Earth-717: X-Men Vol 2

Chapter 1: Evolution

London, 1867

Wyndham jumped at the sound of a crack of thunder. Grabbing at his chest, he stared out the window as the rain continued to pour over the dank city view. The repetition of the pattering of the rain striking the ground helped him regulate his breathing.

"Mr. Wyndham?"

Wyndham continued to keep his gaze affixed to the window. After a minute, he finally stopped breathing through his mouth and slowly turned back to the man sitting in front of him. He was draped in a black business suit, and was sitting in elegant, crimson armchair.

The room they were in was extravagantly lavished, with rich, patterned carpets, numerous tables full of worldly trinkets, a lamp lighting the two men and various expensive paintings adorning the walls. The man sitting in front of Wyndham lowered his head and narrowed his eyes as he tried to get his attention.

"Mr. Wyndham?" asked the man. "Are you still with me?"

Wyndham stammered.

"Y-Yes, yes, doctor."

"Don't tell me a little thunderstorm got the better of you. I know it's dark out there, but we're perfectly safe inside."

"I-I know. I know. I just g-get jumpy when I talk about this, this stuff, is all. Yes."

Folding his hands together, the man exhaled. Wyndham adjusted his glasses, tapping his foot against the ground repeatedly the whole time.

"Doctor Daniels?"

"No need to be so formal, Mr. Wyndham. Call me Marcus. I like my patients to look at me as a friend whom they can trust, rather than as a professional therapist."

"Okay. Okay. Marcus. I-I wanted to ask, uhm . . . . would it be a-alright if I had a drink?"

"By all means."

Wyndham took a small flask out of his inside jacket pocket and, his hands shaking, unscrewed the cap with some struggle. Breathing through his teeth, his hand which was holding the flask fiercely vibrated as he tried to bring it to his lips. Guzzling half of the flask's contents, he then stuffed the cap back on and placed the flask back in the pocket. He then put his hands on the armrests and gripped them so tightly that his fingernails began digging into the material.

"Mr. Wyndham," said Marcus, "I want you to start at the beginning. Tell me everything that happened, and be very specific."

"Alright."

Wyndham breathed in and out a few times as he watched the nearby lamp. For a brief second, it appeared to go dimmer, but then regained its light. Gulping, he turned back to Marcus and began to speak.

"I first met Doctor Nathaniel Essex at a scientific convention hosted for Charles Darwin in December of 1859. Professor Darwin had just published his book, On the Origin of Species, a month prior. I had heard of Essex, but I had no reason to believe that he was anything more than a well regarded member of the English scientific community . . . . until it was too late."

Wyndham stood in the hall of the convention centre, amongst various men in high class attire. He then saw Darwin exiting the lecture hall, and hurriedly walked up to him, his hand extended.

"Professor Darwin!"

Darwin smiled and reached out, shaking Wyndham's hand.

"Yes, and who might you be, good sir?"

"Doctor Herbert Wyndham, sir. I too attended Edinburgh. I have to say, Origin of Species was a truly fascinating read."

"Well thank you."

"But I wanted to ask you something about it."

Darwin raised an eyebrow.

"How do you feel about potential backlash from proponents of the Church? Surely your theories contradict many of the teachings of God."

"Well, I don't necessarily believe that science and religion have to . . . ."

"The people who would refer to God's book over Professor Darwin's work are fools."

Darwin and Wyndham turned to look at the man who interrupted them. He was wearing a blue and black pinstripe suit, and walked up to them with his hands behind his back. His head was almost unerringly square-like; his strong bone structure and supporting facial flesh indicating a healthy specimen. What contradicted all this were his eyes; they were the eyes of a predator, and Wyndham felt that they conveyed an implacable sense of hunger, as if they were surveying everything they gazed upon with the desire only to consume.

"And you are?" asked Darwin.

"Doctor Nathaniel Essex," answered Essex, who bowed. "Truly a pleasure to finally meet the great Charles Darwin face to face."

"Thank you," said Darwin, without smiling.

"You are not a God fearing man, I take it?" asked Wyndham.

"Well, since there is no evidence in favour of God's existence, I, as a man of science, must defer to the next best thing: man. And as a man, and therefore, the greatest being whose existence can indeed be proven, what have I to fear?"

Darwin narrowed his eyes. Essex chuckled.

