Follow Me Until the End of the World: The Weapon - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Sandman
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 4

A sad drizzle began to fall from the darkening sky. Steel collectors shuffled down the broken sidewalks before disappearing into any number of the various bars which lined them, looking to cap off a torturous workweek with a familiar sensation. Their tender muscles needed a relaxant, and perhaps the workers would find something to forget their misery. Thunder roared, and a violent downpour began, sending everyone scattering towards the nearest shelter. Seconds later, the streets were nearly empty.

A lone hooded figure hurriedly walked, often casting a nervous glance to the empty road behind her. She saw a row of cheap, electric cars lining either side of the road-little else was visible. The rain droplets stung like angry horseflies. As the water struck the hot street, steam floated upward, creating a dense mist. Squinting, the woman believed that something new was discernable. A shadow of a man was forming behind the curtain of water vapor. Her eyes became wide, but were forced shut due to an onslaught of rain. Cupping her hand over eyes, her worst fear was confirmed. The man that had stalked her across the wastelands had finally caught up.

The telepath took off in a run and her hood flew back. Her long, brown hair whipped about her face, stinging with each lash. Betsy Braddock ran until her lungs felt like they were about to collapse. Kneeling behind a car, she tried to regain her breath. Allowing herself several minutes of rest, she peeked past the metal rump of the car, with displayed its brand, Envirofriend, with a silver embroidery. She tried to focus on the ridiculous observation to keep her cool. It wasn’t working a bit.

Closing her eyes momentarily, she uttered a silent prayer, and then opened them. Nothing. After several more deep breaths, she felt her heart returning to a normal pace of beating. She was now calm enough to realize that her drenched clothes were clinging tightly to her body, and it made her laugh out loud. Then she saw the Hunter again.

Across the street, a neon sign hung above a dilapidated building, announcing the establishment as the Dirty Glass, a Fine Restaurant and Tavern. Leaping to her feet, she took off in a run for it. When in the middle of the street, she closed her eyes tightly, fearing that he would take an open shot at her. She anticipated a bullet tearing through her chest, but made it to the doorway of the trashy bar unharmed. The doorman appraised her with a confused glance, probably wondering what such a delicate looking lady, alone, would be doing in a place like this.

Shouldering past a few thuggish looking lowlifes, Betsy entered to dark place. The reeking scent of cheap cigars, pipe tobacco, cigarettes, beer, and heavy perspiration permeated through the open room. At its center, a giant caged platform where men would pit fight seemed to be drawing everyone’s attention. Right now, an intermission was in place, and the bookies were taking bets. Angry and anxious shouts called out to them while their owners waved handfuls of cash in the air. Betsy slipped past them and found an open stool at the bar. The one-eyed bartender trotted over to her while polishing a glass.

“Need somethin’ missy?”

Nervously looking around, she replied in her thick English accent, “can I just get some water, please?”

The oafish bartender demanded money upfront, which she provided. The water tasted heavily like minerals. The water collecting in the gutters outside would probably be safer…probably taste better too, she thought to herself.

A new fight begun. A massive fighter (who was apparently a hometown favorite) was facing off against some muscular looking guy that apparently came from somewhere in Canada. She cared little for the fight, and paid it no attention, though everyone else seemed enchanted by it. They screamed for blood, and apparently were getting exactly what they wanted.

Looking up from her glass, she saw the Hunter sitting directly across the bar. Sipping a beer, he stared at her with muted emotion. He’s cornered me…there’s no way out…

It was the first time that she had seen him up close. The huge black man easily topped six feet and three inches, dwarfing most men sitting on his flanks. He wore a goatee and a mustache that were fairly well groomed. A jagged tattoo of an M was etched into his bulging right forearm, probably some marker of his profession. He wore a giant overcoat that no doubt hid an arsenal of weapons. She looked about the place in a panic, looking for a way out. He threw her a look that invited her to leave, I’ll only follow…time is on my side, witch.

