GENETIC ECLIPSE

Part XIV: The Final Hours

By Mike Franzoni

Author’s Note: This story is continued from Uncanny X-Men #16.

The distant past.

From above, the sun beats down upon the desert sands, bleaching away all color beneath its golden tempest. The sky stretches out forever, washing the world in an endless sea of crystal blue and covering the land like clear glass. This makes the heat unbearable as it rains down upon their shoulders, driving the sweat from their brows and into their eyes.

The pain knots in his back as his muscles tense against the strain of lifting the heavy stone, despite the definition he has built from his years of toil for the Pharoah. His fingers are cracked from the dry heat, but still he grips the stone strongly, unwilling to let it fall to the desert floor and show a sign of weakness to the Pharoah’s minions. No, he would not allow them the gratification.

He feels a tug at the metal chair tethered around his ankle and the cut of the shackle as it slices his skin. Ahead, a woman falls to the ground, her knees pitching forward as the weight of the stone brick carries her to the sand. A raspy cough escapes her lungs as she struggles to climb back to her feet, finding her strength sapped by the sun and the labor. She begins to mumble to herself, her mouth to parched to utter the words aloud as she begs to Ra for leniency.

From out of nowhere, the crack of the whip against her sun-parched skin echoes amidst the sound of feet shuffling through the sand. She arches back upon the painful impact and falls face-first into the sand as the blood trickles down her back in a slow-winding trail of crimson. Within seconds, the slave-master stands above her, the whip wound menacingly in his hand, poised for a second strike. “Rise now or die. You live only to serve Pharoah. If you cannot serve, you shall die where you lay,” he says, allowing the whip to unfurl as he lifts it above his head.

As the whip reaches its zenith, the slave-master feels the slack suddenly tighten as he is ripped backwards off his feet. He skids across the desert sands a few seconds later and comes to rest beneath the gaze of a tall slave. The slave’s large hand moves with the speed of lightning and wraps itself around the master’s neck, lifting him into the air to eye-level. “Do not seek to torment us more than your Pharoah already does,” the slave says, staring the man down before slamming him powerfully into the stone brick he had recently been carrying, spraying blood across the white sands as a wide smile curls into the deep indigo of his skin.

Already, the slave can see the other masters coming from their posts to quell the rising insurrection. No, they cannot have one slave inciting a rebellion, not amidst the construction of the Pharoah’s temple. This ground will soon be consecrated as holy ground, and blood must not be spilt here, lest it become tainted before the Pharoah’s internment. But the slave knows his place in the scheme of things, and he knows that the world has better things in store for him than an early death in the dunes. Reaching down, he lifts the rock above his head and brings it thundering down into the chain tethering him to the other slaves. The metal gives beneath the crushing weight, and he shrugs himself loose from the chain of slaves.

Turning, he runs off into the desert, calling back over his shoulder, “Be it known today, that En Sabah Nur cowers before no man. I shall raise an army from this dust and topple this empire to the ground. Then, and only then, shall we see who is truly strong!”

The here and now.

He is a survivor, time-tossed and tempest-worn by the centuries that have preceded this day of reckoning. For decades, he has overseen the rise of man along the evolutionary ladder, engineering events in order to further his own Darwinian philosophies. He had put his plans in motion, rounding up his Horsemen and preparing a viral agent to cull the weak from the strong, but the X-Men had interfered first in Washington and later in the Egyptian desert.

His name is Apocalypse, and he is forever.

But even he has limits to his own mortality, and there is no greater a reminder than the crimson blast that ricochets against his chest, driving the indigo giant backward. Already, he can feel the mesomorphic cells knitting themselves back together, repairing the wounds inflicted by the concussive force blast.

From across the Egyptian desert, a lone man stands prepared to light the night in ruby once more, his finger poised along the side of his optic visor. “One way or another, Apocalypse, this ends tonight, now and forever.”

