It's Gonna Take An Airplane

[Orcus]

New Orleans Lakefront Airport

The sky was blue and crystal clear, and by all rights it should have been a blisteringly warm day. At this ungodly hour however, it was still anything but: the concrete buildings and asphalt runways drank greedily every ounce of heat that the sun threw down, and for a lowly human like Andrew Deacon, there just wasn't anything left.

He strode towards the waiting aircraft, his eyes watching the cluster of Treadstone employees swarming around the down-folded boarding ramp. He wrinked his nose at the sight of it: he'd never understood why people would be willing to jump out of a perfectly servicable aircraft, until the first time he'd flown inside a Charlie-One-Thirty. The sound of the engines, the roughness of the ride; the second the door had opened he'd been ready to leap out of it, regardless of how far below the ground was.

Unfortunately, such trips were occasionally the nature of his job. Ever since Katrina, Treadstone Industries had been getting a little nervous about the security surrounding it's prototypes and abandoned projects. More specifically, it was getting a little twitchy about the integrity of the buildings; biometric locks and top-of-the-range voice recognition were pretty pointless when the back half of the warehouse fell off because of storm damage. With the acquisition of El Toro, the company found itself with a new secure facility, with half the measures already in place curtosy of the United States Marine Corps. Converting the old military buildings into secure storehouses was a slow process; but not quite as slow as ferrying the prototypes and abandoned projects all the way from Louisiana to California.

Not everything they were moving was dangerous. Not everything they were moving came with a hefty price tag. Never the less, important people who earned a lot more than Deacon had outlined the security proceedure for transferring cargo from one place to another, and so everything was getting shipped in exactly the same way. Even Deacon didn't know what was going to be in the crate this time around.

By the reckoning of the highly-paid security consultants, this was the riskiest part of the journey. The odds of anyone ambushing the plane mid-flight were slim to none; but while the El Toro facility came complete with it's own airfield, allowing them to land already inside several layers of security, at the New Orleans end they were forced to make use of a public airport. If anyone was going to try and steal the shipment, it was here.

Deacon watched as an unmarked, non-descript truck rolled in, flanked by a pair of not at all suspicious looking unmarked 4x4s. All three came to a halt in a feat of parking that clearly wasn't amateur, a motley assortment of unmarked and non-descript ex-military types spilling out of the back of the jeeps, and swarming around the van to unload it's contents. It was almost impressive, watching the speed with which the crates were hefted from the truck to the plane. Deacon had half a mind to leave them to it, and crawl back to his nice warm bed.

A wave from one of the of the flight crew - who'd been loitering around the back end of the plane watching the ex-military display of efficiency - made it clear that his escape route was firmly closed. Decon let out a breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding; yet another shipment loaded without a hitch. His hand dug into his pocket, and pulled out a cell phone; fingers punched the speed dial to contact his employer.

"Everything is good to go," he said, answering the instant question that she had asked. Not even a 'hi', or a 'good morning'; that was nice. "Yes, Miss Ericsson. I'll see you when we get to L.A."

* * *

Deacon glanced at his watch. Again. It was the third time in - he glanced again; fourth time - the last ten minutes. That was a bad sign.

What was worse however was the fact that the plane's constant shuddering and vibrating - not to mention the incessant noise - had made Deacon lose almost all feeling below his waist. Worryingly, the last thing he remembered feeling was a powerful need to urinate. Foolishly he'd decided to remain where he was, as a show of manly resiliance in front of the ex-military types. He was very rapidly beginning to regret that.

With a grunt, he heaved himself to his feet - perhaps using the cargo webbing a little too much for support - and tried to coax a little sensation back into his feet. "I'm going for a chat with the flight crew!" he shouted, barely hearing him self over the noise and the hefty set of earphones clapped around his head; the intense stare from the person directly opposite suggested that he couldn't hear either, nor particularly cared to. A little disheartened at his lack of success bonding with this particular group of hired guards, Deacon shuffled off towards the cockpit and it's friendlier - and more familiar - faces.

Heaving the sliding door aside, he flashed a grin at the familiar four: the same group who'd been crewing Treadstone's cargo plane for the last dozen flights or so.

"Wow," Murray the pilot exclaimed with exaggerated gestures. "Only three hours; think that's a new record!"

Eric the copilot grinned back. "That's fifty you owe me, skipper," he said loudly, jerking his head towards the pilot. "This guy didn't think you'd even make it out of Louisiana."

