Molly was awed, and a tiny bit scared, to see Magneto at the bar. Then again, from all of his infamy, he was still a mutant. He belonged here just as much as anyone else. He seemed to be deep in conversation with two other teenagers Mollybdidn't recognise. Nor did she know what they were talking about. Molly also recognised Emma Frost, and...

The moment Aya had odered the drinks and the bartender's focus was off her, Molly slid up to Aya's side, and spoke in an excited yet hushed whisper;

"You know who that bartender is, right? Surely you recognise him! That's Gambit! Man, I know this isn't my first time meeting X-men before, and we are on Krakoa, but I wasn't mentally prepared to meet this many of them this quickly!"

@Abillioncats

He's still sitting as the first two rounds of the night hit him. Simple as. No more burning buildings for him. No more book burnings. No more human or mutant trafficking. Should have been a wrap. Should have brought a higher caliber or kept shooting. Won't make that mistake again. Sometimes overkill is less aesthetically pleasing but it is an awful lot safer.

Little camera implant in my head is recording it all for JANUS. Hardy as fuck. Vibranium. Expensive. Gotta put on a show. Means I don't miss it when guy comes back. People are weird that way. Mutants too. Sometimes they get shot once in the leg, pass out, and peacefully die. Sometimes you shoot them over and over again and they just keep kicking. Old boy here took two center mass and it wasn't quite enough. Turned out to be a good thing for me. My time to shine.

Pyro Mutie looks confused for a second. Eyes flutter until he settles them baby blues on me and I can see the recognition pass over his face. Yep. I shot ya. Straight through the can. You're sitting in that chair again. Slumped. That is most certainly your blood. There is quite a lot of it. You probably aren't making it out of this one homie. There it is.

"There it is," I smile, voicing my thoughts a little. I always like to see it. "There's that fire."

He doesn't quite get it. I don't mean literal fire. He hasn't sparked up yet. I see that old fire in his eyes. The spark before the spark.

"You wanna see some fire old man?"

He has a difficult time standing up from his gaming chair, but he manages it and a surprisingly steady posture here.

"You got it."

I do want it. I really do. I'm happy to see it coming. Shoulder's tensing. Veins on his neck bulging. Jaw set. Eyes pinching tight in hate, or maybe effort, probably a little of both. Heat shimmer passes from his head to his toes, singes the carpet around him. I see the computer chair he was sitting in a moment ago start smoking up and then a second shimmer shoots out from his center and we're both bathed in heat.



"Goddam." Fury says.

Bergeron has just been watching Camera 1. Doesn't plan on watching anything else.

It's a great job. It's an important role. He believes in JANUS. But goddam these things can be hard to watch. It's one thing to see it happen once, in person, and from a distance. Or to just show up after it has all happened as a clean-up team. It's one thing to look at a crime scene and try to work it backwards. Figure out who was where when they were hit. Wonder at what they might have been thinking, or why they were in such a strange position. It's another thing to watch it over and over.

Him, Bushwacker, and now Fury. They were gonna be the only three to see that expression on that Pyro's face. At least the only three to see it and live. An up-close view of a pyrokinetic mutant, one with a shaky grip on his powers, absolutely letting loose. First-hand. Eye Witness footage. At least until that eye evaporates away.

It does of course, and Cameras 3 and 4 go out. Bergeron just stares at the black screen and his own haggard sleep deprived reflection as the footage continues on the other screens.



Feels like a steam bath. Like stepping into a sauna. It's not though. That's the skin smoking away, the nerves dancing for an instant before they join the skin. Eyes whistle, sputter, and then pop as the gooey liquid inside sprays out in a thin shein. Tongue crisps up like a cracklin. I can feel that little Vibranium gadget fall from my ocular cavity and down onto my tongue and jaw. It's probably hot too but who knows at this point. Somewhere around here my brain boils up.

He's panting, lying on the floor, surrounded by ashes, when enough of me comes back that I notice him. He's mumbling. Pale. Still bleeding. Not long for this world. I can hear his friends in the stairwell. They're all talking at once. Telling him to press against the wound. Debating if what remains of the floor will hold their weight. Some warning against it. No use breaking the floor apart trying to get to him. Might drop the whole floor if they don't think it through. He needs to put pressure on the wound. Holy shit did he really do all this?

Barely notice me slumped in the corner.

One of them poked me with his boot earlier. Jackboots. Wonder which version of jackboots this one likes and which one he hates. I looked a lot worse than their buddy then. Hell I'm still smoking. Looking a good bit better now, but I'm still down and still smoking. And I don't mean Pall Malls.

Two of them start out to meet the Pyro Mutie. They're trying opposite sides of the room. One headed to the left, around the nightstand, the closet, and past the bed to his side. Well where those things were. They're just slag now. The other headed to the right, past me, past the gaping hole that used to be a window, and through the smoldering pile that was his computer and desk. Even his little Iron Man Bobblehead chotskie. Iron Man Bobblehead wasn't very flame resistant.

By the time they're halfway my skin is back. I'm smooth and halfway translucent like a gecko, or a jellyfish. I'm a strange sight for sure, but I have sight, and my muscles are functioning. I'm dangerous again. Real dangerous.

I wait until his two buddies are with him. I can't help it. I'm a little theatrical. Doesn't matter there's no one watching from my head anymore. I'll break that gizmo down and use it for something else. Body is already doing it. Maybe a Vibranium bullet. Maybe a tiny little blade. They can't see it, but I can. Same Pyro Mutie. Different look.

I get up. Still smoking. Mostly naked now. Most of my skin back, translucent yeah but it's something. Big shit eating grin.

