INTERLUDE
Several years ago:

Masked by traffic and the incessant pounding beat of city life, the low rolling rumble underfoot went almost completely unnoticed.

What followed right on the heels of that rumble, however, did not.

Completely without warning, flames roared up from every drain and sewer in Manhattan, licking through the gaps in manhole covers and lighting the paper trash in countless gutters with a rushing hiss. Cars skidded, bicycles swerved frantically into traffic, and pedestrians stumbled and cried out in shock. Here and there a pitch-daubed telephone pole lit up like a candle, flickering briefly but merrily. On one corner an old-fashioned newspaper stand went up in a fiery blaze, and at a bus stop a child screamed as his too-curious hands were enveloped in a gust of flames.

Then the fires died as suddenly as they'd appeared...except for the burning gutters and the occasional unfortunate who found themselves swatting out a smouldering coatsleeve or skirt.

As the city's pulse skipped a beat and then continued steadily onward to the wailing tune of fire engines, a mixed pack of police officers and FBI agents were forced back by the inferno which boiled up through the open sewer accessway they'd approached not two seconds before. Several men closest to the sudden blast of heat suffered severe burns and had to be relegated to the squad cars to await an ambulance. When the pain passed they would count their blessings, for a few moments later they would have been within the tunnel itself...

Special Agent John Carlton swore under his breath as the flames guttered and then vanished. The others held back, guns at the ready, wary of an attack, while Carlton stepped forward and ran ginger fingers along the inside of the great pipe. It had been slick with algae (and less pleasant substances) when his team had traced the murderers' trail to this very spot. Though it was now so hot to the touch that he had to jerk his hand back almost immediately, his worst suspicions were confirmed. In that intense but eeriely brief blast of heat, the curved metal surface within the pipe had been charred utterly clean.

Which meant no trail to follow. No clues. Dead end.

He raised a hand slightly and a moment later his chief assistant Anna Mayfaire was at his side. She was examining a handheld device, one of the few toys that the United States had actually managed to coax from special operative Forge when he was feeling cooperative enough to actually honor his long-standing government contract. Lights danced across the surface of the haphazard piece of equipment, and her forehead creased in anxiety.

"That wasn't natural -- though I'd say from your expression that you'd already guessed that," she murmured with a faint but distinct British accent. With one hand she was carefully shielding the classified device from the eyes of the local officers.

"Natural? Hardly. Too hot and too complete to be anything of the sort," Carlton replied, just as quietly. His own people had now regained command of the situation, cordoning off the pipe and preparing to send in a new recon team. It was probably all moot now, but he let them carry out their jobs. Thoroughness, pointless or not, would look better on the report. "Perhaps a weapon of some sort was detonated under the city, but on a hunch I'd say this was the work of one of our super-powered pals."

"Sir, if I may comment--? This is FAR beyond the abilities of any pyrokinetic on record."

"I know. Can you narrow it down?"

"Aside from the intense heat and the great quantity, the flames read normal except for...yes, there's a faint trace, perhaps the source...I'm cross-checking it with our records..." Mayfaire looked up, even more perturbed than before. "One match, one hundred percent. The power signature of the guiding energies -- it's definitely Asgardian."

"I...see. Well. Looks like someone beat us to the 'bad guys.' Again." Carlton's voice was utterly neutral but Mayfaire knew him well enough to know when he was truly in a foul mood. Politely, she backed away and moved off to triangulate the reading for the records.

Carlton tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking at but not truly seeing the sewer pipe as the first brave squad moved warily in. There had been a terrifyingly swift string of brutal murders in Manhattan on this muggy summer night, murders that at first had seemed unrelated aside from one tenuous connection: all of the victims were harmless second-rate mutants, mostly drifters and homeless street people. Then, not an hour ago, a bright young junior agent had made a jump of logic and it had all abruptly snapped into clear focus. The brutal murders weren't the work of a single killer but of a entire TEAM of killers, working together towards the same unknown goal. Preying on the defenseless. Why or what for, no one could say.

The trail and the blood-choked dying words of their latest victim had led here...to the sewers. Where, if their now-dead informant had not been hallucinating in her final moments, an entire previously unknown "clan" of outcast mutants lay in danger of mass slaughter. If they weren't dead already.

Which, between the elusive assassins and this underground firestorm, seemed completely likely.

So what we have here is a new pack of psychopaths, working in tandem...with a VERY high probability they're mutants themselves judging by the preliminary forensic reports on the bodies. Great. Just what New York needs.

Some of his compatriots had tried to deprioritize the assignment ("They're just killing their own kind," they said..."Leave it to those new government muties," they said) but allowing that kind of thinking to take root and letting this trail get cold were two of the LAST things Carlton wanted. He'd taken a huge risk already, pulling in so many resources for this particular bug-hunt...

He sighed, raking a hand through his greying hair and then over his eyes to rub the bridge of his nose. He had nothing against mutants himself -- in fact, his own wife could no longer pass for "human" on the street -- but when they went bad, their potential for damage was so much higher that a man would have to be a fool to take on a job tracking them down on a regular basis.

The FBI agent smiled wryly to himself. So call me a fool.

