Iced Earth

by Dex

Stryfe snarled, gasping breath from around the massive hands of his foe.His chest heaved like a bellows, lungs straining for oxygen. Nathan's vision had begun to grey around the edges, but not enough to blot out the face in front of him; his own face staring back at him.

"Stab your eyes, Stryfe! This time you don't get away!"

"My poor, crippled little brother. My faulty twin. My inferior copy... I don't need to get away. I've already beaten you." Stryfe smirked, delighting in the hatred that flared behind Cable's eye. His own hands tightened in response to Cable's, the two of them locked in a terrifying bond of rage and death.

"Dear Cable, you never had understood, did you? This world, my world, is what Apocalypse didn't understand. It's his world, if he could think past his obsessive hunt, and plan a future where man is free to be true to his real nature. Not forced to be a sheep when he's a lion, or a guppy when his nature screams shark!" Stryfe lashed out suddenly, the edge of his steel cuff opening a deep gash above Cable's good eye. Cable responded with a vicious backhand, sending them both reeling in the lunar dust. They split apart for a moment, and Stryfe's gaze flickered over to where his father and uncle stood. They were yelling to each other, but Stryfe could hear nothing past the roar of his blood in his ears.

Cable feinted left, and unleashed a thunderous kick that would have taken off Stryfe's head if it had connected. But Stryfe was already moving, sliding in the dust as he sidestepped the kick. Stryfe smashed a blow into Cable's knee. The big man groaned and went down, but parried Stryfe's follow-up stomp. Using his leverage, Cable tossed his brother to the ground, stumbling back to his feet.

"You realize how pointless this really is, don't you?" Stryfe smirked. "We're mirrors of each other; dark reflections. Neither of us can win this way."

"Sure we can– by doing something totally foreign to the other. Like sacrifice." Cable spat, and twisted the tab for the explosive on his belt. Stryfe was momentarily shocked enough to allow Cable to grab him by the
throat again.

"Curse you, Dayspring! I'll see your corpse in ashes at my feet!"

"No, Stryfe. We're both going to die, and I'm going to kick your ass all the way to hell, you bastard! Professor, timeslide!" Cable choked out past Stryfe's renewed grip. Stryfe thrashed like a wild animal as the portal split the air behind them with an electric hum. One final struggle, and the pair fell through, locked like warrior gemini.   Stryfe felt the sudden loss of telepathic awareness the second that they touched the gate, and, for one brief instant, his mind flared in the unworld between times. Like a tiny gem or a speck of gold, a mote danced over his mind. It was like a cascade of music in a silent room, or a touch of warmth in a cold prison. It was light and beautiful and terrifyingly final. His blood roared in his ears, and his mind told him that this wasexclusively for him.

Awareness spun through him, caressing and burning and yielding. Every sense screamed for him to accept it, even though its proposition was unknown to him. It cried of release unto final and total peace.

Stryfe's soul yearned for it, for the ease of total surrender. He stretched out tentatively, and felt the presence fill him like a waterfall; like a tidal wave. He ached from the hunger, mouth dry and testicles clenched, heart racing and nerves on fire. It was all so easy, he wanted to weep. His anger and hate welled up and his whole self responded. "No!" was the cry of his total being, and with it, the grain of pure beauty disappeared. Suddenly, time returned to him, and Stryfe realized the sudden immensity of his choice as he looked into the eyes of his twin.

"Yes," said Cable, and the explosion took them.

***

Illyana looked up, coughed again and fumbled for the glass of water by the cocoon of high-tech monitors that served as her bed. She raised the glass to her lips and drank deeply, the coldness reassuring her that she was still alive. Piotr had promised her that she was just a little ill, but in her bones an awareness, which passed beyond logic and youthful certainty, explained that she was fading away. Her lungs rattled with another coughing fit, and Illyana spilt most of the water over her sheets. Crying out as the shock of the water touched her, she jumped back. In the chair next to the bed, Kitty stirred momentarily, before settling back to sleep. Illyana stared for a long time at her face, inexplicably remembering her as a younger girl.

Illyana looked up, thrashing once more as the corruption of the magik-created inferno tore through her soul. Like tiny fingers of putrescence, it pattered over her, probing and searching. All around her, the hellish landscape of Limbo heaved and tore, growing implausibly more nightmarish in aspect. S'ym seemed unconcerned as their duel progressed, violent magic coursing around them like a lightning storm.  "End of the line, demon! I'm done tolerating your treachery!"

"Girlie, I've been the real ruler here for years! You've just been too blind to realize it until know. It's the end of the line, Boss." S'ym sneered out around his cigar. "You ain't got the killer instinct this job takes."

"You're going to regret those words, S'ym." Illyana snarled, and raised the Soulsword with a flare. Her eyes narrowed, and her body began to shift, from the part armored outfit of a New Mutant to the reddish-scaled visage of the Darkchilde. Just as her body began its shift, Illyana sensed something wrong.

