In a Mirror, Darkly

[T.J. Harriman]

Far above, an explosion ripped across a post-apocalyptic street, sending a hail of shattered masonry and scattered debris to settle in a slightly different pattern of chaos than had been left by the last bombing run. Battle scars upon battle scars tore through what had probably once been a beautiful part of the city; now all that was left was a ruin, empty for all but the scattered few who made the mistake of lingering too long to raid the wreckage after the last attack.

In the subterranian maze of tunnels that had once been sewers, cellars, and subways, the only indication of the airstrike above was a slight shuddering of the concrete around them, and a light dusting dislodged from the ceiling. Most of the precession of solemn, black-clad soldiers ignored these signs entirely, but the youngest among them seemed a little skittish and distracted; and just couldn't manage to keep his mouth shut about it.

"Why is it we have to rescue this guy again, sir?" he asked, a hint of a nervous edge in his voice.

The Major rounded on him with a fire in his eyes that implied just what awaited the Lieutenant if he dared to speak again. "Because when Colonel Hunter says jump, we say 'how high?'." His eyes narrowed. "You get me, L.T.?"

Though initially taken aback by the surge of stern from his commanding officer, to his credit the Lieutenant managed to keep his composure, even straightening up to near attention. "I get you, sir," he replied, jaw clamping closed with deliberate effort to prevent some sarcastic remark from escaping.

The Major let his glare linger for a moment or two longer. "Good," he grunted, before turning back towards the way they were headed. He walked a few silent paces - despite not speaking, he still managed to radiate the same gruff tone that laced his voice when he talked - before deciding to grace his unfortunate second-in-command with a response. At the time of the Uprising, the Lieutenant had been a young officer fresh from the Academy, training his way up to flight status as a fighter pilot. He'd bounced around a few units in the years since, never making it past First Lieutenant - primarily because he was an arrogant jackass, as far as the Major could fathom - but for some reason, Colonel Hunter had taken a shine to him. Were the Major a paranoid and cynical man, which he was, he'd guess that the Colonel had done it purely to get on his nerves.

"For those of us who weren't paying attention in the briefing, Lieutenant," the Major announced, his voice carrying back down the corridor as he continued to lead their brisk advance, "We don't give a damn about 'this guy' - he's a very small fish in a very big pond, as far as the grand scheme is concerned. What we give a damn about is the DEFCON 1 mutant holding him. Intel has it that Psion wants to get his grubby, telekinetic paws on this guy, likely so he can suck out his power and add it to his collection. It's a fairly safe bet that if Psion gets what he wants it'll work out very bad for us: so our job is to make sure that doesn't happen."

That seemed to satisfy the Lieutenant, at least for a few moments; the precession continued in silence with renewed purpose, weaving their way through the underground warren towards where their target was - supposedly - being held. The blessed silence was not to last, however: but at least this time, the Lieutenant managed to dampen out a little of the arrogance and jackass in his tone. "One other question, sir. What happens if we encounter Psion?"

The Major stopped at that. The remainder of his team, who had served with him for far longer than the Lieutenant, stopped as well. There was no annoyance in Major Harriman's features; merely disappointment that cause for the question existed at all. His eyes passed between each of his men, settling on the Lieutenant last of all. "Let me make this very plain, all of you." His voice was quiet: the kind of quiet that demanded a respectful silence to let it be heard. There was an edge of anger too, but not directed towards anyone nearby. "As far as I am concerned, during this mission or at any other time; I only have four brothers, and they are standing with me in this corridor, right now." A glimmer of respect began to form in the Major as he regarded the Lieutenant - the only member of the group brave enough to ask the question that they all must have been thinking. "If you see Psion - if you have a kill shot - then you take that son of a bitch down. Understood?"

The Lieutenant squared his shoulders, and offered a curt nod in response. "Yes, sir," he said firmly, on behalf of the group.

"Alright then." Tom let his gaze linger on his soldiers for a few moments more, before the mantle of Major descended back onto his shoulders. "Lets go be heroes. Move out."

[Psion]

At the compound...

Flanked on either side by armour-clad lackeys, Psion strode into the chamber with the confidence of a man who knew he was completely untouchable. The handful of workers - human slaves, mostly - that he passed recoiled in a mix of respect and fear; a sensation that pressed against his recently stolen empathic senses, and filled him with the most exhilarating sadistic rush. Feeling the emotions he conveyed merely by passing was intoxicating, and was alluring enough to make him consider stopping to torture one of them there and then, just to experience how it felt. Now was not the moment for that, however. There would be pleanty of time for such frivilous games later.

