Cambodia
The Cardamom Mountains
Iron Hell

“I know you think this is unfair. Strung up like a rack of meat, forced to endure unending agonies at the hands of people that care not whether you live or die…I know how you must feel.”

Tuong Hun sighed in frustration as he vainly attempted to light his Zippo, the sparks sans flame telling him that the lighter was dry of fluid. With his cigarette dangling from his lips, he turned to his companion and shook his head slowly. “Have you a light, my young friend?”

“If you know how I feel, mate,” Jon Starsmore said from his shackled place against the concrete wall of the cell, “then what’s stoppin’ you from cutting me loose?”

“Unfortunately for you, ‘mate’,” Hun answered with a smile, “I am one of those aforementioned people that care not whether you live or die.”

With a moment of divine inspiration, Hun concentrated – his brow furrowing for his effort – and the tattoo of the lion on his right arm began to glow a bright crimson. In response, that arm began to change…fur sprouted across his skin, while razor sharp talons extended from his fingertips. Leaning forward, he swiped his clawed hand across Jon’s bare chest, barely enough to produce a thin, razored slice across the young man’s flesh. From the cut came not blood but fire, the physical aspect of Starsmore’s mutation – his skin was simply a shell, and contained within was a fury of psionic energy.

“Quite handy, eh?” Tuong quipped as he brought the tip of his cigarette, still clinched in his lips, to the bit of flame burning from Jon’s cut. When Hun pulled back, a lit cigarette was producing smoke, exhaled from his nostrils.

“Glad I could help,” Jon commented.

“We have your friends now, you know,” Hun continued, “the ones who came to rescue you. We know of these American X-Men, and from yesterday’s display I must admit that they’re reputation is far too generous.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Starsmore replied, wincing as his skin healed over the cut on his chest, “but the X-Men weren’t here for me. Last they knew I was dead as fuckin’ disco, killed who knows how long ago. Whatever they were here for, mate, it wasn’t me.”

“We shall see,” Khimaera said in return. “I also must inform you, my break is over.”

Chamber gritted his teeth and sucked in as much breath as he could. He knew what was coming next. Khimaera came closer, reaching out with his glowing left hand. “Time for some pain now…”

IRON HELL

Part III

By Chris Munn

Genosha
Avalon

“What do you mean you can’t find them?”

Jean Grey Summers furrowed her brow in consternation as her brother-in-law slammed his fist down on the table between them, punctuating his question with a gesture of frustrated violence. Alex Summers had returned at the helm of a psionic distress call from another of their extended mutant family, Rachel Summers, alerting him to the capture of half of his X-Men. Understandably, he was quite upset upon his return to Genosha…but that didn’t mean that Jean was allowing his frustration to be taken out on her.

“The coordinates for their destination,” the President of Genosha answered, a scowl placed on her lips, “was downloaded into my mind by Rachel before they left through Gateway’s portal. I don’t know how, Alex, but those coordinates are now gone from my memories…they’ve been erased, and it frankly scares the hell out of me to consider how such a thing could have been done.”

“That’s not good enough,” Alex replied, his anger displaying itself physically via the rings of cosmic energy rippling from his body. “The X-Men are my responsibility, Jean, and for all I know they could be dead before our mission even started!”

“Then perhaps it is time to start fresh,” the voice of Erik Magnus Lensherr sounded off from the entrance to the Presidential Office, “with a new volley of recruits?”

Summers narrowed his eyes and stared at Magneto, holding his gaze for several moments before speaking. “The X-Men are not disposable, Magnus, and I’m not leaving them to die – or, if the case may be, unavenged.”

In the shadow of the Presidential Tower, resting in the heart of the bustling open air of Magda Square, stood the last of the free X-Men in the company of a third man. This third man, the aborigine elder known only as Gateway, sat cross-legged on the concrete, staring at the rock in his hand. Around him, Warpath and Ecstacy squirmed nervously.

“This is so bad,” Stacy quipped, breaking the silence between them, “in, like, a monumental way.”

“We’ll find them,” James Proudstar answered shortly, “have faith in Havok. He won’t fail them.”

Stacy sighed and lowered her gaze toward Gateway. “How can this guy not remember where he sent them? Fucking teleporters…”

“I have an idea,” Proudstar stated as he crouched down to look Gateway in the eye. “Old man, I want you to do something for us…if you can’t send us to the exact spot you sent the others, can you at least get us close?”

