Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by StarChild »

Oh, yeah! I should give credit where credit is due! Nightcrawler and any or all Marvel characters within this fictional story are exclusively Marvel's, and this unworthy one makes no recompense off of these tall tales! Now onto the story!
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He rose in the shadows, yellow eyes fever-bright as he wiped blood from his lips and teeth, his half-clad indigo form all but lost in the darkness. He looked down at the savaged throat of the dead woman almost curiously, subtly fascinated by the torn tendons and muscle tissue, and the blood that continued to well from the severed carotid artery. His tail thrashed as he heard the gurgling sound she made as she tried to speak, wide, sightless eyes gradually going flat and lifeless as she died.

"Why? Why??" shrieked the tearful, terrified voice of her male companion.

Kurt looked at him where he had bound him to the darkened lamp post, and sneered. "Because I wanted to," he answered, adjusting his pants to cover his nakedness. He stooped over the corpse, seeing the sparkle of the diamond engagement ring. The distant light of the parking structure of the Queens Center Mall made glints of blue and green that caught his eye, and he cocked his head in an almost animal fascination. Pinching the ring between thumb and one of two large fingers, he pulled it from the dead woman's hand. "You were to be married?" he remarked, looking at the man.

He sobbed hysterically, not caring who heard now that she was dead. "In...in June! Why? Why did you do it? You are a monster!!"

He rose smoothly from his squatting position, and moved toward the man quickly. " Like I said, I wanted you to watch," he answered and with a grace born of years of training, he lashed out with one large foot, and kicked the man in the face. He didn't even wince at the terrific crack as the stranger's neck broke. He glanced at the pulpy face, snorting in derision, and pocketed the ring before grabbing his discarded shirt.

Yellow eyes raised to the full moon in the dark night sky, and he began to giggle for no reason at all. "Monster," he said, taking a final look at the dead man. He kicked the bound, lifeless body again, venting his frustration; "You have no idea!"

Then, with the slightest bit of concentration, he vanished in a burst of flame and a cloud of brimstone-scented smoke to reappear on the rooftop of a nearby brownstone. Kurt Wagner straightened to his full height, clutching his shirt in one hand, and pulled back his shoulders to raise clenched and bloodied fists to the sky. He threw back his head and howled like a demonic lost soul at the moon.

Down in the streets, the few pedestrians, mostly shoppers from the mall, froze in their tracks at the horrendous sound. They looked toward the rooftops of the buildings around them, some pointing when they saw the tailed shape silhouetted by the moon, some screaming at the sight of his glowing yellow eyes.

"Look! It's the Nightcrawler!"

"Oh, God! Somebody call the police! Hurry!"

"The Nightcrawler!"

Kurt looked down at the throng in the streets, and felt a laugh start deep in his diaphragm. He leaned dangerously close to the edge of the building, those unique, quasi-avian feet with their hind claws, gripping the parapet. He made a decision, and dived toward the crowd with reckless abandon, the shirt in his hand flapping in the breeze, his heart thudding in his chest from the sheer exhiliration of the fall. He watched them scatter, savoring their screams and the terror on their faces: and then, with moments to spare, he launched himself into a 'port to reappear over the once-distant Hudson River. Pulling his arms forward over his head, he met the water with the same descent velocity he had when he had been hurtling towards the pavement. It was cold and oddly invigorating as he went down into the murky depths of the river, arching his back to kick upward with all his might. He let go of the dragging weight of his shirt, and swam with powerful, cleaving strokes to break the surface.

He drew in lungfuls of the evening air, and bobbing on the surface of the water to get his bearings. He probed his pocket to make certain the ring was still there, and had not gotten lost in the dive, then swam towards the nearest breakwater to pull himself onto a grassy piece of lawn. Shaking himself out like a veritable canine, Kurt Wagner disappeared at a loping hand to foot run towards the alleyways of Queens.



