Inbetween Days
a gen-x alternities serial
'Vigilantibus Et Non Dormientibus Jura Subveniunt'
a-t d.m. lasher
chapter III: "A Time To Reflect"
interlude I
An Island Somewhere in the North Atlantic
991201
D -30 days...
05:49 hours (local)...
"I have lived too long.
I have seen too much.
And the horror of it all? I do not think I will
be blessed with Death's chilled embrace.
Too long, too long...
I have seen the great nations of the world rise and fall.
I have watched the lands grow parched with thirst...and
drink with new life.
And what of it all?
Nothing. Nothing at all. What good is a god's life
if His heart beats no more, His soul lies shattered
and broken?
Ashes.
When all that is left is the bite of steel, the sounds of
battle, the scent of blood, there is no life left. All that
I am is decay personified. I have outlived the gods...
...and so a god I am.
And yet...and yet, I still yearn as does any man. Yearn
for my life, the life I had--before.
Too late.
Like sand in the palm, it is gone, nearly forgotten now.
But like the sand I will roll across time, changing the
land in my wake.
Tomorrow, but not today.
Today, I fight anew.
The sand will run red this day."
Lord Sheol
The Epistle of Lamentation 22:32
The Codex of Sheol
I have lived for nearly a century, having inherited my family's self-rejuvenating genome. I take no pride in that fact. It merely is. Some of my less endowed brothers in Christ have teased me and other Bassarionites, making comparisons between us and Methuselah. I suppose I could've been counted in lesser company, eh?
And still, a century is a long time. Some would say too long.
As I peered at the ancient pictoglyphs, I could only find myself agreeing with those same critics. You are getting too old for this, Abner, they would say. And perhaps they were right. Certainly, I am 'too old' for the kind of revelation found here. But, I daresay the strapping youths that the seminaries churn out today would be no better equipped--mentally or spiritually--to deal with this burden, either. No, this is what the Order of St. Bassarion is for. This is our burden, alone. Save the hermeneutics and epistlery for those of a more cloistered mien.
The pen stopped in my fingers and I sat up. There. That it was; the final proof needed...as expected. I closed my notebook--more a massive tome than anything remotely resembling something portable--and sighed audibly, stirring the dust around me. He was here, most definitely. At least, he was here four millennia ago, before the fall of the Atlantean continent. Just as I thought he was. My instincts had never failed me before and, thank Heavens, they were not failing me now.
Not for the first time--nor, undoubtedly, the last--I wondered how this...this being had survived as long as it had. I found it almost impossible not to find a degree of awe in my study of it. Most Bassarionites felt no less filled with the same amount of intrigue and intimidation. His very name alone was enough to make the room still in most abbeys amongst my order.
Sheol. The Grave.
Certainly that wasn't his original name. The earliest records of his activities date to a period when Hebrew and Aramaic were but future linguistic flavours, and yet this was the nomenclature that is present in all the writings done on him, irregardless of their dates of composition. That anachronism, in fact, is one of the telling traits for authentic Sheol tradition.
My fingers found my glasses, fumbling to remove them from the throbbing spheres that my eyes had become. Gently I rubbed, trying to massage away the tensions and, deeper still, that doubts which once again bubbled unbeckoned to my surface thoughts. In this cold, damp air I faced one of my greatest fears and attempted to stare it down with the cold, reflective gaze of reason. But creeping un-faith would not dissipate in the steady stare of intellect. The tremors which rolled through my soul would not be solved by mere mental gymnastics, alone. A century of exposure to this...this damning conundrum had become corrosive. My soul was restless. I doubted that even solving this puzzle would settle me.
Almost unconsciously, I stroked the carvings that decorated the cavern wall. Even after all these centuries, the etchings exuded power, precision. In a strange way, I admired the work even as it shook the very centre of my being. I lifted my old eyelids, gummy with age, and cast my vision upon the inscriptions once more. Clearly recovered from some kind of expedition elsewhere, this frieze might not have even been understood by the plunderers who seized it from the early inhabitants of Palestine. My eyes focused on the words and one more time I made the cerebral calculations needed to decipher the poorly understood language, really a precursor to Early Canaanite.
"He shall be born an abomination and rise to hold the nations in His hands. A jackal in the form of a man. And none shall escape His mark."
An 'abomination'. The word rolled off my tongue like acid. An unholy word, one which hinted at deviancy, infernalism and a host of other unsavory images that I refused to allow my mind to imagine. I'd seen similar terminology used before in reference to Sheol...but the meaning of it all escaped me. A deformation, perhaps? Something the ancient Canaanites could not understand but knew in their hearts was not 'normal'? >From a people who worshipped Baal, a debauched god who devoured sacrificed children in the flames of worship, that would seem almost incredulous. What could possibly be worse in their minds? I didn't know. I didn't have the depth of cultural knowledge--and I suspected no one did--to make any suppositions. The only suspicion I had to go on was ancillary...and frightening.
It was a suspicion I kept almost entirely to myself. Only Augustine Cardinal de Silva, the Secretary of State for the Holy See and my closest confidant outside of the Order, knew even an inkling of this hidden fear.
Mutant.
Like a finger of accusation pointing straight back at me, the thought still elicited pangs of guilt. Even now, a decade or so after I'd first considered it following a review of the Order's written account of several encounters with Sheol's emissaries over the centuries, I could not discern why I felt this way. It was almost as if I were embarrassed--or, more likely, horrified--that the same process which guarded and enriched my line and my Order could spawn something as monstrous as Sheol.
And yet the evidence was scant and debatable. Cardinal de Silva took on my opinion as a matter of faith, not of reason. We two shared the same sense of secret suspicion that something less than infernal and more than human was at large here, stalking the corridors of the aeons.
But how to prove it? And, more to the point, what to do afterwards? Of that I can only--
I stopped in mid-thought. But for a twist of my head I might not have seen it. The lighting from my oil lamp was poor. My eyes were rheumy and even in the best of conditions--such as with my spectacles on--I might have missed it.
A copanic jar, not unlike the ones I'd seen produced throughout the Middle East of centuries past. It rested as if tossed aside, abandoned nonchalantly, at the very edge of the lamp's dim luminescence. I eased myself up gently from the boulder that was supporting my insubstantial weight, my bones creaking in not-so-silent protestations. Carefully I stepped over the stones that impeded my view, edging closer, lamp in hand. A ghoulish splash of weak light played havoc with my mind. Shadows danced to my sides. To me it was as if the room itself threatened to come alive...
I knelt before the jar, every sense a-tingle with barely suppressed excitement. It took only a cursory glance to ascertain that this was no funerary jar, created to hold desiccated organs from ancient mummies. No, this was, unless I missed my guess, a storage jar, long and thin. Most of them contained scrolls of some type, whether spells designed to guide a soul safely through to the afterlife or scriptures of some sort. Either way, its presence here, amongst ruins of an aeons-old outpost of the former Atlantean empire, spoke volumes to me. Atlanteans at no time had used such jars.
