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.

The computer scans had been sitting on the front of his tablet for a while; for most of that time, the familiar smug leer had sat on Damon's weathered face.
Shit... this tech might be advanced but I can actually do better. I'm. So. Fucking. Awesome.

He plotted out the modifications and he knew what he could improve; 3.87% improved heat dissipation. It'll keep him comfier in the suit and the Hydrogen cells will last longer. Indeed, when Damon found out the suit used a minaturized hydrogen fusion reactor he didn't know whether to cum in his pants, reverse engineer and patent immediately or to panic over having an atomic hot potato which could destroy half of New York State sitting in his lab.

All he needed to do was replace some conduits in the suit with silver ones laced with synthetic diamond, and use a new thermal paste which Hank helped him cook up; also based on synth-diamond plus some carbon nanotubes in it as well.

There was, however, one little problem with Damon's plan; a problem which was quite well signified by the fact that Frostfang was still embedded in the floor right outside his workshop. He remembered when Ragnar tried to slice his door open; his knuckles were white as he gripped at his firearm.
Religious fanatic. Serious true-believer type. Priests tend to his armor. Its gotta be sacred. There's no fuckin' way he wants me modifying this.

But Damon knew he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it. And who knows, maybe Psycho-Puppy will actually be less chemically brainwashed now and listen to some fuckin' reason. Immediately he sent a text message to Ragnar and asked the man to come down to the workshop.

And take your chainsword with you on the way out he added to the end of his note.

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.

The new scents and sounds struck the Canadian's nose and ears immediately; ozone and hair products with the slightest saltiness confirmed the presence of Thor, and the crackling whirr of energies hinted at the presence of either powers or sorcery.
And that other scent... the scent of a woman with the evil Victor lingering all over her...

He wasn't surprised when he turned the corner and saw Thor standing near a shimmering, luminescence-wreathed schism in the air, and the familiar pink face of Blink proceeding through the green opening.
Not her portal then he quickly deduced. He saw a third man still on the other side of the tear and made the obvious inference.

But he was surprised when he noticed their eyes all intently cast towards him. The presence of Mjolnir in Thor's tight grip was hardly reassurring, but he knew from Victor's altercation with the Asgardian upon the thunderer's arrival that Thor was a just man.
Hope tha cooler part of his head is gonna prevail.

He took a draw on his cigar and let the smoke unfurl out of his lips. He clenched his fists but kept his posture straight; he strode directly towards Thor and Blink and the new presence without striking a predatory stalk. He was still several long strides away from the others when he spoke.
"Looks like ya wanna have a word with me," Logan stated in his gravelly rasp.

He did not yet know that it was the object he was holding in his right fist - a tracking anklet - which the others were confronting him over.
"I'm here. Go fer it."

It may have been the dead of night but Damon knew precisely where Stark was at that hour. Follow the smell of coffee, scotch, maybe martinis, and the sound of rock music. Bingo. Stark. Of course he didn't need to follow the smell since he and Tony shared the workshop. Damon had no complaints so far, which was the equivalent of a compliment.

His feet fell heavily on the workshop's concrete floor; the soles of his boots made solid thuds that echoed off the walls. He moved towards Stark's part of the room.
"Hey, Stark. Can I get some assist?" he asked.

[[OOC: For heartofiron]]

Victor Creed yawned slightly as he woke up, four hours of sleep was all he needed thanks to his regenerative healng but this morning was different. There was a taste in his mouth that could best be described as 'metallic' and his head felt slightly groggy.
Acting on autopilot the big feral kicked his sheets off and stomped into the bathroom, stopping only to scratch his ass.

"Maybe a shower will clear my head..." He mumbled to his reflection in the mirror before doing just that, having himself a shower for a few minutes. At times he regretted coming to the Xavier institute, it was a cage, a gilded one but a cage none the less and he loathed being caged up. Still, the showers were a one up from what he had lived with before.

Half shaking and towling himself dry, his long blond hair combed back before it fell over his face again he still could not get the metallic taste out of his fanged mouth. 'Fuckin' psych stuff with the Professors done this to me...have ta say later' the blond mused as he pulled on some jeans and a shirt that still fit him.

Stepping out of his room Victor immediately knew something had changed, he knew the Institute intimately well thanks to his sense of smell and suddenly there was new scents, different ones, Even the hallway smelled of a different cleaning fluid.