"Geez, that was TOO easy, Chief. Now yer a demon, and welcome to our day." S'ym smiled, his guard relaxing. And, in the last brief flare of herself, Illyana felt her humanity die.

Illyana looked up, the bloodrage in her receding just enough to allow her a moment of clarity in the chaos. The young Illyana looked up at her, and Illyana felt her soul twist in the contrast between them; one young and innocent, the other gnarled and malformed. The sword hesitated in her hands.

"Please, Illyana, this time...you have a choice." Rahne's soft Scots brogue carried in the dim twilight, the plea agonizingly apparent. "A...choice..? N'Astirh told me that in Limbo, there's no such thing as a right choice. But he is a demon...a master of deception...while you...perhaps you are right, and we can beat him at his own game. The only choice is to remove the choice. To negate my presence in Limbo...as if I had never existed at all." The Darkchilde fought against her, but she held on, fingernails scrabbling for control against the vileness boiling in her soul.

"Destiny's prophecy was that I must learn. How can I learn? I am the Darkchilde. Shut away from life. Always on the outside, looking in. But can I learn? Have I? Is this the answer?" The cries of her friends came distant, far from her as she concentrated, arms spread like a conduit for pure magic.

A stepping disk, massive in its dimensions, slowly grew around her, enveloping the huddle of New Mutants. A pinkish glowing circle rose and expanded, leaving them on the pavement of the demonized New York. Even as they touched, Illyana was gone.

The disk seemed to ignite, a giant pillar of flame rising up into the sky. From every corner of the city, its demonic invaders felt their world change in the very fiber of their being, and, to the man, were torn from their perches and dragged to the unholy conflagration. In the fire, for a brief moment, Illyana allowed herself to be exultant.

In the flare of her final sacrifice, a mote in her mind's eyes grew, pure in its golden depth. The discorporal entity of magic and energy hesitated, and felt itself staring back at it. Illyana saw herself enveloped in a
crucible of eldritch fire, and Illyana saw herself in a thin pink nightgown, eyes bright with fear and recognition. All saw within themselves a chance for salvation. Three pairs of eyes met over the minuscule glow, and three hearts filled with hope and fear. Together, they reached out, over and past the bounds of time, logic and reality, and closed hands over the mote. Like the whisper of angels, a ‘yes' yielded itself in the void. And a soft silence descended on three still forms.

***

Jonothan stepped down to the pavement and adjusted his leather jacket. The chill November air knifed through the heavy jacket, and Starsmore felt the chill settle deep in his bones. Gayle paid the cabbie his fare and came around Jonothan, slipping one slim white hand through the shaggy hair at the base of his neck. Jono barely felt her presence, his world suddenly reducing itself to encompass nothing beyond the Sister Agatha Mercy Hospital. Another gust of wind tore at him, and Gayle huddled in close to his lanky frame.

"Luv, you sure you want to do this alone? Your mum an' me get along. I could–" Gayle started, but was cut off by Jonothan's gentle touch to her lips.

"Gayle, I ‘ave to do this myself, right. Look, I'll be fine and back on me grain in no time, I promise." Jono's smile never touched his eyes as he kissed her lightly. Gayle sighed.

"Right. Well, I'll be in the shops across the street if you need me, and Jono– "Gayle grabbed hold of his lapels as he was turning away. "–you better come get me if you need me, right?"

"‘Course." Jono smiled and walked up the steps of the hospital. The medicinal green walls greeted him as he passed through the heavy oak and brass doors.

During World War Two, the ‘old Aggie', as the soldiers called it, was used to help rehabilitate troops crippled in battle. It became one of the first hospitals to treat cancer with radiation in the late seventies, and had gained new life as the new centre for research in England.

All of this was lost on Jonothan's mind as he stalked through the hallway to the reception desk. The nurse with the bad bottle-red hair at the desk gave him a tired look.

"Yes?"

"I'm ‘ere to see Evelyn Starsmore."

"Relation?"

"She's me mum."

"Please ‘ave a seat." The nurse turned back to her ancient computer, and Jono stifled his angry retort, finding a seat in the sterile waiting room. His eyes flickered briefly over the magazines, some older than him, before he sat down.

"I see you finally made it." A low, whiskey-roughened voice said, and Jono turned to face his father.

"Yes Da, I made it." Phil Starsmore was a big man, with thick muscles from hours of heavy work on streets and in sewers, working for the city of London. His hands were scarred from a childhood in one of Liverpool's roughest neighborhoods. He looked from those hands back to his son's face. His son, who had changed at some point to this dark and rebellious manchild that was in front of him.

"Yer mum's in a bad way, Jono. I'd hoped you'd ‘ave come by sooner." Phil fought to keep his resentment and accusations out of his voice.

"Been hard to find some time."

"Something more important than–" Phil cut himself short, unwilling to hurl the venom at his son. He sat, scowling darkly as the nurse called for Jonothan.

"You can go in now."