“Do you truly believe yourself strong enough to destroy that which is eternal? You may be of superior genetic stock, but even you will yield before he who has withstood entire armies over countless centuries. Your X-Men have failed to extinguish me in the past. What makes you think that you alone can do it?” Apocalypse returns, morphing his arm into a shield to block Cyclops’ second blast.

The ruby quartz descends over his field of vision, sheltering everything in an aura of red. Curling his hand into a fist as he moves it away from the visor, Cyclops responds, “Perhaps because I didn’t come alone.”

In the hands of any other man, the Psimitar would be a simple weapon akin to a spear, but for the man named Cable it is an extension of his psionic abilities, amplifying and focusing them in ways Cable could not manage on his own. Now, it becomes a tool to funnel his telekinetic power, willing the sands to rise from the desert in a spiral around them. The sweat drips down his face as he concentrates on holding the sand together in a dome. “Go to it, Scott!”

Cyclops unleashes his mutant powers once more, opening his visor wide and slamming his blast into the wall of sand. He can feel the telepathic echoes as Cable fights to hold the sand in place while Cyclops sweeps his blast over the surface. Quickly, the sand crystalizes into a thick glass, and Cable releases his hold on the dome piece by piece, content with its containment.

“Foolish mortals, do you think to imprison me in a house of glass?” Apocalypse bellows, laughing at the make-shift prison.

Leaning against the Psimitar and catching his breath slowly, Cable responds, “Not at all…we just don’t want to be interrupted by anything.”

Years ago…

The light dies away slowly, and he feels a void in his heart, a spot once occupied by the connection he shared with his son. His son, who had until moments ago been a part of his life, now swept away into the future to save his tender young life. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. Father and son, so soon parted.

Behind him, Scott can feel the others lingering, floating between a desire to help and a curiosity of whether or not they should leave him be. Even Jean, the love of his life, remains hesitant to reach out to him, and he can sense that through the telepathic rapport they share. He wishes he could help them, but how can he, when he can’t even admit that he, himself, needs help.

The Askani had offered the solution, promising to care for young Nathan and free him from the shackles of the techno-virus. It was a decision he had been forced to make with no time left to think, and even now, he knows that there was no decision at all. He did what had to be done, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy with that choice. Sniffling, he whispers, “Why?”

An arm wraps around his shoulders, the lithe fingers of her hand brushing against his chest as she pulls him back into her. He feels the heat of her body as he melts into her, the sobs being cushioned between her arms. The words come softly from her lips, speaking quietly into his ear, “It was the only way, Scott. Your love has saved his life.”

“Bu…but he’s gone Jean…forever…my little boy is gone…”

“We’ll get him back, honey. When he’s better and it’s safe for him to come back, the Askani will bring him back to us. But there was nothing you could do, except give him up,” Jean says, keeping a comforting tone of voice. She too is grief-stricken, but Scott needs her strength right now, and she can’t let that falter.

He feels the trembling coming over the rapport, a sensation of inner strength with a thin tremor of self-doubt behind it. The tears stream down his cheek, slipping beneath the tight seal of his visor against the blush in his skin. Shakily, he climbs to his feet, his fingers clenchingly intertwined with Jean’s as he steadies against her. Through the ruby quartz, he looks toward his friends, his family, and wonders how many more he must lose before the final battle is won.

Bobby looks between them all and smiles to himself when Beast steps forward, knowing that of the three of them, Hank is perhaps the most equipped to help with this situation. “At junctures such as these, it becomes imperative to gaze back upon memory, to divine the gateways beyond which we harbor our love. It is the sole beacon which shall guide us through the misty gray and back into the sheltering light of day. It provides us not with salvation from the present, but instead lends us the hope to believe that someday, somewhere, we shall find a truth that shall free us all.”

Back in the present.

The world rocks as Apocalypse hammers his fists into the pebbly earth, issuing forth a tremor and shaking the two men from their feet. His hands revert back from the pile-drivers they had become, and he crosses them against his barrel chest. Even now, the battle grows tiresome, a waste of his energies, but how can he deny their challenge to his right to survive without showing that he is weak? “Foolishness, kneel before me and I might yet offer you a place amongst my chosen.”

