In a Mirror, Darkly

[T.J. Harriman]

Far above, an explosion ripped across a post-apocalyptic street, sending a hail of shattered masonry and scattered debris to settle in a slightly different pattern of chaos than had been left by the last bombing run. Battle scars upon battle scars tore through what had probably once been a beautiful part of the city; now all that was left was a ruin, empty for all but the scattered few who made the mistake of lingering too long to raid the wreckage after the last attack.

In the subterranian maze of tunnels that had once been sewers, cellars, and subways, the only indication of the airstrike above was a slight shuddering of the concrete around them, and a light dusting dislodged from the ceiling. Most of the precession of solemn, black-clad soldiers ignored these signs entirely, but the youngest among them seemed a little skittish and distracted; and just couldn't manage to keep his mouth shut about it.

"Why is it we have to rescue this guy again, sir?" he asked, a hint of a nervous edge in his voice.

The Major rounded on him with a fire in his eyes that implied just what awaited the Lieutenant if he dared to speak again. "Because when Colonel Hunter says jump, we say 'how high?'." His eyes narrowed. "You get me, L.T.?"

Though initially taken aback by the surge of stern from his commanding officer, to his credit the Lieutenant managed to keep his composure, even straightening up to near attention. "I get you, sir," he replied, jaw clamping closed with deliberate effort to prevent some sarcastic remark from escaping.

The Major let his glare linger for a moment or two longer. "Good," he grunted, before turning back towards the way they were headed. He walked a few silent paces - despite not speaking, he still managed to radiate the same gruff tone that laced his voice when he talked - before deciding to grace his unfortunate second-in-command with a response. At the time of the Uprising, the Lieutenant had been a young officer fresh from the Academy, training his way up to flight status as a fighter pilot. He'd bounced around a few units in the years since, never making it past First Lieutenant - primarily because he was an arrogant jackass, as far as the Major could fathom - but for some reason, Colonel Hunter had taken a shine to him. Were the Major a paranoid and cynical man, which he was, he'd guess that the Colonel had done it purely to get on his nerves.

"For those of us who weren't paying attention in the briefing, Lieutenant," the Major announced, his voice carrying back down the corridor as he continued to lead their brisk advance, "We don't give a damn about 'this guy' - he's a very small fish in a very big pond, as far as the grand scheme is concerned. What we give a damn about is the DEFCON 1 mutant holding him. Intel has it that Psion wants to get his grubby, telekinetic paws on this guy, likely so he can suck out his power and add it to his collection. It's a fairly safe bet that if Psion gets what he wants it'll work out very bad for us: so our job is to make sure that doesn't happen."

That seemed to satisfy the Lieutenant, at least for a few moments; the precession continued in silence with renewed purpose, weaving their way through the underground warren towards where their target was - supposedly - being held. The blessed silence was not to last, however: but at least this time, the Lieutenant managed to dampen out a little of the arrogance and jackass in his tone. "One other question, sir. What happens if we encounter Psion?"

The Major stopped at that. The remainder of his team, who had served with him for far longer than the Lieutenant, stopped as well. There was no annoyance in Major Harriman's features; merely disappointment that cause for the question existed at all. His eyes passed between each of his men, settling on the Lieutenant last of all. "Let me make this very plain, all of you." His voice was quiet: the kind of quiet that demanded a respectful silence to let it be heard. There was an edge of anger too, but not directed towards anyone nearby. "As far as I am concerned, during this mission or at any other time; I only have four brothers, and they are standing with me in this corridor, right now." A glimmer of respect began to form in the Major as he regarded the Lieutenant - the only member of the group brave enough to ask the question that they all must have been thinking. "If you see Psion - if you have a kill shot - then you take that son of a bitch down. Understood?"

The Lieutenant squared his shoulders, and offered a curt nod in response. "Yes, sir," he said firmly, on behalf of the group.

"Alright then." Tom let his gaze linger on his soldiers for a few moments more, before the mantle of Major descended back onto his shoulders. "Lets go be heroes. Move out."

[Psion]

At the compound...

Flanked on either side by armour-clad lackeys, Psion strode into the chamber with the confidence of a man who knew he was completely untouchable. The handful of workers - human slaves, mostly - that he passed recoiled in a mix of respect and fear; a sensation that pressed against his recently stolen empathic senses, and filled him with the most exhilarating sadistic rush. Feeling the emotions he conveyed merely by passing was intoxicating, and was alluring enough to make him consider stopping to torture one of them there and then, just to experience how it felt. Now was not the moment for that, however. There would be pleanty of time for such frivilous games later.

As he approached the great device that dominated the centre of the room, people scattered in all directions, fleeing before his path, goping to avoid attracting any unwanted attention from the man who could seal their deaths in a single gesture. Psion paid them little heed: there was only one man with whom he wished to speak.

Before he reached his prey however - standing in the shadow of the device - a muted shriek from behind him made him pause, and turn. A woman stood, framed in the entrance he had just passed through, a man - his skin turned a chilling blue - crumpled at her feet, one last breath escaping him before his lungs ceased all function.

A sigh of mild frustration escaped him; the woman looked at him with eyes of pure innocence. "I was cold," she protested. "This man kindly offered to keep me warm."

Psion rolled his eyes. While he loved his sister dearly, she had been only a child when the mutants had risen to power, and had sadly not grown out of that phase. Her antics were usually harmless, but her ability to leach the heat out of a person until their heart was chilled to a standstill often left a wake of bodies that was tiresome to clean up after. And of course, woe betide her many lovers: while rumours of her prowess were plentiful, the odds of survival were slim, and so few volunteered without considerable persuasion.

"Rán, dearest," Psion said, with a tired tone, "While I do appreciate you offering to keep me company on this trip, I thought we'd agreed that you would refrain from murdering the workforce?" The innocent eyes increased in their intensity; even this far across the room, the ages-old charm still won out against her eldest sibling. Another sigh escaped from Psion's lungs. "Go -" He gestured vaguely. "- play with the prisoners. And try not to break them: some of them may prove useful."

His sister fired a glare that lacked any gratitude whatsoever, and stalked back out into the corridor with the aura of scorn that only an overgrown teenager could achieve. Psion winced a little as that barrage of emotions crashed into his newly acquired senses. Still - at least the increased level of latent fear in the room provided a salve for that discomfort.

Finally, he was able to turn to the man he had arrived to see. One eye permenantly shielded by an eyepatch that hid a vicious scar, Psion had always found the man unreadable. Of course, that had been before his paranoia had inspired him to strip empathy away from a hapless captive. Now, he hoped, the stoic mask that the man before him wore would be considerably less effective.

"Tell me," he said at last. "How is your work progressing?"

[Enoch]

"Precisely as I told you it would."

There was an edge of defiance in Enoch's voice: the kind of defiance that was born from the knowledge that you were far too essential and irreplacable to suffer punishment from such things.

There was a frustration in his words as well; a frustration at the question having even been asked. Psion asked only because of his own insecurities - insecurities that Enoch's gifts made him all too familiar with - but he did so needlessly. By virtue of his mutation, Enoch could see into the very souls of other beings: he was witness to their darkest secrets, and to their destinies. He could see the hidden worth in the worthless; and was aware of the potential for trechery in the seemingly loyal, even if they were not aware of it themselves.

Such knowledge was power: and Enoch wielded that power as one of the most trusted advisors to the Lord that he and Psion both served. He also used it to be one of the mutants' most effective taskmasters: it was amazing how easy it was to motivate your subjects when you knew exactly which memory to recall, or which nerve to squeeze.

Enoch turned, gesturing towards the device (http://fringepedia.net/w/images/9/90/WaveSinkDevice.jpg): the gargantuan construction over which Enoch's army of mutant traitors and mundane slaves swarmed, hammering the last of it's components into place. When it was complete, it would be glorious: the powers of a multitude of mutants would combine together and form a singularity, which would grow and flourish into a miniature sun.

Enoch had seen it. It had been that future - that destiny - that Enoch had witnessed when he had first met their great leader. He had seen him, standing above a kneeling world, the power of the sun in the palm of his hand. In a world where war had scrubbed out the sky, and where the only sunlight was filtered through a thick layer of cloud, controlling that kind of power would prove once and for all that mutant kind deserved it's hard-fought supremacy.

He fought the urge to smile with pride as he spoke. "My work crews are exactly on schedule. The machine will be ready long before He arrives to witness it."

