The Genie in the Bottle

[Neutron]

<center>Yucca Mountain, Nevada</center>

The flight was nearing it's conclusion, wherever it was heading. Aslan Sagidev didn't particuarly care. It was just the latest in a series of flights since he was captured by the Americans in Baghdad. From Baghdad to Sofia, from Sofia to Prague, from Prague to Warsaw, from Warsaw to Guantanamo Bay. From Guantanamo Bay to...wherever. All on unmarked planes, by soldiers without rank or name.

It wasn't Russia, at least. Aslan had that much good fortune. The Russians would not share the Yankees' relatively humane treatment.

Still, it left him something to be desired. He was shackled from head to toe, sitting in a metal chair, with half a dozen soldiers all around him, pointing M-4 carbines at his chest. His hands and forearms were ensconced in thick platemail gauntlets. Lead gauntlets.

Aslan made light of it, smiling at his captors. He was offered a Qu'ran to read on the flight, only to spit on the book and rake it with a shoe. He'd be murdered for such a thing in Grozny, but ever since his unique "condition", Allah's guidance didn't seem to matter to him anymore. He had a new God now, the Atom.

"Does anyone hev drink of water?" He yelled aloud in a thick Chechen accent, to nobody in particular.

Nobody moved, and he just laughed.

The plane finally shuddered as the landing gear touched down. Over the captain's intercom came a voice.

"Welcome to Yucca Mountain, Aslan. You're gonna be here for a while."

Sagidev smirked and shrugged, as the guards began to shuffle him off the plane to his new prison home.

[Saladin]

1:07 AM PST

A sixty-car freight train sped through the Nevada desert under a clear night sky. The long trail of box cars behind the pair of diesel locomotives were mostly unmarked, but this railroad only carried one type of cargo, barrels and barrels of it stacked and shielded in shock-resistant compartments, the waste of the nuclear age, destined to be buried and forgotten.

However, this train carried a cargo even deadlier than nuclear waste.

The only surviving engineer of a crew of six huddled pitifully in a corner of the crew compartment, his hands cuffed behind him. His strange captors were scattered around the lounge discussing some operation in the Yucca Mountain facility. He'd been unable to resist them -- unable to resist helping them at checkpoints, unable to signal the guards stationed on the train. Every time that woman spoke to him, his mind was no longer his own.

He flinched as the leader stepped by him, a tall, athletic man with a thick mane of blond hair and wearing a shin-length trenchcoat. That man terrified him more than the rest -- the one they called Saladin.

"We're less than an hour away," Saladin said. "Our target should be moving into the facility right now."

Coming around the lounge table, he reached down into onboard refrigerator and pulled out several bottles of Dos Equis lager. "I hope you'll all thank Mr. Enriquez for his hospitality," he said, nodding toward the captive engineer. "Of course, it's against military regulations to carry alcohol aboard a waste transport. But we won't tell."

He selected a bottle and held it at arm's length. A thread of green energy spat out from his free hand, sending the cap tumbling to the floor.

"To victory, friends. In a few short hours we shall have added a powerful ally to our Brotherhood."

[Neutron]

The complex was a series of sturdy, squat buildings. Some were built into the sides of the volcanic rock that made up the mountains. It didn't look much like any prison. The guards herded Sagidev toward the nearest facility, in which they passed through a massive plexiglass vestibule to arrive at a spartan lobby. A man in a suit nodded at the troops.

"Incoming prisoner, Aslan Sagidev. Born 17 October 1973 in Baku, Azerbaijan."

A second clerk began to take down information in a log. This was fairly procedural and Aslan clicked his tongue in disinterest, instead busying himself by looking around the lobby as he stood.

"Step forward for height and weight measurement. Remove garments"

Aslan shrugged, pulling the bright orange scrubs over his head, and kicking the pants to the floor. Nude except for his lead gloves, he held those up for the quartermaster.

"The gloves stay on." one of the guards sternly cautioned the quartermaster, which elicited a chuckle from the Chechen prisoner.

