Ragnar awoke with a start, not because of any bad dreams but of the scents hitting his nose like a punch from a power fist, but far far far more pleasant. A melange of scents his brain was rapidly identifying, whilst the names were still a bit unfamiliar to him he could smell sausages, bacon and some kind of bird that smelled awefully like a Fenrisian Mountain Grouse.

It took a heartbeat to let his eyes adjust to the pitch black of his cell before he slid out of his bed. That itself was still something he was getting use to in part. Use to a solid slab of mountain granite covered in a pelt the soft and springy bed had surprised him at first, just not use to the luxury of having something to lay on that yielded to you. The blankets were also new, whilst he in essence didn’t need them due to the alterations made to his body making him near immune to cold temperatures Ragnar had to admit that being able to drape a blanket over him felt good. Combined with the pillows Rangar found himself in the habit of curling up in a mass of sheets and pillows. Totally not a nest or den..okay…maybe a bit.

Adapting to not really having a schedule had been challenging, the Marine still busied himself in the morning either going for runs round the facilities grounds or going to the danger room most of the time but it felt ‘strange’ to have free time. But thoughts of going to the Danger Room or going for a run were firmly banished from Ragnar’s head, he could smell delicious food and that became the overriding matter for the Marine.

Pulling some jogging pants on and a T-shirt that still felt a bit too small the Marine padded downstairs, literally following his nose.

Victor was padding round the mansion mainly following the dictates of his growling stomach. Remembering to pull some pants on he'd padded downstairs and followed his nose, not needing to turn the lights on. He didn't know what time it was, the moon was shrouded behind clouds and he'd left his watch upstairs.

He stopped only to bend down and scratch idilly at the skin that was being rubbed by the tracking and tracing bracelet round his right ankle. It reported his location to the Mansion's computer and was wearing it as an act of faith, he knew that in reality most folks round here would trust him as far as they could throw a black hole and he didn't blame them. At times he didn't trust himself, waking up snarling at things that were not there, pillows and sheets shredded.

Shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind where they belonged Victor walked into the kitchen, his head tilted eyes closed for a moment, the big feral's breathing coming in loud huffs as he breathed in for a moment sampling the scents of the kitchen from the lemon detergent used to clean the sink to the apples in a bowl and the meat in the fridge.

Grinning slightly Victor muttered "Pay dirt.." to himself as he opened the fridge, reaching for a plate he started getting a late night..early morning snack.

Ragnar and Damon’s binge went on for a good few hours, the two drinking and just enjoying the food whilst Ragnar refreshed himself with the bottle of turps he’d found, only grumbling about its lack of any distinct flavour and that it was a dull drink that relied on its heat. Thanking Damon for his company the marine stood to leave and on auto-pilot Ragnar returned to his room, his belly full with some of the finest and yet strangest foods he’d ever tasted and a pleasant buzz from his drink that his bio-engineered organs were quickly filtering away.

Although his mind was still buzzing about the events earlier in the day he disrobed and lay on his bed, hands laced behind his head. When he wanted sleep he could go to sleep in the space of a minute yet despite trying, Ragnar didn’t get to sleep for a full thirty minutes, drifting off slowly into an unsettled sleep.

His armour was torn, internal systems faltering and dying, the fusion reactor in his backpack was making truly alarming noises but Ragnar grinned savagely even as his blood ran down his breastplate. His target was in sight, the object of his hate and scorn. The architect of the lies that had shaped his and uncounted trillions of lives and was willing to spend them with barely a thought. Its guardians had fought and died bravely but they could not, would not stay his hand.

But all it was, was a corpse, sat atop a massive golden throne who’s intricacy and ostentation were covered under thousands of cables and wires going into the armoured skeleton that sat immobile and upright, a sword of huge proportions across its lap.

Pulling Frostfang back to strike the marine rocked back as a voice hammered into his mind.
*Why?*

“Because I must…because everything you stand for, everything you are is a lie, a lie you could stop, but do not.. why? Because I must. Because humanity will never be free with you at its helm. Tyrant!”
Ragnar’s blade descended with glacial slowness and just as it made contact with the skull of the Emperor everything went black.

