The crescent-shaped aircraft hovered in the skies above Mutant Town. Inside the craft, Marc Spector donned the white outfit, making him into the avatar of Khonshu. At the controls sat his pilot, Jean-Paul DuChamp. Or Frenchie as Spector had taken to calling him during the long course of their friendship.

“Trail leads here,” said the Moon Knight. “Once I’m gone, circle around until you get a call. Don’t want any tip-offs to my presence. Not before I’m ready.”

“Understood,” said Frenchie. The Moon Knight pulled a lever and a hatch opened on the ground. He jumped from the plane, the white cape billowing out and catching the wind as he fell.

He landed on the roof and moved to its edge. Securing an an anchor at the edge, he drew a length of cable from his side, attaching it to the anchor and slowly lowering himself down the side of the building. He approached one of the windows of the tenement, and placed a small device on the glass. It picked up the sounds from inside and transmitted them to an earpiece he wore beneath his mask. Some adjustment of the levels was necessary at first, but then he could hear the conversations going on inside the room as clear as day.

“We’re running low on supply out here. People are snatching this stuff up like mad.”

“I’ll tell the boss, he might have some more ready to go for us.”

“What about that kid who died?”

“What about him?”

“Word on the street is they got some fed investigating it.”

“Let ‘im investigate. Feds got nothing on us. Besides, what do they care about a dead junkie?”

“Well when a dead junkie has a tree stickin’ outta him, it gets some attention.”

“You worry too much.”

Moon Knight mentally counted each of the different voices he could hear. Four different voices, so at least four marks. Possibly more who were being silent. Additional sounds to indicate any others were too vague. Four definite marks, that meant plan for seven with a contingency for nine.

He drew several crescent-shaped throwing weapons, holding them between his fingers. Just as he was about to remove the transmitter from the window, he heard a loud crash. Wood breaking, someone broke down the door.

“What the hell?!”

Gunfire came next. Moon Knight pulled the transmitter off the window and pushed himself from the wall. He swung towards the glass and disengaged the cable just as he crashed through, rolling on the ground and coming up in a crouch.

He didn’t join in the fight. Instead, he watched as a large, Native American man dressed in black and red leather took on the five dealers. He held a dagger in each hand and his speed was completely unreal. He dodged and weaved past them, easily avoiding their bullets. Two of them each took knives to the gut. A third earned a concussion from a kick to the head.

The fourth fired wildly and the large man charged at him like a bull. He slammed into him with his shoulder, pinning him to the wall and driving his elbow against the man’s face, knocking him out cold.

Before he could react, Moon Knight saw the sixth dealer coming out from the bathroom, raising his gun. The former mercenary hurled the crescents and they flew over the man’s shoulder before striking the dealer. The large man moved after the gunman, taking his weapon and holding him against the wall.

“Don’t knock him out,” said the Moon Knight. “We need someone to talk.”

“Moon Man, right?”

“Moon Knight.”

“Sorry, left my trading cards at home.”

Moon Knight noticed the stylized Xs on the man’s uniform. “One of the X-Men?”

He grinned. “You might say that. Name’s Warpath.”

“Your group is usually confined in that school,” said Moon Knight. “Didn’t expect to see any of you out here.”

“I’d be offended if I were part of the school,” said Warpath. He took one of his daggers and held it against the dealer’s throat. “Now then, why don’t we have a little chat about Mutant Growth Hormone?”

KNIFE PARTY

By Chris Munn and Dino Pollard

The fists that struck the mutant called Khimaera were wrapped in a type of armor. Still, he gave the man who continued to pummel him no benefit of watching him scream or even groan in pain.

Blood poured freely down the Cambodian mutant’s face. The human who had been torturing him for the last hour or so wore a robe with a bright, white cross emblazoned on the front. He was a believer, a religious zealot who felt that mutants were an abomination to God and a creation of Lucifer. He was a Purifier.

“Still have nothing to say, genejoke?” asked the Purifier.

Khimaera spat his own blood, striking the Purifier’s eye. The mutant then smiled. “You hit like a flatscan bitch.”