His friends are looking at him. One is indeed putting pressure on one of his wounds, as best he can. It's too late now. Even if I weren't back up and about ready to turn this up he'd still be done for. Internal bleeding. External bleeding. A good quantity of bleeding all around. His other buddy is stuck in a loop. Checking his blood pressure for some reason and telling him to hold on.

Pyro Mutie, he's just staring at me. That different look I mentioned.

Pyro Mutie, he ain't seen nothing like me before. I bring my hand up again. Good and slow. He's in too much shock to stop me and his buddies are too distracted to notice. Not that they could do shit if they did. This time instead of shooting through my palm I take the time to form my fingers into a barrel, slowly aim down it, and give him a little wave before I splatter his friends with his thinking bits and end his night.

With a bang.



Bergeron had memorized the course of events by now.

In Camera 1 you would be able to see the smoking ruins of the roof. Shingles mostly melted to a waxy resin. Bricks glowing. Surrounding area stained black. Thick black carcinogenic smoke undulating up into the night sky. Members of this little group had mostly headed into the building to grab gear, weapons, and one another. A few milled about outside, armed, waiting to see what had happened upstairs. Was it a test to see if they would stay with the group when things got hot? Was their leader about to declare war on Krakoa? Had a rival cartel made an attempt on his life?

In Camera 2 you would be able to see, barely, Bushwacker in a heap, smoldering. It was a long pause between gunshots. The first two that had preceded the fiery explosion and then the seven that preceded the coming slaughter.

If you watched Camera 2 you would be able to see Bushwacker's body piece itself back together frighteningly quickly. The spark of awareness flicker in his eye. Eventually you'd see him stand slowly, level his hand like a pistol, then wave at someone and blast a bullet through his middle and index fingers. He would then shoot six more times, adjusting his aim ever so slightly left and right.

From there it was a slaughter.

They were scum. Human traffickers. Mutant traffickers. Drug traffickers. Sex traffickers. Kidnappers. Terrorists. Arsonists. Garbage.

It was still difficult to watch him mow through them like a swathe of wheat. More so if you watched again and again. If you realized that he knew where the cameras were as he did it. That he played it up for them. That as much as it looked like he didn't have much control, he did.

Near the end there had been a final trio of cartel members who took cover in the gym. Hiding behind equipment. Heavily armed. In their desperation they seemed more coordinated than the others had been. The scary thing, the thing that kept Bergeron's eyes steeled on his own reflection, was that Camera 1 got a perfect view of it all.

Bushwacker knew where they were and he knew how many. He stepped out of the main house, still mostly naked, his skin now almost entirely reformed and no longer translucent. In Camera 1 you could see that the cartel members saw him and were trying to hide. Hoping he would just walk away.

Bushwacker took several steps away from the house until he was dead center in the view of the camera. The smoking remains of the Compound house, full of bodies, on his left. The garage gym with three cartel members lying in weight to his right. He looked up to Camera 1. He held up three fingers. Ticked his head to the right. Held his hand up as the index and middle fingers bled into one another and formed into a barrel, blew the imaginary smoke from it, and slowly turned around like a man who had walked to his car before realizing he had left his car keys on top of the television.

Bergeron remained silent as Bushwacker eliminated the three remaining cartel members for the cameras. It was a display. He knew where they were and how many. He could have circled around. He could have headed back into the building and came back out through a window. He could have done about anything, but he walked dead on toward the open garage and the resulting hail of gunfire.

"You can watch the rest, but there isn't really much to see. They are all dead. He douses them all, and the buildings, and the cars, and the couches. Everything really."

"But the Pyro." Fury asks. Not finishing his sentence, trusting the implication is clear enough.

"He said the Pyro was in the car. Yeah. Before he lights the Compound up he drags the Pyro's body to the car, sets it up in the driver's seat, then douses that too and lights everything up."

They sit there a bit longer and discuss matters. Whatever was special about the Pyro persisted after his death. When he went up he burned far hotter than he should have. Plenty hot enough to destroy all the teeth and bone. Plenty hot enough to strip the car to metal and strip the metal of any paint. To slag most of the metal.

"Hell of a healing factor."

"Yep. And he knows it."

"Wants us to know it."

"Yep."

"So what's your evaluation Bergeron?"

"Same as your's I suspect."

He was hired.

“Oh no, no more sleepin’ on the job, Remy.” He might not have been quite as eccentric as he once was, but Gambit had never quite slipped the habit of talking to himself, the mumbled words escaping his lips as he regarded the heaving scene. He’d attempted to catch a quick moment of shut eye before the party really kicked off, but had overshot it somewhat. Blob wouldn’t exactly be happy.

He didn’t need the job, no one on Krakoa really needed a job anymore, but he liked to keep his hands busy, and this kind of work kept him out of trouble, as his wife was want to put it, or at least the kind of trouble they were used to.

The party was just about starting up and already the Lagoon was heaving, the ceaseless wave of noise that was the crowd chattering lining the bar and spreading out into the wider lagoon itself. It was a good kind of busy, a cluster of celebration not bunch of people crammed into too small a space. It was a nice, bar, he liked the work.

“So, what can Gambit be gettin’ you?” The unmistakable accent was on full display when he worked, already the shaker in motion as he set about his work. Despite being ‘on the job’ he was still dressed for the Gala, a combination of deepest black and the bright purple he so enjoyed. His jacket was very smart, something out of a slightly edgy corporate fashion show. It was the fact his chest was utterly bare underneath that gave it the Gambit flare, an enviably cut physique, decked only with a series of beads that was very reminiscent of New Orleans infamous Mardis Gras celebrations. If that didn’t distract you, the shimmering energy around the drinks he so effortlessly juggled did. Drinks and a show, and all for free in the Krakoan lagoon.

