The State Home for Foundlings
Sage, Nebraska

He hung upside-down in front of the second story window, suspended by the muscles in his legs as he dangled so precariously above the ground. There were certainly easier ways to go about getting inside he realized as he went about finessing the window lock from his backward upside-down position, but sometimes “easy” didn’t always equal “the best”. Remy LeBeau was a crown prince of thieves, and while the abandoned orphanage appeared on the outside to be an easy mark, there were secrets known to him that exposed its false façade.

He cracked the window and slithered inside, careful to touch down on the wooden floor as lightly as possible. He had only been to this place once before in his life, backed by three of his former X-Men teammates, though he had always known of its existence. It was one of the secret bases of a man more diabolical than the devil himself, an evil that had long gone only by the name of Sinister.

But Sinister was long dead and gone, undone by the backfire of one of his fiendish plots. Who knew what secrets such a place held, waiting to be picked apart and analyzed, Gambit thought. Easily something would be inside that he could pinch and fence on the black market, enough to get him back on his feet financially. Remy sighed at his selfish motives, denouncing them as lies even as he conceived them. It was all a desperate ploy to forget her, and his earlier plan of returning to his friends in the X-Men had quickly fallen by the wayside. Remy wasn’t one to swallow his pride easily, and asking to come back into the fold like a dog with its tail between its legs didn’t have much appeal to him.

So he’d gone back on an old standard, resuming his status as a thief to cover the emptiness inside. What would Rogue think of him now? Would she be disappointed, or was he just falling back into the same modus operandi that was fully expected of him?

“Keep yo’ head in de game, LeBeau,” he whispered to himself as he crept down the orphanage’s hallway, making his way to the secret elevator at the heart of the complex. Even though Sinister was dead, that didn’t mean he still couldn’t have nasty surprises in store for those trying to pick at his bones. The man coveted his privacy, and the last time the X-Men had been here they’d encountered watchdogs of a sort – imperfect clones of a duo of Marauders.

This time, he noticed as he pried open the door to the empty elevator shaft, there was nothing standing in his way. Had someone else beat Gambit to this treasure trove, or had Sinister well and truly pulled up stakes before his demise? He would soon find out as he grabbed hold of the cables dangling down into the belly of the beast and began to lower himself.

His metal boots clicked against the top of the elevator car at the bottom of the shaft, causing nearby rats to scurry off in fright. Pulling open the hatch at the top of the car, he fell like a ghost into the darkness, the only illumination coming from the red glow of his eyes. “Open sesame,” he muttered before slowly opening the door to the steel box.

Surprisingly, instead of the darkness that he had met elsewhere in the complex, he was bathed in the green luminance of Sinister’s secret testing ground. Once upon a time, the deranged geneticist had housed a stable of mutant infants, from whom he took DNA to play his mad games of life and creation. By all accounts, the basement of the State Home should have been empty.

Gambit was shocked to find it anything but…

“Dis be a bad sign,” he mumbled as he stalked with stealth toward the half-open doors of the facility. Peaking through as much as possible without giving himself away, Remy LeBeau gasped at the sight of dozens upon dozens of incubation cribs, each filled with an infant life resting in suspended animation. His curiosity overwhelmed the instincts that were screaming for him to flee before being discovered, and his eyes danced back and forth between the innumerable amounts of pods. Finally, his eyes stopped on the only empty crèche…an empty crucible with crimson blood smeared upon the glass.

The hairs on his neck alerted him just as the hand slapped down on his shoulder, gripping tightly with razored fingers. “May I help you?” the voice hissed as the claws dug into Remy’s arm.

Gambit spun, his free arm waiting with a duo of One-Eyed Jacks that were already glowing with kinetic energy. The playing cards exploded in the face of his assailant, rocking the creature backward and away from the former X-Man. Wasting not even the time to identify the villain – Sinister, who else could it be? – LeBeau broke into a run back toward the empty elevator. With speed granted by fear as much as mutant stamina, Gambit was climbing his way up the elevator cables by the time the creature regained its composure.

Another kinetically charged card blew open the shaft’s exit onto the first floor, just as the skittering and screaming monster began to ascend on his heels. Gambit ran, as fast as he could, cursing himself as a coward with each stride. Another card, another exit – this time directly out the front door of the orphanage. It was only a few dozen feet to the motorcycle he’d stashed for departure; and as he reached it, jumping astride the metal steed with a kick on the starter, he finally allowed himself to look back.

