March 14th. 1997.

The Soulsword feels heavy in Arrietty's hands. It had adjusted itself of course. Taking on a slim black appearance, and playing with her power. It still carried weight. The weight of lives lost by Nighthawk's hand. The lives of those who depended on Arrietty to survive day in and day out. Arrietty could feel the power that coursed through it, promising that it could provide her whatever she required to see this through to the end.

Arrietty, The Deacon, heiress to Cloak and Dagger and matron of the Morlock’s Vatican, stares down at the Soulsword. Bequeathed to her by Magik for a singular purpose. To slay that dragon, Nighthawk, whose foul manipulations of the Darkforce had left Arrietty’s family broken, and many of her kin dead. The Darkforce chose them, after all, blessed them with a power to improve their lives no matter what form that took. Though it had a hunger that needed to be sated, that was easily done in the face of those who killed Mutants at any turn.

Arrietty stepped behind Nighthawk and kicked out at the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees in front of her. The German reached around, gently pulling her father's striped cloak free from Nighthawk's shoulders. The black and blue adornment was temperamental, but Arrietty had too much respect and in some way, love, for it. It had been as much a part of her life as Cloak and Dagger had been, after all.

"A corpse is no place for you, old friend." Arrietty whispers to it. She would not yet wear it, not until she had mourned with Scott and Petra. Instead she folds it gently, placing it on a billiard table. Did she deserve to wear it? Would it allow her to? She bore a lot of guilt, her adoptive parents had disappeared almost three years to the day and now… Well. Cloak was gone, and she had to accept that.

Arrietty turned her attention back to Nighthawk, gripped the Soulsword tightly and rammed the blade through the Squaddie's back in one smooth motion. It scraped and shulked against the armour as it entered. Arrietty pulled Nighthawk back violently and the blade broke through on the other side, gleaming with whatever bile substances could be found within the Squaddie. Arrietty hadn’t yet realised she was screaming right into Nighthawk's ear, releasing years upon years of the suffering that she and the bearers of the Darkforce had endured.

Arrietty leaned in close to Nighthawk and whispered into his ear, just loud enough for the others to hear and deigning to use her mother tongue. Despite the abusive relationship inflicted upon her by her gene-donors, she still had pride in her heritage. "Du bist nicht der Erbe der Dunkelheit. Ich bin. Ich werde alles nehmen, was du gestohlen hast. Ich werde dich deiner Seele berauben, und du wirst wirklich den unendlichen Schlund des Nichts kennen. Ich verweigere dir alles, was du bist und alles, was du hättest sein können."

Perhaps there was a degree of arrogance there. But Cloak and before him Darkhawk and before even them Merry Sable had pioneered the Darkforce as a tool for good. Others had come and went, but they all seemed to possess an innate talent and understanding for it that others lacked. Even Arrietty had yet to plumb the depths of her connection. And now there were others to coach. Nighthawk was a parasite, but Arrietty? Well, she was the closest thing to royalty the Morlocks possessed and that was an important weight to carry.

Arrietty places her foot against Nighthawk’s back and violently tears the Soulsword free, yanking Nighthawk's soul along with it and letting the blade take it for its own. A taste of his own medicine, no doubt. Using the Soulsword as an amplification device, Arrietty thrusts one of her hands upwards like an upturned claw; the Darkforce erupts into the space above her like smoke and flames that licked the roof of the billiard’s hall.

"Dies ist nicht das Ende von Nighthawk. Bei meiner Hand, es soll noch mehr geben! Komm, meine Verwandten! Ich rufe dich an meine Seite! Fühlen Sie, wie die Darkforce in diese Welt zurückkehrt und sie erneut segnet!"

With the power of the Soulsword at hand, Arrietty tears all that Nighthawk has taken from his body and returns it to the world. Once the Darkforce was populous, its bearers imbibed the power and used it to their own creeds. The Darkforce would flow through every crack it could find, seeking new bearers to replace the old, and Arrietty called upon them all to find her no matter where she was. Let their hearts guide them, be part of the growing Clan Johann.

