"So, we're flying coach? Dude!"
Hank rubbed his temples. This was actually happening.
"We're trying not to attract attention," said Charles, "And since we haven't rebuilt the Blackbird yet, and I don't believe you can run across an ocean, yes, we are going to fly coach to Scotland."
"Okay, yeah, I get that, even if I do have to spend like, a day, inside this totally small and boring area," whined Peter, "And that, by the way, is totally maddening."
Charles gave him a level look, and Hank knew what he was thinking They'd had to take a plane to get back to America after Cairo. Yes, it had been maddening, but not for Peter. Hank knew he'd spent the entire flight switching out books and napkins, stealing glasses.
It made him want to strangle him.
"But, I mean, can't you at least get us first class tickets?" asked Peter, "Aren't you super rich or something?"
Or something. Hank looked over at Charles, who was looking at Peter with the sense of eternal patience he seemed to possess in spades.
"Peter, we are trying not to attract attention," he said, "And, for the most part, a father and his two children don't attract attention. Neither do three separate individuals."
"We're not sitting together?" asked Jean, surprised.
"No," said Charles, "I don't think our enemies know who we are, but it seems like a possibility. I would rather not give them any advance warning."
"We actually bought all the tickets with different credit cards," said Hank, "We have a couple of different accounts."
"Okay, I get that," said Scott, "So...who's traveling alone?"
"Storm, Peter and Hank," said Charles.
"I don't even get anyone to annoy?" asked Peter.
And that was why he was sitting alone.
"Wait, so Jean and I are gonna be your children?" asked Scott.
Hank had to chuckle inwardly at his expression. While he knew Scott appreciated the ruse, he knew about Scott and Jean's mutual attraction. It was going to be uncomfortable to pretend to be her brother.
He'd mentioned this to Charles, who had merely shrugged. When it came down to it, Scott and Jean were the ones who looked the most alike. Scott looked a little younger than Jean, and they could easily pass as a family. Just as long as Scott and Jean didn't start flirting with each other.
Then again, given their last conversation on the subject, they weren't going to be kissing anytime soon. He didn't think Scott was going to be changing his mind either, and he could respect him for his decision.
Again though, it was clearly wierding him out.
"You're about the right age, give or take a few years," said Charles, "I'm not as young as I was you know."
"So I can't pretend to travel alone," Scott said.
"No, that will fall to Storm," said Charles, "She can pass for 19, and a 19-year-old won't cause much comment from airport attendants."
Scott sighed and folded his arms.
"Now then," said Hank, "Any questions?"
Peter raised his hand.
"Is this an actual question?" asked Hank.
"It ends in a question mark if you write it out," said Peter.
"I mean about the mission," said Hank.
"Yeah, yeah."
Hank sighed, already knowing he was going to regret this.
"Yes?" he asked.
"So, are there gonna be inflight meals?" he asked, "Because that food is shit."
"Moving on," said Hank.
"That was totally a question!"
"We're going to be landing in Edinburgh, and then renting a car to take us to the coast," said Hank, "We've identified a place where we can rent a boat, but without advanced seamanship skills, we're going to need some knowledge of the currents and someone spotting us in. That's where Kurt and Mystique will come in."
"Are they sure the ship will stop there?" asked Storm.
"Pretty sure," said Hank.
He gestured to Storm.
"See Peter? That was an example of a question I'll answer," he said.
"Loser."
"Peter, please," Charles said.
He turned to Storm.
"They've seen it on their ship's navigational maps. Even if they're not offloaded there, Kurt can teleport them onshore," said Charles, "We'll be in close radio contact with them, and they'll tell us when they're ready. We want to be in and out as quickly as possible."
"And the return journey?" asked Scott, "That's gonna be a little complicated."
"We drive straight into England," said Hank, "Charles's family owns some property there that we're going to use as a temporary safe house as we book another flight. Private this time."
"You are super rich!" Peter said, "Why the hell are we flying coach on the way over?"
"For the last time, we can't attract attention!" snapped Hank, "Not if we can help it. And we're flying private on the way back because..."
He looked over at Charles, hoping for some kind of confirmation or denial. Charles gave a tiny nod, his eyes dark.
"Because we don't know how badly Moira will be injured, how badly any of us will be injured," said Hank, "And the caution that we carried over with us will have to take a slight backseat to taking care of her and any wounded we have. Understand?"
Peter nodded, lowering his eyes. He was quiet for the rest of the session, and for no real reason Hank could describe, he missed the chatter.
Moira rolled over on her pallet, her hands folded over her stomach. Normally she would try to curl up for a bit of warmth, but her stomach felt like it was being stirred by an electric mixer. She couldn't afford to throw up again. There wasn't enough water, and there wasn't enough food. She needed this for whatever she wanted to do.
