@supreme_chancellor: I'm still down to interact!
"I expected you, nGod. You are unlike your kin."
He muttered, knowing the Great Samson to be the more logical, legal and simply intelligent of his brothers and sisters globally.
"And I, am unlike mine. Despite the ramifications that this war may have brought forth, and despite the death and destruction caused... I do not seek anything less than a diplomat solution to human and mutant problems," a cold faced lie, straight to The Superhuman Samaritan and his hopeful ally. Well, not a complete lie. X would try diplomacy first.... But in his mind, he knew that diplomacy was bound to be an inevitable failure -- He would try his best and peace, but it would never last. And from the ashes of peace? Mutant kind would be there.... To rebuild the world, "join me, join my mutant council, as emissary to the nGods... Somebody has to take responsibility for their actions."
"I wanted to talk to him. Find out if he was evil or not. 'Cuz if he's evil... I gotta fight him." Cracking his neck, he almost whispered to the robot, "'s been too long since I had a good fight."
The Proto-Sentinel would have laughed if it were capable. Did this man just admit to wanting to assassinate the newly elected leader of Iceland... If he did not like him? Good, bad, evil, neither of these meant a thing to X. They never had and never world. But at the same time he was curious. Instantly the robot sent a message to the higher commands, the Triune, whom telepathically connected with X (during his conversation with the Great Samson).
The Sentinel spoke.
"Are you familiar with telepathic communication? Our leader is busy, but he will entertain you via two way telepathy."
"Now that the dust is settled, we need to have a conversation. You know what's coming, I know more and I need your cooperation in what's to come. Your new status as leader of a nation officially puts you on my person of interest list."
X listened intently as she spoke, knowing all of her words ringing true. He had heard what was coming via his telepathy, above nearly any other telepath on the globe. With a quiet mind, he continued listening...
"I'm sure by now you've had people whispering in your ear that I'm crazy, I can't be trusted and so on. I have one job, one. STRIKE exists to protect Earth from extra-normal threats that exceed the ability of any one nation to stop. You can listen to the people who call me unbalanced, or you can listen to me, in person. I don't care about politics, all I care about is the survival of our planet. If you're interested, let me speak to you. If you're not..."
The Mutant King had heard enough -- Swiftly departing for General Tyrus
"I have other places to be."
He said, descending from above with a stylish adornment. His face plastered with a smile knowing he was about to gain an ally.
"Who is coming to earth, and what is their capacity?"
Tyrus smiled a bit as he landed, watching his impressive approach with a bit of appreciation for the theatrical. By her side Erin shifted from one foot to the other, almost as if she were bored. "A race of temporal vampires known as Time Siphons. Their reign of terror stretches across time and space and they bring with them an armada of mercenary warriors drawn from almost one hundred different races. The mercenaries can be dealt with, it's the Time Siphons that must be defeated to drive off the rest...and it's not an easy task. I've been gathering some of the more influential individuals over the last several months, including the likes of Ivana and the CEO of Maverick. We have a plan."
Tyrus considered him for a moment and then shifted slightly to face her body guard. "Show him what I mean."
The girl smiled a little and without moving or lifting a finger she caused time around them to come to a screeching halt. People walking, birds flapping their wings, cars driving down the road, all of it stopped, as if someone had put the world on pause. As for the three of them, everything continued as normal.
"A sample of her powers, a fraction in fact. Now imagine armies led by people like her, people who can kill without moving, they can drain the remaining life span from a person without touching them, they can lock whole populations into temporal loops and if you attack them? They can feed off objects too, bullets become food, food is power...the more they gain the more powerful they become. They aren't impossible to kill or fight, it's just difficult, you have to know when and who to strike. Some Time Siphons have more powers than others. Blindly attacking them though is suicide. If they win, if we don't stop them because we're all too busy arguing about who gets to control what then they'll turn both races into cattle. Humans and Mutants, Ngods and whatever the hell I am will be bred for death."
Kayla materialized back on the station about an hour later. They had brought the command officers back first, but she had stayed to ensure that everything happened smoothly. The other team had been even more successful, taking back all three capital ships and a fair supply of weapons and ships, despite that not being an objective. Her father was waiting for her when she got back, already wearing... not his general's uniform. Instead, it was a more formal outfit, thoguh she could still see a gun holstered on his hip. "Daughter. Excellent work. It appears I have been elected leader of the remnants of our nation. That means you will be our head General, over even Maxwell and Johanssen. Congratulations." He smiled and turned to find the bridge. Kayla smiled under her helmet. She had won.
