Boston has certain institutions. Institutions like Fanueil Hall, The New England Aquarium, and Fenway Park. One of those institutions is a small building on Beacon Hill, the offices of Mannheim, Thompson, and Thompson, the favored lawyers of Boston's "power elite". While not so well-known as, say, Murdock and Nelson, MT&T is /the/ firm for the upper class of Boston.

They were Sean Cassidy's lawyers, too.

The mutant called the Banshee had been seriously injured by the Phalanx's attempted purge of mutantkind from Earth* and was still comatose... and that's what brought Theresa Rourke to MT&T.

[* see X-Men #68 - continuity-embracing Shawn]

Banshee's living will.

No less a medical luminary than Moira MacTaggert could not say when Sean Cassidy would awaken, or even if he would. The diagnosis was short, and pulled no punches - "Patient shows severely impaired cognitive facilities. Patient's awakening is by no means certain."

In other words... if Banshee awoke at all, he might well be a vegetable.

This chilling fact ran through Terry's head repeatedly as she scanned the contents of her uncle's Living Will. It stated that, should he show no improvement for a duration of one year, his life support was to be terminated. His estate was to be managed for the interim by his daughter, Theresa Rourke, or, if she could not be found or was unable to carry out the terms of the will, by his cousin, Thomas "Black Tom" Cassidy.

Terry crumpled the paper and tried hard not to begin sobbing. The other man with her in the office, William Mannheim himself, pretended not to notice. He wasn't good with his own emotions, much less those of other people.

A deep breath. Keep the composure. Never let them see you sweat. "Thank ye fer yuir time, Mr. Mannheim. Is it all right if I take a few days t'consider?"

Mannheim - a portly man whose eyesight was failing, nodded once, sharply. "Of course, Miss Rourke. Take all the time you need. I know how difficult this must be for you." He popped a hard candy from a bowl on his desk into his mouth, and sucked quietly on it. Mannheim had quit smoking three years ago, and wasn't dealing well.

Terry nodded back and left the office without another word.

"There has t'be more... there has t'be something..."

She found herself wandering the streets of Boston. What she wanted was a drink. But she wasn't going to give in to that. No... she was clean and sober, now, and preferred it that way.

She regarded the clubs on Landsdowne Street, and noticed they were open. /Is it that late already?/ Perhaps it was. Maybe she'd just go dancing. It might calm her down. Not that she was a big fan of the club scene... but it would take her mind off of her father, at least.

Some call him Ben Russell. Some call him Shatterstar. It wasn't terribly important to him anymore.

What was important was not being seen. He was wearing all black, watching the man in the alley below him. The man, Carlos Esteban, was well-known to Shatterstar, who had been tracking the man's movements for weeks. Esteban was a man of some importance in Boston's drug scene. He talked to a lot of important people. And by watching him, Shatterstar had learned a lot about the area's underworld.

But he'd learned all he could from Carlos Esteban. And so tonight, Esteban was going down.

'Star began setting up small television cameras on the rooftop. He didn't know if he had ever come from Mojoworld, or if that was all an illusion planted in his mind - by Cable, or Longshot, or the Gamesmaster, or whoever. He didn't rightly care. All he knew was that posturing for the cameras gave him something of a cheap thrill.

'Star smiled as Esteban dealt with his last customer of the evening and sent two of his four bodyguards home. That left Esteban directly below him, one gun-toting thug behind Esteban, and another gun-toting thug in the shadows behind. Actually, that was incorrect - the second thug was actually the most important man in the alley. A man more trusted by his superiors than Esteban,
his job was not only to keep Esteban safe, but to keep an eye on the dealer, in case he should try double-crossing his shadowy masters.

A shake of the head and a quick intake of breath shook conscious thought from Russell's head. "Enough of this introspection." One hand gripping a sword, the other clutching a rope, he prepared for battle. Standing, jumping from the roof, 'Star hoped he had the cameras set up properly. He did so love a good show.

"Showtime!"

'Star's cry caused the trio in the alley to focus their attention on him - and the gleam of his blades forced them to hesitate. There is nothing subtle about a sword. It cannot be used to intimidate, as can a gun. In a time when firearms are widespread, swords are not intimidating until you see them in use.