She cannot raise the dead- let them rest. Her closest kin and the expansive family that is the Morlocks is only a small part of who she is.

The incoming Mutant Homeland would be a place of safety for them all. And Arrietty could guide her newfound family; strengthen their moral compass once they find her. And so she called upon them all through the Darkforce as En Sabah Nur had done to Mutants, and requested they begin their pilgrimage.

In doing so, Arrietty drained herself almost entirely, the last wisps of power disappearing across the city, the country, the world. She had one final, gentle and silent request of the Soulsword. Opening a rift in space and kicking Nighthawk through it. Leaving him to die in some void beyond the universe where space and time didn't matter. Nothing but... nothing.

Her work completed, Arrietty fell forwards to her knees. The Soulsword clattered to the floor and deep sobs wracked her body. The wail of a mother whose ancestry had been taken by one man, whose own children and charges were threatened by him. She looked down at her hands, unsure of what to do with them, blackened spots staining the flooring where relief falls from puffed eyes.

She would have done anything to protect them, and for now her heart could rest easy.

Today.

It was a precautionary measure. The Vatican had gone into disassembly almost immediately, and all those who lived there moved deeper down beneath New York City, disappearing into a large squat space compared to the heady space they once had. They were forced to spread out, rebuilding their shanty homes in new configuration and slapping the public kitchen in the middle of the ‘town’ that had developed. The Morlocks knew how to pull their weight, and it had made the transfer of an entire community easier.

Still, Arrietty hadn’t had the time to grieve. They were all mourning, of course. Those who could painted black and blue stripes on their faces, a small ritual to treasure Cloak. They did it for any such Morlock within the Vatican and its satellite Steeples who had passed. Whilst other communities took to mourning differently.

This time, as with many times, there would be no body to put within the Snowgraves.

Even Spider-Man and Moon Knight had been kind enough to offer their condolences.

But Arrietty had yet to tell Cyclops.

Arrietty rose from behind her desk, gently picking up the famed cloak in her hands and holding it tightly to her. She was happy to finally have that connection once again.

Arrietty closed the door behind her and made her way to her home where she and Petra lived. Her fifteen year old daughter was tough, confident, smart and above all brave. Had she done right by her? Not sending her to the Institute? Well… Xavier was a jerk. That had always made the decision easy. Arrietty pushed aside the heavy curtains and stepped inside her home, laden with boxes that still had yet to be unpacked.

Arrietty stepped through into Petra’s bedroom, a small space decorated in various posters and so forth. Even down here, Arrietty’s daughter had been able to express herself in ways Arrietty had always wished for her. To be as close to a normal teenager as possible.

Petra’s smile was dazzling, and she removed the headphones as her mother approached. Petra wasn’t chalk white as Arrietty was, nor did she have black veins that ran about her person either. No, she was oddly tan for a Morlock, with thick brunette hair and bright blue eyes.

“Hey kiddo.” Arrietty smiled wearily, taking a seat next to Petra on the iron bed, setting the cloak on her lap. The sheets had all been stolen from Walmart. They may have been deep down without sunlight, but they still had a desire for cleanliness. Even then, mutants made it easier to have salvaged furniture. The younger Morlock didn’t need much encouragement, wrapping her arms about her mother and holding her tightly.

“I have a story to tell you, about your Grandfather. About the time he taught me how to roller skate.”

1978.

Arrietty is younger here. Though she doesn’t know it, she is Eighteen years old, and she still wears braces. The Vatican is two years old and it is two years before Petra is conceived under dubious circumstances. Her adopted son, Scott, is six years old. He has yet to become the revolutionary and leader of the X-Men he was destined to be. The bandana wrapped around his face serves more as a warning to others that he is blind. It wouldn’t do much good in the face of his destructive potential. Scott’s adoptive grandmother Dagger wrestles with him in an effort to keep him on her lap.