[Psion]

Psion felt an unbearable rage as the man spoke. He could feel the confidence - arrogance - hitting his newly obtained empathic senses viciously, all bundled up in a smug sense of security. Enoch believed that he was untouchable. He believed that Psion could not raise a hand against him, and what sickened Psion was that he was right: for now, at least.

Their master certainly had a fondness for Enoch. Many times, Psion had ranted and raged about his infuriating temprament, and had demanded to be allowed to have Enoch's power ripped from him, and implanted into someone with a more agreeable personality. But the master insisted that Enoch's usefulness extended beyond his mere abilities. It was one thing for mutants and mundanes to be terrified into submission by Psion's rage and power: but the master claimed that the world could not be ruled by that alone. Enoch was subversive and insidious in his ways, and for now that seemed useful to their goals.

But Psion grew stronger with every passing day. He learned to wield his powers with greater prowess; and his Conduit stripped every power he desired from it's undeserving host, and added it to Psion's greatness. The master would not permit him to harvest Enoch's ability, and that was fine: it was only a matter of time before he discovered another with the same gift, or perhaps one even more useful.

When that day came, no amount of usefulness would protect Enoch from the retribution that Psion would level against him.

"And the mutants?" he asked, fighting his anger enough to force out the words in relative calm. "Do you have everyone we require?"

[Enoch]

"We have everyone we require."

That almost came with a sigh. Why did Psion insist on labouring under the belief that he didn't have everything well in hand? Had Enoch not demonstrated his efficiency, time and again? Was Psion really so petty and insecure that he had to question everything?

Or was this merely a test? An experimental aggrivation?

A hint of a smile crept onto his lips. He saw the change in Psion now; the shift in the way he looked under the gaze of Enoch's powers. New abilities rippled beneath the surface, pulsing away in an all too familiar manner. Psion was an empath, then; a new string to his already overstrung bow. It made sense of course, for a man who so desperately worked to inspire fear in those around him: having a means to make sure it was working.

He allowed a sense of smug realisation to form - a deliberate attempt to aggravate Psion; not that doing so was particularly difficult - before he continued to speak.

"At least, we did. Let's hope our volunteers survive an encounter with that sister of yours."

[Rán]

Rán's fingertips ghosted along the steel bars of the cage. It seemed crude and inappropriate somehow - cages were meant for livestock, not prisoners - but in the crumbling ruined buildings of this part of the city, one could not rely on the integrity of stone and concrete. Enough torque or strength, and the bars might rip right off the walls. At least with a cage you could be sure that the strength of construction was consistant throughout.

It was a shame that none of their prisoners had super strength or teleportation, or any such abilities that might give them a realistic chance of escape. The cages built for those individuals were far more advanced, and seemed much more civilised.

Not to mention the fact that it was always entertaining watching their futile attempts to bend electrified bars.

Her eyes drifted from prisoner to prisoner, scrutinising them each in turn. They were tired and ragged: deprived of sleep, and barely fed enough to keep them alive. It was a wise precaution of course: starving prisoners were far less effective in their attempts to escape, and provided much less resistance to the efforts of their guards. There had been human rights once which had forbidden such things, but those had long ago been abandoned. During their dominance, the humans had not treated their mutant kin as equals: every mutant stripped of rights and experimented upon was now retaliated upon the human race a hundred fold.

Some called it overkill. Some called it monsterous. They called them Fascists. Tyrants. Neo-Nazis. All manner of words meant to demonise the latest evolution of the human race. But people like Rán knew the truth: they thought of themselves by a totally different word.

Better.

Her eyes settled on one of the prisoners, hunched over and clutching his arm to his chest. She adjusted her features into what she vaguely remembered that sympathy looked like; it wasn't too far removed from pity, and that was an easy emotion to convey when presented with such pathetic creatures.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice soft and crooning.

A mix of fear and surprise swept across the prisoner's features. After a long pause he nodded slowly, not a single word tumbling from his lips.

Rán dropped into a crouch, and beckoned through the bars for the prisoner to come closer. He did so, reluctantly; with effort, Rán managed to coax him into showing the angry discolouration where his wrist had clearly been broken. Carefully, she placed a fingertip on the injury; at first he winced, but as her powers kicked in, a soothing coolness spread across his arm.

"Is that better?" Rán asked, softly.

The prisoner nodded his head; his voice cracked as he tried to squeeze words out through his parched throat. "Y- yes. Th- thank you."

Rán's hand shifted, her delicate fingertip touch turning into a savage grip as her hand wrapped around the prisoner's wrist. She squeezed, and he groaned in pain, but that wasn't the worst of it: she could feel his skin blistering beneath her fingers as the heat rushed from his body, the outline of her body seared into his flesh.

Her lips curled into a sickening smile. "Is that worse?"

[Liz Heller]

"Hey!"

There wasn't even thought involved: in an instant she was on her feet, her own vice grip hand clamped around Rán's wrist, wrenching her comrade free from the psychopathic mutant's grip. Anger burned in her eyes as she stared the witch down.

It wasn't a smart move; she knew that. Or at least, she knew it a few seconds after it had actually happened. But sometimes it took more than smart moves and careful strategies to win wars. Sometimes it took impulse, and instinct. And sometimes, it all worked out fine if you just got angry.

Her fingers didn't loosen their grip on Rán; her eyes didn't lessen their glare. Rán tried to fight back with a glare of her own, but her young eyes didn't carry the same intensity that the seasoned soldier's did. Rán tried to wrench herself free, but her slight frame and scrawny muscles couldn't liberate her arm from Liz's grip.

So she tried a grip of her own, the fingers of her free hand curling around Heller's forearm. Her eyes took on the sickening triumph of a petulent child convinced that she had won.

Liz allowed her lips to curl into a faint smile.

"Leech all the heat you want, Katrina."

The use of Rán's human name stung worse than any physical blow could have. Her eyes turned to defiance as she drew on her powers with as much strength as she could muster; but they quickly turned to horror as, rather than the icy blue that she was so used to seeing on the skin of her victims, Liz Heller's hand errupted into golden flames.

"I'm too hot for you to handle," Liz challenged, a lick of flame leaping from her wrist onto Rán's sleeve.

The young woman recoiled, and this time Liz let her break free. The sheer force of her escape attempt carried her several staggering paces backwards; she slapped at her arm, fighting to quell the fire before it took hold. Her glaring gaze met with Heller's again: Rán's filled with ice and venom; Heller's with fire and challenge. "This isn't over!" Rán spat, at a loss for a reaction aside from a tantrum and a storming exit.

The doorway slammed behind her. Heller let out a sigh, before turning towards Rán's unfortunate victim. "You okay?"

The victim nodded, slowly. "Yeah," he managed. His arm was clenched tight to his chest again, but he fought his way through the pain enough to offer her a tight smile. "I've had worse," he lied.

Heller let out a breath of laughter, before pacing slowly back across the cage, to sit herself down against the bars beside him. "Who are you?" the victim asked, as Heller eased her way to the floor.

"Sergeant Liz Heller," she explained without a thought. "I'm with the resistance."

She shot him a sideways glance. "How about you? You got a name?"

"Jackson," he replied with a series of nods. "John Jackson Junior. But everyone just calls me Jack."

Heller seemed to consider that for a moment. Her head tipped back, eyes closing as she made herself as comfortable as she concievably could while locked in the overgrown cage. "Well, Jack," she offered, in what she hoped was a reassuring voice. "My friends are coming for me. They're gonna blow this place to shit, and when they do, we're going to get out of here."

She opened her eyes for a brief moment, her gaze sweeping across the other occupants huddled in the cage. "All of us."

[Titan O'Hara]

Outside the compound...

These had once been maintainence tunnels, mazing their way beneath the city's streets: not filled with the dank water of a sewer system, but instead boasting old utility pipes, electrical cables, and god knows what else. In the past they probably would have been illuminated, but now the only reprieve from the darkness came from the flashlights and taclights that lanced through it, held in hands, clipped to shoulders, or slung beneath the barrels of the ensemble's rifles.

Lieutenant O'Hara didn't need light to see, though. His mutation was small, but it was useful. Every footstep, every water drip, every screech and chitter of vermin: they filled the air with waves of sound, and his mind somehow translated every one into a strange view of the world. It was distracting at times. Dizzying, even. The techs back home had rigged up a set of noise-cancelling ear buds: without them, O'Hara had collapsed and spewed his guts the first time he'd been in a firefight. Old style conventional weapons made so mch damned noise.