Deacon chuckled to himself; his boredom on these flights was legendary. It seemed to be a subject of much amusement amongst the crew, and there seemed to be a running pool. Colin the air engineer was usually the one keeping tabs; and usually the one who won, for that matter. Much speculation had ensued amongst the other three that Deacon and Colin were secretly rigging the game, working in cahoots to split the winnings.

He frowned, turning his attention to the mousy-haired man sitting in the air engineer's usual seat. "Where's Colin?" he asked, slightly surprised that no one had bothered to mention his absense or illness sooner.

"Where he always is," Eric replied, a slight tired edge in his voice as if he suspected another one of Deacon's groan-worthy jokes.

"But -" Deacon looked at the not-Colin again, and the not-Colin looked back. His frown deepened, confusion sending his brain into swirls. "Colin is black."

That was the last thing that Andrew Deacon ever said; a few moments later, a red-stained silver-metallic blade errupted from his chest. When it withdrew, Deacon crumpled to the floor, the ex-military man with his intense stare looming behind him with an angry-looking weapon in hand. From the spatter on his face and clothing, Deacon had not been his first victim.

"What the hell!" Eric exclaimed, half a second before the not-Colin put a bullet in his spine, giving the navigator the same treatment. Without a word, the not-Colin tipped his body from the seat, settling down in his place.

Panic had frozen Murray to the spot; his desire to avoid crashing the only thing keeping the plane still airborne. The not-Colin placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and stared at him intently; eventually Murray looked back. That was his last mistake.

"I need you to change course, Murray." His voice was steady, calm, and unexpectedly British. "We need to change course. Can you do that for me, Murray?"

The pilot nodded, dumbly. The not-Colin turned, flashing his parner in crime a knowing smile. "That's great, Murray," he said, physical contact not breaking, his intense gaze back on the pilot. "I need you to turn twenty-two degrees north..."

[Tom Harriman]

With practiced skill that only a child who grew up with meccano could accomplish, Tom put the finishing touches to his latest invention.

Admittedly, "invention" was perhaps too grand a term for what he'd actually dome. It was more a mix of miniaturisation and modification. He'd downsized the pyrotechnics slightly, streamlined the casing, replaced the pin with a spring-loaded impact trigger, mounted a carbon fibre shaft, et voila: flashbang on a stick.

Since the assortment of prototypes, blueprints, and archives had shown up at El Toro, Harriman had been rummaging, and this was just one of many side projects he'd been working on. The projectile and it's similar cousins were - at the moment at least - too nose-heavy to be fired with any real accuracy by conventional means, making them pretty useless for widespread production. But, with a helpful nudge from his special abilities, they'd do just fine for "recreational use" during his extravocational evening activities.

The next challenge was working out how to carry a reasonable assortment. Contrary to what cartoons and comic books had informed him, the all in one quiver approach was not the best way to handle such projectiles. For starters, the chunkier arrow heads took up far more space at the bottom of the quiver than the quarrels did at the top; the opposite shape to most tapered quivers. And even if he could find a way to make them all easily accessible, he was completely blind to everything behind his back; selecting the right arrow was nigh impossible.

If the doodles on the notepad by his desk were anything to go by, he was considering some sort of bayonet fit shaft and bandoleer of arrow heads arrangement, but apparently that train of thought had been distracted by the urge to draw a cat in a lab coat.

Tom was in the process of contemplating said cat when Emma entered the lab. He turned to her with his usual invention-related enthusiasm, but the positive expression soon fell from his face. Emma looked grim; and that seldom meant good news.

"Problem?" he asked, trying to be as optimistic and supportive as he could possibly sound in just one word.

Emma offered a slight nod of her head. "Miss Ericsson needs to see you. It's urgent."

Tom didn't need to be told twice; certainly not with that worried expression and tone of voice. He abandoned his tools and fell into step behind her, staying in silence as they boarded the lift. Silence melted into interest as he watched Emma input an extra set of commands into the touchscreen terminal; when the elevator set off again, he didn't recognise the symbol that she had selected.

"I thought this lift only went to three places."

"Well, now you know it goes to four," Emma offered a shrug.

Tom's frown deepened, suspicion creeping into his features. "It's a secret subbasement, isn't it? She specifically told me that there wasn't a secret subbasement."

Emma shot him a look. "Would you have got into the helicopter to El Toro if you knew this was here?"

He grunted, arms folding across his chest in a near childish display of frustration. "I wouldn't have got shot down," he grumbled.

