Happy Sunday, everyone! It's over a hundred degrees here, which makes it a perfect day to stay inside and read lots of fan fiction. Here's chapter 21!
Chapter 21…
Somewhere between skimming CIA files, rummaging through distributor paperwork and scratching out false leads, Moira had fallen asleep. One leg dangling over the sofa, she lay with folders tucked underneath her and papers slumped across her stomach. She snored lightly.
Moira didn't notice the gentle rapping on her apartment's front door. She didn't hear the knob unlocking. No, it wasn't until she heard her name directly over her head that her mind finally registered anything at all.
"Moira?"
Her eyes snapped open; above her, a face peered down. With a scream, she jerked up. Papers collapsed off her like snow off the side of a house.
Levene's reaction was no better. Releasing a yelp, the man stumbled away, almost dropping the mound of paperwork in his grasp.
"God!" he shouted. "It's just me, Moira!"
Gasping, Moira exclaimed, "How did you get in here?"
Levene motioned his eyes to a set of keys dangling off his point finger. "You gave me a spare, remember?"
Sliding her feet off the sofa, Moira allowed the last bits of paper to topple.
In front of her, Levene stood in his black and white business suit, his thick-rimmed glasses not hiding the bewilderment in his gaze. He surveyed the place like it belonged to a serial killer. "Jesus, Moira—obsessing just a bit? "
Nodding to the files in Levene's arms, Moira's asked, "Is that what I think it is?"
Levene turned his attention back to her. "We're all going to be hanged for this," he said and dropped the stack of papers to Moira's sofa. "You can thank Hadley and Forman for them. They spent almost all day and night tracking down that supply list of yours."
"And the other thing?"
Levene hunched over like she'd just dropped a fifty pound weight on his back. Lifting the top folder away, he handed it to her. "You owe me big. Like, a trip to Europe, big."
Moira opened the folder. Inside were a few pieces of paper.
"You're lucky," Levene said. "McCone's starting to notice some of his files are MIA. I was able to sneak that part out while Forman distracted his secretary."
Levene was right; it wasn't the entire file. But it was what Moira needed.
A list of locations—every known location the CIA had found for Sebastian Shaw.
"He seems to like warm climates," Levene pointed out. "Argentina. Florida. Hell, he even had a place in Cairo once. The only time he ever went any place below sixty degrees, it was out of necessity. "
"You are my savior, Levene." Hopping over the mound of papers across her floor, Moira retrieved her list of pharmaceutical suppliers and then began hunting for her pen.
"Uh," Levene motioned his point finger to her head, "behind your ear, sweetheart."
Offering Levene a little smile, Moira slipped the pen from the side of her head and got to work. She started circling locations of interest. Erik wasn't stupid; he'd never use a base the CIA knew about. But the CIA didn't know all of them. For Erik not to use resources left by Shaw would be a waste, and Erik was not the wasteful type.
Now all she had to do was read through the rest of the information Levene had brought her. If she could find a correlation between the pharmaceutical supplies, plus Cerebro's, and then match with a region that would fit Shaw's profile, she might be onto something. If only Hank would call her back—
"I can't help you anymore," Levene said.
Moira peeked up. Levene's expression teetered between tired and reluctant, like he didn't want to speak but was too exhausted to fight anymore. "I'm sorry," he continued, "but I've already risked my job getting you all this stuff. I can't do it anymore."
"I understand," she replied. "Thank you. I couldn't ask for a better partner in crime."
Moira was hoping for at least a tiny grin. Instead, Levene shifted his legs nervously, clearly wishing to say more. Finally, he asked, "What's this really about?"
That wasn't a question Moira was willing to answer. "Don't worry yourself with that, okay?"
"It's for them, isn't it?"
Moira's pen remained idle in her hands. After a moment, she replied, "Would it make a difference if it was?"
Levene glanced away. Fixing his hands on his hips, he said, "Just answer me this. Why are you so hell-bent on helping them? You almost got killed the last time."
"Come on, Levene. You know the CIA won't be able to hide this 'mutant phenomenon' for long. What do you think will happen when the world discovers their existence? If we're not careful, there could be a war. And I'm not so certain we'll be on the winning side."
Levene dropped his arms from his waist. He gawked at the paperwork across the carpet like it might bite him.
With that, Moira continued, "Stryker and people like him…they're dangerous. Far more than a telepathic scholar. We need to protect our allies, and whether or not McCone and the others want to admit it, Charles Xavier and his group of mutants are exactly that. You really want to make them our enemies?"
The exhaustion on Levene's face darkened. "This isn't the end of it," he muttered as if to himself.
Moira shook her head. "No. It's just the beginning."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Charles slept. Erik hadn't been gone more than a few minutes before darkness curled in around him; he was still cloaked in dust and debris, and even a few different types of oil from Cerebro. His bed sheets still dangled from the ceiling.
He smelled bad. He felt worse.
Nonetheless, he slept like it he hadn't closed his eyes for a year.
He dreamed. He hadn't recalled dreaming in months—not a real one. He had moments when he snapped awake, thinking about his physical therapy, his mansion's renovations, or the plans for the school. He had contractors to call; he had rehab to do.
Within Erik's island prison, those dreams had all but vanished.
The world dwelled in gray—like being in the midst of fog that swallowed up every bit of color around it. It was neither warm nor cold there. It was neither good nor bad. It just was. Existence. Life. A mix of everything that created humanity, blended together.
Noises. Little whispers within the fog—minds roaming with ideas and emotions, and he absorbed it all. He was a part of it. He was a part of them, if only for a brief instant.