As the new potentate of Iceland made his speech Samson's focus was attentive only slightly. He understood how eccentric the garments of the metahuman world were, but still... Don't look at his underwear. DON'T look at his underwear. DON'T LOOK AT HIS UNDERWEAR.
“*Hr-Hrrm*...”, the nGod cleared his throat in an attempt to transition his throughts elsewhere and in doing so his eyes instinctively drifted low for a fleeting moment. Goddamnit.
“Erhm...yeah. I mean, sorry. The impenetrable dome erected around this nation confuses my supersenses. I find it hard to focus.”Nice save. Samson's morales made this choice difficult. To the hero evil was evil. Lesser, greater, middling -- it made no difference. The degreee was arbitary. The definition’s blurred. If he to choose between one evil and another… he'd rather not choose at all. However, what has transpired here was the emancipation of a people from tyranny and only time would tell if the regime change was for the better and he intended to stay close until then.
“That is a generous offer. I of course cannot speak for the masses secluded in Savage's extradimensional sphere as their interests lie elsewhere, but for all of those who remained behind? I can be the voice of those.”, The Man of Marvels took an instance of pause to gaze over the land. Looking at the extensive restoration process with a pensive eye. “I have a condition of my own: I wasn't here when the battle took place. I want to help now, mend the land.”
If X had bothered to attempt to read Samson's mind, it would have either been amusing or annoying that he was thinking about the shades of his outer garments at a time like this.
But at the same time, they were slightly.... A lot eccentric.
"Rebuilding this country is the first step, I hope our partnership benefits not only us both, but the wider world."
As he spoke, the Magnetic Maestro outstretched both his palms.
A massive flux of energy emanated from his body as a fallen building suddenly started to rebuild itself before their very eyes, using metal debris and other items scattered around the land to replenish and renovate the structure to a new lease of life.
"The sentinels are capable, but mere machines. Assist them where you can in fixing the country, you have free access now."
Alexandra had recently spoken to Iceland’s liberator, the mysterious magnetic mutant named X. While he was not interested in joining her society particularly given his newfound responsibilities, much like Ivana, he had pointed the White Queen in the direction of his associate, a woman who had been instrumental in the conquest of the island country. Having gifted X with his telepathic trio, he was quick to give her the address of the potential invitee. The three had also filled Xandra in on the rumours circulating around the woman, that she was in fact, Clarice Pierce. If nothing else, the Mistress of the Mind had to find out if these whispers had any merit.
Icy blue eyes stared forward while the rhythmic tapping of her white boots tapped upon he pavement heralded the Frost Queen’s approach. A snowy trench coat flickered behind her in the cool breeze, platinum blonde hair rippling in a sudden gust. With unparallelled poise, the pale figure stopped beneath the awning. A gloved hand extended, rapping upon the house door awaiting access and introduction to the woman within.
It's only the glass of Jack Daniels with Coca Cola in hand that keeps her mind afloat. Every sip is sweet, soothing, and cold enough to keep her eyes open. A much needed touch of comfort after hours and hours of using her telekinetic prowess, she'd thought.
It was no easy task, the act of constructing Nation X, but she managed. Although never quite the working girl, the mutant maiden knew how to get things done. Her motivation stemmed from the need to bring her family here. It was what kept her strong. The drink on the rocks was simply an outlet for recharging her waning willpower. Working was tiring after all.
"What's in today's paper?"Miss Pierce asked herself, knowing quite well she'd receive no answer from anyone other than herself. Despite this, the brash brunette entertained her solitude rather well.
"Why, it's another White House scandal." In an effort to avoid intoxication before noon, the ex-president traded her half glass for an American printed newspaper. She'd lifted it from her mahogany coffee table, placing the glass in its stead. As for the Sunday paper, it was creased at the edges after having been smuggled in through back channels, but she wouldn't complain.
Her few contacts risked their lives for western amenities, because in light of her mutant acceptance....one could never quite take the American out of Clarice Michelle Pierce.
"How unoriginal." As she said this, a knock at the door pulled her away from reading whatever PR stunt Alexander managed to pull to convince his people that the Icelandic liberation was a win for them rather then the meticulously crafted manipulative mechanisms of Weapon X that it was.