As he approached the great device that dominated the centre of the room, people scattered in all directions, fleeing before his path, goping to avoid attracting any unwanted attention from the man who could seal their deaths in a single gesture. Psion paid them little heed: there was only one man with whom he wished to speak.

Before he reached his prey however - standing in the shadow of the device - a muted shriek from behind him made him pause, and turn. A woman stood, framed in the entrance he had just passed through, a man - his skin turned a chilling blue - crumpled at her feet, one last breath escaping him before his lungs ceased all function.

A sigh of mild frustration escaped him; the woman looked at him with eyes of pure innocence. "I was cold," she protested. "This man kindly offered to keep me warm."

Psion rolled his eyes. While he loved his sister dearly, she had been only a child when the mutants had risen to power, and had sadly not grown out of that phase. Her antics were usually harmless, but her ability to leach the heat out of a person until their heart was chilled to a standstill often left a wake of bodies that was tiresome to clean up after. And of course, woe betide her many lovers: while rumours of her prowess were plentiful, the odds of survival were slim, and so few volunteered without considerable persuasion.

"Rán, dearest," Psion said, with a tired tone, "While I do appreciate you offering to keep me company on this trip, I thought we'd agreed that you would refrain from murdering the workforce?" The innocent eyes increased in their intensity; even this far across the room, the ages-old charm still won out against her eldest sibling. Another sigh escaped from Psion's lungs. "Go -" He gestured vaguely. "- play with the prisoners. And try not to break them: some of them may prove useful."

His sister fired a glare that lacked any gratitude whatsoever, and stalked back out into the corridor with the aura of scorn that only an overgrown teenager could achieve. Psion winced a little as that barrage of emotions crashed into his newly acquired senses. Still - at least the increased level of latent fear in the room provided a salve for that discomfort.

Finally, he was able to turn to the man he had arrived to see. One eye permenantly shielded by an eyepatch that hid a vicious scar, Psion had always found the man unreadable. Of course, that had been before his paranoia had inspired him to strip empathy away from a hapless captive. Now, he hoped, the stoic mask that the man before him wore would be considerably less effective.

"Tell me," he said at last. "How is your work progressing?"

[Enoch]

"Precisely as I told you it would."

There was an edge of defiance in Enoch's voice: the kind of defiance that was born from the knowledge that you were far too essential and irreplacable to suffer punishment from such things.

There was a frustration in his words as well; a frustration at the question having even been asked. Psion asked only because of his own insecurities - insecurities that Enoch's gifts made him all too familiar with - but he did so needlessly. By virtue of his mutation, Enoch could see into the very souls of other beings: he was witness to their darkest secrets, and to their destinies. He could see the hidden worth in the worthless; and was aware of the potential for trechery in the seemingly loyal, even if they were not aware of it themselves.

Such knowledge was power: and Enoch wielded that power as one of the most trusted advisors to the Lord that he and Psion both served. He also used it to be one of the mutants' most effective taskmasters: it was amazing how easy it was to motivate your subjects when you knew exactly which memory to recall, or which nerve to squeeze.

Enoch turned, gesturing towards the device: the gargantuan construction over which Enoch's army of mutant traitors and mundane slaves swarmed, hammering the last of it's components into place. When it was complete, it would be glorious: the powers of a multitude of mutants would combine together and form a singularity, which would grow and flourish into a miniature sun.

Enoch had seen it. It had been that future - that destiny - that Enoch had witnessed when he had first met their great leader. He had seen him, standing above a kneeling world, the power of the sun in the palm of his hand. In a world where war had scrubbed out the sky, and where the only sunlight was filtered through a thick layer of cloud, controlling that kind of power would prove once and for all that mutant kind deserved it's hard-fought supremacy.

He fought the urge to smile with pride as he spoke. "My work crews are exactly on schedule. The machine will be ready long before He arrives to witness it."

[Psion]

Psion felt an unbearable rage as the man spoke. He could feel the confidence - arrogance - hitting his newly obtained empathic senses viciously, all bundled up in a smug sense of security. Enoch believed that he was untouchable. He believed that Psion could not raise a hand against him, and what sickened Psion was that he was right: for now, at least.