“Come on now ladies, don’t be shy, Gambit don’t bite, well, not these days.” The man’s attention turned to a pair close by, who seemed quite taken aback at this exact moment, starstruck, even. “Sit yourselves down and I might even have a story to share.”

Aya looked confused for a second before her eyes widened in realization of what Molly was saying. "Ehhhh!?" Her foxy ears stood up straighter as she took another look at the bartender. One of the X-men was...bartending?

She hadn't expected that, well everyone has their hobbies she supposed. This was actually a great opportunity to get the infamous Gambit on her vlog. She could feel her heart pounding, whether it was from nervousness or the excitement of how many views she would get on her video, she wasn't sure.

The fox mutant played it cool and simply sat down on one of the bar stools as Gambit suggested, her tails fanning out behind her as she got comfortable. She patted the seat next to her for Molly to sit in.

"Don't bite these days? That implies you did at some point. I thought I was the animal here." She grinned at her stupid joke. Oh wait, that's right, she needed to order a drink still. "I'll have something fruity and sweet."

Aya pulled her phone out as she sent a few quick commands to her camera drone, it floated back to pan out and get a better view of the whole bar. "So anyway, how do you feel about being filmed? You could tell a story not just to me and Molly here, but the internet masses!"

@Ezekiel@Silver Carrot

"I'm sure you can ask all sorts 'round these parts about my bite or sting, chere, but we all friends now," The jest back from the fox-eared mutant brought a grin to Gambit's features that wasn't just his usual charm and joviality. Witty in the worst way, it was his kind of joke. "And 'a don't mind, been filmed a few times, but I don't think those fly with the terms of service," He spoke as he worked, objects floating too and around him as he both put on a show and rustled up the drink.

"Pretty or strong?" The question was asked mid flow, and whatever the answer, he made it to suit, soon pouring out a vibrant red drink, finished with a slice of lime pressed to the rim of the glass. "That there's a Bayou Rum Punch, girl, dangerous drink that, lead to all sorts of mistakes and headaches, but sure does taste sweet." With that, the hero-turned-bartender leant forwards on the bar, his hands pressed to the surface. "So, what do you want to be filmin' with ol' Gambit? What kinda story you and yours wantin'?"

"Pretty or strong?" Aya was asked.

"Hmmmmm...is it too much to ask for both?" Regardless if it was or not, Gambit finished preparing the drink. Aya, unable to help herself, immediately took a sip and...wow it really did taste sweet, she could hardly tell it was alcoholic.

"Wow, Molly you have to try this! Make her one too!" Aya demanded, her tails wagging in an excitable state before she sipped on her drink some more.

The fox mutant thought over Gambit's question for a bit as she nursed her rum. "Well I'm filming a vlog, so just acting like yourself is all I could ask really. As for what kind of story...I'm sure you've been through more crazy adventures that you can count...just about any of them will do as long as it's youtube friendly."

Somehow Aya's glass was empty, she looked down into the glass for a moment before looking back up at the X-men bartender. "May I have another?" She asked with a cheeky grin.

@Ezekiel@Silver Carrot

Molly took a sip of the drink, and had to double take. "I don't even taste alcohol!" she exclaimed as she took another sip, then chuckled. "This stuff is dangerous! Tasty though!" she took another sip as she listened to Aya and Gambit. She was still having trouble processing it. It's Gambit, and he's just...here, behind a bar like tht's a natural place for him to be! Krakoa really was like a whole other world. As for stories...

"Got any stories from the West Coast?" Molly added to Aya's request. "I'm a little more familiar with the, you know, Superhero lasndscape over there."

@Abillioncats@Ezekiel

"I don't much head out that way, although Rogue did spend a whole month tryin' to tell me to go an' give surfin' a try." Gambit smiled in a truly friendly manner at their appreciation of the drinks, "But I'm afraid the only surf Gambit's caught goes with a Turf and a side of fries." He continued to work as he spoke with the two female mutants, sliding drinks across the bar to people awaiting their turn, but his attention didn't drift from them, fingers made fast from both pickpocketing and card dealing needing no great effort to keep up without need for line of sight.

"But I did work with some of those West Coast Avengers for a bit, back when we were freein' the 'Noshans." Despite the heavy topic, Gambit's mood didn't seem to drop at all, in fact, his lips pulled into something of a grin. "Let me tell you ladies, that Scarlet Witch was one scary lady, almost enough to scare Gambit off, but I never did see sense." To say Maximoff was unpopular on Krakkoa was an understatement, in some way, he appreciated the ability to talk with someone about the memory without sending them into a fit of rage. "This was back before it all started goin' wrong over there, you know, workin' with the Avengers, overthrowin' the government. That's where I first learned to barkeep." He nodded enthusiastically, before explaining, "Undercover, see, no one expects to find an X-Men servin' them a rum punch." Before, with a wink, he slid two new drinks to the girls.

@Silver Carrot @Abillioncats

Now Aya wasn't exactly what you'd call a large woman. In fact she was definitely on the shorter side. And so with her tiny frame and general lack of experience with alcohol, the Bayou Rum Punch hit her like a truck.