"Are you serious!?" She huffed and she puffed, the thought of it being anyone other then X was beyond her. So, she folded her paper and tucked it beneath her arm before stepping off the couch and walking barefoot to the door.
"One day of relaxing and you can't leave me-" Her telepathy cracked like a whip as her fingertips touched the knob. Her violet eyes flickered with energies that were once regarded as metaphysical. Underdressed, unfit for combat, and surely unprepared for whomever stood behind the door of her homely estate.
Miss Pierce was nervous and reasonably so, but she wouldn't allow fear ruin the facade she'd put so much effort into upholding. The last thing she needed was rumors spreading about in Nation X. Instead she smirked that signature smirk, twisted the knob, and opened the door to @the_psyentist.
"Hello, my name is Stella Baldwin." Miss Pierce hoped she'd appear as a dainty housewife, but the energy coming off of this woman felt like a wave crashing onto her thoughts. She knew something about her. Miss Pierce couldn't tell if she knew her as the mysterious person who assisted Weapon X, the ex-president, or both.
One foul move and her facade would shatter. Years of wild and unpracticed powers were her weakness, she knew it so. What she didn't know, however, was what this woman in white wanted from her.
"How might I help you?"
The ball off her bleached boots tapped on the pavement as she awaited a response. Xandra was hardly a patient woman in spite of her immortal nature. But the doctor didn’t have to wait long as she was quickly greeted. Icy blue eyes fell upon the unfamiliar woman. Almost unfamiliar. There was something. Her lids narrowed slightly, intensely observing the being before her. “Yes.”The syllable seemed to linger hanging upon the air between them.
Clearing her throat, Alexandra offered up a small smile, her stern demeanor lightening only slightly. “Hello, Ms. Baldwin. I’m Dr. Alexandra Steele.” Some people familiar with mutant affairs in the United States might be familiar with the presentation, the psychiatrist being a specialist in metahuman research, training, and treatment. But the more important was the introduction stating her relevance in Iceland. “I’m an associate of X. He suggested you as a candidate for a special fellowship of influential people. If I could come inside, I could elaborate, answer any questions you may have.” Her azure eyes stared directly into her hostess’. The aura surrounding her was incredible. It wasn’t completely unlike the signature exuded by Xandra’s daughter Sophia. The person before her was clearly a powerful mind of great potential. And yet it seemed shrouded. A necessary precaution for avoiding detection. But remaining hidden begs the question of just what was being concealed.
It was a in large invasion. Alien Invasion Thursday, that's what dad and his friends used to joke about, every Thursday they'd wave their capes in flight and just fight crime and defend Earth like the inspiring symbols they were. That's the gigantic figure my father was, a man that could flick a finger and move masses to his side, it was great to accompany his battles live, people cheering as he knocked the bad guy down or ran through debris with him. I was dad's number one fan, I vehemently wished I could become like him, an imposing figure stoically posing for the cameras as the journalists announced his triumph.
That was until he went out there and came back missing something. Spine broken in a terrible accident, he couldn't move his feet or arms anymore, his incredible durability bestowed by his X-gene couldn't save him from that, had he gotten a healing factor, it would, but not superhuman durability. It was harsh seeing my old man lay low, he'd look through the window, his silvery threads moveless against the breeze, and then a reluctant sigh would come out of his lips, as if he attempted his best to fly out there, help all those good people that needed him.
Mom retired her masked persona short after, and, even though my father's identity was inherited by many others who could not stand idle due to his loss, the pressure as the next great hero on the family fell entirely on my back. Me, the kid that always dreamed of being a superhero, the kid who's eyes glistenned upon watching names as Allegiance sparkle on the news, the only kid of a mutant couple waiting roughly seven years for a mutation that never came...
The kid who's hopes were crushed, not by a villain, but by an antagonizing doctor behind his desk and his imbecilic exams. The kid who's mother cried her heart out while hugging him and saying she was sorry. What was she sorry for? Dad's melancholic eyes as he heard the news? I had been quiet about it, I had been strong and kept my hopes up, but was that it? Only a mere "sorry"? That was what I'd get after all these years?
Tears rolled down my cheek as I trembled, my mom's embrace tightening around my chest. Ultimately, I managed to utter a few words...
It had been a few years since he had obtained the parasite who gave him powers, he had no idea how deeply it affected him, how it cold-shouldered his most genuine sentiments and just earthed them underneath a thick layer of complete ignorance, even though his mother consistently warned him of how frigid he was becoming, how distant that bright kid's simper had gotten, he would just turn his back and shrug.