Their master certainly had a fondness for Enoch. Many times, Psion had ranted and raged about his infuriating temprament, and had demanded to be allowed to have Enoch's power ripped from him, and implanted into someone with a more agreeable personality. But the master insisted that Enoch's usefulness extended beyond his mere abilities. It was one thing for mutants and mundanes to be terrified into submission by Psion's rage and power: but the master claimed that the world could not be ruled by that alone. Enoch was subversive and insidious in his ways, and for now that seemed useful to their goals.

But Psion grew stronger with every passing day. He learned to wield his powers with greater prowess; and his Conduit stripped every power he desired from it's undeserving host, and added it to Psion's greatness. The master would not permit him to harvest Enoch's ability, and that was fine: it was only a matter of time before he discovered another with the same gift, or perhaps one even more useful.

When that day came, no amount of usefulness would protect Enoch from the retribution that Psion would level against him.

"And the mutants?" he asked, fighting his anger enough to force out the words in relative calm. "Do you have everyone we require?"

[Enoch]

"We have everyone we require."

That almost came with a sigh. Why did Psion insist on labouring under the belief that he didn't have everything well in hand? Had Enoch not demonstrated his efficiency, time and again? Was Psion really so petty and insecure that he had to question everything?

Or was this merely a test? An experimental aggrivation?

A hint of a smile crept onto his lips. He saw the change in Psion now; the shift in the way he looked under the gaze of Enoch's powers. New abilities rippled beneath the surface, pulsing away in an all too familiar manner. Psion was an empath, then; a new string to his already overstrung bow. It made sense of course, for a man who so desperately worked to inspire fear in those around him: having a means to make sure it was working.

He allowed a sense of smug realisation to form - a deliberate attempt to aggravate Psion; not that doing so was particularly difficult - before he continued to speak.

"At least, we did. Let's hope our volunteers survive an encounter with that sister of yours."

[Rán]

Rán's fingertips ghosted along the steel bars of the cage. It seemed crude and inappropriate somehow - cages were meant for livestock, not prisoners - but in the crumbling ruined buildings of this part of the city, one could not rely on the integrity of stone and concrete. Enough torque or strength, and the bars might rip right off the walls. At least with a cage you could be sure that the strength of construction was consistant throughout.

It was a shame that none of their prisoners had super strength or teleportation, or any such abilities that might give them a realistic chance of escape. The cages built for those individuals were far more advanced, and seemed much more civilised.

Not to mention the fact that it was always entertaining watching their futile attempts to bend electrified bars.

Her eyes drifted from prisoner to prisoner, scrutinising them each in turn. They were tired and ragged: deprived of sleep, and barely fed enough to keep them alive. It was a wise precaution of course: starving prisoners were far less effective in their attempts to escape, and provided much less resistance to the efforts of their guards. There had been human rights once which had forbidden such things, but those had long ago been abandoned. During their dominance, the humans had not treated their mutant kin as equals: every mutant stripped of rights and experimented upon was now retaliated upon the human race a hundred fold.

Some called it overkill. Some called it monsterous. They called them Fascists. Tyrants. Neo-Nazis. All manner of words meant to demonise the latest evolution of the human race. But people like Rán knew the truth: they thought of themselves by a totally different word.

Better.

Her eyes settled on one of the prisoners, hunched over and clutching his arm to his chest. She adjusted her features into what she vaguely remembered that sympathy looked like; it wasn't too far removed from pity, and that was an easy emotion to convey when presented with such pathetic creatures.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice soft and crooning.

A mix of fear and surprise swept across the prisoner's features. After a long pause he nodded slowly, not a single word tumbling from his lips.

Rán dropped into a crouch, and beckoned through the bars for the prisoner to come closer. He did so, reluctantly; with effort, Rán managed to coax him into showing the angry discolouration where his wrist had clearly been broken. Carefully, she placed a fingertip on the injury; at first he winced, but as her powers kicked in, a soothing coolness spread across his arm.

"Is that better?" Rán asked, softly.

The prisoner nodded his head; his voice cracked as he tried to squeeze words out through his parched throat. "Y- yes. Th- thank you."

Rán's hand shifted, her delicate fingertip touch turning into a savage grip as her hand wrapped around the prisoner's wrist. She squeezed, and he groaned in pain, but that wasn't the worst of it: she could feel his skin blistering beneath her fingers as the heat rushed from his body, the outline of her body seared into his flesh.

Her lips curled into a sickening smile. "Is that worse?"

