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Emma did not panic.
A missile howled toward them and yet her pulse stayed steady, her breathing even. As if someone had pressed mute on her survival instincts. She had felt the same when she had chosen her own death over Psylocke's in front of Dante.
Right now, her thoughts were clear as crystals. Stepping out of the car would change nothing. Instead of fumbling for the door handle, she turned her head, almost absently, to look at the woman in the driver's seat.
Psylocke's entire face was covered in a brilliant violet light. A beautiful butterfly silhouette had unfolded across her face, wings of psychic energy framing her like a mask. The sight would have rattled most people. Emma only felt a flicker of comfort.
Psylocke's right hand reached out. The missile jerked to a halt mid-flight, suspended in the air as if caught in an invisible net. The thruster still burned, trying to propel it forward. Psylocke did not let it gain an inch.
Emma's lips pressed together in a small, self-depricating smile. Of course. She had calculated the blast radius and even the way the limo would explode, yet somehow failed to account for the deadliest variable sitting beside her.
Psylocke had been raised in violence since she was eleven. Every sense she possessed was tuned to smell danger before it bloomed. If that missile had been outside her ability to handle, she would never have stopped the limousine in the first place. She would've driven them off the bridge as they could've easily survived a crash in the cold water.
'I underestimated her. How very unlike me to calculate my own variable.'
Psylocke slowly curled her fingers to form a fist. The missile collapsed in on itself. In the span of two seconds, it was reduced to a mangled ball of twisted metal. Psylocke flicked her wrist dismissively, sending the crushed remains into the river.
The apathetic calm that had coated her thoughts cracked all at once. Her heart spiked and her hands shook where they gripped the seat belt as the reality of what had almost happened washed over her in a cold rush.
'Third near-death experience in one week.'
Psylocke slammed her foot on the accelerator, and the limo surged forward.
"We wouldn't be in danger," Psylocke said, her voice utterly calm. "If you had chosen a less conspicuous car."
Emma let out a sigh. "My dear Psy, some of us were born to be conspicuous."
Movement flickered in the corner of her vision. The dark sedan far ahead was swerving aggressively. They were terrified and wanted to leave as soon as possible.
Any leftover fear was replaced by a vicious focus.
"Kill them."
Psylocke glanced over, meeting her gaze for just a moment. Something like anticipation flickered across her face, quite chilling and hungry to be called a smile in any human sense. It was the expression of a wolf that had just been pointed at a limping deer.
"With pleasure."
The butterfly flared back to life, psychic wings spreading wide. Psylocke didn't bother with subtlety. Her hand twitched once, fingers snapping open and then clenching.
The sedan's four tires exploded almost simultaneously.
The steel rims screamed against asphalt, and the car bucked wildly. The sedan swerved sideways and sped down the bridge.
Emma watched its taillights vanish into darkness, followed by a faint, distant splash. Just a clean drop and a quick end to the Hand's operatives.
Psylocke flicked her gaze back to her employer, finding not approval but annoyance showing on arched brows.
"What? I used the most efficient method."
"I wanted to read their minds," Emma replied with a sigh. "You drowned them."
Psylocke turned her eyes back to the road. "Next time."
The bridge ended at a wall of intimidating metal signs declaring this to be a private property.
The passenger door opened with a soft click, and a fancy heel crunched the frozen leaf.
Emma adjusted her coat elegantly, eyes on the Oscorp in the Oscorp Island sign. In another week or two, that name would be replaced by Frost International. Norman's empire was going to be crushed underneath her heels, and she would relish every delicious moment of it.
Psylocke stepped out from behind the wheel. The winter air bit at exposed skin, but she moved like the cold didn't touch her at all. Her only concession to the weather was the faint cloud of breath leaving her lips.
"I hope we aren't too late."
"Norman Osborn is the villain of the night." She slid her sunglasses into place and leaned back against the limo with a relaxed posture. "And we're the heroes who came just in time to save the day."
Psylocke folded her arms across her chest and looked away from Emma.
Heroes had always been something she read about in old mythological tales, distant and fairytale, not a role anyone would ever assign to her. After all, she had killed for faceless masters since she was a child, her hands steeped in blood for the most selfish cause ever—gaining immortality at any cost.
And yet, here, with Emma calling shots and the world finally seeing the monsters Norman had bred… Maybe, just for one night, she might be able to live out her fantasy.
Meanwhile, Emma put two fingers on her temple as she closed her eyes. "Let me send a message to our dear lady Sablinova… found her."
Psychic waves emanated from her as she connected to Silver Sable, whose mind wavelength she remembered from their meeting in Hellmoon Club.
Contact snapped into place as her mind made contact with Silvija's. Emma was left stunned. The last time she had checked Silvija's mind, it had been a noisy, tangled mess of love, duty, and worries all piled on top of each other. Now, it was clear and still like a lake, which was strange considering the many lines of thought running parallel to each other—issuing commands, processing battlefield data, and making calculations for sniper shots.
