-4: WANDA-

The needle was cold, always cold, biting at her. Impatient. She wanted to tell them to wait, to calm down, to not get so angry with her and hurt her and hurt her and, but it was too late and the darkness was coming again. They were talking around her, above her, like she couldn't hear or understand or know everything they said, and maybe she couldn't. Maybe this was all a dream, maybe this was all nothing, maybe she was all a dream. Maybe they were right and she was crazy and all of this was just misunderstood. All these bad dreams.

When the darkness lifted she was back in her room, on her back, the jacket on (the jacket was always on) so her arms were tight and painful and cramping but that never really mattered to anyone but her and, really, it didn't much matter to her either because she'd discovered centuries ago (or years, or months, or weeks; time was fuzzy here) that thinking about things only made everything worse.

He came after a while, a little later than usual, late enough that the drugs (they were drugs; she understood that, she wasn't stupid) had worn off enough for her to feel it when he climbed on and did the things he liked to do when no one else was around. She watched the ceiling, and pretended, and maybe she was crying but that wasn't important because eyes did that naturally, they teared up, it didn't mean she cared about this.

She thought of the brother when he grunted over her. She thought of the father when he put his mouth on her face. She couldn't think of them as hers, couldn't really claim them when there was all this… around them, in her head. Hatred, maybe. Rage. Disbelief, all the emotions she wasn't supposed to feel, which was why they drugged her over and over and over and over. But she could think of them, and take herself out of her body, take herself out of these cold white walls and away from the salty cool water on her face.

After a little bit longer, he left. Closed the door, punched in the code outside. She heard the locking mechanism whirr into place, and closed her eyes.

Everything felt like pain.

When she slept, finally, she dreamed of Pietro holding chocolate milk. Then she dreamed of a car, a black car, flying off the road and exploding before it hit the ground.

When she woke, also finally, she was clear enough to recognize the hate. She was lucid enough to understand the fury. She was alive enough to remember her name.

"Wanda," she said aloud, her raspy torn voice almost hurting her throat as it crawled out of her chest. "Wanda, Wanda," she said again, again, low desperation. She would not forget it. She would not, would not, would not. Repetition was the key.

She said her name until they came to feed her, and when the needle went in, she forgot the world.

.................

Sitting was not the most comfortable of activities, but John managed not to wince as his (not broken, just bruised) ribs twinged on the way down. Across from him sat Rasputin, looking unbelievably unsuited for the small wooden chair he occupied, and the man John had fought. Sabertooth. LeBeau sat on the table itself, idly shuffling a deck of old, worn playing cards. Sabertooth, when John took a seat, let out a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement, but his eyes burned as they took in John's bruised face.

"So," LeBeau said, breaking the thick, uncomfortable silence. "Boys, you all know Johnny by now. M'sieu Creed, a formal introduction." John nodded slightly across the table. Creed didn't budge. "Now, I want no fights here," LeBeau went on, eying them both. "I'm going to explain to Pyro, here, just what we're about. So if you two could jump in as you like or just keep your mouths shut, that'd be great."

"Don't get too cocky, Gambit," Creed said then, and though his voice was not quite so scornful as in the basement, it was just as rough. "Your authority don't spread that far."

"But Johnny is my recruit," LeBeau countered smoothly, eyes locked on Creed's. "So what I say goes, when it comes to him."

"Just tell him about the job, Remy," Rasputin put in, calm and cool at the foot of the table. Creed's lips tightened, but he said nothing.

"Right," LeBeau agreed, and looked to John. "What we're doing here is a two-part adventure."

"You said something about extraction," John said, leaning back in his chair with a slight frown of pain. He'd managed to forget about the rib. Now he remembered.

"Precisely," LeBeau said, letting the cards in his right hand fall in a smooth tumble to his left. "Part B involves extracting a few billion dollars from a little place called Fort Knox." He allowed a moment for that to sink in.

"And Part A?" John asked, feeling a little distanced from reality. LeBeau's lips twisted thoughtfully.

"Part A… is a little different."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Part A involves a girl," LeBeau told him, and the cards changed hands again. "A very… unique girl."

