Notes: My first non-episode-inspired fic, and it turned into a bit of a monster! Very many thanks to Chya for her encouragement, for her fab suggestions for resolving plot-problems, and... well, just for being there *g* You're the best, mate!
I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who've given such generous feedback to my past stories. I can't tell you how much I appreciate all your kind words. This one is for all of you...
Spoilers: Mention only of various episodes, up to The Understudy (which is about when I finished this).
Disclaimers: Sadly, none of the Mutant X team belong to me. I've just borrowed them briefly from their owners, and promise to put them back exactly (well, almost, particularly in Jesse's case!) as I found them. No profit is being made from these stories and I don't have anything worth suing for...
****
A FUTURE FLAWED
By JillyW
"Get them!"
The order rang clear over the sounds of the river rushing wildly through the rocky gorge, echoing back off the surrounding tree-lined slopes. The fine mist from the waterfall above shrouded everything in a veil of moisture, but it wasn't enough to hide the black-clad force advancing purposefully towards the rickety-looking footbridge that spanned the tumbling waters. And in the middle of the bridge cowered the girl, not much more than a child, really, frozen to the spot by terror, unable to reach the safety offered by those waiting for her on the other side despite their shouts of encouragement.
He could see the approaching enemy clearly now, see the dull bluish gleam of the weapons in their hands that told him they were playing for keeps. So, without thought, he ran to her, feeling the timbers shudder beneath each footstep, the flimsy structure creaking and groaning. Pulling the girl to her feet, he sent her stumbling back towards the others before turning to face the oncoming attack, yelling a warning to her, to his friends, to keep down before taking a deep breath and massing to protect her, them, himself from the imminent storm. Bullets impacted, stinging even though they couldn't penetrate, but he held on, the automatic mental countdown that needed no thought now but was imperative to ensure he didn't stay too long in altered form ticking off the seconds.
He heard a shout from behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see the child pulled into the protection of a boulder by one of his team, as the others worked their way to positions where they could help cover his retreat. Time to get out of here, he thought, just as the protesting framework of the bridge decided the burden of his massed weight was too much and collapsed beneath him, dropping him like a stone in to the icy depths of the churning waters below.
Caught by surprise, he had no time to shift density, no time to take a breath before the river closed over him, the impact as he thudded down onto the bottom as shocking as the ferocious cold that gripped him, freezing his thought processes as it froze him physically.
For seemingly endless moments, panic held him trapped there while the powerful current dragged him inexorably along the rock-strewn river bed and the air in his lungs screamed for release. Deeply embedded human instincts repudiated the demands, though, crying out that to breathe was to drown, and the horror of dying that way that had been with him since childhood just sent his panic levels soaring higher.
The pressure building inside him, combining with the alarm bells as his internal countdown hit danger levels, reached a climax that he was powerless to prevent, especially in his current fear-torn state. Searching for some degree of composure, though, he attempted to control the flow of air bubbles escaping through nose and mouth to ensure he retained enough to halt his density shift at a point where he became sufficiently buoyant to reach the surface.
But he didn't count on the current hurling him at some unseen underwater obstruction, the contact hard enough to force what little air he had left to him out in a flood. And with it went every last vestige of his control, his panic taking him over the edge as his body phased almost of its own accord.
Desperately he sought to pull himself back, find it within himself somehow to reform without the life-saving intake of breath he knew it would take. But it was already too late. With a silent agonised scream of pain and denial he felt his molecules spread to the very limit of their connecting bonds and beyond, the final definitive snap as they broke apart just an echo as his consciousness dissipated into oblivion...
...and, with a gut-wrenching yell of terror, Jesse Kilmartin shot bolt upright in bed, gasping for the breath that had been denied him in his... nightmare? He lifted his hands in front of him, almost shuddering with relief when he found them solid and whole, as the rest of him seemed to be when he sent tentative fingers to seek confirmation that it had indeed been a dream.
Wiping the cold sweat that felt way too much like the watery grave he'd been consigned to in such vivid fashion from his forehead, he slumped back against the pillows, willing his heart to stop hammering in his chest and working to get his breathing back under control. Another nightmare - or should that be the same nightmare repeated? Because it seemed that this particular scenario had played out in his head over the past few nights with increasing clarity, and he was beginning to wonder what significance it might have.
There was a light tap at his door, and somehow he knew who it would be. With a sigh he called out to her to come in, seeing Emma deLauro slip into the room as expected, asking "Are you OK?" as she padded over to sit on the end of his bed. He slid back to lean against the wall behind him, pulling his pyjama'd knees up and hugging them to his chest, unconsciously putting space between them.
"Yeah," he said with a small smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"It's alright," she smiled back. "I've always thought sleep was over-rated." She became suddenly serious, though. "Was it the same?"
