*
Shooing his pet cat, Fred, from the room with a projection of a fat, twitch-whiskered mouse sitting at the end of the hall, Professor Charles Xavier set down his first edition copy of 'Moby Dick' on the bedside table. It lay on top of the latest glossy editions of 'Astrophysicist's Weekly' and 'Modern Genetics'. Manoeuvring his paralysed lower limbs, he lay down and tugged the covers up over his chest. It was late, some considerable time past midnight, and the mansion was peaceful. Studying, training and impromptu missions meant his students were early to bed and prompt to rise. Closing his eyes, he scanned the entire building, as was his habit before retiring. Although his ancestral home was protected by a devious array of security systems, experience taught technology was not always proof against the X gene.
As he expected, most residents slept undisturbed. Thoughts of an upcoming chemistry test swirled through Bobby Drake's mind, an alphabet soup of formula, elements and compounds. Hank, as was usual in recent times, was dreaming of a mocha-skinned African goddess with milk white hair. Protected by a telepath's shields, Jean Grey projected little of what ran through her mind, save images of a spectral doctor who pursued her through her sleep. Piotr dreamt of his childhood in Russia and family left far behind, images Technicolor bright and happy. Cyclops was dozing, half watching a late-night hard house concert on cable. Head filled with sunlit plains and rolling deserts, Ororo Munro flew above the clouds with her blue furry lover in a dream world free from Sentinels and hatred.
Of all the mansion's occupants, only Logan was wide awake. The surly Canadian had been ill at ease for more than a week, stalking the grounds like an alpha wolf who had discovered his territory had been invaded and was unsure what he could do to remedy the situation. Finally, Xavier had called him to his office and asked what was troubling him. Knowing that growls and glares would not dissuade the Professor, Wolverine had reluctantly recounted his odd experience. Xavier had listened, fingers steepled before his nose, and was forced to admit he was just as puzzled. Just as some feral mutants were labelled werewolves, others were branded vampires for their appearances. No mutant he knew of disintegrated after death. The Englishwoman, however, was cause for greater concern. She could be another of Colonel Wraith's escaped Weapon X test subjects. Or she may have no connection at all. The Canadian government was not the only administration that recruited mutants. Many had served various military organisations the world over. Dismissing the matter for examination at a later date, Xavier narrowed his focus.
'Logan, it's late. I think sleep might be advisable,' he sent.
'Chuck, do me a favour – stay the hell outta my head!' The returned thought vibrated with indignation. 'I just skewered the mattress 'cos yer snuck up on me.'
A heavily exaggerated image of shredded wadding and protruding springs popped into the bald telepath's mind, causing him to smile in the darkness. For a man of few words, Logan was surprisingly prone to hyperbole of the mental construct.
'My apologies… I'll contact the furniture store in the morning. Good night, Logan.'
An irritable grumble echoed in Xavier's head as he withdrew. He was unsurprised ten minutes later when a second sweep of the mansion revealed the clawed mutant was still very much awake. Hearing Fred pad delicately back into the room, disgruntled after a long and fruitless search for a phantom mouse, he settled down to sleep. The cat eyed his master critically, realising there would be no more attention tonight, and jumped up onto the quilt near his feet. Walking several neat circles to flatten out the material to his liking, he stretched, lay down and wrapped his sleek tail around his nose. Within a short space of time, felis catus and homo superior were sound asleep.
*
Lying curled on her side, knees drawn towards her chest protectively, Ororo Munro whimpered softly in her sleep. Slender fingers flexing convulsively, her café au lait brow wrinkled as she fought faceless men in camouflage uniforms inside her head. They were forcing her into a submersion tank filled with sinister apparatus, and no matter how she struggled, she could not resist. Above them all, looming like a demented puppet master, Colonel John Wraith bared his teeth in a rictus grin, cruel, barking laughter booming overhead like gunfire. Like her team mates, the willowy weather witch spoke little about her ordeal at the hands of Wraith and Weapon X, preferring to fill her days with normal chatter about mundane activities. Or as close to normal as mutants with extraordinary gifts could hope to come.
