Chapter 79: Night Crawling

Speaking of dogs, they went wild.

He'd trained them to show aggression to Vampires— they had a smell.

But the Mutant hanging from his ceiling, he could've had treats in his pocket the way they happily howled up at him. Their tails moved so fast a breeze swirled within the small apartment.

"Quite a friendly bunch…." He commented as he crawled around the ceiling before standing upright— upside down. His dark black spandex suit hugged his lithe muscles. His shadowy black hair was long— it came undone from being swept behind his ears thanks to gravity. Gray strands reflected the early morning sun.

"Only until you give us a reason not to be….." Mend said, suddenly standing on the ceiling right beside him.

"Noted." Nightcrawler scooted away slightly as the slime skinned Symbiote-dog drooling lightning bolts sniffed him and kept an eye on the swords sheathed at his back.

Brontë got out of bed and stood to face the Mutant.

"What are you doing in my apartment, Nightcrawler?"

Nightcrawler flipped and landed soundlessly on the ground a few feet from him.

The dogs swarmed him with wet sneezes and thoughtful sniffs.

Nightcrawler looked Bronte up and down— concern tightened the blue skin of his face and dimmed his yellow eyes.

"If I knew you were missing an arm when you did everything I've heard of you…. I would've been in disbelief." Nightcrawler said. His accent was as thick as concrete.

"I didn't." Bronte replied flatly.

It took a second before the realization dawned on him.

"I'm…. I'm sorry. How recently?"

"Nightcrawler….. You teleported into my place unannounced at…." Bronte turned to look at his alarm. "Eight thirty, and you what…? You wanna know when I lost my arm? Stop playing before I bug out."

Nightcrawler held his hands up in defeat, causing Brontë to realize he only had three fingers. "You're right. I apologize. Sometimes I assume fellow Mutants will automatically accommodate to my means of travel. My mistake. And please, call me Kurt."

"Chop chop, Kurt." Mend snarled, causing the name to sound like, "Court."

"I was sent here by Professor Charles Xavier. He wanted to send Jean, but Cyclops and her are arguing… he gets possessive during arguments…. Uh— anyway! The Xavier Institute and Magneto's Sword of Krakoa are looking to make trades."

"Magneto's Sword..." Bronte had heard that somewhere but he couldn't remember.

"Another Mutant group— they call themselves X-Kind. Magneto and his children." Kurt shook himself off after saying it as if he was scared of catching something.

"Right….. I know."

"Which part?"

"The whole part." Bronte replied. "Y'all are thinking of sending my sister over because she's skilled. She doesn't need schooling."

"More importantly she's good— she's…. Confident in her abilities."

Brontë side eyed him before walking past to get to his fridge and grab a beer.

"Now it sounds like you want a double agent."

Kurt teleported into his kitchen and the dogs went wild, snapping at the brimstone dimension dust he left behind.

"Quiet!" Bronte snapped.

The dogs whined before going silent.

Kurt stood in the kitchen looking almost disoriented after his teleport before shrugging it off and returning to normal.

Brontë bit the cap off his beer and downed it in three gulps, "Do you want a double agent, Kurt? Do you want to send my sister into a living Mutant island run by someone who's called a terrorist by…. Everyone I know?"

Kurt had stood with his face in his hands until Bronte was done speaking, "I believe I understand now why I was…. The last resort."

Brontë stayed silent and cracked open another beer.

"No, and no." Kurt started, "We would not be sending your sister in alone. Or as a double agent. We're all for Mutant kind. But to assume there's a motive here is smart. Charles always has a motive. It's the only way we've lived this long."

"So what's the motive." Bronte questioned.

"Balance." Kurt explained before exaggerating a cough while watching Bronte drink his beer.

"You're a terrible house guest." Bronte grabbed a beer and tossed it to Kurt.

"Good hosts offer first, actually." Kurt caught the beer with his tail and twisted the cap off with a cheeky smile.

"Look around man, you think I got shit to offer? I'm broke out here."

"You're literally on every billboard in Times Square…." Kurt said blankly before taking a swig and cringing, "Mein gott, father forgive me."

"Don't exaggerate."

"Apologies."

"So. Balance…."

"Right." Kurt started, "Out of fears of…. Radicalization and villainous ideals dominating the think-space of Krakoa, we just want to inject those of us that are more sympathetic to Mutant-Human relations. And heroism. Gabbie was raised by Heroes. Like you. Heck, you. Your absence is only growing your legend there. The land speaks of your power, I hear religions are forming…."

Brontë would've spit his drink but his dreams upped the scale of what was considered….. obscene.

"I don't believe being viewed as gods would be good for our mental health, Bronte… it wasn't for Charles Manson. ERHM." Mend commented.

"Word. But what are you reading on the internet?"

"Honestly.." Kurt agreed

"Anyway. Gabbie isn't going." Bronte said flatly.

Kurt looked at him— light panic in his eyes, "We haven't even discussed—"

"She was chased by an immortal mutant maniac her entire life— I'm not co-signing her going to another one. Not while he's out there."