Cloak’s Cloak billowed around his person and Arrietty groaned loudly. Her father was always finding amusing ways to embarrass her and it showed. On this occasion, a three piece suit one would find in a disco up above. High waisted trousers and a shirt that was far too open as far as Arrietty was concerned.

“What’s the matter kiddo? Don’t like my style?” Cloak asked, striking a pose. One hand in the one o’clock position, whilst the other moved to seven o’clock. His afro bounced slightly, and the sunglasses didn’t help matters much. Arrietty groaned louder still, and gently cursed her father out in German.

“Nein! You look ridiculous, dad. You couldn’t have picked anything else?”

“Aww kiddo. How are you gonna go to a roller disco if you don’t have any moves?” Cloak skated towards Arrietty and grabbed her arms, spinning her about with him. Her feet wobbled, balance unsteady as they moved.

Kiddo had been his term of endearment since before he’d even adopted her. July 4th. Though she couldn’t remember the year.

“I don’t think they’re going to let either of us into a roller disco.” Arrietty gently chides, getting her bearings again and settling into a standing position. Cloak smiles, watching her feet carefully.

“You’re getting the hang of it. Point them both in. There! Now you won’t roll so much. Remember, knees bent, kick out to the side.” Cloak encouraged, beginning to move backwards, encouraging her to follow. Holding her steady.

“You got this!” Dagger calls out. The young Cyclops is listening carefully to the wheels of his mother and grandfather’s skates as they roll across the concrete floor so smoothly. Dagger is explaining everything to him, from the colour of her husband’s clothing to the shape of his hair. There is a set of skates prepared for him, but they’re waiting for Queen Vic to finish her duties in the kitchen.

“What’s a disco?” He asks, brimming with the need to know all he can.

Arrietty pushes one at a time, slowly and perhaps too cautiously. Amongst the Morlock tunnels, there is a chance for all of them to live a normal life. Strange as it may be, there is still hope and a sense of normalcy. A constant struggle to survive, perhaps. But when has that ever stopped them from trying?

“Should see your grandfather on a pair of skates.” Cloak laughs. Arrietty can’t help but laugh as well. Darkhawk with his wings out to the sides, dazzling his opponents and skating past them is… Well, it’s certainly a thought to entertain. He’d been away for some time now, busy with the railroad. California always had new arrivals, escaping from Asia and Russia.

“Should see yourself. Powder blue does not suit you.” Arrietty teases. Cloak releases her, and she glides past him. If Darkhawk can do it, she can too. Feet push out one at a time, and the rhythm of it all soon comes to her. Smooth wheels touching down against smooth concrete and letting her glide. She could do this all day, all night and then some.

Happier times, for all of them.

Now.

Petra had fallen asleep before Arrietty could even tell her how Darkhawk once got stuck in a ventilation tunnel chasing after a runaway roller skate. And so Arrietty laid her daughter down, and left her to her sleep.

What did Cloak think of, Arrietty wondered, in those last moments? Had he and her mother been hoping their daughter would rescue them in some heroic move? Had she let them down? Arrietty’s heart weighed heavy as she reached into a box, taking those old familiar skates from a box. They were worn now, one of the wheels chipped. Underneath them though, were Cyclops old skates from the first time she and Vic taught him. He’d always been an impressive child.

Yes. It was time.

Arrietty opened a portal to the Institute and stepped through. Planting the thought firmly in her mind, she made it all too clear to Xavier that he owed her a million times over. She didn’t like him much, but she could at least respect… Honestly, she wasn’t wholly sure what. That he had at least made an effort to raise her son? And that he would be sending Cyclops to meet her at the memorial. She took a seat in front of the plinth, set his tiny skates beside her on the bench and smoothed out the crinkles in the cloak.

Amongst the early twilight and glow around the memorial she looked like a pallid ghost. Some dark poltergeist come to haunt all who called this place home. She read the names as they scrolled past, recognising some but not all. But she knew the majority were likely Morlocks.

Arrietty sighed softly and sat in silence.

Open to anyone at the Institute!