Tom's mood lightened as the elevator stopped however, the doors sliding aside to reveal what he instantly decided to refer to from then onwards as The Basement (http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110506195116/primeval/images/d/d8/ARC_Wallpaper.jpg). The building that Tom had left behind was already a modern facility, but this place had overhead mood lightings, and support beams that cut off the corners of the ceiling; architectural features that decades of cult television told him meant that this place was very high-tech indeed.

There were workstations set up about the place, some configured with microscopes for doing science and such; others with laptops and stacks of paperwork that clearly looked like important spy type espionage reading had been going on. No one seemed to be working right now, though. The only other occupants of the room were clustered around a huge bank of monitors and keyboards at the far end of the room.

Tom stepped over, narrowing his eyes at Dahlia Ericsson. "You lied," he accused, simply.

[Dahlia Ericsson]

Stiletto heels clicked as she paced behind the crew huddled over the monitors. Fingers rose to smooth out her jacket before her arms crossed over her chest, blue eyes flashing with frustration.

"Try it again..." she snapped, standing directly behind the lone seated person in the mix, who was manipulating the monitors and sensors with a frightening precision.

"Already did...they're still not responding."

"And their course?"

"Changed north by twenty-two degrees from their preset course. Running down possible destinations as we speak."

Dahlia swore a streak of Creole that would have gotten her mouth washed out when she was younger. Francois arched a brow at her from his position, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest.

She fell silent and resumed her pacing, fingers white knuckled as they clasped her upper arms. Her blue eyes rippled and faceted as she kept a tight lid on expressing anymore of her anger. It wouldn't do any good, she mused, nor would it help Deacon and the others. All of them good men who'd been with Treadstone for her entire tenure as President.

The lift at the end of the hall chimed its arrival, a sound she ignored for the time being. Until the occupants it had spewed forth joined them and Tom felt the need to call her out.

"Suck it up, Tom. I have people who aren't answering communications and may be injured or dead and a plane that's not going where its supposed to. The ground crew in New Orleans said everything went smoothly on their end." Dahlia said sharply, perhaps a bit more sharply than she normally would. But it was hard to contain it amidst the worry for her people.

[Tom Harriman]

Suck it up, Tom?

Harriman fought hard to keep the sarcasm from rolling off his tongue; clearly someone had recieved a successful sense of humour bipass over the weekend. This was the problem with civilians, he mused: when you dealt with grave and somber situations as regularly as he had in the military, you learned to splash a little humour into the proceedings every now and again. It wasn't about being disrespectful: it was about stopping you from going insane with stress.

He didn't really need Dahlia's vague summation of events, though. Everything he needed to know was displayed on one or other of the screens that the less curvy of the Hughes siblings was constantly shuffling data onto. He'd only met the two of them briefly all those months ago in that briefing with Sparky - where was Sparky these days, anyhow? - and hadn't seen sight nor sound of them since. He couldn't even recall their names off-hand, though he did remember that one was subjectively more attractive than the other. He let his eyes stray away and sought out the sister, flashing her a quick wink. Maybe she'd be a little less morose about this whole... whatever it was.

Tom turned back to the situation displays, a suggestion on the tip of his tongue. Hamilton was way ahead of him though, it seemed; a dotted blue line lanced out fore and aft of the aircraft's current location, registered airfields being highlighted as the predicted course swept across them. That the plane didn't seem to be heading to any of them was decidedly odd; if the craft was experiencing some kind of comm fault, it would surely have made sense for them to aim at the nearest; not that they could have requested permission to land there, of course. Or unless they were worried about being too exposed when they did...

"Who and what is on that plane?" Tom asked, attention turning to Dahlia. This wasn't the first Treadstone plane flying towards Los Angeles that was bundled up with secrecy and security.

[Tradeskill]

Hamilton Hughes sat in his cushy chair with the stillness of a stone gargoyle, save for the rapid movements of his hands and fingers over the controls of his computer. He could feel the tenseness of the room as a palpable heat and prickling of hair on the back of his neck and the left side of his head. The hair just above his ear started to itch, and he scratched it idly as he thumped the enter key and the monitor webbed out the plane's most likely courses. Behind him he heard the barest sound of Tom shuffling as his action pre-empted and killed a critique of his skill, and the prickling faded somewhat. He liked being good at what he did.

Behind him and off to the side, standing well out of the way of Dahlia's pacing circuit, his sister Hannelore idly rolled an Atomic Fireball over her teeth, listening to the clacking of it just under the rattle of keyboards. She didn't need to interfere with her twitchy boss, or any of the communications experts assembled in the room (though she was one such expert herself). No, she was there today as muscle. She'd already tapped Ham earlier to take their shared power of enhanced speed, strength, and agility for herself; now the only thing to do was to wait for the call to action.

