, has killed the only two beings he considers powerful enough to stop his plans; The Shadow King and the X Men's founder Professor Charles Xavier. The ensuing psychic shockwave rips open the barriers between dimensions and the Horde's demon army invades. Their armies attack cities across the world, while the leaders raid the X Mansion taking Neo-X members Psihawk (Warren Worthington), Reaver (Lleander Neramani) and Freelove (Chastity Wagner) prisoner.

In London, Spitfire is killed by the Horde's general Maaxa, but her body is then resurrected and possessed by the spirit of Reese Kahn, a powerful sorcerer who was once a member of the Hellions. Kahn travels to the Hellfire Club brownstone in New York, also under attack from the Horde. The White Queen and Teryn of the Hellions have been kidnapped, and awake to find themselves in a cell with Psihawk and Reaver. The fate of Chastity Wagner remains a mystery...

Damien Morgan, the Hellion code-named Touch, was singing softly to himself as he made his way back along the corridor. The Hellfire Club’s Manhattan brownstone was alive with activity even at this early hour, as a small army of servants saw to the needs of the wedding guests who had purchased the Black King’s protection from the demon hordes even now rampaging across the city. Damien, however, was more concerned with avoiding contact with anyone who might recognise and question him. Having succeeded in this objective, he was now returning to his suite, carrying a tray on which he had gathered his friend’s favourite breakfast. Arriving at his door, he levitated the tray with his mutant tactile telekinesis and keyed in his identification code.

Inside, he could see the slender form of the red-haired girl asleep where he had left her… him, he corrected himself. The body was new, and would take some getting used to, but it didn’t matter. This was Reese Kahn, Conjur, back from the dead and everything was going to be fine now. Damien had finally admitted to himself that he loved Reese, and it was as if a heavy weight that had been crushing him down for months had finally been lifted. He felt free.

Damien closed the door and locked it behind him. The others would want to know – of course they would – but he wasn’t ready to share – not yet. He set the tray down on the bedside table and looked down at his sleeping friend. All was as it had been when he had left, except that a he saw a small, segmented jewel attached to a fine gold chain wrapped around Reese’ hand. A gift perhaps? He’d ask later. He climbed onto the bed beside his friend and kissed him.

“Reese?” He said. “It’s morning already.”

The other stirred, opened her eyes…

… and screamed.

Damien barely managed to protect himself with a shield of psychic force in time, as the girl shoved him back with all her superhuman strength, sending him hurtling across the room and smashing him out through the wall, where he landed in the corridor amid a pile of shattered masonry.

Stunned by the impact, Touch looked up to see Carrie Conway emerge through the hole in the wall, fists clenched.

“Where the hell am I?” Spitfire demanded. “What have you done to me?”

* * *

Warren Worthington cried out as claws raked across his back. The pain drove him forwards, his legs moving even before he had fully regained his senses. Half dragged, half carried by his demon escort, Worthington, better known as Psihawk, the leader of Neo-X, stumbled along a seemingly endless subterranean tunnel.

Blood matted his eyebrows and dripped into his eyes from an ugly gash in his forehead. Unable to move his hands which were chained behind him, he shook his head to clear his vision. Even his eyesight could make little of the surroundings – just the tunnel, sloping slightly downwards and widening as it progressed.

As his eyes became better adjusted to the darkness he began to make out openings to the left and right, side tunnels, cross-roads and intersections. The place was a labyrinth. Unwittingly, he had slackened his pace to stare along one of these tributary caverns, and the demons behind him lashed out again with their claws. Warren quickened his pace, which seemed to surprise his escort, who had believed him on the verge of collapse. Feeling the chains go tight, Warren suddenly dropped to the floor, and the pursuing monsters, quickening their speed to match his, stumbled over him in the dark. Warren felt the chains go slack as the demons released him in their confusion, and summoning all his mental strength he unleashed an uncoordinated, undirected sledgehammer blast of psychic power, bowling the creatures down the tunnel ahead of him.

He had seconds before they recovered – and Warren knew that Maaxa, the axe wielding demon who had taken him from the cell – was only a short distance behind. Knowing he didn’t have the strength to fight, he turned and ran up one of the intersecting tunnels, still trailing the heavy chain behind him.