She swayed slightly in her seat as she sipped on her second drink. "Heehee yeah I bet...you learn all sorts of juicy things as a bartender." Aya pulled at her shirt a little. "Is it getting hot in here? I need to take this off." With that her hands began to briefly glow and suddenly her shirt seemed to 'poof' out of existence. Aya often conjured her own clothing with her powers, and so she simply undid the creation of her shirt. She was wearing a bra still, at least for the moment, it was lacy and black to anyone who cared to look.

"That's better~" She took another long sip of her rum. "Sooooooooo, I'm guessing you uh...know a lot of Avengers and X-men and other people of importance. Know anything um...interesting about any of them? Maybe something that isn't well known?"

@Ezekiel@Silver Carrot

Calvin knew better than to mix alcohol with his medication, but tonight he decided to say screw it. Even if he did have a bad reaction to the mix, there were at least a dozen mutants with healing powers currently on the island.

Calvin was still getting used to Krakoa. While he had been all over the world, Krakoa was still one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen. The natural splendor of the island was currently accentuated even more by the vast decorations and festivities of the opening event.

Calvin had spent the good part of the night wandering around the island, taking in the different themes. He had passed through meadows bathed in purple, housing with bright red luminescent trees, and now the green glow of the Green Lagoon.

It was while walking through the Green Lagoon, that Calvin spotted the large bar at the centre of the area. Given the influx of new residents and guests for this event, there were multiple bartenders manning different corners of the bar.

Calvin immediately recognized Gambit working one area, as well as the Blob on the opposite end. Quickly deciding between the two, Calvin chose to get a drink from the Blob. The decision came down to who he had more baggage with, and since Calvin spent a much longer time as an X-Man than with the Brotherhood, he chose the Blob.

“Hey Fred,” said Calvin as he approached the over-sized bartender, “Long time no see.”

The giant mutant turned to Calvin, “Mimic, how you doing? Last I heard you were with the Thunderbolts.”

“Oh, that’s really old news,” replied Calvin, “I was an X-Man for a while. But now I’m just a man. I’m not jumping back into any team.”

“Makes sense,” Blob nodded his head, “So can I get you something to drink?”

“Yeah, I could go for something festive, to honor all of this,” stated Calvin, “But make sure it’s strong.”

The Blob chuckled before preparing a bright pink drink with a paper umbrella in it. By now Calvin had already decided that he was drinking this evening, as he felt a strong drink could do more for his nerves than his prescribed medication. While this was probably not the smartest decision, Calvin’s mind couldn’t help but turn towards it’s manic side.

Taking his drink and thanking the Blob, Calvin left the bar and wandered around the Green Lagoon. Taking a sip of his drink, Calvin found it sweet with tropical fruits, but also a really strong rum. The drink caused a little bit of a rush to Calvin’s head, causing him to decide to perhaps limit himself to just this one drink. But then he thought maybe something weaker like a light beer wouldn’t hurt.

By the time Calvin was halfway through his drink, he had spotted Magneto and Emma Frost. They seemed to be deep in conversation with two young boys. Calvin didn’t recognize the youths, but then again he wasn’t always caught up with the new students at the Institute. That was of course back when there was an institute.

But Calvin was curious to see what the two former enemies of the X-Men had to say. It was only a few years ago that Calvin himself had battled the Brotherhood and the Hellfire Club. But he did know that Krakoa was supposed to be a clean slate, a home for all mutants. Hell, they even let Apocalypse in.

This all made Calvin interested in what they had to say. Calling upon the heightened senses that came with him copying Wolverine’s powers, Calvin focused in on the talk happening between the boys and the former villains. Only to hear Emma Frost confirm that they are the sons of Scarlet Witch.

Calvin quickly realized how big a piece of gossip that reveal was. The Scarlet Witch was one of the strongest mutants in existence, having almost wiped out the entire mutant race due to mental illness. Luckily for Calvin, he had retained his powers after M-Day, but many of his friends were not so lucky.

But if these boys were really Scarlet Witch’s children, that meant that they could be incredibly powerful and as much of a threat as their mother. That prospect worried Calvin.

Deciding to monitor the situation, Calvin took a seat at the bar just far enough away from them as to still be able to hear them. Calvin then tried to look like he was focusing on his drink and the fireworks, all the while his actual attention was focused on Magneto and Emma Frost’s conversation.

@Ruby @Ezekiel @Crimson Flame

Dr. Strange

Holiday Special

Doctor Strange made a visit to the Crooked Market to pick up a gift for someone special. Some preferred to shop via scrying and using the free portal delivery available to members, but Strange didn’t trust the operator enough to do anything except face to face business. He didn’t particularly like dealing with Mad Jim Jasper’s quixotic brand of commerce either, but he had few other options for sourcing a special item. He walked up to the stall where Mad Jim himself was standing with payment in hand and said

“Here is your payment, ten thousand years worth of magical essence harvested from Earth’s leylines, encased in a time crystal with etchings done by the Dwarves of Nidavellir. The time crystal is a Lunella Lafayette design, she might not yet be as esteemed as Richards when it comes to that field but give her time and it will surely grow in value. In any case, it’ll be enough to keep the essence shelf stable until the heat death of the universe, possibly even beyond that. “

Jim said

“Huh, didn’t think you had it in you to actually match the demand. Very well, your payment is accepted”

“Eh, I thought it was a bit high but then I found a way to source it ethically from a timeline where life never evolved on earth. “

“Ah, I would’ve liked it more if you hadn’t told me that. I’m a busy man but I still have time to get wistful about times gone by, not quite as lovely if my little bottle of fun was appropriated from some inanimate rocks rather than a bunch of cultureless, underserving bores. But a deal is a deal.”

“Indeed. Do you have what we agreed upon?”

“Yes, except for some matters with the item’s shipping and receiving.”