Several more fights happened that night, though she didn’t care. She nursed her water with a few sips, drinking just enough not to warrant any attention from the bartender. The Hunter sat in the same place, taking beer after beer. The night stretched on before last call was finally announced. By then, the fights had been over for hours and most of the bar’s patrons left for their homes. Only the few drunks remained, passed out in various corners. And then, there was the Hunter.

Betsy felt as if she were ready to dive into a shark tank. Courage came suddenly. She leaped to her feet and ran for the door, refusing to look back.

Once outside the door, she continued running, waiting for the sting of a projectile to take her down. The rain had stopped, though the mist remained. After a few blocks, she turned to check if he was there. He was gone. Oh thank heavens…Sighing in relief, she turned to walk

When the Hunter’s hand gripped her across her mouth and dragged her into an alley. She kicked and attempted to scream. Desperate, she bit deep into his hand. He took the pain silently.

“If you do that again, I’ll snap your neck.” His power was unbelievable-she doubted that a bear could break his grip.

Suddenly, she heard heavy footsteps, the kind workboots make when contracting the ground.

“You keep your mouth shut,” he whispered into her ear. She obeyed, knowing that if he cinched up his grip only a bit, her larynx would be crushed.

The footsteps became louder until it stopped in front of the alleyway. A figure was barely visible through the mist. It almost sounded like he was sniffing.

His head turned in their direction. She could sense the Hunter ready to react. Betsy wanted to yell out, warning the man that the Hunter intended to kill him, when the stranger spoke out in a deep voice.

“Looks like we have a situation here. Why don’t you bring your sorry ass out here now, before I come in there and drag you out. Let me warn you bub, I already put three men down tonight. One more won’t make any difference.”

Bishop slipped his hand into his coat and pulled out a sawed off shotgun. He aimed it, when the shadow seemed to break through the mist and appear in their faces, swiping three razors that stuck out of his knuckles against the barrel of the gun, cutting it cleanly in half. The stranger grabbed Bishop by his gun hand and pulled him forward, allowing Betsy to break free. She turned to run, but stopped to watch the fight. The two men took turns throwing each other into the brick walls on either side of the alley. She figured that the stranger was the muscular Canadian that had been pitfighting for money all night in the bar. Though smaller than the Hunter, he seemed to be holding his own.

The traded blows, though neither seemed to gain a clear advantage. The Hunter used his size and reach while the Canadian fell back on sheer ability and speed. Finally, the Canadian toppled the Hunter and pinned him to the street.

“This is where you apologize to the lady, bub”

“Go to hell. You don’t understand…she’s a mutant.”

“Oh yeah?” The Canadian growled. “You got somethin’ against mutants?” Then he popped his claws, bringing him to the edge of the Hunter’s throat.

“No…I am a mutant…I don’t have a choice…”

Logan put his forearm into the Hunter’s throat. Betsy watched on in amazement, interested in what the bastard would say next.

“You have about three seconds to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you…”

“I don’t care if you do! Look at my arm! They control me…” the Hunter choked out.

“If I don’t obey…the band…explodes…”

Logan pulled up the Hunter’s sleeve. Sure enough, a locked silver band wrapped around his bicep. Then, he raised his claws and brought them down upon the Hunter. Betsy turned away, as her body reacted as if she were about to watch a train run over an old lady.

When she turned back, she saw the silver band lying cut from the Hunter. Logan stood up, and the Hunter simply looked on in amazement that he was still breathing. Reaching into Bishops coat, Logan removed his remaining two firearms and dropped the clips out.

“Why…?” was all he could manage to say.

“Let’s just leave it at that I understand what it means to be someone else’s puppet,” Logan said, dusting himself off. “Lady, are you alright?”

Caught in a daze, Betsy didn’t answer at first, unable to take her eyes off the prone Hunter. She had come very close to dying tonight.

“Yes. Yes, I am fine,” Betsy finally said.