Shaking fingers (were they my own?) brushed aside layers of dust as carefully as they could. The script, likewise, added another clue. Coptic. Not Early Canaanite, not Atlantean. The language of the early Egyptian Christian community, still revered as the holy tongue amongst their dwindling numbers to this day. I recognised the letters but my mind failed me. My studies in Coptic were decades past and at best I could only roughly translate the inscription which lay below the seal of the jar. Something about...about sebayet ('instructions'? 'teachings'?)...and a revelation of a ren--a true name. A holy name.
Sheol.
Hebrew. Not Coptic. Not Early Canannite. Not Atlantean. Again, the confirming anachronism. A shiver ran down my spine and my hands visibly shook has I held the jar tightly in their grasp. Would whatever's inside enlighten me with Sheol's 'true name'? Am I even reading what little I could ascertain correctly? My mind reeled with the possibilities.
The jar was heavy in my hands--certainly it contained something--and a thin film of sweat that my palms exuded made it all that much more difficult for me to handle the masonry. With some difficulty, the blood rushing through my temples, I lifted myself to my feet, joints popping under the exertion. This had to be examined immediately. I had to make it back to Basle--no, to Rome--now. Fear gripped my heart.
A discovery millennia in the making, something deliberately hidden from man's eyes. An integral clue to our adversary's identity. Every moment counted. I did not have time to avail myself of my Order's more specified investigations. Certainly they would've been able to place more context in this but the Vatican is ultimately where all data must eventually be sent to. Right now, passing over certainty for swiftness was the most sure way that the right people would see what they needed to. The time for secrecy might be coming to an end.
As I stumbled out of the cave, the sounds of the cold north Atlantic surf pounding in the distance, the barest of worries clawed at the back of my subconscience, like a memory not quite suppressed or forgotten. A forgotten outpost of the Atlantean empire...one which coincidentally survived the seismic holocaust which leveled its homeland in spite of the fact that it belongs to the same archipelago... A trove of captured booty from pre-Israelite Canaan, apparently seized by the Atlanteans before the Sea Peoples became the Philistines and took over the coastal areas of Palestine, containing what looks like references to Sheol... A copanic jar with Coptic writing, this time apparently having been seized or deposited within historical times (that is, compared to the almost prehistory of the frieze and bas relief works captured earlier), almost pointing towards Sheol... All of this, coincidentally, found by the Biblical Archaeological Society and tipped off to the Vatican (thusly, me) this year. The number of events that would have to happen with uncanny synchronicity and kismet...
I stopped dead in my tracks, scant feet from the end of the cavern, the railings of doubt blistering through my mind.
What if I were meant to find this?
And if so, by whom?
Omniday Personal Journal
[toggle]
UserName?
[Dominic]
Password?
[Bogomil]
Acknowledged…
Accessing Omniday Personal Journal Protocols...
Running...
Journal Entry Dated: 991201
"There was something...odd...about Fed Boy.
I knew it practically from the moment I saw him.
It wasn't so much that he was cold and chilly--
hell, a lot of people I know are like that--no, it
was his physiological responses that bothered me.
He didn't seem in the slightest bit oily. He didn't
sweat. He didn't blush. His breath didn't smell.
He didn't wear cologne nor use a breath mint.
And even when I caught him off-guard with my
ramblings, his reactions just didn't seem...kosher.
What to make of that?
Am I just grasping at straws here, trying to distract
myself from the reality of my position? Or am I onto
something? But...what?"
Saving 991201 to the hard drive...
Encryption?
[MIT PGP v2.7.4]
Saved.
[Exit Application]
The Apartment of Matthew Murdock
Upper West Side
New York City
991201
06:21 hours...
"Then I'm duh-dreaming," I sighed, scratching the back of my scalp, underneath my braid. "I guh-guess I'm just grasping at straws here, jumping at muh-my own shadow."
Matt spread his hands. "Look, I don't know what to tell you Dom. I didn't notice anything and, believe me, if I did, I would've let you know."
I looked up at Matt. "What about Jennifer? Duh-did she tell you anything?" The blind attorney shook his head, a frown settling on his face. "Damn," I swore, though with very little vehemence. I really couldn't muster it these days. It was as if all of my life had been drained out of me...all of my hope.
Matt, with sure--unbelievably sure considering his condition--steps, walked over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Sit down, Dom. We need to talk a bit...and I think I need to level with you."
I let myself be led to the large sofa in the center of the living room. He walked with calm assurance, his tap-cane unused but slung on his wrist as if...as if he didn't need it at all. My mind, worrying about Fed Boy just moments ago, switched tacks and suddenly I wondered just what Matt was up to...and why his little walking stunt bothered me.
The cushions felt good against my back and I was reminded once more of just how little sleep I've been getting lately. "So...whuh-what now?"
He smiled. "You're nervous, hmm? I don't blame you, I suppose. Right now, I'd be jumpy too if I were in your circumstances. But, I assure you, I'm completely trustworthy. It's just that...well, I've kept a few things from you. Things I think you should now know. It goes right to the heart of why I agreed to take your case pro bono." Murdock's left cheek twitched nervously, a tic which seemed to make him look like he was scowling, even through the red-grey beard. "You see, up until around six years ago, I was very much in the same shoes you were." He cocked his head. "Do you remember Daredevil?"
A charge of adrenalin coursed through my veins. Immediately my mind searched for patterns, looking at his face, his build, his tone...and came up lacking. "Yeah," I answered. "I always wuh-wondered what happened to him and s-s-suh-some of the other heroes I guh-grew up reading about. Spiderman, the Fuh-Fantastic Four, the Aven-guh-gers...and the luh-like." I slit my lids. "And I suh-suppose you're going to tell me what happened, huh?"
My attorney let out a long sigh, sounding every ounce his fortyish years...and maybe a decade or so more. "I was Daredevil, Dominic. For twentysomeodd years he was the flip side of me. Sometimes...sometimes he was all I was. All I thought I could be." I felt my eyes widen. Jesus Christ... "I don't know how many times I thought about hanging up the cowl, of giving up the ghost for good. Before being forced to do it, I was beginning to get the impression that I would never be able to separate myself from Daredevil; that I would go on forever...until I could do so no longer."
I couldn't speak. I wanted to, but my tongue was held in stasis, stuck to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. When he continued, his voice sounded like the rustle of dry leaves, full of old pains and deeply rooted regrets.
[youknewitcouldn'tgoonlikethisMattFssshwhoopi'mjustsorrythatithadtoendthiswayFsssss]
The couch...
"I...I married, six and a half years ago," he said as the psionic emanations from where I sat played with my mind like a cellist.
[itwas...honorable...foryoutotryMatt,butyoucannotteachanolddognewtricksFsssszzzhhiamwhoiam...andwhoiamis
nothingliketheprincessyoudeserveFzzzshhhoop]
"She was an old sweetheart of mine." For a moment, Matt smiled, locked in the grip of reminiscence. "Over the years, I'd thought I'd lost--then found--her half a dozen times. Once, she'd even died...though that's an even longer story and I don't want to bore you with the details. Suffice to say, she came back...back to life. Of a sort."