[Liz Heller]

"Hey!"

There wasn't even thought involved: in an instant she was on her feet, her own vice grip hand clamped around Rán's wrist, wrenching her comrade free from the psychopathic mutant's grip. Anger burned in her eyes as she stared the witch down.

It wasn't a smart move; she knew that. Or at least, she knew it a few seconds after it had actually happened. But sometimes it took more than smart moves and careful strategies to win wars. Sometimes it took impulse, and instinct. And sometimes, it all worked out fine if you just got angry.

Her fingers didn't loosen their grip on Rán; her eyes didn't lessen their glare. Rán tried to fight back with a glare of her own, but her young eyes didn't carry the same intensity that the seasoned soldier's did. Rán tried to wrench herself free, but her slight frame and scrawny muscles couldn't liberate her arm from Liz's grip.

So she tried a grip of her own, the fingers of her free hand curling around Heller's forearm. Her eyes took on the sickening triumph of a petulent child convinced that she had won.

Liz allowed her lips to curl into a faint smile.

"Leech all the heat you want, Katrina."

The use of Rán's human name stung worse than any physical blow could have. Her eyes turned to defiance as she drew on her powers with as much strength as she could muster; but they quickly turned to horror as, rather than the icy blue that she was so used to seeing on the skin of her victims, Liz Heller's hand errupted into golden flames.

"I'm too hot for you to handle," Liz challenged, a lick of flame leaping from her wrist onto Rán's sleeve.

The young woman recoiled, and this time Liz let her break free. The sheer force of her escape attempt carried her several staggering paces backwards; she slapped at her arm, fighting to quell the fire before it took hold. Her glaring gaze met with Heller's again: Rán's filled with ice and venom; Heller's with fire and challenge. "This isn't over!" Rán spat, at a loss for a reaction aside from a tantrum and a storming exit.

The doorway slammed behind her. Heller let out a sigh, before turning towards Rán's unfortunate victim. "You okay?"

The victim nodded, slowly. "Yeah," he managed. His arm was clenched tight to his chest again, but he fought his way through the pain enough to offer her a tight smile. "I've had worse," he lied.

Heller let out a breath of laughter, before pacing slowly back across the cage, to sit herself down against the bars beside him. "Who are you?" the victim asked, as Heller eased her way to the floor.

"Sergeant Liz Heller," she explained without a thought. "I'm with the resistance."

She shot him a sideways glance. "How about you? You got a name?"

"Jackson," he replied with a series of nods. "John Jackson Junior. But everyone just calls me Jack."

Heller seemed to consider that for a moment. Her head tipped back, eyes closing as she made herself as comfortable as she concievably could while locked in the overgrown cage. "Well, Jack," she offered, in what she hoped was a reassuring voice. "My friends are coming for me. They're gonna blow this place to shit, and when they do, we're going to get out of here."

She opened her eyes for a brief moment, her gaze sweeping across the other occupants huddled in the cage. "All of us."

[Titan O'Hara]

Outside the compound...

These had once been maintainence tunnels, mazing their way beneath the city's streets: not filled with the dank water of a sewer system, but instead boasting old utility pipes, electrical cables, and god knows what else. In the past they probably would have been illuminated, but now the only reprieve from the darkness came from the flashlights and taclights that lanced through it, held in hands, clipped to shoulders, or slung beneath the barrels of the ensemble's rifles.

Lieutenant O'Hara didn't need light to see, though. His mutation was small, but it was useful. Every footstep, every water drip, every screech and chitter of vermin: they filled the air with waves of sound, and his mind somehow translated every one into a strange view of the world. It was distracting at times. Dizzying, even. The techs back home had rigged up a set of noise-cancelling ear buds: without them, O'Hara had collapsed and spewed his guts the first time he'd been in a firefight. Old style conventional weapons made so mch damned noise.

His ears weren't the only way that he could tap into his vibration vision however; with his teeth he grabbed the tip of his middle finger, and tugged off the thick padded glove that shielded his bare skin from contact with anything solid. His palm came to rest on the concrete in front of him; his eyes fluttered closed, and he focused.

At first there was nothing; a few dull rumblings maybe, but nothing sharp enough to resolve into any specific sound. Then his boot, toes capped in steel, slammed against the concrete. A wave of vibration swept through the structure, and he could feel the footprints of everything: gaps in the vibration pattern around the boots of the people in the rooms beyond; the outlines of equipment, the different densities of metal and plastic where supply crates had rested. It was a strange way to percieve the world - and impossible to describe fully to anyone who hadn't experienced it - but it was his thing. His gimmick. The skill that made him useful.