Nothing had followed him, and the smoke from his destruction of the orphanage doors was the only thing disturbing the night. He could see the monster that had been on his back in the shadows inside the orphanage, crouched at the edge of the hole blown through the edifice.

Remy gunned the bike’s engine and rode off, wanting nothing but to get far, far away from such a damned place. “Don’t you worry none, beastie,” he thought to himself, “Gambit be back soon enough…only next time, he no come alone.”

TASTES LIKE CHILDREN

Part I

By Chris Munn

Avalon
Genosha

On the outskirts of Genosha’s capitol city, the formerly named Hammer Bay, was a rarely-used airfield that had long fallen into disrepair. During Genosha’s time as a world power, most transportation needs were met by their mutate populace, in particular a free mutant named Pipeline, who could send entire armored divisions across the planet via a digital pathway. Following the civil war and subsequent takeover by Magneto, the populace of Genosha had little desire to interact with its fellow nations, and while an influx of residents were arriving very few were leaving.

So the deserted airfield was happily appropriated by Alex Summers upon his arrival in Genosha, finding it ideal a place to house his renegade faction of the X-Men from the prying eyes of anyone trying too hard to find them. In the main hangar, which also housed the team’s decrepit C-47 plane that was in worse repair than the field, was where Havok had instituted his own version of the X-Men’s famous “Danger Room”.

“I’m still waiting,” Alex Roberts complained as he stood alone in the center of the immense hangar, “is this test going to start anytime soon?”

On the bleachers to the far left of the young man sat Summers and a grouping of his fellow X-Men. “Patience is a virtue, Alex,” Havok said as he signaled one of his teammates with his fingers.

James Proudstar, the muscular Apache codenamed Warpath, grunted as he stood from the bleachers. He was still on the mend from his battle with the watchdogs of Iron Hell, but Proudstar was always one that recovered quickly from adversity. He strode into the middle of the hangar, his discarded tee-shirt flung back onto his seat and his two Vibranium hunting knives spinning in his hands. “I’ve been itching for a workout,” Warpath commented to the younger man across from him, his neck cracking as he spoke, “hope you don’t disappoint.”

Roberts smiled. “Bring it on, Geronimo.”

“The goal of this test,” Havok interrupted, “is to destroy the objects that Rachel here will be telekinetically flinging around you while not getting tagged by James in the process.”

“Is he supposed to be using knives for this exercise?” Rachel Summers, Phoenix, asked hesitantly.

Havok winked in his niece’s direction. “That’s what makes it challenging.”

Rachel sighed, and with unnerving ease lifted several discarded hunks of machinery into the air from the four corners of the hanger, sending them in a spiral motion above their heads. Warpath wasted no time, lunging with his blade at the throat of his younger teammate, a cry of war escaping his lips.

Roberts dove beneath the Apache’s arm, falling into a roll that deposited him several feet away on his haunches. As he came out of the roll, his body electrified with a luminous green energy, causing his skin to become transparent. Now a smoldering emerald skeleton, Alex released a blast of radioactive energy at one of the flailing objects, obliterating it with one strike.

Before he could mentally congratulate himself, Roberts felt Proudstar’s massive hands on his shoulders. Hefted off the ground, Alex was flung nearly the length of the hangar by Warpath’s incredible strength. Amazingly, as he flew backward, Roberts released another wild blast of energy, vaporizing the second piece of flying machinery.

Warpath, now several feet away from where Alex had landed, let fly the knife in his right hand, sending it with amazing speed and uncanny accuracy on a collision with Roberts’ chest. A wave of Alex’s left hand released another burst of energy, knocking the knife away mere inches from its target, while his right hand destroyed the third piece of machinery.

“One left!” Alex announced as he took aim, confident that he would have the test finished before Proudstar could reach him. To his surprise, just as he released his last blast of energy, James had crossed the distance between them, striking him in the chest with his feet with an amazing flying kick. Both men fell to the floor, but Warpath was the first one up.

“Game’s over, kid,” Proudstar announced as he straddled his opponent, blade to his throat.

