Praise Om Messiah

"And we can't wait."

Mystique frowned. "You want to strike first?"

"Standing around and taking hits has never been my style." Magneto picked up his meticulously restored silver-white helmet from the windowsill and put it on, running a finger along its edge.

"Russell said there would be a fight at the White House. He never said we couldn't warm up first."

A smile slowly curved Mystique's lips. This was the Erik she knew.

"So you want to rally the Mutants in Russell's name and put their combined strength to work."

"Yes. The military thinks the Mutants won't strike without someone leading them directly. But they've forgotten one thing: Russell isn't the only one in New York. Magneto is here too."

Dusk approached.

The Mutants who had waited so long on the open ground below the Four Seasons Hotel had not dispersed. Instead, after Russell's display of divine power, their numbers kept growing.

Some leaned against the wall and smoked. Some crouched on the steps, staring into space. Others sat on suitcases with children in their arms, dozing off.

When Magneto emerged from the temporary command post, a night breeze swept in from the Hudson River, snapping his purple cape behind him.

His silver-white helmet gleamed coldly beneath the streetlights. His time-worn face showed no expression, but there was a light in his eyes.

It was not a release of energy. It was the look of a man who had finally resolved to do something he had long hesitated over.

Mystique followed behind him, her blue scales faintly gleaming in the dark.

She looked at the Mutants who had come from every corner of New York, drawn together by Russell's "miracle."

They looked less like soldiers than refugees. Some had escaped from laboratories, some had fled pursuit, and some had been