And there, he was free.
The base's door opened and Charles jerked awake. The soft gray brightened to the ceiling's amber lights; his mind closed back on itself like someone was putting a bag over his head. By the bed rested his wheelchair where Erik had brought it to him before Charles had fallen asleep.
From the entrance behind Cerebro, Erik entered. His bright red shirt almost appeared maroon inside the dark room—his cape almost as black as night. He trudged to the fence and it parted for him as he passed. He stepped into the main living area.
Charles sat up. He threw a glimpse downwards, suddenly realizing that he hadn't cathed himself before collapsing into bed. But there was nothing. He barely had anything to drink in two days, and for once, that was a good thing.
Erik approached him. He held his head high, but his stride was slow. Charles knew what it meant. "I see you've made a decision," Charles said as the other man reached his bedside.
Erik's expression remained impassive. "I have."
"What say you?"
Erik reached into his shirt's pocket. Something rattled. Slowly, he pulled out a long, silver chain; it shimmered in the base's lights like a piece of jewelry. At both ends, cuffs dangled. They clapped together as Erik held them in his grasp.
Charles' mouth dropped. Across his upper body, every muscle tensed like needles were being stabbed into each one. He gazed up at his old friend and knew he wanted to say something. But he couldn't find any words to do so.
"Get up," Erik said. "Go to the bathroom—get yourself clean. Shave your face. We have work that needs to be finished and we can't afford any more delays." He paused, shifting his eyes between the cuffs and Charles; his face sombered. "I'm sorry."
Charles waited a moment for his friend to return to his senses. It didn't happen. Blankly, Charles extended his hand and grabbed his wheelchair's armrest. He transferred himself off the bed, manually positioned his feet in his footplates, and then went into the bathroom.
Half an hour passed like it was nothing. When Charles returned, his hair was wet; the new clothes he'd wiggled on were sticking to his damp body. By the sofa, Erik stood, the handcuffs at the ready.
By the bed, Charles slid his hands to his lap, linking his fingers together. Erik marched up to him and then knelt down by the chair.
"I never wanted this," he said as he cuffed the chain to Charles' left armrest. "But you've left me with no other choice."
"You'd like to believe that," Charles whispered.
Erik didn't react. Using his power, he squeezed the chair's metal railing, tightening it so it couldn't be detached. Then, he reached out his right hand to Charles, palm upwards. "Give me your wrist."
Charles glared at the other man.
Erik's face didn't harden, but the determination was far more frightening than any anger the man might possess. "Now, Charles."
One by one, Charles pried his fingers apart. He brought his arm up—
Without hesitation, Erik seized Charles' wrist and then lifted the other end of the handcuffs. He snaked the metal band across Charles' skin, clicking the restraint into place.
When Erik finally looked up, guilt traced his features.
"It's only when I'm not here," he said. "I can't have you destroying the wall panels, or getting into places you shouldn't be again."
Charles didn't bother replying.
Erik stood up. He peeked at his new wristwatch. Minutes passed in silence; Erik loitered there with his back turned, his purple cape masking him like a theater curtain from Charles' gaze. Then, something red flashed.
Charles felt it more than saw it. Beside Cerebro's platform, there was a shift. He shot out his telepathy, but before he could even register what it was, he heard her.
"Keep it to yourself, sugar," Emma Frost's voice called from the middle of the sphere.
Beside her, there came another flash. Charles tried to focus his eyes, but he didn't really need to see to know what it was. The teleporter, Azazel, was jumping in and out of the room. With each flash, another piece of Cerebro left with him.
As the realization dawned on him, Charles concentrated.
"I told you not to do that," Emma warned.
Then, from across Charles' telepathic link, everything became distorted. It was like he was peering through a collection of fragmented glass just inches from his face. Emma stepped up into the main living area, her shimmery bodysuit glinting in the base's soft lights. Behind her, Azazel continued teleporting, snatching up busted machinery as he went.
Through her telepathy, Emma was protecting the teleporter, making sure Charles didn't find an opportunity to lock on. Charles expanded his mind. He pushed it as far as he could towards the room. But Emma was there to block him. Wincing, he let out a breath and tried again. Each time was met with her crystal barrier, keeping him at bay.
From behind her, Azazel popped in and out of existence.
One flash.
Then another.
He had taken most of Cerebro with him.
"Don't make this difficult on yourself," Erik told him, clearly realizing what Charles was trying to do.
Nonetheless, Charles fired out his telepathy again. Perhaps it was useless; perhaps he was fooling himself. But he had to try. If he could grab a hold of Azazel's mind, the teleporter could take him home. And this—all of this—would be done with.
Nonetheless, no matter how hard he tried to reach the teleporter's mind, Emma was there to stop him. And as the last bit of Cerebro was consumed by red fog, Charles sank into his wheelchair. Another hope for escape—lost.
Both Emma and Erik seemed unfazed by it all. As she approached Erik's side, he glanced at his watch again like they were running a tight schedule. Erik linked the metal fence back together with the ease of closing his hand.
Then, Erik's eyes shifted to Charles. A look of pity suddenly masked them like Charles was something that needed to be put of its misery. "I'll be back later," Erik said. "Do yourself a favor and stop these futile attempts at escape. It's not going to happen."
Then, one last flash of red invaded the air. With it, all the mutants disappeared. Across the base, the only thing left of Cerebro were the metal panels across the walls and the platform in its center, making the spherical room as empty as a graveyard at night.
End of Chapter