“Ease up, James,” Havok ordered as he and Rachel approached the duo, the telekinetic having already placed the fourth hunk of steel back onto the floor.

Proudstar smiled and extended his hand to Roberts, helping the young man back onto his feet. “You’ve got some nice moves,” James complimented, “though maybe I’m still just a bit rusty.”

“He’s right, Alex,” Summers agreed, placing his hand on Roberts’ shoulder, his normal appearance returning with a fading crackle of green energy. “You weren’t a student at Xavier’s for very long, so you can appreciate why a study of your skills was necessary. But the invitation’s there, if you still want to be an X-Man.”

“Up until a year ago,” Roberts answered, “I was on my deathbed, sick with the Legacy Virus. I don’t want to waste my life now that I’ve got a second chance on it…consider me down for the cause.”

“Then welcome to the team, Nuclear,” Havok said with a smile.

“Oh, no, I’m not keeping that name,” Roberts answered with a wince, “I’ve got a new one in mind that sort of came to me in a dream one night.”

He paused, admittedly for nothing more than dramatic effect.

“Skullfire.”

“Lâche! Vous avez couru loin!”

Gambit slammed on the brakes of his Harley Davidson, skidding to a stop in the gravel parking lot of a barely-occupied roadside diner. With the kickstand deployed, Remy sat hunched over his handlebars, a lit cigarette in his mouth and a look of shame and anger on his face. “Huh, some X-Man you are, LeBeau,” he mumbled to himself as he looked around, smoke billowing like a cloud from his mouth.

He saw the dim light illuminating the single public payphone a few yards away and took it as a sign. It was time to call for help.

His fingers danced over the number keys, dialing the number that he’d never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. The line on the other end of the phone rang several times before he heard the click of the receiver being picked up.

“Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters; this is Scott Summers.”

Remy breathed a sigh, butted out his cigarette on the top of the payphone, and began to speak. “Summers, it’s Remy. I just found somethin’, somethin’ bad, up in Nebraska. I need help, il mangeait des bébés, I can’t go back there by myself and you have to send de X-Men!”

“Slow down, LeBeau,” Scott answered, “what exactly did you find in Nebraska?”

“It’s Mister Sinister, Summers!” Gambit shouted into the phone. “He’s alive and now he knows that I know!”

There was a brief silence on the other end, a silence that caused the hairs on the back of Gambit’s neck to stand to attention. He knew what Scott was going to say before he said it. “I’m sorry, Remy,” Summers finally replied, “I can’t help you. The X-Men don’t exist anymore, this is just a school.”

“Summers, aidez-moi…!” Gambit began, before being cut off a final time by his former teammate.

“I’m sorry, Remy. Goodbye.”

And with that, Scott Summers hung up, leaving Remy alone in the dark Nebraskan night.

Scott Summers hung up the telephone on his desk, the stoic facial expression that had long become his trademark still firmly in place despite the frantic conversation he had just ended. The man with the glasses, one frame a solid black, adjusted himself in the seat across the desk from Scott. “Is anything wrong, Mr. Summers?”

“No, Col. Vazhin,” Scott answered the man’s question. Alexi Vazhin was an intelligence agent with the Russian government, having only just sat down for an audience with the Xavier school headmaster moments before LeBeau’s call. “This is an awfully late visit for a Russian spy,” Scott commented, “what can I do for you?”

“I assume you’ve heard about what happened in Cambodia a few weeks ago,” Vazhin began as he dug through his attaché case, “where the country’s prime minister was kidnapped and assaulted by a group claiming to be the X-Men.”

“Yes, I heard.”

Vazhin removed a file from the case, placing it gently on the mutant’s desk. “We’re fairly sure that this terrorist group, whom I assume you have absolutely no ties with of course, is being led by a man named Alex Summers. Your brother, isn’t that right?”

“If Alex is involved, its news to me,” Scott answered, “but he’s never been the most stable person. It is remotely plausible that your information is correct.”

“Regardless, it’s not your brother or these rogue X-Men that I’m here to discuss with you.” Vazhin opened the file, removing three photographs of two men and a woman. “It seems that a firestorm of debate has been opened by the events in Cambodia with the discovery of a facility affectionately referred to as “Iron Hell”. The Cambodian government disavows any knowledge of such a facility, and as far as we can ascertain they’re speaking the truth. This Iron Hell was being operated by an independent contractor as a death camp for mutants without the knowledge or permission of the Cambodian government.”