“Alright. Hey bub, are you going to leave her alone from now on? Cause I swear, if you don’t…”

“I don’t have any reason to harm you anymore,” Bishop said, addressing Betsy.

Turning to leave, Logan gave her one parting piece of advice. “Alright sweetheart, I’d clear out of here if I were you.”

Nodding, she turned away, but quickly snapped back and ran at Bishop. Logan whipped around and tried to grab her, but she easily sped by him.

She screamed, “why were you following me? Did you intend to kill me then? Well?! What did I do to you, you bloody bastard!”

Dusting himself off, Bishop stood. “Yeah, I suppose you do deserve an explanation, but I don’t have time to give it to you. All that I can tell you is to get the hell out of Detroit, and to stay clear of the big cities. That goes for you too, pal. This place won’t be safe for mutants, any mutants, but especially those with your type of ability, lady. I ain’t the only Hunter out here looking for you.”

“Hold on a second. What the fuck is a Hunter?” Logan growled.

“I am…was…It is a mutant that has been trained and equipped to track other mutants. Look, I’m leaving now. I suggest you do the same.”

Betsy stepped in front of the man, who nearly stood a full foot taller than she. “No, you will give me answers.”

Their eyes locked. He no longer intimidated her.

“Hate to say it bub, but she isn’t the only one wanting some answers anymore. What do you mean this city won’t be safe much longer? From who?”

Bishop took in a deep breath. Betsy understood that he intended to comply with their request.

“We shouldn’t talk here.”

“Fine. I know just the place…” Logan replied, grinning slightly.

…

The grizzled warrior led the former Hunter and his former prey into the cathedral’s shelter where he had been sleeping for the past two weeks. He had befriended one of the parishioners here, named Kurt Wagner. During the day, he often spent time talking with the man about his role as the church missionary and his travels to the local tribes around the region. Apparently, the man knew little fear. Wagner traveled alone through the wastelands, braving the threat of natural hazards and raiders. He carried no weapons, and for that, Logan believed him to be foolish. Kurt had revealed to Logan that he was in fact, a mutant, with the ability to teleport anywhere within a certain distance. This gift from God, as Kurt put it, had saved him on more than one occasion.

In most ways, Kurt was the antithesis of Logan-a pacifist who saw life through the eyes of a hopeless romantic. The man saw beauty in nearly every corner of life, and spoke of these observations often.

Their friendship was based on much more than their bond as mutants in a world that hated them. It took nearly a week before Logan saw its basis. He liked Kurt because his heart was pure, not withered and cracked like his own. He wasn’t sure why Kurt took a liking to him, as he was, self- admittedly, a bitter old bastard with a number of character vices, not least of which was smoking foul-smelling cigars.

Logan revealed his plan of going to California, and invited Kurt along. Admitting that his real love was traveling and meeting with average people (and perhaps convincing them of God’s infinite grace), he agreed. The two had taken jobs in order to accumulate enough money to purchase a car capable of driving across the wastelands. Falling to his talents, Logan had taken a job pitfighting in some of the slummier watering holes in the darker reaches of the city. The position was lucrative. Logan let his opponents watch him drink enough beer to put down a horse, watching the odds stack against him. Then, he bet all of his money on himself. By the time came to fight, his healing factor had purged the alcohol from his system. He never lost. Kurt found employment in the traditional Detroit fashion, becoming a simple steel collector. In just two weeks, he had put on several pounds of muscle.

Kurt was awake, reading a book about flora and fauna of the region, when Logan arrived to his cot.

“Out late tonight, huh? You’ve brought…guests…” Kurt said, taking his eyes up from his book. He stuttered at the end of the statement. The huge man was an impressive sight in itself, but it was the girl that caught his attention. Her damp sandy-brown hair fell naturally through to her shoulders. Her movements flowed with elegant grace.

An admirer of all things beautiful, Kurt was sure he had never seen her like. Her face was shaped like finely crafted marble, smooth and well- defined. He now understood how a woman’s beauty could inspire a man to labor for weeks, it not months, to immortalize such perfection through art.