“What matters?”

Jim gestured with his hands and pretended to look busy examining papers laying behind the counter, but Strange’s mystical senses could tell the stack had only been conjured into existence a few seconds ago. Jim said

“Oh, it’s not for me to know precisely, but I’ve been ready to do my part when it comes to receiving, so whatever difficulty has arisen must be with their shipping.”

Strange said

“Surely you can do something to figure out what’s wrong on their end, it’s a gift for someone and I can’t have it being late.”

“Excess hurry is such an ugly habit, it wouldn’t due for me to show exertion over something trivial, nor should I harrang them about such a lowly matter.”

“I thought we had an agreement.”

“Oh, but we did, unfortunately said agreement did not cover whatever business is going on with those layabouts at the Mall of Babel; if the item is in my possession it will be yours, but until then I can do no more for you. If you’d like a second opinion, I could direct you to the customer service department but I fired the relevant people when I realized how many inquiries could be dealt with by the sign behind me.”

Jaspers cocked his eye towards a sign that Strange didn’t remember if had always been there or if it had materialized just a moment before.

It read:

1. Mad Jim Jaspers is always right

2. If Mad Jim Jaspers is ever wrong, re-read Rule 1

There was a silence between them, and the big smile on Jasper’s face crept back to a neutral position when Strange didn’t find the matter funny.

Jim said

“Well, if you really want I can give you the invoice and you can look into it at your leisure. Might be a character building exercise, you know, personal responsibility and all that. “ Strange had a portal open as soon as the invoice was in his hand and made his way to the Mall of Babel.

The Mall of Babel was a dimension that sold everything. Not a lot of things, not just trillions of things, but literally everything, an infinite amount of products. It was composed of a series of endlessly repeating heaxgons, with stores along the edges of each gexagon and a set of escalators in the center, leading up and down to the next in an unbounded number of floors. Two of the edges of the hexagon were open, holding a pathway that ended in another hexagon. Along one side of each pathway was a set of restrooms, along the other a small food court. It was said that no two heaxgons were alike, even that no two stores were alike, but proving it was a futile exercise, just as hopeless as trying to map the layout of the space.

The hexagon Strange landed in had a typical assortment of useless shops. One sold decorations for holidays that didn’t exist. Another sold only sports cards of people that never played sports, showing what their stats would have been. The place by the pathway sold only defective toasters, and each one was broken in a slightly different way. Looking through the windows of the others he saw ones that specialized in mesh umbrellas, parts for trinary computers made with vacuum tube technology, luggage that used pocket dimensions to hold more space but had the unfortunate side effect of occasionally dumping their contents into the void between universes, and hot sauces that could only be consumed by immaterial beings. Finding the store listed on the invoice would be a struggle even for him.

Fortunately, Strange had the Eye of Agamotto with him, and when combined with a little finesse it would enable him to actually navigate the place. Even it’s awesome powers took some time to work in something as overwhelming as the Mall of Babel, giving Strange a moment to look around. What interested him most wasn’t what he saw, but what he didn’t see: any actual shoppers. There were employees, but the whole place was eerily silent, even when you’d expect it to be busy. He had heard that sleeker competitors like the Crooked Market emerged, lost teenagers found other realms to haunt, and that most of the people who ended up there were tourists visiting The Backrooms due to its sudden fame that took a wrong turn upon exiting. Still, he didn’t expect it to be this empty. He’d have to find something else to do, and he found it when he spotted a Nightmare’s Café stall in between the escalators.

Once he had confirmed it was a franchise store and thus not actually run by the eponymous founder and member of the Fear Lords who counted Strange as mortal enemy (which included terminating his rewards account and barring him from all corporate owned stores), Strange looked at the menu and thought about what kind of dreams he’d like to ingest. They weren’t great quality, but they had a brand name. As their slogan used to say

“It’s not just dreams harvested from the sleeping masses and bottled for you. It’s Nightmares.”

Strange looked at the bored looking multi-armed barista behind the counter and said

“Give me a cuddling with soft puppies with a topping childhood nostalgia.”

The Barista said

“Figures. Everyone wants the saccharine stuff overloaded with sweetness, no one wants the old school hard stuff anymore. And the order is for?”

“Do we have to do this? I’m the only one here.”

“Boss said I have to, people like the personal touch when you write it on their cup.”

“Fine. Stephen Strange, MD, PhD, Master of Mystic Arts, Sorcerer Supreme, whatever fits.”

As the Barista began to work, Strange asked a question

“Didn’t there used to be a lot of Mindless Ones around here? This place was practically daycare for them, they could just wander around and stay out of Dormmamu’s hair errrr flames and loiter or shop or skateboard, whatever they like to do when they’re not trampling over everything. “

The Barista said

“You’d think, but Dormmamu shut down the transit connection. Rumor is he’s trying to choke out the mall’s lifeblood to make a play for it when it’s really hurting. Wouldn’t be the first time he gobbled up more real estate for the dark dimension.”

“So who is here?”

“I dunno. Don’t really go beyond this part. The place’s infinite, not like you could get a good sense of it all. Unless something more infinite comes along and tries their hand nobody’ll ever have a grasp on it all.”