He had been idly scuffing his shoe in the weeds on the gravel embankment as he waited for the inevitable report of failure from the strike team. Only now did something strike him as odd. The toe of his shoe was wet -- and it hadn't rained in Manhattan for two months.

He crouched down for a better look, touching the damp patch and bringing it up to his eyes. In the glare of the squad cars' headlights, he could definitely see the red smear on his fingertips.

Blood.

Quickly, Carlton unclipped the flashlight from his belt and cast around. He only found a few more scattered drops on the gravel, not enough to lay out a solid trail, but they were fresh and wet...

He twisted without straightening up, aiming the flashlight into the darkness behind him. There was a chain-link fence not ten feet away, with a shallow drainage ditch running parallel down to the street beyond the squad cars. The beam of light played across something lying motionless in the ditch: a silvery fan of hair, a green-swirled shoulder...

Holding both the light and his gaze rock-steady, he called back, "Mayfaire? Bring someone over here. Carefully. I think we may have a survivor."

END INTERLUDE

A man shouted and a woman yelped indignantly as parcels went flying across the pavement, but Vertigo paid no heed to the commotion in her wake as she plowed headlong into the crowd with a profound sense of relief. Relief, because she'd been forced to flee through two practically deserted blocks of daytime businesses before reaching the "safety" of the busier nightlife streets near what the Baltimore locals called the Charles Center.

There was no sign of the helicopter, no wailing police sirens -- no sign of any pursuit whatsoever. The skin between her shoulderblades finally stopped crawling as she skidded to a halt and sagged heavily against a telephone pole, letting humanity swirl past on both sides like a protective curtain. She forced herself to breathe deeply as she clutched her elbows, closing the open sweater. To her suddenly self-conscious mind, the green-swirled leotard which stretched across her breasts felt like a glowing target. She'd put off stealing more clothes because it was tougher than it sounded; she wasn't quite down to digging in garbage cans yet, and, let's face it, people didn't exactly go hanging their wash out on clotheslines anymore.

It looked like she couldn't put anything off any longer. Only now did the full impact of what she'd done hammer into her. This wasn't a game. This time, if she screwed up, her death would be painful and permanent. Permanent...forever...she couldn't even begin to grasp that concept. And of course, that was only one possible outcome; living wasn't going to be much easier. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath as she realized that there was no way she could fit into the civilized world. She had no skills. She had no background. Hell, she didn't even have a name.

She glanced down at her mismatched, grimy makeshift clothing and smiled wryly despite herself. Well, with a bit more smeared dirt and a wool hat, maybe I could pose as a mad old bag lady while I try to figure things out...

When Vertigo looked up, it was straight into the eyes of a police officer.

On a balcony half a block away, the gleam of a streetlight flashed off of the lenses of a pair of binoculars. Their focus slid across across Vertigo's distinctively-colored hair and then snapped back, sharpening and zooming. The woman holding the high-tech viewer allowed herself a brief tight grin of triumph. "There you are!" she whispered, reaching for the phone clipped to her belt.

Her hand froze and she frowned, squinting through the binoculars again. No. Wait. The way she's standing...too stiff...something doesn't look right...

Her magnified gaze refocused and then tracked across to the flat police cap on the head of the person right in front of her target. Practically eye-to-eye -- and reaching for something on his belt with the false nonchalance of a hunter who doesn't want to spook potentially dangerous prey.

"Dammit!" Time to move already.

The binoculars vanished silently into an inner pocket; a metal grating vibrated under two swift footsteps and then the balcony was empty.

Though her heart leaped into her mouth, Vertigo bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to stay calm, telling herself that it didn't mean anything, that the police officer was just doing his job. Maybe he thought she was in some kind of trouble...she DID look pretty out-of-breath and scared, she was certain. Or maybe he just wanted to give her a warning about loitering, or about running around banging into people, or something...

He was backing away, his eyes still locked with hers. He was raising a walkie-talkie to his mouth. He was easing his hand onto the truncheon at his belt.

For a moment she wondered if there was some way she could talk her way out of this, but her traitorous mouth was completely dry and even the vaguest semblance of a vocabulary had deserted her. With a low desperate whimper, she whirled and fled back into the crowd.

She thought that she heard a shout behind her and she thrust ahead with more determination than before, twisting and weaving like an eel through the almost solid mass of humanity. A ripple of unease was rolling through the throng as the word slowly spread that something was wrong, that there was something foreign and dangerous using their bodies for cover. In a few seconds there would be panic and she'd either be trampled or left out in the open. She couldn't even use her power -- that would make matters worse!

She tried to look back but could see no sign of the policeman, which didn't necessarily mean that he wasn't there, or that he hadn't called in backup to cut her off. Have to put more distance between us! She redoubled her efforts, trying to find a side way out of the crowd, maybe an alley...

Vertigo swerved around a pregnant woman, only to trip over a stroller which almost sent her sprawling. By now the herd was truly spooked; the metal-tipped corner of a briefcase took her hard in the ribs as its owner shoved past, driving her breath out in a painful whoof of air. As she reeled sideways, completely disoriented, an hand closed on her wrist. She wrenched free with a short inarticulate cry, finally cutting loose with a shockwave of nausea that only increased the chaos around her. But she finally saw an opening in the milling mass!

