*note: This is a Naruto fanfiction which is crossed with a VERY LOOSE interpretation of X-Men (the movies). I, as a writer, have taken much creative liberty with both series' plotlines, but I will attempt to keep the people in character as much as I can. The X-Men elements are more manipulated than the Naruto elements, partially because I have a better knowledge of the latter series; the only truly X-Men elements are some characters (i.e. Wolverine, Pyro, Magnito, Mystique, Storm) and the idea of the mutant race versus the human race and everything that goes with that. Oh, I can't wait to see all the traditionalist fans' hate mail for my extremely liberal interpretation of these movies. The events which have taken place in the X-Men world are of completely my creation, as far as I am concerned, and have taken place a little after X-3: The Last Stand, except for the main character's flashbacks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own either series, as a whole or in part, in any way, shape, or form. They belong to their respective corporate owners entirely. This whole plotline has simply been plaguing me for several months; thus, I have written it for the reader's entertainment and for my own sanity, but not for money or anything of that nature.
Feel free to comment and/or criticize – if you criticize, explain explicitly why and/or provide a potential solution. I'll use what I get to improve my writing/plotline or whatever else is criticized.
Now that that's over… let's begin.*
Chapter 1: Going "Out"... Maybe.
It was my first time walking the halls and actually being able to completely see where I was going – my last, too, though I didn't know it then. I had only seen two rooms prior to that day (whatever it was) – my cell was one, the bloody, soundproofed room the other. I knew other rooms and halls existed between the two; I saw bits of them from between the burlap threads when they shuttled me between the two hemispheres of the world I'd been subjected to. I couldn't gather much: only that the walls were white and all of the attendants wore light gray uniforms, with something in bright blue on the back. And I was right – the walls were straight white. No cracks, no bumps, no stippling, no nail heads, just long slabs of dull white. I sniffed to myself, How bland. It made sense, though - the whole aim of this place and its people was to create conformity, an environment which could be measured and manipulated, calculated and predicted, at a will or a whim. For me and the other mutants here, that meant trouble.
I got the uniforms right too (sort of): doctor-like trench coats with light gray button-up blouses underneath and light gray suit pants, fastened with a light gray belt; the "modified" seal of the U.S. government ("e pluribus unum" exchanged for "libertas ex parilitas") on the trench coat's back was the only spot of color I could see. These gray-robed attendants hurried us all along the hallway, gently pushing and constantly whispering "Quickly, quickly!", looking over their shoulders after every phrase. I didn't understand the attendants' gentleness, the new and anxious voices, the strange procedures – none of us did. I didn't try to read their minds – it was too stressful. Even though the cure was wearing off, my power hadn't returned to full strength yet. But the entire procession mystified everyone. Nobody had ever brought us all out of our cells, let alone when we were at our strongest; the day just before the "cure" was administered en masse.
Everybody around me was either anxious or scared – their body language betrayed that. Despite the pain, I began to probe the unspoken words swimming in their heads, for a sense of comfort more than nosiness. They all felt at their peak – some even felt alive. It was the best day of the cycle for them, the last day. None of us could remember what was day or night, what calendar month or day it was. We all learned to measure time by the gaps between our shots.
They thought it was bittersweet, feeling so much stronger, but knowing the next day it would all be suppressed again, stripped and stolen away. I hated the last day, but I never told anyone that – while I was in the soundproofed room, hatred and anger would spasm and lash through me. In my rage, I would do anything, even give away the X-Men's location, just to have the chance to kill my captors when they made good on their promises to release me. I'd felt that anger only when I was fourteen – in the weeks after Jean died. The anger didn't dissipate outside of the soundproofed room. In my cell, visions of Jean would painfully flash through my head while I slept. At least I thought it was her – the Jean I saw was nothing like the caring teacher I knew.
On we all walked throughout the endlessly white maze, passing the same doors and the same walls over and over – well, that's how it seemed to me, at least, just putting one foot in front of the other, following the attendants. I rubbed my arms for warmth, noticing Pyro shuffling forward next to me. His face was gaunt, skin sallow. All light and life had been drained from him, leaving his army-cropped hair, eyes, and personality destitute and lackluster. Hunched over, the boy looked lost and confused – he must miss seeing fire, or at least holding his lighter. As deprived as he was, he'd probably make do with a casino matchbook. Just one match might even be a life-saver for him, though he looked pretty good compared to some of us.
His dull eyes shifted across the hall, above my head, to Mystique, who kept close to me – her cell-mate. Her color was on the verge of returning: her skin turning blue again, her hair in transition back to dark red (it changed color depending on the light), and eyes regaining golden tones. The burn scars all across her arms and chest had turned a light purple, and her veins stood out against her emaciated body – then again, all our bodies were like that. She walked with a straight back despite all the pain and humiliation – somehow she'd retained something of her pride when all the rest of us had given it up. She'd tried passing it on to me when I was made her cellmate. While I laid flat on my back, exhausted from a blindfolded walk from heaven to hell, she gave me the butt end of a piece of chalk and pointed to a stretch of wall, where "Raven Darkhölme – Mystique" was scratched out above three tics.
"Write your name. It'll help you remember who you are." Too tired to disobey, I wrote, "Jena Rameran – Butterfly" above her name. I pointed at the tic marks,
"Is that how many days you've been here?" She scoffed, as if at a novice.
