Just a note to my returning HBH readers: this is after X3. I will do that one in his POV eventually, but as you've probably figured out, I'm very accurate and have to watch the movie on my computer as I'm writing so that I get everything right. It's fun, but a pain in the ass. So here's after X3; thanks for coming back. And if you're a new reader, welcome.
Chapter 1
Capture
Pain. The undeniable throbbing on the inside of the skull that can make a person wish they were in a guillotine instead. It's the kind of agony that clouds your thoughts and hinders your movement. Everything hurts; noise, light, every shift or stir in position only makes it worse. The sheer magnitude of it is nauseating, and makes your fingertips tingle with numbness.
John Allerdyce groaned as he slowly came to. His head. Oh God, it hurt like hell. And his back throbbed, telling him that he was lying on something very solid, and had been for a while. He tried to take a deep breath, but the slight influx of blood to his brain made him feel like someone had stabbed him through the eye. He gasped, and returned to lying still. Where was he? What happened?
He tried to open his eyes, and bright white light flooded in, making him twitch in pain and slam them shut. Some kind of fluorescent light bulb maybe? He took shallow breaths, steady and slow to avoid making the monumental headache worse. He extended his fingers to whatever surface he was lying on, and it felt smooth. It was cool to the touch, and flat. Metal?
Then a thought struck him. That comforting, familiar feel of his igniter; the instrument Magneto had created for him, was gone. He was used to just flicking his wrist, and having a tiny spark to turn into whatever blaze he wished. He was so accustomed to feeling it's brace-like surface on his wrist that he felt helpless without it. He was without his power, his one certainty in life, where was it?
Panic set in, and he sat straight up, opening his eyes wide. He could tell he was on a raised surface, but that's all he could take in. The second he did this, the headache increased in intensity so quickly and powerfully that he doubled over, swung his legs off of the pedestal, and vomited on the floor. He moaned in agony, and sunk to his knees on what he now noticed was a polished, chrome floor. He slowly looked up, body shaking, to let his eyes adjust to whatever light had been shining so brightly. He crab-crawled away from his current spot and into a nearby corner to get a better look.
He was in some kind of room, probably no larger than ten by ten feet. The walls were lined with padding, and in the center was a chrome metal bed that resembled the beds in prisons. Apparently, that's what he had been lying on, since there was absolutely nothing else in the room. Above the bed, several bright, circular lights were pointed right on it. It kind of resembled a dentist's chair, minus the dentist. On one wall, the one that had been at his feet when he'd been lying on the pedestal, there was what resembled a giant mirror. It was nearly the size of the wall itself, and John immediately recognized what it was. It was one-way glass, the kind used in interrogation rooms. People could see in, not out. So someone was watching him. Someone who didn't want to be watched in return. Who? And why did they feel the need to hide? This mountain of questions just kept getting bigger.
He noticed a door, also lined with padding, and thought about trying for it. He didn't like this one bit, and needed to get out. He needed to find Magneto, Callysto, Arclite, and the others. Where were they? Why weren't they with him? He thought about going for the door again, but the tiniest movement made his head throb again, and he decided to postpone his little covert escape plan. The door wasn't going anywhere.
Just as he leaned back onto the soft corner behind him, he noticed a slight pressure on his forehead. He reached up and felt some kind of cloth wrapped around his head. He thought for a moment about the last thing he remembered. He had been fighting with his old friend and schoolmate, Bobby Drake a.k.a. Iceman. And he had been winning too. He'd had Bobby under a magnificent blaze, one that would have permanently wounded him if he hadn't covered every inch of skin in a protective layer of unbreakable, yet somehow flexible ice. And then he'd cheated. It was all coming back to him now. Bobby had grabbed John's wrists, along with his igniter, and frozen all of it. John had been so engulfed in his winning battle that he hadn't been concentrating on the whole of the flame, only the base, the source of the whole thing. So when Bobby had extinguished his source, all his flames went out. He had been about to call on some of the fire surrounding them from the cars he'd ignited earlier, when Bobby's head bashed into his own. After that, darkness.
Cheating. That was so unlike Bobby. He knew John needed fire; that he couldn't create it, only manipulate it. Maybe he had been afraid. Afraid of loosing, so he'd cheated to make sure he didn't. But how the hell did that put John here? And where was "here?" He leaned forward to try for the door again, and when only minor agitation throbbed through his head, he decided to keep going. He put his feet gingerly under himself and pushed to a standing position. He thought he would be fine for a second. Bad call.
His head throbbed again, worse than before, and he threw his hands to his temples, hoping that somehow, the pressure would make it stop. It didn't. Small black dots appeared in his sight, then his vision went completely black and he collapsed onto the metal floor. The impact made it worse, and he yelled in frustration and torture, wanting anything to make the pain go away. He shut his eyes tight, his body began to shiver, and he started to hyperventilate, still clutching at his head. He curled in on himself, into the fetal position; the pain was only strengthening. He thought he might pass out for a moment, when he heard the door open.
