DISCLAIMER: This is an unauthorized
work of fiction using characters that are (c) & TM by
Marvel Comics Group (the exceptions are listed in the notes
at the end). No profit is being made on this story, so I invoke
The Marvel Readers' Bill of Rights:
"8. The right to practice scripting and drawing our
Marvel characters for your own pleasure and amusement."
The story is (c) Tilman Stieve (Menshevik@aol.com).
You can download this and copy it for your entertainment,
but don't sell it for profit, or Marvel will set their lawyers
on you. Please do not archive this on your website without
informing me first.
The Survivor Has a Different Kind of Scar is set in an alternate
future based on the timeline of my "Tales of the Twilight
Menshevik", which diverges from Marvel's main timeline
after X-Men (2nd series) #3. You can find the other Tales
archived on "Fonts
of Wisdom", on "Down-Home
Charm" and on "Queen
"I want to go to Salem Center with you one last time,"
I don't like going there, the wounds that place opens in
me are too painful. But it is Valerie's wish, and we all know
she is not going to live out this year, so how can I refuse?
I ring up Errol, and he takes us to the front door of Xavier
Mansion in a flash (but without the smell of brimstone that
characterized his father's teleportations). The first time
I was here, it was called Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
and it was the secret headquarters of the X-Men. Now it houses
the X-Men Museum and the offices of the Charles Francis Xavier
The Museum is closed today, but the Foundation's managing
director, Robert Drake, opens the door for us after Errol
rings. He is surprised to see Valerie, but when he hears why
she is here, he picks up his cane and accompanies our group
to Memorial Park. As he walks beside Val's wheelchair, you
can hardly tell that the former Iceman's right arm is made
of steel and plastic. He has known her for decades, he does
not have to be told she does not want him to be maudlin, so
he just inquires after the other members of our family and
tells us about Cordelia and Imogen. His daughter is now preparing
to become a lecturer at Harvard Business School.
We approach the Cenotaph, the memorial to Charles Xavier
and those connected to his school who died in the pursuit
of his dream. Valerie has me roll her up close as she solemnly
looks at the frieze with the marble effigies of the fallen.
Alicia Masters and Lyja Storm collaborated on the relief portraits,
but why did it have to come to a situation where such a big
group portrait became necessary? They also wanted to celebrate
the lives they had given, and so the dead are portrayed not
in heroic poses, but as they had been in life, most of them
wearing everyday clothes. A single white rose lies at the
feet Emma Frost -- Robert lays a new one there every evening
before he goes to sleep. Valerie takes his hand and squeezes
it in silence while my eyes are held fast by the disconcertingly
lifelike face of my son Kurt. Errol too is as if transfixed
at the sight of his father's statue, and we move close up
to each other almost involuntarily. It would be easier for
us if it were a more conventional monument, with Kurt boldly
erect and with square-set jaws in a standard expression of
heroic determination, for we know he never was like that in
his life. But seeing him in his characteristic hunched posture
with a gentle smile on his face makes it much harder to bear.
Now comes the part I dread the most as I wheel Valerie down
a footpath into the woods. It is so narrow that Errol and
Robert have to walk behind us. At last we arrive at the little
gamekeeper's lodge where the daughter of my heart spent happy,
but far too few days with Magneto. It is off-limits to the
general public. Maybe it is selfish of me, but I could not
bear the thought of strangers walking through the intimate
rooms of Rogue's time of happiness while I am still alive,
and so, with some support from Luna Maximoff, I had asked
for the lodge not to become part of the museum until I die.
The rooms are as the two left them; they are kept spotlessly
clean by Magneto's service drones which so far have not needed
maintenance themselves. We look around the living room: everything
is in place, from the bronzed hand-prints of Rogue's sisters
next to the door-frame to the gardening-shears she had hastily
put down on her computer keyboard before she set off into
her final fight. The clock on the wall has been stopped and
set to 5:47, the minute the two owners of this lodge were
killed, the cartoon calendar is on September 2nd, the Day
the X-Men Died. We go on into the cozy (or should I say: cramped?)
little bedroom. The wall is almost completely covered with
photographs of Rogue's and Magneto's loved ones and with the
crude little drawings by the youngest members of their families.