[Edited on 2/5/06 by StarChild]

[Edited on 2/5/06 by StarChild]
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by chicory »

Kurt the Ripper? Good job with the gothic details. I liked the echo to the GX#1 with the roof-top scene and him flaunting his presence rather than trying to hide it. A terror to the city - can't wait to see how this ends up :)
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by StarChild »

Thanks, Chicory. Been doing the twelve hour stints again! By the time you read this I will be sleeping! Made some changes in the top part for greater coherence...will have more by later on today! :wave




See...writing this after sleeping...couldn't type coherence even! :LOL

[Edited on 8/4/06 by StarChild]
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by StarChild »

Monday morning and overcast skies matched the moods of the two detectives as they stood in the middle of the crime scene. Two black and whites were blocking either end of the alleyway, their lights strobing off the walls and the garbage truck parked near the dumpster as they rotated. A couple of uniformed officers were keeping the crowd at bay behind the yellow police tape while the other two were taking statements from the garbage men who had found the corpses. The air smelt of rain, trash and decomposing flesh, a perfume that turned even the staunchest of stomachs!

Detective Michael O’Rourke of the homicide division covered the torn, naked body of the woman with a sheet, his square features as white as the victim’s were. He could not get his mind off the claw marks in her torso, and the horribly mangled throat; and the fact that he had to look at the dead man was not stabilizing his breakfast much. He thought he had been hardened to this sort of stuff, but the savagery of these recent assaults were worse than anything a bullet could ever do!

His partner, Lieutenant Dana Palliser, was already viewing the remains of the man, her pretty, oval-shaped face a veritable mask. The leggy blond made room for her partner as he approached, standing up, and holding back the sheet; “Damn vicious, if you ask me, Mike. Male victim is…was…Daniel Cox, lived in Islip. He was thirty-four years old.”

O’Rourke could only spare the briefest of glances at the remains, finding a strange psychological something starting to take over; he was actually feeling the need to runaway. It was getting to be more of a pervasive undercurrent in his psyche the longer they worked on this case together. “He is a demon! A damned sick, perverted effin’ demon! The question is; how do we stop him before he strikes again? The m.o. is Sundays! A ritualistic killing every Sunday, and Monday morning we’re looking at a slash fest!” He shuddered minutely, hooking his thumbs in his belt to glance back in frustration at the woman’s corpse as the coroner and his team moved in with their equipment.

Dana replaced the sheet, and joined her partner, folding her arms across her chest, glad she could feel the reassuring bulk of her .38 special beneath her arm. This assignment struck her hard, and was getting harder the more bodies they found. “Any identification for her yet?” she nodded toward the woman.

O’Rourke sighed, “They found her purse nearby. Chelsea Gordon, also from Islip. Money was gone. It just seems to be a bonus for him…it?” He smacked a fist into the palm of his hand, wanting desperately to hit something, anything at the moment; “Sundays, Dana! All this is spooking me! And the descriptions of this character? Talk about surreal!”

She felt a single tremor run up and down her spine as she watched the body being stuffed into the black bag; “It seems like we’re dealing with the devil himself, Mike! A real damned demon!”

He hugged her briefly, probably getting as much comfort as he gave, which at this particular juncture in time was next to nothing. “C’mon, Dana. Let’s head back to the precinct and nail this bastard, okay?”

She snorted, feeling like they were grasping at straws, especially dealing with situations like this. “What with, Mike? Silver bullets?”

He led her away from the crime scene, feeling a mild sense of relief to the point that he even attempted some humor; “That’s for werewolves, girl. I’ve seen ‘Underworld’, y’know! I was thinking more crosses and holy water!”

Dana glanced at him irritably, the homicides still too fresh and chafing at being called a girl. “And that’s for vampires, dummy! Reference the same movie, OK?” She paused to look back as the two uniformed patrolmen who had first answered the call were cutting the rope that held the remains of Daniel Cox. The body toppled over when the last cord was cut, and she found herself staring into the smashed visage of what had once been a living human being. She groped blindly for O’Rourke’s suitcoat, feeling very vulnerable at the moment; “Mike, how do you kill a demon? Because, as God is my witness, I sure the hell don’t want to try to incarcerate this bastard!”

O’Rourke found his mouth suddenly dry, “Don’t know how to kill a demon, partner, but I do know one thing: I don’t want to let this thing see the inside of a courthouse either. He’s not human, Dana! No human being could do something like this!”

The gurney went past them bearing the body of Chelsea Gordon, and overhead the darkening heavens were lit by lightning. Seconds later, the boom of thunder made both the detectives jump, and gaze skyward as the rain began to fall.

