The X-Project

Stories are told about some of the escapades of the rest of the party gang, beginning with Jean and Amanda's arrival through the sewers.


"So once the ghost system was doing its work," Adrienne continued, "my merry band of misfits and I didn't have much to do until the festivities began tonight. I believe you saw Betsy Braddock and her escort," she grinned, "as well as Christian and Garrison Kane. But you may not be aware of the fact that I also had help in the form of two friends, who came up through the sewers to attend tonight's festivities."

"Now I know you're lying. The lower levels are warded and guarded Any non-Hellfire members would immediately trip the alarms!"

"Who said they were non-Hellfire?" Adrienne smirked, being deliberately coy and not offering to elaborate.

***
The building that housed the London Chapter of the Hellfire Club was originally built in the 15th century, but underwent significant changes when they purchased it three centuries later. The façade had been completely redone to reflect the style of the times, and many smaller plots surrounding it were similarly purchased, as the rest of the building was enlarged. What was never made public was how deep the basements went. In truth, the roots of the building were sunk deeply into the soil of London, interconnecting with the old tunnels and the newer sewer system of the 19th century. It contained vaults, secret rooms, secrets of all types, and was carefully warded against anyone not a member of the club.

Attempting to secretly enter through the basements without being a member or possessing a token of passage from one would activate three separate wards; one to alert the members and security; a second which would lock down the area and activate additional traps; and third, finally, a set of wards that once adorned a Persian temple that had been intentionally desecrated and buried, which would cause untold pain and agony to be experienced by the intruders until release or their hearts stopped from the pain.

There was a ripple in the brickwork of one of the walls, and Amanda stepped through, nose wrinkling at the stench of sewer that clung to her clothes. If she'd been on her own, she would have simply 'asked' London to take her straight to the sub-basements, but having someone tagging along meant doing it the slow way. She moved along the wall until she found a grating, big enough to admit an adult - provided they weren't overly large. Amanda stuck her hand through it, waggling her fingers to get her companion's attention.

~Jean,~ she sent, careful not to 'shout' too loudly and attract attention. ~You can get through here. Just needs a nudge.~

~On my way,~ Jean replied as she trudged her way through the narrow tunnel halfway bent over in an uncomfortable angle due to the low tunnel ceiling. People had been a lot shorter way back when.

The last time Jean had been in a sewer she was wearing a uniform that was entirely too small for her and way too tight shoes. While she thought it was somewhat of a step up when taking into account that she was not a fugitive trying to help two injured men this time, the compounded smell of hundreds of years of feces and urine and fact that their target location happened to be debauchery central wasn't giving much comfort. At least she didn't have to wear a corset this time.

~You're sure they won't go off once I enter?~ She was glad her temporary insanity resulted in something useful for once: a lifetime HFC membership, which meant immunity against any would be magical security measures. Or at least that was how it was in New York.

~If they were going to go off, they would have by now,~ Amanda replied wryly - the other reason she'd 'ported in, apart to save time looking for a way in they could both use, was to be a guinea pig for the wards. ~Apparently even short-term membership is enough to rate a pass.~ She wiggled her fingers through the grate again. ~See me?!~

~Good to know. One death's enough for me.~ Jean said, then nodded at the movement at the darkness. ~I see you~

Finally catching up to Amanda, Jean studied the fastenings around the grate. ~It's going to take me a few minutes to get these loose. The bolts look rusted shut.~ That and she didn't want to create too much of a ruckus by ripping the grate off.

~Let me see if I can get London to help.~ The way Amanda talked about cities as if they were living, breathing friends could be unnerving to those not used to it. The way her thought patterns became completely alien as she merged briefly with London might be even more so to a telepath. There was a reluctant screech and slowly the rusted nuts began unscrewing themselves.

Jean temporarily reinforced her mental walls while Amanda worked, mainly to guard against disorientation. The brief moment when Jean was connected to Amanda before shutting her out was akin to trying to understand 15 languages spoken all at once--by millions. It exuded power and emotion and cohesion, if that. It was mainly a label she had assigned the feeling she'd gotten. It was more than enough to stay away from.