"The fucks going on?" Victor asked to no one in particular as he started padding down the hallway.

Loki slept for some time beside Thor's large form before he snapped awake, tense and silently snarling.  The pulsing heartbeat of Midgardian magic surrounded him, somehow comforting in its alien song and he felt himself relax slightly. Then he heard the familiar sound of Thor's breath beside him.  He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping blonde, his eyes narrowing slightly.  The likeness between this man and the Thor of his memory was shocking, hauntingly so. He quickly shoved aside roiling resentments and anger, acutely reminded that the sins of the Thor he knew were not to be piled upon this relative stranger.  Vengeful and full of resentment he might be, but he was hardly one to cast judgement upon others. 

His body reminded him, not for the first time, that he required sustenance and he finally was in a position to take time to see to that need.  He managed to slide out of the bed, thankful that Thor slept heavily and that he was able to get out of the thunderer's grasp without disturbing his injuries.  Once free of the bed he leaned to where he'd lain his shirt, pulling it on with less difficulty than before.  It had only been a few hours yet his magic had done much to heal his battered ribs.  Once dressed he padded silently on bare feet down the hall.  He had no idea where he was going, but he was certain that if he wandered enough he'd either find someone that could tell him where food was stored or he'd find said area on his own.  He much preferred the latter situation to the former, but what choices had he?

Cole was glad to be alive, but who had ever wanted to be the last man standing?

He wasn’t, of course. Not the last human, thank fuck, though for a while even that outcome wouldn’t have been a big shock. No, just the last of Delta Squad. But there were others and that made it easier to keep going. Necessary. Nobody should say the Cole Train let his team down, right? Still, as he sifted through the rabble that their last explosive battle with the locust queen had left, he couldn’t bring himself to feel victorious.

They had started out looking for survivors, but all they found was corpses. Eventually, they resigned themselves to collecting dogtags, remains of armour, weapons, shit, just something to bury. Since E-Day, they hadn’t had the time for that. If someone fell, you were scrambling to replace, not honour them. That was no way to stay human, though.

Cole rubbed at the large cut from his cheekbone to his throat that Anya had sown shut for him. His own blood had leaked from various spots and he was pretty sure he was still wearing some of Bernie’s on his armour, too. He tried not to think about it or her chocked-off scream as the bullets pierced her head.

He was glad to have his back turned to Carmine and Anya, his massive body blocking any accidental gaze in his direction, when he leaned over a fallen column to see Sam, half her torso blown off. Not that the two hadn’t seen plenty of death, but your friend’s open chest cavity – that shit wasn’t going to give anyone peace at night, was it? Sam’s face looked calm. Yeah, better leave it at showing them that. Although... an uncharacterstically bitter smile tugged at his lips. Hell, but he wished he’d had as much for his squadmates. Dom’s death was confirmed, but Baird and Marcus, well, he wasn’t going to kid himself that they were still out there and leave it at that and still think about it at night.

Losing Baird had been a blow that even Cole couldn’t pretend to shake off. Maybe not many people understood what he saw in him as a friend – Baird was recognised to be a great tech guy, but not exactly someone to have at a dinner party –, but that really didn’t fucking matter, did it? Wasn’t them who had to stick it out with him. After fourteen years of friendship, he felt lost knowing he’d never hear Baird’s voice deliver remarks as sharp as his tools anymore, wouldn’t watch him ponder some piece of tech like others would a good book and wouldn’t ever glance over at him again, watching him roll his eyes in Cole’s direction about some samey big boss’s speech delivered to the troops. Cole hadn’t known Marcus and Dom that long, on the other hand, but after all the shit they’d been through together, who would start counting weeks? They’d been friends, brothers in arms, too, some of the bravest men he’d ever known. And they were all gone.

Still, dwelling on this didn’t help anybody. Carefully, he tugged off her tags and wrapped Sam up to the neck in the cushion cover of an overturned piece of furniture that laid close. Had a print with little roses on it, too. Damn, she’d have punched him for that. “Sorry about that,” he said, talking to ghosts now. He wiped his hands on the rest of rose-printed cover in his hands and let it drop, preparing to lift her corpse and hoping it wouldn’t break in the middle like an old doll.

Suddenly, he felt nauseous. The heat, maybe, or seeing a fellow fighter gutted like a fish. Should be used to both by now, though. However, the dizziness intensified with a noise like static in his earpiece and Cole found himself falling to one knee. He blinked back black butterflies at the edge of his vision for a second, but was enveloped by the darkness the next.