The quartermaster's clerk produced a camera, and the two went around Aslan, taking pictures of scars, tattoos, and birthmarks that could help keep track of him. In the meantime, one of the guards slung a cardboard box unceremoniously onto the desk.

"Careful!" Aslan scolded in his thick chechen. "Some of things can break."

The quartermaster, now with enough pictures, moved to log Aslan's effects.

"Two diamond earrings, One 24 karat gold and diamond studded necklace, with bomb medallion. One cowboy hat, white. One hawaiian style button-up shirt, red. One sleeveless undershirt, white, One pair of DNKY jeans, indigo. Two Spetsnaz-issue combat boots, black. One Omega watch, gold. Two lead-infused neoprene gloves, black. Six Ambassador cigars. Four condoms. Five thousand, four hundred, and sixty four rubles."

The clerk nodded, closing the inventory log.

[Michael Lawston]

A lone figure slowly drifted along the cars, steadily making his way forward along the rooftops of the meandering box cars. Clumps of long scraggly hair whipped in the wind across the deadpan face of the mutant known as Arsenal. Even though he was bare-armed, wearing only a stylize boiled-leather hauberk and combat fatigues, the chill of the wind didn’t bother him.
<o></o>
Michael paused and crouched down running inhuman silver shining fingers over the heavy compartment containing the toxic refuse. In a strobe of light the plating under his fingers vanished. Shallow sunlight spilled over rows of sealed barrels. The mutant reached in gripping a barrel and in an instant, it vanished.
<o></o>
Slowly standing, arsenal waved an arm over the hole and a piece of box car compartment plopped down onto the hole. The mutant’s face never change, he coulnd’t care less if he’d broken the protective seal or made off with lethal toxins, by the end of the day, nuclear waste would be coating these hills. Not like the boss would find out either, or that in mattered, Michael was a wildcard in everyone’s book
<o></o>
Still, he was aggravated that Saladin would drag him all the way to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1>Nevada </st1></st1:state> for a mutant that was of no consequence to him. But whatever, there wasn’t anything better to do at this point, might as well enjoy to spoils around him.
<o></o>
Arsenal dropped from the car, taking the time to open the door to the locomotive. He should have been back from his security sweep some time ago. Michael silently moved into the lounge and leaned against the vibrating wall.
<o></o>
"To victory, friends. In a few short hours we shall have added a powerful ally to our Brotherhood."
<o></o>
*Flash* A bottle appeared in his own hand raised in a toast with his ally.
<o></o>
"To Victory."

[Void]

The engineer jumped as a foot passed through the wall behind him. A figure emerged from the solid wood paneling. Gingerly, the prisoner looked up, past the heavy boots and woolen coat, and saw a pair of black eyes looking down at him. The ash-eyed man strode past him to the cooler, taking two bottles. He cracked the tops against the conference table, chipping the wood in the process and sending the bottle caps spinning to the floor. The first he kept for himself and the second he handed wordlessly to the siren of a woman who had been responsible for the engineers unforgivable and unexplainable actions this far.

[Spectre]

She slid her fingers around the frosty cold neck of the bottle, accepting it with a nod of thanks. Spectre was of the opinion that there were very few things that were as gratifying as that first sip of a freshly opened bottle of beer. She shook the bottle a bit at the engineer, but spoke to Void.

"Too bad we can't spare one one for Mr. Enriquez. I'm thinking it may have held his composure together a bit longer. "

Spectre slid down to her knees just a few inches from the puppet she was controlling and smiled. He was beyond the capacity for rational thought. The man was terrified. Not only of what was before him, but now he had to worry about what would pop through the wall that he couldn't see.

"But you'll hang with me for a little while longer won't you?"

If he wanted to tell her 'No' or to 'Go jump off a building', he was unable. Instead the engineer just nodded, helpless to do or say anything but what the lady in the silvery-white jump suit wanted. Spectre smiled and stood once more, returning her attention to the assembled.

[Saladin]

Toward the front of the carriage, near the gangway to the number two engine, lurked another pair of mutants - a gangrel-looking teenaged boy in jeans in a black hoodie, and a hulking Polynesian man, his thick hair tied in long braids at his back. The larger of the two had engulfed the last bottle in his huge hand.

