Broken Road Chapter 25, a x-men: the movie fanfic

Chapter 25

I will be the death of you

Breaking Benjamin, Breath

Sucking in air like it was water, he pushed himself further through the woods toward the south, toward what he hoped was rescue. That's what the mutant had told him, right? That his friends were here to rescue them all, right? That they were coming in from the south. His legs burned; they felt like jelly. He hadn't used them in over a month. Not since he'd been captured.

He could hear the threshing of vegetation behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder and bristled when he saw the steel barrel emerge first. He pushed his hands behind him and focused on the earth, on the roots beneath the ground. In his mind's eye, he could see the dormant seeds; see the mazes of tiny tubes that pulled sustenance from the earth. They were strong, thick in some places, wiry in others, but all strong. He slipped into the brush, held his breath, and looked toward the gun. Three more had emerged behind the first. Now, he lifted his hands once more, waking those seeds, alerting those roots, and calling to them both for help.

The ground rumbled. The four Friends looked wildly around, each one lashing out against the earth, cursing its movement, and cursing its existence. They shouted obscenities, daring Mother Nature to obliterate them. Beneath the soil, the roots came, shooting up like waterless torpedoes. They tangled. They snarled. They ripped. Curling around the men, the onslaught separated them from their weapons, pushing those guns higher to the sky, beyond their reach. They curled around ankles and calves, anchoring the men to the ground they had challenged.

He looked again, caught his breath, and allowed himself to feel a tiny burst of pride at the way his power had helped him. Then he was up again, pumping air through lungs that felt like bursting and pushing blood across muscles of burning lead.

Within minutes, he was at a clearing.

Was it his imagination, or was there a large jet at the other end?

"Storm!" The professor's hand went to his forehead. "Someone is approaching."

She was beside him in a second. "Is it a mutant?"

His eyes had rolled up under the lids. She blew out an impatient breath.

"Yes," came the answer. "And I'm afraid there are some Friends not far behind him."

She nodded, a gust of wind pushed her toward the ramp. She was outside a second later. Scanning the area, she saw the young man. He was sickly and yellow, but there was a determination on his face. She motioned to him and called upon the wind to carry her out toward him. He was half way across when she noticed a rustling in the grasses on the edge of the clearing.

The gust picked up, sending her straight to the boy—he couldn't have been old enough to buy alcohol—and she landed next to him. Pushing on his shoulder, she ordered, "Get down!"

He fell to the ground, just as she lifted into the sky.

Gunfire sounded.

And she felt the anger within her swell. She evaded the bullets and raised her hands to the heavens. The clouds, once white and puffy, turned gray, and lightning crackled between them. The Friends were frozen to their spots, mystified by the woman with swirling silver locks and by how quickly the weather seemed to change before them. She looked down on them, her eyes clouded over with whiteness, and pointed.

Zzzziiiippppttttffffff! A jagged trail of light cut through the air like a serrated knife and split the earth in front of the men. They fell back, the sheer force knocking them from their feet. Next came a whirlwind, banging them against one another, pushing and pulling them into a nice little bundle. They'd lost their weapons with the lightning, but the way the air sucked at them, they were sure next they would lose their lives.

She raised her hands and they couldn't feel the ground anymore. She wanted to lift them as high as she could. She wanted to lift them and then listen as they fell to their deaths. She hated them. She hated how they treated those that were different. She hated how they had hurt her family. She hated how they were hunting this poor boy. Oh, she hated them.

But she wasn't a murderer.

And it killed her a little that she couldn't avenge all the lives that they had harmed.

So she found the tallest tree and haphazardly dropped them into it.

Just because she wasn't a murderer didn't mean she had to be delicate.

She lowered herself to where the boy was cowering.

"You didn't kill them."

She wondered if he was accusing her of weakness.

"No," she breathed, steadying her anger, trying to regain that composure that was so necessary. "No, I did not."

"Why not?" He asked, grabbing her outstretched hand and pulling himself to his feet.

"Because I found another way."

"What if they get down?"

"I guess I'll drop them into a lake."

"I can help." And he outstretched his hands and Ororo watched while the tree's branches wrapped themselves around the Friends, holding them captive. "It'll hold them a little longer anyway."

She offered him a tired smile. "You look hungry. We have food and we'll protect you."

"Who are you?"