He tugged on the chain of his ‘pet’, pulling the scantily clad girl closer to him as he lounged in the easychair, feet pulled up to his chest, and his tail thrashing unconsciously to the tempo of the rain outside. He consoled himself by stroking the girl’s head, and pondered what would be a good way of passing the time. Sundays were so few and far between! He needed stimulation; that was the problem!

The stereo was playing a selection from “Carmina Burana”, and he found himself reciting the words: “O Fortune, like the moon you are changeable; ever waxing and waning; hateful life first oppresses and then soothes as fancy takes it; poverty and power it melts them like ice. Fate - monstrous and empty, you whirling wheel, you are malevolent, well-being is vain and always fades to nothing, shadowed and veiled you plague me too; now through the game I bring my bare back to your villainy. Fate is against me in health and virtue, driven on and weighted down, always enslaved. So at this hour without delay pluck the vibrating strings; since Fate strikes down the string man, everyone weep with me. I bemoan the wounds of Fortune with weeping eyes, for the gifts she made me she perversely takes away. It is written in truth, that she has a fine head of hair, but when it comes to seizing an opportunity she is bald. On Fortune's throne I used to sit raised up, crowned with the many-colored flowers of prosperity; though I may have flourished happy and blessed, now I fall from the peak deprived of glory. The wheel of Fortune turns; I go down, demeaned; another is raised up; far too high up sits the king at the summit -let him fear ruin! for under the axis is written Queen Hecuba.”

He looked down at his captive, and smiled an absent and bitter grin; “It is so true, my little pet…so very true. It is called 'O, Fortuna', my dear. Is it not impressive?”


The girl looked up at him, hearing the words, which began to oddly stir memories of the outside world and the life she used to have. Her lips moved and her brow furrowed as she thought back to the world outside this room.

Kurt Wagner stood, the music of Carl Orff lending to the moodiness as he stalked toward the broken window of the old office building he had made into his lair. Peering outside, he took in the rain-soaked world of this disheveled area of Queens, feeling the need to move, to indulge in something, anything! Lightning flashed, playing across his dark, enigmatic features as he leaned on the sill and his fingertips tapped out the rhythm as the song reached its crescendo. He made his decision then and there; tonight he would just have to break form! Not that it mattered much for he did not necessarily have to stick to an agenda to complete the defilement, but he did need!

He turned around to look at the girl on the chain whom he had found on the streets months ago, and thought of a more present need that she alone could help satiate. He moved toward the tabletop where the remote control for the stereo system was sitting and turned up the volume. No need to take a chance for the whole neighborhood to hear.

The girl jumped, startled and turned to look at him, her eyes going round with fear as she realized what was about to happen. A low mewl escaped her throat as she scuttled backwards only to reach the end of her chain. His hands were incredibly strong as they grabbed her, and she found a voice to scream.





[Edited on 9/4/06 by StarChild]
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by NachtcGleiskette »

Ooo, this is very interesting Star! Very dark. Keep it up!
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by StarChild »

Thunder roared with a muted voice as the last of the storm moved on past the city, setting an undercurrent to the mood in the wardroom of the Queens homicide division. Within the semi-crowded room, O’Rourke and Palliser were working side-by-side on the computer and attracting the passing attention of their fellow detectives by the subject matter on their screen. Images of demons and occultic lore were sitting in full view then being dismissed for another and another as the two detectives seemingly obsessed over a topic that was mystifying and amusing their compatriots.

Dana was staring in lurid fascination at a red figure clad in a loincloth with rippling muscles, pointed ears and a tail, her eyes round as she was focused on the image before her. The picture coincided with the descriptions of the Nightcrawler, but that meant he was a true demon, and that both frightened and fascinated her.

“Bahhhh!!!”

She leapt in her chair, clutching at her heart at the unexpected sound, and looked up at the guffawing, chocolate-hued face in front of her; and the pointing finger. Dana’s face screwed up in an expression of rage as her partner even began to laugh at her expense. “Very funny, Marcellus! Very funny!” she said, hotly, and jammed an elbow in O’Rourke’s midsection.