“Yeah, so we’ll only have a whole god damned country to search?” Stacy interrupted.

“I’m a tracker, girl,” Proudstar answered, “and there’s no jungle on Earth that could hide my friends for long…”

Cambodia
The Cardamom Mountains
Iron Hell

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Tuong Hun leaned against the door to the cell, a cigarette hanging from his lips and blood on his fingertips. The Headmaster of Iron Hell paused in his actions, his hands stopping short on the sides of his captive’s metal helmet, a moment away from unlocking the man’s face. “You presume too much,” the Headmaster warned, craning his neck to see over his shoulder, “unless you can back up your warning with fact.”

“That creature,” Hun began, stepping into the cell to join his superior, “attempted to remove that iron mask as an offensive move before I defeated him. I have a feeling that the helmet is there for much more than cosmetic appearances, perhaps as a way to keep in check an uncontrollable ability that could kill us all?”

The Headmaster moved his eyes back to the iron face of the unconscious X-Man named Xorn, and his hands lingered for a few tense moments before he finally removed them from the helmet. “You speak wisely, as always,” the man in military dress admitted. “Walk with me.”

The two men stepped from Xorn’s cell and advanced up the corridor, pausing briefly when they approached the next cell. Inside was Rachel Summers, the Phoenix, slumped onto the floor with her hands shackled to the wall behind her. “A steady stream of nerve gas is pumped into the telepath’s room in regular intervals,” the Headmaster informed, “to ensure no psychic communiqués to other possible terrorists. I assume that is how they discovered our whereabouts in the first place.”

“But Sir,” Hun asked cautiously, “how can we be sure that our coordinates are not known already by a larger strike force? I find it surprising that such a small contingent would be sent to dismantle our operation without a larger force held in reserve.”

“A sound question, my young friend,” the Headmaster complimented, “but one already contemplated and corrected.”

“How so?” Tuong asked, still cautious but more curious.

“You and I are not the only free mutants in Iron Hell,” the Headmaster said, “and in our communications department is a young woman whose gift involves location discrepancies. She hides places, erasing coordinates from maps and minds…I couldn’t begin to explain how it works, but as of now the only way Iron Hell can be found is by the naked eye.”

Khimaera nodded in response, though obviously failed to understand the mechanics behind such an ability. He fell behind the Headmaster as they continued their walk down the corridor, coming to the next cell in line. This one had no window, a hyperbaric chamber sealed to the outside world. Within was the X-Man named Fever Pitch, her flames contained by a lack of oxygen beyond what was needed to keep her alive via a mask.

“A pyrokinetic,” the Headmaster spat, “common and expendable.”

They turned to the cell across the hell, the occupant within bringing a smile to the Headmaster’s lips. “But this one,” he said, commenting on the former villain named Avalanche, “is a geomorph, one that can shape and move the earth itself to suit his whims. Think of what such a power could do for our empire, Tuong…we could reshape this country into a perfect geological zone. A paradise on Earth, controlled by the remnants of the Khmer Rouge!”

Tuong Hun said nothing in reply to his superior’s diatribe of hate and destruction. He merely sunk back into the shadows, cursing fate for placing him in such a situation once again. Things were going to die this day, and his hands would once again be covered in blood.

And now Tuong Hun was experiencing thoughts of hate and destruction…just of a different nature than the Headmaster.

The shimmering portal exploded into existence, bathing the dark jungle of The Cardamom Mountain Valley with a cascade of light. Through the crackling hole in space stepped three figures, two men and a woman, all but one physically distressed by their journey. Alex Summers had experienced the transportational power of Gateway many times over the years, but it was still a new transition for James and Stacy to adapt to.

“I sincerely dislike that sensation,” Proudstar admitted, his neck cracking as he twisted his head side to side, “being disconnected from Earth, even just for a moment. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Well it makes me nauseous,” Ecstacy commented while bending over, hands placed on her knees, trying valiantly to keep from vomiting onto the underbrush.

“This was as close as Gateway could get us to wherever it was Rachel and the others went,” Havok stated, ignoring his teammates’ comments, “so now it’s up to you, James. Let’s hope your inactivity of late hasn’t dulled those senses of yours…”

Warpath smiled wryly as he removed the two large hunting knives from the sheathes on his back. “Try and keep up.”