The Purifier’s face became enraged and he drove his fist into the mutant’s abdomen. Khimaera went with the blow, doubling over and stopping himself from making a sound. The Purifier grabbed his hair and raised his head, then backhanded him.

Khimaera began to laugh. “You stupid human, do you really think this is torture?” He stared the Purifier right in the eye. “I can taste your fear. Even when you have me like this, even with those little toys you’re wearing, you’re still more afraid of me than I am of you.”

“Mind-reader, fuckin’ mind reader…”

“No, I’m not, actually,” said Khimaera. “It doesn’t take a telepath to know what you’re thinking. It’s so obvious, you may as well tattoo it on your forehead.”

The tattoos on Khimaera’s bare arms began to glow.

“Do you know what these marks allow me to do?” he asked. “Would you like to know?”

The Purifier wrapped his hand around Khimaera’s throat, applying pressure to it. “One more word, genejoke, and I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck, you understand?”

Khimaera smiled. “I don’t think your master would like that, now would he? You’re here to extract information. Difficult if I’m dead.”

The Purifier hesitated then released his grip. The grin never left Khimaera’s face. “Do you really think you can break me?”

“Oh, I will,” said the Purifier.

“My childhood was torture—literally,” said Khimaera. “You Americans. You watch 24 and Hostel and think you know what you’re doing.”

The Purifier punched Khimaera. His head rocked to the side and then moved back to position and he spat blood once more.

“I was skilled in the art of torture when you were still saying Hail Marys for jerking off to your mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalogue. The things I’ve done would make your torture scandals look like an afternoon spa. And you think I will break because you made me bleed a little?”

Khimaera’s eyes narrowed.

“You have no concept of how to break a man, little boy.”

The Purifier raised his arm in a rage, prepared to bring down another blow when he heard a commanding voice from behind him—“Brother!”

He turned and saw a man enter with silver hair and dressed in a fine suit with a golden cross hanging around his neck. The Purifier knelt before the man and kissed the ring on his hand. “Father Stryker, you bless me with your presence.”

The Reverend William Stryker kept his gaze focused on his prisoner as he addressed his follower. “Rise, my son.”

The Purifier did as commanded. “This one is stubborn, Father. But I promise you, I will break him.”

Stryker never broke gaze from Khimaera. “I’m sure you could, my son. Given time. Unfortunately, time is not something we have in abundance.” He stepped closer to the Cambodian mutant, their eyes locked together.

“Be careful, Father. You don’t want to get too close to this one,” said the Purifier.

“You are dismissed,” said Stryker.

“Father?”

Now, Stryker finally turned to his charge. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, Brother? I said you are dismissed.”

“Thy will be done,” said the Purifier, kneeling before Stryker and then going towards the door. “God be with you, Father.”

Stryker found his gaze drawn back to Khimaera once more. “And with you, my son.” Once the Purifier left, Stryker picked up another chair in the room and set it before Khimaera, sitting a few feet away from them.

“So…here we are,” said Khimaera.

“Indeed,” said Stryker. “I think it’s time you and I had ourselves a chat.”

Hammer Bay
Genosha

“Motherfucker! I swear to Christ, I will fucking END you!”

Lila Cheney, former thief extraordinaire and intergalactic rock goddess, tapped furiously on the buttons embedded in the neck of the plastic guitar. On the large television screen in front of her, note after musical note was missed in succession as she attempted to play Guitar Hero. It wasn’t that she couldn’t play guitar, she was almost a prodigy on the instrument; she just couldn’t get a handle on the button system. Adding insult to injury, it was one of her own songs that she was failing at so miserably.

She’d hoped that playing the game would allow her to forget her recent frustrations, not compound them. For the past month she’d been sequestered in hiding amongst the mutant population of Genosha along with her fellow X-Men, their actions easily construed by the world as terrorism at its worst. She was fine with the label, fine with being on the run as an outlaw, but it was her part in the team that concerned her. She believed that signing on with Summers’ X-Men meant something more than just being a taxi service; was Havok just using her for her teleportation ability or was she truly a member of the team?