Betsy walked over to an unclaimed bed, and removed her overcoat. After stretching, she sat gently upon the mattress, unaware of Kurt’s inability to take his eyes from her. Logan pushed a few belongings out of the way and sat down on his own cot.

“Yeah, well, we need to talk Kurt. We might have a change of plans. This is Bishop-he’ll explain everything.”

Kurt noticed that there was an unspoken tension between the girl and Bishop.

Pulling up a chair from a small table, Bishop sat down in front of the three beds and cleared his throat. The man’s appearance did not seem to hint at a strong oratory ability. In fact, Kurt had pegged him for a complete barbarian, ready to communicate through a series of hand gestures and grunts.

“Alright, look. I’m not entirely sure how much you know about what goes on outside the city. Have any of you heard of the Southern Cross?”

Logan turned his head and saw both Kurt and Betsy nodding.

“Detroit has automobile manufacturing facilities. This isn’t any secret. In order to keep their war machine going, they need a new source of vehicles. Its known that the city can manufacture both electric and solar powered cars that are ideal for short range, particularly, urban, travel. But the city can also make hybrids, that use battery and alcohol as a source of energy, which can push cars to tremendous speeds. To make a long story short, they’re coming, and soon, and they’ll occupy the city and eventually run it. ”

“So what does that have to do with us?” Kurt inquired.

“That’s where it gets a lot more difficult. They seek out mutants for service. Sometimes research, but that is usually the work of a few specific people. You may or may not have heard of Cameron Hodge or Nathaniel Essex, but they conduct all kinds of tests on mutants that interest them. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, you all will be enslaved. If they think that you’ll be useful, then they’ll put you through a series of treatments called ‘conditioning’. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesen’t.”

“I suppose it didn’t work in your case,” Logan interrupted. Bishop shook his head briefly.

“If they think that you won’t be of any use, chances are they’ll just kill you. I can say with a fair amount of certainty that they’d turn you into a Hunter, Logan. Betsy, they want you badly because you’re a telepath. Again, I’m not entirely sure why. All I know is that mutants with your ability are exceptionally rare and that you’re needed for some project run by Nathaniel Essex. I know that you probably want to know more, but you have to realize that I’m only a grunt. You need to capture a high-ranking officer to get what you’re looking for. I do know that the Southern Cross is essentially surrounding the city as we speak. Its only a matter of time before they roll in here.”

“What happens if the city resists?” Kurt asked.

“Well, chances are they’ll face harsh repression. They want the city bad. If they thought the place was expendable, that’s a different story. Rather than waste the effort, they would unleash someone called the Juggernaut, on the place. This is a mutant, probably a bit over nine feet in height and is encased in some kind of impenetrable armor. Nothing can stand before him. Not a tank, not a building, not even a city. He destroys everything in his path, and never tires. His work is the source of many urban myths around the land. The kind of thing mothers tell their pert children in order to get them to behave. Unfortunately, they’re all true. I’ve seen firsthand the devastation that he leaves. The only thing that I can compare it to is a sub-atomic explosion.”

“Right. So we’ll avoid this bastard then. What we need to worry about right now is getting out of here,” Logan said, coming to stand.

“I know the area pretty well, through my missionary work,” Kurt added. “If we can get our hands on a off-road vehicle, maybe we’ll stand a chance slipping through. Then, we’ll head to California,” he added, looking at Logan, who simply nodded.

Though he remained silent, Bishop agreed. Looks like our roads might lead the same way after all…He thought of his wife and son, who remained in a forced labor camp somewhere just outside of California.

“Wait a minute. If all mutants are in danger, then we need to find some way to warn the others in the city,” Kurt demanded.

“No fuckin’ way,” Logan muttered. “We have no way of knowing where they are, if there are anymore around here.”

“That’s not exactly true, is it Bishop,” Betsy interjected, raising a single eyebrow at the former Hunter.

Sighing, he nodded. “I have instruments that detect them up to a certain range. Don’t ask me how it works.”