"She was an assassin by trade, trained by my own mentor and eventually by a society of ninjas who used her for their own malicious plans." His jaw tightened perceptably. "I'd thought I'd broken her conditioning, thought I'd gotten through to her. And maybe I did...for a while. Or maybe there was more than one layer and I only managed to 'soften the edges' so to speak. Whatever the case may be, I and she felt safe enough to marry. We were fools."
[knifeflash]
[bladelength:19.05centimeter]
[bladestyle:sai]
"I caught her setting up a prepared hit one nite, shortly after we were married. The proof was irrefutable; her equipment was set out, well-oiled and ready. Almost as if she didn't care if she were caught... And, now that I think about it," he lowered his head, "maybe she didn't. Maybe the struggle was too much for her, caught between two worlds, only one of which she'd had more than a taste of. Perhaps she simply couldn't handle the stress. I don't know."
"She...she almost killed me," he said, dryly. "Perforated my left ventricle with a seven inch blade. I don't know how I managed to survive as long as I did. The blood was everywhere..." For a moment, I thought he was going to stop his revelation right there and then. I could see the pain etched into his face, old emotional scars that have never fully healed. "I didn't have a choice. I had to defend myself. One of us walked away. The other did not."
He lowered his head.
I was stunned. I didn't even know how to respond or even if I should respond. Fortunately, he took that choice away from me...
"I couldn't go on as Daredevil. Physically, I'd never be the same. I was damned lucky to've survived as long as I did. The trouble I had even getting medical attention without compromising my identity would've been enough of a hint to quit but added to that the burden of realizing I was a walking target now that I'd...I'd killed the Hand's primary assassin... No, it was too much. One day, shortly after I came home from the hospital, I hung up the cowl. That's all there is to it. I haven't picked it up since and I never will." He affixed his gaze on me. "And I wasn't the only one who did that during this timeframe."
A sigh escaped his lips. "Call it synchronicity, call it what you will but others my age began to think along the same lines. As the villains became ever-more violent, as their crimes became greater and more atrocious with every outing, people began to wonder just whether or not they were doing anything to ameliorate it at all. And when the riots came..." he shook his head. "They ripped the cities apart, New York probably the worst. A backlash against costumed vigilantes in general and mutants in particular. The mob just lumped them all in together." A small shrug. "After that, Reed and Sue officially retired from the Fantastic Four, probably for good this time. They were the first post-riot casualties. Spiderman disappeared soon thereafter. The Avengers, once more, lost their government sanction and half the team quit in protest. Most were never seen on the hero scene again. The rump Avengers still exist, but they're more of a sideshow than a true descedent of the team."
"Heroes are still around, of course, but the scale is smaller, more regional. The ideals of the Sixties--ideals which formed us and gave us the zeal with which used to fight our war against criminality--were decidedly out of fashion with the new crowd." He shook his head, looking older by the moment. "Sometimes I wonder if today's brand are little more than a hair's breadth away from the same scum we took down just a little over a half-decade ago."
I frowned. "Th-that's a harsh indictment of puh-people you don't even ruh-really know," I said, levelly, wanting to shout 'Hey, asshole, I'm one of those people you know nothing about!'
"Is it?" he replied. "I've never seen so much...violence, almost barbarity, during my whole career as I do now. And I don't see a third of it, I'm sure."
"Probably nuh-not," I shrugged. In fact, he probably didn't see a tenth of it. "Buh-but you can't compare the two eras. After all," I glared, some of my anger seeping into my voice, "we're cuh-cleaning up the muh-mess you guys left us. How many enemies duh-did the first generation inadvertantly cuh-cuh-create over the years, huh? We have to duh-deal with them in addition to the nuh-nuh-new ones that seem to pop up every d-d-duh-day."
Murdock chuckled. "Not bitter are we?"
"No more s-so than normal." I knew better, though. This was familiar territory for me, whisps and hints of arguments past seeping into the here and now. Matt could've been Hank, Scott...or Charles.
He folded his hands together. "Look Dom, my whole intent wasn't to challenge your credentials or cast a malign light on what you've accomplished. I'm just trying to give you a reason why the first generation pulled the plug. You're right: it is more difficult now. The challenges you face today are more vicious...and we did just drop them in your lap and checked out. I don't know what to tell you. We failed. I failed. I could not go on. Not only was I not capable, physically, to push it but I realised pretty quick what my life was going to end up like in the end." He shook his head. "Once, not long ago, all I cared about was protecting my constituents, the people from my neighborhood." His visionless eyes, somehow, found mine. "I stopped doing that when I realised that I could no longer make it. I would've caused more damage in the end than if I simply...disappeared. And you know what? To this day I don't regret it."
I turned away from him, bile rising to the top of my throat. He smelled of carefully-rationalised cowardice, his protestations of physical inability notwithstanding. After all, who could he have turned to to help him heal? How many allies could he have relied on? No, he gave up. He knew it, I knew it. And I didn't want to show him that I realised that. "Whu-why did you t-tell me this? Any of it?"
Nervously, he rubbed his knuckles together. "Because I want you to know that I've been there, in the trenches. I know what the fight is like. And maybe you and I cannot agree on my motives for giving up the cowl...but maybe we can both meet on one point: what the government is trying to do now is unprecedented and wrong." He cracked his cane against the hardwood floor. "I'm going to whip them in court and send them packing, Dom. If I can't help you fight today's scum, if I can't clean up the mess that I left you and your generation, I sure as hell can make sure you can. Pride and principle, Dom. That's what it's about, so tightly bundled even I cannot separate the strains. We will win this one," he said, setting his jaw.
"We must win. Not just for you, but for all of those who picked up from me...and for those left of my generation."
For a moment I left my head where it was, turned away from him. He was a brilliant orator, of that much was plainly obvious. But is that enough...? Reluctantly, I turned back to him, met his smoked glasses. "I hope t-to God you're right, counsellor. Because if we d-don't win, the ones who'll really luh-lose will be those who can afford it luh-least."
Silently he nodded.
On that much, we agreed.
Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning
1407 Greymalkin Lane
Salem Centre, New York
07:44 hours...
I slide quietly down the hall, using the shadows to blot out my appearance. Even the smallest of shaded area was enough for me to squeeze into. No one would see nor hear my passage...until it was far, far too late.
The open doors to the MedLab loomed. From within I could hear the tantalising sounds of excited voices, smell the scent of their heated blood, awash in adrenalin. So precocious, these humans. Gingerly, now directly across from the doorframe and safely shadowmelded, I tweaked my ears to capture one, particular voice...there.
Her bodylanguage betrayed anxiety held closely to her bosum. Though her heart thundered like an avalanche within her chest, her outward signs of disquiet were minimal. Were it not for my preternatural senses, they would've passed me by. But as it stands, to me, they were painfully obvious. The slight flush in her cheeks, the dilation in her eyes, the convulsive flexing of her nostrils... No matter how controlled she appeared to be, she was an open book to one such as myself.
Come, look over this way...
For a moment, her brows knit together, confusion flowing over her face like mercury at my psionic whisper. The left side of her lower lip slipped underneath her teeth and she bit down on it, confusion shifting to worry. She looked around the MedLab, almost oblivious to the deconstruction and reverse engineering crews that busily took it apart. None of their portable scanalysers betrayed a single hint of parability being used. Nor would they. For reasons I've been unable to ascertain in the years I've been here, my gifts are singularly unrecognisable to the tools of science. I might as well not exist to them.