~Thanks.~

She took care of the rest, as the grate gently pulled away from the entrance and came to rest against the wall. Jean stepped inside.

~Let's thin the herd.~

Amanda's returning grin was hard and far more feral-looking than you would expect from a small blonde woman. ~Been waiting for a while to get these bastards. Let's get to work.~

Surveying the hall a moment, Jean returned the smile as she reached out with a light mental touch. She knew some of the guards had training, built up psi-defenses,even if they weren't psionics to speak of. They'd been around enough telepaths to know. But Jean wasn't looking to go in and delve deep, or even skim the surface. This was mental sonar, pure and simple, rain on the roof. Get an idea of proximity, then handle things physically.

The sub-basement held three mental signatures, but one was already ascending the stairs to return to the party. Obviously this section held some type of liquor storage, perhaps a wine cellar, and they'd need to be careful about the staff coming down unexpectedly. Of the other two minds, only one was particularly alert; young, fresh out of the military and earning a paycheck he believed was impossibly high after his army wages. The other was older, bored, secure in the fact that his job was mostly to make sure guests or non-service staff didn't try and sneak off with expensive bottles of liquor.

Amanda exchanged a glance with Jean as the psion filtered the information to her. Considering her hand-to-hand skills, she'd be better off with the older guard, taking him by surprise. In a thought, she conveyed this to Jean, cocking an eyebrow at the older man.

Jean nodded to Amanda. ~Quietly. And make sure he doesn't get to his radio. I'll try to take down the younger one at the same time.~ And keep watch for any unwanted guests barging in.

~On three.~

The witch nodded, holding up three fingers and folding them down one by one. ~One. Two. Three.~ As the third finger went down, so did she, vanishing abruptly into the floor, only to pop up again behind the older guard. She slapped her hand over his mouth and before he had a chance to react, she sank down into the floor again. Of course, given she couldn't actually take passengers, the guard was dragged down with her, smacking his head against the concrete of the floor with a crunch.

The sudden movement out of the corner of the younger man's eye registered only briefly as he started for his gun but then suddenly went for his throat instead via telekinetic pressure around his larynx and after a brief struggle he dropped to the ground within moments, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Stepping out of the shadows, Jean stared down at the two men, subconsciously assessing their conditions. They'd live.

~We should--~

Jean suddenly turned her head and held up her hand. ~Wait. More en route. ETA minute or less. Don't think they heard us but not a friendly vibe.~

The locked maintenance tunnel door opened smoothly, and five men came through it, dressed in black and weapons at ready. As they came through, a medal worn on the lead one's neck glowed slightly; a pass through the wards, and in seconds they were prowling through the subbasement.

~Bollocks.~ The thought was emphatic as Amanda ducked into the shadows - surprise was her best weapon. ~Nothing's ever easy, is it?~

Yanking the two unconscious guards with her, Jean ducked into a nearby storage room, leaving the door slightly ajar to be able to see out. She smiled ruefully.

~If I had a nickel for every time I thought that I'd be a very rich woman.~ She watched as they went past.

~There are five. Not sure if they're mutant, human, or magically inclined. One feels strange. Not sure why. But we can't let them get upstairs.~

~Makes me wish I'd brought a half-brick in a sock.~ Amanda's thoughts were a curious mix of bravado and resignation. ~All right, let's get to it, then. I'll pop up behind if you do the distraction thing from the front?~

Jean smirked. ~Brutal but effective, I suppose.~ She nodded.

~There's going to be a lot of noise in three, two...~

She opened the door a tiny bit wider to get the men in her line of sight.

~One.~

The doors in front of the men started to open and close on their own, the handles rattling. Jean caught a glimpse of three neat stacks of white plates in the room across the hall from her which ceased being neat as the plates suddenly flew toward the men's heads.

The first one shattered, the sound like a cannonshot in the small space, and they took cover, shielding their heads behind their arms as the crockery rained down at them.

There was a stirring in the shadows behind them and Amanda appeared briefly. She grabbed one by the collar and yanked backwards, melting into the wall and smashing his head into the brick.

