“There – the hay field. Green Saturn.”
Rogue resisted the urge to tell Colossus she knew exactly where she was going – GPS co-ordinates were helpful like that – and instead thanked her team mate quietly. She could feel that girl clawing at the edges of her consciousness, demanding she turn around to check on him, see how he was, tell him she was sorry …
She wanted to slap her.
He doesn't deserve your pity, she screamed, inside. You ... I should have never trusted him!
Never have trusted me, you mean, Marie replied reproachfully. Please Rogue, you need us all. Don't turn your back on me again. Please!
Her eyes were hot with tears, but she refused to let them fall. Emotion was weakness. She remembered that now, and concentrated on strengthening the labyrinth in her mind until Marie's pleading faded into inconsequential murmurs.
So easy, this quietness, Rogue thought, as she she released the landing gear and settled the jet down without even the slightest bump. Just the mission, and the perfect clarity of purpose. Even as the others filed off to collect their contact, her hands flew over the console, readying the X-jet for its return journey. Minutes later, Storm ushered in a small man in a suit clutching a cardboard box and a laptop bag, and the team returned to their seats, one by one.
Rogue didn't even hesitate before turning to check each member of the team was onboard before starting the ascent. When her eye caught his, she was able to smile with a cold insincerity that would have made Magneto proud.
“Thank you for flying Mutant Airlines today. Flying time to New York is forty-five minutes. Please fasten your seatbelt, raise your tray tables and return your seats to the upright position. There will be no drinks service on this flight, and murderous bastards must stay clear of the pilot at all times or she'll fry his ass.”
Gambit shot her an amused glance as he locked himself into the seat directly behind her and Rogue couldn't resist firing one more shot.
“You, though, sugar. You can come up and visit anytime,” she purred, and laughed with delight when the Wolverine was unable to stifle his growl of objection.
*
Jean Grey moved like a wraith through the Mansion. Two floors, and no smiles, or shy greetings, or quick cuddles from the little ones. Two buses of children had left this morning, and she felt their absence like a hole in her heart. If they could be sure it was worth anything, if they could be sure they weren't simply sending them to the camps a week or two early, then it wouldn't hurt so much. But there was no surety. Ever again, something inside of her shrieked. No safety, no rules. Nothing to hold you back.
She pushed it down with the breathing exercises that she had used to calm her mind since she was a teenager. Had it been there, then, she wondered, this voice that whispered around the edges of her sanity? Not that she was hearing voices, or experiencing a break with reality, the doctor in her wouldn't allow that, she was not ill. This voice, this Phoenix as it called itself - it was simply echoes of her own brain, her id prowling around in her conscious mind.
Calmness helped. Work helped. She had one more bus to fill (no, don't think about the border closing, don't think about the children, alone and vulnerable, don't think …) and then she and Scott would head north themselves, after one last task. She had promised. She would put a pillow over his face, and he would die, gasping and twisting and she would drink his soul with glee, her murderer, drink down his power and good intentions and grand schemes for the world. She would drink deep and make it hers, and she would break free of this husk and take it back, all that she was.
Jean blinked as the door in front of her came into focus Why was she here, at the Med Bay? What had she needed? She shrugged, and inputted the codes. Best to check on the Professor while she was here.
“Good evening, Professor, how are you feeling?” Jean asked as she walked into the isolation suite on one end of the medlab proper. He didn't need isolation, but she'd felt he'd be more comfortable here, out of the cold, open spaces of the medlab proper. It was more private, and Charles Xavier was a very private man.
They all were, telepaths. It came from having the whole world forced into your brain. Peace was such a rare commodity, Jean thought sadly. Mystique had given her that. Charles and Erik had been so busy with their grand dream, building Cerebro, that the little girl they'd rescued had taken a back seat. Only Raven had noticed how she was being tortured. Raven had noticed, and worked with her to build the blocks she needed.
When the split came, that was what hurt the most. Erik had always frightened her, so dark and driven and sombre. But Raven had been capable of kindness, once. Raven had seen her, and helped. Sixteen years of conflict had never managed to erase that fact. Charles had given her a home and a purpose, but Raven … Raven was the one who had given her peace.
He'd never known, dear man, she thought, running a fond hand over the curvature of his skull. He was capable of picking up on the brain waves of every human and mutant on the planet, capable of changing reality itself … but he'd never known what Raven had done. They'd worked together, later, on refining her blocks, honing them to perfection, and he'd complimented her on grasping the concept so quickly.