So much the better.
I tasted deep of her personality matrices, sampling her flavour, her being. Sated for the moment and sure of my next steps, I steeled myself, focusing my mind. Then, with the sudden lash of a poised scorpion, I lashed out.
SEIZE!
Psionic tendrils slapped across her meager defenses, brushing them aside or crushing them altogether. She was as helpless as a babe before my attack. Predetermined points of impact surrendered to my control as one by one I numbed her personality matrices and Superego nodes. In a matter of moments I'd nullified her volition and control over her own body. She was as a puppet before me, her strings offered unto me for my own use.
Quickly I wiped away any outward sign of disquiet. I had her turn back towards the business at hand--apparently she was merely supervising the activity--while I concentrated on delving deeper into her mind. With only minimal care not to damage anything--I was in no mood to be gentle--I pushed through her matrices, hilighting memories that I would need and copying them as I would a file.
The entire operation took no more than a single minute before I was ready to relinquish control.
Reluctantly, but knowing that I would be in enough trouble with Paige as it is for this stunt, I slipped out of her mind. So subtle was the transition that she was unaware of anything untoward happening. Perhaps, at the most, a mild headache. I smiled at that, the little sadist in me satisfied that she wasn't leaving this experience scot-free.
So much the better.
*
The Boathouse at Breakstone Lake
Fifteen minutes later...
As I thought. She wasn't pleased.
"Are you outta yo' mind, girl?!" she all-but-yelled, only titularly attempting to keep her voice down. The effect was comical. "What in God's name do you think yo' up to?!"
Were I in need of breathing, I would've sighed. But I don't so I didn't...though I was sorely tempted to, if only to prove my annoyance. "Attempting to ascertain a bit more than we already know. After all, we're almost completely in the dark here, save for what Trajan can tell us," I nodded in the South Carolinian's direction, but his attention was elsewhere. "And, if you'll excuse the rude implication, I would feel better if we did our own bloody intelligence gathering rather than rely on the word of others."
Guthrie honestly looked like she was counting to control her temper. I suppressed--only just--the urge to giggle. It was such an amusing expression. "What d'yo' think Ah've got Creighton doin', huh?"
I cocked a brow. "Aside from sabotaging our own systems--I ascertained as much by our uninvited guests somewhat perturbed and hostile surface thoughts--I'd have to say...I don't know. Perhaps nothing."
Moshe beat me to the punch. He snickered first. "One thing I have to say for her," he observed, "there's never a dull moment with Myrrh. Never."
"Damned wild cannon, that's what she is," Paige mumbled, more to herself than to anyone else...simply because they knew it to be truthful and she was merely reminding herself of my uses from time to time. The inner conflict--whether to accept my usefulness in spite of my dangerous methods--once more played itself over her face in a flush of emotions. Soon, though, it passed. Inevitably, she knew she could not afford to ignore my imput...however ethically challenged it might be. "Don' just sit there lookin' all smug. Out with it, girl."
"Robin Albright," I said, professionally. The time for mirth was over. "Assistant US Attorney for the United States District Court for the Eastern District of New York. She's thirty-six and a native of Manhattan. Single, little in the way of social life and very, very dedicated to her job, a job which she owes in no small part to her tenacity and, ah, what she calls her 'fucktoitness'."
Moshe rolled his eyes. "Good lord, the feds have bankrolled the NOW..." Creighton, from the corner and bent over a small laptop, giggled. "Nice, but not useful, especially since she has no weaknesses we can use, socially-wise. Anything else?"
I allowed myself a small grin. "She's very much aware that the federal government knows an awful lot about the inner workings of the Institute--where equipment is, how its used and the like--and she's wondering just how a carefully-worded search warrant was issued without a judge asking about the kind of surveillance necessary to've acquired this kind of knowledge."
"She's got a conscience," Trajan put in, turning from the window. "Amazin', ain't it?"
Paige frowned. "Also not very helpful. It doesn't seemed to've been so developed as to've stopped her from leadin' this li'l lynch-mob."
"She's followin' her orders," Trajan countered. "Ethically there might be some questions, but not enough t' get her gander up. Until then, she'll do what she's told. Now," he looked at me, "who's her immediate boss?"
"Raymond Mitchell," I said, "on special assignment from the Justice Department, detached to this district and working with the NYC Assistant DA Leonard Hertzog."
Rhys-Salisbury cocked a brow. "Hertzog?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
He stroked his bronzed beard. "Yeah, a bit. Mostly by reputation and a few whispers I heard back at the Non."
Guthrie spun around to look at him. "Like what? Yo' keepin' somethin' back?"
The agent's eyes glazed over in concentration. "No, not really. Unless yo' wanna count rumours as fact an all."
Morriah propped her feet on the table...right in front of Trajan. "Let's hear it," she said, crossing her arms.
"Testy are we?" Trajan asked with a smile.
"It's ouah ass heah, not yo's," Paige put in.
"Bullshit," he grunted. "Mah ass is already fried. None of mah credit cards work so Ah'd wager they did somethin' t' me, though Ah've no idea entirely what. Yo' fryin', though, it's just beginnin', chil', if'n mah experience is any indication. As fo' th' rumour...well, Jericho's a large agency. T' do what it's chartered t' do, it has t' be. Ah'm only sayin' this t' place a disclaimer on what Ah'm gonna tell yo'." He held up his hands, palms up. When no one responded, he resumed. "Turns out, Hertzog has something of a history with th' agency. One rumour has him placed as workin' in th' General Counsel's section an' anothah has him simply as one o' those often called upon sources we need from time t' time. In either case, th' strong implication is that he's worked fo' us befo', in some capacity or anothah. In fact, mah direct boss, Assistant Director Richmond, mentioned him once, a few years back." He smiled and tapped his forehead. "One o' th' benefits o' psionic-assisted mnemonic memory."
"This stinks," Moshe said. "I smell a very large rat."
"Like Ah said," Trajan sighed. "Jericho's had y'all under surveillance f'r quite a-while's. It don't surprise me none that they had some kinda contingency plan t' cut y'all off, shut y' down. Now, even if'n Ah hadn't told y'all 'bout Hertzog, that would've been th' case. Rumours don't help, though," he admitted.
Paige's jaw set. "What, exactly, are we dealin' with heah? It looks like no kind of covert operation Ah've seen."
"Jericho don't work in th' open," Rhys-Salisbury said, placing his hands behind his substantial mane of hair. "Not a whole lotta people know of 'em and even less know exactly what they're chartered t' do. They use other agencies as covah fo' their activities. For example, when they sent me out t' infiltrate this or that mutant faction, ah always went under th' cover of th' FBI. Right down t' a line number on their budget. Fo' all intents and purposes, Jericho does not exist." He gestured in the general direction of the Institute. "It wouldn't surprise me if 'bout half those folks up there work f'r Jericho in one way, shape or form. They're probably all legit-lookin', though. Be damned hard t' determine othahwise."
