Acknowledgments: : The first set of thanks goes to the IRC crew in #subcafe, who, upon my leaving earlier in November, told me to keep on writing, which is where this story found its start, a battered black notebook. The second set of thanks belongs to Spade, who was going to type this up had I not gotten ‘Net and comp access back, and also told me not to stop writing, and to keep my notebook with me at all times. The third round is for Phrykyh, who volunteered to beta this, and who did an outstanding job.
Thanks, folks. This Bud's for you.
 

Now, on with the show!
 
 

Questing
X-Men/Mage: The Ascension

Chapter One

Rain pelted the black street, filling potholes and trickling through the gutters. Evening traffic, headlights glaring through this mist, drove along undaunted, water splashing up from their tires. Young and old people alike ran through the downpour, holding purses and shopping bags over their heads, trying to shield themselves as best they could from the sudden storm.

A battered old taxicab skidded to a stop beside the curb for a waiting couple. The man opened the door just long enough for he and the woman to pile in, and then closed just as a streak of lightning flashed across the battling skies. Less than a second later, the rolling crash of thunder drowned out the cab's departure.

Standing behind the basement window of a neighboring warehouse, his arms folded across his chest, strands of his black hair falling down in front of his brown eyes, Alexander Pratte smiled.

The lightning outside had –nothing- on the lightning inside.

As he turned around, a blue-white bolt sizzled in front of him, leaving a trail of light in his vision that he shook away quickly. More bolts followed, and as his eyes readjusted to the contrasting lighting of the room, he saw that the amount of lightning bolts whirling around the room had nearly doubled in the last two minutes. He swore that there was at least a thousand now.

Alexander looked at the origin of the rough circle of energy, where an old card table sat, four chairs shoved up around it. Three chairs were occupied; the one closest to him was still vacant.

A pale-skinned, brown-haired woman sat in the left chair, her hands clasped together underneath her chin. Her face was perfectly blank, not giving away anything that was on her mind. She was dressed casually, in an old pair of khakis and a simple white T-shirt, along with scuffed shoes and a faded blue bandanna tied around her hair. Her light brown eyes, though, carried a definite aura of concentration, her gaze never breaking from the energy whirling around her head.

That was Margaret Kauffman.

The eyes of the man sitting opposite her reflected nothing in the way of concentration, though. Dressed in corduroy pants and a faded red T-shirt, he looked like the perfect college student, right down to the results of three days without shaving and blonde hair that looked like it spent quite a while pressed into a pillow. His face was a picture of indifference, and his mouth was curved downward into a disinterested frown. Surprisingly slender fingers deftly maneuvered a quarter around, obviously just to pass the time.

That was Ian Summers.

Between them, in the third chair, sat a man whose gray hair was a testament to premature aging. Under normal conditions, his business-like attire would have been considered classical and refined. Under these circumstances, classical and refined were far from possible..

Both of his arms were thrust out from his body, his hands and fingers straining from the forces flowing through them. The air around his hands was crackling and bolts of lightning gathered around his outstretched palms and shot out into the mass of electricity circling the group. His eyes were scrunched shut, and sweat was beading up on his brow.

Alexander took in all these details in a matter of seconds.

He grinned. Margaret and Ian glanced over at him out of the corners of their eyes, curious.

He looked at them both for a moment and grinned even wider. With his eyes wide and a deranged look on his face, he sprang forward and said, "Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd!"

Margaret’s face lit up, and a smile spread wide across her face. "Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined!"

Ian grinned as well, something different than melancholy playing across his features. "Harpier cries 'Tis time, 'tis time."

Alexander walked forward, the same deranged look on his face. "Round about the cauldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one. Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot." As he recited, he glanced back at forth, catching each one of them in his gaze, waggling his fingers in the air as he went.

All three said as one, "Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble…"

Margaret looked up at them both, a playfully demented gleam in her eye. "Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble." By the time she had finished, she was nearly sweating, she she so involved herself with the lines.