Cable pushes himself to his feet, leaning against the Psimitar for support. He is not yet ready to yield to this timeless despot, nor is he ready to allow his future to come about. Apocalypse has to have a weakness, he thinks, some kind of window that they could strike through. Question is, would they be allowed that opportunity?

{Nathan,} Scott says, sending out a mental message and hoping that Nathan is still open enough to receive it. If they’re going to win this battle, they need to coordinate attacks. {I need you to hit him with a split barrage, full frontal attack…push him to the edge with multiple angles and power levels. He’s blocking everything aimed at him, and if I’m right, we might be able to slip something by him with a little luck.}

Cable doesn’t resist his father’s command, knowing that Scott has led the X-Men for countless years for a reason. Instead, he channels his power through the Psimitar, calling forth a series of telekinetic bursts and peppering the Dark Lord with attacks. Apocalypse shrugs off each blast, morphing his body to compensate for the attacks or combatting them with contradictory charges. His movements are quick and nearly effortless, but even Cable can see that the external is slowing. But who will crumble beneath the pressure first?

Kneeling where he had fallen, Cyclops opens the ruby quartz of his visor and blasts past Apocalypse, narrowly missing his target, but smiling nonetheless. He watches as Apocalypse doesn’t react to the blast as it flies past its target, but then the concussive force ricochets off the glass walls behind Apocalypse and strikes him in the center of the back.

Stumbling forward to his knees, Apocalypse thrusts his hand forward and stretches his limb outward, wrapping Cyclops in its grip and tightening. Scott struggles inside the hand, feeling the bones in his chest start to tremble beneath the pressure. It would be so easy to give in right now, but there are those who are depending on him, those who need him to come home. Instead, he opens his visor full, allowing the concussive energy to flow freely from his eyes and into the close quarters of the gripping hand.

At first, there is no reaction, but then the pressure mounts and even the ageless must crumble before it. Apocalypse releases his grip, but Cyclops keeps the visor open on full and continues his attack as he falls to the earth. He arches his back as he strikes the ground and for a moment, he lets up on the attack, pausing to catch his breath.

“And now you shall see the true anger of the ages, for you, Summers, have fallen from my chosen, despite your placement in your vaunted Twelve,” Apocalypse yells forth, growing to a height five times his normal and increasing his density proportionately. “And you, Askani’son….you must be wondering how I know this. But even I am not fooled by the prophecies of days to come. Do you think that the first son of the atom would not be among the Twelve? Not even I am such a fool as to doubt that.”

Cable blinks and wonders the extent of Apocalypse’s knowledge, but quickly shakes it off, knowing that if Apocalypse had discerned the identities of the Twelve, Kitty would not have been the only one kidnapped. But still, it forces Cable to realize that their foe may indeed possess the keys to final victory.

The distant future…

Slowly their eyes go blank, and Nathan watches as the life slips from their bodies. For the second time in his life, his parents are being ripped from him, this time at the culmination of their quest to end the Dark Lord’s reign over the world. For years, they had watched over his growth and taught him to control his emerging psionic abilities in a way to keep the techno-virus from sweeping over his body. They had shown him love in a time when everyone was fighting to stay alive, to ensure their continued existence in Apocalypse’s Darwinian vision.

They would be missed.

In the back of his mind, he can feel Rachel slipping away, slowly sliding into the recesses of his memory. And yet, he feels comforted by her presence, by the fact the his family was whole for a short while. But to know that it was Rachel who had brought him here, to this hellish wasteland in order to save his life, that it was Rachel who brought Redd and Slym unto him in order to ensure that he was loved… it all means so much more than he could ever describe.

And yet, he feels an anger inside, a sense of fury over the necessity to bring him here, knowing that the flame could have been quenched years before if only they had known. Perhaps there might still be a way…

Oh well, he thinks, and fades away from the window. He needs to be gone by the time Apocalypse’s soldiers arrive to survey the damage.