Rolling his eyes, Logan was becoming visibly agitated. “Aren’t any of you dumbasses listening to me? If we’re running out of time, we need to worry about ourselves right now. Its going to be hard enough finding a truck that we can take across the wastelands. I don’t know if any of you have been keeping tabs, but I haven’t seen a single one since I’ve been here.”

Shaking his head, Kurt turned back to Bishop. “How many others are there?”

Casting a quick glance to the livid Wolverine, Bishop responded simply “there’s two, and they’re together. They came into the city a little before I did.”

“I agree with Kurt. We need to warn them,” Betsy demanded.

Throwing his hands into the air, Logan began to protest, and then surrendered. “Lead the way, Bish”.

…

Tracking the two other mutants was child’s play compared to Betsy. They were held up in a dingy hotel in the heart of the city, not far from where Logan emerged from the subway tunnels. Kurt insisted on doing the talking, reasoning that the entire group might be a bit intimidating.

While the others found an all-night diner, Kurt walked into the hotel, called the Traveler’s Stop. The attendant at the front desk was fast asleep. Kurt walked quietly over to the guest log and through the process of elimination (there were only thirteen rooms occupied, and only one with two people), figured out which room he needed. He walked past the desk and found the stairs. After coming to the second floor, Kurt found the room, and gently knocked on it.

Inside, her heard two voices. A male and a female. The male walked to the door and asked who was there. Kurt picked up on his accent, though it was not familiar.

“Could you please open the door? There is something urgent that I need to talk with you both about. I know that you are both mutants.”

The clicking noise on the other side (a hammer of a gun being pulled )of the door told Kurt that his choice of words was less than well-received. Shrugging, he teleported to the other side.

The two on the other side jumped, quite startled. The man, or rather boy, at the door turned a pistol on Kurt, who simply raised his hands in an unthreatening manner. Kurt turned to woman, who he sensed might be more sensible at the moment.

“Look, as you can see, I’m a mutant as well. We need to leave the city immediately.”

Storm walked over to Kurt and appraised him before deciding that he seemed trustworthy. She had always assigned a high value to her judgment of character. It rarely failed her. After all, she had been right about Sam…

“I can sense the urgency in your voice. But before we go further, who are you, and how did you find us?”

“I’m Kurt Wagner. There are a few others with me, and they’re all mutants too. Listen closely though, there’s an army outside the city waiting to close in. Once they do, they’ll find us all and enslave us. We’re leaving the city, and you’re both welcome to join us.”

Sam stepped towards Kurt and lowered his gun. “How did you know about that?”

“One of the people in our group used to be a Hunter-do you know what that is? Anyway, that’s not important. Will you come with us?”

Sam and Ororo exchanged a brief glance, which was all discussion that they needed to know that they would join the strange mutant and his companions.

…

After a frenzy of introductions, it was decided that they would leave that night. As luck would have it, Sam was a deserter from the Southern Cross and had procured on of their Humvees that were specially designed for desert travel. Besides, it could easily fit all six of them and all the supplies they could pack.

Sometime just after sunrise, they began to leave the city with Sam driving. Storm was not entirely sure that she liked the idea of going to California, but the group was just a loose confederation at this point. She doubted that anyone, save Sam and herself, had the resolve to fight against the Southern Cross. They seemed mostly self-interested, though she had sensed the goodness in Kurt. The former Hunter, Bishop, and the other man, who was apparently known as Logan, seemed to be of the same stock. Tough as nails, though empty inside, clinging to their own goal of survival as their only reason to keep going. The English girl was quiet. Storm noticed that her beauty seemed to make Sam a little nervous, though he would soon get over that. Maybe. There were times when the simple country boy had trouble looking Storm in the eyes when they talked. But when he was under pressure, Sam reacted with the control of a platoon commander. Storm realized that this boy was both wise and mature many years beyond his seventeen years.