“I heard those video games, dey rot your brain, non?” Remy LeBeau leaned against the doorway to the recreations room, a deck of cards shuffling in his hands and the ever-present smirk smeared on his stubbled face. Gambit, too, had only recently been recruited into Alex Summers’ squad of extremely militant X-Men, and he’d yet to be convinced that he’d made the right decision. Unlike Lila, though, Remy had been a bit more vocal about his reservations.

“That’s it, I’m done!” Lila shouted as she angrily hurled the plastic guitar to the floor. She reached to the back of her head and undid the rubber band that kept her long, black hair caught as a ponytail, shaking her hair loose into its naturally frizzy state. “Can I help you with something, Gambit?”

“We never really talk before, chere,” Remy answered as he watched Lila saunter across the room, his red eyes studying her movements, “and I hear de others talkin’, sayin’ you fancy yourself somet’ing of a thief…”

It was Lila’s turn to smirk, her eyebrow lifted in curiosity at where exactly this conversation was leading. “I’ve been known to pull a few cons between gigs in my day,” she answered, “what’s it to you?”

“Got word of a big score,” LeBeau explained, “only problem is dat I got no way to get there. You provide the transportation, Gambit just might cut you in on de job.”

Cheney sighed and closed her eyes, telling herself not to get angry. “No thanks, I get enough of being the X-Men’s travel agent as it is without picking up extra fares.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Remy said as he finally entered the room. When he reached Lila he raised his hand to her chin, barely stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. She noticed the faintest glint of light in his eyes as he spoke. “I know being cooped up in here is killin’ you inside. Let’s you and me go have us some fun.”

God, he’s sexy, Lila said to herself, not knowing exactly where the thought came from so suddenly. “Should we tell Alex?”

“Non, dis be our little secret, chere,” he answered. “Lassez les bon temps rouler!”

Mutant Town

Warpath wrapped a cloth around the blade of the vibranium dagger, wiping the blood clean from its edge. He slid it back into its sheath, looking down at the bloodied man who sat bound in the chair.

“Now…” he began, “I think I’ve been pretty accommodating so far. But if you’re going to keep acting like this, I think I may just have to peel off your scalp.”

“Y-you’re full of it,” said the prisoner. “Won’t do anything like that.”

“Oh I won’t?” asked Warpath, moving back to the prisoner. “Didn’t you know that’s the first thing they teach us on the reservation? We used to call it White Devil Scalping 101.”

“Y’ don’t understand, he’ll kill me.”

A crescent-shaped blade came around the man’s throat, lightly grazing his Adam’s apple. The Moon Knight knelt down, whispering into the man’s ear. “We’re here now, worry about us.”

“You fuckers ain’t shit compared to him. This is the one guy who went up against the goddamn Punisher and lived! The fuck you think you got?”

“To hell with this intimidation shit,” said Warpath. He grabbed the prisoner’s hand and broke his pinky pinky finger. Then he broke the ring finger. The man’s screams were loud enough to wake the neighborhood. “I’m waiting for a name, shithead!”

“Fuck you!” he shouted.

“Fuck me?” asked Warpath, drawing his dagger. “No, no, fuck this!” He jammed the dagger into the man’s thigh and twisted.

“Ah shit, man!” He looked at the Moon Knight. “Why aren’t you stopping this?”

The Moon Knight folded his arms. “Do I look like Captain America?” His gaze went to Warpath. “Pull out his fingernails next.”

“Shit no!”

Warpath drew his second dagger and placed it under one of the prisoner’s nails, beginning to put a little bit of pressure. “You gonna give us a name?”

“F-fuck! BILLY RUSSO!”

Warpath withdrew the blade, staring down at the prisoner. “What was that?”

“Bi-Billy fuckin’ Russo,” he said. “Fuckin’ Jigsaw, man. He’s behind it.”

“Where?” asked the Moon Knight.

“Got a bar on the east side of town. Runs the operation from there.”

“Got an address?” asked Warpath.