Strange picked up his cup and took a sip, ready to set off on the path the Eye of Agomotto had found. It was only when he got a look at the cup on his second sip that he made a small frown upon reading that the Barista wrote his name as “Steve”

Strange found the Cantor Gifts location inside the Mall of Babel completely empty, not an employee in sight. The shelves were unevenly stocked with impossible objects, one section had dozens and dozens of untouched Klein bottles gathering dust, another large display for Penrose Triangles was completely empty. Almost all of the things had gone out of style long ago; petering out when people no longer thought it was hilarious to give someone something from the Non-Euclidean Naughtiness section. The anti-theft wards were trivial to dispel, but Strange thought it important to do everything above board. He found a hold pickup shelf with his package sitting on it, but no matter how long he waited no one came to the counter, and his mystical sense confirmed the store was empty. With a heavy sigh, he carried his package to the self-checkout station and read off the runes above the checkout sigil to open a connection to customer service.

Strange could see that the signal from the speaking stone was being routed to Mephisto’s realm. Apparently Mephisto had been quite aggressive in the call center outsourcing business. The connection was crackly, possibly due to the sound of brimstone in the background. The voice on the other end said “Hi thank you for calling Cantor Gift’s customer service, my name is Pieter. How may I help you?”

“Hi Pieter, I have an invoice in my possession for an object that was shipped to this store. I found it in the pickup area but there were no employees. Can you handle my purchase?”
“Certainly, just give me a second to process some things.”

Pieter thought he had muted himself, but Strange was able to hear the conversation that went on while he waited. “If I have to take another call about people not showing up to work
in the Mall of Babel locations I don’t know how I’m going to get through these eons of punishment. Hey Nicolae! Shut up! I’m trying to work here and I don’t care if you’re on break you and your buddy Enver can go discuss your Marxist babble somewhere else.”

“Uhhm, yes sir I’ve made the changes in the system. Just wave the item over the checkout sigil one more time and the anti-theft wards will be released. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“That will be all. Thank you.”

Before he left the store, Strange opened the package and stared at it, scanning the complexities of its form. This was a work of fine craftsmanship by a skilled interdimensional smith, a crystalline structure filled with literally infinite fractal paths inside of it. Every one of the infentismally small passages bent light in its own distinct way, creating a shimmering effect like nothing else. Every second, every angle of view, and every change in light condition produced an entirely unique effect, nothing about it was static, nothing about it was exhaustible. Even if one could examine it on a microscopic level they would see new things, never before seen patterns, inside the truly infinite interior space. For all of its wondrous complexity, it was ultimately a curio, of no use other than admiring its aesthetic charms. Perhaps that was why it had been left to gather dust in the backroom of a mall store, a rare piece only appreciated by a few eccentrics. Strange himself had gotten it for Clea, who had memories of seeing one her mother owned when she was young. Clea had only been able to see it once, as soon as Umar heard how much she loved it she hid it away, thinking it was unbecoming of her daughter to be in awe of something so tacky when she could direct her energies towards more productive efforts.

Even though they were apart, Strange still cared for her, and wanted to give her something to help her cope with the stress of running one side of an endless Dark Dimension civil war. He didn’t expect anything back, he didn’t even really have a deeper intention, and he just wanted to practice a little generosity.
There was a rumble from the other side of the room. It was a low, quiet one but it was still the loudest sound Strange had heard during his entire trip to the Mall of Babel. He focused his senses in that direction and felt something that should geometrically impossible, like the space was entirely filled but warped, and whatever this disruption was emerged in one sudden moment, too fast to track. He concentrated further to try and see what it was, but in that time it had grown to the point that even his eyes alone were enough to see it: A mass of thousands of tentacles, from ones thicker than tree trunks to narrow as snakes, shooting out from the largest storefront. One glimpse told him all he needed to know, and in an action too quick to be perceived he opened a portal to another part of the mall, lightyears away from the mass.

As soon as the portal closed he heard the rumbling again, and knew it was coming. From the single sight of it he got he could tell exactly what he was dealing with: One of the Many
Angled Ones. He didn’t know if it was Shuma-Gorath itself or another of its ilk, but all were equally terrifying, devouring beasts from beyond reality. They wanted nothing more than to tear existence asunder, to devour it whole with their infinite appetite, ancient minds beyond reason or morality. Even for one as mighty as Strange fighting them was a hopeless endeavor, a fact he remembered when his invocation of the Winds of Watoomb failed to even slow the next mass of tendrils before he teleported away again. The Many Angled One knew nothing more than a desire to engulf the entire Mall of Babel, and from there it would free to spread to even more realms, connected to an uncountable number thanks to the Mall’s vast network.

Strange was running away even though he knew there was no safe place at the rate it was growing, all it wanted was more room to grow, and Strange could feel it seeping forth from the place between universes, holding open a hole from its home dimension. In his haste he remembered he was still carrying his gift for Clea and he began to think. With one more jump through a portal he sighed and solidified his plan.

The first spell he cast was a simple one aimed at the monster, a mental spell to open the mind. It was safer than trying a direct mental attack on the creature, merely allowing it feel the ambient emotions. Next he reached across the universes and focused his mind on one shining concept: generosity, the idea of giving without expecting anything back. He drew these emotions from countless being and brought them here, across space and time, filling the whole room in a sea of them. That was when he saw the creature stutter for the first time, struggling to process the unknown emotion that was now flooding in. Strange knew it would be only a momentary pause, so that was when he made his final move, one that didn’t require casting a spell. As he saw a tendril reach out he took Clea’s gift in both hands and tossed it towards it, then watched and smiled as the tentacle traced a path inside the fractal structure of the crystal. More tendrils followed, and soon the whole monster was rushing inside it’s newfound gift, and Strange felt it’s presence recede from the mall. Once it had all moved inside, Strange threw the gift back through the portal from which the Many Angled One came and sealed it up. Mall Security would hear about the incident, possibly even give him a gift card for his service to the community, but Strange doubted he’d be back. His gift for Clea was gone, and although she would’ve done the same if she had been in his position, he was still left with a touch of sadness. Life would go as normal, with her none the wiser about what happened that day, and Strange headed back to his solitary work, knowing that someday all would be well and he’d be able to find another worthy gift.