'The most gifted leader on the battlefield.'
She may have underestimated Symkaria's queen.
The absence of fear in Silvija's psyche was good news. They had come before all hell broke loose—the symbiote had yet to emerge.
"Emma Frost here," she sent a mental voice. "I know it might sound strange, but can you please tell your allies to ignore me. I'm here to help you."
"Why would you do that?" came Silvija's reply, clear and concise. "Last I checked, I threatened you with your secret. My lover humiliated you. What reason could you possibly have for helping me?"
Emma's lips twitched. "He didn't tell you about our alliance?"
"Alliance?" Silvija questioned, skeptical. "When did that happen?"
Emma added another one to Dante's ledger. "Dante is probably underground for the symbiote vault. You should confirm it with Felicia dear. She was there with him yesterday."
"Who told you about the vault?"
"It was your lover, naturally," Emma replied in the practiced sweet voice. "I'm here to shut down symbiote with my telepathy. Silvija, dear, will you let me help you?"
Silvija's thoughts sped up so abruptly that even Emma, with all her experience, struggled to track them. Possibilities branched and collapsed as if she was a computer. Assessments of risk, cost, Dante's likely opinion, Felicia's involvement, national interest, personal pride, and even a consideration for her pregnancy…
Emma stopped before she got overwhelmed. A realization still came to her about how most of Silvija's thoughts were centered around her lover.
"Acknowledged," Silvija said at last. "I'll relay the command to everyone. Are you alone?"
"My bodyguard's with me. A sexy, purple ninja lady. She has the fashion sense of a high-class hooker, but her mind and body are still innocent."
Psylocke, who had been scanning the perimeter, froze. Her hand unsheathed the katana. She didn't point it at Emma—she didn't need to. Her glare said enough.
Emma grinned. "Sweetheart, don't pull out your katana for little stuff. We're friends."
Silvija ignored Emma's questionable descriptions. "Be careful when you enter. We don't have control on the outer side of the facility."
"No need to be concerned about us, Dear. We can take care of ourselves."
"One more thing," the mercenary queen added. "Can you help out your fellow mutant?"
Emma didn't need the explanation; the moment Silvija thought of the scene, it was conveyed to Emma. A giant of organic steel trading brutal blows with a smaller, feral figure whose claws tore through anything.
"That's Logan," Emma murmured, a shark-like grin curving her lips. "A former X-Man under mind control. Dante, darling, just handed me a favor to deliver to the Professor without even realizing it."
"Will you do it?" Silver Sable asked.
"Of course, Dear," Emma said. There was profit here and a bit of satisfaction in rubbing her 'kindness' in the bald professor's face. "But you'll owe me a favor for this, dear. Not your lover, Dante, but you, Silver Sable—the leader of Wild Pack and the queen of Symkaria."
Naturally, a calculating businesswoman worked to maximize her profit with the least amount of effort.
"As long as you get it done."
Emma said a goodbye and severed the psychic link.
Psylocke pointed at one of the sedans parked nearby. "We should take that. It won't hurt to be careful."
"You handle careful, dear," Emma replied, already walking toward the clashing mutants. "I'll handle the fun part."
Psylocke's gaze tracked her for a moment longer. Then she sighed, turned, and walked toward the black sedan. Her hand rested on the door as she paused.
"Keep your senses sharp when we enter. I can't save you from every direction."
All her life, she had been trained to kill, not to protect.
***
Nobu listened in silence as the report ended.
"We lost contact with the team responsible for stopping the White Queen and her bodyguard."
The words soured his mouth. So much blood spilled, so many expendable bodies thrown out, and yet the mercenaries still held their lines. The Wild Pack had lost men, yes, but their dead numbered perhaps less than a tenth of the Hand's casualties.
The trump card, the Weapon, was stuck in a stalemate battle against a giant made of pure metal. A spider hero nuisance ran through their ranks. To rub salts in his wounds, the enemy had received reinforcements in the form of a powerful telepath and the very killing machine the Hand had once raised as their Executioner.
'I have to act fast.'
Failure here would not be counted as a mere loss. It would be a stain that would cling to his name through every resurrection. An insult that even death could not wash away.
He could die. He could not fail.
'There is no other choice.'
Nobu's hands slipped inside his dark robe and found the life-saving card he had been saving for a true disaster. An ornate black box, small enough to rest in his palm. Silver inlays traced crescent moons and jagged, stylized rays. It was not Hand craftsmanship.
He slid the lid back with a soft click. Inside, resting on a bed of pale, silken padding, was the talisman: a small raven carved of some dark gray stone. Tiny runes had been etched into its wings like phases of the moon.
The Moon Goddess' aesthetic, through and through.
Acquiring this token had cost him dearly. One full measure of the mystical dragon essence that could have bought him another resurrection or another extension of his life. He had traded life itself for this.
To use it now was to burn a future death for a present victory. However, he had already spent too much. The sink cost fallacy did not permit him to withdraw.