And then he was gone, diving into the jungle with inhuman speed gifted to him by his two tribes. He was the pride of both Mutant and Apache, and he would find his teammates no matter how long it took.

Iron Hell

Pain…

He’d endured more of it than he thought he ever would experience in his lifetime, all within the span of a few days. The skin of his wrists had been cut deep, and was starting to re-grow and bond with the iron shackles that held him to the wall. Every terrible injury inflicted upon him had healed in time, an aspect of his power that had only come into effect a short time ago. Before that, he’d walked around with a gaping hole in his chest and lower face, revealing the furnace of psionic flame that burned beneath his outer form.

Jon Starsmore wasn’t human, not really, and he’d finally started to realize that…but then he had to go and die. Now he was alive again, and his captors didn’t have what it would take to kill him for a second time. That was his advantage, that despite their ability to inflict pain they were really no mortal threat to him after all.

The X-Men had come – to save him? Doubtful – and were captured themselves, overwhelmed by an enemy they had been unprepared to face. But now Jon had a plan, a way to gain the advantage. His captors knew he was a mutant, but they didn’t know the extent of his power, the true root source of his flame.

They didn’t know he was a telepath.

He had communicated via telepathy for years, during the time he had no mouth through which to speak, but he had never attempted such a feat before now. Jon closed his eyes and allowed himself to fade away, focusing all of his concentration on such a simple task – he simply envisioned himself as standing ten feet ahead, away from the shackles that held his body and outside the cell that imprisoned him.

And when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring back at himself through the porthole in the cell’s door. He was standing there, invisible to the sentry standing guard, as a denizen of the Astral Plane – a being made of pure psionic energy. He had succeeded in stepping outside of his physical body, but unskilled as he was he knew that communication with his fellow captured X-Men would be next to impossible.

Impossible, unless one of those X-Men was a telepath as well. He had fallen out of the loop with the quickly changing roster of X-Men over the last year, what with him having been dead and all, and he had no idea who he could expect to find of the mental persuasion. There was Professor X himself, of course, but that was doubtful…Jean Grey or Psylocke would be much more likely.

Starsmore continued with his out of body experience, stalking down the hallway of prison cells in search of someone that could aid him. Having no corporeal form, he was able to enter each cell in turn, and the people he found held inside were unrecognizable to him. There was the man in the iron mask and the skeleton made of smoldering flame. There was the man he thought looked like Avalanche, though that was impossible – the X-Men wouldn’t have stooped low enough to allow a terrorist into their ranks, would they? Finally, in the last cell he entered, he found her.

He placed his intangible fingers inside the skull of Rachel Summers and sent a jolt of psionic energy throughout her brain, counteracting the nerve gas that incapacitated her. Her eyes shot open, snapping her out of her stupor, and with telepathic eyes she saw her savior.

{Time to wake up, gel} Chamber “said” with a smile on his nonexistent lips. {Get us the fuck out of this bloody place, would you?}

James Proudstar landed in a crouch on the tropical floor, his fingers placed to the brush to read what they could from the land. “The earth has been disturbed here;” he said aloud, “Avalanche makes an easy trail to follow.”

The brush behind him rustled slightly, almost silently, causing the Apache’s back to stiffen. “Don’t ever try to sneak up on me,” he warned to the girl emerging from the trees.

Ecstacy smiled as she approached, wrapping her serpentine arms around Warpath’s shoulders. “Honey, I think you’re just surprised I was able to keep up with you.”

“I’m only going to warn you once, Stacy,” Proudstar said as he shrugged her arms from his shoulders, “don’t ever try to use your pheromone power on me. You wouldn’t like the result, I assure you.”

Ecstacy took a step back, a slight scowl forming on her lips. “Fine, all business then. You found the others yet, Tarzan?”

Warpath removed a knife from the sheathe on his back and pointed ahead. “Right through that tree line,” he revealed.

Stacy stepped forward and pushed her way through the tangle of tree limbs, advancing until she came upon a clearing. In a valley below the line of trees stood a small complex, surrounded by fencing and sentries. “So we going loud or are we going sneaky?” she asked.

Havok finally emerged from behind the two X-Men, not quite as agile or quick as his teammates, just in time to hear Stacy’s question. “You two go in quiet,” he decided, “leave the loud part to me.”