When he opened his eyes again, he smelled damp earth, grass and air that wasn’t filled with smoke, dust and decay. It was an immediate thought – strange, wrong. He cursed, grabbing for the lancer that was thankfully still strapped to his back and fought to sit up.

The sky over him was the friendly soft blue of a summer evening, coloured pink at the edges. Birds chirped in a nearby tree full of lush green leaves. The grass was studded with orange flowers. Cole stared and held the lancer like a shield for a moment. He didn’t think he’d been this terrified since a giant fucking locust worm had swallowed Delta Squad. Actually – that had been better. That, at least, he’d been able to explain to himself.

-

Kurt had been sitting in said lush tree as the unconscious Gear struggled to his feet. For a second, he watched him, perfectly blending into the shadows as he did, quiet as a mouse. Then, with a slight rustle, he disappeared to land in the tech guys’ workshop, where he knew there was always someone tinkering.

“Meine Herren, don’t call me cowardly, but I think I need some help for a meet and greet. There’s a guy on our lawn who’s around two metres tall and built like three fridges strapped together, caked in blood.” He raised a brow. “And I’m fairly sure his gun has a chainsaw strapped to it, but I couldn’t possibly have seen that right, ja?”

Sergeant Marcus Fenix was many things to many people: A war hero, a traitor, a leader to be admired, a foe, and a friend… But many forgot that the soldier was still human. This apocalyptic war hardened the people of Sera to new precedents; still, people can only withstand so much mental anguish. After the mission to Mercy, the soldiers and survivors who watched Marcus felt the man seen as fearless and courageous would finally falter and crumble.

His team took shelter with refugees in the city of Char after promising to the cocky and zealous leader Griffin they’d do work to warrant their stay the next morning. Once they made it to their beds, Marcus sluggishly took off the top half of his gear and set it alongside his guns and ammunition, leaving only metal dog tags and plated gloves to cover his wide, dingy tee clad upper body, and a combat knife strapped to his thigh should the worst happen while he slept. It was only with the aid of a drug induced cocktail that Marcus managed to nod off, and to his dismay, no element in the drugs could stop the horrible memory of what happened at Mercy…

“Dom?! Dom, where are ya’ going?!” Marcus shouted through his communication link to his best friend, whom he watched leap into a fuel truck and speed off along a tunneled street. Marcus, Anya, Jace, and Dizzy were both blinded by the glare of the sunset and surrounded by Lambent stalks and swarms of corrupted Locusts and humans, both equally bent on destroying them as they stood their ground atop a dilapidated building.

“I’m pullin’ th’ plug on ‘em, Marcus! Jump when you see me coming! Jump! Do it!” Dom screamed in his ear. The others on his team heard the message loud and clear, and when the roar of the vehicle’s engine echoed from the tunnel walls, all of them crawled down the sides of the building or hopped to the ground, using the explosive fuel canisters nearby as a staircase. Marcus was the only one who stood still to stare at his best friend driving straight towards him. Despite the threat of impending death, the sergeant lowered his rifle and began pleading in the most somber way he knew how.

“…Never thought it’d end like this, huh?” Dom said with finite excitement as he slammed his foot on the accelerator.

“Dom, don’t! Don’t do this! You don’t have ta’ fucking do this! Dom!? DOM! NO!”

The collision from the fuel truck caused a blast greater than even the noble Santiago pictured. The blast was more than forceful to knock Marcus off of the building he stood upon. The sergeant’s body rolled backwards before the flames consumed him along with his friend. The hand of God had to have been upon him; save several cuts and bruises, none of his bones were broken from the tumble he took. On his belly, Marcus looked up at the charred lambent corpses that couldn’t escape the explosion. Foolishly, he tried to crawl to the fire, confident that if he moved a little faster, he could reach Dom and save him! Had it not been for the firm grip of Anya, and her consoling words, Marcus would have died that day too.

The shock of the dream caused the sergeant to wake up in a cold sweat; he sat up with Dom’s combat knife in hand – the only thing he had left to remember his former friend by – ready to strike at any lambent or desperate refugee that might have been hovering over him. Except…there were no Lambent or refugees near. And he wasn’t in a filthy, ruined room. Instead of a dirty mattress beneath him, there was clean, cotton colored tiles that left his shoulder blades cool, like he’d been laying on the floor for hours.