'Honor does not permit half-measures.'
He crushed the raven in his hand.
The talisman shattered like a brittle bone. A cloud of ashen dust burst out and slipped through his fingers. It did not fall so much as drift out into the open air.
A faint shimmer appeared right before him, threads of soft pink energy coming into existence from nothing. It formed an oval doorway.
Two silhouettes stepped through.
The first figure to emerge was a tall woman, wrapped in a form-fitting black bodysuit. High-waisted leather pants hugged her hips and legs, disappearing into thigh high boots. Over it all, she wore a dramatic long coat with cream fur at the collar.
Her black hair was styled elaborately in braids pinned at the back of her head, creating a crown-like silhouette.
Her gaze flicked sharply, studying Nobu.
The second figure stumbled slightly as he stepped out, as if the portal had kicked him on the way through.
He was taller, broader, and so much more disheveled than the elegant woman beside him. His hair was a tousled mess of green, almost neon under the portal's light. He had a narrow, sharp face. A few days' worth of stubble was on his jaw, giving him the look of a man who had stopped caring about appearances. That was true even for his shirt with missing buttons and the faint scorched mark on one sleeve.
"This guy," Trevor Fitzroy said, shrugging as the portal snapped shut behind them with a deep hum. "I thought we didn't need to actually fulfill that little favor."
Tessa did not dignify Trevor's complaint with so much as a glance. Her gaze stayed on Nobu.
"Lady Selene prefers to keep cordial relations with the Hand," Tessa said. Her voice was smooth, but there was no softness in it. "There may come a time when your Order will require resurrection again… just like you."
Trevor snorted a laugh. It was an ugly sound. "Oh, come on," he said, spreading his hands. "It's not like it's my fault. Black Queen was the one who thought it'd be a grand idea to have me summon Azazel of all people. I did exactly what she asked, Tessa. I pulled the demon in. Just, you know…"
His hand went to his own neck in a thoughtless gesture.
"At the cost of my head," he finished, his mouth twisting into a sour grimace. "And what did I get for that heroic little bit of self-sacrifice? Not a great position in the club or immeasurable wealth. No, no. I get to be her Henchman Number Two right under her Number One Slut."
If Trevor had hoped to provoke Tessa, he was disappointed. She didn't even sigh at the insult.
"Your continued existence is courtesy of Graceful Lady Selene," she said, the slightest emphasis on the title. "You would do well to remember that."
"I only remember the part where my head rolled," Trevor muttered. "Every time it rains."
Nobu watched them bicker. His honor bristled at the disrespect of being ignored, but he bit it down. He had spent too much to indulge wounded pride now.
"What is the nature of the favor being called in?" Tessa asked at last, ignoring Trevor's grumbling. "You brought us in the middle of a war zone, Mister Nobu… here, your time is as expensive as mine."
"I need the assistance of a mutant with Telepathy."
Nobu waited for confirmation. Telepaths were rare, precious, and dangerous. In the wrong hands, they could unravel decades of work in an instant. In the right hands, they could literally change the world.
Tessa blinked slowly before a faint smile touched her lips. "You're in the presence of one."
Trevor stared at Nobu like he was the stupidest man alive. "Who do you think helped Gao seal that little girl's memories and make a puppet out of that feral Canadian freak?"
Bitterness pricked Nobu's pride. The Hand prided itself on mastering forbidden arts, on carving obedience into flesh and soul both. To hear that their greatest achievements had been propped up by someone else's invisible hand.
But there was also relief.
If they had done it once, they could do it again.
Trevor pointed at Nobu condescendingly. "You Japanese pricks think your cult has that type of power, huh? What a bunch of dumbfucks."
Nobu's eyes widened behind his mask. For a moment, the calm, unshakable leader slipped.
"You… deserve death."
"Shut the fuck up, or I'll throw hundred sentinels in your base and watch everyone get annihilated with steak and beer."
Time displacement portals were his bread and butter, after all.
"Then you'll be slaughtered by SHIELD," Tessa replied calmly. "Nimrod will not only kill you, it'll mimic your powers against us. Do us all a favor and stick to your number two henchman position."
Trevor growled, "You bitch, how dare—"
Psychic waves emanated from Tessa. A mind blast made Trevor scream and fall to his knees.
Trevor glared at Tessa's back as if he wanted to kill her in the most painful way possible. The lady herself sensed everything as a high-level telepath, but it only made her smile like everything progressed accordingly.
She instead gave a subtle tilt of her head acknowledging Nobu.
"Apologies for his rudeness, Mister Nobu," she said with a polite smile. "I can provide certain services. Memory restructuring, behavioral conditioning, and even assassinating someone."
"I need your aid in a war," Nobu said, straightening his posture as his hands clasped behind his back. "You will help me remove several key pieces from the board."
"Be specific," she said. "We do not waste effort on vague ambitions."
Nobu stepped aside and gestured toward the narrow slit in the watchtower's wall that served as a viewing port.
"Come, I'll show you."
***
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