Cyclops sat back in his leather seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the oak desk. “Who is this third party, then?”

“Still unknown,” Vazhin answered, “but these people here…” He pointed to the photographs laid out across the desk, “…are three of the four known free mutants that worked under this person at Iron Hell.”

The Russian picked up two of the three photographs and handed them to Summers. “Tuong Hun and Kachenh Domnur were the facility’s interrogation and logistics officers, respectively. Both have gone missing following the attack on Iron Hell.” He picked up the third photo, one of an older Asian man. “This bastard, known mainly as the Headmaster – though he has certainly lived several lifetimes under myriad of aliases we’re only now uncovering – was an Omega level telepath that reportedly learned at the feet of Amhal Farouk…”

“The Shadow King,” Cyclops interjected.

“Yes, that’s correct. The Headmaster’s body was found amidst the ruins of Iron Hell, but as we learned with Farouk a corpse does not always equal death when it comes to a telepath of his magnitude. We’re fairly certain the face he wears in this picture is of a body he appropriated for himself years ago, so who knows with this one.”

“You mentioned four,” Summers queried.

“The fourth,” Vazhin responded with a sigh, “is a god damned ghost. We only found vague references to him in Iron Hell’s files, calling him “the Insider”. He wasn’t on staff at the time of the facility’s destruction, but it’s clear he still had contact with the Headmaster.”

“This is all very interesting, Colonel,” Scott said as he stood from his desk, prompting Vazhin to stand as well, “but, as you stated, we have nothing to do with the terrorist group using our former team’s name. What does all this have to do with our school?”

Vazhin collected his coat and fedora hat from the chair next to him. “I owed a great debt of gratitude to Charles Xavier,” he explained, “and I wanted you to at least be warned about what may be coming. Comrade, these monsters you see in those photographs may not make such a distinction between your school and these rogue X-Men. Iron Hell went undiscovered for nearly thirty years, and both Hun and Domnur were trained in their powers in a fashion equal to your graduated students.”

Cyclops motioned his hand toward the office door. “Well, we appreciate the warning, Colonel, sincerely.”

Alexi placed the hat on his head and made his way toward the door. He paused as he reached for the door knob, his head turning back to stare through one glass lens at Scott Summers. “Study the file, Mr. Summers,” he advised, “forewarned is forearmed.”

Vazhin departed, allowing Summers to slump back down in his leather desk chair. “What have you gotten yourself into, Alex,” he whispered as he took another close look at the photographs of Hun, Domnur, and the Headmaster. After several moments of silence, he reached for the phone on his desk and began to dial. After only two rings, the person on the other end answered.

“Alex,” Scott said into the phone, “I received a call not long ago from Gambit. I have something for you to investigate…”

The outskirts of Sage, Nebraska

“Cyclops est un débile…”

Gambit grunted audibly as he leaned forward on his motorcycle, his fifth cigarette flicked several feet away by leather-gloved fingers. He’d stared at the payphone for an eternity, hoping – nay, praying – that Summers would call back with bugles announcing the charge of the cavalry to his rescue. It was if he believed he could will the phone to ring simply by staring at it, but Remy was a man of little patience.

Flipping up his bike’s kickstand and pulling his brown trenchcoat to one side behind him, Gambit prepared to drive away. If Cyclops didn’t care about what he’d seen, then neither would he. Out of mind, out of sight – an expression LeBeau was always fond of. Before he could kick-start the ignition, however, the Nebraskan night was interrupted by a sudden, intense flash of light that nearly knocked Gambit off his bike in surprise.

“Mes cieux,” Remy stated to the six individuals now standing in front of him, having appeared from thin air via the lone female’s teleportation portal, “you people sure make an entrance, non?”

Havok nodded at Gambit, flanked by five of his X-Men teammates. Lila Cheney, the group’s teleporter, and Skullfire flanked on his right; while Avalanche, Xorn, and Chamber flanked on his left. “It’s okay, LeBeau,” Summers stated, “we’re here to help with whatever’s happening.”