"Days? You can't measure days in here – no one can. You measure time in shots. I just had my third. And you've just had your first." Since then, she guided me and helped me keep my sanity, rebuilding me every time I was ready to break. It didn't matter that she was Brotherhood – in that cell, we were the same.
Her eyes flitted over the hall, eying every attendant with suspicion at regular intervals. Callisto, on Pyro's other side, had the look of a caged, ravenous animal about to be set loose. Her eyes darted from one place to another, relishing the surging mutant power around her, feeling their strength intensify and feed her restlessness. Thoughts – hers and everyone else's – murmured into my ears, but I shut them out, as an exercise in self-control and respecting boundaries. Besides, I knew what they were thinking without even trying – you didn't have to be telepathic to know that hope for escape was growing.
I looked around to all the others with us – not many, of course, only fifteen or twenty. Judging from the number and the profile of the other mutants here, I'd assumed we'd been put in a high-security base in the Traz Triangle – basically mutant hell, even though the news stations refer to it as a series of "detention facilities". I didn't know many of the others personally – I didn't get out and fight much, especially after Jean's death, at Wolverine and Storm's request. Mystique had told me that most of the strangers came from an ambush – the government had offered negotiations with the Brotherhood, but several MID (Mutant Information Directorate) details jumped the Brotherhood envoy before they reached the summit. Magneto hadn't been there – Mystique convinced him otherwise. She took his place, despite the deep mistrust in her gut of the new regime's political tactics, which lent themselves towards martial law (back home, Ricky had called the tactics a "general lack of balls to deal with anyone face-to-face"). She'd smelled betrayal a mile away; in times when the military made the decisions, compromise was impossible. There was no other reason for the government to request a conference with "dangerous influences" than to eliminate them. I asked her why she went a while ago; Mystique only smiled, but said nothing.
And then there was a door, like every other one at a hall's dead end. Like the one that led to the soundproofed room. Mystique gently placed her hand on my shoulder and I leaned into her, casting my fearful eyes toward her. Pressurized air sighed, opening the door to a place I'd never seen before. I felt like Christopher Columbus as I walked into this new room, a third hemisphere. Most of the attendants congregated around a massive five-monitored computer with at least as many keyboards, muttering "Hurry, hurry," to each other while typing in random access codes (at least, that's what I assumed they were). They hurriedly whispered to another attendant - a young woman with bright red hair and black oval glasses – to get us into the steel capsules, glass doors standing open at the back of the room. She began to protest,
"But the ret-", Another attendant cut her off, without lifting his eyes from all the codes and images,
"Too much time. They won't want back anyways."
But I couldn't pay too much attention to them – the lady attendant was herding me into one of the four capsules in the back of the room, each with steel sides and a glass door, as though we were astronauts going to sleep for several months to awake on another planet. She positioned me in the center of the cylinder above a white dot on the bottom. But before she shut the door on me, I quickly asked her,
"What's going on?" She replied evasively,
"Anywhere's better than here, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then it shouldn't matter. Just remember – don't move off the white dot there, and when the countdown reaches '1', take a huge breath and, no matter what, don't let it go. It'll hurt like hell, but you'll be out of here soon."
With that, she slammed the glass door down, encasing my body in steel and glass. I watched passively as she did the same with Pyro, Mystique, and Callisto. Out... what a weird concept it was. Out where? It'd been a long time since I'd been truly "out". Would there be sun? Sand? Dirt? Whatever there was, it would be dangerous for me – danger followed any mutant wherever they went. But there was a chance – a small chance, but it was worth hoping for – that I would go somewhere where I was somebody, not something. What an opportunity that would be...
A beep sounded from the top of the cylinder – "5" appeared in flashing green, digital lights. Outside, the other mutants still gathered at the door jumped and pivoted around towards the slab of steel – they looked so scared. Some uttered cries of surprise. Huge dents appeared in the door. Oh no... the guards.
"4". The attendants scrambled on the keys, looking alternately between the computer and the door. A gap appeared between the sliding doors. A cure gun's muzzle stuck itself through, shooting a man randomly. He collapsed to the floor, convulsing; the glass door only muffled his screams.
"3". The other mutants took cover away from the door, which was quickly coming open. The male attendant slammed his finger down on one key, and slicked his hair back, shooting me a worried glance. He stood tall and erect, like saints do before they're martyred.
"2". The door burst open, and black suits and hard helmets flooded the room, shooting their cure guns wherever they could. Several syringes bounced off my cylinder's glass door. More muffled screams were added to the mix. My eyes began to itch in place of tears.
"1". The helmetless head guard in black – gray, ponytailed hair and young, cold face all too recognizable – pulled his handgun from the holster and shot all the gray-coated attendants in rapid succession. Blood spattered everywhere, staining the gray coats. All the other mutants had fallen on the floor, writhing. Holding back tears, I took an enormous breath. Pain shouldn't have be an issue for me – I'd stopped crying for physical pain a long time ago. That said nothing for emotional pain.
Ripping, tearing, pulling apart – I felt it for a second, maybe less. But it was so immense and unbearable... like being picked apart by thousands of hungry crows with serrated beaks, trying to force their way to the still-beating heart.
I hoped I would never feel it ever again.