Shatterstar, knowing this, used them. A quick overhand slash divested Esteban's principal bodyguard of his weapon - as well as the hand that had held it. The man did not waste time screaming, or gasping, or anything like that - he merely looked at the stump where his hand used to be, and fainted.

'Star grimaced. No dramatic impact. Perhaps had he not charged his sword with energy*, which caused the wound to rapidly cauterize... but no. It was better to leave the man alive, so the police might be able to get some information from him, than to kill him and have said police after 'Star himself. /Besides,/ he thought to himself, /the speed at which I took him out of the fight will have drama of its own./ Heartened by this thought, his smile reappeared.

[* Shatterstar has the ability to charge his swords with energy, though he rarely uses it. -Obscure-power-noting Shawn]

The man in the back of the alley was not stupid. He had seen what Shatterstar had done. Given a choice between failing his employers and being maimed, he chose to fail his employers. A quick three-round burst caused 'Star to duck, and the hero being thus distracted, the man fled.

No matter. Esteban was the principal target.

By this time Esteban had puled his nine-millimeter pistol from his jacket. He was also shaking too badly to use it. Stuttering badly, he demanded of Russell, "Wha' th'hell you, m-man? S-some kinda n-ninja?"

'Star grinned wider. A beautiful half-circle kick disarmed Esteban, and as 'Star followed through on the spin and struck the dealer with the back of his left hand, he remarked to himself upon how easy it had been.

The police would find the unconscious dealer and his bodyguard tied up in the alley, along with a videotape of the fight, as well as enough videotaped evidence to put Esteban away for life. The odds were high that said evidence would be inadmissible in court, but perhaps the assistant DA would think of something.

Regardless, however... that footage would be all over the news in the next few weeks.

The dealers had been served notice. Shatterstar was here.

Now it was time for him to see Gomi... have a drink... maybe talk for a little while...

Call her Tabitha Smith. Or Boom-Boom. Or Boomer.

Nah.

Call her Meltdown instead.

Running her hands through her close-cropped, bleached-white hair, Meltdown grinned. She'd grin even more once she got that tat* she wanted. But for right now... she was in Boston. She was going to see her old friend Gomi** tomorrow. And she was in a mood to party.

[* tat=tattoo. Slang-proficient Shawn]
[** Gomi, along with Meltdown, was a member of the Fallen Angels. -Obscure- character-remembering Shawn]

Axis. Right on Landsdowne Street. One of the most famous clubs in Boston.

It was about to get melted.

Tabitha grinned to herself. Ever since the Phalanx attack, when X-Force had gone its separate ways - she hadn't heard much about most of them, though Moonstar was running around in the Defenders until recently - she'd been getting back to finding herself. All the stuff with Bobby... /geez, was I ever really that much of a sap?/

Maybe she was just lying to herself. She did miss the hayseed, sort of. But...

...no. She was through caring about what others thought. She had a new, kick- some-ass, take-no-prisoners attitude. It was why she was calling herself Meltdown, after all.

But right now... she didn't care about that. Yeah, maybe there's a world to save... but for now, she was gonna go get blitzed.

A young woman walks down Landsdowne Street, running her fingers through long, silky, black hair, smoking a clove cigarette.

She has no destination.

She hasn't much of a name, either - none that she'll admit to. But she calls herself Serendipity, so that's what we'll call her.

Doc Martens boots, tight black pants, an even tighter black shirt. No earrings, no jewelry other than a single silver ankh, no makeup other than black lipstick to highlight her already pale complexion.

In short, Serendipity is what most would call a 'goth'.

She's also a mutant, which is why she has no destination.

Serendipity is a word meaning luck. Specifically, it's oft called "being in the right place at the right time."

The goth knows where she's going. She's going to the right place. And she'll find it at the right time.

It's what she does.

The man's name is not well-known. He calls himself Boots, and so does everyone else.

Boots runs perhaps the most successful Posse outside of Miami.

The Posse is a recent phenomena in the underworld - disenfranchised Jamaicans who smuggle drugs into the U.S. As a rule, they are very successful, very efficient, and very, very, brutal.