It was ironic, really: a few years ago, O'Hara had been a pilot. Had this war not come along, he would never have found a way to put his mutant gift to good use.

"This is the place," he confirmed. Sure, they had maps, and intel, and ridiculously advanced gear, but damn it: O'Hara was going to make himself and his power useful. Besides, there was insight he could offer that technology couldn't quite provide. "The room beyond is clear."

Major Harriman nodded at his assessment, but his eyes scrutinised the Lieutenant closely. O'Hara didn't flinch: Harriman was looking for doubt, any signs that his L.T. wasn't completely sure of his assessment. O'Hara stared calmly back. I know what I saw, Major.

"Okay then." Harriman finally seemed satisfied. His attention turned to the other members of his merry band, already extracting hefty chunks of equipment from the cases slung across their backs. They didn't need instructions: they knew what their orders were.

A matter of minutes later, the device was assembled: something straight out of science fiction, mounted atop some kind of tripod. Harriman manipulated controls from beside it; the Sergeant stood at the rear, pointing the thing at the corner where the concrete floor met the concrete wall. After some poking and prodding of touchscreen keypads by the Major, an icy beam of pure energy lept forth with a high-pitch whine and, with a strange mix of melting and burning, began to carve it's way through the concrete.

[Psion]

At the compound...

Psion reclined, his eyes gently closed, fingertips pinching at the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that had been steadily growing over the last several hours. It was an unfortunate symptom of the way in which he'd acquired his most recent ability. For most mutants, abilities lingered in their genetic code for long enough that their bodies adapted appropriately. Pyrokinetics had a tolerance for heat long before their hands began to spout flame; and who had ever heard of a hydrokinetic who could not swim?

For those with psychic abilities it was much the same: their brains adapted to cope with their powers in preparation of what their genetic code held. Psion's mind however had not been given that luxury: it was forced to adapt and integrate in hindsight every time his Conduit graced him with another gift. Today, the constant stream of new information was a tiring weight on his mind.

The storm cloud of anger that had been steadily rolling off his furious sister had not helped, either; and the ferocity with which she had been closing doors was beginning to make him worry about how long the half-ruined building would remain standing.

There were solutions to his pain and discomfort, of course. Back at the Capital, his belovéd Lady Mórrígan was always a salve in these situations; one of the few people that could soothe the tempest that raged perpetually in Psion's head and heart. Alas, she had yet to arrive: she was to be part of the entorage that arrived with their Master to witness the activation of the device.

The alternative was not the preferable option, though it was not in itself unpleasant. The Conduit had given him these abilities; she was equally capable of taking them away; of weening him onto his gifts in tolerable doses. If nothing else, she would at least be able to give his mind enough of a reprieve so that he could enjoy some much needed sleep.

He smiled as he sensed her presence: his empathy feeling her aura, telekinesis feeling her form. "My darling Syn," he said softly, his eyes remaining closed as she approached. "I do so love that you always come to me when I call."

[Syn]

When the war had begun, she'd been but a child.

As such, this war-torn, rubble-strewn reality was the only one she could remember. She was raised amidst the pain and conflict, a child pulled between the two warring sides, a mere pawn on the playing field.

Until, of course, her unique ability manifested itself in rather spectacular form. Her touch had made the teenage boy weak, but she'd thought nothing of it...her fervent kiss had left him dead on the floor, and her in possession of his weak telekinetic power.

Her fortunes had changed then, her stock rising in the Master's eyes. And in Psion's, who's gaze she coveted even more. But she banished the thought, knowing too well how sensitive he was with newly transferred empathy. There was too much to do before the Master's arrival and she was going to be pushed to her limits when he did.

For the moment, however, Syn was strolling down the dimly lit hallway. Psion had summoned her - and no matter what he wanted, she would always answer, and promptly. Fingers smoothed out her clothing, tugging it neatly into place as she approached the door.

Upon being bid to enter, she did so, the heels of her boots clicking along the floor. His voice wreathed around her senses as she laid her dark eyes on him with a smile.

"Your wish is ever my command, Psion." Syn replied softly, coming to stand beside where he reclined, resisting the urge to brush her fingers along his forehead. He was in obvious discomfort, but she knew better than to touch him without an express invitation.