The demons had recovered already. He could hear their taloned feet scrabbling against the walls and floor as they ran, calling for reinforcements in their black language. Warren stumbled forwards. Was his imagination cheating him, or was there a light up ahead? He increased his speed. Before him the tunnel turned, and the light intensified, a soft, yellow glow. He rounded the corner, and then suddenly skidded to a halt.

“Oh my God!” he whispered. “No!”

Until this moment, Warren had been clinging to the belief that only he and Reaver had been taken prisoner by the Horde. His illusions had been violently, spectacularly shattered. Chastity Wagner, Freelove, was standing a few metres away in the centre of the room. Her eyes were closed, but she was apparently conscious, her body swaying sinuously as if to some powerful, primal rhythm that only she could hear. She wore a long, form-fitting black dress and a cowl that framed her blue-skinned face – the illusionary form she usually maintained had not fooled the Horde. On the floor around her an ornate pentagram had been sketched out in dark red liquid. The light that had drawn him to her side came from squat, acrid candles at the cardinal points of the pentagram.

“Chase!” he said, stepping forwards. He felt a sudden impact as he tried to cross the outermost line of the pentagram – some dark magic was holding him back. He pushed against it with his shoulder but it was no use. “Chase!” he repeated, “Can you hear me?”

“Waaarrr-ren?” she croaked, in a voice that was not quite her own. There was another voice speaking at the same time – using the same words but not quite in synch. “Warrr-ren… is that you?”

She opened her eyes and Psihawk fell back in horror. They were black – completely black – not even reflecting the light of the candles.

“Warrren… Is it you? I can’t see anything!”

“Yes…” Psihawk managed to say. “It’s me. Don’t worry Chase. The others are coming. We’ll get you out of here!”

“He’s in my head Warren.” Chase said with her strange, cracked voice. “I can feel him in my head. He’s talking to me…”

“Fight it Chase!” Psihawk said, throwing himself against the barrier in another futile attempt to reach her. Pain knifed through him as he fell back on his injured arm, but the Neo-X leader forced himself up for another attempt. “Be strong!” he said. “We’re coming!”

If Chastity Wagner heard him she made no sign. Her eyelids drooped, and she resumed her strange, enraptured dance. Mocking laughter rang out above him, and looking up Warren saw a hideous, red skinned demon, white horns curling from his skull. With a startled cry the Neo-X leader staggered back, as more voices joined that of the terrible creature, the noise increasing, welling up, reverberating around the chamber. The candles burned brighter, and Warren realised that the cavern was far vaster than he had previously imagined. Demons – thousands of the creatures, were seated around the perimeter, or clinging to the walls, or hanging upside down from the roof like bats. Then something hit him from behind and he lost consciousness.

* * *

“What did you do to me?” Spitfire grabbed Damien by the throat and lifted him into the air. Choking, the Hellion clawed at her hands.

“Nothing happened!” he managed to gasp out. “We just talked!” Spitfire threw him against the wall, knocking the air out of him. “Please!” Damien said. “Nothing happened I swear it!”

Spitfire drew back her hand to punch him, but the blow never fell. A massive, dark furred fist crashed down on her head and she slumped to the floor.

“Damien! Are you alright?” Shade said, dropping to his knees beside his injured team-mate. Behind him, Lamprey and Minotaur closed in on the unconscious girl.

“Hey is that Spitfire?” Scott Hensley said, turning Carrie over onto her back. “Jeez – I wouldn’t have hit her so hard if I’d known… but… she looked like she was about to kill you! What’s going on?”

“That is a very good question.” Said the Grey Knight, who had appeared behind them, undetected. As always, his voice, free of any emotion or inflection was chilling, inhuman – it gave nothing away. “Well, well, well.” He said. “What do we have here?”

* * *

“Welcome to Wundagore.” Gillian DaCosta said absently, trailing her fingers along the bars of the metal gate. Warren was out there somewhere, beyond the barrier, in the darkness. Maybe he was already dead. Gillian wondered how long it would be before the Horde returned for their next victim.

“What did you say?” Krystil Frost, the White Queen looked up sharply. Gillian smiled. Even here, the White Queen hadn’t given up. She still looked as strong and as confident as ever. She was an inspiration, Gillian thought.

