Chapter 10…

His mind was submerged in fog. Within it lingered a calm serenity—the moment between sleep and waking where no worries could pry their way inside and no nightmares could surface. He liked it there. But it couldn't last.

As a voice penetrated Charles' ears, the fog began to clear. His eyelids opened. Above him, someone was speaking. Bit by bit, Charles' vision found some clarity and then, like a lightening bolt to the brain, the image before him morphed into something real.

"Wake up," Erik said. "It's all right, my friend."

Lying on his back, Charles jerked upwards. The movement was clumsy—his lower abdomen had become weakened due to his injury and his mind was still reeling in a dozen separate directions. He started to drop back down. Erik's hands reached out; he grabbed Charles' arms before he had a chance to tumble over.

"It's okay," Erik told him as he got Charles into a sitting position. "It's just me here. You're safe."

Gasping, Charles swept his gaze across the room. The image was chaotic, blended together only as blots of colors and shadows. Gray walls—beige floor—lights suspended above. Further away, the room darkened like a cave. Everything else was blurred into the walls. As if by reflex, Charles tried to jerk his arms from Erik's grip.

"Just calm down," Erik said. "I need you to stay calm now."

But Charles didn't want to stay calm. A deep ache pulsated through his skull and down his back. He stomach churned as if ready to expel up his throat. He clasped to Erik's arms, holding tight like he was clinging to the edge of a cliff. His fingernails dug in.

Erik winced. "That's…unnecessary, Charles."

"You—" Charles shut his eyelids, begging for enough focus to speak. "What—what do you…think you're doing, Erik?"

Both men stared at each other. As the seconds passed, Charles' mind continued clearing; little details emerged. He was sitting on a bed. Ivory sheets cloaked him from the waist down. Erik was planted on the left edge, his legs dangling over the side. His friend wore black pants, a bright red shirt, and some sort of purple cape. On his head rested Shaw's helmet, now as colorful as the rest of him.

Charles didn't know what it was—perhaps the drugs and alcohol still toying with his mind—but as he peered at his old friend, a breath of laughter somehow rolled up his throat.

Erik gave him a look like he'd gone mad.

"What—what is this?" Charles grabbed the edge of Erik's cape and shook it.

A trace of amusement crossed Erik's features. Grabbing the fabric, he gently slid it away from Charles' care.

"You're fine," Erik said. Releasing Charles' arms, the other man studied him, obviously waiting for him to make the next move.

Charles turned back to the room. The image was clearer now. The place was constructed into one large, open area. To the far right was a small kitchen equipped with a refrigerator, dark brown cabinets, and an elegant dining room set. Pipes crossed the tall ceiling. By the corner was a metal door that looked as if it was pulled from a submarine. To the left, living room furniture was cramped in the corner, obviously moved aside to make room for the bed Charles was currently resting on. There was a moon-shaped sofa with a shimmery, velvet fabric and a leather Overman couch just across from it. Above, crystal lights hung down like glowing icicles.

His head still pounded like he was experiencing the worst hangover on the planet, but as Charles took in the luxury, he still raised his eyebrows at the other man. "You don't get to…poke fun at my wealth anymore."

Erik glanced at the room and grinned. "I see your point."

"What am I doing here, Erik?"

With that, Erik averted his eyes away; his smile dropped. "That's a long conversation," he said, "one we don't need to get into until you're in a right state of mind."

"I'm right enough."

"Your eyes are dilated and you're slurring your words. I don't think you'll even remember this conversation."

"Then, repeat it again later. I want—I want to know the purpose of all this. Why have you brought me here?"

Even with that helmet cloaking most of Erik's head, Charles noticed the man's reluctance. Just as quickly as it came, however, the soft expression on Erik's features hardened. A new face emerged, and as Charles gazed upon it, his back ached. It was the face Charles had seen on the beach six months before. The same one that had shot dozens of missiles towards the American and Soviet ships, intending to massacre thousands of men. A cool, quiet anger. Deep—unyielding. Unstoppable.

Charles frowned.

With that, Erik nodded to the dark side of the room. "There," he said.

Charles looked back at the darkness. Past the frilly carpet and polished marble walls, he examined the deep, black opening. It was sectioned off from the rest of the room by a simple strip of metal fencing, crossing from the left side to the right like a gate put up to trap a canine. Behind it, machines lined the wall, side-by-side and shut off. The area itself was large—much taller than the rest of the room. Hollowed out—spherical…

As the realization struck, Charles had to drop his hands to the bed to steady himself. The haziness and nausea from just minutes before rushed back. But now the drugs and alcohol weren't the culprits.

"Erik," Charles barely managed to sputter out, "what…what do you want—"

"I think you know," Erik said, his voice quiet but stern.

Suddenly, Charles felt as if his insides were rotting. Erik had reconstructed Cerebro. There was only one purpose for such a device; he wanted to find other mutants. He wanted to recruit them—for his army.

A lump constricted Charles' throat. He felt the word sear his tongue, but as he opened his mouth, he knew he had to say it. "No," he whispered.

Erik inhaled deeply. "This isn't up for discussion, Charles. You're the only one who can work that machine. As soon as you give us some valid coordinates, I'll take you home."

"Us? You mean…your band of mutants."

"Yes."

Charles swallowed hard. "No, Erik. I can't help you do this. I'm sorry."

Erik didn't even flinch. "There's no one else. Emma can't handle Cerebro—either because she's not powerful enough or because her telepathy is simply different from yours—it doesn't matter. She can't use it."

Emma Frost. Erik had rescued her from the CIA; Charles wondered if the other man would eventually do so.

"I'm sorry your new telepath isn't working out for you," Charles said with a touch of sarcasm, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to help build you an army."

"You're the only other telepath we know. So that puts us in a delicate situation."

Charles shook his head. "I already gave you my answer."

On those words, Erik jerked away from the bed. His back turned, he surveyed the room as if looking at Charles at that instant would drive him over the edge. After a few seconds, he said, "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're out in the middle of nowhere, Charles. On an island, alone." He tossed a glance over his shoulder. "I'm not certain exactly how far your telepathy can reach, but I imagine three hundred miles is pushing it."

A shiver jostled up Charles' back.

Erik remained unmoved. "You're going to use that machine, Charles. You're going to help us. Or you're not going anywhere."

Erik put a hand in his pocket. He dug out an assortment of orange bottles, and then set them on the bed. But he didn't stop there. Beside the bed, one of the living room's end tables sat—Charles' wheelchair next to it. Fishing through one of the table's drawers, Erik brought out a notepad and pen. He extended them to Charles. Timidly, Charles accepted them, keeping his eyes to Erik.

"Write down what you need," Erik explained. "Medicine—medical equipment. Clothing. Try to keep it simple. I have a feeling you're going to be staying here for awhile."

With that, Erik stepped away. Walking towards Cerebro, he flung his hand and the metal fencing parted at its center. As soon as he was through, the fence came back together the same way it had split, the metal wires linking to one another like laces to a shoe.

Then, Charles' old friend was gone, out a large metal door at the back of Cerebro, his purple cape flowing behind him as he left.

End of Chapter