His ears weren't the only way that he could tap into his vibration vision however; with his teeth he grabbed the tip of his middle finger, and tugged off the thick padded glove that shielded his bare skin from contact with anything solid. His palm came to rest on the concrete in front of him; his eyes fluttered closed, and he focused.

At first there was nothing; a few dull rumblings maybe, but nothing sharp enough to resolve into any specific sound. Then his boot, toes capped in steel, slammed against the concrete. A wave of vibration swept through the structure, and he could feel the footprints of everything: gaps in the vibration pattern around the boots of the people in the rooms beyond; the outlines of equipment, the different densities of metal and plastic where supply crates had rested. It was a strange way to percieve the world - and impossible to describe fully to anyone who hadn't experienced it - but it was his thing. His gimmick. The skill that made him useful.

It was ironic, really: a few years ago, O'Hara had been a pilot. Had this war not come along, he would never have found a way to put his mutant gift to good use.

"This is the place," he confirmed. Sure, they had maps, and intel, and ridiculously advanced gear, but damn it: O'Hara was going to make himself and his power useful. Besides, there was insight he could offer that technology couldn't quite provide. "The room beyond is clear."

Major Harriman nodded at his assessment, but his eyes scrutinised the Lieutenant closely. O'Hara didn't flinch: Harriman was looking for doubt, any signs that his L.T. wasn't completely sure of his assessment. O'Hara stared calmly back. I know what I saw, Major.

"Okay then." Harriman finally seemed satisfied. His attention turned to the other members of his merry band, already extracting hefty chunks of equipment from the cases slung across their backs. They didn't need instructions: they knew what their orders were.

A matter of minutes later, the device was assembled: something straight out of science fiction, mounted atop some kind of tripod. Harriman manipulated controls from beside it; the Sergeant stood at the rear, pointing the thing at the corner where the concrete floor met the concrete wall. After some poking and prodding of touchscreen keypads by the Major, an icy beam of pure energy lept forth with a high-pitch whine and, with a strange mix of melting and burning, began to carve it's way through the concrete.

[Psion]

At the compound...

Psion reclined, his eyes gently closed, fingertips pinching at the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that had been steadily growing over the last several hours. It was an unfortunate symptom of the way in which he'd acquired his most recent ability. For most mutants, abilities lingered in their genetic code for long enough that their bodies adapted appropriately. Pyrokinetics had a tolerance for heat long before their hands began to spout flame; and who had ever heard of a hydrokinetic who could not swim?

For those with psychic abilities it was much the same: their brains adapted to cope with their powers in preparation of what their genetic code held. Psion's mind however had not been given that luxury: it was forced to adapt and integrate in hindsight every time his Conduit graced him with another gift. Today, the constant stream of new information was a tiring weight on his mind.

The storm cloud of anger that had been steadily rolling off his furious sister had not helped, either; and the ferocity with which she had been closing doors was beginning to make him worry about how long the half-ruined building would remain standing.

There were solutions to his pain and discomfort, of course. Back at the Capital, his belovéd Lady Mórrígan was always a salve in these situations; one of the few people that could soothe the tempest that raged perpetually in Psion's head and heart. Alas, she had yet to arrive: she was to be part of the entorage that arrived with their Master to witness the activation of the device.

The alternative was not the preferable option, though it was not in itself unpleasant. The Conduit had given him these abilities; she was equally capable of taking them away; of weening him onto his gifts in tolerable doses. If nothing else, she would at least be able to give his mind enough of a reprieve so that he could enjoy some much needed sleep.

He smiled as he sensed her presence: his empathy feeling her aura, telekinesis feeling her form. "My darling Syn," he said softly, his eyes remaining closed as she approached. "I do so love that you always come to me when I call."

[Syn]

When the war had begun, she'd been but a child.

As such, this war-torn, rubble-strewn reality was the only one she could remember. She was raised amidst the pain and conflict, a child pulled between the two warring sides, a mere pawn on the playing field.

Until, of course, her unique ability manifested itself in rather spectacular form. Her touch had made the teenage boy weak, but she'd thought nothing of it...her fervent kiss had left him dead on the floor, and her in possession of his weak telekinetic power.

Her fortunes had changed then, her stock rising in the Master's eyes. And in Psion's, who's gaze she coveted even more. But she banished the thought, knowing too well how sensitive he was with newly transferred empathy. There was too much to do before the Master's arrival and she was going to be pushed to her limits when he did.

For the moment, however, Syn was strolling down the dimly lit hallway. Psion had summoned her - and no matter what he wanted, she would always answer, and promptly. Fingers smoothed out her clothing, tugging it neatly into place as she approached the door.

Upon being bid to enter, she did so, the heels of her boots clicking along the floor. His voice wreathed around her senses as she laid her dark eyes on him with a smile.

"Your wish is ever my command, Psion." Syn replied softly, coming to stand beside where he reclined, resisting the urge to brush her fingers along his forehead. He was in obvious discomfort, but she knew better than to touch him without an express invitation.

[Psion]

"If that were true," Psion quipped, "Then you'd have cloned yourself a hundred times over by now, and I could replace all of the disobedient sycophants like Enoch with much more pleasant and agreeable underlings."

Pleasant to look at, especially. Though much as he sensed that she wished it otherwise, that was as far as it would ever go; her preferred method of ability transferance notwithstanding. Syn was a very beautiful, but very young woman: and morality aside, Psion was not prepared to incur Mórrígan's wrath if he strayed. Though the Master had appointed him Commander, and given him power and authority over every mutant in this domain, it was Mórrígan who continued to exercise power over him.

He finally peeled his eyes open and turned his gaze on her; instantly he was glad that neither Syn nor Mórrígan posessed the kinds of psychic insights that he did.

"The empathy," he explained, responding to the questioning glance that she threw his way. "My mind is having trouble adjusting."

[Syn]

Her head tilted, sending long platinum locks tumbling haphazardly over her slender shoulder. Syn's smile warmed, and one dark eye closed in a slow wink as she spoke, "I'm not entirely certain you could handle so many of me around you."

Her brow furrowed delicately as she stepped closer still, leaning a shapely hip against the arm of the chair he was reclined in. "Let me help..." she murmured softly, reaching up with both hands to smooth his hair back from his forehead. Syn leaned in close and pressed her cool lips to the warm skin of his right temple.

Her ability stole through the contact like so much water coursing gently over rounded rocks. Her mind sorted through the abilities he held until she came upon the empathy, tied so closely into the pain she could taste. Syn drew in a sharp breath, her mind pulling away for a moment.

She shifted and cupped his face in her hands, unable to resist the urge any longer. To ease the pain Syn would have to take a good deal of the empathy back until his mind adjusted. She could have done that with her lips pressed to his temple.

She just didn't want to.

Instead, Syn kissed Psion, and allowed her mind to reconnect and siphon the gift back out. She drew enough from his mind until she felt the pain ease considerably, then pulled back - mentally and physically.

Not for the first time, Syn wished she could use the powers she could taste.

[Psion]

It was like recieving the kiss of life; but worse, and better.

Psion could feel the pressure of others' emotions easing from his mind almost instantly. It was like having the pressure removed from an aching, crushing pain: the kind of ecstatic ellation that such a reprieve brought. But at the same time, he felt an emptiness, like the world around him had grown more quiet or more dim. It was like the volume had been turned down on the world: the painfully thundering sound was gone, but the silent stillness it left in it's wake was just as uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable.

Psion didn't recoil from Syn's kiss, but he hadn't encouraged it, either. He had watched time and again as her succubus lips had drawn the power - and life - from anyone he had commanded. It was not the only way she could have harnessed her ability; she was not the only Conduit in the realm, and she had seen her gifts work in other ways at other times. The stealing kiss was her modus operandi however; and knowing her past, Psion could understand why.

And yet, while at times it was merely a concession to the playful persona she had adopted, there were times when she seemed to enjoy it a little too much. He couldn't simply spurn her advances however; her role as Conduit was far too important to him.

And then there was her mother to consider.

"Thank you," he said quietly, making the most of the gift of painlessness that she had given him.

[Syn]

He never pulled away. She supposed she'd have to give him credit for that, if nothing else.

"You're welcome," she replied with a hint of softness to her tone.