“Welcome to Wundagore.” Teryn repeated. “It’s what the woman with the axe said when she took Warren. I guess we know where we are now.”

“What’s Wundagore?” Lleander Neramani asked. Both Gillian and the White Queen turned to face him simultaneously. They had almost forgotten about him.

“It’s a mountain.” Krystil Frost explained. “A mountain in a tiny country in Eastern Europe called Transia. A famous scientist called the High Evolutionary used to have a research station here, before he and his creations took themselves off into outer space. Quite what that has to do with these monsters, if anything at all, I have no idea. I would imagine these tunnels are far older than the Evolutionary’s time.”

“If only we could get some message out!” Teryn said. “Let people know where we are! But there’s no way!”

Frost turned and looked towards the boy. Lleander stumbled back a pace. Something about that expression told him he wasn’t going to like this.

“Lee – If our files on you are to be trusted – you’re a powerful telepath – one of the strongest!” The boy didn’t answer and Frost took his silence for confirmation. “Could you communicate with someone on the outside?”

“No!” Lee shouted, clamping his hands to the sides of his head. “Not here! Can’t you feel it? All around us – something… something bad! Opening my mind up here would be…” he trailed off. There was something else too – something he didn’t want to tell them. During his last contact with the astral plane he had witnessed the death of his father, Professor Charles Xavier. Deep down, he knew the images he had seen were true – but if he shut his mind, if he didn’t look, then maybe – just maybe there was still a chance that he’d been wrong. X-Men don’t die after all.

“OK.” Frost said. “Direct psychic contact is out. But could you use your power to enhance the abilities of another mutant whose powers are psychic in nature?”

“I… I want to help.” Lee said, slowly. “If I can. Who are we talking about? Warren’s too far away – I can’t even sense him in these caverns.”

“Not Warren.” Frost said, pointing beside her.

“Me?” Gillian said.

They didn’t have much time. Three minutes later the sounds of Maaxa’s armoured feet could be heard approaching. As the demon rounded the corner and approached the cell with her demon entourage, the prisoners could see that the group had been joined by another, a tall, slender woman with broad segmented wings, her body covered in glittering scales.

“Ah the little Shi’ar Princeling!” the newcomer said, mocking Reaver. “He’s the one we want. Take him! His power calls me!”

“What about these two?” Maaxa said, gesturing towards the cell’s remaining occupants.

“What about them?” Perdition dismissed, as Lee was shackled and hastened away by the demon jailers. “What are they to me?”

Maaxa glowered at her, clearly irritated. “They were brought here at your orders!” Perdition stared at her blankly. “From the mansion!” Maaxa continued, realising further prompts were needed. Then added: “In New York!”

“Oh!” Perdition said finally. She turned towards the two women and wrinkled her nose with evident distaste. “Now that I see them, they’re really not so interesting after all. Get rid of them for me will you?”

“About time.” Maaxa growled, lowering the head of her battle axe and pointing it at Krystil. There was a blinding flash of blue light and a devastating bolt of energy spat out towards the White Queen. Teryn moved faster, and with an inarticulate, desperate shout she hurled herself into the path of the beam. The savage impact sent the Hellion hurtling across the chamber, hitting the far wall and dropping her in an awkward heap on the ground. She lay motionless, and the smell of burning flesh filled the cavern.

“What drama!” Perdition laughed, clapping her clawed hands together with delight. “It never ceases to amaze me how readily you mortals give up your dull little lives. It’s so… so… so noble! So valorous! So…” her eyes narrowed. “So completely out of character!”

The demoness propelled herself into the cell with a single movement of her powerful wings, past Frost, to land lightly beside Teryn. The girl was still alive but just barely. Perdition crouched down and looked at her intently.

“I’ve made the study of human vice and wickedness my life’s work!” she muttered. “And in my long life I’ve never seen someone give their life so thoughtlessly. She must love you, woman!” she said, turning to look at Frost. “And I don’t believe you’re capable of inspiring this devotion. You’re a user woman. Like me!” The White Queen fell back against the wall, repulsed, but fixated by Perdition’s gaze. Unable to blink, transfixed, she finally cried out and turned her head away.