X-Corporation Offices
Melbourne, Australia Division

“My friends and allies, thank you all for agreeing to meet with me. I know the journey was not easy for some of you to make, and I appreciate the time you have taken to hear me out. We are preparing to undertake a most delicate and volatile mission, one that could very easily explode into tragedy for ourselves and those we care dearly for. You are here, I assume, because you see the grave mistakes of those we love – and like myself, are willing to do what is necessary to rectify them before their sins are compounded.”

Ororo Monroe, the former X-Man known by most as Storm, stood at the head of the long meeting table with a large projector screen displayed behind her. Down the table sat five of her fellow mutants, all previously affiliated with the X-Men themselves and all there for largely the same reasons. Ororo wasted no time in turning to the projector, a click of the remote in her hand pulling up photos of the men and women her team had been assembled to confront. “Alex Summers has taken it upon himself to gather a team of mutants for the purpose of enacting terrorist strikes across the planet. Their actions have been documented in New York, Nebraska, Kentucky, and even outside the United States in Cambodia. They have threatened the lives of innocent civilians and destroyed large amounts of government property. To make matters worse, Alexander has publicly referred to his faction as X-Men. This cannot stand, my friends, and since Cyclops seems uninterested in resolving his brother’s actions I am afraid it falls to us.”

The projector began a rotating collage of photographs, each a face of the renegade X-Men. “These are the mutants known to be affiliated with Havok’s group, most of which I am sure you recognize. Most were culled from the ranks of X-Corps – James Proudstar, Xorn, Stacy X – while others such as Avalanche, Fever Pitch, and Rachel Summers were contacted individually. Worse, Alex seems to be actively recruiting as he goes, adding to the strength of his growing terrorist army. Our most recent data informs of us that Jon Starsmore, Alex Roberts, Lila Cheney, and – as much as it saddens me to say – Remy LeBeau have all committed themselves to Havok’s cause.”

“Bullshit, Storm,” one of Ororo’s comrades finally spoke up, her fist slamming down on the table with strength sufficient enough to splinter the marble finish into a spider’s web of cracks. Rogue stood from the table, pointing her finger at the photo of her former love projected onto the screen. “There’s no way Remy would do the things you’re sayin’! It’s just not like him!”

“We all know your feelings about Gambit, Rogue,” another interjected. Alison Blaire, the Dazzler, leaned forward while a lifetime of singing allowed her voice to easily project throughout the large room, “but face it, none of their past behaviors make this impossible to believe, for any one of them. Warpath, Havok, Gambit, Rachel – they’ve all had dark moments in their histories, an edge to them that they could’ve pretty easily toppled over. Not to mention that a few of them, like Avalanche, are just straight-up bad guys!”

“We must not forget,” Peter Rasputin, the X-Man called Colossus, said grimly, “that this is not the first time Alex has turned to terroristic behaviors. He was once leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants. Did he not also recently suffer the death of a woman he loved? I know firsthand how easily such grief can push a man toward the dark side.”

“I have another concern,” Psylocke, the British-born Elisabeth Braddock, admitted. “Honestly, can any of us say that what Alex’s group has done is truly that different than what the X-Men have always done? They destroyed a factory that was manufacturing Sentinels and liberated a mutant death camp – I think that’s pretty bloody brilliant, personally.”

“Agreed,” the fifth and final member of Storm’s party, the genetically-engineered swordsman called Shatterstar, said aloud, “what this group of X-Men has done should be commended, not admonished. Finally someone has taken the teachings that Cable imparted to X-Force to heart and embraced the tactics needed to win this war.”

“Shatterstar, Psylocke, what you do not realize,” Storm countered, “is that their actions are making them no better than the bigoted humans they stand against. If we were to embrace the attitude of Magneto and his ilk, then the war for mutant acceptance has already been decided against us – and to do this in the name of the X-Men spits in the face of what Charles Xavier attempted to teach us. We are all held guilty by association in the eyes of humanity, and if we do not act to stop Alex before his crusade escalates then we can all be considered complacent with his actions!”

“Why call us together like this, Storm?” Dazzler asked. “Yeah, Alex should be stopped, I get that – but why us specifically?”