She tilted her head and body slightly to see who was coming out of the elevator. Tom caught her eye as he came up and stopped. He winked as Dahlia cut his humor down, which she returned with a quick lift of her eyebrows. The expression read thus: "Well, this should be fun." It certainly seemed to her that it would be, especially with Tom asking dangerous questions like "Who and what is on that plane?"

"Treadstone stuff," she and Ham deadpanned together as an answer. Neither of the Hughes siblings were thrilled at the secrecy of these transportation missions, though they knew full well the reason for the classified files and secrecy and [redacted]. They'd taken to making sport of it with the other comm guys to pass the time and boredom when Dahlia wasn't around, which wasn't often. They'd decided just before the flight took off and the Boss arrived that this crate was full of chemically-engineered Peeps that would make people grow when irradiated. Ham's head didn't move an inch, but Han turned to face Dahlia a little more directly. This answer should be fun fun fun.

[Dahlia Ericsson]

You know you're being a Class-A bitch, right?

Oh, I'm aware. It's one of my finest abilities.

Dahlia freed one hand and lightly gripped the bridge of her nose. Focusing on the pressure eased the furrow between her brows and allowed to think a little more clearly. With her vision no longer faceted, she looked up as she took a deep breath, glancing around the room as every set of eyes was cast towards her expectantly.

Right. What's in the plane, D? She had to think for a moment before it came to her.

"Four crates of blueprints for declassified World War Two era rockets. Twelve crates containing pieces of the only two prototypes of the rockets detailed in the blueprints. Six secured crates of still-classified hand-held weapons and their modifications. One small lock-box of my personal documents..." Dahlia swallowed and locked her gaze on the monitor showing the airplane's trek, her voice softening considerably. "..and four of the five people I hired my first day in charge."

Her tone left little doubt as to which meant the most to her. She straightened her posture and did her best to breath evenly in an effort to remain calm and collected. And perhaps not to snap at anyone again for the next five minutes.

[Tom Harriman]

Rockets and guns. An arms shipment.

No wonder she was freaking out. While a lot of the prototypes that Treadstone had developed - as far as Tom knew, at least; his security clearance only allowed him to research so much - were essentially harmless, or were practically useless without set of high tech engineering facilities, a rocket from the Second World War was both low tech and dangerous. Even without a payload, they represented a delivery system; when you had one of those, getting your hands on the explosives to stuff into it was comparatively easy. There were all kinds of political groups who would give just about anything to get their hands on those; especially given their current proximity to Los Angeles.

He wondered how many of those groups would be capable of pulling off a mid-air heist.

"I'm going to need Frank and Joe," Tom announced, mind snapping instantly into tactical mode. Doctor Harriman was gone; Captain Harriman had taken his place. "You too, Hannah," he added, with a nod in her direction. "Assuming you're the one with the keys today."

He met the look that Dahlia threw in his direction with an unwaveringly dutiful one of his own. "I assume you called me down here so I could go and rescue these friends of yours. If not, I'm happy to just stand around looking pretty."

[Dahlia Ericsson]

There was a moment where she could have kissed Tom for being himself. As it was, she squashed the urge and settled for sending him a wealth of gratitude in her gaze. The first smile she'd worn all day found its way to her lips and curled them up slightly.

"While you do pretty very well, Tom, I'd appreciate it if you went. Take whoever and whatever you need. Don't forget comm devices..." Dahlia shook her head as she let her words trail off. It didn't need saying, and that was going to be something she had to remember.

She trusted these people. But she also trusted the ones on the airplane, and that, she hope fervently, wouldn't prove to be a mistake. Nodding to Tom once more, she caught Francois' gaze and held it briefly as he walked past her.

[Tradeskill]

"I'm prettier," mumbled Hamilton as an aside to his sister as she came up and squeezed his shoulder.

"Yep," she agreed, studying the monitor one last time as she crushed the Fireball with her super-strength. "Have fun babysitting." She turned to Tom, heading for the elevator and their preparation rooms. "C'mon, dahlin'. Let's go save the day."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom hesitated for a moment, a frown forming across his brow. "I'll meet you up on the roof," he countered, slowing his pace a little as he advanced towards the lift. "I need to grab some things from my lab."

Hannalore waited, watching him with one of those come on, think it through sort of looks. Tom grimaced as it dawned on him. "Right. I need to be going upwards as well."

A sheepish look was thrown in Dahlia's direction as he stepped into the elevator, an added wave goodbye with his eyebrows tossed in for good measure. He waited, bouncing on his heels as the lift ascended the however-many floors to it's first pit-stop.