"C'mon, Gery, let me have some," the teen said, gesturing hopefully.

Geryon squinted down at him. "You're underage, gizmo."

Saladin took a long draft from his beer and leaned back idly against the tabletop. In his mind there was no time in the world so peaceful as the hour before a battle with the preparation and plans all in motion. It was the quiet assurance of inevitability. Fate was a great source of comfort when you knew its color, its taste, and its shape.

He rested the bottle on the tabletop and glanced over his fledgling Brotherhood. "What we are going to do tonight is the first conquest of a great crusade," he said. "We all have our own stakes, our own reasons for being here. Know this: we were all brought to this very moment by something bigger than us, bigger than the American government, bigger than the humans. In a short while we will be helping to fulfill the destiny written on our very genes. And the world will watch and wonder."

With another two drafts he had finished the beer, and he tossed the empty bottle into a vacant corner of the carriage. "Thirty minutes. We have work to do. Geryon, Void, unyoke the drive controls in the number one engine. Tron, disconnect the general alarm and monitor the radio. Arsenal, clean up and keep a look-out. Spectre, you're with me."

As his fellow mutants began filing forward through the gangway, Saladin straightened up and extended a hand toward the engineer - a green lance flashed out and enveloped the man, lifting him forcibly to his feet. He stumbled back against the wall, glancing fitfully between his captors.

"Mr. Enriquez," Saladin said, "we have one more task for you."

[Neutron]

Aslan's final destination was Storage Unit D, some 20 stories underground. His handlers had constructed a special, radiologically-shielded cell, similar to the storage compartments used to house the barrels of nuclear waste that were deposited at the installation. Thick, lead-filled walls trapped the Chechen terrorist on all sides. The door housed a small portal, with a double-sided hatch to dispense meals. Everything on the interior was clinically spartan and white, with diffuse lighting all around. The cot and toilet were made of a high impact plastic. Once inside, the guards unlocked the leaden gauntlets by remote control, and Aslan could slide them off. A geiger counter on the front of the cell clicked away, measuring both the radiation within the cell and outside.

Once inside, Aslan found another set of orange scrubs laid out on his cot, and he dressed himself again. Communicating by a voicebox, he spoke to his captors.

"Yankee dick heads, I thirsty. You bring waters."

To emphasize his point, he spat on the clear portal at the door.

[Saladin]

1:32 AM PST

Saladin stood at the front railing of the second engine. Mr. Enriquez was comfortably installed inside at the driver's seat with nothing on his mind other than Spectre's final instructions; the rest of the Brotherhood were in the cabin of the first engine. It was almost time.

A second track swept toward them from the North until it came parallel to their own track - there were enough trains serving Yucca Mountain that the facility had separate inbound and outbound rails. Saladin tapped his radio earbud and said, "It's time. Disconnect the engine."

With a loud mechanical clatter, the coupling that held the two locomotives together gave way, and engine number one began pulling away from the rest of the train.

Now came the delicate part. Saladin extended both palms toward the disconnected locomotive and furrowed his brow in concentration. Two luminous gravity beams arced out and enveloped the engine in a pale halo of green light. Then, straining, Saladin raised his arms, lifting the eighty-ton machine off the track and into the air.

The engine hovered for a moment, then slowly moved over to the parallel track. Saladin gently let it down until the drive wheels slid into the rails and the engine was once more running under its own power. Then he snapped back his gravity beams like elastic bands and vaulted over the median between the tracks to join his comrades on the other rail.

Mr. Enriquez, finally alone on his train once more, could think of nothing other than that he would be finally free once he opened and locked the throttle as Spectre had told him to.

---

Central Traffic Control, Yucca Mountain East Station, 1:57 PST

The rail control station, along with the loading platform, was built inside a five-mile rail tunnel that cut straight across the Yucca Mountain ridgeline from east to west. The platform had been placed underground as a safety measure and also to minimize the distance the barrels had to travel from the train to the storage vaults deep under the mountain.

"We've got freight G-325 approaching the tunnel now."