"What are you talking about?" he said reflexively, even though he knew exactly what she meant. With her telempathic abilities she was only too likely to have picked up on his distress and the only surprise was that she hadn't come to ask him about it before now. The disbelieving look she turned on him now told him she was thinking exactly the same thing, so he sighed again. "What do you think?"
Emma looked away, gaze distant with thought. "It felt the same. Stronger, though, more intense."
"Oh, yes, definitely more intense." Jesse shuddered at the terrifying images still residing all too clearly at the front of his mind.
"But still no indication what it means?" she asked with concern. "No idea what might be causing it?"
He shook his head firmly. "No... No idea. Anyway, it's just a bad dream, Emma, that's all. They happen."
She looked doubtfully at him. "It doesn't feel like that to me. Not from what I'm hearing from you."
"Then stop listening!" The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he saw the hurt flood her features. Yet another sigh. "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help, but I really don't think it's anything to worry about. Like I said, these things happen. It'll pass."
"I still think we should tell Adam," she said, surreptitiously taking in his drawn features and the shadows under his eyes that spoke of way too little proper rest. "There's something not quite right about the way you're broadcasting. I shouldn't really be able to pick it up without wanting to." But as she'd expected, he just shook his head again.
"What for? There's nothing to tell," he said adamantly, pulling his knees even tighter to him. "I can't go running to him every time I have a nightmare, for Pete's sake! And you're probably only getting it because you're right next door. If it's bothering you that much, maybe you should move down the hall!"
She just folded her arms and gazed at him reproachfully, until he unwound from his tensed huddle enough to reach an apologetic hand towards her. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean that. I guess I'm just tired." She took his offered olive branch, and smiled her understanding. "Listen, if it happens again I'll go talk to Adam, OK? But you might try working on some better telepathic ear-plugs - just in case?"
She snorted with laughter, squeezing his hand as she slid to her feet. "I'll get right on it," she commented dryly, though her eyes were still watching him appraisingly. "Try and get some sleep, yes?"
"You too," he responded, giving her a reassuring grin that sent her on her way. But once she'd gone he curled himself back up against the wall again, determined that whatever happened he wasn't going to be sleeping again that night.
**
"Joshua? What are you doing out there?"
Silence.
"Joshua?"
A sigh. "Nothing. Just... thinking."
"But it's the middle of the night! You'll catch your death of cold - let me help you back to bed."
"No!" A pause. "No, I can manage. I'll be in soon. Go back to sleep, OK?"
"Well... if you're sure you don't need help."
"Yes. I'm sure." More silence then a whisper that went unheard by anyone else. "This is something I need to do for myself."
****
I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who've given such generous feedback to my past stories. I can't tell you how much I appreciate all your kind words. This one is for all of you...
Spoilers: Mention only of various episodes, up to The Understudy (which is about when I finished this).
Disclaimers: Sadly, none of the Mutant X team belong to me. I've just borrowed them briefly from their owners, and promise to put them back exactly (well, almost, particularly in Jesse's case!) as I found them. No profit is being made from these stories and I don't have anything worth suing for...
****
A FUTURE FLAWED
By JillyW
"Get them!"
The order rang clear over the sounds of the river rushing wildly through the rocky gorge, echoing back off the surrounding tree-lined slopes. The fine mist from the waterfall above shrouded everything in a veil of moisture, but it wasn't enough to hide the black-clad force advancing purposefully towards the rickety-looking footbridge that spanned the tumbling waters. And in the middle of the bridge cowered the girl, not much more than a child, really, frozen to the spot by terror, unable to reach the safety offered by those waiting for her on the other side despite their shouts of encouragement.
He could see the approaching enemy clearly now, see the dull bluish gleam of the weapons in their hands that told him they were playing for keeps. So, without thought, he ran to her, feeling the timbers shudder beneath each footstep, the flimsy structure creaking and groaning. Pulling the girl to her feet, he sent her stumbling back towards the others before turning to face the oncoming attack, yelling a warning to her, to his friends, to keep down before taking a deep breath and massing to protect her, them, himself from the imminent storm. Bullets impacted, stinging even though they couldn't penetrate, but he held on, the automatic mental countdown that needed no thought now but was imperative to ensure he didn't stay too long in altered form ticking off the seconds.
He heard a shout from behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see the child pulled into the protection of a boulder by one of his team, as the others worked their way to positions where they could help cover his retreat. Time to get out of here, he thought, just as the protesting framework of the bridge decided the burden of his massed weight was too much and collapsed beneath him, dropping him like a stone in to the icy depths of the churning waters below.
Caught by surprise, he had no time to shift density, no time to take a breath before the river closed over him, the impact as he thudded down onto the bottom as shocking as the ferocious cold that gripped him, freezing his thought processes as it froze him physically.
For seemingly endless moments, panic held him trapped there while the powerful current dragged him inexorably along the rock-strewn river bed and the air in his lungs screamed for release. Deeply embedded human instincts repudiated the demands, though, crying out that to breathe was to drown, and the horror of dying that way that had been with him since childhood just sent his panic levels soaring higher.