Her mind felt a little slushy, but she was still alive. That was good. Being alive meant she had a chance of getting back to Kevin, to Charles, to freedom. She just needed to keep her wits about her.
It had been almost two days since she had seen Emma, the young, tired girl with fire that had been quenched by fear. How long had she been there? What was that collar around her neck? Why was she even there?
Of course, Moira still wasn't sure where there was, so maybe that question wasn't as useful as she'd hoped it would be. Still, it was a question worth asking. She just might have to ask it a little later.
She rolled on her side, trying to quiet her stomach while her mind worked. Martinique, it appeared, had used Emma as a last resort. If that wasn't the case, then she would've brought her out much sooner than she had. Instead, she had waited weeks.
So, she was desperate for what was in Moira's head. Why was she desperate? Why did she need this information? Martinique didn't strike Moira as a scientist of any kind, but she'd been wrong before.
It appeared that she needed this for something, not what Moira could do, but what she knew. She was still alive though, which was puzzling for many, many reasons. She was grateful, but it didn't make much sense.
Another tremor from her stomach. Right. Maybe the facility was more than just a prison. She was asking for scientific research after all. Well, that's what most of her exclusive knowledge pertained to. And she hadn't specified what she wanted, so it was likely she wanted everything.
Her stomach roiled again and Moira groaned. God, why was this so difficult, so painful? It all felt like one giant mass that was getting ready to force its way out. What were they feeding her to make her do this?
For most of her life, Moira had been blessed with a perfect bill of health. She'd had the occasional flu, but no stomach bugs. Yes, she'd invented them from time to time to get out of work for when Kevin got sick and Levine was busy, but not this. She'd never thrown up this bad, not in years, not since...
Not since Kevin had been born.
She clutched her fingers in the cloth of her shirt. No. No, she wasn't pregnant. This wasn't morning sickness. She couldn't be pregnant. She'd taken her pills religiously for most of her life, pausing only once when she'd wanted so badly to have children. Her cramps during her period were too intense for her to afford a missed dosage.
But, now that she thought about it, really thought about it and counted the weeks, that was no protection. She'd been due to take the pill on the day Nur had launched missiles into the sky, disarming all the nations. Moira always took hers at night, something she didn't mind because it had been so long since she'd been sexually active.
That night, however, she'd been locked up in Stryker's cell, and then she'd been flying on a plane to fight an ancient mutant and rescue what she'd thought was a passing acquaintance. In the aftermath and the madness, the pure chaos, she'd never thought about taking it.
And then, that night with Charles, that walk back to the Institute which had ended in his room, in his arms. Telling him she loved him, his hands in her hair, his adoring eyes on her face, feeling something she wasn't sure she'd ever really felt before.
She closed her eyes tightly. Given her age, she'd thought she would never have children again. Forty-five wasn't impossible, but it was highly unlikely. That, coupled with the fact she hadn't been seeing anyone, made it seem as though Kevin was her only son. But Charles had changed everything.
Moira had the feeling Charles had closed the door on that chapter of his life when the bullet pierced his back. It made it, she assumed, a remote chance that he would be able to father a child due to his condition. He'd contented himself with acting as a surrogate father to the children in his school.
Tears gathered behind her eyelids. Then there was Kevin. Kevin, who had few friends but had once asked for a little brother. She could see it now, the three of them, a newborn in their midst. Kevin would be curious at the new arrival, Charles, delighted, and she would be speechless at how lucky she was.
Moira flattened her hands, felt what, now that she was looking for it, was a slight firmness. There was a tiny life there, only a few weeks old. She was sure of it with every growing moment. And, in these first few weeks, she was going to be in a cold cell, with food that wouldn't help the baby, stressed and tortured.
A new thought occurred to her, one that stabbed her to her heart. What if she lost the baby? What if all the torture and the pain, mental and physical, caused a miscarriage? Martinique had focused on mental pain mostly, although the cigarette burns that decorated her arms declared it wasn't the only thing, but what if she changed her mind?
Again, her hands fisted in the cloth of her shirt, and she wept. She wept because, unlike her last pregnancy, she wouldn't be able to protect the child like she wanted to. She wouldn't be able to spend these weeks watching what she ate, picking out items for a nursery, gathering clothes, counting down the days. There would be no shower, no well wishers. The reaction the child had prompted was one of fear, not joy.
And she was sorry for all of that, but, as she curled around the life growing inside of her, she knew that she wasn't going to die there. She wasn't going to let someone like Martinique take this child from her, not when she wanted it so bad, when Charles would want it, when Kevin would want it.
With a renewed sense of strength, she closed her eyes again, wiping away her tears. She wasn't going to lose the baby. She was going to win.
