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The room was dark when he opened his eyes, but he knew he wasn’t alone.

“Logan--”

“Where is she?” It was immediate and instinctive, the growl in his voice. Harsh and loud in the stillness of the room it spoke volumes about his state of mind.

“Logan, listen to me. There are things beyond your understanding at work here. If you will let me explain--”

-SNIKT- Three razor sharp adamantium claws came to rest against the tender underside of Xavier’s chin. “I won’t ask again.” In one smooth motion Logan had swung his legs over the side of the bed and managed to surprise Xavier with the swiftness of his attack.

“I do not know Ororo’s whereabouts,” Charles said finally, swallowing carefully. He knew the Wolverine walked a precarious tightrope between man and beast on his best days, but now, given the recent circumstances, Charles knew that the animal was far closer to breaking free than ever before.

Logan sniffed the air, his lip curling back to reveal his long incisors. “I smell bull shit.”

“No,” Charles said quickly. “I am telling you the truth. I do not know where Storm is.” And he needed a calm rational Logan if they ever were to know.

Logan pressed his hand forward a bit, the urge to punch through the tendons and veins of Xavier’s throat nearly overwhelming him. “You let them take her.”

Charles, forced to tilt his head back in order to prevent the metal from breaking skin, replied, “Wolverine…Logan, you don’t understand.”

“I should kill you,” Logan snarled, his eyes glittering with feral intensity.

“You won’t. You‘re not that man anymore.”

Logan bent his head, leaning forward so that he was nose to nose with the man whose dream he had so willingly followed and to hell with the consequences. “Wanna bet?”

Charles had never seen a look so savage in a man’s eyes before. Wolverine was teetering on the precipice between man and animal, and the man was losing. “I had no choice, Logan. Please, remove your claws so we can talk like civilized men.”

“I ain’t feelin’ civilized.” But he retracted any way, something in Charles’ eyes making him hesitate. A hard -SNACKT- marked the return of his claws to their forearm housing.

“Thank you.” Charles rubbed his hand over his neck.

Logan glowered. “Here’s what yer gonna do, Chuck. Yer gonna wheel yerself into Cerebro and do whatever fancy minds shit you need to do and find ‘Ro.”

Charles sighed heavily. “And what then, Logan?”

“Then I go get her,” he replied as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“There are far too many unknown variables at this time. I can not jeopardize any of the other X-Men. If we attempt to retrieve Storm from government hands we could place all of the X-Men at risk.”

“Yer just gonna fuckin’ write her off? Why? Because she’s sick? Is that how it works, eh, Charlie. You only care so long as there’s something’ in it for you?”

“It is not like that, Wolverine.”

“Sure as fuck is like that, Professor.” He spat the title like it was vile on his tongue. “This is ‘Ro we’re talkin’ about. You remember right? The woman willin’ to put the X-Men before herself.”

Xavier took a calming breath, his somber gaze flicking briefly to his left, giving Logan pause. “I have other students to think about, Wolverine.”

“Yeah, well I don’t.” Logan straightened, his jaw set.

“There is more at stake than your personal involvement!”

Logan leaned back, taking in for the first time the haggard lines under Xavier’s eyes and the shallow brackets around his mouth. Xavier looked like hell. “What is it you ain’t telling’ me, Chuck?”

Xavier ran his hand over his face. “There is nothing that I am keeping from you. I am asking you to let this go for the betterment of the team.”

Logan felt a growl building in his chest, but before he could unleash a bevy of vulgarities upon the man in the wheelchair he felt the front portion of his head begin to tingle.

*In my office, hidden in the false bottom of the left bottom drawer there’s a file. Take it. It‘s all the help I can offer at this time.*

“Do you understand me, Logan?”

Logan nodded tersely. “I hear ya, Chuck.”

*There are soldiers in the upper hallways.*

Logan didn’t so much as blink to give away what he was being told.

*They are the last remaining. Fury and the bulk of his forces have already departed. I assume the men left behind are to ensure that we do not attempt to follow. If you are to leave and find Ororo it must appear that you do so against my request.*

Logan shifted his weight, a subtle movement, a ripple of muscle beneath cotton. His steel eyes met Xavier’s steadily. He understood. Once he left the mansion he would be on his own. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to, but since Ororo, his emotions had shifted, and for the first time in a long, long time, he felt as if he was leaving home.