Guthrie looked over at Opendorf. Creighton was already ahead of her, though. "Got it, chief," he said, smiling maliciously. "There isn't a network designed that I can't hack into."
"Don' get me in no mo' trouble then yo' have t'," she added, unnecessarily. After all, we'd already conducted enough felonies between the lot of us to put us away for life...
Trajan, though, snorted derisively. "Y'all nuts. Jericho just ain't yo' regular agency. All computer networks are proprietary, non-off-th'-shelf technology. They're also not directly connected t' th' Net, so Ah don't see how th' hell yo' gonna get--"
"Don't worry," Creighton looked up, inhuman, steely eyes glimmering. "I have my resources."
Morriah frowned. "Give me a good reason why we shouldn't just pool all of this together and anonymously tip it off to the media."
Trajan shrugged. "Ah don' have one...save fo' th' sneaky suspicion that none of it will reach th' public, one way or anothah."
"Explain," the more aggressive of the two Hatch sisters retorted.
Another shrug. "They've quashed mo' than one story befo'. Likely they'll do it again, if need be. As fo' how...well, that depends. Some editorial boards and staffs tip an ear t' Th' Non, f'r various reasons--connections t' what they think is th' FBI or some othah agency most of th' time--and sometimes...sometimes th' investigative reporter disappears. Or has his mind selectively wiped." A sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the room. Paige? "They're not above that."
"I don't care," Morriah said. "We can still get the story out, if only because unlike your unfortunate examples, we can guard the reporter--secretively, of course. In any case," she looked around, "we're in over our head. Anyone who still thinks we can take on an agency which has kept itself a secret since Eisenhower is a fool. They've resources we can't even guess at--Trajan admits as much--resources we're not capable of dealing with on our own. The best to play with them is not to play directly. Come at them from the side, hit them where it really hurts. Half of their power comes from their stealthliness. Strip that away and they've got to be more careful how they react." She looked directly at Paige, all-but-oblivious of her sister's obvious disquiet as the latter nervously twitched behind her. "I say we leak the story, provide all the details we can, and go from there."
Moshe scowled...but, at least to me, didn't appear too hostile towards the idea. "And to hell with whomever we drag down along with us to clear our names?" he said. "Ruthless, isn't it?"
Before her sister could even reply, Rhiannon stepped in. "No more or less ruthless than what they're doing to us, isn't it? I mean, I'm not entirely sure I like what sis is suggesting...but I agree with one thing she's saying, 100%: we can't do this on our own."
Illyana, heretofore the silent sentinel, back to us and peering out at the Institute. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. We're thinking only conventionally here, da? We should stop that right now. I can call in reinforcements whenever it's necessary." She glanced back at us, her haunted, blue eyes sparkling. "And then there's Creighton. Let's not forget he can...infect...items. If it's necessary. I think we're cutting ourselves very, very short here. We've a lot more options than Magnus normally allows us in the Danger Room. Options we don't use because it doesn't fit the paradigm Charles set for the Institute. Options we should start considering as of right now."
Morriah and Rhiannon nodded simultaneously.
I couldn't help but smirk. Such a deliciously devious mind, that one. I wonder how Paige is going to respond to this...?
"Ah'm not throwing out th' baby with th' bathwatah, hon," Guthrie said, almost sadly. "As much as Ah'd like t' simply rip into them on ouah own...we can't. We need backup, on th' off-chance we are gettin' in ovah ouah heads."
"Ladies and gents," Creighton interrupted, calling our attention towards him. "I've successfully found a route into The Non. It took some doing, but...firewalls are no match for me." I glanced over at Trajan, who betrayed nothing on his face. Undoubtedly, his psi-powers extended to more than simply mnemonic memory... Quite the exemplar of metabolic control, that one.
"And...?" Guthrie asked, allowing the impatience show in her voice. "Remembah, don' get yo' ass fried..."
Opendorf snickered. "Not a chance, chief. But I've got to warn you, an audit will show that they've been infiltrated. I don't know how many times they audit their personnel files but it's likely that eventually my deeds will be found out."
"But they won't be able t' trace yo', right?"
"Zilch," the tech-org smiled. "The best they'll be able to trace me to is a gentleman in San Francisco by the name of Eric E. Won. Otherwise, nothing."
Moshe thumbed his lips, then smiled. "Eric E. Won? 'Erehwon'. 'Nowhere.' Nice touch, Creighton."
Trajan, though, was not amused. "You kids think this is a game. If'n yo' think they'll stop there--"
"They'll have to," Creighton interrupted. "They don't have the technology to trace the false identity anywhere else. Trust me."
Rhys-Salisbury's face inextricably darkened. He leaned forward, towering over the Minnesotan even though he still sat firmly on his easy chair. "An' Ah suggest t' you, suh, that yo' don't know what th' hell yo' talkin' about. They've got forty years of hidden an' suppressed tech at their disposal. And that don' even scratch th' surface. They've tech from th' Kree they appropriated back in th' late Fifties when a team from McMurdo Station in Antarctica happened upon an abandoned outpost of that species. So you listen t' me, son," he poked a finger into Creighton's chest. "Yo' get what yo' think yo' need an' get th' hell outta there befo' yo' give us away with yo' cocky an' sloppy OPSEC procedures."
Behind his demand was an implicit threat, one that I'm certain we all heart. The 'Or else...' needn't even be spoken. Even Creighton, not normally noted for his expertise in social symbology or subtleties, took note, his visage shivering just a bit, the guise of humanity nearly giving way to the golden circuitry of his true form. "Okay," he replied, simply. A moment of silence later, and Opendorf removed his finger from the specially-modified socket on his laptop. "Done. I've got what I believe to be a list of operatives in the local area, their personnel files, psych profiles and cover stories. I've also managed to identify several weaknesses in Jericho's proprietary operating system that might allow me to mask my presence at a later date if I give it a bit more time to research."
Moshe covered his face with a hand, trying--rather unsuccessfully--to stiffle a grin.
"Yo' one cocky bastard, yo' know that?" Trajan said.
In a perfect replication of the cartoon character 'Popeye's' voice, Creighton replied: "I yam's what I yam's and that's all that I yam's. Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!"
Paige pushed herself up off the coach. "Enough of this bull!" she growled. "Now, what can yo' give us, Creighton?"
Opendorf turned his gaze to Guthrie. "Trajan was right. There are five operatives working at the Institute who're assets of Jericho. All of them use FBI cover-credentials."
"Is one of them Albright?"
Creighton shook his head. "Negative. She's, apparently, an innocent here. Another pawn."
"Then the whole investigation's compromised," Moshe said, his face grim.
"Ah've been tryin' t' tell y'all that f'r th' last few days, guys," Trajan sighed. "They've got this thing sewed up real nice."
"I'm tired of this inaction," Morriah said, standing up so suddenly that she startled her sister. "Let's get out of here--it's a dangerous place to be, anyway--and dump this all on the laps of the Times or, better yet, the Bugle."