Perdition laughed and returned to her study of the dying Hellion. “Yessss!” she hissed, snaking her forked tongue across her fangs. “I thought as much. I was wrong Maaxa. The capacity for manipulation and cruelty demonstrated by these creatures is most refreshing after all. A mind rewritten – a personality re-shaped. Tell me woman!” she turned to Frost, “Did you do this?” Frost hid her head in her hands. “Yes, I see that you did.”

“Do I kill them now?” Maaxa said with obvious frustration.

“No.” Perdition snapped, standing again. “In fact you will see to it that this one survives her injuries.” Her face twisted in a sinister, reptilian smile. “I’ve thought of a far more entertaining use for these two.”

* * *

“I don’t know any more!” Carrie Conway screamed. “I’ve told you everything!”

Spitfire was floating in the middle of a dark and featureless room in one of the lower sub-basements of the Hellfire Club brownstone. She was naked, but from the neck down her body was encased in an opaque energy field, a shimmering suit of telekinetic force generated by the mind of her interrogator. Pryor Shaw, seated a few feet away, wagged his finger at her in mocking admonition.

“Please Miss Conway, we both know that isn’t true, so stop wasting my time.” He laughed. “Not only am I a telepath, but the telekinetic sheath I’ve spun around you gives me complete awareness of your body as well as complete control over it.” He constricted the field to prove the point. Spitfire screamed. “Did you know, Shaw continued, “that there are many tell tale signs that give you away when you lie? Variations in body heat and skin pigmentation, increases in your heart-rate, movements you make with your eyes… you can’t deceive me Miss Conway. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“Go to hell.” Carrie said through gritted teeth. “I told you already! I don’t remember anything!”

“Perhaps you just need an incentive to try a little harder.” Pryor said, manipulating the shape of the psychic field, stretching – twisting. Spitfire shrieked.

On the other side of the wall, Roberto DaCosta Senior, once the X-Man known as Sunspot and since then a leader of the Inner Circle, sat and watched the inquisition on a broad monitor screen. His expression was dark – he was troubled.

“It was partly to get away from scenes like this that I left the Club.” He said, as much to himself as his companion.

“Milord?” The Grey Knight intoned, standing like a statue at the old man’s shoulder.

“Torture.” DaCosta said. “Distasteful, don’t you think?” Spitfire let out another plaintive squeal of agony.

“Your son put you in charge while he dealt with a more pressing matter. You could stop it.” The Knight said. “If you wanted to.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way.” DaCosta said, casually. “I understand the need for information outweighs any emotional qualms we might have. I’m just glad I’m not a part of this any more.” He paused, as if unsure of whether or not to continue, then said: “Well, Knight, what do you think?”

“It’s not my place.”

“Humour me.” DaCosta smiled.

“I think that the Black Bishop is very good at his job.” The Knight said dispassionately.

“Agreed.” DaCosta nodded. “But?” he prompted.

“But the girl is holding something back. She’s tough. She’s fighting him. It’s possible that she’ll die before we learn what we want to know.”

“Your assessment matches my own, Knight.” DaCosta said. “Now I know it isn’t my place to intrude – I have no official status at the Club now, as you know –”

“One would be a fool to ignore your council.” The Knight said, plainly. Sunspot smiled slightly and continued:

“Perhaps an alternative strategy is in order. She fought alongside the Hellions before. Perhaps she might confide in them what she has been unwilling to tell us.”

The Knight hesitated. “I… I am unwilling to involve the Hellions.” He said, finally. “They have not been with the Club long – and after what they witnessed yesterday… well I should rather be more sure of their loyalty before I put them in a situation that is… morally ambiguous.” He said, choosing his words with care.

“I don’t mean that we get them to take over from Shaw!” DaCosta said, with a smile. “Let them visit her, in her cell. We’ll just watch what they say on one of your hidden cameras. What do you think?”

* * *

Amid the wreckage of his bedroom, Damien Morgan scrabbled around on his hands and knees, sifting through the rubble until he found it. The strange gemstone he had seen in Reese- no, in Carrie’s hand – it had to be here – it had to be significant. Even as his fingers closed around it he knew the truth – felt a warm glow spreading out of the jewel as it reacted to his presence. A holo-empathic crystal – containing a message.

A brilliant white light appeared before his eyes, slowly coalescing into a familiar form – Conjur – in his original body this time. His eyes looked puffy, as if he had been crying, but he was smiling too.