Slowly, Marcus stood upright and looked around.

It’s gotta be th’ meds… Gotta be the meds…

None of his gear was in sight. None of his team was in sight. There were no windows that showed the ruin that Sera was in. This…space… was a wide corridor, modern in design, with lighting strips along the floor and ceiling. It was pristine, sterile, and modern, much like the hospitals in Jacinto were. If this were another facet of his dream, there was no cause for Marcus to stand still. Gripping the handle so that the combat knife he held pointed downward, the soldier took cautious steps forward, unknowing what he’d find…

"...and that's about the size of it. I'm doing OK here, but while we can get messages through, we can't go home. Not that there's much to go back home to, besides you."

Steve Rogers looks apologetically at the goateed man in the dimensional window. The other man's expression is cocky and nonchalant as ever, a smirk twisting the corner of his lips.

"You're not missing much, Capsicle, believe me."

"Tony...we've been over this." Steve tries to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. "Bucky's Captain America now. I'm not. Not anymore."

"Says you. You'll always be the original model to me. Which is actually kind of amazing of me to admit, considering how much I like 'new and improved' as a rule..."

"Tony..."

"Sorry, just telling it like it is. Anyway, don't worry about us. The team's getting by, and I'm trying my best to buy us out from under SHIELD's thumb, make the team totally self-sufficient." He grins nastily. "If that fails, Vision and I can always just virus the Helicarrier out of the sky somewhere over the North Atlantic..."

"Don't you dare!" Steve says, his mouth open in shock. "Director Hill may be a horrible woman, but she and her people don't deserve to die just because they...!"

"Sure they do," his lover replies blithely, his grin unbroken. "But don't worry. I was kidding; I know how much you don't like the whole 'mass murder' thing, so they're safe from that. I may still hit their comm systems and spy-eyes so that anyone who tries to access them ends up in a never-ending game of Galaga, though. The irony's just too good to pass up."

Steve chuckles despite himself. "That, I like." He puts a hand up to the dimension screen, which Steve places his hand over in turn. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, Glory Boy," Tony says, in an uncharacteristic display of sincerity. "Not having you here, well...it's almost been an enforced celibacy period."

"Tony, we talked about that," Steve says. "You know I'd want you to be taken care of if I can't be there...it's why we kept the relationship open in the first place."

"I know, I know...but seriously Steve, I'm having a hard time going off with some other piece of man-candy...or woman-candy for that matter...knowing you're over there, dimensions away, while I can't do a thing for you."

"Would it help," the super-soldier responds with a blush, "if I told you that I have?"

Tony blinks in surprise. Steve waits for the hurt, the resentment, that he's sure would come. After all, he's supposed to be the old-fashioned one while Tony is the "sexual progressive" (though he'd refer to himself as a manslut, no matter how much Steve insists that he not).

Instead, the inventor's eyes light up with...curiosity? "Well, hot damn. The Capsicle's embracing his inner manslut after all. So who's the lucky fella?" he asks, smirking.

"...Thor." Steve mumbles, and Tony's eyes go wide. "He's not our Thor, not really...he's more open, warmer, friendlier...he heard my sob story, and now he wants me to be his Shield-Brother."

Tony chuckles. "Shield-Brother huh? Well, I've heard weirder euphemisms." His face softens, and his smile becomes genuine. "You know, that does help. I'm glad you've found a buddy. It's a load off my mind."

"I still love you, Tony," Steve says, his heart in his eyes and a lump in his throat.

"And I love you right back," replies the philanthropist. "But that hasn't stopped me from slutting it up, and it shouldn't stop you either. So go have fun. Be your awesome self in that new dimension. I'll sleep easier knowing you're OK."

"Just as long as you stop sleeping alone just because I'm not there," Steve replies, and Tony seems to mull it over.

"Well, Clint has been giving me some extra-long looks lately..."

Steve laughs aloud, and it feels good. Then static clouds Tony's face for a while, and the bearded man's fingers fly over the keyboard. "CRAP! Crap crap crap...Steve, I can't hold the connection! The window's closing on my end!"

"It's OK, Tony!" Steve says, as clearly as he can. "You'll find it again! I know you will!"

