CHAPTER 58 - THE BROKEN COMMANDER
The mansion was too quiet. Too heavy.
Storm paced the hallways like a restless stormcloud, her bare feet whispering across the wood. Colossus sat by the window, staring out at the snow, steel fingers tapping against the glass like the slow toll of a bell. Thunderbird shadowboxed in the gym, every strike sharper, angrier. Sunfire smoked alone outside, his heat simmering the snow to steam.
But Cyclops... Cyclops was chained to Cerebro.
The machine's dome pulsed blue, wires glinting in the dark. Scott Summers sat with his visor dimmed, his hands trembling on the controls. Sweat beaded down his forehead. His jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone.
"C'mon," he muttered, voice raw. "C'mon, JEAN. Give me SOMETHING."
The screens showed nothing. The world was a blank slate. No Jean. No Logan. No Banshee. No Charles.
Empty silence.
He tried again. And again. Hours bleeding into a full day, his body stiffening, eyes hollowing. The others hovered in the doorway, but none dared step closer.
Finally, the console buzzed flat. No signal. No hope.
Scott ripped the headset off, slammed it against the desk. His visor glowed red in the dim light, just shy of firing.
"They're DEAD," he said. The words cut the air like a blade. "All of them. If Cerebro can't find them, they're not alive anymore."
Storm's lips parted. "Scott... you can't-"
"I CAN." He stood, shaking, fists trembling. "Jean's gone. Charles is gone. You saw those Sentinels! You saw what they did!"
The room went silent.
Then-
BEEP
The alarm klaxon shrieked across the mansion. Intruder detected.
"Positions!" Thunderbird roared, already sprinting.
Nightcrawler's form blurred into blue smoke as he bamfed out, hunting the signal. In less than a minute, the sound of struggling echoed in the hall. A body tumbled through the doorway, coughing, disheveled. Nightcrawler appeared behind him, tail lashing.
Scott's visor snapped to life, ruby glow filling the chamber.
"WHO are you?" he demanded.
The man wheezed, pushing himself up, clutching his glasses. His suit was torn, salt still on the sleeves, as if he'd been dragged from the ocean itself.
"My... name is Dr. Peter Corbeau." His voice rasped, urgent. "And I know where your friends are."
Scott's hand froze.
Corbeau met his gaze, eyes wide with a truth that burned hotter than fear.
"They're NOT dead," he said. "They're just not on Earth anymore."