“A warning to you, Jean, and pass it up to the Phoenix. No manifesting, no flames, no cosmic power, and no blowing up suns, as much as it and you might want to show off.” I tapped the metal table loudly, like mild hammer blows, making Jean jump slightly at my emphasis. “The N-Zoners hunt cosmic Entities for power. If the Phoenix manifests, they can cage it, trap it, and kill it. If you give them an energy signature to work with, they will hunt the Phoenix throughout the universe, and eventually they will catch it.
“Only the most passive Buffs for the coming fight, and you’re better off working as a battlemind than shooting things yourself, because the energy signature might lead them to the Phoenix. I expect you to be treating the Summers brothers as your own personal cannons and filling them with juice while you direct fire. If you need practice at it, just say so and we’ll send you out with them.”
She paused to consider that, and nodded. “That seems like a good idea, Dynamo!” she agreed.
“Start N-Zone incursions of our own?” Primus asked fatalistically.
“They’ll be pinpricks, but everything is something. Stay away from entrapment effects, please.” It was highly unlikely they’d be able to truly harm him, but it was possible to bind him up in ways that would take some time to get free of without external help... and then they’d promptly ring him in a ton of crap to make that nigh-impossible, too.
It was time for some annihilation of our own...
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He was a little spooked when the floating crystalline sheet of ice popped up at his elbow, jumping in exaggerated surprise. “Hey!” he protested, waving his pistols about. “Warn a guy when you’re about to peep in on him!”
“Mr. Wilson,” the cool voice of Isabella, totally matching the icy beauty in the mirror, came to his ears. “You seem to have cost yourself a significant amount of bonus money.”
Wade Wilson glanced about himself at the many gunmen lying in pools of their own blood and brains, and belatedly remembered something about his employer wanting to take over the rote muscle of the Paleatros organization, so there was no need to kill the rank-and-file, only the upper tiers of the organization.
There’d been cash incentives for not forcing Miss Cartier to recruit new hands in this area.
“They kept upping the withdrawal penalties while accepting deposits in alternate currencies. I, uh, got a little excited as we starting conferring about contractual terminations and stuff.”
“Indeed?” She was completely unruffled by his attitude. “I trust the primary shareholders at least accepted your terms.”
He glanced over at where Esteban Paleatros, minus most of his head, was sprawled in his custom leather chair, from which he’d ordered the deaths and addictions of so many people. “Negotiating the precise terms was an engaging and sanguinely satisfying process, Miss Cartier!” he assured her.
“Have any of the ten primaries managed to bow out of negotiations?”
“Uh...” he racked his brains, some subtle memories fading in and out as the constant healing and decay of his cells went on. “A couple might have gone to seek counsel from interested parties during our appointment...” he admitted hesitantly.
She exhaled in exasperation, and suddenly the temperature all around him fell a hundred degrees. All the blood froze up, and warm bodies were suddenly not as ice materialized on every surface. His hackles rose, as Isabella Cartier was at least five hundred miles away if she was in her own offices.
“Mister Wilson, if you would be kind enough to complete your contractual obligations, I will complete mine thereafter.”
The ice mirror shattered to glittering powder, and he watched it fall, clutching at his pistols.
Yeah, yeah, he was pretty sure the accountant and the government mouthpiece had managed to run away from the building, now that he wasn’t shooting everything, jumping through glass windows, and getting shot up all the time himself.
He left the bodies all as they were, pretty sure Cartier’s people would be coming in shortly to start the process of taking over all of the Paleatros holdings and debriefing their people to see who could be kept and who would need to be dismissed, possibly violently.
Not his problem. Brazil’s Ice Queen had her own ways of doing things, and when her frozen hand grasped a territory, or began to encroach on those of her rivals, well, no one had been able to stop her yet.
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The cool hand was withdrawn from the warped and scarred mass that was his face, no revulsion apparent in her touch or those blue eyes he just wanted to jump into.
“Mr. Wilson, you have a unique, but not insurmountable problem.”
“Surmounting has never really been an issue with me,” his mouth responded promptly.
She leaned back against the desk in front of him, completely unruffled by his comment. Well, she could freeze him silent, or any given limb, with a thought, so if he offended her, he assumed he’d know pretty much instantly.
“Your major mutant power is naturally your healing power, but it is, hmm, overpowered. The cancer that ravages you continually is also part of your own body, and so what is happening is that your own power is boosting both parts of you continually. It is powering your cancer along from cell to cell, until those cells explode and die, at which time they are rebuilt cleanly. Your cancer then loops back and forth, spreading to those cells once again in an endless cycle of corruption, cell death, and regeneration.”