Jean continued with the trend they had established earlier and as Amanda took down one, Jean tried a little experiment by making one of the men punch another one in the face telekinetically. This resulted in her control not being as fine, so for a few brief moments the plates flew about with less precision. She caught the glint of the necklace one of the men was wearing in the light.

~Daytripper, someone appears to be wearing some sort of jewelry with a strange symbol on it. Can you make it out?~ She got the feeling the guy wasn't wearing it because he had a fondness for 70s fashion sense.

~Let me get a closer look,~ the witch replied, in between appearances - she was popping in and out of the walls and floor, creating the impression there were more of them than there were. She rose up through the floor at the particular assassin's feet, punching him smartly in the nose before taking a look at the medallion. ~Bugger. Got ourselves a wanna-be acolyte of some Dark Force or other. Better let me take care of him.~

Two of the men bunched up, unleashing a steady burst of fire, flickering lights in the gloom. The one which had been struck went for his sidearm, catching Amanda with a backhand to drive her back.

Jean narrowed her eyes, gritting her teeth and biting back a growl as she threw up a forcefield to throw off the gunfire from around she and Amanda. Currently bullets were her primary concern as they had more of a chance to kill than a slap.

Ah hell.

She took out one of the trigger happy men by smashing him in the face with his own gun, then used him like a bowling ball to launch him at the legs of the man who was shooting and take him off his feet.

Wiping blood from the corner of her mouth, Amanda nodded her thanks at Jean before disappearing back into the floor and reappearing behind the other gun-toting man. This time she didn't bother using her fists - he had height, weight and skill on her, not to mention the gun - but instead went for the knife she'd started carrying when it became clear her hand-to-hand was as good as it was going to be. A flash of metal, a precise jab between the vertebrae of his lower back, and the man collapsed, twitching.

Jean let out a breath as she felt the man's spark go out. She had already reinforced her walls in preparation for any would-be psionic intruders but it was never easy to glimpse the ghost of the fleeting moment when a person turned into a body.

"Behind you."

The medal wearing man grabbed Amanda, trying to bring the machine-gun into play against her.
"I don't think so," the witch grunted, elbowing him sharply in the ribs so his hold loosened. She couldn't get entirely free, however, and with his hands on her, she could feel the power of the amulet he was wearing, something dark and almost oily-feeling to her magical senses. Something she didn't want to drag into London by teleporting. Instead, she twisted until she was at arm's length and slapped her palm against her thigh, the sound creating a shield bubble around him. He still had her arm, which stuck out of the bubble - twisting her wrist so her palm was facing him, she blasted him with pure London, the bubble containing the energy and creating a maelstrom which buffeted the assassin inside.

Buffeted by the energies of the city, the assassin called on his amulet to protect himself, but the swirling energies inside the bubble made it impossible for him to focus, the words ripped from his lips before he could finish them. He tried to keep hold of Amanda's arm, digging his nails in and she gritted her teeth as she felt the scratches gouged into her flesh as his grip was torn away. Still, once her arm was free, it made it easier for her - she yanked her arm out of the bubble and then closed her fist, the bubble contracting around around him until he passed out from lack of air. She glanced at Jean - she'd already killed once in front of the woman and while she'd normally make sure he couldn't come after them, Jean was an X-Man - and cancelled the spell, letting him fall to the floor, unconscious.

"Is that all of them?" she asked, pulling up her sleeve to examine the scratches on her arm. Blood oozed sluggishly from them, but they were only shallow, her shirt and jacket protecting her.

Jean had felt a moment of helplessness, forced to watch, to not intervene while Amanda worked. It was magic. She wanted to help but she did not know if she'd help or hinder. It'd been the first mission she'd actively been on since Genosha that required actual force verses simple healing. And yet she still felt the same, powerless, for a few moments. To see Amanda struggling, to see the dying look in the man's eyes before Amanda stopped herself.

Slowly nodding, Jean slipped off a thin backpack she had strapped to her back filled with emergency medical supplies. It wasn't a lot--too much bulk would be a hindrance---but it was enough.

She worked quickly, reaching out for Amanda's arm to bandage the wound and get them on their way.

"I think so. Let's get the others."



Haller and Betsy use a telepathic diversion to trick Astrid Bloom, who's been keeping tabs on them.