The carousel, despite it being the nexus of the Krakoan community, was not particularly busy at the time, a state of affairs which suited Magneto quite well. Much had been done to establish Mutants in their own nation, a people apart. It had not been the future most had hoped for, but it had been necessary. It was a truth he had known for longer than most, a lesson learned and earned many times over.

Yet here he was, preparing to attend the most human of occasions, a ceremony that, should matters remain as they were for mutantkind, need never again occur for his own people. Before he had been Magneto, however, he had been Max Eisenhardt, born to a people that were bound together tighter than most, across borders jealously guarded by other peoples, but mostly ignored by them. It was a closeness, much like mutantkind, forged by necessity, from the predations of outsiders. It had damned and saved them countless times, and it was not something he could ignore, not forever.

So the helmet had been removed, the white and black of Magneto replaced with a finely tailored suit of the same colouring, a silver chain hanging from the centre of his waistcoat to one pocket. He had been told that this, along with the flat cap position atop his white shock of hair had become fashionable once more, but to him it was simply the style of his choice, from a lifetime of altering tastes among the wider human people. He supposed there were some advantages to being a man out of his era.

He had been preparing to leave for some time, waiting for no particular moment among the sparse spattering of mutants going to and thro. Their presence only amplified the debate within him, these were his people, not those beyond the portal. When he had finally exhaled and taken to cross the threshold, a familiar voice resounded within his head itself.

"Hold a moment."

"I will not be long, Miss Frost, I am sure Krakoa will survive for a day," The sudden thought something had arisen that might prevent him from paying his respects was not a comfortable one, and it was one which convinced him, finally, that is was the right thing to do, even if simply for himself, and those who had been lost along the way. No reply was forthcoming from the telepath, however, and so he did as instructed, pausing, not wishing to risk any ire from a lack of patience.

Then he saw her, the crest of red hair over black and brown, drifting through the air itself. It was a sight many would enjoy, he was sure, but when he beheld her there was more to his understanding. Was that not how the humans depicted their divinities? The song of angels on high, Christ descending among them. As the woman who had been the Phoenix touched down, boot-clad feet onto grass, his mind considered just how much destiny shifted around her, around all mutants. Only her voice, spoken aloud unlike Emma's, snapped him from such considerations.

"Miss Grey, keenly observed as ever, although perhaps knowing the machinations of a certain mutual connection, I believe we may be heading in the same direction." Something of the Head Masterly tone entered his words as he spoke, it was not entirely deliberate, for their times at Xavier's school had never intersected, beyond the somewhat awkward number of times he had been trying to destroy the place. "While I do suspect of the two of us, she considers me the risk that needs managing, I may pretend at least otherwise, and ask if do not mind for me to accompany you?" He tilted one hand towards the portal, as one might have a carriage door, in ages past.

Although quiet drives were rare things, he found the pickup of the protectee from the small airport just north of the Capital District of New York, and the subsequent drive into Albany, to be a landscape of gentle, green rolling foot hills that seemed to melt into the Hudson River valley, with the Catskills Mountains hazy in the distance.

It would have been downright relaxing, if not for the protectee, and the reason for their presence. The handheld encrypted radio bleeped into activity, breaking the quiet drive.

“We have a problem.”

The man seated behind the driver of the large, black, General Motors SUV gave a wry smile, and brought the radio closer to his mouth to answer, “What problem?”

“She’s here, but she isn’t alone. Fucking Magneto came with her.”

Greg Joseph found his eyebrows perk at both the mention of the man, and the way in which the Agency analyst on the other end of the radio said it. Fucking Magneto, the senior analyst said, and he found himself not blaming them for it.

Joseph found himself pausing before responding, exchanging a look from the Special Agent in the front passenger seat, before turning his head to the right, to the man seated quietly in the seat behind the front passenger seat, eyes perking at the protectee, “News to you?”

“I had no idea, no. I just knew she was coming.”

Everything about Paul Bailey told the former US Army Intelligence and Law Enforcement turned CIA Mutant Desk Chief that he was being honest. A soft sigh escaped him before the radio went back to his mouth, Joseph taking another pause as his mind raked across the files and reports in his mind. “…we don’t normally see her alone, do we?”

Even the Special Agent in the front passenger seat looked back at his boss, a curious look on the Agent’s face. What are you getting at? Their senior analyst’s feminine tone softened, as her mind played catch-up, “Jean Grey?”

He didn’t have the patience for them to find it, themselves, “Think about every time we’ve seen her go through a Krakoan Gate. Is she ever alone?...no, right? Never? Meanwhile, Ororo Munroe sneaks out and surprises our analysts on the subway, or pops into Wakanda, or Kitty Pryde is boating around the world's oceans, or Emma Frost is strolling through gates solo like she owns the world…why is this woman different? Why is she never alone?”

“Could be coincidence,” the tall, blonde, former college athlete Special Agent in the front passenger seat offered.

The senior analyst came back over the radio, ”…she’s either always with teammates, family, or children. Or…”

“Or the woman who zapped an entire star and killed an entire solar system of people because she got godly levels of bitchy isn’t someone they want walking around the world alone.”