"Los...resolution! Audio...termittent! Steve, I...'t know whe...'ll be able to talk again!" The image dissolves into the prismatic static that is the aperture's default state when not focused on a specific dimension, and Steve pounds his fist against the window in frustration. "Get...ssage back...when I can!" I love y..."

Then, hissing, and silence. Steve presses his palms against the surface, as if he could somehow will his lover back onto the screen.

"...I love you too, Tony."

Then he reaches down, and hits the OFF switch, feeling the emptiness of the tech lab fill him up.

The small red plane flying over the Xavier Institute would be a fairly commonplace sight...if it were not spiralling towards Earth in an uncontrolled descent, its pilot spewing a hateful string of curse words.

"Shit! SHIT! SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!"

Cid Highwind, retired pilot for the ShinRa, Inc. Air Force and would-be astronaut for the ShinRa Space Program, jerks the throttle back, forth, and from side to side, but nothing seems to be helping...his beloved plane has been hit with more turbulence than she can handle, and has decided that the ground would be a really nice place to be now.

Like, right now.

Some fuckin' crack mechanic...some fuckin' engineer I turned out to be. Serve me right ta get splatted all over the ground fer not takin' some rough air inta account...

But there's a part of him...a most of him actually...that refuses to give up. That would rather learn from his mistakes and try again.

With a supreme effort, and an accompanying curse, Cid pulls back on the throttle hard enough to bed the yoke out of shape. And even more amazingly, it listens to him...just at the last second, the ship skids across the back lawn of an expansive estate ground and plunges nose-first into a lake. Ejecting just before the cockpit sinks below water level, Cid lands roughly on his ass in front of a paved walkway, bruised and shaken, but none the worse for wear.

"Well, that's just spec-fucking-tacular. A bunch'a turbulence in the middle of a crystal-goddamn-clear sky, an' now I'm stuck out in someone's backyard in the ass-end a'nowhere, with no wings an' no way t'call fer help. Great."

After a few more minutes of embittered vitriol, the pilot lets out a final, exasperated breath and stomps towards the door.

Guess I better get on the horn t'someone. Better at least try an' ask nice.

If Steve Rogers knows anything, it's how to sneak into tall buildings.

Lots of ledges and convenient handholds to climb with, and I carry suction cups and grapples for the glass buildings. Plus, Tony wants it to be easy to get to his penthouse, at least for me.

Of course, "easy" for a Super-Soldier isn't necessarily the same for everyone else. Still, it's a surprise to Steve when after what only feels like about three or four floors' worth of climbing, he reaches the balcony with the tall bay window that signifies Tony Stark's penthouse suite.

Huh. That was fast; I didn't think I'd worked out that much.

Not thinking much of it, Steve hops up onto the balcony and crosses to the glass double-doors. He notices the curtains with some interest. White and translucent? Tony's are usually red velvet and opaque...the better for mood lighting, he says.

Still, he rationalizes, maybe the billionaire's developed an exhibitionist streak. Kinky, he thinks with a smirk as he pulls the ornate handle and steps into the room.

"...Tony?"

Almost before he closes the door behind him, he notices something's wrong. The room is decorated expensively, but not as over-the-top decadent as Tony usually prefers to go. In fact, it's almost utilitarian. Rubbing the back of his head, he looks around, seeing nothing familiar, nor any sign of who the room belongs to.

Damn. Wrong balcony after all. Just need to climb a few floors higher...

But as he turns back to the balcony to leave, he stops dead in his tracks.

Where'd Manhattan go?!

Instead of skyscrapers and city streets, a huge, well-manicured lawn and a forested lake greet his eyes. He's staring out of one of the spare bedrooms of someone's mansion, rather than the penthouse suite of his former teammate.

Even the balcony itself looks completely different. Steve puts a hand to his forehead in disbelief, shaking his head.

"And I thought tonight was going to be fun..."

Where the hell am I?!

Damon's body was wreathed in the steam and coated by the layer of soapsuds that collected in the thick clumps of yellow-blond hair on his torso. He groaned almost gratefully as he felt the heat sinking into his muscles. His goggles remained atop his head as the water kept sliding over his scarred skin and weathered face.

He kept lathering the soap on his body. So clean, so warm... all fuckin' day... None of Sera's grime or filth remained on his body, his three showers a day took care of all of that.

The heat and steam lulled him almost into a trance and he lay against the white tiled walls with slightly closed eyes.

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!