Pushing her back hard against the uncomfortable seat, Storm allowed herself a moment of relaxation. Despite the slightly oppressive heat, the weather was ideal for travel, though she had no role in that.

The roads were empty, except for a few delivery trucks brining fresh crops and meats the stores. Sam maneuvered past the slower traffic before finally coming to the mouth of the city, and found that his fears were confirmed.

Not even five miles out, several convoys of Southern Cross tanks, jeeps, and personnel carriers sat at a complete rest. Sam slowed to a halt, and then turned towards Storm in the back seat.

…

Through binoculars, the field marshal, Stryfe, spied the lone vehicle from his own jeep.

“If they decide to drive, make sure that you do not kill the girl. I could care less about the others, though if you capture the weather witch as well, it will reflect favorably upon my report of your conduct, Major.”

Nodding, Alex Summers jumped down from lead jeep and boarded another, which then started towards the city. Several more followed it.

…

“Can you outrun them?” Kurt asked the mystified driver.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Sam turned and said, “are you serious? We’re already burdened down. There isn’t any way…”

Placing her hand on his shoulder, Storm caught his attention. Her deep brown eyes calmed him. “Sam, drive. I will take care of the rest.”

Nodding, he shifted gears, and drove faster and better than he had ever done in his life.

The Humvee peeled off at a slant, intending to feint towards the easier path. It kicked up sand as it departed the broken concrete road. Meanwhile, seven heavily armed interceptor cars raced towards the group. Bishop readied his plasma rifle (one of the marvels of Cameron Hodge’s technological efforts). Logan steadied a pair of pistols, one he had taken from the bunker, and the other one that Bishop had lent him.

Sam nervously kept glancing in his rearview mirror. “Just drive, Sam,” Storm said in a soothing tone.

The interceptors lined up in perfect formation. He knew what would come next. The sharpshooter, which was probably in the lead vehicle, would attempt to take out the tires. He began unpredictably swerving, which would make the shot much more difficult. Shots rang out.

Storm stood, bracing herself against the seat. Wolverine, who sat behind her, wondered what the hell she was doing, and prepared himself to catch her if lost her balance. Suddenly, behind them, the wind picked up, carrying thousands of grains of sand into a wave. A sandstorm was developing and five of the interceptors were caught in its wake.

The wrecked, of course, in the worst possible fashion. The lead car and another, survived, however. Sam noted that the drivers were extremely skilled. The terrain around them was no longer capable of providing enough sand to create a storm, but at least the dust would decrease the enemy’s visibility.

Bishop and Wolverine exchanged places with Betsy and Kurt, moving the back seats. They began to exchange heavy fire with the interceptors. As if guided by the hand of fate, Bishop made a masterful shot, hitting a driver in the face, melting it instantly. The car jerked suddenly to the left and tipped over, before sliding across the dirt. Seconds later, the engine exploded. The two injured survivors of the crash crawled from the wreckage on fire. They shrieked in horrible agony before finally expiring.

The last interceptor was giving them problems. The back of the humvee was getting shot up very badly. Logan figured that it was only a matter of time before they hit the gas tank, which would mean either two things. An explosion, or a really bad gasoline leak.

Suddenly, two helicopters came from over the horizon. Warbirds…Bishop thought to himself. They were armed with dual Vulcan cannons and rocket turrets. It became very clear to everyone that their chances for escape had become very bleak.

The chopper pilots had been given the order not to fire directly on the Humvee, however. Such an act would decimate everyone in it.

Instead, one drooped down very close and a sniper poked out from an open door. The interceptor fell back slightly, giving the Warbird more room. Each time the sniper fired, Sam swerved. His timing was nearly perfect.

Suddenly, Wolverine dropped one pistol and shoved the other one in his Velcro waste band. He stood, and waited for the chopper to near once again for a shot. Nobody understood what he had planned until he actually jumped, and grabbed a hold of the landing bar.

Kurt could not believe his eyes. Such courage…I could not have done that.

