AuthorNote: Many thanks to Kaseykc for all the hard work she put into editing this chapter, as it was a total mess before she sorted it out.

We are starting the story now, hope that you will enjoy reading! :)

CHAPTER ONE

Macabre Illusions

It was a dark day, dull and greying in the skies overhead, the surface of the pathways and roads frozen and the wind bit into the passerby. Sharp, contrasting, steel structures reached up into the air, towering over the streets below like over-bearing, imposing figures of silent menace. As the night's darkness arrived ahead of its seasonal schedule, the lights of the hotel became brighter, whispering a welcome with their opulence and brightness. It was a welcoming sight in the rapidly increasing darkness.

But it was not welcoming enough to distract the dozens of passerby's on the pavement who hurried about their routines, their steps quicker and harried by the increasing chill, with their heads bowed down for protection against the sharp bite of the wind. Mothers with children, families heading home, parents laden with shopping bags full of gifts, never ceased in their relentless journeys to their intended destination.

A dark saloon car midnight black, with silver-rims and blazing, cold headlights, glided along the tarmac road toward the hotel. A Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG, with tinted windows and vinyl finish, seemed out of place as it moved towards the hotel. The hotel itself was a rarity in this part of the city, and the Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG was far too extravagant for a regular patron, more befitting for a high-end political figure needing protection. No one recognised how the car had been fitted with such protective measures so as to include; bullet-proof windows, and re-inflating tyres. It was simply a black car to the untrained unobservant eye.

As the car slowed to a stop, the engine cut after a few seconds, and received a few momentary glances from the pedestrians on the pavement who had noticed its arrival. It wasn't unusual for cars to stop outside the hotel, even at such a time as this. It was expected even, for certain people. Who wanted to walk in such weather?

On the opposite side of the road, about twenty-feet from the Mercedes, a young man walked casually down the street, not looking behind him until he'd safely crossed the road. A quick glimpse at the Mercedes, gave him its exact position and he stored it in his memory. The young man continued walking until he reached a small alcove to the side of the hotel. He slipped inside, his form hidden in the half-light that barely poured through the alcove, but his eyes picked out the Mercedes that he could see in front of him. He could see the car, but whoever was in the car couldn't see him.

He seemed unassuming, unimportant, and rather shoddy in appearance; even if he had dressed 'up' for the occasion, but he was more focused on the task at hand rather than his appearance. His sharp eyes picked out a small cafe on the opposite side of the road, most of the patrons inside to escape the increasing chill, and Jason Wyngarde found himself pitying them. They had no idea what was about to happen. Soon enough, Jason knew, those innocent, unaware, patrons would be screaming, in fear, in shock, in horrid realisation; and a part of Jason wished he did not have to do this, but he wouldn't pass-up a chance to use his abilities unhindered. He was quite desperate in that respect.

The tips of his fingers felt like they had a current passing through them, little static shocks made the muscles in his arms spasm in response. His blood raced through his body, pounding through the veins and arteries as his heart pumped harder and faster in anticipation. Jason sighed in relief, his mind, in contrast to his body's responses, perfectly calm and collected. He'd missed this feeling. This feeling that sometimes felt akin to drinking eight double espresso's in quick succession, or having a stimulant injected directly into his veins, and he couldn't help the smile that graced his face; making him appear younger and more carefree than he actually was.

Taking a deep breath, Jason slowly flexed the fingers of his right hand, and raised the slightly trembling appendage up close and brushed the dark bangs out of his face. He rested the pads of his fingertips on his temple and watched in silence as a large, beefy man stepped out of the Mercedes' front passenger side and shut the door behind him. The man wore a suit, pressed charcoal grey, with a nondescript black tie, and Jason watched as the man stepped onto the pavement and opened the door to the rear of the car.

Jason blinked feverently as his posture stiffened and his mind shot into action. Now it was time for him to start his task.