Gasping with relief, she ducked under the dark-suited man who'd attempted to grab her, sprinting for that glimpse of open air. Her feet and jaw jarred painfully as she ran right off of some kind of curb, but she could see freedom in the form of a serviceway not ten meters away across an clear intersection.

What if they have guns? What if they shoot? she thought in a panic, suddenly realizing that she'd exchanged one danger for another: the chance of being physically taken down for the chance of being picked off by a bullet! She glanced back and caught sight of three more officers converging on the area, and she could hear sirens fast approaching from both directions.

Well, there's no going back now.

She gritted her teeth and tucked in her elbows and kept running, her aching soles completely forgotten in the rush of adrenaline. Duck and dodge, don't give them a clear line of sight...they won't want to fire and miss, not with this many people around...

Four steps later she caught a broad yellow movement out of the corner of her eye, and a blaring tumult assaulted her ears. Shocked, she caught her toe under her foot and stumbled -- before she could even think about reacting something rammed into her hard enough to lift her feet right off of the ground. She had a dizzy spinning glimpse of headlights and rusty chrome before she crumpled into something hard and the lights went out.

"SHIT!" The woman ran hard on the balls of her feet like a trained sprinter, binoculars banging against her hip in the inside pocket of her jacket with every stride. When she hit the crowd she didn't even slow down; instead, she plowed against the tide of fleeing human cattle with one elbow in front of her like a wedge, further clearing her path by lashing out indiscriminately with invisible bursts of mental power. People spun away from her on both sides gasping, clutching at their throats or chests, but she paid them no heed.

She broke through the crowd just in time to see the taxi screech to a halt a moment too late -- she caught sight of Vertigo just as the Marauder was thrown against a parked car several yards away, obviously knocked out cold the moment her head struck the car door hard enough to leave a dent. Even as Vertigo's unconscious body slid to the asphalt, however, her pursuer was at her side, crouching down and slapping something onto her target's chest even as she tapped an identical device looped around her own wrist.

In a shimmer, both women disappeared into thin air.

When the police took control of the chaotic intersection a moment later, there was no evidence that either had ever existed.

In actuality, neither had ever left.

As confused and suspicious officers double-checked the area, covering all exits and searching for clues as to their target's mysterious "escape," the woman rested one palm on the parked car and let out a huge soundless exhalation of relief. She glanced around to confirm the situation and nodded to herself with satisfaction. The modified image inducers were working perfectly; as far as anyone could tell, there was nothing at the base of the parked car in question but a spot of nondescript pavement.

They couldn't stay there for long, however. At any moment someone was going to question the driver of the taxi who'd struck Vertigo, and someone was inevitably going to walk over to that very spot to look for evidence. There was blood on the door of the parked car, which was unfortunately a clean well-maintained cream color and practically showcased the new dent and the scarlet smear.

Don't know if she can be moved, she thought, checking Vertigo quickly for pulse and then for signs of neck or back injuries. Not being a doctor, she couldn't really be sure, but nothing seemed alarmingly floppy... Damn amateur! Was I ever that stupid? Bloody hell. Should I move her? They want her alive...

As a cop made the taxi driver step out of his vehicle and point out where he'd last seen the girl who'd bounced off of his bumper, she made her decision. Well, it's either this or get both of us caught. Don't you dare die on me, babe. Carefully, she gathered Vertigo up in both arms and edged away just as two cops strode over, treading on the very place where she'd just been crouched down.

Slowly...carefully... Smoothly sidling around a business owner who'd come out to see the show, she took one step at a time, not making any sudden moves. Not for Vertigo's sake, but rather to allow the straining image inducers to adjust to the changing scenery and maintain a sharp match. The devices really weren't designed for this -- their primary function was to create human facades for inhuman mutants -- but more could be coaxed from them in an emergency, and they only had to keep her cover until she could reach the nearest alley...

She had to make do with the deep recess of a shop entry, luckily one that was temporarily out of business. With a grunt she set Vertigo's limp body down on the pavement in the shadowed alcove, checking again to make sure that she was still breathing. Other than some painful-looking abrasions and the blood staining a stripe of fine silver hair at the back of her head, she seemed to be in surprisingly good shape.

Other than smelling like she hasn't showered in a week, the woman thought, wrinkling her nose fastidiously. Lucky girl -- nothing broken, she'll live. Anyone else and she'd belong in a hospital right now, considering what just happened to her. Sinister may have bad taste in choosing his pets but he sure builds 'em to last, she added wryly as she settled back on her haunches. Keeping her eye on the street, she pulled out her cellphone and dialed.

"You there? 'Kay. This is 184030. I have her. On East Baltimore Street near the Charles North -- track the phone. And keep it low-key, we're practically right in the middle of the action. The little moron almost got her sorry ass caught."

A pause -- she listened, one eyebrow raised. "Carlton's after her too? Christ, why didn't you tell me--? No. No. Yes, for cryin' out loud! I'll stay on my toes. Out."