The books they read in their last night in this house lie
on their bedside table, Rogue's Terry Pratchett novel face-down
and opened at the place she had reached, Magnus' copy of Lion
Feuchtwanger's Goya tidily bookmarked with a paper-thin
iron wafer he must have made from a paper clip. It looks almost
as if they would return any moment. I shudder involuntarily,
desperately try to keep ahold of myself, but when Valerie
whispers, "Not long until I'll be joining them,"
I break down. I sink to my knees, throw my arms around her
neck, cry in loud sobs, not wanting to let her go. Val does
her best to comfort me and Robert and Errol discreetly go
I am of course embarrassed at making such a scene, but I
can't help myself. You'd think I'd have learned to deal with
the grief of losing a person close to my heart by now. But
it has not become any easier. The dark depression I went through
after Irene Adler's passing did not help me deal with the
agony of grief I went through after Kurt and Rogue's death,
and the fact that I have been living in the shadow of Val's
impending death for weeks and months has not really prepared
me for it, so far. I suspect my children and grandchildren
must already be dreading what I'll be like when Valerie is
no more. It was hard for Irene and Hope when Rogue and Kurt
died: they did not just lose two beloved elder siblings, but
for over a year they had to live with my obsessive mourning.
Val had to work double to keep them convinced that I still
loved them even though I could not have a conversation without
turning it to the subject of Rogue and Kurt, and to kick me
in the pants, reminding me of my duties to my living children,
to her and to myself.
My reaction did not come as a surprise to Valerie; my cold
analytical side somewhat suspects that it was what she had
been aiming for. She quietly tells me that she does not want
me to live in the past, that she wants me to achieve closure.
She picks up Rogue's book and closes it shut. The pages are
so fixed in their position that she has to weigh it down with
the table-lamp so it won't open again. I look on in something
approaching shock. "My love," she says, "when
I'm gone, I don't want you to turn my rooms into a shrine
and then become scared of going into them. You must get on
with your life. I said it before: You might as well face it,
with your power you can live as long as you want to."
She told me that on my hundredth birthday, three years ago.
"And I don't want to become the reason for you losing
your will to live. Remember, you'll have the love of our children
and grandchildren, and I hope that as you found me after you
lost your Irene, you'll find someone else to take our place."
What can I say to that? We both know that she's right, even
though my heart still is not ready to embrace the blessings
and possibilities that my mind knows exist. But I manage to
regain my composure.
Before we go home, Robert invites us for tea. My breakdown
has shaken him too, and so naturally the conversation turns
to the power the dead can hold over the living. That certainly
is in evidence in Robert's private quarters, filled as they
are are with mementos of his late teammates and especially
of Emma Frost. Among them, the reminders of living persons
are almost hard to find. As the four of us explore the subject
from several angles, a song from one of Rogue's favorite albums
comes to my mind:
Well, he came back from the war zone all intact
And they told him just how lucky he had been
But the survivor has a different kind of scar
Stillborn dreams and no more hope
Hooked on booze or hooked on dope
The survivor has a different kind of scar
Yeah, the survivor has a different kind of scar
It is a bit tactless of me to quote those lines, considering
the drinking problem Bobby had in the years of the immediate
aftermath of the Second of September. But he himself seems
to be glad to have someone to whom he can voice his problems:
"It definitely was unhealthy with me. If not for my obsessiveness
about Em, it might have worked out with Trish." For a
few years, Bob had been married to his best friend's widow.
"Maybe if I had been able to say good-bye to Emma before
she died, I would not have kept going on about her. And then
maybe Trish would not have kept comparing me to Hank and we
wouldn't have gotten into so many fights." Having the
Nobel Prize Laureate who overcame the Legacy Virus held up
as an example to him in a confrontational fashion really must
have hurt him, probably more than Trish intended. We see her
occasionally -- after retiring from TV journalism she joined
Irene's staff -- , and she always is wistful when she talks
of her third marriage.
"I guess a change of scenery couldn't hurt you,"
"No, I guess it couldn't," Robert replies with
a self-ironic laugh. "I'm just too much a creature of
habit to change all this." His hand sweeps around the
room with the big paintings of Emma and the original X-Men
and the glass display case with a few of the White Queen's
personal effects. "And I get out more often, especially
now that Imogen's moved to Cambridge."