Hello Damien. Conjur said.

“Why Reese? Why did you have to go again?” Damien managed to say. The projection was a recording – it couldn’t respond to his words and he knew it – but Conjur had anticipated the question.

I realised something last night Damien. Something about us both. Our happiness together couldn’t have lasted. It was based on lies – on deceit. I was going to keep the body Damien. I was going to condemn Spitfire to an eternity in limbo without a second thought – just because I wanted to be with you so much.

“I want you too.” Damien said, tears flowing down his face unchecked.

I used to be better than that. Reese continued. I was almost a hero – you remember? But being lost for so long – it changed me.

In a hospital ward in London, while Damien watched the holographic projection speak, a cloaked figure appeared, gliding forwards into the room, passing through any obstacles in its way.

Stealing Spitfire’s body was a crime – I knew that – I always knew that. I was prepared to live with it. I’d do anything to be with you.

The ghostly figure had halted beside a badly injured man in a bloodstained suit. Semi-conscious, the man was speaking to himself:

“Not like this. I know – I’ve seen it,” the man coughed “It doesn’t happen like this.”

“You’re right, Matthew Buckingham.” The spectral figure said, healing the other man’s mortal injuries with a gesture. Buckingham subsided into a peaceful sleep.

My mind was made up until the moment when you questioned my right to take her body. I had my reply worked out – I knew exactly what to say. I’d rehearsed it, justified it to myself so often.

The phantom moved on through the ward, stopping beside an unconscious young man with a badly mangled foot. The ghostly figure motioned with one hand and the bones re-grew, the bleeding stopped, the skin repaired. The ghost moved on.

It was when you agreed with me – agreed with my crime – that was when I realised what I’d done. I’d made you an accessory to the terrible thing I’d done, Reese. I’d dragged you down with me.

The door to the ward bumped open, revealing a woman supporting a badly injured man. The ghost turned, smiled, and healed Detective Haller’s injuries with something less than a thought.

You’re a good man, Damien Morgan. I couldn’t see you fall with me. I couldn’t live with that.

The ghost passed on across the room, curing the injuries of the fallen. With each act of healing, the ghost became fainter, more indistinct. Finally it arrived beside the intensive care beds, with their silent, shattered machines. If the patients were alive there was no sign. A girl had thrown herself over the body of the nearest patient to shield him, and her back had been torn to pieces by demon claws and teeth. The ghost passed its gauntleted hands over her and the wounds vanished.

So I’m going. And I’m atoning for us both. Tell Carrie that I’m sorry, and for what it’s worth, I’m grateful.

Gary McGuiness sat up suddenly, violently drawing air into his body. Across the length of the room the other patients opened their eyes.

Remember something Damien. You’re special. Important. Keep yourself alive – For me. I’ll be watching you – I’ll know! I’m going now. I’ve just expended all the energy I have and… I don’t know what happens next. I… I’m scared, to tell you the truth.

Touch reached out for the hand of his friend, but his fingers passed through the projection.

But, Reese continued, his expression brightening, I don’t think this is the end of us. I think, when it’s all done, we’ll be together, somehow. We’re stronger than death, Reese. That’s what I like to think, anyway.

In the hospital Gary rubbed his eyes. It seemed to him that there was a figure, a cloaked and hooded man standing at the foot of his bed. For some reason, he wasn’t scared of it. He leaned forwards as the figure began to fade.

“Thank you!” he said, not entirely knowing why. But the figure had gone.

Goodbye Damien…

* * *

“Come on Carrie!” Minotaur said, his voice compassionate. “Say something! Once the Black King knows how you got here, I’m certain he’ll let you go.”

“You don’t believe that.” Spitfire answered. She was lying on the bunk in a tiny cell, one wall of which consisted of a reinforced glass partition. On the other side of this barrier, Minotaur, Shade and Lamprey were watching. Minotaur, unable to respond to Carrie’s point, turned away and an awkward silence descended on the room.

The cell itself was almost as featureless as the interrogation room. Carrie had been given a Hellions uniform to wear, but refusing to put it on she had wrapped herself in the blanket from the bunk and hadn’t moved since. She was in a bad way. Her powers were gone – at least for the moment – thanks to an injection administered while she was unconscious. Worse still, everyone believed that she was dead – no help was coming. She was completely alone.