Quickly counting the number of people on the street, the darkness now strong enough to have warned most of the pedestrians off the streets and into the safety of their homes, Jason found himself only having to focus on no more than half-a-dozen minds; all of them undefended and pliable. He would have been disgusted with the lack of mental protection they possessed if he didn't rely on that very fact to complete his mission. Though he couldn't read their minds, he could certainly get a jist of what they're wondering. It was clear on their faces anyway, how quickly could they get home? It took little of his abilities to manipulate the world as they saw it until everything was as he required it, his presence in the alcove all but forgotten – even if he was already well-hidden, now he doesn't exist – and watched as the only part of the illusion he hasn't yet manipulated stepped out of the Mercedes onto the pavement.

A short, slight, man with greying temples and a freshly shaven face looked about himself for a brief moment as his bodyguard shut the car door firmly. The suit the man was wearing was expensive, probably Armani, or specially tailored, with velvet lapels and ivory white lining surrounding the lapels. Jason found himself amused by the appearance of the Senator, the man always took pride in his sharp appearance, but he had gazed into his last mirror today. Today was the day that the world would watch the Senator die and Jason couldn't help feel the excitement of the situation as he set to work on crafting his illusion.

The gazes of the Senator, his bodyguard, and two of the few pedestrians on the street, were suddenly riveted to the sight of a dishevelled, and conspicuous-looking man who was now running towards them on the pavement. The man pulled something out of his pocket, the light of the hotel reflecting off its cold, black, metallic exterior accompanied by astonished gasps of shock and fear from people on the street. The Browning L9A1 in the man's hand was cocked and held in a firm grasp, as the man's eyes never deviated from his target.

The Senator's own eyes widened in fear, realisation and the horrid understanding that his bodyguard wasn't going to be quick enough. He knew he was going to die then-and-there.

And then the man pulled the trigger. Once. Twice.

Twin bullets flew from the gun and slammed into the Senator torso, the force behind the bullets sending him careening into the car hard enough for his head to slam against the roof. His mouth opened in a silent cry of pain and horror as the blood streamed down from two twin blots on his white, pressed shirt. There was pain, but it was muted, his nerves numbed and his body sluggish.

His mind was discombobulated, thoughts congealing and slowing. The Senator's gaze found its way to his bodyguard, who was moving too slowly to truly be of any assistance; his gun stuck in the holster, as he finally realised that the gunman was indeed going to kill him. And, as if to reinforce the Senator's realisation, the gunman pointed his gun directly between the Senator's eyes; his gaze crazed and filled with mad determination, as he pulled the trigger and a single bullet was ejected. That single bullet slammed into the Senator's forehead and ploughed through the hard skull, the soft brain tissue, and out the back of the cranium before impacting with the car behind him. It left behind a small, barely bleeding hole in the front and a giant crevice in the back.

The gunman stood over the corpse of the Senator, panting heavily, a look of satisfaction crossing his features before the bodyguard, who had finally dragged his gun from its holster, fired two shots; one hitting just below the ribcage and the other ploughing through the jacket and thin t-shirt material and straight into the gunman's rapidly beating heart.

There was screaming up and down the street; disbelieving cries, shocked and terrified shouts and outraged roars at the violence. Jason could feel every last one of them echoing in his head. There was such fear and he felt guilty and sick with himself for having involved these people, these poor unassuming people, and the blood... The blood of the Senator felt like it was his own; bubbling in his mouth and pouring out of his chest. It was horrid for him, truly horrific for those watching, but they weren't the ones who felt like they'd died twice afterall.

Police squad cars began to arrive; a measly two minutes after the incident had began, their sirens blaring and creating a cacophony of sound mingling with the crying witnesses. The bodyguard stood in between the bodies; one the person he was meant to protect, the other the one he was meant to stop at all costs.

Jason sighed, his eyesight never wavering from the scene before him, and he could see it all from every angle; from the opposite road, from the cafe, from inside the hotel, from the bodyguard. Everywhere there were people, there was Jason.

He didn't know how long he stood there, playing with their perceptions, but eventually Jason became aware of someone standing beside him; one whose mind he could not manipulate. A wall of silence in the midst of chaos. For a long moment, maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, the man stood beside Jason; observing the scene with silent impassiveness until he reached out and placed a gentle hand on Jason's tense arm. A gentle but firm grip.