Marcellus Hunter straightened up, still clutching at his waist as the last of his laughter spasmed out and wiped the tears from his eyes. The brawny Afro-American shook his head, “Gotcha’, Palliser! You and your fixation there! Hoo-hoo! Dana’s got the hots for a demon!”

“All right!! Enough, people!”

O’Rourke rolled his eyes as he massaged his aching ribs, and looked over his shoulder at the approaching figure of Captain Lawrence Giordano. His eyes narrowed when he saw the muscular, yet diminutive man striding beside him clad in yellow and blue; “Great! Just great! Now we get the superhero faction involved! As if we don’t have enough dramatics with this case!”

Lawrence Giordano fit the stereotypical cop captain type you saw in the television programs, or so that was Dana Palliser’s opinion of the man. Stout around the middle from being deskbound with a Grecian-formulaed head of black hair, the forty-seven year old still managed to convey sufficient authority to get the room scurrying when necessary! His choice of companions at the moment added to the attention he was receiving. “O’Rourke, Palliser! You’ve got another body! Deli on the Bay…they found it in the back near the waterfront! This is your new consultant on the case. You may recognize…”

O’Rourke stood and extended his right hand toward the man in the mask, “Wolverine.”

The X-Man took the officer’s offered hand and squeezed it briefly but firmly, the mouth a thin, grim blade; “We’ve got our work cut out for us, bub! The Nightcrawler is going to keep this up, and it is only gonna’ get worse, not better!”

Giordano snorted, folding his arms across his chest to eye the two detectives from beneath bushy eyebrows; “Enough talking, you two! I suggest you get moving and have your discussions in the car on your way to the waterfront! Overtime, peoples!”

Palliser grabbed her jacket, and flung Michael’s suitcoat to him before heading out the door; “Great! I have the testosterone club to deal with!”

Wolverine eyed the slim legs beneath the skirt, and gave O’Rourke a sly smile, “Nice, pal! I like her attitude, too!” With that said, he turned on his heel and pursued Dana at a steady stride.

Michael donned his suitcoat, and gave Giordano the evil eye before leaving the wardroom. He was having a bad feeling about this!

Giordano’s bass voice boomed after him before he could close the door, almost as if he could read the thoughts of his junior officer; “Treat your help right, O’Rourke! Or I think he just may slice and dice you better than your demon! I want a full report on my desk in the morning!”

Michael closed the door behind him a little too firmly, and made his way down the corridor to find his partner and their inheritance. He could see the aftereffect of their passing through the hall in the simple fact that two secretaries were whispering amongst themselves and glancing down the corridor toward the main lobby of the house, and he realized, with a sinking sensation, that nothing was going to be easy about this case.

Logan followed Dana Palliser to the unmarked sedan, opening the passenger side door for her while he fished in a special compartment in his belt for a slim case that held cigarillos and a thin lighter. Closing the door, he offered her a brief and very friendly smile as he opened the case to extract a smoke and look back toward the precinct for O’Rourke. He drew in a long hit as his host came jogging down the stairs, coat tails flying, and kicking up puddles as he touched down on the sidewalk. Wolverine snorted, amused at the detective’s irritated expression, before opening the door to the backseat and climbing in.

Michael eyed the buzzing traffic, waiting for an opening before entering the street, and diving into the driver’s side door. He glanced into the back seat at the happily puffing X-Man and controlled himself from growling as he faced forward and rolled down the window. He looked at Dana, who merely offered him a shrug and rolled her eyes. “Try not to make it a habit about smoking in the vehicle, okay, pal?” he said, and glowered at Wolverine through the rearview mirror.

Logan’s smile was rapier thin as he contemplated the bravery or frank foolishness of the man behind the wheel. He gave a single nod, and hit the automatic window switch as the car lurched away from the curb. He exaggeratedly blew the smoke out the window, “Let’s talk, bub!”






[Edited on 21/4/06 by StarChild]
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by chicory »

Now :wolvie's joined the hunt, hmmm? This cannot end well :shakeno
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by Rowena »

*shudder* Oh, gruesome! This Nightcrawler is pretty sick. He's like Limbo Kurt only even more messed up. Now that Wolverine's on his trail, I wonder how this will all turn out!
"There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, where the sea's asleep and the rivers dream, people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice and somewhere else the tea is getting cold. Come on, Ace, we've got work to do."
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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by fourpawsonthefloor »

Very dark...kind of reminds me of a horror movie. Interesting path to take him down...would love to know why he is doing it...I am sure that it will be explained in future posts.