Slow, measured steps took her around the front side of Psion's desk and to one of the chairs there. Syn sat in a smooth motion, crossing her long legs and folding her hands almost demurely in her lap. Dark eyes remained fixed on him, however, coursing over him slowly with each deep breath. The empathy she'd taken from him had settled into a wriggling heap at the back of her mind, waiting to be let out and used.

That was part of her curse, she mused...she could taste all the powers in the world, rip them out of their worthless vessels and cradle them in her own mind. She could drain the life energy out of someone without a second though. But it was always everyone else who benefited - Psion mostly, to whom she was a mere puppet. Her stepfather, to whom she was only valuable as a commodity. Even her mother...no, that didn't bear thinking about.

This maudlin shit was beginning to wear on Syn's mind. The empath she'd stolen the powers from had lashed out with his power out of reflex, and she was still feeling the effects of the mental hit.

She shook her head and smoothed back her platinum curls before her dark gaze settled on Psion's. "Is there anything else on the agenda for today? Uncooperative underlings to suck dry? Mutants to torture?" Syn asked, a hint of sadistic glee flickering in her gaze at the thought.

[Psion]

"Not at the moment."

It was clear from the tone that it wasn't the full story; and for a fleeting moment, Psion considered leaving his answer purely as that. Syn was required to be obedient whether she was fully informed or not: she did not need to know any more than the simple instructions that Psion would later provide. But her role, her relations, made things precarious. There would be no harm in him explaining the full extent of her role in the Grand Scheme; and it might even reinforce her loyalty to him for the future, at a time when he might desperately need it.

"You are aware that Enoch has been gathering mutants with specific abilities, yes?"

Of course Syn knew. The undeserving whelp from whom Psion's new-found empathy had been stripped had been part of the collateral; an unnecessary stray snagged in a net set to catch far more useful fish. To her credit, she did not point out as such: she merely nodded, and said nothing. Good girl.

"Many of those mutant abilities will be required to activate the Machine: the device that will create a new sun for us on the surface of the Earth. However, the device requires a saccrifice. In order to function, one mutant must stand within (http://www.sfsignal.com/mt-static/images/fringe_machine-thumb-400x974-332.jpg): one Vessel for all the abilities that the Machine requires."

Psion smiled. "That is why we need you, Syn. Your Conduit powers are essential in creating that Vessel. We are going to change the world: and we cannot do it without you."

[Syn]

She was a necessary evil.

Whether it was because of her mother, or her step-father, it didn't matter. Syn knew she wasn't the only Conduit, but she was the most powerful one they had available to them. And loyal to them. Who would rip a power of the life out of someone without asking a single question.

She always did as she was told.

The fact that useful was the only thing she was...that, perhaps, is what bothered her the most. She wasn't wanted, she was needed. Psion simply reinforced that fact as he continued to speak, and Syn only half-heard his words until the end.

Until his smile finally drew one to her lips in response. She dipped her head and dropped her gaze to the floor as her smile reached her eyes. Needed would have to be enough for now, she mused, and hated herself for it. She'd do anything he asked of her, and they both knew it.

"It sounds glorious." Syn said quietly as she brought her gaze back up to his. She tilted her head and gazed at him for a silent moment, taking stock of his features and the gentle crease between his brows.

"If you're still not feeling better, I do have a bit of energy left over from...last night." she offered, knowing he would understand what she meant. Like the powers she took, she could not use the life essence she drained from people either. She could only hold it and dole it out like a drug.

[Psion]

Psion had experienced it before: the kiss of life that the Conduit could offer. Enough life stolen from the right person, and it could even turn back the tide of death. Fortunately, Psion had never experienced it in urgency: he'd never found himself needing such urgent aid; but he had reaped the fringe benefits of increased vigour and vitality, even if it was only temporary.

He mused her offer, but thought better of it. "Perhaps later," he answered; though in truth he had no idea how long Syn could retain such things. Was there an expiration date on powers and life force, or could she harbour such things indefinately.

He offered her a small smile. "It would be unwise to waste it before the device is activated. Things could still go wrong, and I may need you to save someone before the day is done."

[Syn]

"As you wish."

Syn replied, rising and smoothing out her soft white top (http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=48583586). She offered a slight smile of her own in return, though it was tight around the corners of her mouth, and didn't reach her eyes.

Politely dipping her head, she turned to make her way to the door. There was little else to say, in that moment, and even less that she wanted to hear. She knew well who was arriving in her step-father's entourage, and when precisely they were supposed to be there. She took a deep breath and paused with her hand on the door handle.

Waited for a second, or maybe two, just in case.

But there was nothing. Syn cast him a glance she thought was unreadable over her shoulder before letting herself out and closing the door softly behind her.

Rán would have a plan, she mused. A plan that Psion wouldn't enjoy in the least. So the tall blonde set out to track down the only person she could remotely call a friend.

[Lord Pyre]

Aboard His Airship...

It was rare that He left the Citadel. His fortress home was less a castle and more a temple: a monument to His achievements and his power. What once had been a sprawling island city had been flattened until only a mere handful of towers remained, the rest smashed into rubble and twisted into walls of concrete and steel. The Citadel was not impenetrable, and it did not need to be. The walls did not need to keep the armies of His enemies at bay, because He had none: all but a few insignificant pockets of resistance had been stamped out, either crushed by the overwhelming might of His loyal forces, or driven into the wastelands that bracketed His dominion to the north and south.

His land had once been America; and some people still chose to call it that. He allowed it to continue simply because He had no desire to brand it with a name of His own. It's name did not matter, so long as everyone knew it was His.

And besides, the name was not inappropriate: He had done far more to Unite these States than the government He had swept aside had ever achieved.

Usually, when Lord Pyre boarded His airship to traverse His domain, it was a show of force: a reminder of His existence to those He had subjugated. There were those who believed that people feared what they did not understand, and thus He should shroud Himself in mystery, make Himself less a man and more a symbol, so the fear of Him would be immortal. Pyre saw little need for such amateur theatrics, and held to a different set of beliefs. In his experience, fear of the truth could be the most powerful force of all; and no amount of imagination on the part of His subjects could ever exceed the truth they saw when he walked among them. He was already more deserving of fear than any symbol could ever be.

This time was different, however: not an errand of intimidation, to remind the mutants and mortals of their place, but rather - He hoped - one that would usher in a new era for mutant-kind. He knew what they called him - the Mad Mutant; the Pyromaniac - but His psyche was still quite sound. The problem was that the world lacked vision. They lacked the wisdom He had gathered enduring a century of life, witnessing a world torn apart by war and so-called progress, all because of an endless lust for land, and wealth, and power. What the world had constructed, here in America worst of all, was no fit foundation for a utopian society. Anything built upon a platform so unstable and rotten would slowly subside, and all the work and sacrifice that had transpired these last eight years would be for naught.

He watched in silence as the panorama of the Mid West rolled away beneath His ship. Once, this landscape had been scarred by by the agricultural endeavours of capitalism and greed, intermixed with ugly, chaotic communities and environmentally negligent sites of industry. The war had swept the rolling hills and sweeping plains clean, scorched the earth into an unliveable wasteland; and yet below as before, the ground shimmered with emerald grass, swept into waves by the breeze. On the horizon, a small farming commune crept into view, neat and orderly fields already producing all the crops the region required. Mutant powers had revitalised the soil. Mutant powers had irrigated the fields. Mutant powers had sowed the seeds, germinated the plants, tailored the weather into the most favourable climate possible. Other mutants whose powers were suited to other endeavours had constructed the housing, or established the infrastructure that conveyed the surplus to where else in His domain it was required. There would be mutants whose gifts benefited the community as healers, teachers, entertainers; who found clean ways to heat water, power homes, and everything else that was needed, and desired.

It was a perfect utopia, not a broken ideal of communism where people were only equal because they were equally without: when Pyre's work was done, no man, woman, or child would find themselves lacking or wanting. All this, free from bureaucracy and and compromise, because the world feared Him.

He was an evil, yes, but a necessary one. His ends would justify His means.

He heard movement behind him; turned as another of His necessary evils entered His chamber. He knew the identity before His eyes settled on her: the only one aboard with little enough to fear to brave His presence without invitation.

"Morrígan," He spoke; he would have smiled, if he still remembered how to do so. "Please -" He gestured to the window. "- join me."