That was the last memory he had of his mother, she was trying to warn him of his unwanted and evennot perceived changes, but he just shrugged and walked off... Not even an "I love you". When he came back from school, though, he could feel something warm, but it wasn't an old feeling coming back, it was rather the opposite of that, something that would never go back no matter how hard he tried. Knife at hand, killer smile across his face, laying on the floor two corpses Drake'd never forget. "Damn muties." Those words reverberated inside his head as he rushed onward, avoiding the knife as he zapped the life out of the murderer. How... How could there be such intolerant people? How could they taint the deeds, the legacy of his family like that? It was the first time in years he had cried, but his gaze just grew more and more devoid of meaning.
One way or another, he'd work to make the world a better place for anyone, be it human, mutant or man. However, he had a debt to pay, one his parents paid with their lives. Mutanthood was hunted, haunted by the great ghosts of manhunt enforced upon them. They were strong, though, and bearing that strength, they managed to rise not one, but two prosperous nations.
Drake had been at Iceland for a couple of days now, garbing his usual dark clothing, that dead stare plastered on his visage. He approached the Chancellor's secretary, speaking in an upbeat tone. "Is Chancellor X here? I must talk to him."
"I am." The chancellor walked out, looking at this newcomer with arms held behind his back. "What do you wish to talk about?" Within hours, the new ruler of Iceland was to address the world and tell them of an unprecedented threat. Was this regarding that, or something completely different? He did not know and cared little, but had time to spare all the same. He knew that the Time Sihpon's were coming and every individual ally was valuable, no matter their strength.
"Oh!" Ezekiel momentarily flinched, turning around with a respectful bow of his head in order to greet the Mutant Magnate, sporting the best simper he could. "I know you're a busy man, sir, so I'll cut straight to the chase." He sighed, his abruptly emotionless features oozing an indifferent confidence. "My parents were recently murdered by a fanatic. They were both great heroes back in their time, mutant symbols at that too." Pausing Zeke's expression seemed to shift to a more melancholic tone. "I wasn't lucky enough to inherit their special genes, but, somehow, I managed to develop powers of my own. They always had my back when I said I wanted to make the world a better place, I have an insurmountable debt for that. However, I don't think the world can survive if humanity cannot accept the mutants as they are."
Extending his hand as if finishing a deal, Zeke resumed. "I want to offer my services to help protecting not only mutants, but also the world my parents believed in."
The battlefield enclosing the Devil's Heir was a hellish pit of butchery, father fought son in a landscape of murderous rampage and pounding rainwater. Soldiers used knee-deep pools of bloodstained mud to drown their fallen foes in the most heinous of ways. Long, grueling hours of attrition took its toll on both sides of the battle. It seemed as though it was a battle without end, tireless men constantly fighting and dying just as the rainfall continued to pour and soak the ground, mixing the blood into a bloody pit of flesh and mud.
The Icelandic King stood in the midst of this barbarism, fully clad in his own contemporary attire yet completely unaware how circumstances had permitted him to be here.
This was a battle between the Murray and Drummond families of Monzievaird in the Scottish Highlands, so what was an Icelandic ruler from the year 2016 doing here? The Drummond followers were not soldiers, they were butchers - the battlefield their unique cutting board.
A thrown axe came hurtling in, straight towards X's confused face as it was stopped short by the power of magnetism. Without a change of movement, the Devil's Heir spat the axe back towards it's former owner- the axe tore through the man's torso and shattered his spine, followed by a splash as the lifeless body sunk into the bloodied mud.
From a Murray's side this time, a sword swung forth, aiming to cleave X's dazed head from his shoulders. It took little more than a clench of a fist and a flutter of his eyes to disemblow this man, inner rage simmered within the Supreme Chancellor as he was still yet unable to acquire where or why he was here.
In a fit of rage the Icelandic Ruler conjured a fallen blade to his side, smashing and slicing apart anything breathing, bleeding or living in front of him like a wild beast for what history would remember as the Massacre of Monzievaird....
It had been six months since Nation X, New Iceland, had been birthed from what history would remember as one of the world's most bloodiest wars. A conglomerate of warriors from all corners of the globe had united to defeat one tyrant - And install another.