"It's about time. All right, scramble the crew and clear the loading bays. Let's get this done so we can go home."

The security measures surrounding the transfer from Guantanamo had thrown a military-grade wrench into the facility's works and left all the personnel on-edge. Sure, it had provided some water cooler conversation, but none of it very illuminative - the details were kept on a strict need-to-know basis.

"What in the... that's strange..."

One of the traffic controllers glanced over at his neighbor's readout. "You getting any readings on this train?"

"No... ID, approach speed, nothing."

"Their onboard computer must be out. I'll try raising them... Yucca Mountain to G-235, we're blanking out on your readings. What's your status? G-235, do you copy?"

"They're coming up on security cameras now - Holy-"

The freight train thundered by the camera monitors, causing the picture to dance frinetically.

"Hit the alarm! This CTC East Station, we have a runaway train in the tunnel-"

"I can't override the drive controls, the system's locking me out!"

"Hit the derailers, we can still keep them from hitting the depot-"

A roar filled the tunnel as the train careened toward the loading platform, bouncing precariously on the track, until the rails bent that critical degree too far. The engine skipped off the rails, pulling thousands of tons of steel and radioactive waste behind it. The boxcars twisted and accordioned as the train burst into the depot, smashing the platform and all the loading equipment to pieces and scattering ruined barrels of waste over the tunnel walls and floor.

The train was still thundering on its destructive course as the other locomotive slowed to a gentle stop a mile back in the tunnel. Saladin stepped out the rear hatch of the engine and jumped lightly down to the railroad below. "The service catwalk is this way. Let's go!"

[Michael Lawston]

The tunnel shook like mad around him and Michael couldn’t help but wish that he could’ve seen the runaway train impact the end of the tunnel. To see the carnage of twisted steel, mutilated bodies, and toxic waste covering the walls.
<o></o>
A feeling of power washed over him and a slight grin crossed his tanned face. It wasn’t like when he was tracking down the demons of the past, but close enough. Arsenal stood of up from his perch on top of the decelerating locomotive, his fingers sparking in anticipation of the chaos ahead.
<o></o>
Michael wasn’t sure about the others, nor did he really care, but he couldn’t wait for the blood to run. He only wished that there were a few mutants here, humans were so…..weak.
<o>
</o>Arsenal hit the ground behind Saladin and broke out into a sprint.

[Void]

There was an almighty roar of collapsing metal as Void, Spectre and the others spilled out onto the tracks. The sound was amplified in the tunnel, deafening, and it felt almost as if the entire place was shaking. They moved quickly, all following Saladin's lead. He was co-ordinating the entire mission and it was at his command that any one member fill in and out of line. At times, it seemed as if it was only his dream holding them together. Even then, their loyalty to one another was tenuous at the best of times. As they ran, Geryon squeezed ahead of Void, trying to muscle his way onto the catwalk directly behind Saladin. The latter merely vanished, phasing straight through his bulky cohort, eliciting a “Watch it, stringbean!” from the hulking Samoan.

[Spectre]

As she kept pace with her Brethren, Spectre winced a bit at the shrieking and groaning of the engine. It didn't bother her in the least, what they had done. In fact, she was tickled. She just had a splitting headache. The inevitable result of playing puppet master for a long period of time. She pulled a length of chain out from her shirt and popped open the tiny silver bottle suspended from it, spilling a tablet into her open hand. It was something a friend had prescribed for her headaches. She tossed the pill into her mouth, swallowed and kept walking. Now that her connection to the homosapien was terminated she was feeling better already, and soon she wouldn't even have a headache to remind her of him..

[Saladin]

Tron looped his wireless transceiver around his ear and grinned at the frantic radio chatter. "They're goin' crazy in there. Wish you guys could hear this."

Saladin charged up the stairs to the metal catwalk that ran most of the length of the tunnel. Within a hundred yards they found a reinforced service door. Saladin tore the locking cylinder free from its housing, and the door swung open with ease, admitting them into a poorly-lit maintenance corridor.