"Why must you always dance around things that are easier to simply say outright?" Rasputin asked, mildly exasperated. He too looked at John. "We are breaking a young woman out of a mental asylum for the use of her powers."

"What girl?"

"Magneto's daughter," Creed said, gruffly, a cruel sort of enjoyment in his voice. "Wanda." That took a minute to sink in, too.

LeBeau jumped off the table and dropped the cards into one deep coat pocket, ambling around to the refrigerator and pulling out a beer.

"You've got to be joking," John said. LeBeau smiled, just a slant of the mouth.

"She's going to get us into Knox, mon ami, and all we have to do is get her out of Nutsville."

"Magneto has kids? And one of them… What can she do, exactly? And what's wrong with her?" He thought about what he knew of Lensherr, number one mutant terrorist of the modern world, and wondered with a sort of subdued horror what it must take to make a man like that toss one of his own mutant children into a human mental asylum.

"We are not sure," Rasputin said, and LeBeau glared at him as John's jaw dropped.

"That ain't true," LeBeau corrected. "We… the details are still a little… But Mags has it all figured out, and what's important is that we get her out without killing her in the process."

"So where do I come in?" John asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and doing his best not to really think about the fact that LeBeau had just announced they would be kidnapping a crazy girl who happened to be the daughter of one of the most dangerous men alive. LeBeau's eyes sparkled gleefully.

"That's the fun part, Johnny, so be patient and we'll get to it." He set down his beer and walked over to the head of the table, slapping his hands down against the wood. "Now, I got blueprints of the place, and schedules. We strike a week from today, after her nighttime meds have been given. It's in and out, boys, no one gets hurt. Got that, Vicky?" Creed snarled.

"Watch your mouth, smartass, or I'll feed it to you."

"Ah, ah, ah," LeBeau tsked, waving a finger. "This is my area of expertise, mon ami, and Boss-man left me in charge." Creed grunted, and for some reason glowered at John, who narrowed his eyes back. "Anyway, remember, the fille is in that joint for a reason. She'll be doped when we take her, but there won't be any chances on that front, and I mean, any. Whatever she does, it's scary. Now," he continued in a brighter tone, looking from John to Rasputin with a grin that seemed just a little too devious. "Here's how we're getting in."

................

The orange juice, stuff he hadn't had in years, tasted like heaven. John finished the cup he'd poured and thought pretty seriously about getting another, but just as he got to his feet a hand clapped down on his shoulder. LeBeau spun him around and folded his arms, scanning the artwork that was John's face. The bruises had turned from bright, fresh bluish to a sicker sort of purple, though it had only been a day.

"You look like hell, mon ami."

"Yeah, I know."

"Good thing you had the lighter, eh?" John shrugged, tempted to reach down and take out the item in question, but resisting the urge. LeBeau shook his head. "So what happens when you don't have one, homme?"

"I get killed," John said lightly, tapping his ribs.

"You need to learn to fight, Johnny-boy," LeBeau told him, arms going out for emphasis. "Street fight, box, tai kwon do, anything."

"Tai kwon what?"

"Not important. C'mon." He started for the door. John, dropping the cup to the floor, nearly tripped over the sofa in the living area of the Acolyte house as he followed.

"Hey! Where are we going, a karate class?" He jogged onto the low porch, scanning the lawn. LeBeau was nowhere to be seen. "Hey, what-" An arm hooked around his throat and cut off both the words and the air, another arm snagging both elbows and trapping them behind his back. LeBeau's voice sounded, calm and easygoing as ever, in his ear.

"See how easy that was?"

"Get off me," John snapped, trying to worm his way out of LeBeau's hold.

"Break my grip."

"I'll break your face!" He tried to elbow the taller man, but only succeeded in wrenching his shoulder. "Fuck," John hissed, and then butted his head back as hard as he could. The back of his skull connected with something hard, and LeBeau cursed, but didn't let go. John, still struggling, planted both feet and lunged backwards. They both flew back, LeBeau losing his balance, and crashed to the wooden floor. In the instant of impact, John rolled swiftly to one side and elbowed LeBeau again, this time catching him in the belly. Free, John climbed to his feet as quickly as he could, but LeBeau flipped himself upright so fast that by the time John was ready to swing fists, the Cajun was just out of range.