[Morrigan]

She hadn't been summoned, hadn't been invited... there was no need. Where Morrígan chose to go she simply went. Few could stop her if they tried, after all, and only the foolish really tried anymore. Even Psion knew better than to ever tell her 'No'. She had always been a selfish girl, always wanting to get her way. When her powers had manifested as a teenager she suddenly found herself neigh unstoppable. More recent events in her life had removed any lingering resistance the world may have had to offer. The only thing holding her back now was herself... and perhaps, just maybe, the man she slowly approached.

There was no timidness in her walk. Each step deliberate, as if placed with great care. Perhaps it was. She could feel It raging inside of her. An inferno of power that screamed to be released, to destroy. Some days It won out. Lately though, it was easy to keep in check, keep in line with her own thinking. In line with His thinking.

Her quiet footsteps brought her to Pyre's side, her fingertips gently along his lower back as the internal war was once more raged. It was quelled as she looked out of the window before them. Yes... she remembered this place. Remembered how much it had pleased the rage within to see the earth brought to utter desolation and now - Rebirth. And it was all thanks to His plan, His vision. She wondered if even half of his other followers could even begin to comprehend it all as she did.

"I can not keep It tamed much longer. We do not like to be caged." He knew what she referred to. She hadn't planned on speaking it, but there it was.

Morrígan's eyes slowly moved from the landscape below to look at her Lord. There was no want for sympathy, none even for recognition of what she had spoken. There were silent understandings. If he wished to acknowledge her words he would. If not - just as well. They were both aware of the consequences.

[Lord Pyre]

Some things in this world were poetically referred to as a force of nature. They were powerful, uncontrollable, and more often than not disastrous. And yet, in this age of mutancy and enlightenment, there were those who could bend those natural forces to their will with almost effortless ease. Mutants could avert wildfires, conjure earthquakes, summon storms simply with a wave of their hand, if they were so blessed with such abilities. In the face of humanity's newly emerging evolution, those forces of nature could be manipulated and controlled as easily as any other force, seemingly in accordance with all of Newton's laws.

But in that realisation lay a dark truth. For all the forces of control and creation, there was a dark force, equal and opposite, whose only apparent purpose was chaos and destruction. Such things, such people were necessary to bring His plan to fruition. Such things were necessary in the grand order of things, even. Hinduism described Kali, the Destroyer, who cleared the path for the Creator. Scientists believed that before the universe's genesis, an older one had needed to collapse and be destroyed. Life was a cycle, a circle; everything had it's time and place.

When it was all complete however, and his vision had come to be, when the time of destruction had ended; when that time came, would mutants like He and she still have a place in this world, or was he building a paradise he could never inhabit?

Enough, He urged himself, His thoughts rattling around inside the helmet that shielded them from uninvited scrutiny. This is a day for anticipation, not anxiety.

Something slipped in His demeanour; a small section of the armoured personality He wore giving way to the faintest hint of what had once lain underneath. His eyes turned to Morrígan, displaying something that wasn't doubt, but that clearly lacked the burning certainty that usually endorsed His actions. The look of someone so accustomed to controlling and dictating all that the prospect of leaving a task so great in the hands of others was unnerving.

"Do you think it will work?" he asked.

[Morrigan]

"Yes."

He had barely finished the question as the word left her lips. Morrígan forced her gaze to lock with His for an instant, nothing but confidence in what she had spoken - in Him - was allowed to be seen. There may have once been a time she would have done more to assure Him that all would be well, that even when the entire world couldn't comprehend His actions she had... but those days were gone. Given all that had been achieved Morrígan considered the tradeoff for a large portion of their humanity worth it.

Her eyes lingered on His for perhaps a second too long before she turned to the window once more. A small, not entirely pleasant, smile formed. Of course His plan would work, even if the others failed in their task she always had her own ways...

[Lord Pyre]

Morrígan's confidence was resolute. There were scant few things that she lacked - subtlety perhaps being chief amongst them - but confidence was something she had in overwhelming, sometimes excessive abundance. She thought herself untouchable, and perhaps to most she was, but she was not invulnerable; not immortal. Beneath her power and ruthlessness she was still just a mutant woman, still as vulnerable as any other when she did not choose to defend herself, as the mostly accidental burn marks that peppered her body from their more intimate encounters could attest.

Hubris was mankind's greatest weakness. Even He was not immune for it, though His mind saw fit to offset it with a considerable amount of caution and paranoia.

He mustered a small smile, drawing on the flickering flame of hope for the Machine and what it would mean if they were to succeed.

"Perhaps, if all transpires today as it should, the world will finally come to understand the truth of what we are trying to create."

[Morrigan]

What You are creating. She almost spoke the thought but held it back at the last second. Morrígan was perhaps the only individual alive who could have dared to correct Him and gotten away with it, but she knew better than to test His patience... even if the end results could prove entertaining. How many times had she purposely pushed Him? How many times had He let her get to a certain point before He let it be known how much she could infuriate Him? It was a fun, dangerous game that only drew concern from one person - neither of which was standing in that room.

"Some of them will. Those that have enough insight to see past their misguided beliefs won't be able to deny it any longer." A small sigh left her. "But there will always be others. The Heretics that refuse You."

And so it came back to that again. The same thing she had said a thousand times before, always with the same ending. No doubt today wouldn't prove any different but it never stopped her.

"I could get rid of them. You don't need me at the compound for this."

[Lord Pyre]

There was no reason to ask to which them she referred. It was the question asked many times, and the same answer given just as often. Morrígan would destroy until there was nothing left; such was her way, her weapon's mentality. While part of her perhaps did understand the subtleties, she simply chose to ignore them, all too eager to embrace an approach that left strategy abandoned in the dust.

"In their stronghold, they are contained," Pyre explained with the kind of steady, persistent patience that was usually reserved for children. "They focus their efforts on defense, consolidation, and sustaining a population as large as the one they have accumulated. They are preoccupied, and thus the threat they pose is minimal. Decimate their home however and you scatter survivors to the wind. Despite your powers, you cannot be everywhere; you cannot slaughter everyone. Some will escape; and when they do, they will go to ground. They will cluster into smaller pockets of resistance that will be easier to scavenge for, easier to conceal, and too numerous and dispersed for even you to find them all."

He shook His head. "In Vanaheim they are contained. The threat is at it's least."

There were other reasons, but they would go unspoken: both new better than to mention them openly.

"In the meantime: I may not need your presence, but I still wish it. This project is for the benefit of us all: we must stand together for that to be understood, not split our efforts between war and peace."

[Morrigan]

Only He could make her still feel like a foolish child at times. Even the creature within seemed chastised by His remarks for once, even if that sensation was quickly replaced once more by the all consuming fury that was hers to keep. It flared and burned at her senses until it made her fingertips tingle in anticipation of... Nothing. A deep breath was taken as she pulled everything back in to herself. No... she would never lash out at Him. There was no sense in it, there never had been. This world needed Him to rebuild what she destroyed and to disrupt that was a line she was not willing to cross. One day He would say yes, but it would be on His terms that Vanaheim was dealt with.

She rolled her head to ease the sudden tension that had knotted itself in her shoulders before looking back to Him.

"As you wish."

[T.J. Harriman]

Inside the compound...

The Major gave the charred and still-glowing jagged rim of concrete a nudge with his boot, the faux leather of the makeshift footwear sizzling on contact. He knew it would do that - when you carved through stuff with a superheated plasma beam you had to kinda expect a little lava style molten action to be going on around the edges - but that was what set him apart from the person who'd built the thing: Tom was an experimental physicist, and needed to confirm the facts for himself.

Carefully, he stepped through the two-foot-thick maw they had cut, careful not to let anything important - specifically his genitals - get too close to the roasted rock. Safely clear, he cast his gaze around the empty room, confirming O'Hara's continued assurance that their incursion had gone unnoticed.

His team followed him through, fanning out to secure the room without instruction, readying themselves in breach positions by the one exit. Tom waited for a moment as O'Hara placed his bare hand on the concrete and, after a moment of hesitation, nodded that the next door was clear. On point, Tom burst silently out into the corridor, rifle aimed in each direction just long enough to snap off a shot at possible guards or observers if he needed to; but once again O'Hara's insight was on the money, and the expectation that this sector of the compound would be deserted seemed accurate. Tom resisted a grudging smile; O'Hara might be annoying, but at least he was useful.

The team progressed through the network of corridors with practised precision, not a single living soul interrupting their advance. It was all starting to make the Major feel decidedly uncomfortable.

Setting foot into the holding room made him feel worse.

