In a small, crowded dark room somewhere in Virginia:

"Phillipa Sontag." The tip of the slender metal pointer tapped the projection screen, on the picture of a woman in military fatigues and a severe haircut. The next slide which snapped into place showed the same woman, this time clad in shining metal and a sadistic smile. "Now goes by the name 'Arclight.' One of our own failures, I'm sorry to say. The details of her service to the United States are classified, but everything else you need to know is included in your briefing file."

The slide clicked over again. "Scalphunter. We know absolutely nothing about this man, but he's a tactical genius and a crack shot, possibly the most dangerous of the lot. He seems to be the brains of the outfit, so make it a priority to take him out first if at all possible."

Click. "Michael Baer. 'Blockbuster.' Mostly muscle. We do have patchy records on his early terrorist career in West Germany -- he was the only survivor of that 'Fists of Victory' debacle -- but he's an American citizen."

Click. "Kim Sung. 'Scrambler.' No threat to human operatives unless he's actually bothered to pick up some fighting moves." Click. "On the other hand is Janos Quested, 'Riptide,' who is arguably one of the most lethal of the Marauders. We have nothing on these two men aside from their names and abilities. We're still tracking leads."

Click. "The other three, Vertigo, Harpoon, and Prism, do not appear to exist in any database we've been able to reference so far. It is possible they're clones or genetic creations of some sort, but we can't rule out any possibilities yet. Of the three, Harpoon has the craftiest mind and is the one to watch out for. Vertigo is a non-combatant, and Prism is notedly overconfident and can usually be picked off early."

Click. Click. "There's a high probability that we no longer have Malice or Sabretooth to contend with, but their files are included just in case."

The humming slide projector died, leaving the room strangely quiet except for the shift and murmur of human bodies. The man with the pointer -- the same stone-calm grey-haired man who'd collected their first solid lead not two days before on the weathered steps of the Smithsonian in Washington DC -- turned to face his strike team in the near darkness, his arms folded across his chest. Special Agent Carlton was not a violent man, nor an irrational one; quite unlike the stereotype of the modern government man, there was not a single anti-mutant bone in his body. But if there was one thing that heated his calm, rational blood, it was the name "Marauder." He'd been dogging the trail of these brutal, bullying murderers for far too long...

When it came to his "interest" in the elusive pack of assassins that some said didn't even exist, even Carlton grudgingly used the word "vendetta."

"That concludes the mission outline," he said crisply. "You all have two hours to acquaint yourselves with the full Marauder dossier. Everything you have heard in this room and everything you have been assigned to read is classified red as per orders under the Wideawake II Protocols. Lethal force is fully authorized should these orders be activated...and trust me, people, I don't think you'll have very long to wait this time.

"Dismissed."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Excerpt from Review #184030-1282
Circa January 1995, classified deep-black:

Subject 184030: I always felt different, you know.
Interviewer: Mmmm?
Subject 184030: Well, THEY had pasts, some of them at least. Blockbuster,
Arclight, Scalp, 'Poon...even Riptide, I think, though I could quite never tell when
he was serious and when he was ranting. Anyhow, they didn't talk about it much
but I knew that they...remembered. Families, growing up, owning stuff other than
weapons and clothes, that kind of thing. Blockbuster...he'd tell me bits and pieces
sometimes. Just when he was bored, really, and they weren't always very good
stories, but I didn't mind listening. Oh sure, he had his moments -- he'd get kinda
paranoid-mean sometimes, or start throwing full-bore punches over some stupid
insult, didn't care too much who or what he hit, either -- but usually he wasn't too
bad of a teammate. Sinister actually trusted him more than some of the others, I think.
Interviewer: And why was that?
Subject 184030: Because he wasn't smart or anything, but he did exactly what
he was told. He didn't think too much, know what I mean? The others all thought
that Sinister liked Scalphunter the best, and maybe he did, but when Sinister
needed something simple done right, without questions or creative thinking, it
was always Mike. No one else noticed, but I did.
Interviewer: Mike?
Subject 184030: (sigh) You know. Blockbuster.
Interviewer: You say that this "Mike" was the closest thing you had to a friend.
That he looked after you.
Subject 184030: Yeah right! "Felt sorry for me" is more like it. It wasn't all
the time, just sometimes, when he felt like it. But when I really, really needed
a hand, he was usually there. S'funny, now that I think about it. Maybe he
had a kid sister I reminded him of or something. Maybe I pulled a thorn outta
his paw at some point and didn't know it. Maybe he just secretly wanted into
my leotard. Who knows?
Interviewer: So you got along, at least.
Subject 184030: Hey, you're digging again. What's so interesting about the
fact that we "got along"?
Interviewer: (ahem!) Well, if you must know, none of this fits with our
psychological profile of Michael Baer. As far as we can tell, the man is nothing
but a brutal, slow-witted, cold-blooded killer.
Subject 184030: Of course he is. So what?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Vertigo's raised arm was getting numb, her hand felt like one great bruise from pounding, the air was getting stale, and the gel had levelled out at the top of the tube (and around her waist) when something clunked against the side of the crate. She almost lost her balance but grabbed the side of the tube and grimly hung on for dear life as someone began to unclasp the catches on the outside.