"Not bad," LeBeau allowed, and the bastard wasn't even breathing hard. "But by the time you carried out that little move, I could have slit your throat about five times over. We're going to have to work on that."

"What do you care, anyway?" John asked, aware of how sullen he sounded, but not really caring. His shoulder still hurt, and he was having trouble getting enough air, and LeBeau still looked perfectly goddamn fine.

"I care because you're my responsibility, Sparky," LeBeau answered evenly. "And if you die 'cause someone kicks your lighter away and leaves you as helpless as a toddler, I will feel very, very bad about it."

"Yeah, sure," John muttered, but shook himself out and beckoned LeBeau towards him. "Ok, let's go." LeBeau just blinked at him. "What?"

"Lesson number one: keep your knees bent. If you're standing straight like that and someone rushes you, you'll go down like a cheap whore." John bent his knees, feeling his center of balance lower, and bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

"You're such a poet."

"Oui. Lesson number two: never make fists with your thumbs on the insides."

"I know that! Everyone knows that!"

"Just making sure."

"I'm not completely useless, you know."

"Uh-huh. Lesson number three: when you fight someone, don't watch their fists. Watch their eyes."

"But I can't see what's coming if I don't-"

"You'll see what they think, what they want, what they're going to do." John scrunched his mouth in distrust, but lifted his gaze to LeBeau's face. "Hit me."

"What, just-"

"Just hit me," LeBeau affirmed, nodding, and settled. That was the only word John could think of for it, for the sort of… sinking into himself, readying, becoming something animal. It occurred to him that if he tried to hit Remy LeBeau, he probably would regret it. Under ordinary circumstances, of course. But these weren't ordinary. So he punched the other man, getting in a low, tough hit to the side. LeBeau took it without a sound, swaying back to absorb the shock, and then caught John's wrist, yanked him off-balance and kneed him in the gut. John fell to his knees, one wrist still dangling in LeBeau's grip, the other arm wrapping around his stomach as if that would keep the pain from blossoming across his belly. LeBeau dropped his arm and nudged him in the hip with one booted toe. "Get up and fight me," he said. John shook his head, catching his breath, and pushed himself up. When he was halfway to standing, LeBeau drew back and hit him again, this time right beneath the ribs. John toppled, but managed to catch LeBeau's arm and pull just hard enough to steady himself. Then LeBeau twisted deftly out of his grip and whirled, one leg going out to kick John in the chest and send him slamming into the porch railing.

"Jesus, mate," John gasped.

"Good improv," LeBeau told him, implacable. "Be faster."

"Fuck you, too," John said, but moved away from the railing and bent his knees and stared LeBeau in the eyes. He was angry, now, the pain more numb than anything else, breathing hard but not really present enough to realize it. He could see LeBeau's red eyes, those mocking, unreadable eyes, and that was it and John wanted to beat him, wanted to at least hurt him, wanted-

LeBeau moved; he could see the shifting twitch of lashes and the way the pupils dilated and then the other man was darting through the air but John was faster than he'd been, and lunged to one side. LeBeau went past him and John turned, grabbing LeBeau's elbow and using it as leverage to swing his knee up into the Cajun's back. LeBeau spun, striking out for John's face, and John brought one forearm up to deflect the punch. He pistoned his other fist into LeBeau's stomach and jumped backwards, leaving LeBeau panting, though barely, and grinning.

"Good," LeBeau called, and then came at him again. This time, John wasn't quick enough and LeBeau bowled straight into him, sending him crashing into the railing and flipping him up and over to sprawl on his back on the ground. The breath knocked entirely out of him, John could only stare up at the sky for a moment as LeBeau leaped neatly down from the porch. John could see the other man coming for him, and managed to force himself up, crawling a few feet before scrambling to his feet just in time to avoid a fist in the face. The punch whistled past his chin and brought LeBeau's shoulder right up against John's chest, and John grabbed the other man's head and jerked it down into his knee.