But the naysayers and conspiracy theorists whom had denounced X, the Supreme Chancellor, as a murderous villain had been left to look like tin-hat wearing fools.
Iceland Nation X had not paved the way for a new mutant uprising nor butchered humans.
The Chancellor had not been sighted on the global stage for over three months in fact. The Chancellor, had not been sighted in one month in Iceland. The monarch, had not left the confines of his palace for reasons unknown to even his closest allies.
"Supreme Chancellor, the American ambassador is seeking an audience with you. The United States has elected their new President and---"
The Icelandic diplomat's brow creased, noticing that his ruler was transfixed on the table as though it bore the answer to ending world hunger. He coughed. Loudly. "Sir?" X's fingers drummed on the table for a moment, whispering lightly.
"Càite bheil mi, a tha sibh?"
The Chancellor echoed in Scottish Gaelic, saying the words over and over again for no clear reason. "I've had enough of this." The diplomat thought, quickly looking up at the Chancellor -- Knowing with the man's telepathy, if he had been overheard it would almost be a death sentence. X did not seem to care.
"Lorg....The Great Easbaig."
The diplomat signed and began to --"LORG,...THE GREAT EASBAIG!" X grasped the man's collar, eyes as black as coal gazed into the diplomats, his words repeating the same thing over and over again until they were embedded into his lackeys soul. And as soon as it had started, it had ended. X withdrew from the interaction and fled to the corner of the room like an injured dog.
It had only taken the diplomat half an hour to understand X's message.
It simply read; Find The Great Bishop.
And twelve hours later a single letter stamped with the official seal of Iceland -- Instructed for only for Ali to read, was delievered to the False Bay.
The letter read.
You are needed in Iceland, urgently.
The Bashir Bishop's physical embellishments were well defined behind the form fitting fabric of his fashionable zip-collar jumper, while studiously enthralled with a recently uncovered literary script.
Attentively seated behind the comfortable refinement of a decorative antique office table in the shadow of a tranquil orange fire. The document, a handwritten account as witnessed by the author, seemed to tell a tale of the False Bay's rich and blood soaked history.
In the 17th century when it was begrudgingly referred to as Blood-Breaker Bay and radical pirates and smugglers populated the waterways. Making it a natural spot for vice and illicit exploitation. A fascinating read, but unfortunately one that would have to wait for a more appropriate time.
No words were spoken as one of Ali's personal attache's politely interrupted the sanctity of his study. Hand delivering the ominous letter, silently stressing its ecliptic importance through dignified posture. A respectful nod releasing her from the room to pursue her ardent list of daily duties, before he himself rose to motion. Retrieving his panther habit before procuring transpiration to the New Nation.
Gates of the Imperial Icelandic Palace.A cerebral sense of combat awareness continuously swept Ali's situational surroundings. Heightened alert subtly coiled his muscles like spring loaded suspensions. Capable at a moments notice of igniting into an aerobatic fury of reactionary fireworks. Should the need arise.
The Murray's had been utterly defeated in the battle of Monzievaird. The butchers known from the Drummond lineage had defeated the warriors, marched upon the city and and ultimately massacred the women and children. The last standing Murray was a 35 year old man...
...Or was he? Without rhyme or reason X felt the gritty feeling of mud between his palms. The Lone King of Iceland delicately dropped it upon his deceased daughter before resting a palm upon her cold, lifeless hand. The air was colder than even Iceland, and all he could hear was the weeping and sobbing of surviving relatives.
X had no known Scottish blood within his veins. His blood was German, through and through. The 'Supreme' Chancellor tried to piece together the puzzle but it was as though a portion of his mind was elsewhere, a portion of his intelligence separated from his being....
Gates of the Imperial Icelandic Palace.A cerebral sense of combat awareness continuously swept Ali's situational surroundings. Heightened alert subtly coiled his muscles like spring loaded suspensions. Capable at a moments notice of igniting into an aerobatic fury of reactionary fireworks.
Should the need arise.
But the need would not arise, at least; not immediately.
"Your Highness," the diplomat who had deciphered and sent the message was quick to arrive, greeting Ali with a respectful bow. As was one of Iceland's sential protectors was quick to arrive, who was now guarding the official.