Stepping out, he turned to face Hannalore. "I'll meet you on the roof," he tried again. "I have to grab some things for my lab." Then without another word he scampered off up the corridor, before an embarassment-increasing retort was thrown his way.

[Orcus]

The plane began to descend, swooping downwards towards an area of terrain that looked decidedly unsuitable for a safe landing. In it's cockpit however, the three survivors didn't look remotely phased; the pilot even looked on the brink of lapsing into sleep, though the forced control of the man who wasn't Colin kept him active and on task.

A pocket of turbulence caught one of the wings, sending a violent shudder through the already uncomfortable plane. "Blast!" the hypnopath muttered under his breath, barely managing to avoid accidentally breaking contract with Murray. "This is why I hate flying."

The ex-military figure didn't react; he hadn't said a word since returning from wherever he'd been, changing from his combat fatigues into something dark, leather, and armoured. It might not have looked as comfortable, but it certainly amped up the protection factor and menace factor by a few degrees.

Instead of speaking, he watched through the windshield with intent eyes, staring at the unchanging ground before them. Silently he counted off the distance that they advanced; arbetrary values yes, but figures that became progressively smaller none the less, as they neared their destination.

Something stirred, like the very earth itself was moving. Rock and dirt and debris tumbled, swept aside as a wave of ground swept across it. Where once there had been nothing but unremarkable scrub and scree, now lay an unnaturally smooth stretch of solid stone, aligned exactly along their present heading. The ex-military man allowed himself a small smile. The plan was unfolding perfectly.

He braced himself with a hand against the bulkhead as the plane's wheels kissed the surface. He felt the impact; felt the decceleration as the flaps extended and drag ground them to an eventual halt. He watched as a sigh of relief escaped from the hypnopath, followed by a bullet escaping from his gun and burying itself into Murray's chest.

The hypnopath rose to his feet, eyes settling on the ex-military man as he pulled some kind of mask or helmet over his features. "Don't worry," he said, as the non-descript soldier suddenly transformed into the assassin Orcus. "I won't tell anyone what you look like under that mask."

Orcus regarded him with a stillness, his shielded gaze scrutinising the lesser mutant intently. "No," he agreed; the sword slid effortlessly through the hypnopath's chest, his eyes widened in those last few seconds by the realisation of just how expendable he was. "I do not believe you will."

A faint shred of respect to his executed comrade made Orcus reach for his discarded fatigues, using them instead of the hypnopath's corpse to wipe the blood smears from his blade. Satisfied that it was acceptably clean, he slid it into the sheath upon his back; he didn't even spare another look as he abandoned the carnage in the cockpit, and walked into the further carnage of the main hold.

The ramp was already descending as Orcus approached; he waited just long enough before striding down it onto the terracrafted runway beneath.

"Boomer," he offered in greeting, his eyes settling on the mutant before him, who seemed to command at least a vague shred of respect and seniority compared to the other mutants around him. Orcus offered him the slightest bow of his head; the closest thing to an expression that he would ever provide once his mask was in place. "The incompetence of your associates was considerably lower than I expected," he added; the closest thing to gratitude that he would ever display.

[Tradeskill]

Hannelore offered Tom a little wave with her fingers as the elevator doors shut and took her up one last floor to what she thought of as the X-Force barracks. She sighed and marched down the hall to the women's locker room. She couldn't figure him out. Was he just a scatterbrain, was he picking on her, or did he really have a crush on her? She popped another Fireball into her mouth as she entered the locker room and went to change. She unlocked her's quickly and began to dress in her black-and-white vigilante uniform.

The suit was a marvel to Han. It was form-fitting, but didn't restrict her movements. The material was lightweight and breathable, so she didn't sweat unduly or itch much when she was forced to wear it over long periods. They were also incredibly tough, taking bullet and knife strikes without tearing. The boots were comfortable and durable, better than her army-issue combat boots. A domino mask completed the outfit, with lenses that would hide her eye color and reduce glare from light sources. Han--Tradeskill, now that she was in uniform--shut the locker and proceeded out the room's other door and into the hangar where the team's vehicles awaited.

[The Brotherhood]

The man at the front of the small formation of mutants was tall, lanky, and dark, wearing shades, a black muscle shirt, and camo-print trousers, and a drab military cap pulled down over his tightly corded hair. He carried no obvious weapons, but from the way he swaggered to greet Orcus, he clearly considered himself armed.


