Silence reigned in the tunnels below New York.
The Guardians, their charge in hand, had left. Likewise the X-Men, dragging their wounded with them. The huddled bodies of the fallen Morlocks lay where they had fallen. Calisto and Caliban, two of the few survivors, had yet to return to retrieve them.
The silence was broken by a rhythmic dragging, accompanied by the rasp of labored breathing. A clown, bloodied and broken crawled along a tunnel, dragging one forlorn bowling pin behind him. Despite the sheer amount of his blood that decorated his clothing and left smears on the concrete of the tunnel, he was far from dying.
Clowns are, after all, immortal.
But they can hurt, and this one did beyond the limits his fragile rationality could withstand. A hysterical giggle bubbled from him at odd moments during his painful trek. These outbursts didn’t have any relationship with the physical travails he endured, but were wholly related to whatever passed for thoughts in his shattered psyche.
In the dark, two gleaming eyes opened, and the clown felt his throat gripped in taloned fingers.
“Uuurk!” he wittily commented.
“Heeelllloooo…” a voice half drawled, half growled. “We’re going to have such fun together.”