"Pardon the security," he didn't need to even mention the machine, it made him uneasy as a mutant - Let alone anyone who wasn't. "But with X's current... Condition, the officials of this nation have been uneasy to trust foreigners. It is now mandatory for us to be escorted for our own safety. But-"
He waved on the robot, which quickly vanished into the sky. "-this meeting is off the books. As we walk I must warn you, Great Bishop, that the man you once knew is no longer around." The diplomat began walking to the palace. He glanced at Ali. "X has been whispering to himself... In Scottish. Among other languages."
Finally they reached the doorway leading to a passage into X's throne room.
"Tread with caution."
He left Ali's side. He didn't knock on the door, it would be the Bashir Bishops own choice to investigate this conundrum.
Respect permeated off the former Faceless Owl as he removed the sculpted viburnum head-piece from its hermetic seals. Swiftly folding it in the crux of his arm before confidently marching into the dimly lit room, which had unceremoniously been transformed into a royal sanctum of solitude for the regal Chancellor.
An uneasy sickness hung in the air with claustrophobic miasma. Weighted and awkward, it stifled the senses and upset the natural aura of social tranquility. Ali knew the sensation well, baring striking resemblance to the dungeons of the Horned God, Ezra Strix. "Come out old friend. Such isolation, tis not healthy." Glancing throughout the displaced indications of self-induced madness, brow arched in judgmental emote before continuing in his attempted persuasions. "What has become of you? What tis dee meaning of dis madness?" he questioned with genuine empathy. Careful not to leave his gaze lingering too long in any particular direction. Mindful of his blind spots and tactical angles. A mad man was a dangerous one. A mad mutant was apocalyptic.
"I spent the entire span of my adult life looking outwards to the future."
X's eyes did not deviate from their gaze, interlocked fiercely with the tip of his blade. A perfect replica of the one which had struck down his father in a world altering blow.
"Never once did I allow myself to deviate from the path of conquest, never once did I think I could be stopped." He corrected. "Should, be stopped."
This was the first time in three weeks X had spoken clear English. "I failed." Slowly the Icelandic Freemason curled his left palm around the blade itself, intentionally squeezing it until blood trickled from in-between the gaps of his fingers. He turned, raising the knife as though he was moments from levitating the tool with his powers, before it plunged to the ground helplessly with a thud, a stream of blood dripping from the open wound.
X turned from his abandoned friend, mumbling ancient Gaelic to himself once more as though he was conversing with someone else at the same time. Momentarily, the Mad King returned to the present. "Do not concern yourself with the sickness of a mutant mind. I admire you like a brother, but there is only so much a human can comprehend. For I fear what I have taken from myself may be lost," he paused, as though the words pained him, "for all time."
A slowly developed smirk snaked into a passive dismissal of the Icelandic Freemason's inadvertent prejudice. Prideful in his otherwise stoic silence, sub-consciously cold and withdrawn from such cerebral bouts with damaging demons of mental dementia, the Warden of the False Bay comfortably made himself at home. Confidently touring the anti-social architecture, slowly taking the muted measure of his brother's madness with the replicated physiological forensics of the Horned God. Or at least one who had studied at his side as a Faceless Owl.
"Fear not the mettle of my mind bruddah." Ali's back remained turned on the heavily burdened King. A curious obsession funneling the bulk of his attention on the Chancellor's ecliptic bouquet of esoteric decorations, up until the Mad King began reciting the ancient dialect of his ancestral line. "Such a unique inflection." Freeing an authentic copy of "The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Grainne" from the Chancellor's home library, then facing to address him. Dexterously flipping through the first pages with deliberate tutting rhythm. "Perhaps dher is a way dat we can, help each other..."
"Maybe you are right," indeed Ali was, after all. X had cursed himself to this depravity with a foolish attempt to control the unnatural. He was a telepath, what he had tried... Well, tantamount to magic, "perhaps I am the one whose mettle was defeated." He bizarrely laughed, the Unsung King's hubris unable to fully accept that his own misstep was the object of this misery. Slowly the Icelandic King placed his index finger into the open wound, smearing his finger with blood and drawing upon the table without looking up at Ali. "Let me explain," first, X drew a circle. "This is me," he then drew another circle above the first, connecting them with a blood trail, "this one is also me, but an astral projection. It's well documented that the greatest telepaths can project their minds into the astral plane, a non-physical world that overlaps the material world that most recognize as “reality”. It is a realm of thoughts, dreams, and visions.... And in this case, a huge blunder..."