[Psion]

"If that were true," Psion quipped, "Then you'd have cloned yourself a hundred times over by now, and I could replace all of the disobedient sycophants like Enoch with much more pleasant and agreeable underlings."

Pleasant to look at, especially. Though much as he sensed that she wished it otherwise, that was as far as it would ever go; her preferred method of ability transferance notwithstanding. Syn was a very beautiful, but very young woman: and morality aside, Psion was not prepared to incur Mórrígan's wrath if he strayed. Though the Master had appointed him Commander, and given him power and authority over every mutant in this domain, it was Mórrígan who continued to exercise power over him.

He finally peeled his eyes open and turned his gaze on her; instantly he was glad that neither Syn nor Mórrígan posessed the kinds of psychic insights that he did.

"The empathy," he explained, responding to the questioning glance that she threw his way. "My mind is having trouble adjusting."

[Syn]

Her head tilted, sending long platinum locks tumbling haphazardly over her slender shoulder. Syn's smile warmed, and one dark eye closed in a slow wink as she spoke, "I'm not entirely certain you could handle so many of me around you."

Her brow furrowed delicately as she stepped closer still, leaning a shapely hip against the arm of the chair he was reclined in. "Let me help..." she murmured softly, reaching up with both hands to smooth his hair back from his forehead. Syn leaned in close and pressed her cool lips to the warm skin of his right temple.

Her ability stole through the contact like so much water coursing gently over rounded rocks. Her mind sorted through the abilities he held until she came upon the empathy, tied so closely into the pain she could taste. Syn drew in a sharp breath, her mind pulling away for a moment.

She shifted and cupped his face in her hands, unable to resist the urge any longer. To ease the pain Syn would have to take a good deal of the empathy back until his mind adjusted. She could have done that with her lips pressed to his temple.

She just didn't want to.

Instead, Syn kissed Psion, and allowed her mind to reconnect and siphon the gift back out. She drew enough from his mind until she felt the pain ease considerably, then pulled back - mentally and physically.

Not for the first time, Syn wished she could use the powers she could taste.

[Psion]

It was like recieving the kiss of life; but worse, and better.

Psion could feel the pressure of others' emotions easing from his mind almost instantly. It was like having the pressure removed from an aching, crushing pain: the kind of ecstatic ellation that such a reprieve brought. But at the same time, he felt an emptiness, like the world around him had grown more quiet or more dim. It was like the volume had been turned down on the world: the painfully thundering sound was gone, but the silent stillness it left in it's wake was just as uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable.

Psion didn't recoil from Syn's kiss, but he hadn't encouraged it, either. He had watched time and again as her succubus lips had drawn the power - and life - from anyone he had commanded. It was not the only way she could have harnessed her ability; she was not the only Conduit in the realm, and she had seen her gifts work in other ways at other times. The stealing kiss was her modus operandi however; and knowing her past, Psion could understand why.

And yet, while at times it was merely a concession to the playful persona she had adopted, there were times when she seemed to enjoy it a little too much. He couldn't simply spurn her advances however; her role as Conduit was far too important to him.

And then there was her mother to consider.

"Thank you," he said quietly, making the most of the gift of painlessness that she had given him.

[Syn]

He never pulled away. She supposed she'd have to give him credit for that, if nothing else.

"You're welcome," she replied with a hint of softness to her tone.

Slow, measured steps took her around the front side of Psion's desk and to one of the chairs there. Syn sat in a smooth motion, crossing her long legs and folding her hands almost demurely in her lap. Dark eyes remained fixed on him, however, coursing over him slowly with each deep breath. The empathy she'd taken from him had settled into a wriggling heap at the back of her mind, waiting to be let out and used.

That was part of her curse, she mused...she could taste all the powers in the world, rip them out of their worthless vessels and cradle them in her own mind. She could drain the life energy out of someone without a second though. But it was always everyone else who benefited - Psion mostly, to whom she was a mere puppet. Her stepfather, to whom she was only valuable as a commodity. Even her mother...no, that didn't bear thinking about.

This maudlin shit was beginning to wear on Syn's mind. The empath she'd stolen the powers from had lashed out with his power out of reflex, and she was still feeling the effects of the mental hit.

She shook her head and smoothed back her platinum curls before her dark gaze settled on Psion's. "Is there anything else on the agenda for today? Uncooperative underlings to suck dry? Mutants to torture?" Syn asked, a hint of sadistic glee flickering in her gaze at the thought.