So blind. Blind to her pain. Blind to the world's pain, and what needed to happen to cure it. Blind to wheels within wheels, and the powers at work here. So easy to take it, his power, to use his own ideas against him, and collect that psionic force he pumped out into the world. Collect it, and amplify it, and twist it, and make it something magnificent.
Jean frowned as she bent over him. His face was so drawn, making him seem old and frail. He shouldn't though – physically, he was doing well, respiration and cardiac activity self-regulating now, and all of the metabolic indicators were promising. Only his brain activity had failed to return to normal, she thought sadly, and truly that was the measure of this man.
Flicking a practised eye over the reams of printouts, she looked for something – anything - that would suggest he might return to them soon. Tiny pinpoints of colour lurked in the edge of her vision, the migraine only waiting for her to show weakness – and there was nothing, no relief glimmering from his chart, no miracle requiring her intervention. She would cry soon, Jean realised. Cool, calm, emotionless Dr Grey wanted to cry, and scream, and beg him to come back.
Stupid girl, it raged. We don't need him. He is disposable – purely power. When we are done – soon, very soon - we will drink what's left of him, and we will be stronger even than she is, and together, we'll be able to control everyone. Everything.
Panic pushed in on her, blackness and flame flaring at the edge of her vision. The pile of printouts dropped as Jean slumped next to the Professor's bed.
“Please, Professor. I need you. Come back,” she begged in a voice no one in the Mansion would have recognised. Dr Grey's calm, soothing alto was gone – this woman sounded younger, unsure and scared. “Please. This is just the start, I think. All those people – it's not about them. It's about us!”
Her tears fell onto his face, but he didn't stir.
Jean broke.
*
Ororo buckled herself into the seat next to Gil Pryor, who seemed unimpressed by the high-tech interior of the X-jet. Perhaps the government knew more about them than they realised, she thought, skin prickling with alarm. Or perhaps, she reminded herself, he had been on the jet before – he had said something about attending the school.
Gil Pryor was a small man, with brownish skin and brownish hair and brownish eyes. Nondescript, Ororo thought as she studied him. No wonder she didn't remember him.
She felt bad, then. She surprised herself, worrying about common decency. But – it wasn't like her to simply dismiss someone based on the way they looked.
“It's okay, Ororo,” he said wryly. “It's kind of what I do. Blend into the background. Go unnoticed. Run the world from the backroom.”
She blushed. “That obvious? I guess as mutant powers go, that's more useful than most.”
He laughed this time.
“Actually, that's not my mutant power – that's just me. My mutation allows me to analyse information more quickly and thoroughly than other people. I see patterns and associations in the data that computers won't necessarily pick up on. It makes me useful as an advisor, for policymaking, that sort of thing.”
His mouth turned down. “Not that it helped us. All the data, all the evidence in the world doesn't help when all they want is to lock us up.”
Professor Xavier would have protested there, Ororo thought. Professor Xavier would have shook his head wisely, and told them change might come slowly, but it would come. Having mutants in government positions was a tremendous step forward, and they need only wait and plan for the next step. Or equally pretty, useless words, she thought bitterly.
She could feel the hate and fury brewing, untwisting itself from the tiny corner of her heart that had never forgotten the dark days. She remembered the feeling, that sour taste in her mouth and the frantic hammering in her head as she drew down the elements to avenge herself, to strike and blast and burn away the hurt. Normally, she would soothe it away, with the children and her garden and the warmth of his hand on her own, but the very thought of those things gone made it build faster, until it slipped free of her, crackling into the atmosphere.
The jet tossed and jerked in the disturbed air as they made their way homeward. She reined in her annoyance when Rogue made a crack about PMSing weather, and returned her focus to Gil Pryor.
He might think himself useless, but he had the one thing they did not. Information. A large file box was already spitting loose papers through the cabin, as he flicked his eyes over report after report.
“So – does all that give us any clues as to what's going on?”
Gil raised his head from the report he was skimming.
“Not that I can see, yet. I've plotted dispersal paths for the attacks, and they seem truly random, with no clustering or trajectory. No linkages at all,” he said, shaking his head.
“But … I don't … I can't,” he fumbled, and seemed to bite his tongue. Wolverine was watching them, as if waiting to spring into action, obviously annoyed by Pryor's reticence.
“Spit it out, bub,” he growled, and Ororo wondered if it was the animalistic noise or the hard stare that caused Pryor to swallow his tongue. And indeed spit it out, as the words arrived in a flood.