Storm sighed before answering. “Long ago, I led seven X-Man – you present, Alex, and the dearly missed Logan and Longshot – into a life much similar to Havok’s current mission. We faked our deaths and ran here to Australia so as to better fight against our enemies. Hindsight has shown me how dire a mistake I made, that by sequestering us away from our loved ones and the world itself it took away the very humanity we were looking to be accepted into. I am hoping that our experiences, along with the connections we formed with Alex during our time together as X-Men, will allow us to talk him down from his current path of violence.”

“I am with you, Ororo,” Colossus said as he stood from the table, turning to look down at his allies, “what about the rest of you?”

“I’m down, sure,” Dazzler said, joining Peter and Ororo as she stood from her seat.

“Ah don’t believe this,” Rogue admitted, “but ah’ll be there, if only to knock some since into Remy’s fat head.”

“I am here in place of Lord Longshot,” Shatterstar said as he, too, stood, “and while I agree with Havok’s methods I will fight for the cause that I know Longshot would have fought for himself were he here.”

“Elisabeth, that leaves only you,” Storm said as all assembled looked to the far end of the table where Psylocke sat, her arms folded against her breasts.

“Sod it,” she finally acquiesced, “I’m in.”

“Goddess willing,” Storm said as she took one last look back at the photo of Alex Summers displayed on the wall behind her, “we will be enough to prevail…”

Moon Knight and Warpath stood in an alley across the street, eyeing the bar carefully. The avatar of Khonshu looked at his new partner. “White Devil Scalping?”

Warpath chuckled. “The savage native trick never fails.” He glanced at Moon Knight. “What about you? Didn’t seem too morally opposed to what went down back there.”

“I was a mercenary, did far worse before I put on this costume. Sometimes, did far worse after I put it on. Difference is now I do it for a higher cause than myself,” said the Moon Knight. “I know you’re not from the Institute. And I know you’re not with the X-Corporation.”

“Have time to check all that while I was torturing that guy?” asked Warpath.

“When I started to look into this case, there was talk that an X-Corporation operative had been sent in. And then I find you tearing up that place and after watching what you did to that guy, I realized that’s not usual X-Men operating procedure.”

“Maybe you need to update your database,” said Warpath.

“It is updated,” said Moon Knight. “The terrorist attack on CNN. Those are the X-Men you’re with.”

Warpath turned his entire body to face Moon Knight, clenching his fists tightly. “We gonna have a problem now?”

Moon Knight didn’t flinch, just stared down Warpath. “We need each other. Now’s not the time to fight amongst ourselves.”

“And later?”

The Moon Knight drew a few crescent blades from his belt. “We’ll cross that bridge once we come to it.”

Warpath produced his vibranium daggers from their sheaths, his thumbs resting on the bottom of the hilts. “Shall we?”

Moon Knight gestured to him. “After you.”

Warpath smiled and took off in a run towards the bar. “Was hopin’ you’d say that.” He charged forward with his shoulder and burst through the front door, shattering it. Warpath skidded to a stop, looking around the surprised patrons.

“So, anyone know where I can find an illegal MGH operation around here?”

Some of the patrons ran from the exit, but most stayed, drawing guns and knives from their jackets. A few of them had chains while others just took their empty bottles in hand. Warpath grinned at this.

“I guess that’s a yes,” he said, raising his daggers. “Who’s first?”

One of the chain wielders started by whipping his weapon. Warpath raised his arm, allowing the chain to wrap around it. He pulled hard, his strength powerful enough to send the man flying behind the bar, crashing into the shelfs of bottles.

Warpath moved like lightning to avoid the gunfire, charging towards one of the gunmen and slashing from the man’s shoulder to his belt, not deep enough to lose any organs, but definitely enough to incapacitate. Another gunman ended up with a broken arm.

A knife-wielder came at Warpath with a blade in each hand. He ducked the one coming in high and deflected the one low with his daggers. Warpath kicked the man in the chest, knocking the wind right out of him.

As two other gunmen came from behind, the Moon Knight dropped from the ceiling, disabling them both with his crescent blades. Warpath glanced over his shoulder and smiled at his partner.

“That’s two you owe me,” said the Moon Knight.