"Daken isn't allowed to step foot in Krakoa, I assure you."

"You think he listens to rules? That's a risk I'm not taking. Send somebody else. My people deserve freedom."

"Your people are Mutants." Kurt replied as he swept his shoulder long hair behind his elven ears adorned with circlet earrings.

Brontë nodded repeatedly as he clenched his jaw, biting off the early morning curse words he wanted to sling the teleporters way like magic before saying, "Right…. Right. But equality ain't equity."

Kurt nodded.

For a flash Bronte saw Blades sympathetic and disappointed gaze. Mr. Knight's incredulous white eyes. Ilyana's sadness.

His anger churned like a hurricane over the sea.

"Aye— one year." Bronte's pointer finger flew up, "It's been one year. She's had one year to play like the age she actually is. A single ONE year…. To talk about boys with her girlfriends, learn in a classroom… pass notes… share playlists. If she doesn't get at least four more years of that I'm pulling up to the Institute myself and blacking out on everybody."

Kurt was silent for a moment before speaking, "Despite your assumed promise of violence…. I think you should come. Come to the Summit where the trades will be discussed. You should speak there. Your voice holds weight, StormWolf."

"Stop calling me that."

"You haven't told me to call you Bronte." Kurt smiled.

Despite all the actions he'd made that should've made him annoying, there was a warmness to him.

Even so, "I got work. So I'm gonna need you to bounce, Kurt. You should be out saving the day anyway, the Morlocks need examples like you out here doing it."

Kurt finished his beer like a teenager. Cringing as it swished down his throat— apologizing to his father in the skies the whole way.

"You know… speaking of the Morlocks…. I've heard they have a new avenger of sorts… Vampires be damned."

Brontë side eyed him. The dogs went alert at the mention of the word.

Kurt nodded as if his question he never asked was answered. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a card before waving.

"I'll be going now, Ciao!"

He teleported. Brontë expected him to be gone in a puff of glowing dust. Instead he bamf'd into existence back in the living room, once again looking disoriented as he stumbled forwards.

"Huh…. Guess I'm getting old. Oh!— uh, Ciao again!"

This time he was gone for good.

Brontë watched as the purple-black dust fell to the ground like ashes in his wake.

"How dare he?!" Mend started as he stomped around the ceiling.

"Walk in OUR home… demand WE go talk about sending OUR sister into a maniac's school for… MANIACS…. This will not be good for us, Unc."

"That's why we ain't going." Bronte walked over to the pile of purple-black dust sitting where Kurt once was.

"But what if they make a decision for us because of our absence…?" Mend questioned.

"They won't."

"Are you sure?"

"No." Bronte replied as he squatted over the substance.

It had a warmth to it. A cold warmth— if that made sense. Like the absence of warmth wafting from it highlighted the warmth around it. Made him hyper aware of it.

Magic was weird like that.

And that's what it was.

Brontë picked up the pile. In his hands the granules shifted and rolled over one another like black sand. Mixed in with brilliant purple blue and red diamonds. Transparent and clear. They were brilliant really.

He could've got lost in eyeing each and every otherworldly piece. The way the morning sun rays reflected off each piece…. the dozens of small fractures formed from the pressure of being ripped into earths atmosphere at blinking speeds. It created details and linework that painted a picture of another world.

The cracks in the granules of dust became lightning falling from the skies of a world painted purple. The black pieces became pellets of ink colored rain, casting the air into a dark haze.

The…. Wait.

Brontë blinked twice, realizing suddenly that he was looking into a rift.

As the dust fell from his hands— tickling and cold, it dragged on the air, tearing open reality and giving way to a new world.

He peered inside.

It was too dark. The contrast from his world to the other was too much. His eyes couldn't adjust. But he could make out shapes. When the lightning flashed it illuminated the otherwise shadowy hellscape.

He could make out things moving.

Things with many arms.

Tails.

Glowing eye—

Before he lost his throat, Bronte jumped backwards to evade the clawed hand swiping at him through the rift.

The dogs claws skittered on the wood floors. Mend moved.

"STOP! Don't let him see you."

Brontë popped his claws, fully prepared to fight a demonic cross dimensional titan hellbent on the ancestral magic in his blood…. Because that was his life at times.

Instead, the eyes remained. Actually, as lightning flashed, he watched the dark silhouette drop down into a squat. Mirroring Bronte.

"Hehe… Alright."

The rift closed with a gasp.

He breathed normally as Mend jumped off the hound and took their place as Bronte's arm once again.

At the same time, a blue disc appeared in his living room. It looked like a rift, actually.

Mend took over Bronte in a flash.

Suddenly he was seven feet tall on monstrous raised heels. Black Symbiote skin rippling with new muscle. Veins glowing with magic. Razor sharp fangs growing beneath a snouted mask. War ready like…..

Ilyana stepped through, eyes wide.

"Man, y'all don't knock!?!"