"In addition to the former Black Queen and Black Knight being tasked with dispatching the assassins, Betsy Braddock and her escort were tasked with protecting the Blue King. But before doing that, they had to shake off the telepath we knew you'd send to keep tabs on anyone you distrusted."
 
"Bloom contacted me before we came up here. Your 'backup' is currently in a parlour, fucking each other senseless."

Adrienne grinned, beginning to relax a little and enjoy herself. "No, my backups are both telepaths. Much better ones than Bloom." She left her answer at that, leaving it for him to ask her to elaborate. Just as she wanted to stay cautious about using Haller's name and explaining his powers to Wyngarde in an effort to protect him, she didn't want to explain to Wyngarde just how exactly Betsy and Haller were duping Bloom, in case Wyngarde had a mental link with Astrid that could alert her to the deception prematurely. Adrienne didn't actually know how her friends were faring, and didn't want to risk compromising them.
 
"I don't under-" Jason stopped, his eyes widening momentarily at the realization. 


***
Astrid Bloom accepted a glass of champagne, mostly for show, and settled into am antique chair at the start of a hall of small parlors. The seat allow her a clear visual line of sight to the door that Betsy and Haller had slipped into only a moment before. She seemed to be staring into space, but in truth, the telepath had allowed her mind to slip ahead, her telepathy angling to lightly eavesdrop on the minds of those on the other side of the door.

The couple's hands had begun to roam even before they'd entered the room, and once inside Jim rolled Betsy against the door, kissing down her jaw and neck as he fumbled with the lock. As the latch clicked into place he kissed her deeply on the mouth, his free hand sliding the strap of her dress from her shoulder. Their minds mingled.

Then without a word Jim broke the kiss and drew back. Betsy moved past him to the bed, but Jim didn't follow. He lowered himself into the nearest chair and closed his eyes.
The capacity to passively fool another psi was a distinct skillset, and not one he'd ever developed; even mastering the appropriate intensity had been difficult. Fortunately Betsy had developed that skill, and for a novice the replaying of memory was much easier to project than a fabricated encounter.

Now he just had to avoid thinking of it as weaponized foreplay.

Betsy freed her arm from the gown's strap and slipped out of it, revealing a sleek black bodysuit underneath. She pulled up the suit and dressed. The telepath hesitated as she got a good look at Haller's reenactment "Does my ass look that large from this end?" She whispered.

There was a strangled choke as Jim almost lost it. Quickly he covered his ears and cracked one accusing eye just long enough to mouth Make me laugh and you die.

She caught the undercurrent of concern on his face. He wasn't experienced enough to split focuses. She knew that. Betsy nodded, exhaled and opened the door, leading away from Bloom and Haller. She smiled, reminded of all the work that led to this moment. Then shook herself out of the memory and groused. "Diet. First thing in the morning." But for now, there was a king to save.



Garrison convinces Jane Hampshire to involve her father in the plot.



There had been cigars in the cigar box where Adrienne had taken the gun; she now prepared one and lit it with the lighter she still kept with her at all times- the one Amanda had given her years before. Cigars weren't cigarettes, so technically she wasn't cheating and falling off the smoke-free wagon, right? "The next play on the chess board involved the Red Rook," she explained. "You weren't wrong when you said Jane Hampshire has designs on Garrison Kane. You were just wrong in assuming that those designs somehow impaired good sense."

***
"Alone at last." Jane Hampshire said, closing the doors behind them, shutting out the party. The Red Rook was dressed in her traditional partywear; a long clinging red dress and an Etruscan bracelet that she had personally unearthed during her first illegal dig. It should have been in the British Museum, but instead flashed on her wrist.

Garrison hadn't been surprised when Jane had come over, insistently telling him they had to talk. Mind you, the word talk was all but dripped into his ear. Hampshire had never been shy about her attraction to him, although after Brand, it seemed less funny. She was a powerful woman who had grown up getting her way, and Kane's refusals only seemed to make her more interested.

"You said you had something you wanted to show me?"