"Boomer," he offered in greeting, his eyes settling on the mutant before him, who seemed to command at least a vague shred of respect and seniority compared to the other mutants around him. Orcus offered him the slightest bow of his head; the closest thing to an expression that he would ever provide once his mask was in place. "The incompetence of your associates was considerably lower than I expected," he added; the closest thing to gratitude that he would ever display.

"You're all heart, Orcus," the Jamaican mutant replied. "Go on, secure the merchandise."

The four mutants at his back, two men and two women, hurried up the loading ramp into the cargo hold. Boomer turned on the heel of a combat boot and fell into stride beside Orcus.

"I hope at least you didn't kill any of them this time?" he said.

[Orcus]

"Witnesses are a liability," Orcus replied simply, as if he were casually quoting a sage proverb rather than admitting to being the cause of the numerous corpses cluttering the plane's interior.

He shot a sidelong glance towards Boomer, though with his visor it barely even registered, a slight turn of his head the only movement necessary. "Your Earthmover may bury the bodies, if you feel it necessary," he offered, a concession to the weak sensibilities that some of the Brotherhood's younger members seemed to cling to. Orcus had no patience for such things himself; but a token gesture here and there cost him nothing.

"We have plenty of time," he expanded calmly. "Treadstone is not equipped to respond swiftly to these situations, and by the time they have rallied the authorities, we will be long gone."

There was a curl in his words; one that bordered on arrogance. Beneath his mask he frowned: clearly he had spent too much time around Hurucan, and was losing his usual air of pessimism. His words turned grave; accusing. "Even so, I trust that the mutants you selected will be capable of defending us, in the unlikely event that the unforeseen transpires?"

[The Brotherhood]

"I don't give a rip about the mundanes, Orcus," Boomer growled. "Damn it, you know how hard it is to find a good mind-controller? These guys were recruited for a reason. You makin' it awful hard for me to do my job."

He glanced back over his shoulder as Ironhide and Echo hefted one of the bigger crates between them - big enough to fill most of a flatbed trailer - and walked it down the cargo ramp. "This group's been trained together," he said. "A little rough around the edges, but they know their business."

Boomer clapped a hand on Orcus's shoulder, and a white burst of energy bloomed over the high-impact polymers and dissipated. "No more friendly fire, or I'm bustin' your ass myself. Understand?"

[Orcus]

His masked appearence came with many virtues. Anonymity of course was foremost; but it also provided a shield that hid any involuntary inflections and expressions. At that moment, it served that purpose well.

The posturing of these lesser mutants was so tiresome at times.

With a simple gesture, he shrugged off Boomer's pyrotechnic paw, subtly lengthening his strides to draw slightly ahead of the lackey that had been borrowed from the Brotherhood's local contingent. "You would be wise to remember who is in charge around here," he offered casually, leaving Boomer behind him.

He paused for a single beat. "And if you believe you are capable of following through on that threat, you are more than welcome to try."

[Frank Toussaint]

The matte black Bell-222 sliced through the air as fast as it's rotors would carry it, trailing the course that the Treadstone plane had flown hopefully not too many minutes ago. Frank risked a glance at the GPS screen bolted onto his dashboard; the plane was stationary, and for an aircraft that wasn't rotary winged like this one, that meant landed.

Whoever had taken her, and whatever they'd wanted, they were no doubt busy unloading it by now. Maybe they'd even finished.

Frank's jaw set, his mind willing the craft to fly faster.

Terrain tumbled away, and at last the plane revealed itself down below. What should have brought relief made the pilot's stomach clench, however. Carved impossibly through the terrain was a landing strip that shouldn't have been there; a runway that seemed to have been carved out of pure stone. Frank had never seen anything like it; but he could certainly imagine what might have done it. This little rescue mission of Dahlia's was beginning to look increasingly like a bad idea.

"There she is," he announced into the microphone on his headset, keeping his voice calm; most people tended to shout when they had cans on their ears, but Frank knew from experience that the helicopter's internal comms were more than good enough to compensate for the engine noise. "I'll get in as low as I can. Get ready to -"

An unexpected draft tugged at his cheek, and he risked a glance behind him. Where Tom Harriman had been only moments before, an open door and emptiness had taken his place. A hint of a smile tugged at Frank's face. I guess he was worried I'd shove him out again.

"I'll get in lower," he said again, eyes forward but his voice addressing the remaining two occupants of the plane. A grunt escaped. "Jump whenever the hell y' feel like it, I guess."

[Orion]

The wind whipped into his hood, converting it into a miniature parachute that flapped frustratingly around his ears. It wasn't the most elegant of the decent options he could have made, but at least it was fast, and at least he'd been in control.