“How can you let this happen?” she said finally. “You’ve got power – why don’t you fight them?”

“The Hellfire Club has given us everything!” Minotaur answered quickly – too quickly perhaps. “We can’t just turn our backs on them!”

“Actually I meant the demons.” Carrie said. “But I understand you getting the two mixed up. Are you just going to stand by while the world ends? What’s wrong with you?”

* * *

Cassandra Morrell knocked at the door of the Black King’s office. There was no response so she opened the door anyway. This was no time for conforming to traditional niceties.

“Cassandra.” Roberto DaCosta Junior managed to convey so much contempt with a single word that it actually stopped her in her tracks. The Black King turned his swivel chair and faced her. “I trust that you can justify this intrusion.”

“I-!” Quill began. DaCosta motioned for her to be silent.

“Let’s see if I can save us all some time.” He said. “You’ve been talking to the Hellions. You want to mount a rescue mission – or at least take the fight to the demon Horde. You think the costumed do-gooder locked up in the basement can be manipulated into helping out. Have I left anything out?”

“No.” Quill said – her face an object lesson in self control.

“I thought not.” DaCosta said, smiling. “Permission denied.”

“But why?” Quill broke out. “Even if Krystil is dead – even if you don’t care for her at all any more…” Did the muscles in DaCosta’s jaw twitch then, even slightly? “… what about Gillian?” Morrell continued. “And even if they are both gone – what good is the world to the Hellfire Club if these demons destroy it! Won’t you lift a finger to stop them?”

“A beautiful speech, Cassandra. Most heart warming. But a poor suggestion all the same.” The Black King turned in his chair, pressed a secreted button and the top of the desk drew back, revealing a large holo-projector. “Direct your attention to the viewer.” DaCosta instructed, coldly. “Since you’ve forced your way in here, you might as well see it all.”

The holo whirred faintly as the connection was made, then a life-sized holographic image of an elderly black man appeared. Cassie recognised him instantly. It was Sam Wilson, President of the United States.

“What the-” Wilson began, recovering quickly from the shock of seeing a similar projection of the Black King appear in the bunker beneath the White House. “DaCosta!” he snapped. “How the hell did you get this number?”

“Does it really matter Mister President?” The Black King said casually. “The fact is that I have a proposal for you, one that will benefit us both.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Wilson scowled. “I’m in no mood for your Hellfire Club games.”

“Not even if I can save the world for you?” DaCosta smiled.

“I’m listening. Make it good.”

“Very well. Sam.” DaCosta said. “I have six hundred and fifty Paladin class and forty eight Armageddon class Sentinels in launch silos, prepped and ready to attack the headquarters of these Horde demons. I can end this the minute you agree to meet my terms.”

Wilson’s mouth hung open. “The world’s being invaded – thousands of people are dead, and you’ve kept a force of seven hundred sentinels on STANDBY?”

“What can I say Sam, I’m a bad, bad man. Now however the decision rests with you. Meet my price, and we can say goodbye to the demons.”

“What’s your price?” Wilson muttered.

“I want your job.” DaCosta said emphatically. “I want your word of honour now – that you will make me the next President of the United States.” He laughed. “Oh, don’t look so glum Sammy! It’s not as though it would be the first time a King of the Hellfire Club has had the job.”

“You’re a monster.” President Wilson murmured. “I can’t possibly agree – you… you monster!”

“No, Sammy, the demons are the monsters. The ones setting fire to the national guardsmen and eating babies while you make your mind up, those are the monsters. You’ve got until this evening to decide President Sam.” He severed the connection.

“Is it true?” Quill asked. “About the Sentinels? About attacking Wundagore?”

“Of course.” DaCosta smiled with satisfaction. “I’ve had this contingency plan lined up for years, just waiting for the opportunity. You see now why I can’t allow you to go dashing off on some ill conceived rescue mission. If you and the Hellions should die needlessly it would be a sad loss to the club. But worse still – Imagine if you succeed against all the odds, and I lose all my bargaining power with Wilson! No, you stay here.”

“I see.” Quill said, backing towards the door.