[Psion]

"Not at the moment."

It was clear from the tone that it wasn't the full story; and for a fleeting moment, Psion considered leaving his answer purely as that. Syn was required to be obedient whether she was fully informed or not: she did not need to know any more than the simple instructions that Psion would later provide. But her role, her relations, made things precarious. There would be no harm in him explaining the full extent of her role in the Grand Scheme; and it might even reinforce her loyalty to him for the future, at a time when he might desperately need it.

"You are aware that Enoch has been gathering mutants with specific abilities, yes?"

Of course Syn knew. The undeserving whelp from whom Psion's new-found empathy had been stripped had been part of the collateral; an unnecessary stray snagged in a net set to catch far more useful fish. To her credit, she did not point out as such: she merely nodded, and said nothing. Good girl.

"Many of those mutant abilities will be required to activate the Machine: the device that will create a new sun for us on the surface of the Earth. However, the device requires a saccrifice. In order to function, one mutant must stand within: one Vessel for all the abilities that the Machine requires."

Psion smiled. "That is why we need you, Syn. Your Conduit powers are essential in creating that Vessel. We are going to change the world: and we cannot do it without you."

[Syn]

She was a necessary evil.

Whether it was because of her mother, or her step-father, it didn't matter. Syn knew she wasn't the only Conduit, but she was the most powerful one they had available to them. And loyal to them. Who would rip a power of the life out of someone without asking a single question.

She always did as she was told.

The fact that useful was the only thing she was...that, perhaps, is what bothered her the most. She wasn't wanted, she was needed. Psion simply reinforced that fact as he continued to speak, and Syn only half-heard his words until the end.

Until his smile finally drew one to her lips in response. She dipped her head and dropped her gaze to the floor as her smile reached her eyes. Needed would have to be enough for now, she mused, and hated herself for it. She'd do anything he asked of her, and they both knew it.

"It sounds glorious." Syn said quietly as she brought her gaze back up to his. She tilted her head and gazed at him for a silent moment, taking stock of his features and the gentle crease between his brows.

"If you're still not feeling better, I do have a bit of energy left over from...last night." she offered, knowing he would understand what she meant. Like the powers she took, she could not use the life essence she drained from people either. She could only hold it and dole it out like a drug.

[Psion]

Psion had experienced it before: the kiss of life that the Conduit could offer. Enough life stolen from the right person, and it could even turn back the tide of death. Fortunately, Psion had never experienced it in urgency: he'd never found himself needing such urgent aid; but he had reaped the fringe benefits of increased vigour and vitality, even if it was only temporary.

He mused her offer, but thought better of it. "Perhaps later," he answered; though in truth he had no idea how long Syn could retain such things. Was there an expiration date on powers and life force, or could she harbour such things indefinately.

He offered her a small smile. "It would be unwise to waste it before the device is activated. Things could still go wrong, and I may need you to save someone before the day is done."

[Syn]

"As you wish."

Syn replied, rising and smoothing out her soft white top. She offered a slight smile of her own in return, though it was tight around the corners of her mouth, and didn't reach her eyes.

Politely dipping her head, she turned to make her way to the door. There was little else to say, in that moment, and even less that she wanted to hear. She knew well who was arriving in her step-father's entourage, and when precisely they were supposed to be there. She took a deep breath and paused with her hand on the door handle.

Waited for a second, or maybe two, just in case.

But there was nothing. Syn cast him a glance she thought was unreadable over her shoulder before letting herself out and closing the door softly behind her.

Rán would have a plan, she mused. A plan that Psion wouldn't enjoy in the least. So the tall blonde set out to track down the only person she could remotely call a friend.

[Lord Pyre]

Aboard His Airship...

It was rare that He left the Citadel. His fortress home was less a castle and more a temple: a monument to His achievements and his power. What once had been a sprawling island city had been flattened until only a mere handful of towers remained, the rest smashed into rubble and twisted into walls of concrete and steel. The Citadel was not impenetrable, and it did not need to be. The walls did not need to keep the armies of His enemies at bay, because He had none: all but a few insignificant pockets of resistance had been stamped out, either crushed by the overwhelming might of His loyal forces, or driven into the wastelands that bracketed His dominion to the north and south.

His land had once been America; and some people still chose to call it that. He allowed it to continue simply because He had no desire to brand it with a name of His own. It's name did not matter, so long as everyone knew it was His.