Her heart was already somewhere down around her toes. She'd had plenty of time to think, hunched over in the darkness, and her plan was looking worse and worse by the minute. She'd be lucky if just one cargo handler had come to investigate. More likely whoever had heard her had promptly called in his supervisor. There could be a dozen dockhands out there right now, more than she could ever hope to handle on her own...and of course once they'd found her there'd be questions and investigations, and they'd certainly want to pop open the other crates...

Okay. Take deep breaths and focus. Whoever it is, you'll have to knock 'em out FAST, she told herself firmly. Not that it'll do much good. If I leave him alive, he'll talk; if I kill him, he won't go missing for long, then they'll REALLY come after me. And of course it's probably more than one anyway. Dammit...

The plastic creaked and light flooded into the crate, along with a blast of cold salty wind which instantly raised goosebumps all over her body. Without thinking a moment longer, she squeezed her eyes shut against the glare and slammed outward with her power. She heard a startled squawk; the box rocked abruptly and there was a meaty thud outside. As quickly as she could, she shoved the lid aside and pulled herself over the side of the crate.

Unfortunately, her intention of a running escape was dashed when her feet hit the deck. Her gel-numbed legs promptly folded up under her like a marionette's wooden limbs and she landed hard on her butt -- right on top of the downed dockworker. Who, by the sound of his groan, was recovering rapidly from the pulse of disorientation. Snarling silently, she summoned up the strength for another attack--

A wide hand closed around her wrist. "Vertigo! Vertigo, kid, cut it out! For cryin' out loud, it's me!"

She blinked and paused at the familiar gravelly voice. "B-Blockbuster...?"

"Yeah, that's the one." He pushed her off of his stomach and clambered to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Geez, what happened? The sedative not kick in or somethin'?"

"Uh...sorta...I...what are YOU doing here?!" Only now did it register: her massive teammate was dressed in an equally huge but surprisingly well-tailored jumpsuit, dull yellow with orange tabs and emblazoned with bright symbols across the breast pocket and sleeve. The metal bracers glinting dully from under his unbuttoned cuffs were all that remained of his usual haphazard "killing" attire.

The second thing, which registered a bare half-second later as her adrenaline rush faded away, was the fact that there was a salty, nigh-frigid wind blowing. This did NOT agree with the fact that she was nude and half-soaked.

Completely accustomed to seeing his teammates in that condition, Blockbuster had other things on his mind. "Hold on, let's get you out of sight before one of the regular guys comes around to check out the commotion." He handed her a dirty towel (which she quickly tried to wrap around herself), replaced and reclamped the great plastic lid, and then ushered her past a row of crates identical to her own. All were lashed securely into place with bright red labels on all sides. Labels she couldn't read, of course.

He noticed her squinting up at them. "'Biological waste and specimens,' that's what it says," he explained as he lowered her down through a hatch -- out of the icy wind and piercing grey sunlight, much to her relief. "As in 'nasty stuff from a hospital.' Keeps even the nosiest of folks from pokin' around in 'em." He tapped the badge over his heart. "Me, I'm the 'hazmat official' who keeps an eye on 'em on the way over. Pretty smart of Sinister, huh?"

"G-good thing," Vertigo agreed. Her teeth were belatedly starting to chatter as the initial numb shock passed. When he let go of her arms, her awakening feet went pins-and-needles -- she sat down abruptly on the edge of what appeared to be a makeshift cot. "K-k-kind of appropriate, too. The, the l-labels, I mean. Have you, um, d-done this before?"