"I have many things I'd like to show you. But I'd prefer you to beg me for that. No, dear Garrison, I've been doing my research. Little birds told me that both of your agencies have cast you off, you now have no job, and Emma Frost has been inside your mind. All this before you have shown up at our little party in the garb of the White Court. You're being used, Garrison."

"I thought that was always your intention." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Only physically. You're a powerful mutant, somehow connected into some of the deepest conspiracies in the Middle East and you're the son of Christian Kane. Do you have any idea what you represent?" Jane leaned back against the arm of an overstuffed chair. "Come to the Red Court, Garrison. We need another Rook. In a short time, you'll have all the money you'd ever need. You can even carry on the goals of your X-Men if you choose, with the resources of the Red Court behind you. Our goal is Knowledge; sometimes selfishly pursued, granted, but it isn't the gaudy power of the New York club."

"You think that I've joined the White Club?"

"I know about your past relationship with Adrienne Frost, Garrison. And she's tied to her sister, who I can tell has tampered with your mind. A detection spell in the lintel - whatever they've promised you, it's a lie. I know you, Kane. Your integrity. Your honour. We need that here, and it's what they're using to make you their puppet."

"You sound awfully sure that you're aware of everything."

"I have my ways." Jane drew out an envelope from her handbag and passed it over. "I don't know what hold specifically Adrienne Frost has on you, but if it's romantic, you can't trust her. There are photos in there of-"

"Adrienne Frost having sex with Emma Steed. The Blue Queen is implicated with Shaw in bringing down the Blue King.” Kane tucked the envelope into his jacket. "I know, Jane. That's why I was hoping you'd make a move because I need your help."

Hampshire stood silent for a moment, too stunned to say anything. In truth, she was expecting anger, betrayal, grief; anything but a slight smile and a confident reply. "I don't- I don't think I understand."

"No, but you will. But before we discuss it, I need to speak with your father?"

"My father? What's he got to do with it?"

"Jane, trust me. Bring him here quietly, and I promise to explain everything."

She gave him a look but finally nodded. Unfortunately for her, part of what had attracted her to him in the first place where the traits she'd mentioned; integrity, honour, and the ability to inspire trust. He'd protected her at the risk of his own life when he'd had no personal gain in doing so. She had recognized that he was simply him being who it was, and after a lifetime of the Hellfire Club, the concept amazed her.

***

Sir James Ransom Hampshire had been a huge man in his youth, the kind that the serialist modeled fictional great hunters and African explorers on. For over twenty years he'd served as the Red King, before tiring of the endless political machinations. He'd handed the title over to Sir Alan Wilson, a choice he was hardly inspired by, and had moved into a quiet retirement, amidst his books and his artifacts, rarely using his still considerable power in the Red Court. His only daughter, Jane, had taken his place in the active court. She had been born late in his life, a surprise gift from his younger and adored wife, who had died soon after her birth. Grief had bonded the father and daughter deeply, enough that he'd entertain a nebulous request to hear an improbable story from some damn fool Canadian of all people.

"Sir James? I'm Garrison Kane." He said politely, shaking his hand.

"Kane, hmph. You look a little like your father. Same eye, what. So, tell me, young Kane, why did you want to speak with me? My time in valuable."

"I won't waste it, sir. You're aware of the events behind this evening, so I won't bore you with a lengthy summary. Simply put, in a very short time, the Red Court is going to be implicated in serious infractions of Hellfire Club charter rules."

"Indeed. My boy, I have heard similar refrains in the past, and yet, hmph, it still stands."

"The evidence is in here. Alan Wilson knew of a plot arranged through the Blue King to remove the Blue Queen. He didn't take part, but he knew of the basics and lied to the Grey Clerks and the Lord Imperial." That got Sir James attention. Those kinds of actions could endanger any entire court for reprisals.

"If that's true, why tell us?"

"Because the true culprits are shielded if Sir Alan isn't compromised. I believe in the laws, even as twisted and perverse as Hellfire Club ones. I want to take this plot apart so thoroughly that no one involved gets free. I can't do that without you."

"Hmph. Young man, I will look through what you've brought. Jane, dear, please ask my old Inner Court if they would be so good to join us?"