“It’s the kind of cycle I would really like to forget how to ride,” he said promptly. “Something solar-powered, less legwork required, would be really nice!”
“I can indeed fix most of the problem, but it is you who will have to bear the brunt of the changes.
“Mr. Wilson, your Core is literally too good at its job. The only way to stop this process is to divert its power, and not return to it.
“You have heard of Mindblades, and what they can do for mutants who have powers that are crippling, aberrant, or life-threatening?”
“Learning how to manifest a Mindblade allows them to take a Core off-line, and the changes associated with their Core recede!” he said in a nasally Oxford accent.
“You do know,” she nodded once. “So, Mr. Wilson, why have you not done so?”
“Uh, it would kind of take away my healing power, and leave me totally afflicted with terminal cancer?” he answered brightly.
“Ah, yes. Well, I can solve that problem.” She lifted a finger, which glittered like an icy star. “Once you manifest a Mindblade, I can destroy every single cancerous cell in your body and excise it. Right now, that represents about thirty percent of your body mass.”
“I’m not taking thirty percent off my prices because of that!” he said promptly.
“I can Regenerate what you’ll lose, since your healing factor will basically be shut down if you redirect your Core. This process will leave you an untrained Psion with a mindblade and your Mutant Core offline.”
“Since you don’t have to heal all of me, do I get a seventy percent discount?” he continued to blab.
“If you want your mutant healing factor back, you’ll need to undergo some intense training in biopsi to regulate and control it. In the meantime, you won’t be able to use that healing factor, or a single cancerous cell in your body will start this process all over again. You need to selectively have the power to heal what you want, and actually allow your non-beneficial cells to die.
“That you can only do for yourself. I understand there are several schools in the Tribal Alliance that teach biopsi, as it is a popular discipline. Cynosure is the most famous, but as you engage in martial endeavors, you may want to apply at Master Logan’s Academy of the Braves. He has an extraordinary understanding of healing factors, and they celebrate martial prowess. It might be exactly what you want.”
“Wait, Master Logan? Berserker guy with claws in his arms? Death toll in the thousands?” Wade blurted out. “Quiet kill orders never put down in print from dozens of different powerful people and countries? THAT Logan?”
“That’s the one. His last known trip to Brazil was four years ago, and I believe the resultant death toll was two hundred and thirty-three, including nineteen Powered of varied levels of ability. It seems there was some long-standing grudge with two of the Familia down here dating from the turn of the century, and they sent some assassins up after him, thinking he had gone soft or something.”
Wade scratched his chin, which was rippling with a new black and green line welling up underneath it. “I don’t think I heard about that one,” he murmured.
“The Traffika Affair, I think the papers called it. There was a big war over the territories after he left.”
“Oh, that, right! Hey, I made good money off the Cujos during that mess!” Which was all that was really important. Who knew a living legend had actually started that fracas?
“So you did. Now, do you want me to proceed with your compensation, or would you prefer to do it at a final destination? You have several enemies who might be very happy to see you die while you have no healing factor, Mr. Wilson.”
“Uh, do you think they’d admit me at any of those places?” Wade asked hesitantly. “I mean, I’m not exactly the type you invite to a graduation...”
“Mister Wilson, they train mutants and mutates of all kinds. Your personal appearance is fairly bland compared to some of the horrific mutations that some people have developed. If you are referring to your reputation, as long as you keep your nose clean in Tribal territories, it will not bother them.”
“Oh. How refreshingly open-minded of them! Uh, I think I’ll arrange to ask for admission and get there first...”
“Come.” She flicked her finger, and a circle of ice crinked into existence, showing a rather traditional Tribal settlement, interestingly mixed in with buildings and ground décor of multiple other cultures from Asia and Africa on the other side of it, instead of, like, the finely-decorated office wall. Without hesitation, Isabella Cartier stepped right on through it, and walked away from him.
Wade hurriedly pulled on his mask and jumped through it after her, looking back to see it shatter into sparkles like finest ice, just like her mirror had.
She was walking towards one of the larger buildings there. He didn’t know whether to be amused or impressed that the gorgeous silk-haired woman in white was drawing more attention than the heavily-armed masked man in scarlet and black coming up behind her.
She was obviously familiar with the place, and Wade kept up a mumbling critique and commentary as he trailed along after her, which constant remarks and observations she ignored as serenely as air.
ADMISSIONS made it plain what the building she was heading for did, and he pursed his lips. “Uh, did you take us all the way up into Canada through that Portal?” he pointed urgently.
“You are in the Academy of the Braves, Mr. Wilson,” she confirmed, pushing open the door.