"That's enough Jason," the man said quietly, his words carrying no further than Jason's own ears. "It's over."

And then Jason felt the adrenaline disappearing, fading away into oblivion as calm returned to him. It was over. It. Was. Over... and he didn't know when he'd have another opportunity to use his abilities again; to flex his powers and feel other minds that weren't blocked to him. He didn't have the freedom he'd once had with his powers, not anymore, and now he was just a puppet. Held up by the strings of those who could and would decide what he could and would do with his own power. And it was hard. So very hard to remember that he wasn't the only one whom he had to think about.

The Senator had never done anything remotely devious; hadn't had a prostitute who he played with on the side, he'd never backed down against the monster politicians who wanted to make it legal to prosecute innocent people based on race, colour, nation. Instead he'd had a wife to whom he had been faithful to since they'd married, a wife he absolutely adored and would give the world for. He had children who were brilliant and kind and never felt unloved, even with his busy schedule. He was a brilliant man who didn't deserve to be so cruelly removed from the world. But just because he didn't deserve it didn't mean he would be allowed to live.

Jason had learnt quickly that the world wasn't fair, that people didn't always get what they deserved and so, for the Senator, life had decided to give him something he didn't deserve. Just like it had Jason, and millions of others around the globe.

Senator Michaels had had to die. The Senator had been lobbying for better Animal Rights; for laws prohibiting how animals were used in science and it was the type of law that would have changed things for mutants like Jason. Mutants who were considered to look human but not be human, currently had the same rights as the monkeys that the scientists tested poisons and toxins upon. Human Rights Laws didn't apply to mutant kind; afterall, mutants weren't human. They were animals with skills that could be trained to jump through hoops at their master's demand. No. They weren't human and it was this, this loophole – like so many others – that enabled governments to take mutants from their homes and enslave them for their own purpose.

And Jason hated every single moment of it.

-O-o-O-

-o-o-O-o-o-

-O-o-O-

Raven's eyes snapped open as she let out a startled gasp. The amber of her eyes flashed with panic and pain as she gripped her head tightly with her blue, scaled hands and screamed. Lying curled up on her side, clutching her head in agony, Raven sensed the people moving around her; reaching out and grabbing her, forcing her to uncurl and lie flat. Instinct drove her to fight them, her arms and legs flailing as her eyes darted about, not seeing what was around her, and she could taste blood in her mouth; a sharp, coppery tang that made her want to gag as she let out another cry of pain and fear.

"Raven!" Someone shouted, their voice familiar, but she couldn't focus, couldn't process what was going on. "Raven stop! It's over!" They were still screaming at her and she tried to focus, tried to listen to the words and understand what they meant. "You're going home Raven!"

Home... home...

Raven's mind latched onto the word, shocking her into pausing in her struggles, as she realised what that word meant. Home. And then it all came back to her. The hotel, the bodyguard, the gunman, the pain, blood. Death. Dimly Raven was aware of the twin sets of hands lowering her down and someone placing a needle into the crook of her elbow.

She wasn't dead. She wasn't dying. And she hadn't died. It was hard for her to realise that fact because it always felt so very real. Something she'd never get over. That, and the fear. The fear of seeing someone about to kill you, the fear of the pain you knew was about the come and the fear of dying. It was never easy and it never did get any easier.

No matter how many times she told herself, whispered words of comfort and encouragement to herself when no-one could hear her, it was never easy to take on another's appearance and stand there in their stead; ready to die. And the fear that she showed to others was never fake. It was all real.

Not bothering to look to her sides, Raven chose to stare up at the roof of the ambulance. She blinked slowly as her mind processed where she was and whom she was with. She was back in the hands of the CIA; the Central Intelligence Agency. The two people who had tried to make her lie flat only moments ago weren't medical attendants but rather elite members of the CIA. Some of their best agents. Assigned to her since the day she'd first been 'recruited' for their Mutant Division as her 'handlers'. And she liked them no more today than she had six years ago. She guessed the feeling was mutual really.