But he thinks he is resigned to living the rest of his life
Had someone told me I would become so wrought up over the
passing of a 'mere human' when I first met Valerie, I would
have laughed out loud at them. At the time we were enemies,
she the government official trying to put a lid on 'the mutant
problem', I the underground fighter, one of the people about
whom she worried the most. Thanks to my inborn power of changing
my shape, she never suspected that her trusted colleague Raven
Darkhölme was actually the dreaded Mystique, leader of the
Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. Still her brains and determination
made her one of the few 'flatscans' who at that time won my
grudging respect. When the Brotherhood gave up its 'terrorist'
ways and entered the services of the US government, it was
she whom I approached.
We then became antagonists for a time, co-operating, but
always keeping a watchful eye on each other. Although she
and I, somewhat to our surprise, discovered personal affinities
and she sometimes -- for instance after Irene Adler was killed
-- wished we were closer, she did not let that diminish her
efficiency. She was a tough taskmistress for me and the others,
and later, after our original experiment failed, she succeeded
in forcing me into her new team, X-Factor, much as I had tried
to wiggle out of it. I wanted to get my own back by taking
the shape of a man she fancied and tricking her into having
sex with me. It was not my brightest idea, and Valerie was
furious when she found out. But it set in motion a sequence
of events which ended with us as lovers for real, something
neither of us had counted on.
Becoming a couple and parents changed us both and the adjustment
did not come easy at first. I had to learn to quieten down
a bit after my wild phase, to adjust to the new family life.
Valerie is a 'high-maintenance' partner compared to patient
Destiny, but for all the problems I grew to enjoy life with
her. Valerie had different problems to overcome, especially
the reactions she got from the outside world and her own insecurities.
What I love about her is that she does not do things by half
once she overcomes her doubts, even if it may take a period
of hesitancy to get there. With me she was a bit reserved
and guarded at first -- for understandable reasons -- and
would only cast aside her inhibitions and loosen up when we
had sex. Only after making love would we both be relaxed enough
to talk to each other without watching what we said; it took
patience and some work from both of us to extend our trust
to all our private life.
Val also had some difficulties adjusting to the fact that
thanks to my power I do not visibly age, and this at a time
when she noticed the occasional gray hair on herself and her
body, for all her looking after it, did no longer look exactly
as it had before the birth of our first daughter. But she
faced up to this in characteristic fashion. We never married,
even after same-sex weddings became commonplace, but we do
(did) celebrate the 6th of October, the anniversary of the
day we admitted and first honestly consummated our love. After
I had reassured her I would love her no matter how she looked,
she took me at my word and would give me a nude portrait of
herself as a present every October 6th, to record the aging
of her body. The first one, thirty-five years ago, was a photograph
by Annie Leibowitz, where she wore a red-haired wig and had
her skin painted blue, the second was an oil painting by Piotr
Rasputin that showed her nursing Hope, the third was a sculpture
by Alicia Masters, and so on. The last one, the one she presented
me with the day after we returned from Salem Center, is again
a photograph. She had made after she heard how long she had
to live, and she had her picture taken sitting, propped up
against a black marble gravestone with the inscription 'Valerie
A. Cooper *** 1962-2032' and resting her right hand on a skull.
Her body is marked by her age and her sickness -- the skin
is wrinkled and splotchy, her left breast has been amputated,
her head is bald from the chemotherapy -- but she still can
hold her head up high and blows me a kiss with her left hand,
the one that is nearest to the heart. Good-bye.
By now she has to spend most of her time in bed and her smile
is painfully forced as she hands me her final anniversary
present, but she keeps fighting. She has accepted her fate,
but she is glad for every additional day that she wrests from
the claws of the Reaper. Looking back over our years together,
she says: "We had some good times together, Ray old girl."
"And some bad ones," I reply, quickly adding: "I
wouldn't have made it through some of them without you, Val.
What will I do without your strength to help me?" I am
thinking of her patient work, her untiring exertions helping
me overcome my black depression after Rogue and Kurt died
ridding the world of the menace of an Apocalypse possessed
by the Shadow King. And how she refused to knuckle under after
an assassin's bullet (a present from beyond the grave intended
for my by my late and unlamented first son, Graydon) smashed
her spine and confined her to a wheelchair for the rest of
Valerie too remembers our dark hours: "Naturally it
was harder for you, you were much closer to Rogue and Kurt.
But I consider myself blessed for having known them, and they
live on in their sons. In no small part thanks to you."