"We're the X-Men."

"I-I think I have a message for you."

She helped him up the ramp. "A message? From whom?"

"I-I don't know his name. He just said something about jokers being wild."

She stopped, her hand wrapping tightly around the boy's arm. "'Jokers are wild'?" Her eyes were wide and her voice had raised an octave.

He shook his head, his own eyes mimicking hers. "Y-yes. Is-is that okay?"

Her hands caught her tears. "Oh, thank goddess! Remy!" And she slumped against the wall at the top of the ramp and cried.

Under normal circumstances she would probably like flying. Sam's power, however, could hardly be viewed as 'normal'. There was very little normal about feeling like half of your body was on fire. That wasn't really a fair description. It wasn't that cannonballing hurt or that it felt like her skin was being peeled off from heat. It was the pressure that accompanied his power that made her feel uneasy. She wondered how he didn't throw up after each trip.

Her stomach was in knots as she sucked in a breath and abruptly crash-landed in a blackberry bush. The branches scratched her cheeks and she fought to free her tangled hair. Remy was beside her, a few leaves were sticking out the side of his head. He was watching her with his dark eyes, a faint grin pressing on the corners of his mouth. He was worn though. She could see the weariness etched in the shadows under his eyes. Then she noticed his shoulder.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she smothered her own gasp. "Oh, dear God. What did they do to you?" She gingerly touched the crimson stain. "We've got to get you to the Blackbird. This has got to be looked at."

The hiss frightened her. And when he grabbed her hand, she felt her heart stop. He was grimacing, but his grip was like steel. He saw her face, saw the fear in her eyes and slightly released his hold. "Desole," he whispered. "Sonuvabitch burns like a mother fucker." He traced his fingers down her cheek. "I need ya t' do somethin' for me, Rogue. I need ya to promise you'll do it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Ah ain't promisin' nothin'. Not til you tell me what it is."

He chuckled, pushed his palm into her cheek, and coaxed her to relax into him. "I want you to go to the Blackbird. I don't want you to come out until all the fightin' is done."

She slapped him.

He growled at her. "What de fuck, woman?! What do you t'ink dis is? Some kind of game? Get on dat damn jet so dat I know you're safe." He grabbed for her shoulders, she struggled out of his grip. "Damn it! Don't you understand? I won't be able to take it if something happens to you."

The Mississippi roared back at him. "An' what if somethin' happens to you? An' Ah'm not there to help? Y'know fer all your suave charm, you're a sexist pig. Do you really think Ah can just go an' sit an' wait to see if you're all right? That Ah'm some wilting daisy? Ah'm gonna cower in the back of the Bird while mah man is out here with a bunch o' raving psychos? An' what the hell're you smilin' at?"

He was, too. Like a Cheshire cat.

"Ya're man, huh?" His dimples winked at her.

She felt her cheeks warm under his gaze. Squirming, she plucked a blackberry from a devastated branch and shoved it into her mouth. If she'd been watching, she'd have seen his eyes widened by a fraction. The berry popped in her mouth, its juice whetting her thirst. She glanced up at him from under long, sooty eyelashes.

She swallowed. "Well, Ah—m-meant—"

His mouth crushed into hers. She sighed. Kissing him was like being on fire, a wonderful, warm, sensual fire. It started in her belly and flamed out to her fingers and toes until her whole body was hot and aching and … oh, wonderful. She felt his fingers tangling her hair, felt him pulling her closer, felt his tongue flickering against her own. She curled her arms around his neck. He pulled his lips away and leaned his forehead against hers.

"I must be some kind of freak."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"Here we are wit' all o' dis death and destruction around us. An' all I could t'ink was how much I wanted to kiss you." He ran a finger down her cheek; it sent chills down her spine. "Girl, I cain't even t'ink when I'm around you."

"Ah get that a lot."

"Very funny." He leaned back, his eyes closing for a long moment, and she saw how dead tired he actually was. "I am a sexist pig."

"What?"

"I never used to be, but dammit, if you haven't made me one. See, I got dis crazy need to protect you an' if ya're out here wit' de bullets flyin' an' me droppin' bombs, I ain't doin' dat."