"Of course, father." She kissed his cheek and swayed from the room.

"The power in the Red Court comes not from the Inner Circle positions, but from the non-titled members. Part of the reason it's been so damned hard to replace the Red Queen, what. This, however," The old man's eyes went cold. "happens to be something we can agree on".

***

Sir James Ransome Hampshire was sitting enjoying a brandy, one of the few remaining vices he allowed himself to indulge in. At his age, survival depended more and more on self-control, in all things. He looked up and sketched a brief bow at Sir Alan Wilson's entrance, in difference to his age. Rutledge, the club's remarkably far-sighted servant, had a similar snifter at Sir Alan's elbow before melting away back into the club.

"Ah, Red King. How are you, Sir Alan? Good of you to meet me for a moment, what. I know you're quite busy."

"Mm, exceedingly," Alan agreed, his small eyes flickering between Sir James and his glass, which he lifted in one perfectly manicured hand, swilling the liquid around the inside in his usual studied manner. "But naturally I can always spare time for my forebears. How can I help, Sir James?"

"I see that the Blue Court is likely to suffer a setback today, and consolidate power under Templeton. Curious that he should be the target of a plot and yet end up the benefactor from it." Sir James took a small sip. "How will the Red Court react? Have you made plans?"

"Oh, we shall prevail, no doubt," Alan breezed, pursing his lips at his brandy before taking a sip. "Is Rémy Martin the only drink that survived becoming a cliché unscathed? I think it might be. Dom Pérignon and Chateauneuf du Pape have been reduced to expensive punchlines by the mass media but I like to think Rémy escaped. Perhaps I'm biased, mind you." He smiled dryly.

"Victims of their own expansion into the Asian markets and a succession of particularly mediocre seasons. The grape is more tired than the name, it seems." He agreed. "But, humour me, Sir Alan. If the Blue Queen fails, what does the Red Court do?"

"'Do'?" Alan raised a single eyebrow, "I wasn't necessarily planning that the Red Court should 'do' anything, per se. It's not our concern, dear boy - if the Blues want to politic they're always going to bugger it up, aren't they? Let them plot and scheme to their hearts' content, they'll only self-immolate. You and I can sit back and enjoy the fireworks."

"You believe that our court will be unaffected by the outcome? Or that it has no role in it?"

"No role in it? What role could we possibly have beyond that of amused bystanders?" was Wilson's cool riposte.

"Ah. I was afraid of that. Sir Alan, when those files are opened to the public, they will very clearly list you as an informed party in the plot. Possibly a co-conspirator." He overrode the other man's attempted to respond. "Be quiet, you damned fool. Not only did you not bother to investigate the information, but I've been learning just how much you've delgated to your Red Bishop. Including the hiring of mercenaries and the acquisition of a club passage medallion for the evening. My dear, stupid friend, Strathdee wants your seat, and once you've been named in the meeting as having full knowledge and being unable to stop an attack on the club, the Red Court will dispose you, what."

Sir Alan didn't stutter. He was beyond stuttering, his pallor ashen, his knuckles white as they gripped his glass. Eventually, he cleared his throat. "I see," he said, resigned, defeated, his usual rich bass a croaky murmur. Finally, he looked back up at Ransome, his watery blue eyes grey in his grey face, empty of their usual confidence and polish. "What the bloody hell do I do, Jim?"

"Cut your Red Bishop loose. I'm told there are plans in motion, which will clear up this mess. Strathdee is a dead man once his role becomes clear. As for yourself, the Red Court cannot be fractured at this moment. Which means if blame falls on Strathdee, you may be allowed to keep your title." Sir James took a sip from his glass, voice measured and sure. "But it has become clear that you are not suited for solitary leadership. Allowing Strathdee to manipulate you is intolerable. I've spoken with the Red Court, and as of tonight, you will have a new Queen."

Sir Alan opened his mouth to say something; after all, he'd successfully avoided a new queen being appointed for almost five years now, but it was clear in Hampshire's expression that his title depended on silent approval, and he simply nodded.

"Good. I was hoping you'd see reason. I should warn you, my king, that your court will be paying very close attention from now on. I suggest you prove worth to the role."