With the same tone they used earlier, they chorused, "Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble."

Then Ian sprang to life, his hair flying everywhere in his rapid full-body movements. "Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches' mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Silver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our cauldron." Once he finished, he was no longer the mellow person he was only minutes ago.

One final time, Margaret’s eyes glowing, Ian’s grin ranging somewhere in between sadistic and demonic, and Alexander nearly hurtling himself across the table, they chanted, "Double, double, toil and trouble, fire BURN and cauldron bubble!"

They broke down into simple laughter, Alexander falling back down into his chair, wiping his eyes. "Ohhh, we needed that," he laughed.

"Macbeth is awesome," Margaret agreed.

"Doesn’t Hecate enter in a second?" Ian asked coyly.

All three of them looked at the fourth man, who was still straining through his pain. He forced an eye open, took in all three of them with a single glance, and forcefully muttered, "Don’t even –think- of including me in your madness."

"Why not, Nigel?" Ian asked in mock surprise.

The fourth man, Nigel, merely shot him a look that would’ve sent a sane man running for cover. Ian only smiled. Nigel shook his head. "Because it’s time."

He stood, knocking his chair over behind him, and brought his arms and clenched hands to form an "X" in front of his chest. He kept them like that for a second, and then spread them in circles over his head dramatically, opening his palms and splaying his fingers.

The outermost strands oflightning, which up to this point had just been zipping around the chamber erratically, began to rotate counterclockwise around the group. As each bolt neared another, the light coming off them started to increase.

A splintering crack tore through their ears. Ian, Alexander, and Margaret’s attention all turned to the chair lying on the ground behind Nigel, or rather, what was left of the chair lying on the ground behind Nigel. The ever-closing lightning had ripped through it with ease.

Nigel seemed not to care.

The formation of the upside-down energy cyclone took less than a minute, and it barely was large enough to fit all four of them and the table in the eye. Nigel flinched as he calmed down, his eyes being assaulted by the light. It was close to blinding.

Ian, Margaret, and Alexander all reached into their pockets and pulled out sunglasses. Margaret’s were round and black, Alexander’s were oval and mirrored, and Ian’s pair looking something like a pair Brad Pitt would wear, rectangular and red. As one, they put them on, and then they smiled at Nigel.

Nigel smiled back, flatly.

Alexander and Ian shoved the table into the cyclone, where it shattered and disintegrated, to give them more space. Nigel looked at them, his body framed by the lightning behind him quite eerily. "So what is it you’re searching for, kids?"

Alexander’s grin faded. "We told you," he said, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

Nigel nodded slowly. "Ah, yes. Rather cryptic, too, if I recall. ‘Someone who can help us find what we’re looking for and get away from what’s looking for us.’" Under his breath, he mumbled, "I should charge a lot more for jobs that are probably going to kill me."

He shook those thoughts away and then moved to the exact center of the eye of the cyclone, ushering Ian and Alexander out of the way. "You three should duck. At least don’t be higher than my waist level. And shield your eyes," he added, rubbing his hands together.

They crouched, unsure of what to expect next.

Nigel raised his arms from his sides, fingers splayed wide again, and took in a deep breath, preparing himself. He gritted his teeth, tensed his muscles, and looked up.

Tendrils of lightning coursed down from the tip of the cyclone and gathered around Nigel’s body, circling him as they traveled down to his arms and then vanished. Alexander couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the bolts were sinking through Nigel’s skin.

Their suspicions were confirmed when Nigel opened his eyes and sparkling electricity coursed where deep brown irises were moments before.

Five seconds passed.

"I believe I have found what you are looking for."

The voice was Nigel’s, that they were almost sure of. It came from further away than Nigel’s mouth, yet the three of them could’ve also sworn it was only sounding in their heads. The voice itself was hollow and echoing, although in retrospect they weren’t too sure how a voice would echo in a cyclone.