Xavier lifted his chin proudly, as though he sensed his thoughts. *Godspeed, Logan.*



It had been a mere forty-eight hours since he’d gone rogue but Logan felt like he’d been on the road forever. To make him even more miserable he didn’t seem to be any closer to finding Ororo than he had been the moment he’d woken in his room.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he thought as he pulled the folded file he’d taken from Xavier’s desk from his brown leather bike pack. He was in full predator mode. He would track and hunt and find the people responsible for taking Ororo away from him; and if any of them tried to keep him from her, he’d make damn sure they knew what their intestines looked like, up close and personal.

He reached into his coat pocket removing the previously snubbed remains of a cigar. He clenched it between his teeth, striking a match against the seat of his bike. He inhaled slowly, working the kink in his back. They never lasted long, his healing factor made certain of that, but it was still an ache that needed to be addressed when driving long distance on his bike. Once the ache began to subside he opened the “stolen” folder and studied the contents as he had done time and again over the past two days. He memorized the names listed throughout the scant pages and took his time with the photographs.

He carefully lifted a newspaper clipping from the file, reading it over for the hundredth time, and still not finding any connection that made sense.


The small town of Bellridge, Montana was surprised to find themselves the lucky destination for wealthy heiress Lilandra Neramani. The satellite communications heiress worth billions proudly opened what she hopes is the first of many Church of the Shi’ar. A small religious group founded eons ago, according to Neramani, a group that worships what they call the Higher Order of the Phoenix God. When asked about her unusual religion, Ms. Neramani had this to say: ‘The Shi’ar are unusual in comparison and regards to conventional religion, but really, we are no more outrageous than Scientologists. Belief is a matter of faith and knowledge. We know that the Phoenix God exists and we have faith that we will one day be witness to its glorious rebirth.’

Above the caption was a picture of an attractive woman with dark hair and angular features. She was standing at the base of a tall statue in front of a short staircase that led into a quaint looking building. On the steps stood a half a dozen fellow Shi’ar members.

It was a small group by all accounts; one that should have barely registered on the radar, but had somehow raised concern with Xavier. Of course, reading Charles’ notes, Logan knew that Xavier’s main concern was for Jean, as she had once been a highly focused target for the Hellfire Club, a group of rich, social elite mutants that believed Jean to be the reincarnation of the Phoenix God.

Whether or not it was the same said Phoenix God that the Shi’ar worshipped was not determined, but Xavier had not liked the coincidence and had begun collecting data on the small church. In his notes he wrote of a peculiarity in the fact that he could not locate or contact Lilandra telepathically, not even with Cerebro.

Having read through the contents completely Logan returned the clipping to the folder, and then the folder to his pack. He tossed the remains of his cigar onto the damp ground, smothering the lingering ember with his boot. He cricked his neck and remounted the Harley.

What these nut jobs wanted with ‘Ro, he had no idea, and why Fury was helping them was even more confusing, but come hell or Phoenix rising, he damn sure intended to find out. One way or another.




Montana (Underground)

“She needs help!” General Nick Fury slammed his hand against the glass partition separating him and the others in the observation area from the woman screaming in the next room. His stomach churned as he watched Ororo Munroe drop to her knees, clutching her stomach as she vomited steaming rivulets of blood onto the cement floor.

The slender woman beside him watched also, her own eyes shone with sympathy, but overshadowing that emotion was…expectation. “She will receive the finest medical attention, General, I assure you. Just as soon as we get what we need.”

“She needs medical attention now.” He was blatantly ignored.

Lilandra turned to one of the men beside her. “Any new markings, D‘Kal?”

“None yet, Majestrix.” He maneuvered the joystick of the camera controls around the room below.

“Room temperature is dropping. Rapidly.” Another man informed them. “20 degrees Celsius, 15, 5, -10, -20...still dropping.”

“Jesus.” Fury looked on in horror as feathers of ice spread along the floor, crawling up the wall, freezing the blood on the floor.

“Not our God,” Lilandra murmured.

Below Ororo rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. The pain was too much. She couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t breath. The burning was unending now, red hot talons of pain raking across her body, driving her mad. Maybe, maybe if she made it cold, then the burning would stop…Please, let it stop….

“Aaaaaaaauuuuugggghhhhhh!!” Storm arched her back, forming a perfect bow as her body was completely overrun with pain.