She cocked her head and squared her jaw. "Listen, Sparky, Ah'm an X-Man. Ah don' need ya're permission—"

"Anna Marie," it was low and soft and made her insides gel. His eyes were open and he was staring at her in a way that made her head feel like he was tickling her brain with a feather. His eyes were bright red swirls that sucked her down into their pulsating swells. Over and under the different shades of brilliant crimson collapsed into themselves, pulling her with them, through them, until she didn't know which way was up or down or sideways. Then, across the rising red tide, she heard him speaking to her; it was singsong, the glorious melody of his voice keeping time to her heart's beat. It enchanted her, made her want to sing along, to dance and sway and spin like his eyes.

"Anna Marie, I need you to get to the Blackbird. I want you to use whatever of Sam's power you got left. I don't want you to stop; I don't want you to look back; I don't want you to even think about me until you are inside that jet and safe. I need you to be safe. If ya're not safe, neither am I. Oh, chére, do you understand?"

She was looking at him with unseeing eyes. Her lips were turned upward in a pleasant grin, but she nodded and a second later, Sam's power was pushing her into the sky.

"Well, don't it just get better and better?"

"Can it, Wolverine."

"Oh, I'll can it. I'll can it right up your ass. I already got three adamantium ones ready to go."

"Perhaps, we should turn our attention to the gang of weapon-wielding bigots surrounding us and save all our inner turmoil for couple's therapy."

Wolverine glanced at Beast and shrugged. "Fine. I got time. After I take care of their scrawny asses, I'll deal with Four-Eyes here."

Cyclops' visor glowed ominously. "Try it Metal-Head and I'll shoot straight to your bones and let them get nice and hot. At what temperature does adamantium melt?"

"Shut-up!" One of the Friends fired a shot into the air. He kept his gaze level and lowered the gun to point on the scene in front of him. "Whaddaya think, Gary? I don't remember seeing these guys at the beginning."

Another man piped up. "No, they don't look like they came out of no trashcan. And check-out what they're wearin'. What's Creed got goin' on?"

Still another man responded. "Who the hell cares? A mutant's a mutant. An' the only good one is a dead one." He cocked his gun.

"Cyke?" Logan's claws looked ready to pop.

"Look, men, we don't want any trouble—"

"Well, you've got it, brother. We're tired of your kind comin' in and trying to pass for human. You're just animals that resemble us."

"Devils."

"Shoot the blue one first."

Beast rolled his eyes. "It's always 'shoot the blue one first'. The irony being that though I may look bestial and unintelligent, I probably have an IQ greater than all of you ignoramuses combined."

"That's it, Blue, taunt them."

"Enough is enough! I say we kill 'em now and sort 'em later."

They leveled their guns and gasped as an unseeable force ripped them from their grips.

"What the f--!"

The guns whirled around. The men looked wildly about, hands going into the air, as they stared up the barrels of their own weapons.

A woman with green hair floated to the ground. "'Lo gentlemen."

"Nice trick."

"Thanks, it's an old one." She turned to look at the Friends. "Now, I think you're going to answer a whole lotta questions."

One of the men spat on the ground in front of her. "Mutant bitch."

The gun in front of him cocked. Polaris smiled. "This isn't baseball. You only get two strikes before you're out for good."

Xavier patted the mutant on the shoulder. "You've been through quite enough for one lifetime, young man."

"Justin."

Smiling, Xavier extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Justin." He chewed his lip for a moment before asking, "Did they feed you while you were their prisoner?"

The young man shrugged. "Just a little. Like bread and water."

"There is a refrigerator in the back of the medlab, but you must be careful. Eat an orange. You'll need the vitamin C to help prevent scurvy. But only eat one for right now. We don't want to send your body into shock." He stopped, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Justin gripped his shoulder. "Sir? Sir, are you all right?"

Ororo pushed into the room. "What is it? Professor?"

Xavier shook his head. "Someone's approaching. And they're coming in fast."

Steel blue eyes swirled with electricity. "Friend or foe."

"Friend…but something's not right."

Ororo ran for the ramp and used a gust to carry her into the sky. She narrowly missed the hurtling cannonball.

Rogue didn't stop until her feet were planted firmly on the ramp.

"Oh, thank the goddess! Rogue, what's happening out there?"

The young southern woman didn't answer. Instead, she plodded up the ramp, a blank look plastered across her features.

Ororo followed her. "Rogue? Rogue? What is wrong with you?"