Every primal instinct told him to find out who it was, and if they were here to help him or hurt him. He wanted to, but his brain's reaction to such intense pain wouldn't let him. His eyes remained closed tight, so all he managed was to push backward, back into the corner, so at least his back wouldn't be exposed.
"It's ok," came a soft, obviously feminine voice. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and that helped him relax a little, but not much. "I'm here to help you."
The pain wasn't receding as it had earlier, and he was afraid of it getting worse. He chanced a look at this person, fearing the light would do just that. It didn't though, because whoever was kneeling before him was shielding his eyes from the light. He couldn't make out any features, just an outline.
"Here," the woman said, and he noticed her holding her hand out. There was a single pill in it, and in her other outstretched hand was a glass of water. "For the pain," she said, shoving them toward him again.
He always considered himself an intelligent guy, and he wasn't one for taking random pills from random strangers, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. Nothing could be worse than this.
He tried to lean up, but whimpered and fell back to the floor when the pain got worse yet again. The woman set aside the pill and water, and helped him lean up, slowly, so as not to hurt him. The room started to spin, but at least the pain didn't intensify. Once he was sitting up and leaning against the wall, she handed him the pill, and he popped it before she even had time to hand him the water.
"Are you okay," she asked.
He almost laughed, but that proved to be painful too. "Stupid question, dontcha think?" He always treasured his witty comebacks.
She didn't answer, only sat on her ankles for a moment, watching to see if the pill helped. And after a few agonizing minutes, it started to. First the numbness in his hands dissipated, then the uncontrollable shivers stopped. The pain, however, persisted.
"What's the matter with me?" he asked, very quietly.
"You have a moderate concussion," she replied, still studying him.
"Figures," he replied. That blow to the head could definitely do that. "And exactly where am I?"
"You're at a place called the IFCM," she said, and rolled off her ankles to sit Indian style. "It stands for Incarceration Facility for Criminal Mutants."
"So, in English: a prison for mutants?" he replied.
"I suppose," she said.
"Who are you?" he asked, finally getting a good enough look at her.
She was older, probably in her late twenties, but she still looked good. She had brown hair, pulled tightly back into a ponytail, and glasses. She wore a simple white button up shirt and long white pants.
"I'm a nurse practitioner here," she said.
He nodded, only realizing that that would hurt after the fact. His head throbbed again, and he sharply inhaled. His hands flew back to his temples, and he held his head for a second until the throbbing stopped. When he looked back at the woman, he noticed a look of extreme sympathy.
"Here, those need to be changed," she said, reaching toward him.
In any other circumstance, he would have pulled away, but it didn't seem worth it. So he sat very still as she unwrapped the bandages that had been on his head. It was only then that he realized the blood on them. Bobby's head-butt must have split the skin.
The pain was starting to subside, little by little. It still hurt, but less than it had before.
"What's your name?" he asked, trying to be as still as possible.
"Quincy," she replied, packing the dirty bandages into a black bag that he hadn't noticed before. "Quincy Fallon. But it's just Quinn to you."
He was about to make a snide remark about "Dr. Quinn, medicine woman," but again, it didn't seem worth it.
Quinn stayed with him for the next hour, making sure he was okay. She provided answers to few of his questions. These included that he'd been here and asleep for almost a day, and that "here" was in upstate San Francisco. She cleaned up the mess on the floor, for which he apologized. She told him not to mention it, and decided that the cut on his head would heal better without bandages, and left it undressed. She also provided some crackers, thinking he could keep them down. He didn't. But at least this time she had given him a trash bin.
Every move hurt, and it made the room spin. Quinn turned off three of the four fluorescent lamps over the bed to make him more comfortable. It helped a lot, and after a few more minutes, she decided to help him back onto the bed. He was apprehensive, but she was sure that if they went slow, he'd be okay. He had trust issues, but he decided not to argue, and let her do whatever she wanted. She knelt beside him, snaking one arm behind his back and under his opposite armpit. She helped him slowly to his feet, letting him lean against her when his head throbbed and his legs almost gave out.
She helped him onto the bed, and he was finally able to relax.
"I'll be back in a few hours to give you another dose," she said, and he decided to wave a hand in thanks rather than nod.
"Thanks," he replied, voice getting heavy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really actually slept. He'd taken quick naps here and there, but good, restful sleep? Nothing rang a bell at the moment.
The metal bed was far from comfortable, but he hardly had a chance to notice, because he passed out. His body was exhausted from the labor of trying to cope with the pain he'd been in. His headache was nowhere near gone, but after Quinn came back and gave him another pill, he hardly noticed. She brought a single blanket and pillow, and the moment his head hit it (very gently) he was out. He dreamed of the old days; Six Flags with Bobby and Rogue, washing Xavier's cars, getting caught drinking, the stuff he used to have the leisure time to do. Where had those days gone in such a hurry?
