27: Cry havoc
Mystique knows her heart is dead, the victim of too many years of grievous abuse. Only the clear, logical, vengeful core of her could possibly have survived, she thinks desperately. This pain, this shameful, slicing sorrow – it can't be happening. It can't be her.
She has no tears left, but her eyes are scratchy, and she feels … after the flood of memory, feel is all she can do, different emotions circling her like vultures waiting to pick at her carcass. Emma, Sebastian, Charles, Erik, Jean, Marie, and right back to Emma; love and hate and friendship and rivalry, and what does that come back to after sixty years, or thirty, or even twenty?
They had repaired the breach, once. Maybe 1975? Possibly '76? She remembers kaftans, and a white turban set with a diamond the size of a hen's egg. Emma had always been allergic to subtlety.
The scatter of diamonds on the floor seems to twitch, and organise, then try to build itself into something. Mystique huffs and stamps her heel down into the unruly pile, kicking the small stones away from each other. She was grieving, yes, but it hadn't made her stupid.
Emma had been left with with a pile of dirty money after Sebastian died; at one point, she had used it to open a school that rivalled the Institute for its work with young mutants. Charles had been impressed, and had proposed a summit. The two leading educators in their field, he had boasted as they strolled the halls together.
Erik and Charles had made their own peace a few years previously, and if noises of their lovemaking had made her cry at night, in the daylight hours she was able to be happy for them. A week turned into two, and after-dinner drinks became debates and planning sessions and all-night talkfests fired with revolutionary fervour.
“This is the way it should have been, right from the start,” Emma had said during a lull in the conversation, eyes suspiciously misty. “This is how we should have been.”
“We can't change the past,” Charles had said, and that sad half smile would haunt her for years to come. “Let's concentrate on changing the future,” he had proposed, and they held up their glasses and cheered. She's sick, now, remembering those days, high on love and youth and optimism.
Still, they'd made a point of keeping Emma away from the groundskeepers cottage where Mystique was staying with Jean. Her young charge was angry and frustrated at being kept out of the main house, particularly when she knew they had guests. So when the knock came one evening while Mystique was up to her elbows preparing supper for them, she hadn't thought to tell Jean not to answer.
“And who might you be,” her old mentor had purred, and the greedy note in her voice had sent Mystique's pulse galloping.
“Jean Grey, ma'am,” the child had answered, and under any other circumstances, she would have been proud of the girl's manners.
Instead, she had screamed at Jean to shield her thoughts, and forced herself to calm her own panicked brain before wandering out to formally introduce them.
Emma's eyes had been wide with shock. Even those without a drop of psionic talent could sense the aura of power that had surrounded the eight year old; for a telepath, it was the mental equivalent of blow to the head.
Mere weeks later, Emma contacted Xavier requesting permission to work with Jean. He had turned her down as gently as he could, and she had taken the rebuff badly. Detente over.
But who could have imagined it would end this way?
Mystique shifts under the weight of Jean's stare, and wonders if the Phoenix is still capable of regret. How would things have turned out if Jean had been allowed to work with other telepaths? Would the Phoenix have still emerged if other paths had been explored?
Would Charles still be alive? Would Erik?
That way lies madness, she tells herself, and looks about for Rogue. She refuses to be eaten by regrets she hasn't had yet, and there's still time. She's not chasing redemption, or even forgiveness. All she wants is to look into her daughter's face, and be recognised – after that, the world can go to hell in a handbasket for all she cares.
It probably will, her conscience whispers, but Mystique refuses to listen. Her debts are nearly paid, her time nearly done – an old woman has the right to be selfish, she tells herself and looks away as the remains of Emma Frost disintegrate into sand, and then dust.
*
William Stryker turns slowly, knuckles whitening on the lab reports he is holding.
“I'm sorry, Captain, I thought you said for a minute they'd escaped. But that can't have been what I heard,” he muses quietly. “Now, what was it you were really trying to tell me?”
Captain Jordan swallows, and repeats the news as calmly as possible.