The man couldn't sneak, so he didn't try.

The 6 foot, 1 inches tall, well muscled frame of Damon Baird made its way down the halls with a smirk on his face. Indeed, the smirk had a slight element of a leer. The light of the low moon glinted off the blue lenses of the goggles perched atop his head. The light gray tracksuit was, as usual, a little tight, but Baird didn't pay attention.

He glanced at the clock. Alright! Ten past midnight... think I'm gonna have a snack! Man, they have more chocolate here then I've had in my life!!!

Ahh yes, Chocolate. The precious joy where the COG keeps increasing the rations from thirty to twenty grams. Those memories threatened to wipe the scowl off his face.

He pushed them out of his head as he remembered the tastes... even what was considered mundane food here drove him wild.

He sauntered into the kitchen with a large leer. His battle-roughened finger moved along the wall until it found and flipped the light switch.

Since Psylocke had literally stumbled over her in the kitchen, Loki had staid in the X-Mansion, trying to acess the different planes of reality and find out what was going on. However, this was not unlike trying to find her way through a swampland covered in thick fog - space and time where in turmoil. She couldn't even locate Bifröst, the rainbow bridge to Asgard. I wish I knew if this is because my abilities are not fully restored, or because something stronger than even me is deliberately controlling the situation.

Loki had not yet reported in to anyone, though she guessed Psylocke would have told whoever was leading them right now. It didn't really concern her; it was not like she desperately needed a place to stay. There was enough magic left to change and steal someone's identity, or even conjure up her own little house if she really wanted to. For now, Loki had decided to stay as a woman - she liked both forms, and noticed that this one seemed more trustworthy to others (as well as confusing to most men, always a plus).

The Asgardian woman was standing tall at only a few centrimetes short of two metres, looking quite impressive, like a valkyrie with wide hips and ample cleavage to show off in the green dress, which was held by a golden belt. It was the same green as her eyes, which were as much as a contrast to the pale skin as the black hair, full off lockets that made sure the green-gold combination she preferred was pronounced. Attracting gazes was a necessity to the trickster that so enjoyed the limelight.

Right now, she wandered the halls, locks opening under her fingertips that flickered with magic if she wished it so. For once, causing trouble was not first on her mind, merely exploring the new enviroment. As the lock to another room came open, she paused.
Mechanical gadgets, how interesting. It's always worth a look to see how far the mortals of Midgard have come. They do some quite interesting things, I have to admit that much.
The god(ess) entered the room, inspecting some of the half-finished looking machines. She ran her fingertip over the curve of a device that once might have been a motorcycle before someone brutally gutted it.

"Fix the Blackbird, Forge...stop staring at Storm, Forge...Forge, I just wrecked the Danger Room again, make it better so I can do it all over again..."

The slim, pale man picking up debris and detritus in the Danger Room is mostly unremarkable. Sure, the mechanical right leg and hand are unusual, but nothing about him screams "mutant" right off the bat.

"And then to make things even better, he blames me for not making the program 'challenging enough' when he wrecks the room! Like it's my fault he's a better fighter than the rest of the damn team put together! Does he ever stop to consider the fact that this stuff takes raw materials? That the whole thing runs off one power supply, and if I amp up the power too much it'll short out the whole thing?! Computer software has its limits, even AI...if I made this place as smart as he wants it to be, I can't guarantee that it wouldn't just come alive and try to kill us all!!"

A disgusted grunt as he carries the bag of broken mechanical parts to a receptacle at the far end of the room and dumps them in. There's a bright yellow flash of light, and the container is completely empty.

"OK, that's the raw materials recycled...now all I have to do is reset the room from the control console and..."

As he turns back, he blinks in surprise. The laser turrets...all broken when he'd turned his back...are back in pure, pristine condition. Looking up at the control console, he squints, trying to make out someone up there.

Is that Hank up there? Or did Logan finally hire some outside help? Either way, nice of them to hit that button for me...

He tabs the intercom by the exit door, curious to know who his mysterious assistant is.

"Hello?"

The mutant floated in permanent suspension inside of the null-gravity containment field. Every hideous wound, burn, and bruise on his body was cured from the healing properties of the alien technology that powered it. Symptoms of Victor’s concussion subsided, and consciousness rushed back to him, anxious to welcome the feral back into the world. Unbeknownst to Victor, he had been trapped in this space aged cage for almost two days.