"Our first objective is to find Tron a network access point and locate Sagidev. No doubt they'll have him underground in priority containment. Void, scout ahead. Geryon, Arsenal, watch our flanks. Spectre, keep Tron out of trouble. Psychically, if necessary--"

He stopped them with a raised fist - there were footsteps coming from an adjoining corridor, at least ten, probably a mix of maintenance workers and armed guards on their way to the crash site. They would be on the Brotherhood in seconds.

Saladin smiled. "Go on. Amuse yourselves."

[Michael Lawston]

For the first time on the ‘mission’ a small smirk graced Michael’s lips, a predatory fire burning in his eyes. Arsenal slid forward with unearthly calm steps, shoving his way past the big Pacific Islander.

“With pleasure.” He barely breathed the words as he neared the intersection. The advancing voices and footsteps grew louder.

The hell are you taking about, we don’t even have hazmat suits.” Arsenal flexed his right hand into a partial fist, as if holding an invisible object. A second, more authoritative voice spoke through.

“Everything’s FUBAR without your bitching. Do us all a favor and…..” Arsenal’s arm blurred in a backswing at the human just stepping through the corridor. A silver flash momentarily lit up a man in military camo carrying a rifle before....

Slinkkkkk A spray of blood left a streak of red across the wall and something thumped wetly to the floor. Michael spun around the corner stabbing a newly materialized rapier through the chest of maintenance worker. Nearly a dozen horrified faces stared him, and the helmeted head that had landed among them them.

A moment later, hell broke loose as humans and mutants flew at each other. For a moment Arsenal wondered if his brothers would be so willing to shed blood. But he shrugged the thought away, his free hand already picking up the headless soldier's gun.

[Void]

A headless body fell to the floor. Messy, Void thought as a swarm of bullets passed through his body. He had none of the strength, speed or skill for combat of any kind, but that had never mattered much. The guards were frantic and uncoordinated. He slipped between two, who jumped at the chance to turn him to Swiss cheese. A handful of empty cases later and they were both doubled-over on the floor, grimacing. He didn't need to take them down – they had done each other in, firing right through his insubstantial torso.

[Spectre]

Spectre, apparently needed no further prodding. Where she had formerly been standing was now nothing more than an empty space, with no sign of where she may have gone. One of the armed guards, who was squawking into his headset, took aim at Tron, preparing to fire. Suddenly it became apparent that he had changed his mind. The guard paused, turned around as if to issue an order to his men and then, without preamble, began firing rounds into the other members of his team. He was apparently quite a good shot too, because none of them moved after being hit..

[Blaine Hayter]

0212 PST, Chicago, the Human-Mutant Protection Agency Testing Facility, Gamma HQ

Blaine... You deserve nothing... Your powers are a curse... To possess such a thing makes you less than a human... Love, companionship, unity amongst equals and friends will never be yours... Hardship and suffering are ahead of you for inheriting such a curse... You must prove yourself to earn your place amongst humans because you are a beast to them, a monster of an unfathomable ability to construct everything they've spent eons trying to construct... Work for your peace, my Son...

"Blaine... stavayitye, tovarish."

His crystal colored eyes snapped open and shifted to the man standing over him. The gloved hand quickly retracted from the pale skin of Blaine's chest as the young man sat up.

"Something has happened, Trigger?"

'Trigger' was Anthony Trygstad's nickname amongst the Gammas, preferred over his callsign 'Beezlebub' when they had the luxury of a more personal environment.


"Dah, tovarish. Oo nass yest problema. We have a hostile encounter and their choice is strategically dangerous for us all."

The man wrapped tight in an air sealed hazmat suit, protecting the environment more than it protected the man within, stepped back as Blaine stood and stretched.

"I assume we're deploying then. Have them prepare the rest who are available for deployment and ready a briefing and tactical information in transit."

"Yest, Komahndir tovarish."

[Saladin]

Geryon came swinging into the melee. He took a couple bullets in one of his thick forearms, but it didn't seem to slow him down. He seized one guard and flung him at three others, then pounced on them. He laid the first two out flat with a pair of earth-shaking blows, and as the final guard brought his gun to bear, Geryon grunted, and a third arm burst out of his chest, seized the guard, and lifted him from the ground.