Besides, best to get out of the helicopter before someone decided to shoot it down, again.

He spread his limbs, creating as much friction with the air as he could, watching the ground grow larger and more detailed as it sailed towards him. But this fall was shorter than last time; the helo had been flying low to avoid being spotted. This drop was more like the ones he'd performed in New York all the time.

Piece of cake.

Tucking himself in, he converted his face-down fall into a feet-first plummet. His powers surged out, pushing the ground away with all his might. Knees bent, and he landed - hard - but his powers and practice absorbed the worst. His hood fell, settling gracefully around his face. His eyes ticked upwards, gaze settling on the figure that had turned to see what the hell that noise just was.

A smile curled at the corners of Orion's lips. "Howdy."

[Tradeskill]

Han blew a kiss to Frank. "Thank ya, dahlin'. Wish me luck down there!"

She let him go lower and jumped, body spread just as Orion's had been to reduce friction, until she landed beside him in a crouch, her enhanced durability absorbing the impact as if she'd hopped to the ground from a stepping stool. She stood to her full height and flashed a winning smile. "Hello, boys."

[Joe Maitland]

Joe watched his two comrades hurl themselves out of the plane. There was a hint of mild envy as he watched the way they landed with such grace and clear intention; something he knew damn well he wasn't going to be able to replicate.

Legs hanging out of the side of the cockpit, the wind from the passing air and the down-draft of the rotors ruffling his hair and clothes, he drew in a few long, calming breaths into his lungs. They didn't work.

"Yeah," he shouted, hoping that Frank would hear him over the noise. "I think I'm gonna wait until you land, thanks!"

A shuffle brought him back into the plane a little more, a boot placed firmly on the frame to stop him falling out as he grabbed the heftiest-looking gun he could find, and trained it on the first unfamiliar mutant he could find.

[The Brotherhood]

You couldn't very well miss a Bell chopper growling its way across a clear desert sky. And you didn't take a huge bird like that for a sightseeing tour or for picking up your business partner from Phoenix. As soon as Boomer saw the chopper, he knew it was carrying trouble their way. The only question was what kind.

That was answered the moment two idiots went diving out the doors as it screamed overhead. Gene-traitors. God, he hated those.

The airstrip was at his back, and Ironhide and Spitfire on his flanks, and Echo was still in the belly of the C-130 with Orcus. The three Brotherhood mutants fanned out and squared up against the interlopers like hyenas considering a couple of incautious wildebeests.

"This ain't Comic-Con, muties," Boomer said. "You best leave while you still can."

And just in case they had any second thoughts, Boomer opened both hands and, with a flick of his wrists, sent a crackling energy bomb with a one-second fuse arcing toward each intruder.

[Orion]

Orion barely dodged in time, running and diving into a roll that brought him back into a crouch dozen meters away; far enough to keep his hood from getting singed, but not far enough to escape the shower of debris kicked up by the detonation.

His eyes settled on the mutant with the explosive powers. "What the hell kind of power is that?" he exclaimed, wondering how on earth he was going to concoct a subconscious nickname for that.
But now was hardly the time to dwell on such things. A hand reached over his shoulder, plucking out one of his blunt-headed arrows; he hesitated briefly as he knocked it onto his bow string. "You still alive over there?" he asked of Tradeskill, drawing back the arrow and letting it fly - with a decisive thrust of his powers - on a ballistic trajectory towards the mutant's chest.

"Watch out for Plasma Girl," he added as a warning. "The shiny broad got taken down by a little kid, so she shouldn't be too tough; but if that ninja-looking chick throws one of her glowy arc things at you, it's gonna burn that uniform right off your back."

His mouth drew into a thin line. Along with most of your skin too, probably.

[Tradeskill]

Tradeskill mirrored Orion, feeling debris and heat wash over her body. The force of the blast pushed her a few feet more as she rose and began a swift advance on Ironhide.

"Doing fine. Got it," she replied to Orion's question and advice combo. "Well, let's start at the bottom-tier and work our way up, huh? Make a quick job of this whole dirty mess." Tradeskill hooked her right fist at Ironhide's temple.

[The Brotherhood]

Ironhide threw up a forearm to intercept Tradeskill's fist. To her surprise, the force of the blow sent her stumbling and deformed the chromium surface of her wrist, like hitting an aluminum pipe with a crowbar.

She stared at the crooked limb and then straightened it with a metallic ping. "Who're you calling bottom-tier?" she growled, and she charged at Hannelore like a linebacker.

