EPILOGUE THE FIRST

Meanwhile:

The first clue Sinister had that his day had been shot all to hell was, of course, the discarded cellphone.

The second clue was the creak and grind of crumbling mortar at the back of his lab.

He had to admit later, grudgingly, that his unexpected visitors were sneaky and clever and they knew their business. And they were far, FAR faster than he would have given them credit for. He'd expected that unfortunate phone call from Vertigo to have tied them up for at least another hour, maybe two. However, even as he looked up from the last of his evacuation preparations, the rear wall came down with a thunderous crash and there were invaders in his lab. HIS LAB! And with a mere sidelong glance he found that a similar stream of laughably serious kevlar-clad commandos were staking out the entrance, too.

Sinister sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward, irritated but resigned. And I'd just finally arranged to have this location properly air-conditioned, too. With a flick of his wrist he primed the explosives strategically placed around the premises and teleported away to a suitable secondary lair.

At least, that was how it was supposed to work.

He was understandably more than irritated a few moments later to find himself still standing in the middle of his distinctly un-blown-up main laboratory. His irritation escalated towards outright annoyance as he found himself at the center of a pugnacious ring of rifles. He snorted to himself. As if bullets would...

...actually, those rifles didn't look QUITE standard...

Footsteps and the occasional echoing shout carried in from outside where other soldiers were securing the tunnels, but inside the lab itself it was very, very quiet. A grey-haired, grey-suited human man stepped through the ring of aimed weapons. The geneticist merely eyed him disdainfully. Quite definitely angry now, he tried to DO something, but nothing happened. He began to experience the first faint stirrings of something resembling astonishment

Were those fairly sophisticated power dampers that they'd set up at the four corners of the room...?

I do believe that these aren't NYPD officers after all, he realized. His astonishment was becoming something more than a faint stirring. So who--? Ah. The government phone. Of course.

"And you would be the so-called 'Mr. Sinister,' would you not?" the man stated quite calmly, moving face-to-face with Sinister. Without pausing for a reply, he added matter-of-factly, "I've been wanting to meet you for quite some time; a shame your assassins are out on the warpath, as they were our true target, but nonetheless it's quite a pleasure to find you here at home. I'm FBI Special Agent John Carlton, and you--" he held up a piece of paper and a badge in one hand, "--are under arrest for crimes against humanity."

Carlton then turned aside and remarked almost casually, "Cuff him."

Sinister was so astonished at the man's suicidal audacity that he couldn't come up with a suitable retort for several long moments. I do NOT believe this. This is intolerable. I REFUSE to believe this. He crossed his arms and drew himself up to his full imperious height and opened his mouth...

There was a minor commotion at the door. Sinister could easily look over the heads of the sea of human soldiers, and his eyes narrowed to see a very familiar face at the head of a wedge of commandos in mostly-black togs. She was tossing curt orders left and right, forcing Carlton's men to clear a path for her people.

"So. You ARE working with the traitor Vertigo," he said icily down at Carlton. The accusation in his remark cut through the room like a whip crack.

The FBI agent was openly staring at the mutant woman. She'd stopped only a few yards into the room and was now staring right back at him, her orders dying on her lips.

"Actually," Carlton said, sounding slightly shaken, "I haven't seen her for years...I thought she was in jail."

"And *I*," the woman retorted in a loud clear angry voice, "am NOT Vertigo. Not any more. The name is Misfire...and I obviously got here just a little too late." She insolently doffed an imaginary cap to Carlton. "I guess he's all yours, John -- for now. Nice to see you two again. Have fun."

And with that, she turned and swept regally out with her own squad in tow.

...Misfire...? I don't...but...WHO...?! Sinister was so astonished at this new twist that he didn't even notice when they snapped on the inhibitor cuffs.

Several days later:

In a nondescript apartment somewhere in America, the remaining members of the failed team of petty crooks known collectively (and, most agreed, rather ridiculously) as the Nasty Boys were lounging around a messy living room in front of a television, taking in the afternoon football game.

Frankly, Gorgeous George couldn't think of anything more stultifyingly dull. So when the phone rang, he was right on it -- even if it was a crank call or a sales pitch, it would SURELY be more interesting than watching a bunch of heavily-padded pantywaists prance up and down a field jumping up and down on each other at every opportunity.

"Hello? Yes? Uh huh. Uh...huh. You're kidding. Really? Oh. Um. So what are we supposed to do about...uh huh. Errrr...yeah. I guess. Yeah, I'm writing it down...okay, got it. Bye."

He hung up, slowly shaking his head in total disbelief. Then the full humor of the situation struck him sidelong and he had to fight down a serious case of the whooping giggles.