“Four of the Cured mutants from the testing facility have escaped. Raven Darkholme, Jubilation Lee, Katherine Pryde and Scott Summers, sir. And ...” he begins to hyperventilate, unable to force the words from his tongue.
“Finish the sentence, soldier.”
He is a dead man, Jordan knows. No one hears that voice and lives. “They destroyed a significant quantity of the drug prior to their escape. Most of our stocks, in fact.”
“Well, that's unfortunate. All that research, destroyed. Quite clearly we are going to need a new test group. I'll be sure to tell the President that his decision to house the children separately to the mutant adults proved sensible, in the end.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, and Jordan. I've heard there's a child over there who can boil your blood with a single look. You'll be administering his cure yourself,” Stryker said casually. “Good luck with that.”
*
She is hiding under a desk, Ororo realises slowly. She has no idea why. There's no obvious threat in her immediate vicinity, and all she can hear outside is the low buzz of voices. Certainly nothing to account for the tremors running through her, or the sour tang in her mouth. (Never again, she had vowed after leaving Cairo. Never hungry, never scared, never weak.)
She eases herself out from the tiny space and peers through the window wall – Jean, she can see, and Rogue. Wolverine and Beast, both bloodied from recent battle, and Colossus and Gambit, who were strangely untouched. No sign of Pryor, and … was that Scott? And the girls?
Electricity crackles in her hair as she assures herself the children are safe. Scott would have never left them undefended. Jubilee and Kitty would have never abandoned them, not with everything in such disarray … the killings, she remembers with a shudder. The camps. Charles, her heart screams. Charles – the fear is rising, bile in her mouth as the puzzle pieces fall together.
Emma Frost. The White Queen, throwing a blanket over their minds and stealing free will. Feeding off Xavier to commit atrocities … humidity builds in the room as her control begins to slip, and thunder rolls overhead. She reaches out for the charge, closes her eyes and lets it cleanse her. Burn, she thinks. Burn out the fear and uncertainty and weakness and leave nothing except purpose.
The children, her heart pleads. The work. Not this cold, knife-blade intent that Charles had worked so hard to rid her of.
Avenge him, her soul hisses.
And that's when she remembers the Phoenix.
*
He's sweating. Huh. Air-conditioning must'a gone down.
Remy wipes his forehead, praying he won't attract the attention of the banshee who's just saved their asses. He thinks. Don't matter none – she's as dangerous as a box of rattlesnakes, and 'bout that predictable too.
Just like someone else he thought he knew. His eyes flick to Rogue, frozen a pace or two behind the Phoenix, eyes huge and haunted. He's fighting down the urge to feel sorry for her when her knees buckle and he lunges to catch her.
“Rogue! Chere! Rogue,” he whispers urgently, but her eyes are blank and unseeing, and mierde! The Phoenix is turning to inspect them.
“And this, child, is why you are no threat to me. Such potential, but in the end – your humanity makes you weak,” she sneers. Those eerie eyes fix on him as if she is seeing him for the first time, and making a judgement as to his usefulness. His heart is pounding by the time she deigns to give him and order.
“Bring her to me, when she's ready to stand at my side. Everyone else – out of my way,” she says, dismissing their very existence as she stalks towards the elevator, fractured gemstones crunching under her high-heeled boots.
*
Nothing like finding out you were responsible for genocide to make a girl feel good about herself, Rogue thinks viciously.
“Thought I knew a thing or two about self-hate. Turns out, I was just getting' started!” she quips to herself, and begins to laugh. Marie's in there somewhere, trying to comfort her, but really, it's all that little bitch's fault. She's the one with the fucking poisonous skin.
“But you're the one Emma Frost knew she could control,” Magneto points out. “She built you. You were her creature, you and your precious control.”
Wolverine's hiding somewhere, licking his wounds, the useless bastard. He sold her out, after all. Just so he could fuck her. Or maybe – maybe this'd been their plan all along. This way, he'd get his nubile youngster who'd never get old, and his decrepit fuck buddy for extra credit.
She tastes the reek of him before he pushes forward but for once Sabretooth's not trying to steal control. He just wants his turn to cut her to shreds.