"Oh yah, sure, lots of times. Who do you think seals up the other crates? Can't exactly seal up my own, y'know. An' hey, it's like a vacation -- no work, no backbiting, no 'setting watches,' just me an' a bunk an' a deck'a cards. You never noticed?"

"No. I was always in a crate at the time, remember?"

"Oh." There was a momentary silence. "You cold, kid?"

Vertigo glared up at him, clutching the towel to her breasts and turning a delicate shade of blue. "Y-yes!"

Blockbuster cast around carefully and then came up with a reasonably intact blanket. He tossed it around her bare shoulders and grinned as she promptly cocooned herself in it. "This should do until we figure out what's wrong with your tube. Shouldn't take long -- those things're pretty much foolproof. I mean hell, WE c'n be taught ta use 'em, huh?"

Vertigo couldn't help it -- she smiled. Then she caught herself. "Uh, would it be okay if I, er, y'know, didn'tgobackinthetube?" she blurted quickly. "I mean, we get along well enough, and I wouldn't mind keeping you company. I could use a 'vacation' from the others, too. How long is the trip? And where ARE we, anyway?"

"We're aboard the Hanjin Hammer Bay, an' it's four days t'port in the 'States." Blockbuster considered matters for a moment, stroking his chin with one hammy hand. "I guess it WOULD be better'n playin' solitaire for four days, an' you don't eat much..."

She sighed with relief. "You're great. Thanks, Mike."

"Any time, Vee."

She was quiet for a moment, clutching the blanket up around her ears. Then she hesitantly asked, "Uh, Mike...?"

"Yeah?"

"There's...um...something else I need to ask you about. Promise you won't get mad?"

Blockbuster grinned. "Eh, I could never get mad at you, kid. Spill it."

"Well, I don't want to get you in trouble or anything, but it's about when we get to the U.S..."

The Hanjin Hammer Bay arrived at the bustling Baltimore Seaport late on a Monday evening after a completely uneventful four-day trans-Atlantic journey. Unloading was scheduled to begin the next morning.

The next morning, two night watchmen were found dead just outside their perimeter post, each apparently bludgeoned to death with a single blow from a dull object. No witnesses and no murder weapon could be found. The only clues found onsite after the initial hasty examination were

a) a few scattered fingerprints too big to possibly belong to any normal human being, and

b) two sets of footprints, marked only by traces of blood: one huge set marching stolidly away from the scene, back towards the docks; and one small shoeless set, sprinting past the abandoned side gate and away from the harbor.

Into Baltimore.

"Bingo. Carlton? We've got positive ID. Prints from that murder scene in Maryland match one of our targets, as do the physical specs of a suspect who went missing before the local law could round him up. Along with the cargo he was guarding, according to the Haijin HB's manifesto -- five 'medical' crates more than big enough to hold bodies."

"Christ. That's much closer to DC than I like... All right. I think this warrants a full alert. Initiate Project Safari. I want to know where those crates went, and in the meantime I want downtown Baltimore staked out and searched from top to bottom. Especially the inner harbor district. Quietly."

Even faced with that seemingly insanely impossible task, the woman at the computer didn't bat an eyelash. After all, this had been coming for years. Her hands flew obediently over the keys and mouse, setting aside the forensics report, typing in and firing out a single string of code which would set in motion an entire slew of private e-mails and re-assignments. All "quietly," of course.

The grey-haired man at her shoulder nodded absently in approval, silently glad that he'd insisted upon holding the full Marauder briefing the night before. There was certainly no time to update his people now. He drummed his fingers against the high back of her chair, his brow still creased with thought. "Make a note, Anna: I'll be overseeing this matter in person. And while you're at it, pull that murder case out of the locals' jurisdiction as of ten minutes ago."

"Yes, sir. What about the one already on the loose?"

John Carlton snorted lightly. "Unless they've changed their M.O. and added someone or someTHING new to the team, there's only one Marauder who could possibly fit into those little-girl footprints. If they thought she'd be inconspicious enough to act as a forward scout, they've screwed up royally this time. Maybe a woman with green-and-silver hair down to her ass could blend into the California crowd...but not here. Put out a public APB on the murdering bitch. We'll pick her up her when the locals drag her in for us."

NEXT: On the loose in Baltimore, all Vertigo thinks she has to worry about is her rumbling stomach and her vengeful ex-teammates. She's dead wrong.