"She's under some form of mind control. It's not extremely powerful. It's starting to fade." He sighed, his head shaking as realization dawned. "It's almost as if she's been—"

Ororo closed her eyes. "Charmed."

So he was a rat bastard.

What else was new?

It wasn't like he had done it to…acquire…some rare piece of jewelry. It wasn't like he was lying…or stealing…or coveting… Though technically he was sure that taking away someone's freedom of choice was probably not looked upon positively, it wasn't like he had done any of the big sins. Well, not yet, anyway. But once he found JP, anyone that was in his way was going to regret ever standing there.

But he couldn't have her with him. Not when he knew that he could lose her again. And this time, there wouldn't be any tailing her at the airport or sending empathic tractor beams to her room. These Friends, he sneered at the name, were out for blood. Mutant blood. And the more they spilled the happier and crazier they would become. He couldn't take the risk of exposing her the way JP had been exposed. And he knew, he knew that if it hadn't been for Sam clamping his hand on her mouth (an act which, at the time, made him want to beat the living shit out of the Kentuckian), she'd have lost her composure the same as his brother had.

He couldn't run the risk.

He wouldn't risk her.

Though he knew that if he made it out of this alive, she'd probably kill him. But it would be the kind of death he could deal with. Anything at her hands would be magical, even if she was gouging him with a hot poker.

His shoulder was killing him. It ached and burned; his muscles felt like they were separating from the bone.

He sent a curl of empathy beyond the brush and trees of his sight and breathed a sigh of relief when it came back benign. The ground crunched beneath his weight and he pushed past the branches of an evergreen. He felt ridiculous walking through the uneven terrain when a nice footpath lay nearby. He shook his head and ducked between bushes. Another empathic scout dipped and swayed and scooted across the expanse, peeking in at the emotions of others before backtracking in on itself and allowing Remy the insight he required for safety. This time the flare of hatred scalded him and he sank into a crouch within a thorny bush. Heavy footsteps plodded past and while he wanted nothing more than to send an arsenal of tiny pebble-bombs toward the Friend, he locked his fingers and held his breath and focused on his mission. He had to get to JP. And he needed to do it in a manner that at least resembled a covert operation.

Once he had JP, then he could blow the place to hell.

He closed his eyes and focused on his initial escape from the stage area. If he was remembering correctly, then the amphitheater wasn't too far away. Now, normally, there would be no question. Remy had a mind like a steel trap when it came to mapping exits and remembering them. However, this was not like a typical job. This was a fucking massacre and he wasn't exactly in his best working order. His shoulder was cursing him, and damn it if his stomach wasn't shrieking at a comparable level.

More empathy. More hatred. And he dropped into a covered ditch.

He was close. He'd been through this area before. Thirty feet or so and he'd be right up on the amphitheater. He only hoped that most of the Friends were out and about and looking throughout the woods for their mutant prey and not hunkering down and protecting base camp. And he hoped JP was still at the reserve. He wouldn't have a clue where to find him if they'd already carted him off.

Some people were really good with words.

For instance, Hank could weave a web with his endless strings of adjectives and adverbs. He was almost mythical with his prepositional phrases and gerund clauses. A true artist. Webster, himself, would probably flush with envy at Hank's oratorical prowess.

Yep, some people were really good with words.

Logan? Not so much.

And he was okay with that.

He clarified that feeling with the snikt! of his claws.

"I don't know about the rest of you," he snarled, his eyes narrowing in an ominous fashion, "but I've about had enough of Mr. Nice Guy talk. If you dip-shits aren't going to tell the nice lady what she wants to know, fine by me. I've wanted a good excuse to cut off your heads all evening."

His lips curled into a snarl. "Ask 'em again, darlin'. If you don't like the answer, I'll chop 'em into firewood."

Cyclops pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn't say anything.

Polaris half-grinned. "You know, Wolvie? I don't think they believe you. And I'm tired of wasting my time. If they can't help themselves, they're certainly not going to help us. I say do it, and we'll bury the bodies."

"Fine by me." He grabbed one of the men by the back of his neck and pulled back a fist of fully extended claws.

"Stop!" The men shouted in unison.

Wolverine's arm froze in mid-swing. He rolled his eyes, his snarl turning into a scowl. "What the hell?!"