The Samoan sneered, then looked down at his injured arm. It shriveled and shrank back into his body - there was a metallic plink as three bullets fell from the ruined flesh to the floor. Then, within seconds, the arm sprouted back out from his shoulder, the flesh pink and wet and healthy.

Geryon grinned at the horrified guard, then put him out with a ferocious haymaker from his newly regenerated limb.

Saladin picked his way through the bodies. The only human left standing was the one Spectre had commandeered. He still had a very glazed look in his eyes.

"Perhaps you can help us, my friend," Saladin said to him cordially. "We are looking for a high-security computer access point. Priority cargo transfer records, full manifests of the maximum containment facilities - that sort of thing."

"Commandant's office," the guard replied haltingly, "Three levels up, west side of the complex."

"A bit too busy for our needs, I'm afraid. Where are the network servers?"

"Down... two levels. Network maintenance room off the main corridor."

Saladin smiled. "Thank you. You've been very helpful. So helpful, in fact, that I really do regret this."

Suddenly the guard's body was awash in green light. He rocketed upward into the ceiling, snapping his neck, then slid down the wall to the floor again.

"We'll find a stairwell further on. We had better move quickly."

Tron glanced at the severed head lying on the floor and swallowed down a wave of nausea. Quickly averting his eyes, he stumbled on after the Brotherhood.

[Michael Lawston]

Arsenal blinked in surprise, lowering the M16 to his side with one arm; A limp body still hanging off his sword. He traced over bullet riddled bodies. It had been agonizingly quick and efficient....no effort....no challenge.

And Saladin was already making mincmeat of the last one. Such pointless wastes of life, not even worth spending the time to kill them. Michael's skin itched, this Neutron had better be worth it.

With a flash of silver, the gun and sword vanished in thin air. A wet thump echoed as the impaled body slumped to the floor. He caught Tron's shuddering face as he stepped over the body. Michael scooped up another rifle, shaking his head. The kid was new at this if death still shook him up.

"Hey." Tron turned uneasily and nearly droped the heavy object thrown at him. Arsenal walked by after the rest of the group. "Learn to let some blood."

Tron gulped, looking down at the assault rifle in his hands.

[Saint Lukas]

Lukas strolled through his dream world, passing through the beautiful, crystalline place he had made for himself. It was a wonderful field, covered in flowers. At the top of a large hill sat a Church. Inside the church was an Organist playing loudly the tune of O Fortuna. Lukas was inside the church, speaking to God through the beautiful language he had given him.

"Me pardonner le père, parce que j'ai sinned." He rolled the words over in his head, holding tightly onto his rosary. He looked up into the stained glass windows of the cathedral and listened as the Organist picked up slowly, increasing speed. He stood and stepped out of the church, back out into the beautiful field.

When he stepped out and took in the scent of the flowers, when he was jolted awake. There was Trygstad, standing over him. He sat up, still clutching his rosary.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est? What is it, why are you waking me?" Lukas rubbed his eyes for a moment.

"There's been an attack. And it seems we are needed. You've been ordered to report to the field."

Lukas stood and stretched. He walked through the halls down to his chamber where they held his sleep device, although at this hour, it was quite possible he wouldn't need it.

He stepped into the room and went to the large MRI. Father was there on the television screen, as he always had been. He showed Lukas the pictures of three men and gave him thier names. Lukas took the names into memory as well as the faces and laid down on the table.

Slowly, the turns and twists of machinery could be heard as the table was raised and slid into something resembling an iron lung, with several different compartments along it's edge.

"Divert power to The Sandman."

The words echoed in his ears as he slipped inside Sandman. His head slipped easily into a helmet that was connected to several wires. The probe in the top of the helmet snapped comfortably inside, and he watched as the compartments began to spin. Slowly, he slipped into a gentle sleep, and was once again forced into his dream world.

However, he found himself not in his dream world of before, but in something similar to an iron box that seemed to stretch on forever. He was in a vast empty space, waiting to feel the consciousness of the first host.