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Nightmare on Elmhurst Avenue... Nacht's Challenge

Post by StarChild »

O’Rourke’s expression did not change as he drove, turning down the police radio until it was background noise only. He concentrated on the road ahead of them as he spoke, “Okay, what makes you think you can be of any kind of help in this investigation? Just who and what is the Nightcrawler to you?”

What you could see of Wolverine’s face became tight and controlled as he began to speak in a low monotone; “He was a friend once until somethin’ drove him over the edge. Somethin’ even I have problems with ‘til this very day…it all began…”



St. Michael the Archangel Church several years ago; the rain had been pouring in an endless deluge punctuated by kinetic blue-white flashes of light and crescendos of rolling thunder that literally made the stained glass windows of the old church rattle. The pain in his head was monumental, the dreams, and the guilt that ensued from them, were almost beyond his ability to bear. How? How could he as a postulant even hope to approach holy orders with Beelzebub…a demon as his father? Kurt Wagner found it hard to reconcile! It was indeed almost beyond his reckoning, and gave that much more credence to his physical appearance. Truly he was lost forever! There would be no way to expel Azazel from his conscience or his life, and he had tried incessantly to find peace within himself here in the venerable cathedral, but, as the days passed, it seemed no amount of contrition would avail.

He stood before the altar within the sanctuary as a bolt of lightning bathed the room in an ethereal light, his tail thrashing beneath his cassock at the turmoil he felt tearing apart his insides. His hands clenched tightly into fists that beat against his thighs as the voices continued within his mind along with the memories of the revelation of Azazel on that island not so long ago, and the things he had witnessed and partaken of. He whirled about as the tension grew beyond his ability to bear to find himself staring into the surprised features of the fifty year old Father Kennedy. There was compassion in the older man’s eyes as he regained his composure, but he could see the fear there as well! There was always fear there in the recesses of their eyes when they met the demon seed, when they saw the hellspawn! He knew what they thought of him! He knew what they believed in their hearts, and it sickened him.

“Kurt, my son, we all have been noticing how upset you are lately. Is there anything I can do to help? Any of us at all? It says in the Word to confess your faults one to another, my son…”

The priest’s voice droned on and on like acid dripping into the back of his mind, and he could feel a numbness starting at the base of his skull and trace a path down the back of his spine. He felt the strangest sensation of eyes boring into his back as the priest continued in his litany and he turned to look up into the eyes of Christ on the cross, very living, very open eyes gazing at him in condemnation. That was when the lightning struck the roof of the church, bathing the sanctuary in pure white light, followed by a blast of ear shattering thunder that to him was the voice of judgment itself. Kurt Wagner howled, clutching at his head as the interior of the building went dark. He tore his vestments in agony, hearing the damnation of his soul, and turned upon the priest to grip his slight form between two powerful hands.

Father Kennedy had a moment to take in the glowing feral eyes as he was lifted off the floor, see the demonic fangs gleam in the remaining light from the stained glass windows, and scream. The pain was excruciating as the teeth ripped into his throat with a savagery far worse than that of any dog, and with failing strength, he gripped the tattered edges of the cassock and slowly sank to the floor.

What had been Kurt Wagner stared into the lifeless eyes of the old man, blood dripping from his fangs as he lowered him to the floor. He turned to look up at the crucified Christ, and knew now there was no hope, nothing left. No longer an X-Man, alone and unwanted, the demon priest had no hope to redeem himself now. The giggle started spontaneously tears fighting for dominance in his unearthly eyes, then he bellowed like the lost soul he was, and lashed out to knock over the ornamental tapers on either side of the altar, and watch the skirts of the cloth ignite in flame.

That was when he heard the voices coming from either side of the building and saw flashlights lance out into the darkness to graze across his eyes. He hissed at the pain the intense beams caused him, and spun about, vaulting over the dead priest’s body to flee from the sanctuary on all fours.

“Oh my God! It’s Father Kennedy! His throat! B-Brother Wagner ripped out his throat!