Boots used to employ a man named Carlos Esteban. Esteban was now in police hands. And this man, tied up in on the floor of a warehouse, was supposed to kill Esteban before letting that happen.

Instead he ran.

Boots didn't like that one bit.

Boots, who got his name from the steel-toed combat boots he always wore, kicked the bound man in the ribs. Hard. He heard a rib break, and the man - his name was Umberto - looked up at Boots with wide, terrified eyes. He didn't scream, because his mouth was covered with duct tape. Boots smiled. "Good. You're awake." He squatted down to look Umberto in the eyes, while his bodyguard, a well-paid, quiet brother who was called Whisper when he was called anything at all, stood respectfully a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him, eyes hidden behind shades.

Boots's eyes weren't hidden. They were dark and bloodshot. He grinned down at his captive. "'Ey, mano. How you feelin'? Enjoyin' our hospitality?" Umberto began making muffled noises from behind the duct tape, which Boots pretended not to hear. "Glad to see it. But look, mano, you screwed up. An' we can't have that. So we's gonna be smackin' you around a little. A warnin', you know."

Umberto began to wonder if maiming might not have been the better choice.

Boots grinned again, and pulled a pair of needlenose pliers from his pocket. Umberto would have screamed, if he could.

Several minutes later, Umberto lay quiet and still, and Boots was covered in blood. "He's out. Whisper, give 'im a hit." The bodyguard produced a crack pipe and a large rock of crack cocaine, and lit it up, taking a few hits to get the pipe going. He knelt down and pulled the duct tape from Umberto's face and jammed the pipe in his mouth, then pinched the man's nose.

A short time later, Umberto was awake again, and screaming. Boots smiled again, and went back to work.

All told, it took perhaps three hours. Umberto was alive, and awake, for two of them.

Boots would be mailing some parts to some other employees, to remind them of the price of cowardice. The rest would go back to Umberto's family in Jamaica, to tell them that their boy had failed, and paid the price.

Boots was happy. Usually after an object lesson like this, things ran pretty tight for the next few months. He shook his head, causing some blood to fly from his dredlocks and spatter the walls. He would have to change before he went out tonight.

Maybe to Axis...

Right, then! Welcome to my first piece of MV1 fanfic - truth to tell, my first piece of any fanfic.

You might be wondering, why X-Force?

Part of it is because the New Warriors are taken. Goddess, I loved that team. Still do (even if they killed off Justice! Grrr!). But I can't write them, so I picked my second-favorite team, a team that /could/ have been what the Warriors were, if they had been handled better. X-Force.

This team has been through so much... from Mutants-In-Training back in the New Mutants days, to Cable's Strike Force, to Slackers on the Road... there's a rich backdrop there. The team is, in essence, fair game for any writer who wants to put a definite stamp on them. And that's what I want to do.

Why Boston?

Well, because I live in Massachusetts, and I love the city. Also, because it's a great place to set comics. It's got everything New York has except less skyscrapers, and it's got a certain... feel to it. Will X-Force stay in Boston? I suppose that depends on whether or not this turns into an ongoing. If not, then they'll go do something somewhere in limbo. If it does... then I'd be a fool to give anything away, wouldn't I?

Why Boots and a Jamaican Drug Posse?

Well, because frankly, one doesn't have to be superpowered to be a villain. I think I've created, in Boots, a villain perfect for the 3-part series I've been given, and I think you'll find him suitably evil, even without nasty mutant powers or cybernetic enhancements or mysterious voodoo magic.

Why Serendipity?

Well, because I like the name, I like the concept, and I wanted an original character in this series. Her role will become more apparent as the story progresses, but it's not giving too much away to say that she's the lynchpin of this story. Without her, it falls apart.

Lastly, perhaps... why /me/?

Because I asked and the MV1 head honchos said yes. So nyeah.

Send me letters! Lots and lots of letters! More letters = more chance for me to get an ongoing! More chance for you to thrill at my work! More chance for me to impress women! Well... actually, no, I'm fairly sure that last won't happen. But send me letters anyway!

Thanks for reading - don't stop now!

-Shawn-