‘Have I done it? Are we finally free?’ Rangar thought, glancing down to see his armour repaired, looking good as new, there was no pain, no blood, just darkness. Darkness that filled with fire and booming footsteps.

The…creature was immense, as tall as a Warhound titan, its fists the size of a rhino, its head savagely saurian with iron and bronze dreadlocks coming from the back to form a mane of hair. The runes on its armour burned Ragnar’s eyes to look upon them and he knew what this was even as the stench of blood reached him.

“Well done little mortal.” The things voice was like tank treads on rubble or the rumble of distant thunder and artillery fire.

“You have done what I never could…what Horus never could…”
“Who are you…” Ragnar growled, his teeth bared.

“I have so many names…titles and honorifics…I will settle for the most simple…Angron.”
Ragnar’s hearts skipped a beat, his blood running cold. A traitor Primarch…

“You and me..we are alike, in more ways than you know. Like you I hated our father, he betrayed my brothers and sisters, left them to die…chained us ALL to his will…but you…brother…you severed those chains for ALL of us..” As the great beast approached its form was shimmering altering changing into something more human in looks if not scale. The face could have once been handsome, but rage had altered it into something hideous.

“I…did what was needed…”

“As did I…”

“You broke your oaths!”

“You killed the Emperor…driven by your hatred, your strength your need for vengeance..there are rewards for such acts of slaughter…and you ARE a killer Ragnar Blackmane..Brother…”

Ragnar blinked and his gaze was drawn down, gone was his storm grey armour, in its place was armour the colour of freshly spilled blood edged with bronze that seemed to pulse with an inner light in time with his hearts beating.

“Say it…say the words you KNOW you want to…deep down, we’re the same…killer, butcher…weapon…servant of Khorne..”

“NEVER! I AM NOT LIKE YOU! I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU!” Ragnar surged forwards even though he knew it was death to do so. He would not submit, not again, not to any ‘god’ or creature that fancied itself as a god. He was now free…and would live and die free.

“So be it…” Angron growled, his axe, swinging, biting into armour, flesh, bone…organs.

Ragnar roared in pain. “I’ll die a free man…not a slave..never a slave again…traitor…” His last act was to swing his blade as the world went black.

Ragnar awoke with a start, his hand embedded in the wall up to the elbow, his sheets kicked off him, one pillow torn to shreds the other flung against the opposite wall. Pulling his arm out of the wall Ragnar put a hand on his chest, his breathing hurt and his hearts hammered, his body keyed for combat.

“I’m no traitor...if I could do that…I’d do it gladly..to be free..”

For two weeks Ragnar had been living in the Mansion, padding around, getting to know the place and those who lived at the Chapter House. He'd been more pleased when he had found the Danger Room and had been instructed on its use. It was different to the Practice Cages he'd trained in but in this case different was a good thing. Fully programmable, any environment he chose and with a huge catalogue of things to fight. As a consiquence of this he spent most of his time in there, or out running round the Chapter Houses impressive grounds.

This had only caused one minor kerfuffle when he and a large blond had met for the first time and argued over who's turn it was to use the Danger room. This had ended in what could be called a friendly brawl, Ragnar sensing something of The Wolf in the big man who even had teeth a bit like his own. Bruises and scuffs were traded and the beginnings of a bond but also something else could not have gone unnoticed by Ragnar. After the fight his hands were..shaking, not from adrenaline..and he didn't know why. Assuming it was exhaustion Ragnar returned to his Cell to meditate and rest.

But the shaking didn't stop, indeed it was joined by an ache in his stomach that brought Ragnar out in a sweat. Muttering a prayer to the Emperor Ragnar growled to himself as he tried to will his body to heal.

What was happening though was beyond his control. In the food and water of the Fang that was given to the Marines, chemicals that helped to balance certain functions were part of the meal. Not out of malice, but because it had been that was for over 10,000 years as the Emperor had decreed. And none challenged the decree nor even thought about what was going into the food.