A melancholy smile briefly settles on her lips. "You
know I was pretty steamed at you when you procured Rogue's
eggs and had them implanted in you." When it was confirmed
that because of her power Rogue could not hope to complete
a pregnancy successfully, she and Magneto had thought about
having a 'test tube baby' born by a surrogate mother, but
had changed their mind. Years after their death, I found out
that the fertilized ova were still in storage on Muir Island,
and refusing to accept their decision as final, broke into
the facility. "I hated the idea of becoming a parent
again at sixty, but now my only regret is that I won't see
Thad and Freddy grow up." Or to manifest their mutant
powers. Considering who their parents were, they may well
become two of the most powerful mutants in the world -- or
things could turn out unexpectedly, and one or both will be
powerless. "You're a headstrong woman, Raven...,"
"Not as stubborn as you, though," I mumble.
"...and I love you for it. I'm happy that you got your
way on that one. Even if being a widow with two nine-year-old
sons is not going to help your chances of finding someone
new." Bless Val, she always has a way of putting a humorous
spin on things. "Guess that means you'll maybe have to
wait until they have children of their own."
She lightly touches on something that sometimes weighs heavily
on my heart. Will I be fated (cursed?) to survive everyone
I love because of my power? Irene Adler, Kurt and Rogue met
violent ends, but even though Valerie's life is cut short
by cancer, her seventy years would have been considered a
very respectable age by my parents. Graydon Creed, my eldest
son, was even older than that when he died peacefully in his
bed (curse him!). Will I have to bury all my children? Unless
I managed to pass on whatever makes me survive to any of my
descendants or unless I finally manage to get myself killed
fighting with Factor X (despite my ever-growing combat experience),
that is a distinct possibility.
But Valerie is being cheerful for me, making jokes about
her not wanting to act as a matchmaker for me, because we
had seen how that worked out when Destiny had tried to do
it. Or of hoping that I'll take my time in dying so she can
have a little peace and quiet in the afterlife before I rejoin
her. At times like this, I envy her for her faith that makes
her able to calmly face her fate, against which I inwardly
continue to rail.
And so the weeks pass by. Her condition deteriorates more
rapidly. She gets less and less sleep and requires larger
dosages of painkillers. I guess Charles Xavier's dream really
has come much closer to fruition: Even ten years ago I doubt
I could have spent so much time at home without being called
out on missions a lot more frequently than I am now. And this
gives us the time for her to prepare me for the inevitable.
We sit together. She has me read Fontane to her, the story
of old Dubslav von Stechlin and his final illness. Somehow
I too find this 19th century novel oddly comforting. Valerie
makes me laugh when she tells me that I am at least more of
a comfort to Val than his stern older sister Adelheid was
In the afternoons, she has Thaddeus and Frederick tell her
about what happened at school and watches me play ball with
them in the garden. The twins at first took it hard when we
finally told them what will happen. But they're tough -- with
their parents how could they not be? -- and they too do what
they can to ease Mommy Val's final weeks, even though for
her sake they try not to behave too out of the ordinary.
On weekends, the girls come and visit, and on weekdays Val
and I discuss their lives. She still takes a great interest
in them, especially Irene, who is now having the career that
she herself could not bring to its full potential after she
became involved with me. It really is astounding how far she
has come in so short a time. This is the kind of opportunity
for mutants that her late brother and sister gave their lives
for, and when I consider it, I feel that Kurt and Rogue and
their teammates' sacrifices have not been entirely in vain.
But often I think the price was too high, and Valerie too
feels the pain intensely. "Where is it written that the
X-Men had to be killed before mutants would finally be treated
fairly!" she likes to exclaim.
Mommy Val always tried hard to treat her two daughters the
same, but she could not always hide that Irene is her favorite.
They are more alike in character, and "I can live her
life vicariously," as she ruefully said when she finally
admitted to her feelings. And of course there is Irene's daughter,
eleven-year-old Louise Persephone Cooper-Marks, to whom Valerie
is a doting grandmother. This meant that Mama Ray had to pay
special attention to her younger sister Hope, who looks more
like Val (for one thing, they have the same color of skin),
but otherwise is quite dissimilar. Luckily Hope did not let
her jealousy over Val's special love for Irene diminish her
own affection for her elder sister. But there was a bit of
a family crisis when Hope gave up her law studies in order
to become a costume designer for the stage, film and television.