[Liz Heller]

The second that the door opened, the arrivals had Liz's attention: not guards as she'd expected, but resistance fighters as she'd refused to allow herself to hope. In fact, not just any resistance fighters.

"You're late," she muttered, offering her cousin a grim smile.

He flashed back a more enthusiastic one of his own, but Liz couldn't muster enough optimism to reciprocate. Her gaze fell away, turning back to the holding cages that were considerably less populated than they had been a few hours before. In particular, Jack was gone; the look of terror in his eyes when Syn had arrived with her entourage of guards and selected him specifically was something that Liz knew would haunt her for a very long time. It wasn't just the fear though: it was the fact that he tried to hide it; tried to look strong for her benefit, so maybe she wouldn't think he was quite as pathetic as he must have assumed she already did.

Liz's hands became fists again.

"We've got a problem," she uttered, climbing stiffly to her feet as one of the soldiers used the butt of his rifle to smash open the cage's lock.

[T.J. Harriman]

"There's always a problem," T.J. countered.

"Sidearms," he added, gesturing to two of his soldiers that they should give their back-up weapons to Liz. They complied, and his womanizing father's bastard nephew's daughter - yeah, his family was more than a little messed up - managed a grunt and nod of gratitude, but the way her attention was focused so intently on the pistols, and the way that her usual snarktastic attitude seemed to have been driven out of her with only grim seriousness left in it's wake... that was a little unsettling.

No wonder he'd been having a bad feeling in his gut this whole time.

"Big problem?"

[Liz Heller]

Liz nodded.

"Syn is here," she explained. They were all intimately familiar with Lord Pyre's power-stealing bitch of a step-daughter; Tom more intimately than others, given that she'd sucked his mutant abilities out of his face and spat them into Psion's tonsils. There was something decidedly messed up about the way that Syn did her thing, but then, there was something decidedly messed up about Syn, and just about everyone else in Pyre's batshit crazy cadre of psychotics and fanatics.

T.J. seemed to take that news well; she knew it was a sore subject, what with command identifying Syn as a priority kill target despite the fact that she was pretty much the only person capable of putting Tom back together again. That wasn't the worst of it though; her wince warned the Major to brace himself.

"Pyre is coming." Those words were ominous enough on their own. "Morrígan, Victory, and god knows who else as well. The whole package." She drew in a slow breath, struggling to keep her jaw from clenching. "Something big is going on here. They're building something. The guards talked about it like it's gonna change the world; and it seems like they need an ass-ton of mutants. Maybe it's a weapon; maybe it's something else; didn't sound like the guards knew all that much, but to be honest they were pretty busy bricking themselves about the big man showing his face."

She hesitated.

"There a plan here, Major?"

[T.J. Harriman]

T.J. glanced away, focusing on the Lieutenant.

"Not here, sir," O'Hara answered his unspoken question.

The sleeping beastie that lived in the Major's gut, waiting to devour his innards every time things started going badly wrong, woke up and started salivating. He forced out a sigh.

"You're a fringe benefit," he explained, offering an apologetic wince to his cousin. "Command sent us in here to retrieve a guy named Myers. He's a resistance fighter; leads a small cell of former athletes or something. Only met him a few times, and to be honest he seems like a bit of a tool: but word is that Psion went after him with extreme prejudice, and Hunter is pretty insistent that we get his boy back."

He hesitated. "If Pyre is building something big, then best guess is that he needs this Myers guy for something. And if Pyre needs something that bad -"

The rest didn't really need to be said. His eyebrows shifted ever so slightly into a look of concern.

"You good enough to get out of here?"

[Liz Heller]

Liz's lips twitched at the corner into a shadow of a smile; the look of borderline crazy anger that T.J. was used to was back in her eyes.

"Rest assured, Major -"

Her thumbs jabbed into the charging studs on the back of the pistols, a faint hum emanating from the power cells as they built up a charge in the pre-fire capacitors. She rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the knotted tension that had formed during her stint in the cage.

"- I'm good enough for a lot more than just that."

[Perun]

At Vanaheim...

It was not a throne room, but it might as well have been. Wotan insisted that every inhabitant of this underground sanctuary - mutant, mundane, or otherwise - was equal; and yet every position of power or authority was filled by some member of Wotan's bloodline, or some individual who had proven their loyalty to him. Any democracy was carefully contained, capped off to prevent it from ascending too high up the hierarchy and interfering with the way of running things that Wotan had dictated. Yes, his abilities gave him the insight into people and situations to allow him to instinctively know the best course of action to achieve a particular goal: but just because it was the correct thing to do didn't mean that it was right.

Perun strode through the doorway, helmet tucked under his arm, offering a curt nod of greeting to the two soldiers stood flanking the doorway as guards. It was gestures like this that raised his ire: so deep inside the network of tunnels, caves, and excavated chambers, there was no need for Wotan to have guards to protect him, and yet he did. It was all about appearances, about how if Wotan looked secure then everyone in the city would feel more secure; but while it perhaps made rational sense, Perun found it morally questionable.

He came to a halt at the foot of the long table that dominated the center of the room, choosing to remain standing rather than to take his customary seat. Most of the chairs were empty, save for three: at the head of the table sat Wotan himself; to his left the one that Perun had heard called the Sorcerer Supreme; and to his right, Aegis, the one whose council Wotan seemed to regard highest of all.

That too was a source of frustration: that it was Wotan's eldest daughter and not his eldest son who he held to that level of esteem. It wasn't that she was his sister - any archaic sentiments about gender roles had been thoroughly beaten out of him by his belovéd wife - but rather because it wasn't him. There wasn't any one thing that he had done to cause his father's lack of faith in him, but the fact that it existed at all wounded him deeply.

"News from the field," Perun announced, his mere arrival not having been enough to attract the attention of his father or his advisors.

"The Resistance has discovered that Pyre is constructing a possible weapon in what once was Colorado."

[Wotan]

Wotan's eyes looked up tiredly from his papers. Once again, Perun stood before him, and he could feel the sense of intend and purpose radiating from him like a wave. He knew what his eldest son wanted; and in turn Perun already knew what Wotan's response would be. Even so, they continued their dance, questioning every decision; every instruction that was given for the betterment of them all.

Of Wotan's many sons and daughters, his eldest - Perun - was the only one who ever felt the need to question his wisdom and insight. He had no idea what he had done to lose the boy's faith in him, but the fact that he had cut deep. But no matter how many times events proved Wotan right, Perun continued to demand that he justify himself. So much time wasted. So much potential not achieved.

With the faintest movement of his head, Wotan indicated the sorcerer beside him.

"We are aware," he explained simply.

For any of his other children, that would be enough; but Wotan knew that Perun would demand more. He almost sighed but held it at bay, gathering every scrap of patience that he could muster.

"I have already permitted Colonel Hunter to deploy his Guardians in response. Ensis is readying his forces to assist if required, and Sentinel is preparing for any retaliation that might be incurred."

[Perun]

Perun uttered the words that Wotan had known he would utter since he entered the room.

"Let me accompany the Guardians. You know I can help them."

For a fleeting second, Perun almost allowed himself to hope that his father would say yes; but the slightest fall of Wotan's eyes was all the answer that Perun needed. Yet again, his father denied his attempts to make amends; denied permission for any action that might allow Perun to restore his father's faith in him. Wotan's will was that Perun remain in the city, his gifts used on the rarest occasions to soothe storms or stimulate rainfall to replenish their reservoirs: minor acts for a mutant who could manipulate the elements on a whim.

He tried, failed, to stop his hands clenching into fists.

"Why?" he countered, indignant words forced out through a clenched jaw.

[Wotan]

Wotan's reply escaped as a low growl, that resonated around the audience chamber.

"Because I am not in the habit of needlessly wasting the lives of my sons."

That statement hung in the air, the stone walls playing custodian for a few seconds while Wotan allowed, hoped, it would make it through ears that so seldom listened. There was anger in Wotan's eyes, but also overwhelming sadness; it took self control to keep his lips and hands from visually trembling with the emotions that were coursing through his veins like a poison.

He thought of more he could say. He thought about the duty that he and all of his family had to protect the refugees of Vanaheim from Lord Pyre and his followers. He thought of what might happen if Perun attacked and failed; of how the people of Vanaheim might fare without him there to defend them; of how Pyre might react to the knowledge that Wotan's son dared to defy him openly. Standing between Pyre and the innocent was one thing; the faintest scrap of morality seemed to still linger somewhere in Pyre's misguided mind, and thus far he had refrained from hunting them down. But one mistake, one provocation too far, and no amount of morality would be able to keep Pyre's anger at bay.

