Vertigo : no Way Up

"What makes you think that we haven't?"

An October evening, clear and brittle with the promise of snow. Two men stand on the steps of the Smithsonian, speaking in hushed voices as tourists eddy past. It seems an oddly public place for to discuss such a dangerous subject, but then again, who has time or the urge to eavesdrop when the world-famous museum closes in an hour? A pair of stereotypical "men in black" might have drawn curious stares, but somber gentlemen in sensible grey suits are not an uncommon sight in Washington DC.

The taller of the two, an older man with iron-grey hair, finishes his unhurried inspection of a sheaf of photos and hands them back. "These are new, aren't they." His tone is a statement, not a question.

A flicker of unease shadows the younger man's expression for a moment. "Uh, yes, Mr. Carlton. Three days ago. A mostly-mutant commune down in Tennessee." The photos, with their stark black-and-white imagery of absolute carnage, disappear into an envelope which in turn almost magically vanishes into an inner pocket. "It's not on as grand a scale as the mid-Eighties massacre under New York, and one of the major telltales is absent--"

"The clawmarks."

"--uh, yessir. But as you can see by the other indicators--"

"They're back." The older man, Carlton, chews thoughtfully at his lip for a moment. The wind now carries a chilly edge as the sun sinks into an orange haze on the horizon. A scattering of Boy Scouts tear past up the stone steps, ruffling the back of his overcoat. "I was under the impression that they'd been...retired. Perhaps moved abroad. What with their master's new 'pets.'"

The younger man snorts in contempt. "Oh, right. The so-called 'Nasty Boys'? Obviously a complete failure."

"I know that," his contact replies with the first trace of impatience in his voice. "Which is why your department should already have been preparing for this! It's patently obvious that eventually these monsters would be brought back in circulation. Despite their many shortcomings, you must admit that they are certainly--" his lip curls slightly in distaste "--efficient."

Carlton pulls his coat tight against the encroaching night and turns away. To the younger man's surprise he walks not away from the museum but towards it. "Consider my people on the case. To borrow a worn-out cliche, 'we'll be in touch.'" He pauses and glances back over his shoulder, down at his bemused contact, his expression unreadable in the gathering twilight. "And I would suggest that you keep this information well above X-Factor's clearance level. Our mutant allies tend to become, let us say, 'unreasonable' when the Marauders are involved."