I judged that now would be a good time for my input. "If we act now," I said, choosing my words carefully, "we will have the element of surprise. From my glance into Robin's mind, they've yet to fully ascertain what the problem is with the computers. They only know they cannot access certain items. It won't be long before they'll suspect--with good reason--sabotage. I suggest that we use this window of opportunity to extract whatever leverage we can out of this situation and stick it to them right here and now."
"Exactly," Morriah agreed, nodding.
Paige was obviously torn. Her emotions--never too far from the surface--wisked across her face. "Alright," she said, almost managing to sound defeated, as if she, herself, had sustained a blow to her ideals. Well, maybe she had. "We go t' th' press. With everythin'. No holdin' back. That means we blow th' covah on th' Institute sky-high. Hell, th' feds're gonna do that eventually anyway. No sense in lettin' them chose th' time an' place for their best convenience." She glanced around the room. "Let's make 'em squirm a bit."
Something tingled at the back of my head. A familiar residue... What the devil--?
"Actually," came a voice from directly behind me, near open window facing the lake, "I think I can lend a hand in sowing the seeds of confusion just a bit."
We all spun simultaneously at the sound of a very familiar--if impossible--voice.
She stood right there in the sil, head perched precociously on her palm, smiling beatifically, as if it were every day people considered far beyond the mortal coil came back to chat with those left behind. "Well everyone, I can see I've got your attention," she laughed. "Anyone going to invite us in?" Behind her, a tall, dishelved-looking woman stood, her chestnut brown hair tucked in a bun that was apparently added almost as an afterthought. All in all, she gave the appearance of being not entirely sure what the hell was going on.
I suppose that would make two of us.
"Savij..." I heard myself whisper. I'm sure others weren't so soft-spoken but, truth to tell, I wasn't listening. I merely stared at the not-dead teammate and her mysterious companion...a companion that held an astonishing resemblance to another acquantence of ours.
Stranger and stranger.
NAME: Morriah Lynn and Rhiannon Anne Hatch
AGE: 26
HAIR: Black
EYES: Ice Blue
BIRTHDATE/PLACE: 11 June, 1973/Salt Lake City, Utah, USA
HEIGHT: 5'7 1/4"
WEIGHT: 106 lbs
STATUS: Generation X (Active)
Summary: Morriah and Rhiannon are two members of the Hatch triplets. An old monied family in Salt Lake City, the Hatchs' third daughter, Siobhain, has been missing for nearly two years, her whereabouts completely unknown to the authorities in spite of a massive manhunt privately organised by Angus Hatch, their grandfather and clan doyen, himself.
To all appearances, they are identical (and according to all accounts, Siobhain, too, shared the same likeness). Which is why many on my staff are surprised to find out that they have differing parabilities. The truth, I've found, has more to deal with psychology than genetics.
Both of them share the same high degree of physical invulnerability (equivalent to Rogue (qv) in tensile strength terms), strength (hovering around the capability to free-lift nearly seventy-five tons) and flight speed (clocked at Mach 1.3). However, what differentiates them is they each apparently have a semi-telekinetic ability to either attract or repulse matter. Morriah attracts, Rhiannon repulses.
No matter how hard we've tried, neither can do the opposing operation. It simply cannot be done, in their minds. But, on a genetic level, their x-factor clusters are identical. Theoretically, they share the same parability. What to make of this? My only hunch is that it's a psychological limitation, perhaps semi-imposed upon themselves to differentiate one from the other.
In any case, the two were sent to the Institute by their father shortly after their sister went missing. Why they were sent here is unknown. Their powers had already manifested and, indeed, they were somewhat trained in their use by private (very private) tutors hired by the Hatch clan. All entreaties by myself, Magnus and Emma to their father (their mother died in labor) have gone unanswered. I am naturally suspicious but what can I do? I am here merely to teach and teach I have.
They've made splendid additions to the Generation X team, integrating well into the structure and quickly becoming well-liked and appreciated by the older students. Though they are very private and somewhat shy--one would say reticent--about their childhood, I'm encouraged by their performance here these last nineteen or so months. They seem to be reaching out to the others. I can only hope that continues.
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE (Emma Frost): 'Reticent' is not the word I would use to describe the Hatch sisters. Perhaps 'secretive' is better. No, that doesn't imply enough. 'Covert' is much better. They're hiding much behind those icy eyes of theirs. Some of it is undoubtedly no good...and some of it merely...odd.
For example, I think I know what happened to Siobhain. I think she ran away. I don't think she was kidnapped--though that was the assumption everyone was working on when she disappeared--and I think the girls suspect the same as I. In fact, they might have even inadvertently been the cause.
One thing I have discovered is that they have a most...peculiar...relationship. They are close. Very close. At first I made no note of this. It wasn't until they practically bombarded me with their thoughts in a particularly unguarded moment that I found out the truth.
They're lovers.
Being adults I'm not about to tell them what they can and cannot do. In fact, I refuse to pass judgement on their relationship. To my observation and my subtle probing, they've not been adversely effected by it. I'll leave it at that until (and if) it ever becomes malign or psychologically unhealthy.
They are, however, reaching out. Unlike when I first met them--scared, withdrawn, and chilly--they're warming up a bit. It's taken them a long time--and now I know why--but I think they're finally beginning to trust us. They certainly have a strong relationship with Paige Guthrie (Husk (qv)), with whom they obey implicitly, without hesitation. If one could divide Generation X into two factions--Husk and Baccarat's--they would certainly be on Paige's column. No doubt about it.
Which, incidentally, is good for Paige. After nearly a decade of not being listened to by various teammates, she's finally earning unquestioned belief in her abilities to lead. That couldn't be harmful.
Could it?
HEADMASTER'S NOTES (Magnus): I've been speaking with Samuel about the Hatch sisters. He thinks--and I second the thought, with some codicils--that they are almost ready to move up into the senior team. Perhaps in the next major realignment, after some of the elder X-Men retire.
I've seen the two of them in action and I am impressed by their stamina, tactical sense and force of will. Their determination to fight on when hopeless odds would dictate accepting defeat is admirable...especially when you're faced with the prospect of fight for what looks like a lost cause.
Nonetheless I am careful not to tread on the egos of others in Generation X, many of whom who've been their for years longer than Morriah and Rhiannon. Paige Guthrie is not an issue. She intends to remain in Generation X until Samuel, himself, retires from the X-Men (however a long wait that will be). But others, such as Creighton (CirKUT (qv), have been with Paige almost from the beginning (six years in his case). At this juncture, I cannot afford to alienate the others for their case, hence my stalling until multiple slots open up.
On a more personal note, I've taken it upon myself to do a little...searching. The disappearance of Siobhain Hatch is worrisome to me. I cannot put a finger on it but I fear it's somehow important, nonetheless. And so, with stealthliness I don't usually associate with myself, I and Katherine Pryde-Rasputin are tweaking the parameters of Salvation to see if we cannot locate Siobhain.
Thus far, to our initial astonishment, we've found not a trace of her.
Fearing a repeat of the lost member of Generation X, M (qv, deceased), I've carefully gone over the Hatch sisters' genome. There is not a trace of any possible amalgamation or sublimation. Not that I expected any but still...if she is not within her sisters and not capable of being tracked (initially) by our most powerful software...
...where in G-d's name is she?