Nigel’s arms strained and expanded, and all the stored energy shot straight out in one massive burst, blinding all three of them temporarily. Ian tumbled over backwards, his head thunking against the ground. Alexander shielded Ian and Margaret the best he could, his arms crossed in front of his face against the light.

When Alexander risked opening his eyes back up, the last of the blast was sinking into the cyclone, which shifted completely. The color had switched from electric clue to a mass of brown mixed with flesh tones and other, seemingly out of place colors. Silhouettes could be seen in the whirling mass, ranging from small to fairly large, from square to humanoid.

Nigel slumped in the center of the vortex, his shoulders rising and falling as he took in deep breath after deep breath. Steam rose off his trembling arms, and he looked drained, but otherwise in good shape.

His eyelids opened, and his eyes were back to normal. "Well?" he gasped out between breaths. "This is... what you wanted to see... right...?"

Ian got back to his feet, looking around with an unconcealed look of awe on his face. Margaret brushed her hair behind her ear as she looked around, impressed. Alexander dropped to one knee, looking closely where he thought the cyclone was. A humming, crackling noise still filled the air.

He stood back up and took a few steps back, towards the center of the cyclone. He glanced over at the haggard Nigel, who was admiring his handiwork. "This is it?" he asked, getting the older man’s attention.

Nigel looked at him, and then nodded to the cyclone. "Yes. That’s them."

The former cylcone was no longer the blue-white mass. On each side of them was the inside of a pub, and it was as if they stood in a circle near the middle of the room, activity happening on all sides. A waitress walked to the table across the cyclone, her image growing in size as it passed by them, shrinking back down as she walked away.

One particular table took up the biggest part of the "picture", five men sitting around it, munching on chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. Alexander walked up close to the image and looked at each one of them slowly.

One was of medium height and build, shoulders broad and arms thick with muscle. His face was kind but hardened, and even though he couldn’t see his eyes behind the red sunglasses he wore, he could still feel a certain steel in his glance.

The second one, chewing on a chicken strip, was short and looked as if he hadn’t shaved in about a couple years, but somehow never grew a full beard. He was obviously strong, and his jet-black hair, roughly combed, extended down into long, hairy sideburns.

The third man struck Alexander as the one that would probably being paying for the dinner, with his finely styled blond hair and immaculate attire. He cut at a steak, laughing with the first man, his light blue eyes smiling with him.

The fourth man wore sunglasses, regular black ones, and had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. His five o’clock shadow was perfect, accenting his cheekbones and jawline wonderfully. He nibbled at a cheese stick, grinning and nudging the second man occasionally, drawing a grumped stare more often than not.

The fifth man seemed to be in the midst of a grand story, and had most of their attention, moving his hands around dramatically. His light brown hair was cut short but not so respectable that he didn’t carry the air of a just-out-of-college guy. A small goatee was trying to grow on his face without a large amount of success, but he seemed not to mind in the least.

Alexander watched the friendly exchange between the five men for a minute, scrutinizing each one for a few seconds, picking at anything he could pick up through this silent window. Ian and Margaret exchanged doubtful glances.

Alexander looked over at Nigel, who gingerly massaged his left shoulder. "So what’s so special about these guys?" he asked bluntly.

Nigel closed his eyes, seeming to slip away from reality. "They hold, and are, the means to what you seek. One of earth, one of fire, one from air, one of water, and one with heart."

"And when their powers combine..." Margaret mumbled under her breath. Ian snickered.

Nigel looked at her, his expression solid. "I don’t make up the people, and I don’t pretend to know why they were chosen. I asked, they answered, the rest is up to you."

"Who answered?" Ian asked, taking a small step forward.

"A Preceptor, one of insane power who hasn’t been driven insane," Nigel responded. "He’s been watching these events unfold for quite some time."

Ian looked back at Alexander, who fiddled with the sleeve on his jacket anxiously, and Margaret, who watched the "screen" with interest and worry. For some reason, he didn’t like the way Nigel’s words sounded.