"And who might you be?" asked Essex.

"Doctor Herbert Wyndham."

"Wyndham!" exclaimed Essex. "Yes, I thought I recognized you. I read some of your work from Edinburgh. Not bad. Not bad at all. However, I have to say that the section of your dissertation on ethics was rather dull in comparison to the rest of it."

Darwin coughed.

"Yes, well, to go back to your question, Doctor Wyndham, I see no reason that science and religion cannot peacefully co-exist. Just because my theories on the evolution of species does not necessarily work in tandem with strictly literal interpretations of the Lord's book, does not disprove his existence. Truly, science should be the equalizer between all faiths. Whether a man be a Catholic, a Protestant, a Hebrew or an atheist, I believe that science can be the tie that binds them all."

"Noble sentiments, Professor," started Essex, "but certainly not ones that will be shared by all. I can think of many organizations who will view your great work as an attack on the foundation of their beliefs. Those that see mankind as creatures created in God's image will certainly view the idea of evolution as heresy."

"I would rather be called a heretic than lie in the face of scientific evidence."

"My thoughts exactly, Professor."

"I met with Essex, Darwin and other members of the Royal Society on a regular basis after that," explained Wyndham. "Many scientists and intellectuals came to our lectures and seminars from all over the Queen's Kingdom to confer and study our work. While Darwin continued to speak of the gradual effects of evolution that took place over millions of years, Essex was much more interested in the changes made in a single generation."

His face resting against one hand, Marcus rubbed his chin.

"And what were his colleagues views of his work?" asked Marcus.

"Not very appreciative, I'll say that," responded Wyndham. "Some thought him mad; others, misguided. While at first he and Darwin were amicable, their conversations grew increasingly hostile due to Essex's insistence on a hidden marker in human genetics that he dubbed the 'X-Factor'."

"X-Factor?"

Wyndham slowed down his breathing as he continued to speak. The lamp seemed to become dim for a second once more, but then again reverted to its fully lit form.

"Yes. He wrote about it in a paper that was scoffed at by the Royal Society. No one else was able to find any evidence of this X-Factor, and the concept of such drastic changes in genetics within the span of a single generation proved to be the point where many stopped taking him seriously."

The two men were silent for a full minute before Wyndham resumed speaking.

"Over time, he turned bitter and angry for the rejection of his theories. He became a recluse, holed up in his manor with his wife, Rebecca. Rumours began to circulate about unspeakable experiments going on there . . . . monstrous sins against nature and humanity. Rebecca would still leave the estate and visit London on occasion, but she almost never spoke, and had a look in her eyes as if she had seen the torture of ghosts long since dead."

"But being a recluse is not necessarily a crime, Mr. Wyndham," said Marcus. "What led you to the point of contacting the police?"

Wyndham gulped as droplets of sweat shivered down his temples.

"Last year, people in London started gossiping about disappearances. Nobody knew for sure, but some blamed Essex. Said that he was kidnapping people and taking them back to his laboratory for some sort of barbaric genetic experiments; to extract the X-Factor from their cells. I needed to know if the rumours were true, so I followed Rebecca home one night, and hid in the back of the estate."

The lamp seemed to dim for a brief second once more.

"What happened?"

"I h-heard it," replied Wyndham.

"It?"

"The screams."

Wyndham's breathing began to speed up again. Marcus put up a hand.

"Relax, Mr. Wyndham. Try to focus on your breathing."

Wyndham nodded several times, and stopped hyperventilating. He then continued his story.

"Those horrible screams . . . . the wailing of the damned, I'll tell you. Cries of someone, or something, suffering a misery far worse than death. Then, I saw him."

"Essex?"

"Yes. Through the window. At first I thought he might have been someone else, some sort of ghost, but no, no, no, it was him, alright. But, s-something was d-different about him. His skin was pale as powder dust, and he had a, I don't know what, m-maybe a tattoo or something, some sort of diamond on his forehead. But worst of all were his eyes. Oh Lord, his eyes."

Wyndham gulped again, his entire body shivering in his seat.

"Pure red. No pupils . . . . no humanity. Just red. Undying red."

The door to Essex Manor burst open, wood chips landing all over the floor of the lobby. Several police officers ran into the room, quickly surveying the space. Once it had been determined to be empty, Captain Gallows and Wyndham walked in.