Without regular 'refils' these chemicals could be washed from the body, naturally purged or weakening as they were not reinforced and this is what had been happening over the two weeks since Ragnar's arrival and now at long last, it was starting to show. Hormones that had long been denied were flowing once more, the Marine had even found himself inexplicably getting hard during his scuffle with Victor

I've been drugged...by something powerful enough to overcome me..only a thing of Chaos could do that... Ragnar thought as he pushed himself to his feet unsteadily. Then he began to think of who it could be and if he was Emperor damned honest, he wasn't thinking straight. He recalled the scents of rut that he'd picked up coming off the short hairy one called Logan, off the male who had eyes like a Salamander's, black and crimson, but the body and build of an Imperial Assassin. Of one of the rooms he'd walked past that reeked of sweat and other bodily fluids. Slannesh...here? The thought that Stormborn Drake had inadvertently put him in a place where worshippers of the God of Excess lurked chilled Ragnar to the core, but then he realised that Bobby didn't have the Imperiums experience with cults. But he did.

Swaying on unsteady legs, Ragnar grabbed the vox (phone) and keyed in the code to speak to the Stormborn, but when there was no answer and he got the vox's servitor asking him to leave a message he had no choice but to do so.

"Stormborn...this is Ragnar, there is danger at the Chapter House...a cult of the Dark Gods has taken root here." Ragnar stopped to shake his head to try and clear it. "I need your aid, they have put a sporific into me..but worry not Stormborn." He said, glancing over to Frostfang, his chainsword that rested against a wall "I know how to deal with this heresy..."

Somewhere in the 40th Millenium.

Deep in the Warp there lurked consciousness’s. Broiling, turbulent storms of sentience given form through emotions refined, distilled, amplified, twisted and warped into polarising facets. These entities were as old as the universe, as old as sentient life and in the psyco-active substance of the Warp they were lords of domains that were cyclopean in scale. Realms of madness and endless violence for the Gods warred with one another for supremacy for that most delicious prize. Reality itself. Although these storms of sentience that could easily be called Gods desired the mortal realm, it was hard for them and their underlings, daemons to interact with reality. So they operated through pawns or used raw power to breach the barriers between the Warp and real space, flooding regions with their underlings. And now one of those maelstroms of malevolent intellect watched as a Mortal, a puny, ephemeral thing worked to undo His plans. Again.

For a moment it envied its 'brother' who felt nothing but rage because He felt something akin to that now as the mortal, a genebreed, or Space Marine as they were called slaughtered his way through cultists, disrupting a ritual that would have seen a world of billions plunged into madness and never ending Change. This would not do.

The God resolved to simply remove the object of its...frustration. It could not strike at the Mortal directly..but there were a billion and one ways to skin a wolf.

Ragnar Blackmane's blood sang, every sense keyed and alert as he waded into combat, the Chaos cultists were no challenge, they were humans, armed with little more than slug throwers and insane courage, no threat to an armoured Space Marine, let alone one of Ragnar's skill and ferocity. Even without his armour Ragnar was quicker, stronger and far more deadly than his foes but the thick ceramite Power Armour covering him augmented his speed and strength even further.

He could hear the other members of his Pack around him, he didn't need to turn his head to look, he could smell them and that was enough for the Space Wolf, with his Brothers with him and the foe before him there was no place he'd rather be.

Tzeench how ever had other plans. All it took was a flicker of concentration, a tug on the lines of fate, destiny and reality and a flicker of power at His command as Ragnar leapt, howling like a wolf, chain blade swinging towards the lead Cultists head for reality to shift in a blaze of blinding white light as Ragnar was sent...elsewhere, but not exactly where planned. No..far from it.


New York Financial District.