Spitfire seized the opportunity and sprayed a plume of plasma at Han's back. Even if Ironhide was caught in the middle, the worst it could do was to make her metal skin red-hot.

Boomer tumbled out of the path of Orion's arrow and popped back up onto one knee. "Bow and arrow?" he said. "Who're you supposed to be, Robin Hood?"

Before Orion could pull back another arrow, Boomer tossed a cluster of glowing, white orbs the size of gumballs from his left hand. They scattered and bounced across the dusty ground toward Orion, then went up like cherry bombs, filling the air with smoke.

Then Boomer rose to his feet with a much more powerful bomb growing in his right hand, watching for any movement behind the smoke screen.

[Themis Kallianos]

The sounds of the fight outside reached his ears and cast a grimace across his features. Dark eyes looked over to Orcus for a moment, before shaking his head and making his way through the crates that remained in the airplane. This just wasn't right.

It wasn't. And he was going to throttle his sister for getting him involved. And then perhaps shoot himself for being unable to say no to her.

Themi had a life. A home. A doctorate in geology and a job as a professor at UCLA. He didn't want to jeopardize any of it, but there he was. A favor for a favor, Phedre had said. He owed her, and this is what she wanted in return.

Just a little thing. There wouldn't be any trouble. It would be simple - smooth out a runway in the jagged rock, help off-load the plane that would land, and then return the terrain to the way it was. It was just his dumb luck to be the only one capable of it.

"Phe, tha se skotoso..." he muttered under his breath, stepping off the end of the C-130's ramp. The steel link chain around his neck had several smooth 'rings' strung on it, and his fingers sought out the smooth, shiny black one. Between one blink and the next, his tall six-foot-two-inch frame turned into a smooth obsidian statue.

One that moved swiftly down to the side of the truck, where it sat idling on the road leading up to the ridge they were on. Dropping down to one knee, Themi placed a hand flat on the ground and flexed his fingers back and forth. The rock of the ridge rumbled and shook as it began reverting to its natural formation, the temporary runway beginning to disappear.

[Joe Maitland]

A cloud of frenzied dust leapt upwards from beneath the helicopter as it hovered low, close enough to the ground for Joe to leap clear without needing a death wish or magical powers to land safely. Through the tinted aviator lenses that shielded him from the cloud's abrasive onslaught, he picked out his targets, and steeled himself to jump.

Then the ground started to move, and he rapidly began to rethink his plan.

A low whistle was torn from between his lips as he watched nature slowly reassert itself. He'd witnessed some pretty fantastical powers before - even amongst the small cadre of mutants he worked with, the powers of flight and telepathy were right out of the pages of comic books and fantasy novels - but this was by far the most god-like, and the most titanic in scale. Someone, somewhere, was quite literally moulding the world around them, bending the ground beneath them like it was as malleable as clay.

Joe's eyes swept the scene again; settled on the mind-breakingly odd sight of a statue sprinting through the dust. His jaw clenched. His muscles tensed. With one controlled breath, he snatched a rifle from the weapons rack beside him, and leapt from the plane.

A fraction of a second later, Joe snatched another rifle, and leapt. Then another, and again. The mini arsenal slowly depleted itself, and yet Joe remained seated in the helicopter doorway, six perfect replicas trying their utmost to stagger swiftly across the shifting ground.

The seventh turned his attention back to the hefty, large calibre machine gun he'd wielded before, silently cursing the inadequacies of his powers. As he and Doctor Harriman had discussed at length, his mutation gave him the ability to duplicate himself and, after far too many accidental clone streaking incidents, he'd learned to replicate simple inanimate objects in close proximity. Clothes were easy: it was simple enough for his mind to conceive the feel and weight of the fabrics, and with a little effort he could even manage to properly lace up and tie his duplicate's shoes. It had been much harder to learn how to duplicate basic electronics like watches and radios - Treadstone had helped by developing low-tech field gear for him to use. to make life easier. Unfortunately, they hadn't managed to develop weapons and ammunition that was simple enough for him to safely and accurately clone: one miscalculation, and his clones would end up blowing their faces off when the rifle misfired. Again.

Harriman had graciously offered to school Joe with a little archery and ye olde martial skills: weapons simplistic enough to be made in a cave with a box of scraps. Joe had declined. Right now, that seemed like an incredibly stupid thing to have done.

While his mind raced, his hands and eyes had been sighting down the machine gun's sights, years of practice guestimating the rate at which the stone statue was moving; aiming far enough ahead to compensate. Joe breathed out slowly, readied himself for the force of the recoil, and fired.