And besides, the name was not inappropriate: He had done far more to Unite these States than the government He had swept aside had ever achieved.

Usually, when Lord Pyre boarded His airship to traverse His domain, it was a show of force: a reminder of His existence to those He had subjugated. There were those who believed that people feared what they did not understand, and thus He should shroud Himself in mystery, make Himself less a man and more a symbol, so the fear of Him would be immortal. Pyre saw little need for such amateur theatrics, and held to a different set of beliefs. In his experience, fear of the truth could be the most powerful force of all; and no amount of imagination on the part of His subjects could ever exceed the truth they saw when he walked among them. He was already more deserving of fear than any symbol could ever be.

This time was different, however: not an errand of intimidation, to remind the mutants and mortals of their place, but rather - He hoped - one that would usher in a new era for mutant-kind. He knew what they called him - the Mad Mutant; the Pyromaniac - but His psyche was still quite sound. The problem was that the world lacked vision. They lacked the wisdom He had gathered enduring a century of life, witnessing a world torn apart by war and so-called progress, all because of an endless lust for land, and wealth, and power. What the world had constructed, here in America worst of all, was no fit foundation for a utopian society. Anything built upon a platform so unstable and rotten would slowly subside, and all the work and sacrifice that had transpired these last eight years would be for naught.

He watched in silence as the panorama of the Mid West rolled away beneath His ship. Once, this landscape had been scarred by by the agricultural endeavours of capitalism and greed, intermixed with ugly, chaotic communities and environmentally negligent sites of industry. The war had swept the rolling hills and sweeping plains clean, scorched the earth into an unliveable wasteland; and yet below as before, the ground shimmered with emerald grass, swept into waves by the breeze. On the horizon, a small farming commune crept into view, neat and orderly fields already producing all the crops the region required. Mutant powers had revitalised the soil. Mutant powers had irrigated the fields. Mutant powers had sowed the seeds, germinated the plants, tailored the weather into the most favourable climate possible. Other mutants whose powers were suited to other endeavours had constructed the housing, or established the infrastructure that conveyed the surplus to where else in His domain it was required. There would be mutants whose gifts benefited the community as healers, teachers, entertainers; who found clean ways to heat water, power homes, and everything else that was needed, and desired.

It was a perfect utopia, not a broken ideal of communism where people were only equal because they were equally without: when Pyre's work was done, no man, woman, or child would find themselves lacking or wanting. All this, free from bureaucracy and and compromise, because the world feared Him.

He was an evil, yes, but a necessary one. His ends would justify His means.

He heard movement behind him; turned as another of His necessary evils entered His chamber. He knew the identity before His eyes settled on her: the only one aboard with little enough to fear to brave His presence without invitation.

"Morrígan," He spoke; he would have smiled, if he still remembered how to do so. "Please -" He gestured to the window. "- join me."

[Morrigan]

She hadn't been summoned, hadn't been invited... there was no need. Where Morrígan chose to go she simply went. Few could stop her if they tried, after all, and only the foolish really tried anymore. Even Psion knew better than to ever tell her 'No'. She had always been a selfish girl, always wanting to get her way. When her powers had manifested as a teenager she suddenly found herself neigh unstoppable. More recent events in her life had removed any lingering resistance the world may have had to offer. The only thing holding her back now was herself... and perhaps, just maybe, the man she slowly approached.

There was no timidness in her walk. Each step deliberate, as if placed with great care. Perhaps it was. She could feel It raging inside of her. An inferno of power that screamed to be released, to destroy. Some days It won out. Lately though, it was easy to keep in check, keep in line with her own thinking. In line with His thinking.

Her quiet footsteps brought her to Pyre's side, her fingertips gently along his lower back as the internal war was once more raged. It was quelled as she looked out of the window before them. Yes... she remembered this place. Remembered how much it had pleased the rage within to see the earth brought to utter desolation and now - Rebirth. And it was all thanks to His plan, His vision. She wondered if even half of his other followers could even begin to comprehend it all as she did.

"I can not keep It tamed much longer. We do not like to be caged." He knew what she referred to. She hadn't planned on speaking it, but there it was.

Morrígan's eyes slowly moved from the landscape below to look at her Lord. There was no want for sympathy, none even for recognition of what she had spoken. There were silent understandings. If he wished to acknowledge her words he would. If not - just as well. They were both aware of the consequences.