A mercury wash of pale moonlight poured through the open curtains at the large, leadlit bay window. Storm preferred to wake with the rising sun and sleep beneath the benevolent smile of the moon. A shadow blocked the moonlight, casting a block of darkness across the slumbering goddess's face. She muttered and turned over, drifting out of nightmares and into more restful REM sleep. Perched motionless on the wide stained oak sill, the window quietly clicking to at her back, the English mutant known as Raven listened for indications her forced entry had been noticed. Hopping down from the sill into the centre of the room, she cast a cursory glance at the bed, identifying the occupant by her tousled milky hair.
Practised memory recalling the detailed personnel file provided by her sometime employer, she crept soundlessly to the door and turned the knob with gloved fingers. She counted herself lucky. Of all the windows to gain access to the mansion through, she had been forced to use the bedroom of a woman who could level a street block with lightning if she chose. All downstairs windows and doors, as well as the stairways, were fitted with heat, pressure and motion detectors. Suspended by her telekinesis three storeys up, it had taken Raven half an hour to disable the pressure pads and adamantium composite shutters outside Storm's window. The innocuous-looking metal squares in the mansion's ceilings concealed multi-positional lasers controlled by computer, capable of delivering anything from a stun blast to a bolt that could cut through sheet metal. And that was just on the upper levels. Stealing out into the hallway, hyper-keen senses on high alert for any inconsequential sound that could signal pursuit and discovery, she looked quickly left to right.
Supple and sure-footed as a panther, she bent low and sniffed the plush green paisley carpet, simultaneously sweeping the area with a low-level telepathic scan to see if anyone was awake. Rattling snores behind the next door she passed, accompanied by a brief snatch of song in Russian, identified Colossus. Turning a corner into a two-way junction of corridors, she inhaled deeply and paused, frowning. Someone with a distinctive, vaguely familiar scent had lingered outside the first bedroom on her right approximately two hours ago. It was a male scent, fruity-musky, tinged with Cuban cigars and recently drunk Kentucky bourbon. They had loitered outside the room without going in. An old, cracked porcelain plaque decorated with girlish pink flowers on the white painted door proclaimed the occupant as 'Jean'. Raven's frown deepened to a scowl as she recognised the scent. It belonged to the metal-clawed mutant she had encountered downtown Salem.
There's a first, she thought bitterly, with a good deal of satisfaction. They've fucked up. Didn't tell me Mr Claws 'N' Attitude, whoever he is, was with the X-Idiots. Wonder if he's one of Weapon X's? Xavier's psycho-happy little family's certainly had enough experience with those butchers, if the rumours are anything to go by.
Extending her mental probe further into the cavernous mansion, brushing past the pneumatic Playboy dreams of a teenager whose aura was layered with ice blue, she encountered a massive telepathic presence. Even deeply asleep, the mutant's psionic capabilities were far ranging and very sensitive, already beginning to stir at her cautious approach. Recoiling back into the confines of her skull so quickly her physical body staggered, Raven drew an involuntary breath.
Bloody hell! That must be Prof X, she thought with grudging admiration. A second more and he'd have woken up and turned my brain into mash potato… Somehow, I don't think I can shield against him… Hmmmm. Time to switch on the gizmo, methinks.
Touching a gloved finger to her temple, she activated the tiny psi-blocker mounted on a thin, non-reflective metal band. Instantly, her perception of the world shrank to five senses. While rendering her invisible to mental probes, the psi-blocker also inhibited her telepathic abilities, preventing her from reading thoughts or affecting minds. Triangulating her destination using visual reference points, she set of at a trot, moving purposefully through the upper floors, unseen and unheard by anyone.
When she came to a set of oak double doors, the knobs polished brass, she looked around the corridor, sharp eyes combing the shadows and corners. Satisfied, she turned the handle with exquisite care and slipped inside. A vacant wheelchair stood next to the elegant four poster bed. Vision adjusting to the denser blackness within the master bedroom, she approached stealthily. Professor Charles Xavier lay on his back, eyes moving beneath the closed lids as he dreamed. A large Russian Blue cat lay between his feet. Amber eyes flickering open as it smelled the intruder, it hissed, instinctively recognising a predator. Raven's mouth pinched and the cat slumped over, comatose. Lifting her right hand, she clenched it into a fist. With a dull shunk, three wickedly curved bone claws sprang from between the knuckles, tearing through the thin glove. Taking a preparatory breath, she drew back her ivory spurred fist to strike.
*