Back in the present…

The Psimitar glows brightly and a gutteral scream erupts from Nathan’s throat as he pours every ounce on energy through the Askani weapon. The full force of his telepathic and telekinetic energy flows forth and slams into Apocalypse like a tidal wave, crashing down like a thunderhead. En Sabah Nur reels back in pain from the combined mental and physical attack, feeling the layers of his mind peeling back beneath the onslaught.

Cyclops sees his opening, and despite the pain in his chest and the waning power supply at his disposal, fires his optic blast once more. The concussive force strikes the same target occupied by Cable’s telekinetic energies.

Over the sound of the desert winds striking the glass, a low crackle begins to build, and before either X-Man can place it, the world erupts into a white light, blinding them both and knocking them off their feet as the energy from the explosion flows out in waves. Staggering, their attacks falter, but not before the scream of Apocalypse fills their senses and glass begins to rain down upon them.

When the dust settles, Scott Summers believes himself alone, saved by the consuming energies of the explosion. But then he feels the hand wrapping itself under his bicep and tugging him to his feet. Turning, he stares into the blood streaked face of his son and smiles.

The devil is gone from their lives.

Back in Salem Center.

No sooner disembarked from the Blackbird, Scott is rushed into the med-lab with Cable following shortly behind. Both require medical attention, but that will have to wait as another matter demands their presence.

Just outside the air-locked doors, Scott can hear the grunts and cries, and the tears begin to well in his eyes already. His excitement carries him through the airlock and stops him in his tracks and he spies his wife on the medi-bed, her knees supported up on the holsters and Cecilia kneeling below them.

Cecilia tosses a quick glance over her shoulder and yells out, “S’about time, Mr. Summers. If you had missed this, I would have personally left a sneaker print on that skinny butt of yours.”

Scott doesn’t seize the opportunity to reply, instead taking his place aside his wife, the woman who is about to have his children. He looks down into her emerald eyes and clenches her hand in his, radiating in her beauty. He can not find the energy to voice the words, but instead, quickly mouths an “I love you” and leans down, placing a kiss against her forehead.

Suddenly, she bucks forward, arching her back away from the bed and screaming loudly. Cecilia grimaces and pulls, gently cradling the emerging life in her hands. Cutting the cord quickly, she passes the first child to Beast, who takes it to the cleaning table and ensures that it begins to breath on its own.

“Congratulations, Mister and Missus Summers, your first child is a beautiful baby girl. Green eyes and flaming tresses thrown in as a bonus gift. Thank the good Lord, she looks like her mother.”

Scott tries to smile, but upon glancing back toward Jean, he can see that the pain has not ended, and a look of worry sweeps over his face. He looks between Jean and Cecilia, wondering what is wrong, if this is natural for the delivery of twins, but their expressions do not reveal their thoughts. “Is something wrong?” he pleads.

From the edge of her mind, Cecilia hears Jean beckon telepathically, something that the pregnant mother should not be doing at this time. She glances up at Beast and tilts her head toward Scott, then toward the door, hoping that Beast catches her meaning. Biting her lip, Cecilia thinks loudly in response, {There may be some complications, Jean…we need to get Scott out of the room.}

Beast grabs Scott around the arm and tugs him toward the air-lock door. At first, Scott looks confused, unsure of what is happening. But then he realizes that something is wrong and turns to face Hank, begging the man to answer just one question, “Hank, tell me…what is it? This is my wife, my children…I have to know what’s wrong…”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Scott,” Hank begins, choking back a sob as he levels his voice into the hypocratic monotone that seems wrong for dealing with his friend. Somehow, there should be an easier way to share this news. “Scott, the little girl is going to be fine, wonderfully healthy she is. The cure did her wonders.”

“What are you saying, Hank?”

“The second twin… it’s not exhibiting any vital signs. It didn’t survive the infection.”

THE END

NEXT, IN GENETIC ECLIPSE EPILOGUE: The ramifications of the battle with Apocalypse are felt as Jean and Scott come to grips with their loss and the X-Men decide what is best for their two teams. Could re-unification be in the works, or will their differences drive them further from each other? Also, just who are the Twelve?