"You did well Raven," one of them said. Raven didn't bother to respond or even acknowledge the agent beyond blinking slowly. "Compliance is always rewarded," she continued, and Raven bit back the urge to lash out because damn it, they knew the only reason she agreed to work for them wasn't for her sake. And everytime she agreed to play the part, they hung it over her head and teased her with the 'reward' that shouldn't even be a bloody bargaining chip in the first place!

It made her feel sick, not only because they made her jump through hoops, but because she'd had to lie to people who had known the Senator for months. Months where she'd experienced every type of luxury and hadn't seen the only thing that truly kept her going. And she figured it would be a long drive 'home' so she decided to spend the majority of the time drifting in and out of sleep; letting herself become reacquainted with her own natural form. The Senator had been dead for a long time and Raven had dutifully stolen his face and had slowly undone all of his work; all the hours he'd spent working on his speeches and arguments for Animal Rights, she'd slowly whittled away and let them crumble to dust. She'd told lies to his wife, told his children she loved them in the stead of the man who really had loved them. And she'd done it all because she'd been told to.

And because she was well aware of the consequences of refusing.

Charles would never tell her, but she knew that every time she'd refused in the beginning he'd suffered; they'd hinted as much to her. Raven had quickly realised that, if she wanted Charles to be cared for properly, then she'd have to bite her tongue and do as they 'ordered'. Only a few months after she'd begun doing as they'd bid they had given her a 'reward'; time with her brother away from prying eyes and she had craved it ever since.

And she was being given a reward now, a reward which she decided then and there that she'd use to take Charles out for a little while to see beyond their cells and the white-washed walls of the facility. Yes, he'd like that, and for a few hours they could pretend they were normal; that she wasn't a freak who's skin was more valuable than her mind and he could pretend that he wasn't responsible for this mess.

Though she would never say it aloud, or even think it loud, Raven felt like their torturous existence was her brother's fault. Charles' obsession with trusting people, even after he'd figured out who and what they were after, and his thirst for knowledge had caused this and Raven would be lying if she said that she didn't blame him at least a little for it.

She could recall clearly the face of the man who'd come to England, looking for Charles, six years ago and she could remember how; as a recent recipient of his degree in Genetics and Cellular Biology – and Biotechnology – Charles had been celebrating in the local pub. At the age of twenty-one he'd been one of the youngest to graduate from Oxford with such brilliant grade and Raven had been happy to have followed him across the Atlantic. She'd had no real intention, no plans nor goals that she wanted to achieve and she'd felt like Charles had had more than enough ambition for the pair of them.

Even when they'd been kids, Raven had noticed Charles' obsession with genetics and she knew that, when he'd attended Oxford, he'd had the option to complete his degree earlier than his classmates; but he hadn't wanted to rush. His reason; he wanted them to be involved in everything that others went through, and he always picked up extra classes whenever he could – most of them on subjects that Raven had no wish to ever understand. Or write a thesis about.

He'd always said University was an 'experience' and not one they should miss. And now, Raven was glad he'd savoured every moment of it.

Raven sometimes wished that she'd made him change his mind, convinced her brother that the stranger was not what he seemed, but it was pointless wishing to change something that had already happened. They'd made their bed, now they had to lie in it. Charles had taken the strangers' offer to join him in America; to work with the CIA and to study mutants.

And now, all Raven had left of another life was a certificate; something she kept hidden away and safe. It read;

"Charles F. Xavier

First Class Honours"

The stranger had been called Shaw, Sebastian Shaw, and after he had mentioned a device called "Cerebro" to her brother, Raven knew that Charles hadn't been able to resist the pull of such a device. She'd tried, oh how she'd tried, to convince him to finish his studies in Oxford; she'd even used all of his arguments about education and 'life experiences' but he wouldn't budge. Stubborn as an Ox.

He'd left for America and Raven had followed because she'd had no choice; Charles was her brother and she loved him dearly, and he was the only person who was never revolted by her true form. She couldn't just abandon him.