“Wait a minute!” DaCosta shouted, the smile abruptly vanishing from his face. “How did you know the Horde are based in Wundagore?” he stood up, knocking his chair over. “No-one knows that! We traced them through Kahn’s magic – how do you know?”

“Have you looked out of the window today?” Quill asked, quietly.

“Of course not.”

“Look.” Quill pulled the curtains aside. Outside the street had been devastated, lifted, twisted, wrapped around itself – titanic blocks of cement and concrete forming a single word spelled out in letters thirty feet high at the command of a mutant terraformer half a world away.

“I don’t know where she got the power,” Quill said, but that’s your sister’s doing. She’s still alive. She’s telling us where to find her.

The word was Wundagore.

* * *

The demon guards finally halted their headlong dash through the tunnels, and flung Lleander Neramani to the floor. Shaken by the journey and cut and scraped by the creatures’ claws, it took the boy a while to recover. When he finally opened his eyes, he began to wish …

He was at the mouth of a broad tunnel, one of many it seemed that opened out into the biggest chamber he had ever seen, a vast natural cavern, its vaulted ceiling hundreds of feet above his head. The cave in itself was a staggering, awe inspiring sight, but it was the device that filled it that dominated the boy’s attention. Lee’s face drained of colour as he saw, rising up in front of him, the Horde’s most diabolical achievement – the Chaos Engine.

Around a spherical central core of pulsating, churning, brilliant energy, a vast and complex structure of metal and stone had been constructed, interconnecting spars and supporting beams in constant, dizzying motion, rattling and spinning on wild and irregular orbits around the central hub. Great pistons fifty feet high rose and fell with monotonous regularity, each time sending a tremor through the entire machine and eerily reminiscent of the beating of a gigantic heart.

Beneath the machine, and connected to it by pipes and cables was a vast crimson pool set into the floor – a cauldron of blood. But this was not the most terrifying sight that greeted him. Attached to the machine, grafted to the mechanism, were the living bodies of men and women – fused to it in such a way that in places it was difficult to tell where the inorganic matter ended and the organic matter began. Snaking tendrils reached out from the centre of the device, twisted around their bodies and under their skin, draining off their life energy and feeding the glowing orb. They were being sucked dry – living components of the Horde’s Chaos Engine.

As the device lurched and rotated, faces of the condemned swept past Reaver’s eyes. Some of the faces were empty – blank, as if they could no longer feel what was happening to them. Others were fighting it – their mouths stretched open – but if they were screaming no sound could be heard over the roar of the machine. Lee realised with mounting horror that some of the faces were familiar to him. He saw Clea Strange, her body almost completely assimilated, her face taut with pain and fear, and he shuddered to think of the power of the Horde, who could so totally defeat the Sorceress Supreme. Then the slow, remorseless motion of the Chaos Engine carried her out of his sight, and he saw Warren.

Like the other victims Psihawk was conscious, but he seemed completely unaware of his surroundings – unaware of the fibrous tendrils that were piercing his body and stealing his life. Reaver hid his head in his hands, as the machine’s snake like tendrils descended for him.

Seated on a throne of skulls at the rear of the chamber, surrounded by his acolytes, Samhain laughed.

“The Chaos Engine is complete!” he said, raising his arms in triumph.

Across the world, the fractures in the sky where the demons had invaded began to widen. Shards of space began to rain down onto the cities beneath as the cracks multiplied, spread – interconnected. The chasm in the air above London widened, a fault line spreading across the Atlantic towards the spreading void above New York. Each beachhead – each invasion point the epicentre – Genosha, Rome, Moscow, Tokyo – The sky was literally falling in. Around the Chaos Engine, the demons began to chant, one word, over and over and over, and the mantra was taken up by the invading hordes until it reverberated across the entire planet:

Chthon!

Chthon!

Chthon!

* * *

The door to Spitfire’s cell opened. Carrie sat up, blinking as the electric-bright light in the corridor flooded over her. There were several figures in the doorway. Carrie tensed, ready to lunge at them. So they’d decided to finish it. She wouldn’t go down without a fight. Suddenly, unexpectedly the lead figure threw something at her. She caught it reflexively and only then realised it was her costume.

“Put your clothes on.” Quill said. “Time to save the world.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Issue 36

Issue 38

"Hell on Earth" continues in Hellions #12

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