But Wotan said none of this; it did not bear repeating, and once more would not convey anything that Perun had not already heard and ignored so many times previously.

"You have my answer," he said quietly. The silence between his words ached. "You are dismissed."

[Aegis]

It was never an easy moment to watch Father and Son argue and part of her heart genuinely ached as Perun turned on heel and strode angrily from the chambers. Aegis could not stop herself from feeling the equal frustration of both parties as it bled slowly into her, waging war as if the two were still staring each other down. She knew Perun's mind, though, knew that even now he was facing his own battle within...

"He is still trying to atone for Arizona." A hint of sadness marked her words. "You know you should not be so harsh with him. You push, he will only push back doubly."

Aegis's eyes slowly drifted away from the door that had been slammed shut only an instant before. A soft sigh left her before she turned to her Father. "You know of what I speak. You are the mind and he is the body, if you are at odds the system will not function to its fullest. You were not wrong this day and in time he will understand but you must allow him to. Walls are meant to keep us safe, Father, but you must have doors or there is only starvation and ruin."

A hand reached out and gently was placed atop of their leader's in a comforting gesture. "Perun will do what is right."

[Wotan]

Wotan listened to Aegis' words, but his eyes were focused on Perun as he stormed from the chamber.

His breath escaped as a low sigh.

"But what," he challenged quietly, "If I am not building walls but am instead building a dam? Any weaknesses we allow Perun's rash actions to punch in the barricade we have placed between ourselves and Pyre risks unleashing a deluge that we cannot hope to withstand."

He shook his head, features falling all too readily into a frown. "Perun has always done what he believes in his heart to be right -"

A tired smile and a glance was offered to Aegis.

"- sadly, neither his heart nor his head possess the kind of insight that nature has blessed you with."

[Aegis]

She forced a smile at her father's words. Ever had he looked upon her with favor and while she had never shied from it, her gifts never left her without knowing the impact it often caused her siblings. Still, that knowledge was never among the insight she granted to their father. At least, not directly.

"Do not underestimate the wisdom of the heart," a small, suppressed laugh escaped. "You of all people should know that the logical choice is sometimes not the one we follow and that the consequences are not always unwelcome."

Her hand slowly withdrew as Aegis once more looked to the door. She wished she could offer more insight to what her brother's actions may be, but he had learned how to keep his sister's reach from his mind. There were ways of ensuring Perun's obedience, he could not be manipulated. But others, those whose council Perun never seemed to question... The thought disgusted her. No, Aegis would never use her gifts for such a purpose.

[Wotan]

A genuine smile this time. From anyone else, such a statement of truth might have been unwelcome: seen as arrogant, scathing. But such insights were why Aegis was here. She saw things that Wotan could not, and the sights they shared she saw through different eyes and different senses. Though they disagreed, often, it was not a matter of whom was correct and whom was not; but merely of perspective.

When Wotan looked at his son, he saw a master of storms who had spent decades as a lone agent: impulsive, arrogant, and reckless. When Aegis looked upon her brother, she saw a man driven by his emotions the way that Wotan had been in his youth. That emotional drive had led him to make what had seemed like mistakes; but they had given him Perun and Aegis: two children he loved dearly, but whom he would have been deprived of had he listened to his head instead of his heart. This was what Aegis did: pointed out the hypocrisy and the error in his logic. Right was not what one of them had and the other did not; it was what emerged when their two opinions collided.

"Perun most certainly takes after his father," he agreed. His smile softened the severity of his frown, and weaved it's way into his voice. "Whereas you take after your mother."

He sighed, placing a hand on Aegis' forearm and offering a paternal squeeze. "Perun will do what he feels is right -" he repeated. His gaze shifted, settling on the sorceress to his left. "- and we will do what we must to ensure it does not go wrong."

[Perun]

A few thousand feet above, a remarkably average day turned unexpectedly overcast. In the tunnels of Vanaheim, far beneath the mountains, Perun's mood was just as dark. It took all his self control to keep his hands from balling into fists and slamming into the stone walls as he passed; bad things often happened when he allowed his temper to flare.

Far enough from the chamber to be confident that his sister's abilities did not pose a danger, he halted and pulled the bronzed helmet from his head, blinking as the dim light of the corridor assaulted his previously blinded peripheral vision. Helm cradled in one arm, he ran the gloved hand of the other through his hair, the film of sweat and condensation allowing him to convert his flattened coif of hair into inadvertent spikes.

His now-moist palm lingered over his eyes, both unpleasant and soothing at the same time. He let them close, reaching deep into the recesses of his mind in search of the soothing voice that always whispered what he needed to hear to keep himself under control.

Moments passed before his eyes opened again, his self not immersed in total calm, but far less incensed than before. A small hint of a smile tugged at his lips as his keen senses picked up on a familiar approach. "Trying to sneak up on me, huh?" he half-muttered, his smile blossoming as he turned to settle his eyes on the one woman in all the world who made everything better.

[Andraste]

"Now, that's just unfair," the voice was coy, representing a smirk yet unformed on lips. "We both know if I was really trying you'd be completely at my mercy."

Andraste regarded her husband with her usual demeanor caught somewhere between shameless flirtation and quiet dedication. She had always been aware of the fact her eyes that had wonderful ability to make him feel exposed no matter what and she never hid the pleasure she received from it from him. But something there, something she saw in the reflection of everything he was disquieted her and brought upon a more somber look.

"He won't allow it, will he?" It was hard to keep the edge from her words.

Andraste respected her father-in-law to a degree of loyalty that had once been described as bordering on fanaticism, but her loyalty was always firstly to Perun. Her steps were light as she closed the distance between them, her hand reaching out to gently touch his cheek. If everything permitted she would always shield him, stand by his side through any battle, but those faced in his Wotan's presence were always beyond her control and the sense of powerlessness at those times were almost unbearable.

She wouldn't ask him any further questions, not directly. But there was no doubt what he saw as she looked to him, a simply asking of what do you need me to do that never went spoken.

[Perun]

"No."

There wasn't anger any more; nor frustration; just disappointment and resignation. Acceptance of the fact that his father had lost faith in him, and would never trust him to do anything again.

Rather than the slump such sentiments should have forced upon him however, the feel of his beloved wife's face bolstered his resolve. He straightened, a new smile summoned to his lips for her this time. There was a hint of mischief there, but above all it spoke of the inferno in his chest that ignited every time his eyes gazed upon her. She was not just the subject of his affections; a woman he had chosen to dote his feelings upon. There had been no choice. No question. They were not merely husband and wife; not merely lovers; they were two halves of a whole. She was his equal - his better - in every conceivable way. They lived, loved, laughed, cried, fought, all at each other's side. When she was with him, Perun was better. He did not fear losing her, or being apart from her, because he could not comprehend a reality where such a thing could be true.

"I am therefore going anyway."

He caught himself, a little too late perhaps, but at least before she had the chance to correct him. "We are going anyway."

There was no choice or question there, either: no attempt to protect his beloved by hiding her away from harm and danger. They would fight together, and one day they would die together, and that was how it was meant to be. Andraste and Perun: inseparable as lightning and thunder.

[Andraste]

Her eyes had searched his for a hint that he was speaking falsehoods and saw none. It would not be the first time that Perun had gone against his father's wishes, but it would perhaps be the first she had joined him for such an expedition. She never would deny that every time Perun stepped from his father's shadow she grew to love him all the more. A wave of excitement overcame her and she found herself suddenly pulling her husband to her as she practically crushed her lips to his. Some girls may found giddiness from receiving flowers, a gentle kiss on the hand, a kind word, and yes there had been a time when she was among them, but time had changed everything and now it was the simple desire to always be at his side that meant the world to her.

She found herself breathless once they finally parted, her mind filled with the passion that was them and the thrill of upcoming battle. It had been too long since they had been trapped behind the walls of Vanaheim. They were warriors that had been reduced to nothing more than glorified watchdogs growing stagnant when the battle was far from won. Andraste could not deny that there was wisdom in keeping those they could safe, but there were those that were suited to such tasks and she and Perun had never truly been among them.

"Good." She finally managed to make herself speak once more. "Because I had already made preparations. I would hate to have seen them go to waste."