"We don't know where the mutant is. Okay?" one of the men started. "Creed released him out into the reserve first. Didn't see which way he went. The other one. The one that we caught during the assembly. He's—damn it, Gary, where the hell'd you guys put him?"

"I ain't no puss. I'm not saying a damn thing."

"I got two kids, asshole. He's got fuckin' metal claws. Tell him. I want to see my kids again."

"I ain't no puss."

"Tell him or I'll kill you myself!"

"Fine!" Gary turned yellow-brown eyes filled with hate to Polaris' green ones. "We got a nice 'frigerator truck in the back of the stage. Keepin' him on ice for Creed."

"We need to alert the rest of the team." Cyclops began securing one the men's hands.

Wolverine rolled his eyes. "What do you want? Smoke signals?"

Cyclops stopped and tapped the small 'X' insignia on his chest. The communication link lit up. "Professor, we need a psychic link up to the team. We think we know where JP is."

"Yeah," Wolverine added, pulling Gary up by his collar, "unless Gair here's tellin' us a line o' shit. Half of me hopes he is, 'cause there's nothin' I want more than to rip one of these assholes' heads off."

She had a lovely warm feeling in her chest. Like a blossoming flower, the warmth spread throughout her body, starting in her heart and moving in pulsating little ripples out to her limbs. It was nice. Comfortable. And she felt enveloped in the coziness of that heat. It relaxed her, made her feel secure, safe, like every ill-gotten emotion was someone else's memory and that she didn't have a care in the world. She hugged herself and breathed in the fresh air. It was warm as well, and smelled of the great outdoors. Peppermint, cedar, and humid, southern air blended together and tickled her nose. She let the scents mingle and reveled at how full and pleasant her lungs felt when filled with the air. It was different than the air in New York. It was a different kind of heavy; the humidity made it thicker, harder to breathe, but it felt so good compared to the smoggier air of the metropolis.

There just wasn't anything like home.

Home was humidity and heat. Home was the Mississippi lazily curling against the riverbed on a quiet day or thrashing and crashing in a frenzied fight when the weather changed. Home was fried chicken, fresh greens, and a chocolate cake the size of her head. Home was southern accents that slid off the tongue like thick molasses onto pancakes; strong, thick, liquid sugar that spun itself into cotton candy and melted on the tongues of tourists. Home was music: fast and flashy, the kind that pumped pure sex and made sweat drip from the hairlines or it was so slow and exact that it ached for touch and dragged fingertips across each steady pulse.

She felt her lips curl into a small smile and a half-sigh, half-chuckle escaped her lips.

Home was a set of dimples that played peek-a-boo, only coming out once in a while, only when he really smiled. And it was tousled brown hair that skirted the top of his jaw line, just dipping beneath his earlobe. Home was the little crinkles that framed his glittering eyes. They moved in and out and over and under, glowing and fading and glowing and fading, whirlpools of light and dark. And light. Dark…

…light…

Her brow furrowed and she bit the tip of her thumb. A breathy moan escaped her lips and she felt the crease at the top of her nose, right between her eyes. Something wasn't right; the warmth that had been so pleasant, so protective was beginning to cool, and she felt confused as to why it was deserting her.

"Rogue?"

Across what seemed like miles she heard her name. She swung her head around, her eyes fighting to focus on the scene around her. Everything seemed so detached. Like it didn't belong to the environment from where she had just come. She felt the panic rise in her chest, the warmth now completely gone; her home melting around her.

She was…in the Blackbird?

"Rogue?"

She looked; her eyes took a moment to adjust. Storm and Kitty were standing before her, their mouths moved, but their voices didn't match up, like a bad audio connection. Rogue shook her head, trying desperately to clear the cobwebs. She rubbed her eyes, pulled at her ears, tried to figure out where she was and how she had gotten there…

"Rogue." This time the words and the mouth were connected, and the southerner let out a strangled sigh.

"Ah—Ah—How--?"

Kitty was frowning; she placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. "You're in the Blackbird."

Rogue's eyebrows cinched together and she shook her head, her ringlets quaking against the short bursts. "But—no—Ah—how--? How did Ah--?"

"Rogue," Storm chewed on her lip before continuing, "Rogue, do you know where Remy is?"

Rogue looked around the med lab. "He was here. Ah was just with…" she stopped. His eyes. Light, dark, light, dark. And she felt wetness begin to form beneath her eyelids. "He—he hypnotized me."