“It's too widespread, too devastating to be anything BUT planned. Innocent children, loving parents, entire offices … someone's going for maximum impact. So it's not just happened,” he babbled.
“So far, we have 600 different offenders. Only a dozen or so known to police, and nothing linking them other than the fact they are mutants.” He paused. “Obvious mutants. All with physical mutations, or well known as being mutants, like that baseball player, Charlie Dux. Or Jeremy Paschal, the Nobel Prize guy.”
“I think it's political. Has to be. Someone is trying to change something here. Someone with a big agenda, and psi powers. Lots of power.”
He looked apologetically at Storm.
“Only person I know with that sort of power is Professor Xavier. The world's most powerful telepath … but if it's not him ...”
Storm shook her head decisively. “No. It's not possible.”
Wolverine was obviously unconvinced. “When did you say the attacks started? Early this morning?”
She would have ignored his ignorant questions if Remy and Piotr hadn't turned to listen as well.
Pryor nodded. “0600 or thereabouts – we received the first report at 0610. By 0630, we'd logged 48 different attacks, some with just a single victim, others ..”
Wolverine cut him off with the wave of a hand.
“Xavier could have triggered it, then had some sort of blow out. Maybe that's why he's unconscious. Don't rule him out just yet. Who else's on the list?”
“Well, we don't actually have ...”
Wolverine's look of disgust had the man tapping madly on his laptop before he dared to finish the sentence.
“I uploaded as much information as I could before I left, but you have to understand – it's been our policy NOT to collect information on mutants. But there are certain people whose activities are monitored, or tracked, because of the – uh – potential level of threat.”
“Names, bub. Whereabouts.”
Pryor nodded stiffly and started jotting on a small piece of paper.
“It's not much, but our databases suggest this is it.”
Wolverine unclipped himself to read over her shoulder as she considered the list – just five names, most blessedly unfamiliar.
The Professor and Jean's names stood starkly at the top of the list. She had heard of Franklin Richards but she had never met the boy. Quentin Quire she knew by reputation, and never wanted to meet. Elizabeth Braddock. Flirtatious, unreliable Betsy.
“I don't know those two other men,” she said quietly, “and Betsy – she's capable. Sometimes. And not always very stable. It could be her.”
Wolverine shrugged and took the list from her to frown at it.
“Richards – is that Kid Omega? Lotsa power, but I thought he'd burned himself out or something? Possible, I guess. And Quire's a bad bastard, believe anything of him.”
Wolverine flicked the paper with his finger as if something about it was bothering him. He rubbed his forehead, as if a headache was lurking there, then blinked with surprise.
“Where the fuck's Emma Frost? She should be on here!”
“Who?” Pryor looked confused, Ororo thought. Wonder why? Frost … the name buzzed in her head like a particularly annoying wasp, and she didn't want to be bothered any more, so she swatted it away.
“Emma who?”
*
Emma Frost stood in the mirrored room, luxuriating in the light as it bounced off her every facet. So much had been taken from her, but she still had this. For now, at least. Her diamond form was weak, and her immortality fracturing, but things were moving apace. She would have her revenge, snatch the victory, and be perfectly satisfied with that, if fate so determined. The coda … that had always been the risky thing, the dangerous choice … but what did she have left, now, except danger?
Bracing herself, she drank in the energy from the light in the room, and reached out. This broadcast, so wide, so destructive … cracks grew and multiplied, and where there once was bliss, only pain existed now. It was a fair trade, she allowed, for being able to turn the good and the innocent against those who enslaved them. She was dealing death, and couldn't expect it to be painless.
One final push, this one focused, and she stole the memories straight from Raven Darkholme's mind. She had ordered the kill, just as Emma had suggested, and soon, her two enemies would be dead, and the third would be broken. Such a deadly weapon, love.
Xavier and Lensherr, dead. Mystique at her command. Wolverine, her toy. And the girl. Emma shivered at the possibilities. She must be in twenties now, and that body would have ripened to its full promise. And her power – so much potential, for one unafraid to use it. Delicious side benefits, those.
But life. Life! For a woman who had been immortal, then had it stolen from her – life was the one thing worth risking everything for.
*
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Da da da DA ..... we're on the run for home, now folks. Enjoy!
Chapter End Notes:
Please review. I am trying to seduce my muses back into regular cooperation and reviews really help!