[Skuld]

“Prepare for unseen consequences.”

The voice came from behind the pair, the speaker pacing out of the length of corridor that Perun had stalked down. Garbed in the green and gold robes of her station, with the Lathe of Alfheim in her left hand, Skuld regarded Perun and Andraste with an implacable expression: brows drawn together a fraction, lips pursed into a thin line of contemplation. She halted, a short distance from the two of them, and planted the base of her staff against the ground with a sharp click.

She watched Perun, with eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“From this moment, the fate of many worlds hang on the advisedness of your every deed, stormbringer.”

[Perun]

Perun squared his shoulders against her, a cutting edge creeping into his voice.

"And what advice do you bring with you, witch? Will you advice further cowardice, as you do to my father? Should I cower behind these walls, wait until it is too late to stop the danger that will inevitably consume us?"

A glare filled his eyes, every bit as intense as the one she tried to wield.

"You are nought but talk, Skuld. You speak of powerful forces and irresistible destinies, but you sit, and you hide, and you do nothing. You are words; I am action. You will not stop me; not this time."

The muscles in his jaw bunched, shoulders and fists tensing in silent threat.

"And it would be far less painful for you if you were not to try."

[Skuld]

She had sat at Wotan's side – served as his Sorcerer Supreme – for long enough to know the temper of his son. The earth quaked and the skies cracked when Perun raged, and in Vanaheim the days were few when Skuld did not at some hour feel the ground shake beneath her feet. She did not tremble at his outburst, however. If he was fire, she was ice: as hard and cool as the crystal set into the curved blade at the tip of her staff.

“You mistake reckless abandon for bravery, stormbringer. Now more than ever, you are ensnared within destiny's web – and you have bound all of us in it with you.”

Whatever cautions were rising to the tip of her tongue were silenced. There was no point or purpose to lecturing Perun in the nature of fate, not anymore.

“But you are right: I will not stop you this time, because I.. cannot. This... must happen, and I must stand by your side to face destiny with you.”

[Andraste]

"We do not need you, miserable hagraven!" If she had been more like her father Andraste would have spit, but as it was she simply had been glad to not strike at the sorceress.

It was no secret that she shared her husband's opinions on the woman and perhaps for once it was not simply to share in Perun's sentiments. Andraste had questioned time and time again why it was that Skuld refused to use everything within her supposed grand power to end the conflict. So much had been lost and could have been saved, so many boons could have been granted to the Vanguard, the Guardians, and her family. Yet here they all remained, shells of what they all once were, surviving instead of living. Somewhere in time was a house filled with the sound of laughter, of joy, of her children, of her family - it had been denied to her. Andraste could clearly see the evils that were truly to blame, but she would never hesitate to mark those who could have done more to be just as guilty.

"You who speak of fate to us. Throw your lies to those who will believe them." She grew far too bold, but such things had been brewing for so long that they now could not be held back. "You did not intervene before when your precious destinies would have given us hope. We had an answer and no one, not you, not Aegis, not even Wotan even bothered to-"

Andraste's words were cut short by the sudden weight of her husband's hand on her shoulder. Rage that had flooded her vision suddenly being replaced with a deep sorrow that rarely showed itself. It as well as the tears that threatened to blur her vision were blinked away as she slowly raised her hand to lock her fingers with Perun's, his strength adding to her own once more.

A slow breath was taken before her gaze fully focused upon Skuld once more. "Why now?"

[Skuld]

There was little tolerance and even less affection in Vanaheim for Wotan's sorcerer: a woman who had not been born with power but rather acquired it. A power that, to their minds, she used far too sparingly. Yours will be a thankless burden, ravenchild, the White Lord had warned Skuld many years ago, as he gifted the Lathe of Alfheim to her. He was not wrong. A lesser woman might have balked under the challenges and the threats against her character, but Skuld's resolve was ironclad. She weathered Andraste's outburst as she had done before. It was not the first time that she had been challenged by the stormbringer and his wife – but it might well be the last.

“The hour has come.”

Her eyes shifted to Perun.

“Whatever differences may have parted us in the past must be forgotten, if we are to stand united.”

[Perun]

Stand united.

Seldom did that sentiment come without the threat of a fall. Solomon's eyes narrowed, scrutinising Skuld's features for any hint or clue of the insight she believed she possessed. Her face was as unreadable as ever, too plastered with subtle scribings of disdain and arrogance towards the mutants and their crude, chaotic, compartmentalised abilities. He was loathed to trust her, let alone set aside their differences, cooperate, and stand together; but if she was, that meant grave things indeed.

His hand found Andraste's arm; trailed down past her wrist to thread his fingers with hers in solidarity.

"Very well," he said, summoning his strength to drive as much of the reluctance from his voice as he possibly could.

His other hand raised his helmet, and settled it back where it belonged.

"There is not much time. We must assemble with the others."

[Victory]

At the compound...

Air eased it's way into the zeppelin, inflating the ballonets within the lighter-than-air balloon, compressing the helium into smaller and more dense volumes to diminish it's ability to reduce the weight of the craft. Slowly, the zeppelin became heavier and heavier, sinking through the air and into the broad crater that had once been a warehouse district, but had since been swept clean for exactly this purpose. Contact with the ground sent a bone-shuddering vibration through the airship. Most of the passengers braced themselves in seats or against bulkheads; but not Victory. He stood with unwavering calm, steady as a rock, hands clasped behind his back as he waited for the ramp to descend.

The guards, attendants, and workers who had braved the surface formed themselves into a hasty avenue. Some were military, but most were not, and it showed in their scrappy formation and poor posture. Victory bit down against his own teeth in frustration: Lord Pyre had time and again denied his requests to bolster their military through conscription. According to their patriarch, there was no one alive dangerous to pose any threat to Him; but He missed the very point of the notion. With occasional exceptions, service would breed discipline and order, and would instil a sense of loyalty and duty in the population. As well, the modest Imperial Guard was populated by volunteers: loyal perhaps, to the point of fanaticism in some cases; but often the best weapons were not those freely given, but rather the ones that were forged bespoke for the task.

Holding himself at the fullness of his stature, he strode out onto the broken concrete, noting with a shred of satisfaction that they had at least chosen a fairly level area to assemble. His eyes stalked the twin lines of mutants; settled on the two figures waiting at the distant end. Commander Psion and his power-stealing whore; the Conduit, or whatever trumped-up descriptor had been decided upon. His face fought against his willpower, lip curling into a snarl. Nothing about mutancy and the abilities it granted seemed particularly natural, but the power to rip those gifts from one person and bestow them upon another felt like an affront.

Subconsciously, Victory's hand strayed to the hilt of the sword hanging from his waist. Word was that the bitch was important, key even, and so he would force himself to tolerate her presence; but if she strayed within arm's reach before then, he would be sure to strike before she had the chance.

Gathering his frustration together, he squeezed it into his lungs and unleashed a ground-shaking bellow. "Stand tall, and show some respect!" he demanded. His voice echoed upon the shattered remnants of walls and buildings. "Lord Pyre and Lady Morrígan grace you with Their presence."

[Morrigan]

It gnawed at her insides, scraping slowly against her psyche to see the dual lines of their followers. Not for the same reasons as Victory, oh no, hers was a more primal need, the incessant desire to watch them all burn. The sensation was quelled only by an overwhelming amusement that tugged her attention away from slaughter. There had been so many little moments like this where she would find herself at His side before others. Not His wife, her. Regardless what it made others think, to Morrigan it simply was satisfying. She was not just another pawn and it was well that everyone knew it.

Unfeeling gaze moved across the ranks of those assembled, finally coming to the end where suddenly hatred blazed. Syn. She had long envisioned the moment they would inevitably come into conflict, the girl who stole the powers of others, and the woman whose power could not be taken. It was Syn's continued usefulness that had spared her time and time again. One day that usefulness would run out and watchful eyes would not be upon her. It gave Morrigan something to look forward to.

It was perhaps with undue unkindness that her visage only softened back to apathetic as she finally found her eyes meeting those of Psion. His continued gifts given to him by the Conduit gave him all manner of things, except the ability to hide that flicker that caused the beast within to let its instinctual passions slam foremost into the front of her mind once more. She would have words with him later...if she could contain herself that long.

A small breath was released as she looked upon the entire group once more.

"Pitiful." More mouthed than spoken, the single utterance left her in a contemptuous whisper.