Valerie at first was enraged at this 'frivolous' career choice,
and for a time relations between her and Hope were poisoned.
Irene and I had to do our best to bring them back together
again, and thankfully that episode is now history. Maybe it
is a good thing that Valerie enjoys going to the movies so
much. She also grew much closer to her younger daughter after
Hope became a superheroine. Yes, like her 'nephew' Errol (she
never calls him that, he is a year older than she, after all),
Hope keeps the Darkhölme family tradition alive. That came
about pretty much by accident when she fell in love with Marygay
Parker, an actress she met through her work. When Hope found
out that she moonlights as the costumed vigilante Arachne
(sometimes known as the Spider-Girl), she decided to be her
partner in cowl as well as in private life.
"Mommy Val is dying!"
The message goes out to everyone, and Errol collects her
children and their families to bring them to her bedside.
They're all here: Irene, her husband Ed and little Louise,
Hope and Marygay, Thad and Fred, even Lyubov, Errol's new
girlfriend (they've been together for three months now), insists
on being here.
Irene smiles when she sees them all, but her eyes are moist.
"I've been telling Raven quite a bit of how I'm resigned
to dying," she says, "but I'm afraid now the moment
of truth is here, it is not so easy. Thanks for being here
to support me."
She bids everyone farewell, one by one, trying her best to
console the little ones, and even mustering up an element
of humor when she wishes Lyubov good luck with Errol: "Guess
you're going to need it with that little rascal."
At last, she speaks to her daughters. "I tried to hold
out for your big day, Irene, but I didn't quite make it to
the finishing line. Sorry, dear. And Hope, I'm sorry I wasn't
always the perfect mother to you. I love you both, and I tried
to do my best, but I'm glad you got over my failings."
"Oh mommy," Hope sobs. Tears are freely running
down her and Irene's cheeks. She tries to say something, but
Valerie stops her.
"Keep an eye on Raven, you two, just in case. And you
know your sister and Ed are going to be very busy, so could
you and Marygay perhaps help clean out my rooms? " Hope
And then she has me sit beside her, holding her hand: "I
know you promised me you wouldn't build a shrine to me, but
I thought I'd better make sure," she says and winks at
me. She sighs. "We've pretty much said everything that
needed to be said this past month, I guess we can be grateful
for that." She asks me to kiss her one last time, which
I do, fully, on her lips. And when I think of the other kisses
-- the first one I stole from her in that forest hotel, the
one when we admitted our love, the ones in the nights when
we conceived Irene and Hope, the consolation she gave me when
I was close to despair over Rogue and Kurt -- my tears rain
down on her face to mingle with hers.
Actually, it still takes a while after that. We sit and stand
around in the room, talking in hushed tones. From time to
time Valerie joins in, to remark something about an absent
friend or the like. But most of the time she just looks fondly
in my eyes as I hold her hands. Finally, she whispers: "Good
night my love. I know you won't disappoint me." And she
lapses into unconsciousness.
I sit by her side for the hours that follow. The others keep
us company in shifts. It is getting late, the twins are bundled
off to their beds, and the spare bedroom is prepared for Louise.
Trish and some other members of Irene's staff arrive, and
they hold a hushed conference in Valerie's study. From time
to time I hear the telephone ringing for her. But Valerie
does not wake anymore. At 2:30 a.m., a mute spasm goes through
her body, and there is an exhalation like a sigh. Then stillness.
It is over.
I walk out of the room in a daze, going past my daughters
who are crying and holding each other tight. There will be
a time to get a grip on myself, but not now. As I leave through
the back door into the garden, fur springs up all over my
body, teeth grow in my mouth, my ears become pointy. My anguish
must out, and I stand in the middle of the lawn and howl,
howl, howl out my grief and rage at the world that has robbed
me of the woman who was all to me.
I don't know how long I'm at it, but after some time I notice
Errol standing in the door behind me. "Grandmother?"
He's concerned about me, bless him.
"I'll be okay, dear. Just give me five seconds to turn
"I'm afraid you've woken the children," he says
as we go inside. Of course! They did not have to be told who
that keening werewolf was, or why she was screaming. The living
room is in uproar when we get there. Irene is hugging her
distraught daughter to her, and Hope and Marygay are doing
what they can to console my sons. In a way, I'm relieved to
take them off their hands. There is work to be done, and as
long as I am able to carry my weight, I won't let anyone else
do it for me. I won't disappoint Valerie.