The offices of Jeremiah Sach's had seen more than its fare share of..'interesting things'over the years of being a leading interior design firm catering to the super wealthy. They had entertained Liberace, two European Royal families and Gaga but getting 7'4 of fully armoured Space Marine (a ton and a half in armour) appear out of thin air was definately a new one. Ragnar had been at a full sprint but appeared in the air, momentum and gravity conspiring to make him bulldoze back first into a rather ghastly statue of a nude woman before a ceramite armoured boot hammered through a metal, oak and glass table like a wrecking ball. His fighters instinct and training made him kick and push out with his arms, throwing his body up, into a half crouch but this mearly meant that he came up and then down onto a large photocopyer.

The machine didn't stand a chance, buckling, snapping and breaking under the sudden application of battle armoured marine but its frame held, momentum from his jump transferring into the wheels, the mangled and crushed photocopier with its grey armoured burden jerked and hammered into the tainted glass window separating the Sach's office from those of Bobby Drake. The thick glass never stood a chance, showering Ragnar with bits of safety glass as he was wheeled on his back into Bobby's office.

Bobby cast his mind back to a particular memory from college.

He lay back on his bed in the dorm room. Beside him was the monolithic shirtless simian form of Hank McCoy; the newly-blue face bore a grin.

"We miss you, Robert. But I am grateful college has been so fulfilling to you, my friend."

"Thanks, Hank," Bobby replied as his fingers moved through the scientist's new pelt. "Jeez buddy, don't see why you think people would scream. I'd think you're more in danger of public groping than causing mass terror..."

Hank chuckled. "That would be enough to justify the image inducer, nevertheless." He reached for the box of Krispy Kremes that sat on the bedside table and rested it between himself and his best friend. He lifted one donut out of the box and took a polite bite from the side. "Thank you for inviting me over. I hope it won't be too long between our get-togethers, in the future."

"It's a great opportunity," Bobby responded casually. "Sure, Seattle, coffee's all overpriced, but right now a freelance accountant can make more there then anywhere on the East coast. And Lorna, she's got some contacts in the colleges there, so she could land a research job."

Dr McCoy smiled fondly, even wistfully. "I will miss you, Robert. But I know you are merely a telephone call away."

Bobby grinned back, "or Magneto threatens to blow up the Space Needle. Don't worry blue," he said, "I didn't leave my best bud behind just because I left Xaviers'. This won't be any different..." he reached towards the box and retrieved a chocolate-iced cream-filled donut.

Before he took his first bite, he shot a very defiant grin at Hank. "You know me, the only thing I regret is not snorting lines off the cue-ball's desk before I left."

They both laughed.

As Robert Drake, CPA, walked down the corridor to Xavier's office, that same defiant grin was plastered unrepentantly across his face. Once, walking down this corridor was the path to being given yet another detention, but now his stride was that of an unreprentant insurrectionist. Unfinished business. Part one, leave the latest batch of financials on the desk. Part two, stick it to Chuckles.

He quietly opened the door to the cavernous office - the site of so many verbal flayings - and softly snickered when he realized no one was in there. He walked towards the desk and opened his briefcase; he picked up the manila folder and left it atop the "in" pile. Then he circled around the heavy wood furniture and removed three items from his pinstriped coat's breast pocket; my Amex, a hundred-dollar bill, and the star of the show... being a small ziplock baggie containing a very familiar, very-slightly-granular white powder.

Bobby poured out a small pile of the cocaine and began using his Amex to shape it into two lines of identical length. He used his finger to clean the residue off his card and then rub the residue on his gums. The mutant took a moment to look at the dual lines sitting on the polished mahogany surface of the Professor's desk. Then he rolled up the hundred dollar bill, slid it into his left nostril, leaned over and snorted the first line.

He stood up, quite proudly, and then let out a quiet chuckle as he imagined the mortified look that would be on Charles Xavier's face if he were to have seen this. See, Prof? You can't stop me any more!

The accountant then shifted the rolled-up note to the right nostril and leaned down again.

The elevator is nicer, and bigger, than most apartments he's lived in.

Shouldn't be surprised. According to Scott, this guy's the best accountant in the city. Never thought I'd need one, but since I don't have access to Avengers funds anymore, it's time I built a life for myself with what I'm due.