"Essex?!" shouted Gallows. "Essex! Are you here?"

No response was heard. Gallows looked at Wyndham with a raised eyebrow. Everyone's head then snapped up at the sound of a shrill, female howl.

"It's coming from downstairs!" yelled one of the officers.

The officers and Wyndham marched down the stairs into the basement of the manor. Reaching a double door, the first officer kicked it down, and they walked into the room. The room itself was a large, stone laboratory, with only three small windows near the ceiling, affixed to the outside ground level. All sort of chemical vials and containers were liberally spread across the shelves and tables, as well as equipment such as microscopes and specimen jars.

Wyndham gasped upon seeing a jar filled with a murky, yellow-green liquid, which contained the corpse of a small baby. The baby had tears and gashes all over its flesh.

"What in heaven's name happened here?" asked Gallows.

"Captain!" yelled one of the officers. "You'll want to see this, sir."

Gallows, Wyndham and the other officers crowded around the far end of the room. A two metre tall, cylindrical, vertical yellow tank was stuffed in the back corner. The front end was made of a thick, transparent plastic. Through the plastic, the upright, unconscious form of a woman could be seen.

"That's Mrs. Essex!" exclaimed Wyndham.

"He did this to his own wife?" asked Gallows.

The other officers started to chatter.

"Is she still alive?"

"This is a bloody disaster."

"Let's get out of here!"

"Quiet!" commanded Gallows, as he took a step towards the tank. "Maybe we can get her out . . . ."

Gallows was interrupted by Rebecca opening her eyes. She let out the same shrill cry that they heard before, and the officers stood back in surprise. She then started to claw at the inside of the tank, with abject fear in her eyes.

"Get her out of there!" shouted Wyndham.

Gallows and the officers tried to grab at the tank and pull it open, to no avail. Rebecca continued to scream as a foggy, yellow mist started to fill up the air in the tank from the ground up.

"GET ME OUT! GET ME OUUUUUUUUT!"

Gallows grabbed a metal box off of a nearby counter and ran to the side of the tank. Seeing a padlock on the lever mechanism, he began smashing it with the box repeatedly, trying to bust it open. After four attacks, he overexerted himself, slipping after hitting the padlock, and slamming his head against the tank.

Wyndham's eyes widened as he watched the yellow mist reach the top of the tank. Rebecca continued to pound her fists against the tank in desperation as her skin started to melt. She let out one last wail before she was reduced to a mushy humanoid form, gargling on her own melting flesh. Within thirty seconds, she was nothing but a puddle of biomass pooling at the bottom of the tank.

"Captain Gallows and the other officers secured the premises, but there was no sign of Essex. He had packed up his notes and a handful of belongings, running off before I could return with the police. The Captain told me I should seek the help of a therapist, and one of the officers recommended you. They said I had to . . . . t-talk to someone, you know, to help me get over the nightmares."

Wyndham sighed.

"I have no idea where he went or what he's planning, but I'm telling you sir, he is the worst of men. A monster hiding in the skin of a man. Whatever he's doing . . . . it's sinister."

"Sinister?" said an unknown voice in the room, with a raspy quality. "I like that."

Marcus sat still. Wyndham gasped.

"Who said that?!"

"Oh how disappointing, Mr. Wyndham," said the voice. "Don't tell me you don't recognize your old colleague . . . ."

Essex stepped out of the shadows.

". . . . Nathaniel Essex."

Wyndham's jaw dropped in terror as Essex walked forward. Marcus grinned as Essex placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'd like you to meet a subject of mine," said Essex. "Marcus Daniels, but he prefers another name."

Marcus flexed his left hand, a small orb of black mist appeared in his palm.

"Blackout."

"Y-you . . . . you . . . ."

Marcus squeezed his left hand into a fist, and the lamp went out completely. Essex laughed to himself and walked towards Wyndham, who curled up in the chair, paralysed by fear.

"I had to know everything that you knew, Mr. Wyndham. Now that that's done, I believe you know what comes next."

"Stay away from me, Essex!"

Essex frowned for a moment.

"Don't call me that. I have a new name that I prefer."

Wyndham whimpered. Essex's face returned to a malevolent grin.

"Mister Sinister."

Wyndham screamed as Sinister reached for his face. The sound of his cry was drowned out by another crack of thunder.