NAME: Creighton Reginald Opendorf
AGE: 24
HAIR: Chestnut Brown
EYES: Hazel-Brown
BIRTHDATE/PLACE: 6 January, 1974/Minneapolis-St.Paul, Minnesota, USA
HEIGHT: 5'10 1/2"
WEIGHT: 166 lbs
STATUS: Generation X (Active)
Summary: I bear some degree of guilt over the case of Creighton Opendorf. An orphan at the age of fourteen, he was the son of William Opendorf, a close acquaintance of mine. I say 'was' because, to some degree, Creighton Opendorf does not exist anymore.
I agreed to take him under my wing as a ward just as he was turning eighteen. Until then he'd been passed from foster family to foster family, seemingly unable to find the security he felt he needed. More to the point, his various foster parents found him unable to fit into their family.
Creighton was a mutant, brilliantly gifted with the parability to communicate directly with computers. There was no network he could not access, no encryption he could not break. Nothing was safe from his gaze should he so want to look. That, I suppose, was much of the reason why he found himself in so much trouble. For while he was the penultimate hacker, he was also very sloppy with his countermeasures. He was frequently caught red-handed.
When I brought him here, I thought he would be the perfect person to help 'tune' our various house systems. The admixture of Shi'ar and advanced human technologies has always been something of a mess, leading to, at times, disastrous results. Certainly he would be able to make some sense of it. This became imminently necessary when Katherine Pryde married Piotr Rasputin and the two of them went into semi-retirement to raise a family.
Creighton, however, was too inquisitive, too mischievous. He came in contact with a sample of the techno-organic virus I'd thought was safely stored away...and was infected. But, instead of being assimilated and transformed into a member of the Technarchy, his mutation somehow reacted with a synergistic effect, thus producing the being he called 'CirKUT' (with the same tongue-in-cheek sense of humor I associated with Creighton).
Since his transformation, CirKUT has become an integral member of Generation X. I'd thought it best to place him there since clearly he needed to be able to test and control his new body. Initially I was a bit frightened...but he seems to've adjusted very well. In fact, sometimes it's hard to tell that he's not the boy who walked through these doors six years ago. If he so wills it--and he does under most circumstances--he appears completely normal...
...of course, I know better.
Sometimes I wonder to myself whether I've actually done him more harm than good. He, certainly, would say not but, then again, how do you compare him to the man he once was? Is it even a fair comparison? Or am I simply commiserating over what I feel is a terrible, terrible tragedy that I helped, in part, to create?
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE (Emma Frost): Creighton, as he prefers to be called in spite of some initial reluctance to use that nomen, is completely impervious to my mental probings. His mind no longer works on organic terms...or, at least, not entirely on those terms. As a result, any and all profiling I can do of him is strictly through observation only.
Frustratingly, I think he knows that, too.
Creighton is a cocky, arrogant, wunderkund. Every time I see him I wonder how on earth he expects to get away with what he does. He practically exudes a sense of smugness that makes me want to retch and slap him at the same time. It's a wonder his teammates put up with him. His utility to them must be in his enormous capabilities because his personality is cloying enough to make anyone want to scream obscenities.
Or maybe that's just me.
All of this, I suspect, makes a lot of uncertainty and self-doubt. I never noticed any of these traits in him prior to his self-assimilation by the techo-organic virus. It leads me to believe that he is trying to overcompensate for what he feels is a lack of humanity, that he's almost over-exaggerating what might have previously been hidden tendencies in an effort to convince himself that there's still something left of his old self underneath the molecular mesh of nanotech.
And that is the reason why I hold my tongue when he pinches my buttocks or smirks with that inane self-assurance.
In my judgement, he's almost something to be pitied, not aroused to anger about.
HEADMASTER'S NOTES (Magnus): The lad is consternation personified. And yet, I cannot help but wonder what, precisely, makes me feel that way about him. I realise his bravado is a front, a compensation for his self-perceived lack of human traits. Nonetheless I find this hard to take into account because, most of the time, he presents himself as a fully human individual. There is nothing that obviously stands out that would remind me of his psychological inner struggle.
Unless, of course, I chose to perceive the electromagnetic maelstrom that swirls about his body. And, most the time, I do not. It gives me a headache.
Still, his tactical value to the team is unparalleled. His uses yet to be fully realised, either by himself or others. It's only for this reason that I keep him in Generation X at all and not move him to one of the senior teams. His utility to either of the four task forces (Blue or Gold, Red or Black) would be diminished if he could not fully accentuate his potential.
Eventually, that will change. He is in the first line of those ready to graduate when the next wave of X-Men retire.
NAME: Myrrh Amaranthe Ser-kheru Am-khaibitu
AGE: 23
HAIR: Jet Black
EYES: Jet Black
BIRTHDATE/PLACE: 6 June, 1976/Douglas, Isle of Man, UK
HEIGHT: 5'8"
WEIGHT: 110 lbs
STATUS: Generation X (Active)
Summary: Very little is known about Myrrh. In fact, I know scant much more about her now than when Dr. Brian Braddock (qv) recommended that I take her in three years ago. The trouble is, she cannot tell me anymore than she already has.
This is what I do know. Myrrh the product of a rare mating between homo sapiens sapiens and homo sapiens sanguiness, making her one of only two known human/vampyre offspring. Her genome bears a resemblance to that of a normal human being but with notable differences, including that of a very peculiar x-factor polygene. In fact, that polygene is so complex, so hard to trace that I've found it very difficult to estimate her parabilities or even find them. For the most part, she does what she says she does and demonstrates it accordingly. We are almost in the dark as to her upper limits.
I do have some logical guesses and extrapolations I can make, however. Dr. Stephen Strange has provided me with advice on Myrrh and it has been invaluable to Magnus in training her. Still, Stephen admits to've never actually coming in contact with a being such as Myrrh--though he does know of at least one similar kind, the son of Vlad Tepes, Janus.
Myrrh cannot, herself, provide us with much but the barest of backgrounds on herself. Her mother was a landed lady of an old Manx family. Her surname, she suggests, is her father's, though of that we cannot be certain. Stephen has attempted to help in that regard though thus far he can only identify that it's origin is Old Egyptian; of pre-Christian era origin.
So, as far as memories go, Myrrh is almost as much of a mystery to herself as she is to us. She has no steady memory prior to her sixteenth birthday. Even then, her relationship to her mother was always distant--she was educated by a tutor and would sometimes not see her mother for months--and the house's servants were unable to help her.
Shortly after she completed her 'A' levels, Myrrh was whisked off from Man on a whirlwind tour of the world. Her tutor--now acting as her mentor--would take her from city to city, where she was taught in a variety of fighting styles and in the usage of ancient weapons. Swordsmanship, archery, martial arts of all types. A bewildering life that went on for nearly four years, much of which she cannot today recall...save for the lessons she learned. They remain locked in her mind, almost hardwired into her nervous system, while the memories associated with them seemed to've...dissapated.