"Merde!" LeBeau gritted out, stumbling back. His nose was bleeding, but he ignored it and, with a single move, swept John's feet out from under him. By the time John was up on his elbows, LeBeau was kneeling over him with one hand around his throat. "Dead," LeBeau told him, but the red eyes were shining with satisfaction and, if John wasn't mistaken, the faintest hint of pride. "Better." Smoothly, LeBeau stood and offered a hand. John hesitated, then gripped the hand and made as if to get up. After rising a few inches off the ground he yanked as hard as he could, and LeBeau toppled to his knees. John used the last dregs of his strength to lean in and shove LeBeau, a move which, largely because LeBeau let him do it, sent the other man onto his back on the ground. John flopped down beside him, closing his eyes as LeBeau laughed out loud.

"You fight like a desperate fourteen-year-old," he said.

"Yeah, well, look whose nose is bloody," John replied, eyes still closed. Opening them, he felt, would take too much effort.

"But even fourteen-year-olds can do damage," LeBeau continued, a little more seriously. "Especially if they get lucky. So even if we only got six days to do it, we're going to make you dangerous."

"Oh, hell..."

"A little more enthusiasm would be nice."

"Oh, hell!"

"Merci."

................

When they took her to the hole, she went peacefully enough. It was better that way, if she could manage the restraint. It was better not to fight. She let them shove her down, felt the cold hard concrete against her knees and shins, kept her head lowered to stare at the floor as they set up formation. She knew without having to check that there would be guards at the door at the top of the concrete steps leading down into the hole, and that they would be holding guns trained on her, waiting. She knew without having to check that, as the fifth guard undid the straps of the jacket behind her back, a sixth hovered behind him with another gun pointed at the back of her neck. If she moved, if she did anything, they would shoot her. There was a chance she would be able to disarm all of them before being hit, but it wasn't a chance she particularly wanted to take; they never drugged her before putting her in the hole, so she was lucid enough to realize that the odds were not in her favor.

She waited for the guards to spill back up the steps, waited for the slab of concrete embedded in steel that served as a slanted, leaning door in the tilted ceiling to slam down, before stretching her arms out to the sides. So good. It was so good to move.

When she flexed her fingers, the floor cracked, but only fine lines. It was reinforced enough not to allow for much damage. In the pitch darkness of the hole, she kept her eyes closed. It wouldn't make any difference if they were open, after all.

Wanda spun, wheeling her arms, and screamed. Outside, they would hear only the echo. Inside, she let herself explode, the taut, bound energy inside her bursting out and shaking the walls. Dust drifted against her skin. She felt wild, freed, and sick with the knowledge that outside of herself, nothing had changed. Every time they brought her here, every time they let her get rid of the pent up madness, she felt this relief and the crushing weight of the realization that she was just a girl in a dark, empty room and that, when they decided her time was up, she would be recaptured and redoped and tossed somewhere else, and that this was just a different kind of cage.

After the screaming was done, Wanda collapsed onto the concrete and pressed her palms against the ground, feeling the chill grit against her flesh. She lowered her head, crouching there, and pictured Outside. She couldn't remember much; it came in bursts and flashes, fuzzy sections of memory like old film played on a broken, skipping reel. Cast against the insides of her eyelids, she saw a little boy with silvery hair jumping up and down, laughing, although there was no sound to match the image. There was rarely sound in her memories. She saw herself, miniature girlchild, holding someone's hand and licking at the lollipop in the other. She saw green grass and blue sky, things she knew existed but could barely fathom these days; soft beds and a woman with shining blue eyes holding her very, very close.

It rose in her then, inside that woman's eyes, leaping out and pressing icy mean-tempered kisses to the vulnerable inner corners of her heart: tears pricked in her own eyes and she wanted to give in and break down sobbing, but she forced it back and held it in and knelt there on the cold floor in silence.

"I won't be here forever," she whispered aloud, feeling as alone as a newborn, everything changed. "They can't keep me here forever. Right?"

Wanda in the dark, in the cold, quiet dark. There were no reassurances.