Suddenly X drew another circle, this time below the original one and connection it to the top one. "I tried to inhabit the mind of a dead soul by travelling through the astral world... I do not think this feat has been achieved before. Time travel in our reality is not impossible. But time travel in an astral form? I tried projecting myself into the mind of a dead soul..."
He suddenly balled a fist and rubbed the bloodstain connecting the 1st and 3rd ball, smudging it out of focus. "I lost control and I fear that a part of my mind was lost in the astral world, it somehow fell through time... But not as we know it, some type of psychic disconnect."
Once again X laughed, looking up with a strange grin. "It appears not even the worlds greatest telepath can perform magic."
Ali's concentration was separated by his friend's psychological ailment and his own self-serving investigation. Visually disappointed as he closed the literary collection of Irish folklore, once again unable to uncover the missing piece he so desperately needed in his covert construction of a silently engineered coup. Returning the original work to its precise location before carving his arms behind his back. "If it tis magic you seek, the mystic arts of mental displacement, dhen perhaps I know a....man, who can help...."
"And what is this magicians name?"
X questioned, pushing a small metal candleholder to the other side of the table. "There... Is a second reason for me not leaving this building." With a weathered stare, he outstretched a palm and tried to summon the candleholder to his person. It didn't budge. He looked back at Ali. He didn't say a word, but it was clear his powers had somehow been affected by the displacement.
Both men remained silent in the tension filled moments following X's reveal. Powerless, mind poisoned, the enigmatic ruler truly had been reduced in stature and stability. Pity. The Bashir Bishop gazed upon his estranged friend with subtle hints of it, though said nothing. He couldn't help but to feel for the mutant. Proud and telepathically triumphant, the Mystic Macbeth had sought to violate the natural order of esoteric fundamentals, only to be painfully reprimanded. Even the most powerful mutants were limited by a universal network of laws, X was no exception.
The moment quickly passed as Ali's dogmatic discipline as a former 'Faceless Owl' allowed the immediate adjournment of emotional handicaps. His own invisible demons secretly chewed away at his carefully acquired nobility, enabling his dismissal of empathy and self-regulation. And so without hesitation, the Bashir Bishop surrendered the name of the Horned God, "Ezra Strix. He will help bring you bahk, make you whole." tapping his ringed fingers against his own temple with a gentle pantomime.
"I could make arrangements for your departure, your highness. But if you are so inclined to continue with...." looking around the obvious den of isolated filth and social retardation before closing his sentiments, "dis...sickening trend of social seclusion, dhen you may find him, in your own time, ."sliding a small decorative card with the red handed symbol of the faceless occult under the aforementioned candle-stick holder.
Unknown to the Great Bashir, the past and the present had became one for the Supreme Chancellor -- Allowing X to speak to both Ali and his once master, Ezra, at the very same time. To Ali no time at all had past but to X? Three decades of history forced and crammed into the very depths of his mind, out of these, an interaction with the Horned God himself. Sluggishly, the Chancellor withdrew from the table and turned, folding his arms before him and grasping his chin.
"Ezra Strix was unable to help me."
He confirmed, truly curious how he was to fix this predicament. Slowly he turned to his friend, raising an eyebrow.
"For your sake old friend, I hope you are never broken enough to accept the deals which this devil offers. The Horned God is only as dangerous as his followers are desperate."
With a final sigh, X placed his hands upon the table. "Thank you Ali." He smiled. "I may not be fixed, but you have given me what little clarity I had lost, sometimes all we need is an old face." For the first time in weeks X managed to walk straight without muttering a word or wobbling, guiding the Bashir to the exit.
"I will find a way to fix myself, I was never one for defeat anyways."
Ali offered little but an amicable nod. He had done what little he could, but silently registered the notable change in the Icelandic leader's re-calibrated disposition. Clarity, for how ever brief, had seemingly manifested as a defiant rejection of the Horned God's one-sided 'bargain.' Igniting the titanic telepath's inner constitution as an indirect result of his encounter with the Mad Strix.
In truth, what little energy the False Bay warden had exercised in his friend's restoration, was relieved. For he would not have to bare the weight of yet another fallen soul's damnation on his conscious. "Indeed." he sorrowfully grinned. "I pray you never know such desperation, my friend." A genuine sentiment spoken from first hand experience.
"Would you mind?" Motioning back towards the aforementioned literature. "Tis rare to find such a prestigious copy."Regardless of the afflicted ruler's answer Ali would take his leave. There was much to prepare for, and time was fleeting.
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