“Fire! Get the extinguishers! Quick!”

He heard their voices as he fled into the tumultuous rain that bathed this part of Brooklyn, and kept running until he reached the waterfront. Other voices vied for dominance in his head, and with them the knowledge that he was forever lost now, forever beyond the point of redemption. He dove into the river that day in a futile attempt to wash himself clean, swimming until he was exhausted to pull himself up onto the shore near an a abandoned warehouse, and ran for the seclusion of the nearest building he could find.



“And that was it…he finally went over the edge,” Logan finished as he covered the dead body of the girl. Shaking his head, he met O’Rourke’s eyes, “Same thing, pal. Her throat has been ripped out! He’s not going to stop, you know. He wants to defile all that he was, the priest, the hero, the whatever! He believes he has to embrace his demonic heritage. Azazel really did a number on him, but then Nightcrawler always was a little unstable to begin with.” Logan made a circle with his index finger by his left temple and shook his head.

Dana shuddered as she took her turn to lift the sheet to look at the scantily–clad girl with the leash and collar around what was left of her throat. “Any idea who she was?” she said, looking up at the plain clothes officer standing next to the two patrolmen.

The man shook his head, “No I.D.! She isn’t wearing enough clothing to carry any. Were going to do an autopsy and check with missing persons. She has to belong to somebody.”

O’Rourke met the masked man’s eyes, “I remember the St. Michael’s murder, and how all this started, but I never knew all the intimate details. My God, we have an insane ex-priest, ex-superhero on the loose in the streets of Manhattan?”

Logan nodded tightly, glancing at the sheet where the dead girl’s body was hidden; “And I’m the man who’s gonna’ help you find him, bub!” He met O’Rourke’s eyes with a deadly certainty; “I’m the only one who can! Come on, I've got a plan.”



The night was full of stars and the air was cool, forcing Dana Palliser to raise the collar of her trenchcoat against the chill of the autumn breeze. She walked alone along Elmhurst Avenue near the Queens Mall where the last homicide had taken place, the street dark except for the light of an occasional lamppost and almost devoid of pedestrian traffic thanks to the intervention of special officers scattered throughout the immediate vicinity. The theory was, Dana rehearsed in her mind, that the Nightcrawler committed his atrocities in this area because his base of operations was close by, and the proximity of the Mall lent to ample victims for him to choose from. They were trying to keep the field of choice down to as few potentials as possible by keeping people off the streets. He seemed to have a preference for females, the most vulnerable of targets, naturally. Her heart was beating fast as she stared at her high heels as she meandered purposelessly along the street, and wondered if she would be sufficient bait to catch the maniac.

She nestled her mouth below the line of her collar and spoke towards the microphone pick-up; “I hate being wired, you know that, Mike. I can talk to you, but I can’t frigging here you.” She glanced around the almost empty street, anticipating seeing feral, yellow eyes staring at her any minute now, “And I really would like to hear someone, anyone right now.”

In a van several blocks away, Michael O’Rourke listened to the voice of his partner of two years and felt his stomach tighten in knots. He was aware of the attention of the two techs in the van with him from the precinct, but he did not care at the moment what they thought or saw in his expression. Right now the thought of Dana alone out there was bothering him, especially since there were two maniacs in essence out there with her; one was their prey and the other was Wolverine.

Logan, himself, at the moment, was hidden in an alley dressed all in black instead of his usual uniform; he even wore a black balaclava to conceal his face. The idea was to keep the garish blue and yellow colors out of the picture and to meld with the night so as not to alert his foe. He was twenty feet or so away from Dana as she walked down Elmhurst, and the X-Man had to admit she was looking good. “Nice legs, lady cop! Damn nice legs,” he whispered under his breath and kept his eyes on her more out of admiration than the need to monitor. Her scent was subtle Christian Dior, and everything about her said woman; how could the Nightcrawler resist her? He was finding it difficult to do so himself, but what was nagging at him more was the worry that their opponent just might not show this night.

Up on the rooftops, a dark shape moved with agile grace leaping with astonishing bounds across the gaps between the buildings to land quietly, nimbly and meld as one with the shadows again.




[Edited on 2/5/06 by StarChild]
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