“So nice of you to keep count,” said Warpath. One of the bigger henchmen grabbed him from behind and the Apache just sighed in annoyance. He threw his head back, breaking the big guy’s nose. Then he grabbed him by the back and drove his knee into the man’s chest.

Moon Knight tapped Warpath on the shoulder and gestured towards a door labeled PRIVATE. Warpath nodded and broke down the door. Inside were a few men, one of whom had a scarred face and a gun in each hand. He aimed both as did his men. Another man sat behind them, with a large needle inserted into the back of a naked young woman. Warpath recognized the woman from the X-Men’s files when he lived at the mansion—Shrew, one of the so-called Hell’s Belles who worked for the late Cyber.

“And just what is this?” asked Jigsaw.

Warpath pointed at Shrew. “You hurt a mutant, you deal with me.”

“That so, Prince Valiant?” asked Jigsaw. “KILL HIM!”

The men and Jigsaw opened fire on them. Warpath utilized his superhuman speed to avoid most of the bullets and charged forward to engage the men one by one. Moon Knight, meanwhile took his cue and went to the man drawing fluid from Shrew’s spine. He kicked the man in the head, sending him against the wall. Moon Knight removed the needle and jammed it into the man’s throat, then used one of his crescent blades to free Shrew from her bonds.

It took her a few moments, but once Shrew saw Warpath fighting her captors, something inside her head clicked. She stood from the chair, her body transforming into something resembling a giant rodent, claws growing from her fingertips and she growled as she leapt into the fray.

Warpath pulled back, moving to Moon Knight’s side. He watched for a few moments then turned towards the door. “We’re done here.”

James Proudstar stood in the X-Corporation uniform he had worn when he met with the police. He stood on the roof of the hotel he had stayed at, looking out over the city of New York.

“Well?”

Proudstar turned and saw the Moon Knight appear from the shadows. “You’re good at that. Especially for a guy who wears white.”

“What did the police say?” asked Moon Knight.

“Shrew is gone and so is Jigsaw,” said Warpath. “No sign of either of them. No bodies for that matter.”

“So Jigsaw escaped.”

“Or Shrew isn’t finished with him yet,” said Warpath. “Someone did that to me, don’t think I’d be too quick to let ’em go, either.”

“Those X-Corporation credentials won’t last you long,” said Moon Knight. “Word on the grapevine is they’ve gotten wind of this and they’re sending a team to investigate.”

“No problem there, I’m leaving as soon as we’re done. Just wanted to let you know what I found out,” said Warpath.

“I appreciate that.”

The two men looked at each other in silence. Warpath’s hands moved from his pockets, his arms hanging firm at his sides. “About that bridge?”

A rope fell from the sky before Moon Knight. Warpath looked up and saw the crescent-shaped craft hovering above.

“I don’t need to cross any bridges,” said Moon Knight. The rope retracted, taking him with it.

Warpath reached inside his jacket and drew out a cell phone. “It’s Proudstar. I’m ready to come home.”

The Purifiers all knelt down, bowing their heads. On the small altar before them also knelt Reverend Stryker, praying before a large cross that held a model of Jesus crucified on it.

“…and forgive us for our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” As Stryker spoke, so did the Purifiers, all in unison with him. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

Stryker made the symbol of the cross with his fingers over his body then rose as did his followers. He held out his arms, garbed in an extravagant robe with a giant cross on the front. “My brothers, we are moving into a new phase of our existence. We now have a chance to rid the world of these abominations, these tools of the Beast known as mutants. And to do that, we have our own weapon.”

The doors at the rear of the chapel swung open and the Purifiers were shocked as Khimaera stepped in, free of bonds and his wounds cleaned and dressed. Stryker smiled as the Cambodian mutant approached the altar and knelt before it.

“My brothers, this abomination has seen the light and he has sought to purge himself of his affliction. He will prove his love and his devotion to the Lord by aiding us in our cause.” Stryker offered his hand and Khimaera lightly kissed the ring on it. He rose up and Stryker smiled to him.

“Welcome to the fold, Brother.”

NEXT: Get Up and Kill is the name of the next story-arc! Sentinels invade Genosha! Storm’s reunited team of Outback X-Men make their move!