“Way I see it, ain't the runt that wanted to get fucked,” the sadistic feral sneers. “You were the bitch pantin' for it. You knew you should'a stopped, knew it wasn't right, but no, you had to keep pushing. Couldn't stop at a kiss, couldja? She even told ya to take it steady, bit at a time, but ya just had to touch him – even had to taste him, dirty bitch. And then you lie back and make him touch you – you with your filthy, unclean, poison skin ...”
“Filthy. Unclean. Poison,” her father takes up the chant. “Unclean. Unworthy. Abomination! Rogue, rogue, rogue, rogue ….”
They're too loud, too hateful, and the guilt, the guilt is drowning her, killing her. Rogue screams, and bolts, running blindly, losing herself in the labyrinth. If she stays lost, stays down, stays quiet, they'll never find her, never be able to blame her, the unclean one, the abomination, the Rogue …
Marie's arms try to comfort her, but the others haul her back, push her forward, and she's just girl. Ain't up to any of this, sugar! I cahn't!
“Rogue? Rogue!”
Marie screams at the strange, red-eyed man looming over her.
“Who're you?” she asks and his jaw drops with disbelief.
“I'm Gambit, chere. We ain't speaking, I get that, but you pretendin' not to even know me? That's cold!”
“She don't know you, bub. That ain't Rogue,” a rough voice cuts in, and she turns her head, and looks up into warm, golden eyes.
“Logan?”
“My real name's James Howlett, darlin'. What's yours?”
“Ah'm Marie.”
There's an inelegant splutter of disbelief from a girl in yellow, who throws her hands in the air in disgust. “Well, glad we're all introduced. But the thing is? Kind of in crisis right now. You know – the big bad? So, Marie, nice to meetcha, but Rogue's kinda kickass and WE NEED HER!”
“Well, aren't you jus' the rudest thing? Rogue isn't up to company right now - she wouldn't be able to help you even if she wanted to. I'm what you've got, and I've been here all along, Jubilee. Just 'cause I'm kinda wakin' up doesn't mean I haven't picked up a few things, and the first thing I know?”
“Ah'm the only one that bitch cain't get a read on, so I'm the best weapon you've got. Ain't that right, runt?” she snarls.
Jubilee swallows, and starts to back away. Wolverine's teeth are bared, but Mystique leans closer, and slides an arm around her shoulders.
“Excellent strategy, Marie. Use them all. As many as you can, all at once. And turn your skin on.”
Marie drops sarcastic eyes to the hand still resting on her bare skin, and the older woman - Mystique, she remembers, sometime friend, sometime enemy – gazes back, eyes calm. You'd think she was asking for salt rather than pepper, and Marie baulks – does she not realise her skin kills? It nearly killed them all, and the last thing she's gonna do is …
“Just do it. Quickly, before she comes back,” Mystique insists quietly, and she knows. She knows exactly what's going to happen, but is giving the order anyway. She's doing what needs to be done, and ya gotta respect that, Rogue mutters somewhere deep inside.
Marie takes the woman's hand, and tries to slow the drag. The memories come first, so many memories, but she's thinking about the face of a baby, a beautiful, special baby, a child she'll never raise but will always love, a child she follows to the ends of the earth, but can never let know she's there. A child who becomes a mutant, and vanishes from the face of the earth, for a while. Her child. Marie. Rogue. Her child …
Shock steals her control, and her mother's life force rockets through her, her hungry skin drinking it in, all of it, even last scrap of experience and information. Her last thoughts are still echoing in Marie's head even as Mystique convulses, and Jubilee begins to scream.
“Mine. So precious. So beautiful. Mine. The Cure, child. In my boot. Jean needs the Cure.” In Marie's mindseye, Rogue is tiptoeing out of hiding to cradle the newcomer in her arms, stroking her hair and whispering “yes, Mama. We will, Mama. Thank you, Mama.”
Raven Darkholme smiles as she dies, and it's peaceful, almost joyous.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Long time between drinks, folks. Sorry. Finishing this story is the top of my writing to do list, and if you're still kind enough to be reading this, I'm committing to a chapter every Sunday until this is done.