Suddenly the ground beneath their feet began to rumble and shake, quaking the lush jungle that surrounded them. The three mutants looked toward the Iron Hell compound, the epicenter of the tremors. “Avalanche, you think?” Proudstar asked. Before Alex could answer, one of the buildings in the compound exploded outward…

…and emerging from it was the fiery raptor of the Phoenix Force!

Iron Hell
Several Moments Before

In a room lit solely by the light provided by the black and white monitors affixed to the stone wall, each displaying a different area captured by individual security cameras, a young girl adjusted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses across her nose. With a sigh, she tapped slightly on the Enter key of her keyboard, accessing the archaic computer system of the compound.

The girl’s name was Kachenh Domnur, and she was one of the very few free mutants allowed to reside inside the walls of Iron Hell as an employee and not a prisoner. Her particularly abilities had proven useful to the Khmer occupation when she was a child, and it was that selfsame usefulness that had allowed her a relatively luxurious upbringing compared to others of her ilk.

It was she that hid the location of Iron Hell from the prying eyes of the outside world, her transcontinental powers of disorientation making it impossible for anything other than the five human senses to divine the camp’s location amidst the mountain valley. Not even she knew how such an ability was possible, but it existed none the same…and it was to the Headmaster’s pleasure that she had enveloped the facility from view following the attack by the Westerners.

“Do you ever wonder, my little Kachenh,” Tuong Hun said from the doorway of the surveillance room, “if our souls will be punished for our actions in this place?”

“I am infinitely more concerned with my well-being in this life,” she answered with a smile, lithe fingers brushing strands of ebony hair from her face, “than with what may happen after I die. You should be similarly concerned, don’t you think?”

“The Headmaster is insane,” Khimaera declared as he took a seat next to his younger compatriot, “does that not also make us insane by association if we follow his every whim without question?”

“There is a fine line between insanity and brilliance, my children.”

Hun and Domnur spun in their seats, both equally surprised by the voice of the Headmaster from the doorway behind them. Kachenh quickly turned back to her monitors, pretending as if nothing was amiss, but Tuong retained the icy stare thrown his way by the Headmaster. “Once this is finished,” Khimaera stated, “we will speak more on this subject.”

The Headmaster chuckled softly. “My dear boy, do you honestly think this is the first time you’ve had such thoughts about our enterprise here in Iron Hell? I’m a telepath, fool…memories are mine to alter at will.”

“Sir, pardon my interruption,” Kachenh interjected as she leaned forward in her seat, glasses lifted to her eyes to focus on one of the security monitors, “but it appears that the American girl is awake!”

Rachel Summers sat up, as if she’d been jolted by electricity, and fought hard to catch her breath. Awake, though groggy, she strained her wrists against the manacles that held her – and with a spark in her fingers the telekinetic power of the Phoenix were activated. The shackles dismantled into their component pieces at the direction of her mind, and with a snarl she stood in the center of the cell.

The Phoenix was angry, and as she raised her hand and extended her fingertips outward the wall warped and dissolved, taken apart at the molecular level by her telekinesis. As she strode into the hallway, psionic flame cascading across her lithe body, a battalion of Iron Hell’s security force poured into the corridor to confront her. This was not the first attempted escapee they’d brought low, and they were determined she would not be the last.

“I want the X-Men,” she demanded, her voice burning like a roaring fire.

The soldiers replied with the action of ratcheting their assault rifles, preparing to fire.

Rachel Summers smiled while starlight danced in her pupil-less eyes…

…and then she exploded.

NEXT: “Iron Hell” continues into Part 4 of 3 (ha, ha) and features the X-Men blowing the bejeezus out of a large section of jungle. But trust me kids, not all of our merry mutants may come out of this one unscathed…I’m just not that nice, you know.

Waiting To X-Hale

Yes, yes, I know this was originally supposed to just last three issues and then move on. But instead of writing a double-sized issue that would make the conclusion to the story even more horrendously late than it already is, I decided to just split it in half.

The good news? X-Men #36 is halfway finished already. Could this book actually be getting back on a monthly schedule? I’m almost afraid to say “yes” and jinx everything back to Hell.

I do want to put out a heart-felt Thank You to everyone who wrote in and nominated X-Men and “Iron Hell” in a staggering EIGHT categories for this year’s Emmo Awards. That just blew me away, and even if the book doesn’t win a single one…well, it’s still awesome to just be nominated. If you haven’t voted already, well, what’s stopping you?

Chris Munn
04/10/07