“I’m glad Cyclops decided to take me seriously after all,” Gambit said as he brushed a hand through his long, brown hair, “I was just about to give up.”

“Cyclops didn’t send us,” Havok corrected, “not exactly, anyway. We have the phones at the school tapped, that’s how we heard your call.”

“So you not the X-Men after all, den,” LeBeau replied, his eyes cynically sizing up the group of unknown mutants in front of him, “somehow, Gambit – he no surprised by dat news.”

“We’re the only X-Men the world has anymore,” Avalanche spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. “The only ones that matter, anyway.”

“Havok, I must confess,” Kuan-Yin Xorn said softly into the ear of his team’s leader, “a bit of trepidation on our part. Can we trust this man?”

“Surprisingly,” Havok answered with a look in Gambit’s direction, “yes, we can.” With that said, Summers stepped forward, a hand outstretched in Remy’s direction. “Introductions all around,” he said as Gambit shook his former teammate’s hand, “Gambit, meet the new X-Men: Xorn, Lila, Avalanche, Skullfire, and Chamber.”

“So we go storm dis place I found, non?” Gambit questioned, genuinely not caring to be introduced to the newest batch of X-Men. “It be an orphanage, ‘bout ten miles back dat way.”

As Havok and Gambit conferred, Jon Starsmore made his way to the side of his friend, Alex Roberts. {{And people say my accent sounds bloody stupid} he commented telepathically.

“You both sound absolutely ridiculous, I’m afraid,” Skullfire answered with a smirk.

“Lila,” Summers asked the girl at his back, “think you can get us to this orphanage Gambit’s talking about?”

Lila Cheney, former rock goddess and interstellar thief, smiled at the question. “Only if you don’t mind stopping off for a brief layover in the Kree galaxy first.”

The State Home for Foundlings
Sage, Nebraska

“There will be more coming soon,” the monster said to the young woman sitting at the computer terminal, “where there’s one, there is always inevitably many more. X-Men are like cockroaches…”

Doctor Whitt adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on her face and shrugged. “Let them come, then. I’ve got Sinister’s tesseract technology just about figured out. We’ll just deposit them halfway round the world as soon as they step inside the room.”

“Will we lose the babies,” the creature asked, impatient, “if they come with the strom und drang? Should I eat them all before they get here?”

“I think you’ve had enough snacks for one night,” Whitt replied nonchalantly as she tapped on her keyboard. The image of a hidden surveillance camera on the orphanage grounds sprang to view, showing the X-Men arrive via Lila’s instantaneous teleportation ability. “Fuck, they’re already here…”

Outside, the seven X-Men began to advance on the wide-open doors of the State Home, still broken on the hinges by Gambit’s earlier exit. “We go in hard and fast,” Havok ordered, “scorched earth operation.”

Before any of the X-Men could reply, the night sky above them exploded with white light. The wind, formerly still as death, kicked into hurricane proportions, drowning out their attempts to communicate with each other. As each of the mutants looked up into the sky, all of them had the same reaction.

“Is that…?” Lila began the question. “…a fucking flying saucer?” Avalanche finished.

The spherical ship hovered above them, cascading the mutants and orphanage with strobed lights and vicious backdrafts. The spider-legs protruding from its steel hide clicked and tapped on the ship’s metal, sounding like a rusty screen door trying to shake off its hinges.

“Oh dis just keep getting better and better,” Gambit said, his words going unheard over the din of the ship that was immediately recognizable to him, though it had been years since he had last laid eyes upon it.

Inside the massive silver craft, a small egg-shaped figure sat nestled in its basket-seat, the confused reactions of the X-Men causing her to chuckle softly. “Peter,” the egg began, “it would appear we have competition once again.”

The massive, hulking mass of blue steel that called itself the Orphan-Maker leaned over to look over the egg’s shoulder. “So what do we do?”

“Why tonight, my dear boy,” the quite mad woman named Nanny answered her favorite adopted child, “tonight we murder…”

Next Issue: “Tastes like Children” spins into its second chapter as the X-Men find themselves between the monster of the orphanage and the newly-arrived Nanny and Orphan-Maker! Plus: Ecstacy interrogates a prisoner in Genosha, Rachel has a conversation with herself, and Chamber finds himself possibly having to spill the beans about Wonderland and Mister Sinister!