Creed lifted his head and opened his eyes. He assessed his surroundings with a low, rumbling grunt. Excluding the dim, ambient, topaz colored hue emitted from the containment field, the entire brig was shrouded in total darkness. He sniffed the air instinctively, and gathered no other scent except his own musk and the filthy blend of blood types and dirt still latched onto his skin and long hair.

Victor recalled each of the events that led him into this dreadful circumstance. A clawed finger touched the strong steel still coiled around his neck, and he sighed with disappointment. With nothing else to do, he looked around the room a second time, hoping he missed a clue that would be the key to his escape. Futile desires of freedom led him to try and pull his collar off, and even search the empty pockets of his jeans for something – anything – that could aid him.

In a foolhardy gesture, Creed made the motion to run forward. Unfortunately, that thrust lifted his burly, but weightless form even higher off of the ground. The blonde toppled head over heels like a circus acrobat nearly twice before the force behind that momentum weakened. Again he grunted, and repositioned himself until he “stood” upright.

Despair poisoned Victor’s resolve. Dirty blonde locks draped over half of his face as he hung his head. He cursed himself in his mind for allowing the X-Men to capture him, especially after displaying a rare moment – to them - of genuine faithfulness to the cause of mutant life, liberty and prosperity.

For now, he regretted coming to the mansion in his darkest hour. And he passed the time plotting revenge on each one of the X-Men who put him in this predicament.

Of all the places in the world, Victor Creed never dared to seek refuge in Professor Xavier's Mansion. And yet, here he was, sneaking into an unoccupied dormitory room through the large bay windows. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, alone and in the darkness. The light of the full moon was his only company, and it shined over his muscular, highly defined form. Dried blood and gory lacerations he sustained in battle highlighted his face, shirtless upper body, tattered jeans and muddy boots. Victor had once forgotten that his healing factor had limitations. After what he experienced, he wouldn't forget again...

--------------------

Just a week prior, the blonde feral allied himself with a mercenary gang of mutants. They were tasked to infiltrate a small underground compound located on the outskirts of the city near the forests' edge. Weapons that belonged to the Black Market were located there, according to the briefings they received. But in reality, this facility was manned and maintained by the United States government. At taxpayer's expense, coupled with illegal international funding, they planned to re-launch the Weapon X program, as well as engineer the construction of the horrible mechanical abominations, known as "Sentinels".

Creed and his team were shocked to learn of the Weapon X experimentations and upgrades to the Sentinels being built, and they attacked. However, the facility was much more fortified than they were led to believe. What was worse, was that their "mission" was a hoax! They were set up by mutant defectors siding with the prejudicial humans. They were lambs, sent directly to the slaughterhouse...

...and Victor was the only one on his team to survive the assault.

Guided by rage and hate towards the humans' audacity, he stayed inside the compound and butchered them for two days. Once more government reinforcements arrived, he emerged from the steel corridors of the underground complex, and brought the fight with him outside into the wilderness. Victor's motivation to rip the entire program to shreds - along with every human there - pushed his healing factor to the breaking point. For the remainder of the week, the feral lived off the land; he feasted on the animal wildlife that surrounded the compound, and never slept. Each time he saw a moment of vulnerability in the enemy's defenses, he struck, and struck hard!

Near the final days of his one man assault, extreme fatigue took its toll on Victor's body. The feral mutant's tactics became sloppy, and once the government soldiers and agents noticed this, they unleashed a unit of Sentinel droids to eliminate him. For every one that he destroyed, three more took it's place. While many of them were incomplete shells, the sheer number of these human sized droids became too much for Victor to withstand in his current state. No longer able to maintain the fight, the feral was left with no other choice: he fled for his life.

Fearing that the lecherous traitor - who sent him and his fellow mutants off to die - compromised the locations of the other mercenary safe-houses and strongholds, Victor did the unthinkable, and snuck into the great Xavier Mansion to seek shelter. No one would ever think to look for him "here". At least not the humans...

--------------------

Bloodshot amber eyes routinely glanced towards the locked dormitory door and the bed nearby. As much as he wanted to rest, Victor knew he could not stay here, much less get comfortable. Logan was somewhere within the mansion - he could smell his scent the moment he snuck past the first security camera outside - and Creed was certain that the short Canadian would be able to detect his own - or the stench of human blood looming in the air. It was only a matter of time...