Jonothan got up and left the waiting room, without a backwards glance to his father. They hallway was strangely empty as he followed the nurse down it. Only a soft, muted whisper of voices could be heard from the rooms they passed, as if death could be avoided with innocuous silence. The nurse peeked into a room, and turned, leaving Jonothan there. He hung at the door for a long moment before finally walking in.

"Jono! You came!" Evelyn Starsmore said, obvious happiness writ large over her face. Jono came forward to hug the frail body in the bed. Evelyn had changed greatly in the last month, since Jono had last visited her. Her body had become even more thin, from the nausea that went along with the radiation treatment, she explained later. She wore a kerchief wrapped around her head turban-style, to hide the loss of her formerly long blonde hair.

"Hello mum. Sorry it's been a while."

"I know, Jono. I was young once too. How are you?"

"I'm fine, mum. How are you? Did the doctors–"

"The doctors said the same thing they always say, Jono. It's not as if it will just disappear one day, luv. Come here. I don't want to discuss that. I've talked about nothing else for the last year. I'd rather hear where you're spending your time."

"Here and there. Gayle is helping us wit' the band."

"That's good, Jono. Your father is here. Did you see him?"

"In the waiting room."

"You should talk to him, Jono. He loves you very much."

"Da an' me don't got along, and never will."

"Someone has to make the effort. Soon, I won't be here." Evelyn grabbed her son's face before Jono could turn away. "And no amount of hiding or denial will change that. You're all he's got, Jono. That's important."

"Not ta him."

"Now you're just being belligerent, son. I'll not have it."

"Sorry mum." Jono ducked his head, and Evelyn laid one tiny hand on his cheek.

"Forgiven. Now, could you tell your father to bring the nurse in with him? I'm feeling poorly." Jonothan nodded and kissed her quickly on the cheek before he left. He left the room and was half-way down the hallway when something exploded in the back of his mind.

Pain wracked his body, and Jonothan pitched forward, onto the unyielding speckled tiles of the hospital floor. Awareness flared like a nova in his mind, every other creature within a mile suddenly taking up space in his mind with him. And then, even in the pain-filled chaos, one piece of mental static suddenly faded, and disappeared. Jono's eyes opened wide with horror as he felt his mother die.

The sound of running feet thundered past him, as the response team came at a run to the room he'd just left. The room where a body had made the transition from a bright, vibrant woman to a lump of cooling meat. Jono squeezed his eyes back shut tight, pain resounding in his head.

"My god, Jono! You couldn't wait until your mum was in the ground before you needed your bloody fix!" The voice of his father cut through like a chisel, and Jono raised his head to stare at him for one, pain-filled moment. He tried to explain, make him understand even as Phil's rage echoed in his own mind, but a wave of nausea overtook him, and he vomited the contents of his stomach on the ground at his feet.

"Jesus! Damn you, Jono!" Phil Starsmore's face was twisted with anger and grief. "You are no longer my son, you bastard." And he turned, leaving his pariah son to crumple forward into his own bile.

Jonothan's head hit the floor, and with it, his tenuous control shattered into a thousand fragments. Lines of bio-psionic energy ran rampant over his body, and flared out with tremendous force. The hallway buckled under the telekinetic concussion, and a chunk of the wall exploded outwards.Telekinetic flares, wild and uncontrollable, lashed out, turning cars and smashing windows. The pain and shock fed the shattered control, and the furies grew larger, snapping trees like twigs. Gayle had time for one wide-eyed scream before the lamppost caught her square across the spine with a sickening snap.

Jonothan's mind was wavering, nearly torn apart in the tempest of agony in his mind. Only in a brief moment of lucidity from shock did he see a solution. In the centre of the maelstrom hung a speck of clear gold, like the eye of the psychic storm. It had a siren's call to him; a note of perfect intensity in the chaos around him. And in the ringing, he could feel a choice echo in his soul.

Jono was caught, trapped in a single frozen moment like a bug in amber. He knew that this choice meant his life, in one manner or another. Denial was fruitless, since he knew that in this minuscule eternity, his entire life was encapsulated. Anger, fear, dismay coursed through him, until he was ready to burst. With one astral hand, he reached out to the glow.

And then, he twisted it.

At once, the golden spark grew, and flowed into him. Unsure of what he was doing, only determined to use the spark rather then accept it, Jono began to stitch his consciousness back together. The chaos slowly receded, pulling back to its huddled epicenter. The form of Jono began to reknit itself, guided clumsily by his mind. For a moment, his control faltered, and the energy flared at his chest and face, glowing and crackling. On shaky, but solid arms, Jono levered himself up. His face was sticky where he'd collapsed in his own vomit, all save for the glowing ruin of his mouth and neck. He grabbed a roll of bandages from a cart against the wall, wrapping them hastily around himself as he fled from the hospital. All thoughts of his mother, Gayle, his father, everything were gone from his mind as he fled in terror of himself and his new awareness, into the grey evening.

***

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