Six years ago Raven had known very little, probably no more than Charles really, and now she knew more; but still, there were some things that she didn't know and couldn't figure out their purposes. She didn't know the reason why Charles had been chosen, she didn't know how Charles had been found, and she didn't know why this Shaw had been so interested in her brother.

But Jason Wyngarde had helped her to fit a few of the puzzle pieces together. And what she could see so far wasn't something she liked.

Jason had explained to her, about six months after her and Charles had arrived at the Facility, that he was an illusionist – and not a cheap, Vegas side-show act either. He'd been approached by Shaw two years before them and he'd agreed to help Shaw study mutants and their abilities; but he hadn't agreed to the 'CIA' part of the deal. At first anyway.

Eventually Shaw had convinced him to join the Mutant Division and, like Charles and Raven, he'd had absolutely no idea what he was really signing up for. For a while he'd co-operated, and found that he was enjoying it, but eventually something had happened – something he wouldn't explain to Raven – that had made him realise that he was being used like a particularly effective guard dog and he'd tried to leave. Tried... and failed.

He didn't know how they did it, didn't know why they really wanted him alive – other than his power – and he had explained to Raven that they had devices that blocked his ability. Stopped him from messing with their heads.

Raven had asked him how he'd been found and Jason had replied that Shaw had a girl, a naive and willing young girl, who had located him. Something he, himself, had only figured out after he'd met the girl a year after agreeing to his 'contract' with the CIA. She'd done everything she could to please Shaw, going so far as to kill just to make Shaw happy, and so Shaw had loved her; loved how he could manipulate her and bend her to his will.

Jason, by comparison, wasn't as willing or naive and so had been less useful to the man. And that was how Jason had ended up working with Raven – and sometimes Charles – on missions; Shaw had traded him in for better company.

Raven guessed that this girl, now a woman after all that time, was how Shaw had found her and Charles. And that answered one question.

Cerebro was another thing entirely though. Charles had been fascinated by the machine and, after he'd attached himself to it – with no regard for his own safety like the genius idiot he was – Raven had never seen Shaw again. Cerebro had activated for Charles, working beautifully and spitting out co-ordinate after co-ordinate of mutants, and Charles had loved every second of it.

Shaw too had loved it, but for a different reason. He didn't care for discovery or understanding. He wanted power and control, and what better way to ensure he had both than to have a telepath searching out powerful mutants for him to take command of?

Shaw had faded away from the front-line, no longer searching for mutants himself, but rather using Charles to search them out and sending out his lackeys to 'collect' his prizes. His pocket mind-reader had followed him, dutifully and innocently naive, and Raven, Jason and Charles had been left in the hands of the Mutant Division. Nothing more than tools.

Cerebro was complicated. Just like everything else really. And, though Raven was curious about why it was so important, Jason disliked speaking of it; indeed he refused to go near the thing. Going so far as to fight against his 'handlers' after they'd suggested he take another go in it. He'd been put in solitary for a month and Raven had had to hold him for weeks afterwards because he couldn't bear to be alone.

One of the few times Jason volunteered information about Cerebro, he'd explained how, on his first go in it, he'd felt like his skull had been cracking in two and, after getting out of it, had been left with feelings of intense paranoia for days. And burn marks on his temples.

From listening in on reports given by some of the other agents at the Facility, Raven had eventually discovered that Cerebro had been built by a teenager; just fifteen. Fresh out of Harvard. A genius.

Raven had guessed that that teenager was Hank, the young scientist who was still the only operator of Cerebro after six years. Out of all of the agents and members of the CIA, Raven had realised that Hank was the only one who spent time with Charles; and didn't seem weary, disgusted or hateful of him.

Jason had mentioned to her, once about three years ago, that he had some suspicions that Hank wasn't as 'straight-down-the-line' as he appeared, and that the man always seemed uncomfortable when discussions about 'neutralising a mutant threat' ever came up.

It was around this time that Raven had slowly realised that Charles wasn't as willing an accomplice of the CIA as she'd first thought. Indeed, she realised that her brother wasn't being controlled by Cerebro but rather, it was the other way around. His manipulation of Cerebro was alarming.