Wolverine swung violently in the wind. It took all of his might to steady himself, and he was finally able to raise his legs and wrap them around the bar for more support. The sniper leaned out to rid the helicopter of the unwanted passenger. Instead, Logan reached up and pulled him out. His body bounced once when it hit the ground very quickly, and then laid still. Logan pulled himself into the helicopter. The door gunner on the other side turned only to have claws buried into his chest. Like the sniper, he sent towards the unforgiving ground. The pilots then came next, both stabbed threw the neck simultaneously. Logan pulled them from the seats and took the controls.

The captured Warbird reared back and caught the other one in its sights. Before its pilot realized it had been hijacked, his chopper was torn to metal shards with two rockets.

Sam looked back in breathed a sigh of relief. He was ready to demand that Storm take the wheel and when the chopper passed over, he would launch himself and sail through it. That plan was no longer needed.

The remaining Warbird circled and made an attack run on the final interceptor. The bullets ripped it to pieces, killing two of the crew. Alex Summers dove from the car, landing hard in the sand. For several minutes, he could not move. From above, he appeared to be very dead.

Now clear, Sam let out a rebel yell and smacked his palm into the side of the Humvee. Everyone was instantly taken into the celebration. Only Bishop remained dour, but internally, he breathed a deep sigh of relief.

The Warbird pulled along the group and Logan gave them a slight salute, and silently mouthed, I’ll be right back…

…

The Southern Cross forces had secured Detroit’s exits. Stryfe sat triumphantly in his jeep, awaiting confirmation that the mutants had been captured. He silently congratulated himself for masterminding the use of the Warbirds. While his soldiers were busy rounding up city officials, lawmen, and factory owners, he sat back in the company of his favorite concubine.

Off in the distance, the thudding of helicopter blades approached. Stryfe stood to watch their return. Why haven’t those damned fools radioed in?

A single Warbird was there. Something is wrong….

His suspicion was confirmed when the Vulcan cannons began lighting up and its massive projectiles began raining hell upon the Southern Cross. Many soldiers fell dead before they knew that they were being attacked.

He made three passes, destroying a sizable number of Southern Cross vehicles. Soldiers ran in every direction, seeking shelter. Only Stryfe stood his ground. Enraged, he stood on the hood of his jeep and pulled his dual silver desert eagles out and challenged the pilot.

Logan saw a man wearing black armor and a silver helmet standing like a damned crazy fool on the hood of a jeep, and began another attack run. The cannon’s ammo was nearly exhausted and the rocket turrets were completely dry. He would only get one chance.

When the chopper came in range and began firing, Stryfe calmly fired shot after shot at the swooping helicopter, clipping it several times and punching sizable holes into its hull. The ground around Stryfe erupted dirt and dust until the bullet pathway hit the jeep, shredding it. Just before reaching Stryfe, the cannons ran dry. Stryfe saw the pilot for a second and vowed to remember him. Once he found him again, the bastard would suffer greatly.

The Warbird turned a final time and headed towards the wastelands to rejoin the Humvee.

Jumping off the ruined jeep, Stryfe let loose rage, kicking debris and shouting curses to his cowardly men. When his concubine was foolish enough to make light of the situation, commenting that his armor was scoffed, his shot her in the face.

…

The Warbird set down next to the parked Humvee, and Logan exited the helicopter. The rest of the group made camp for the night and were cooking dinner. Storm stood apart from the rest, conjuring a huge windstorm that would cover their tracks.

Everyone seemed fairly jovial. Kurt told humorous stories that brought everyone nearly to tears. Even Bishop laughed at them, a little. Logan sat aloft watching Storm work, and found it oddly poetic. She stood with her arms raised high above her head while the wind sent ripples through her clothes, and her hair. Thunder rumbled off in the distance. Her snow-white hair contrasted with the pale gray sky. The woman seemed to be basking in the breeze, amplifying the splendor of everything around her. Logan reached for a cigar, and finally realized what Kurt had been talking about all those times when he went on about how beauty hid in every corner of the world.