Chapter 30 -The Count's Gambit
Inside the heart of Colorado's Rocky spine, a fortress lay hidden in the hollowed guts of Valhalla Mountain a secret known only to generals and whispered in shadowed halls. But Count Nefarla didn't deal in whispers. No, his voice was a cathedral bell, meant to toll across the world.
He stood draped in aristocratic finery: a sweeping purple cape lined with blood-crimson silk, a doublet tailored like an echo of long-dead nobility, and his eyes oh, those eyes, cruel jewels set deep in a pale, almost corpse-like face. His mustache curled like a villain out of an old opera, and the grin carved on his lips spoke of a man who believed history was already written with his name on every page.
At his command stood his Ani-Men, grotesque parodies of evolution itself:
Dragonfly, her wings chittering, eyes bulbous and inhuman.
Frog-Man, squat and hunched, throat ballooning with a wet, croaking hiss.
Cat-Man, his striped muscles taut, claws gleaming, every move feral.
Bird-Man, with feathers that bristled in agitation, his hooked beak snapping for phantom prey.
Ape-Man, a looming brute with knuckles like sledgehammers, veins bulging beneath fur-covered arms.
Together, they were his living army.
"Now," Nefaria purred, hands dancing over the control panels. With the flick of a jeweled finger, the mountain's air ducts released a silent mist - anesthesia gas that swept over the soldiers manning consoles and missile bays. One by one, men slumped, chins hitting desks, heads lolling like puppets cut from strings. The Count laughed a baritone, booming thing that echoed through the cavernous chamber.
"Fools!" he roared. "For decades you worshipped your machines of war. Now they are mine. Mine! Every missile, every code, every key of Armageddon dances to my tune!" His cape flared as though bowing to his madness. "And the world shall pay - in gold, In power, in submission or it shall burn!"
He jabbed the switch, and screens flared alive. Across the globe, every intelligence agency, every government with an ear to the wire, received his broadcast. The Count's face filled their monitors.
"To the nations of this wretched Earth: bow, or choke on your own firel My Ani-Men stand ready! My Doomsmith program is already active! If I do not receive my ransom, the sky shall rain fire and oceans shall boil in nuclear flame!"
Back at the mansion, the X-Men crowded into Charles Xavier's office. The glow of Nefaria's transmission painted their faces. Logan leaned against the wall, jaw tight, his claws itching to come out. Sunfire folded his arms, his pride bristling. Storm's gaze hardened, while Colossus' hands clenched like steel hammers ready to strike.
Charles' voice was iron wrapped in velvet: "You have seen it. Count Nefaria threatens not just Arnerica, but the entire world. We have no choice. You are the choice."
Cyclops, already stiff with command, nodded. "Then let's move."
The Blackbird thundered skyward, slicing
through blue skies like a blade. Inside, the new X-Men sat strapped tight, their chatter betraying the edges of nerves and resolve.
Banshee muttered in his Irish lilt, "Ach, and here I thought retirin' would mean less madness in me life..."
Nightcrawler, tail twitching, flashed a sharp grin. "At least it is never boring, ja?"
Thunderbird cracked his knuckles. "Boring's for weaklings. I'll take a fight any day."
Logan smirked, popping open a cigar. "Careful what you wish for, kid. This ain't gonna be a barroom brawl."
The mountain loomed ahead, scarred with hidden doors and sensor arrays like eyes in stone. Then the first missile screamed upward, a silver streak cutting across the sky.
"Missile lock!" Cyclops barked. "Evasive maneuvers!"
The Blackbird dove, twisted, its engines
howling as rockets tore past. Storm clenched the armrests, summoning calm even as her heart hammered. Nightcrawler laughed -
nervous, but thrilled - as the jet bucked under Cyclops' sharp hands.
More missiles launched, the air filled with smoke trails and thunderous bursts. Logan's teeth clenched around his cigar as the Blackbird twisted again, metal groaning.
"Too many!" Banshee shouted, knuckles white on his seat.
Cyclops pushed the bird harder, wings clipping turbulence, metal shrieking under the pressure. For a moment, it seemed they might outfly death itself- until the final barrage came. Three missiles in perfect unison.
The sky split open.
The Blackbird became a fireball, light swallowing shadow, the sound of a hundred thunderclaps all at once.
And then silence.