“Vitals are all over the place!”

“Room temp is now -60 degrees Celsius.”

Fury grabbed Lilandra’s arm. “Help her.”

Black eyes, seemingly infinite and containing all the mysteries of the universe turned up at him. “You overstep yourself, General.” She gave his hand on her arm a pointed look.

“This is madness.” He swore, releasing her.

“Madness?” Lilandra repeated. “No, I can assure it is not. This is destiny.”
“Destiny? For what? A mythological firebird?” Fury snorted.

“Far from Myth, General. The Phoenix God is very real.”

The windows began to frost thickly, obscuring their view of the room and occupant below. “Switch to thermals,” Lilandra ordered.

Four screens blinked to life, all illuminating the writhing figure in the other room from different angles. Each camera was set up in a way that it could capture images of any new glyph formations that may appear on Ororo’s flesh.

Thunder boomed, shaking the room despite the fact that it was located several hundred feet underground.

“Negative eighty-five degrees Celsius.”

“Vitals still erratic. Body temperature is unreadable.”

“Open the doors,” Fury ordered.

Lilandra gave him a placating look. “I understand your concern; truly I do. However, you must understand that for all pain she suffers this woman is leading us to our destiny and the rebirth of the Phoenix God.”

“You’re outta your damn mind, lady.” Nick shook his head.

Lilandra’s lips thinned. “You have overstayed your welcome, General. You have done your part, and now the rest lies within our hands. Your assistance in the Phoenix’s rebirth will not be forgotten.”

Nick’s jaw tightened. “No. I am sure it won’t be.” Not by me, and not by Wolverine.

“Majestrix, she is speaking.”

Lilandra turned away from Fury, her attention immediately focused on the room below again.

“Nveut, Mirriawae. N’yuni moto! Caedo finit!”

Lilandra grinned. “Are you getting all of this?”

“Yes, Majestrix,” D’Kal answered, his won mouth lifted in a smile.

“Room temperature rising.” The other tech, a new recruit named Daniel, soon to be renamed in Shi’ar tradition, stated. His announcement was unnecessary as the room’s rising temperature became evident with the steaming glass and dripping water from melting frost.

As the window cleared and the lower room was once more visible to the naked eye, Fury leaned forward and suddenly wished he hadn’t. Seated in a pool of her own vomited blood Ororo Munroe’s calm blue eyes were staring directly at him, but it wasn’t the warm summer day blue of her eyes or their directness that bothered him. It was the fistfuls of white in Ororo’s hands. Clutched to her chest like prized possessions she held the bloody strands of her once glorious mane.

“It will probably be wise to shave her head,” Lilandra told D’kal as casually as if she was commenting on the weather.

Below them, Ororo was shaking. She could still feel the stinging talons of pain and hear the screeching in her head, but it was quieter than before, giving her a blessedly brief moment of lucidity. “Sieviette mia Soku hiedya biraie mia vazitte …Please.” Ororo beseeched. “Please…”

Nick backed away from the glass. “What did she say just now?” He asked, clearing his throat.

Lilandra didn’t immediately respond to his inquiry.

“I know you can understand her. What did she say?” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. It was the voice he used with his men.

Lilandra for the first time since he had met her looked troubled. “She said ‘Don’t let my death destroy my life mate’.”

“Shit.” Nick looked back through the glass. “This needs to end, Ms. Neramani, and end now. You made assurances that Storm would not be permanently harmed in any way, and forgive me for being so blunt, but death is pretty fucking permanent.”

“I am afraid we can not stop now, General. We are so very close.”

“You will stop.” He ordered.

“By whose authority? Yours?” She scoffed a bit. “We have gone higher than you, General. Much higher.”

“We’ll see.” Nick pulled out his phone.

“By all means, General, make your calls. You shall see.” Lilandra went back to the monitors completely unconcerned.

Twenty minutes later, as it turned out, she had no reason to be. Nick rubbed his temples, completely infuriated by the lack of progress he had made, and even more pissed off by how deep Lilandra Neramani’s pockets ran. Having funded several senators’ complete campaigns as well as contributing heavily to the current President, the Shi’ar Majestrix had successfully imbedded herself so that no amount of saber shaking from him would do any good.

He ran the broad width of his thumb over the slightly raised number pads on his phone. There was one more phone call to make.





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