A surprise voice chimed in, the man next to Joseph, the woman’s former brother-in-law, “She’s not like that.” Even the driver peeked back in the rear-view when Bailey spoke up, as the thin man with the crown of brown hair on a quickly balding head shifted slightly, realizing every eye in the vehicle was on him, now, before continuing, “…I lost the love of my life, my wife. I lost my children.”

There was a knife’s edge of emotion deep enough for Paul Bailey to lose himself in, but Bailey took a slow breath before speaking more, “I knew her parents. I knew every sister and brother. I knew every member of that family. None of them ever spoke of her like that—not even remotely. And I knew her, myself. She’s not like that, Deputy Director. I would have told those Shi’ar aliens the same thing when they murdered my family, and her’s, adult and child alike. I would have died too, had I not been working late that night. Whatever this Phoenix did, it wasn’t Jean Grey. My wife and our babies bet their lives on that. They killed them all anyway. Justice, they called it, I was told…I don’t know about this Shi’ar Empire, Deputy Director, but I should hope MY government, THEIR government, wouldn’t be so quick to assume the same horrible thing.”

The car slowed to a stop outside the four-story over-a-century-old red-brown brick building that shared the entire city block with the cement parking garage that acted as secondary parking for New York State government buildings in the area. The corner space of the old red-brown brick building was The Hollow, a bar and restaurant popular with both the state government employees from their state buildings surrounding the street and the lawyers from the US District Court just a block down the street, across the 797 Interstate that divided Albany from the riverfront of the Hudson. They stood outside on the sidewalk, staring into the backseat of the long, black, American-made SUV.

“…okay,” Greg Joseph said, nodding, “Let’s do this.” The tall, youthful, former college athlete of a Special Agent was out of the car, first, not saying a word, just opening the back passenger seat to let Paul Bailey out.

Bailey got out, immediately embracing the sister of his late-wife, and aunt of his late-children, Jean Grey. Joseph watched for a second, until he looked past the two, and saw the man still staring at him. The mutant, Greg Joseph corrected himself in his thoughts as he got out, putting on his best Sunday morning church of a smile. “Greg Joseph, Mutant Desk Chief,” he walked right up to Erik Lensherr, offering his hand, same as he always did, same as his daddy always taught him to do when meeting someone for the first time. Friendly, but respectful, firm. Same as he taught his son, he thought, as he looked at Paul Bailey and the woman, again.

“It’s okay.” Jean smiled at Paul, doubtless telepathic words passed between them as they stared at one another, Jean slipping her arm into Paul’s, pointing them down the sidewalk and heels clicking on pavement as the two started walking, towards the end of the city block, towards the car park, casting bright green eyes over her shoulder, at Magneto, then, to him. “Hello, Mr. Joseph. I hope we’re not keeping you too busy? Thank you for bringing Paul.”

He nodded, that Sunday church steps smile cemented on his features, the Texas in his accent as clear as the sunshine of the day, “Yes, Ma’am, one of the few times the Mutant Desk gets to do something so wholesome. We’ve been busy the past year since the uh…what do you call it? Birth of your nation?” He asked, not wanting to just call it ‘that Krakoa thing’, looking to the man keeping pace with Bailey and Grey next to him to answer the question, to Lensherr.

In the brief moments that existed before the arrival of the spattering of humans, the brief moments where there was still a possibility the day could have been a quiet, but solemn one, Magneto had asked the question that had niggled at him for the last few interactions he had with Jean Grey.

"Even Charles does not call me Max, not to suggest there are not differences between him and me, and you, but he knows those times of my life better than most." It was an unusual number of words for the usually precise Magento, and he would have to admit to himself that despite his experience of years, there was something about her that made him grasp for words in a way he had not for a long time. Equally, while the implication was otherwise, he avoided 'better than you' when you spoke with telepaths like Xavier and Jean Grey, they could know your own history better than you. "Why the change?" A simple question, for a complicated issue, interrupted by the arrival of the sort of blacked out vehicle which usually meant you were either meeting the Federal Government or the local cartel. In his experience on this continent, the distinction had always eluded him.

If there was another present with similar gifts to the finely, if slightly old fashioned, dressed mutant, the slight hum in the air would no doubt notice the subtle change in the air. All around them small metallic objects buzzed with the slight force of his attention, their focus trained gently to move through the air should he need them. The firearms in the possession of those stepping forth onto the street would be found to be most inoperable should they be drawn, only temporarily, but that's all that mattered.

He clasped the man's hand in greeting and decided roughly in that moment he would likely prove to be one of his preferred representatives of the United States various agencies he had met. This meant little in his evaluation of the man along lines that mattered, he had murdered people he had loved and spared those he hated when the cause was involved, but it would at least make the walk a more pleasant experience.

"Mr Joseph," It was a simple enough greeting, but the nod of polite respect he gave the man did much to suggest he simply wished to not insult his intelligence by feeling the need to give his own introduction. "The Birth of Krakoa is an apt name for it, if future communications to your government should be run through yourself I will be happy to inform our Council, although you may forgive our hesitation with divisions named as yours's is." The 'Mutant Desk' was never normally a pleasant term, not for those it had been created to monitor.

The formal meeting of state representatives, however different in their roles, was put aside for the moment as Magneto turned his attention to Paul Bailey, offering him another nod and smile of greeting, that was several degrees less political and several degrees more conversational, even as he walked ahead with Jean "Mr Bailey, pleased to meet you." In other circumstances he would likely allude to some support should he need against the government that had propelled him here, but that seemed a little unnecessary given the situation.

"Do forgive me if I am straight to business, but I had hoped to pay respects to a departed family friend on this day, what matter brings federal agents to attend us? I do so hope it is something a little more interesting than fear of our presence."