To this day, we don't know who trained her, who paid for it and under who's auspices it was done. All we know are the names of the cities and, roughly, the type of training done. Buceau and Suveaca, Romania; Alexandria, Thebes and various deserts in Egypt; Constantinople (note, not Istanbul) and Iskandrun, Turkey; Tblisi, Georgia; Samarkand, Uzbekistan; Edo and Chiba, Japan; Teipei, Taiwan; Hong Kong, China; Magadan, Russia; Delhi (not New Delhi) and Mumbai, India; and Qom, Iran.
Her parabilities would seem to at least titularly conform to what one might expect from the child of a vampyre...with a few strange exceptions. Chief among these is the chilling ability to molecularly rearrange matter at the touch of her left hand. Thankfully, she cannot simply arbitrarily shift from substance to substance. Apparently, she is only capable of altering matter into Carbon-60, Buckminsterfullerene, and only with her left hand. No other part of her anatomy will allow her to utilize this power nor can she create another compound with it. Are the restrictions psychological? After all, what is fundamentally different about changing steel into, say, air or water? I don't know and her genome provides no clues at all. There is even a suspicion of mine that her limits are 'supernatural' in nature; that is, referencing her partial non-human parentage.
Three years of study, though, and I cannot put a finger on her. She remains an enigma to most of us. I wish with all my fervor that that were not the case because I strongly suspect that the person behind her training and upbringing is none other than her father, a suspicion which leads me to assume that she is, even now, under his watch.
If that's the case, there might yet be trouble.
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE (Emma Frost): If there was ever a more sensual woman, I don't know whom it would be. Myrrh positively exudes sexuality. She uses it like a weapon, whether or not she does so intentionally. As a result, she is a possible danger to practically all of the team. If, as I suspect, she is similar to Savij in that she produces a type of highly refined pheromones, then something might need to be done in order to prevent disaster.
The trouble is, I've been saying that for nearly three years and we still don't know if that's the case.
Frankly, I don't know what to make of her. I'll be honest. She's almost frightening. Graceful, sensual, and quiet. That's a deadly combination. And yet, she acts as if she's almost completely unaware of her effects on others. I cannot believe that she's a naif. It simply boggles the imagination. She must know something, right?
I suppose I would feel so much better if her mind was completely readable. As it stands, however, I'm lucky if I can lift surface thoughts from her. The synergistic effects of her parentage have conspired to make her nearly opaque. Even Charles, who's reluctant but willing to compromise in order to help me with my job, admits that he cannot guarantee his scans will be much better.
So, she's a devilishly convenient mind. She can reveal to us precisely what she wants and secure that which she doesn't.
Perhaps my natural paranoia is taking over but I cannot help but recall that whomever trained her did so for a reason. We'd better keep that in mind.
At all times.
HEADMASTER'S NOTES (Magnus): Perhaps I am growing too old and, thencely, too soft for this job. Whereas others see only suspicious behviour, I see a young lady who ishere for help. She has made not a single threatening move. Indeed, she has, in my mind, proven herself. Yes she has secrets, many of which I'm certain she herself doesn't know the answers to. Yes her very origin is enough to make one's nape hairs bristle with apprehension...
Should we judge, though, on that alone? I am concerned more with her actions than her history. Admittedly I do not want to be caught by some nasty surprise hidden in her background but there is no guarantee that such a surprise even exits. For all we know, her father is long dead, perhaps destroyed by the Montessi Formula over a decade ago.
I am constantly tempted by Charles' subtle prejudice, tempted to give into my fear. I won't do it, however. I cannot. I can no more turn away from Myrrh than I can from any other student of mine. She deserves the same benefit of a doubt we gave any and all who came to us with a tarnished or tainted background...
...after all, if we start pointing fingers, who would pass the litmus test?
Certainly not this one.
And maybe, in the end, that is why I give her the benefit of a doubt.
The Order of St. Bassarion
The Order of St. Bassarion can be traced back to the papacy of the first Borgia pope, Callistus III. It was a dark period for the Church, on the brink of plunging into a series of ill-fated and, some would say, almost diabolical popes. To the East, the Ottoman Turks, to the North and West, religious discontent which would, in due time, lay the foundations for the Protestant Reformation.
A Franco-Swiss priest by the name of Bassarion d'Ettempe discovered what would become the Church's most closely-guarded secret. In the depths of his Benedictine monastery, high in the Swiss Alps, a massive tome was found, hidden amidst other amassed books long suppressed. Calling itself the Codex of Sheol and written in several tongues, including ancient Canaanite, Aramaic, Biblical Hebrew, Koine Greek, Old Egyptian, Coptic Egyptian, Old Latin and half a dozen other obscure languages or dialects, the tome told the story of a god-man, called only Sheol, and his attempts at remaking the world in his own image.
Immediately recognising the possible damage such a book would cause the Vatican and her efforts at rallying Christendom against the Ottomans, Father d'Ettempe made a long, dangerous trip to Rome in an effort to secure an audience with Callistus III, hoping to find a solution to this problem. No records tell of whether or not this audience actually occurred. However, on August 5, 1458, the pope secretly chartered a new order, originally called the Vellum, after the Latin word for a particular type of page in a book.
Exactly twenty-four hours later, Callistus III died, ostensibly of natural causes.
Father d'Ettempe, and others of the Vellum, had reason to think otherwise.
It soon became apparent, after a series of encounters with preternatural beings in the following decades, that there was more to the Codex than merely ancient semi-heathen superstition. Since the death of Callistus III, fifty-four brothers of the Order of St. Bassarion--as it was rechartered by Pope Adrian VII--have perished at the hands of various emissaries of Sheol. That was more than enough to ensure that the order remain secretive, appearing on no official Vatican ledger or document.
The Bassarionites, themselves, became a special lot. Initially they were composed almost entirely of members of the same family: the d'Ettempe's. A special dispensation was granted, allowing the brothers to marry, much in the way those of the Eastern Rite were allowed to do so. But because of the specialised need for secresy and the constant danger of retribution by an enigmatic and maelevolent Sheol, those who married into the Bassarionites were a very special group. Eventually, interbreeding occurred. A mutation developed, one which granted members of the d'Ettempe clan unusually long life. Numerous cases of centurions appeared as the centuries drug on. Today it is not too uncommon to find a brother who can recall the closing years of the 19th century CE with ease.
Bassarionites are obsessed with collecting Sheol lore, mostly in an effort to ascertain what threat this being holds against first Christendom and, by extension, Western Civilisation as a whole. What they have found to date has often been paid for in the blood of their numbers. More importantly, what they will eventually find is of even more concern to them. For beneath the plain-language of the Codex is another layer, written in a language that has mystified and baffled their most learned of scholars. It has divided the community into two camps, between those who view this new development as proof of a massive hoax and those who feel it is their worst apocalyptic nightmare come true.
Carbon-14 and potassium-argon tests have been repeatedly done on the fragile Codex, almost in a hopeful effort to prove the first hypothesis correct. Instead, they've found what they've always been taught to be the truth: that the book is ancient, somewhere around three and a half millennia old for the eldest portions.
And yet, if anything, this reaffirmation has caused even further consternation...and fear. For the under-layer isn't written in an ancient tongue or inscribed in glyphs unused for ages past.
The under-layer is written in Modern English.