He's even borrowed a deep blue suit from Scott...the fit is pretty good, aside from a tightness across the chest and shoulders.

They didn't use to call him 'Slim' for nothing, apparently...I wonder why he looked at me so long while I was changing, though?

The doors slide open, and Steve walks into a posh, if metallic, office complex. The female receptionist gives him a dazzling smile and asks how she can help him.

"Er...hello, ma'am. My name is Steve Rogers..." Her eyes widen and he swallows, watching the flush of excitement creep into her face, "...I have a 12:30 appointment with a Mr. Robert Drake?"

"I'll page him right away, Mr. Rogers!" she chirps, almost jumping on his words. With an awkward smile, his face twelve shades of red, Steve sinks his sizable frame into a nearby chair.

Please, please, please let him not be too long...I can already see her planning out an entire imaginary courtship in her head.

The manila folder sat on the coffee table. Several corners of several pages poke out the side, as if the file were just hastily ripped from the archives and plonked down on the surface.

But the white label on the folder's tab was still clearly visible. The black letters printed on the white rectangle read: "KIRBY GLEN INCIDENT"

The accountant wasn't even in the room.

But the folder was. Somehow...

[OOC: For savagewhore]

The accountant came down the Institute stairs with something almost approaching a smile on his face. He moved with less trepidation now; his joints were less rigid and his eyes darted around more rarely.
Alright... cleared the air with Scotty... well, that Scotty at least.

He took his hip flask out of his pocket and had a swig. Maybe I'll be exiting the Twilight Zone soon... he thought to himself as he began to walk into the kitchen. Skipped lunch to get the files up here fast, might as well have something.

A few minutes later, Bobby strolled out of the kitchen with a pile of junk food in his arms. Four basic food groups he thought with a smirk, ice cream, chocolate, chips and candy. He walked into the living room, sat down on the couch in front of the TV, and pressed the 'on' button on the remote. Then he opened the large bag of M&M's and licked his lips.

After shovelling a handful into his mouth, he reclined into the sofa and watched the stock ticker at the bottom of the screen. News... the usual, someone attacks here, someone gets murdered there, drug bust hailed by some ex-addict politician, all the usual crap.

Fun party Bobby threw...wish I'd had the chance to talk to him more, and find out what his beef is with me. Or not-me. Whichever.

But the party is over, and now Scott's back in the office. Alone. With a never-ending mountain of paperwork.

Bills, mission reports, progress reports for the kids, requisition forms from the tech lab, grocery lists, more bills...How did the Professor manage to balance all this and keep himself from going completely insane?

His hand goes to his temple, feeling yet another migraine creep up on him. He could get rid of it easily...the pressure behind his eyes could be released with just a lift of his shades...he can feel the curve of his glasses' temple arms under his massaging fingers, all it would take is a simple lifting motion...

NO.

Scott forces his hand down to his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of water and an over-the-counter painkiller. Downing the pills, he leans back and rubs the bridge of his nose.

What the hell was I thinking?! My self-control's better than that! I could have blown out the wall just now...and out of what? Stress?

What's wrong with me?!

Shoving himself angrily away from the desk, and its piles of forms and grades and papers, Scott goes to the bay window and practically throws it open, feeling the late-fall air wash over him.

Something has to give, or I'm going to snap, and then I won't be any good to the team at all.

There comes a point in everyones life where they must ask themselves, "have I ever bought gifts for people and then had to ship them to a relatively remote island off the coast of Scotland?" and generally, most people will say they have not. Mister Thomas Jones, age 22, has however. He enjoys is so much, that in fact Christmas is his favorite holiday of the year. He dances down the street singing Christmas carols and is regularly joined by other New Yorkers in well choreographed fanfare. Except. The only thing that is true to Thomas in this entire fantasy would be the fact that every year around this time he has to deal with 3 different shippers to get packages to his family on Christmas time. Yes, it would be easier if he just flew there, but last year flying there really stretched his budget.... and as much as he loves kidney pie....