"Um...guys?" he shouted towards the front room. "You'll never guess who that was on the phone."

"No, we won't," Slab growled, eyes glued to the screen, "so tell us already."

George cleared his throat and tried to keep a straight face. "That...was the boss."

NOW the others sat up and paid attention. The boss hadn't bothered to contact them since their last crushingly humiliating defeat at the hands of the government mutie team X-Factor. Some of their number were STILL in custody.

Ruckus hastily hit the "mute" button on the remote. "Really? Has he got a job for us?"

George couldn't contain his wide grin for a moment longer. "Naaah. He got his pasty butt arrested and we're his 'one phone call.' He wants us to either raise bail or break him out." He made little "quotemarks" with his fingers. 'Or else.'"

The Nasty Boys exchanged a round of utterly dumbfounded glances.

Then they all had a good long laugh about it and turned the sound back up on the football game.

EPILOGUE THE SECOND

A indeterminate number of months later:

The litter of paperweights and pens and in-boxes jumped en masse like a living thing as the woman slammed her fists down onto the desk. "Dammit, Niemand, you promised! I've held up my side of the bargain. Hell, I even did BETTER than you asked! She's already three times as good as I am. You can't lie to me, I was there for the training, remember? You. Don't. Need me any more. And you don't have any legal way to hold me here."

Niemand's face was impassive as he sat back in his leather chair, unruffled by the irate agent's burst of temper. "Misfire, please. Calm down. I was just about to say that you're absolutely right. Your prodigy has far surpassed our wildest expectations, but while admittedly most projections show that she WILL be able to shoulder the majority of your responsibilities, the fact remains that she's only been with us for a few months. She's raw, untested. We still need you--"

"Bullshit." Misfire spat the word, still leaning over the director's desk. "I know that you have her slated for her first field mission today. Nobody told me, no, but I've been there enough times myself; I know the routine, I know the signs. After today you'll have your proof that she's the best damn assassin you could possibly want, and between her and Baer..."

She cut herself off and stood up straight, and when she spoke again her demeanor was much more controlled. Almost contrite. "Look. I'm sorry. You promised after the initial results when I brought her in that this time you might actually consider letting me resign from the Program. IF she worked out, you said. And as you already know, she's been working out like a dream. But..."

When she hesitated, Niemand gestured magnanimously for her to continue. She sighed and ran a hand through her short particolored hair. "Well, I'm TRYING to be polite here, so pardon me for saying this, but if you were in my shoes I think you'd be going crazy too. Because I've been getting the royal runaround for two long months now, and frankly I think that you had something to do with it. I'm a little surprised that you let me in to see you today on so little notice. Sir."

"I understand your...feelings about this situation," Niemand said, quietly. Very quietly. She stiffened, sensing danger on the wind. "And under normal circumstances I would be more than happy to assist you with your request. But I'm afraid that this is NOT a normal situation, and you are most certainly NOT a normal government employee. We simply cannot let you return to the civilian sector. But if you are unwilling to back down on this particular issue--"

Misfire's fists were clenched at her sides and her eyes were starting to glow a faint green. "No. I'm not. Not this time."

"--Then you're right. We'll simply have to let you go. No hard feelings, of course."

With his hands neatly interlaced on his desk before him, Niemand didn't make a move or a gesture. However, she didn't have to look to know that the pair of guards who had escorted her into the room were now raising their decidedly non-ceremonial rifles.

Trying to take me down -- I don't believe the nerve! Misfire contemptiously shoved backwards with a wave of her power, intent upon shutting down every neuron in the two flatscans' bodies. The room was completely without powerblockers or gas jets or sniper slots; this she'd known before she'd agreed to meet him there. She was his best agent. He trusted her. It was too easy. She'd simply take Niemand hostage and...

...and...

...something was (...what...?!) wrong...

It struck her somewhat incongruously then that you never noticed your own pulse until you stopped having one.

One hand fluttered ineffectually to her chest; she fell heavily onto both knees even as she tried to turn around. However, the world was going dark around the edges of her vision with alarming swiftness; she didn't even have a chance to cry out as she crumpled sideways onto the rich maroon carpet, unable to move a muscle.

The last thing she managed to register before the blackness closed over her head was the sight of Maelstrom standing in the doorway between the two soldiers, her arms folded and her expression grimly satisfied.

And the last thing Misfire heard before her brain ground to a complete halt was Niemand's impersonal voice:

"It's odd how such a good agent can be so slow on the uptake. She already knew that no one leaves the Program...after all, she spent enough time tracking down and killing those who tried...

"Agent Sennvik, please inform Command that Maelstrom's first mission is a complete success."