The pressure building inside him, combining with the alarm bells as his internal countdown hit danger levels, reached a climax that he was powerless to prevent, especially in his current fear-torn state. Searching for some degree of composure, though, he attempted to control the flow of air bubbles escaping through nose and mouth to ensure he retained enough to halt his density shift at a point where he became sufficiently buoyant to reach the surface.
But he didn't count on the current hurling him at some unseen underwater obstruction, the contact hard enough to force what little air he had left to him out in a flood. And with it went every last vestige of his control, his panic taking him over the edge as his body phased almost of its own accord.
Desperately he sought to pull himself back, find it within himself somehow to reform without the life-saving intake of breath he knew it would take. But it was already too late. With a silent agonised scream of pain and denial he felt his molecules spread to the very limit of their connecting bonds and beyond, the final definitive snap as they broke apart just an echo as his consciousness dissipated into oblivion...
...and, with a gut-wrenching yell of terror, Jesse Kilmartin shot bolt upright in bed, gasping for the breath that had been denied him in his... nightmare? He lifted his hands in front of him, almost shuddering with relief when he found them solid and whole, as the rest of him seemed to be when he sent tentative fingers to seek confirmation that it had indeed been a dream.
Wiping the cold sweat that felt way too much like the watery grave he'd been consigned to in such vivid fashion from his forehead, he slumped back against the pillows, willing his heart to stop hammering in his chest and working to get his breathing back under control. Another nightmare - or should that be the same nightmare repeated? Because it seemed that this particular scenario had played out in his head over the past few nights with increasing clarity, and he was beginning to wonder what significance it might have.
There was a light tap at his door, and somehow he knew who it would be. With a sigh he called out to her to come in, seeing Emma deLauro slip into the room as expected, asking "Are you OK?" as she padded over to sit on the end of his bed. He slid back to lean against the wall behind him, pulling his pyjama'd knees up and hugging them to his chest, unconsciously putting space between them.
"Yeah," he said with a small smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"It's alright," she smiled back. "I've always thought sleep was over-rated." She became suddenly serious, though. "Was it the same?"
"What are you talking about?" he said reflexively, even though he knew exactly what she meant. With her telempathic abilities she was only too likely to have picked up on his distress and the only surprise was that she hadn't come to ask him about it before now. The disbelieving look she turned on him now told him she was thinking exactly the same thing, so he sighed again. "What do you think?"
Emma looked away, gaze distant with thought. "It felt the same. Stronger, though, more intense."
"Oh, yes, definitely more intense." Jesse shuddered at the terrifying images still residing all too clearly at the front of his mind.
"But still no indication what it means?" she asked with concern. "No idea what might be causing it?"
He shook his head firmly. "No... No idea. Anyway, it's just a bad dream, Emma, that's all. They happen."
She looked doubtfully at him. "It doesn't feel like that to me. Not from what I'm hearing from you."
"Then stop listening!" The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he saw the hurt flood her features. Yet another sigh. "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help, but I really don't think it's anything to worry about. Like I said, these things happen. It'll pass."
"I still think we should tell Adam," she said, surreptitiously taking in his drawn features and the shadows under his eyes that spoke of way too little proper rest. "There's something not quite right about the way you're broadcasting. I shouldn't really be able to pick it up without wanting to." But as she'd expected, he just shook his head again.
"What for? There's nothing to tell," he said adamantly, pulling his knees even tighter to him. "I can't go running to him every time I have a nightmare, for Pete's sake! And you're probably only getting it because you're right next door. If it's bothering you that much, maybe you should move down the hall!"
She just folded her arms and gazed at him reproachfully, until he unwound from his tensed huddle enough to reach an apologetic hand towards her. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean that. I guess I'm just tired." She took his offered olive branch, and smiled her understanding. "Listen, if it happens again I'll go talk to Adam, OK? But you might try working on some better telepathic ear-plugs - just in case?"
She snorted with laughter, squeezing his hand as she slid to her feet. "I'll get right on it," she commented dryly, though her eyes were still watching him appraisingly. "Try and get some sleep, yes?"
"You too," he responded, giving her a reassuring grin that sent her on her way. But once she'd gone he curled himself back up against the wall again, determined that whatever happened he wasn't going to be sleeping again that night.
**
"Joshua? What are you doing out there?"
Silence.
"Joshua?"
A sigh. "Nothing. Just... thinking."
"But it's the middle of the night! You'll catch your death of cold - let me help you back to bed."
"No!" A pause. "No, I can manage. I'll be in soon. Go back to sleep, OK?"
"Well... if you're sure you don't need help."
"Yes. I'm sure." More silence then a whisper that went unheard by anyone else. "This is something I need to do for myself."
****