Thomas looked upwards as he felt something on his hair. It was snowing. Looking back down at his list scribbled onto a legal pad, he couldn't help but give a small sigh of relief. Winters in the North Atlantic were much harsher than the mild snow drifts and delicate wind chills he experience here in the states. No waves crashing against your city streets, spewing freezing water that solidifies on your car... which is then covered in snow... and then more ice... and then a layer of packing snow just because you really could spare two hours in the morning chipping away at your vehicle. OK, Back to the list. So to the best of his knowledge, things looked as if they were complete. The last minute shopping he had to do because of a failed soiree into Loehmanns seemed a faint memory as his heart skipped with glee at the prospect of being done.

And by skipped, someone ran into him and his feet skipped up over his head.

Looking back on the situation, which he apparently had time to do, it probably looked embarrassing. Skinny bescpeckled kid in a dated argyle jacket... walking down the street with his face buried in papers. Then some soddy New York brute runs into him, probably on his way to get to a hot dog vendor. At any rate, so he was here. Lying. In the snow. On his back.

It was cold.

As Thomas looked around, thankfully there didnt seem to be many other people on the street this evening. He scooped his fallen belongings closer to his body and layed there, perhaps dreaming of a nice quiet village on some far away Scottish isle... with no New Yorkers. No noise pollution. No light pollution. No pollution at all, actually.

Sometimes you just need to lay around for a while and appreciate things.

Bobby sat in the driver's seat of his blue sports car with two stacks of paper sitting in the front passenger seat; first batch of financials, and invitations.

The boiling resentment in his stomach he felt the last time was gone. Yet still an unease remained. Might not be the same Xaviers. Doesn't mean I don't hate seeing it.

He quickly parked his car out front and slid out of the vehicle. He held the stacks of papers against the right side of his broad chest.

Okay, deliver the accounts to Apple-Pol...er, Scott... Then pass out the invitations.

Never thought I'd ever invite him to any of my parties.

He straightened his blue tie again before knocking, once more, on those imposing double doors.

Even if he hated this place... he wasn't going to let that ruin him passing out invitations to his Halloween party. And man, this party's gonna so rock!

Bobby's blue sports car wound its way up the roads of Westchester County quickly. He hated it here. He remembered all those hours where Professor X put him in detention for not studying. Or, at one time, for daring to attempt to recuse his girlfriend.

And then Apple-Polisher has to call me and say the institute needs an accountant. Oh please, isn't anyone else avaliable? If Cyclops is willing to hire me for this, I think I better jack up my prices.

As he approaches those frustratingly familiar gates, he takes a breath. Least I'll see Blue and Logan again.

He felt himself yearn to be surrounded by the skyscrapers again. The world where he was king of his own life and wasn't just being part of someone else's "project." Yeah... mutant tolerance is all well and good... but there are more of us every day! Give it enough time, we've already won this...

No, he didn't want to use the intercom. He flicked his hand out the window and a ramp of glistening ice suddenly materialized; it vaulted over the wall. His car quickly moved over the ramp as he smirked to himself. Cool entrance!

As the ice quickly dematerialized back into humidity, Robert Drake, CPA, stepped out of his car and walked up those steps to the Xavier Institute again. He straightened his blue silk tie before knocking on the door.

Anyone but soldier-boy, please answer this door.

Tax time was the most lucrative time of the year.

It was also the most infuriating. Piles of tax returns ascended to the ceiling, almost mocking the young accountant to take them down.

Luckily for Bobby, he'd finished them all and was packing them into the boxes to be sent off to the Income Removal Service. A glimmer of pride was there as he packed ream after ream of paper into the cardboard crates. Another Fiscal Year over. I did it all by myself.

He smiled as he pulled his bottle of Irish Whisky out of the lower draw on the desk and poured himself a glass. He had a whole month off from midnight tonight. And he was planning on the quality time he'd spend with his video game collection.

And I gotta catch up with Hank too... and everyone but Scott and Chuckles.

He quickly pulled out the packet of twinkies that were lying in the drawer behind the whisky bottle. Secret stash time!