I am numb as the man in the dark blue uniform hands me the
flag, which has been tightly folded into a stiff triangle
as protocol demands. Valerie always tried to be loyal to her
country and to her friends, and I suppose the presence of
the military detachment shows she succeeded against the odds.
Valerie is buried in the family plot we bought after the
Day the X-Men Died, next to Rogue and Magnus (Kurt's remains
lie with those of his dead Szardos relatives in Europe). Thad
and Fred stand close, with my arms around them. They cried
when the coffin was carried out of the chapel, but they've
quietened down now, only from time to time is there a sniffle
beneath my left ear or my right. Irene, Hope, Errol and the
others are also here, as is Val's sister-in-law Audrey (her
brother is too infirm to attend). In fact, there is quite
a crowd of mourners, especially considering it was at such
If Storm was still alive, she would have ensured that the
weather fits the mood, with dark gray clouds weeping great
big tears of rain. But it is in fact a bright late fall Monday,
which however may be more appropriate to the kind of woman
The funeral is over, the guests take their leave of the bereaved
family. Hands grip hands, people embrace, some of the mourners
kiss before they part. I notice that Robert Drake and Trish
Tilby walk arm in arm towards a cab. I know they haven't seen
each other in seven years, but evidently they still feel something;
the hunch Val and I had must have been right. They just never
had the courage to make the first approach. Whether it will
be friendship or more I suppose only time can tell. That was
one of the last things Valerie had asked me to do: see to
it that they sit next to each other at the funeral, and Luna
did it so unobtrusively for me that I don't think they'll
ever know they've been set up. But I think I'll save my chuckle
for when my heart aches less.
The final guests leave. We take a final look at the wreaths
and flowers being piled on top of the new grave. Errol hands
me the two special bouquets held back until now, and I lay
them before the headstones of my eldest daughter and her mate.
We bow our heads one more time before the three graves, then
we turn around and head for home, not looking back.
The family is gathered in the den to watch the TV news. The
twins are growing tired in my arms, but don't want to go to
bed, Hope and Marygay sit beside me on the couch, Errol sits
in the rocker, Lyubov stands behind him, her hands on his
shoulders. Irene left the room with Ed and Louise five minutes
ago, and everyone is impatient to see them come on. I am sceptic
about there being an afterlife, but Valerie was unshakable
in her belief. It would be so nice if she was right, and if
she is, I'm sure she will be looking on right now, and so
will be Rogue and Kurt, and 'Uncle Mags' and dear Irene Adler,
and they'll all be as proud of our Irene as we, the living,
as we listen to the announcer say:
"And here once again is tonight's main story. In a closely
run race, Irene Cooper-Marks was elected the 49th President
of the United States. She will be the second woman and the
second metapowered person to hold this office, as well as
the first known mutant. Outgoing President William Foote conceded
defeat half an hour ago in his Wyoming home and sent his congratulations
to Ms. Cooper-Marks. The President-elect could not attend
the election party in her hometown of Eugene, Oregon, which
was led by her running-mate Jack Ellison instead. It was also
attended by Bernadette Rogers and Steve Rogers, Jr., the widow
and son of President Rogers, whom Irene Cooper-Marks had served
as Attorney General in the final year of his second term.
The President-elect is currently staying with her family at
her parental home in Georgetown, D.C., after the funeral of
her mother, Dr. Valerie Cooper, who died of cancer a week
ago. We now go live to Georgetown, where Irene Cooper-Marks
will make a short acceptance speech."
The End... and the Beginning
The lines quoted in the title and in the story are from the
song 'The Survivor' from the album Music to Wake the Dead
by the Nazgul. They are copyright by Peter Faxon 1971. (Actually
they are from George R. R. Martin's novel The Armageddon
Rag (1983) and copyright by him). You may remember Rogue
listening to the Nazgul in UXM #192 and the New Mutants
story where Lila Cheney mentions that she once opened for
The characters of this story are TM & copyright Marvel
Comics. Hope Cooper, Irene and Louise Cooper-Marks, Frederick
and Thaddeus Darkhölme, Imogen Frost, Lyubov, Edward Marks,
Marygay Parker, Steve Rogers, Jr., and Errol Wagner are mine.
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