"Yeah," Storm nodded. "Charmed you. He has a low level form of telepathy. Very good at making suggestions with which you just can't seem to argue."

"He…mind-controlled…me?"

Storm shook her head. "No, it's not quite that powerful. It's more or less a significant power of suggestion. Don't feel bad. It's not like you're the first—"

"That bastard sent me back here after Ah told him Ah wasn't leavin' him?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"Ah know where he was…more or less. An' when Ah find him again, Ah'm gonna beat him black and blue."

"He may not be that hard to find," Xavier wheeled into the room. "I've just received communication from Scott. We think we know where JP is. And if I even pretend to know our wayward Cajun, I imagine he's looking for two things."

Kitty shook her head. "What's that, Professor?"

"His brother," Xavier began, "and retribution."

It fuckin' sucks to get shot!

Gambit was leaning against a large tree. Thorned bushes circled the perimeter, skirting over the tops of serpentine roots and skimming the bottoms of the twisted branches. While it did hide him from prying eyes, the hidey-hole was limited in its protection for obvious reasons: leaves did not make a viable force field; they weren't bulletproof. He leaned his head against the rough bark, and cocked his ear toward the direction of the amphitheater. His shoulder throbbed. The fingerlike thorns digging into his skin probably didn't help it. He closed his eyes and gripped his shoulder with his free hand. The stench of blood mingled with sweat; he wrinkled his nose, but breathed deeply anyhow. He was starting to shake; the mediocre first-aid treatment that the Friends had given him was beginning to wear off. If it meant an alcohol swab and a new bandage, he doubted very much that he would mind seeing Alaska again. But somehow he suspected that a new meeting wouldn't be as pleasant as the first.

The amphitheater area still had many Friends within its outskirts. If he'd been in tip-top condition, he'd have already been in and gotten JP out. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the best of condition. He wasn't really sure if what he was in could even technically be considered a condition.

All he knew was that he hurt.

Setting his teeth into his top lip, he focused on moving his shoulder…just a little. It throbbed in protest, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He had to ignore the pain; he had to overcome it. He had to save JP.

He thought about the poor mutants that had gone before him. He wondered what kinds of deaths they had met. He thought about what the Friends would have done to him, what they were sure to do to JP. He imagined what they would have done to Rogue if she and Sam had been discovered at the warehouse district…if he hadn't saved them. It made him sick, made him want to retch, but his mind continued through the scenarios despite his attempts to squash them. He gripped his shoulder tighter, gritting his teeth against the pain.

He heard scuffling from the direction of the amphitheater. Moving at a snail's pace, he leaned down to the ground, his cheek pressed into the dirt, and looked through a tiny leaf porthole that he had created for just such an occasion.

Several Friends were bringing their trophies back for appraisal. Some trophies were completely, eerily still; others still had some fight in them. A few Friends were bickering between themselves; he couldn't make out their words, but he didn't need empathy to realize that they weren't happy.

He lay against the ground, watching, fuming in silence.

What he needed was a distraction. One that was large enough to pull most of the Friends out and away from the amphitheater, from that stage where his powers were completely off. He had deduced something about the Friends. One was that their fear made them totally irrational. Another was that their irrationality made them creatures of habit. They would want to do what they knew worked. The stage worked. They had all seen it when JP hit the ground mid-flight. That was a safety zone. They could allow themselves to become as physically brutal as they wanted without the fear of mutant retaliation. Which was another thing he had noticed: the Friends wanted to feel superior. Killing with weapons wasn't nearly as exhilarating or as powerful as barehandedly beating the ever-living shit out of someone. Also, there was the matter of those trashcans. He knew they were saving JP for when they really needed that sense of grandeur. Probably the finale of this insanity. And that meant they needed a place to store him. The cans were perfect.

He lay there for a long moment. He had to come to grips with the real possibility that this was the end of the line for him. His mortality was staring him down. The funny thing about being a mutant superhero—hell, forget that, just being 26 years old, was that the invincibility-syndrome that started when he was a teen-ager was still there to a small degree. It was hard for him to truly accept that leaving the "safety" of the shrubbery with the injuries that he had sustained could be considered a form of suicide. Granted, he would be extremely heroic, but what the hell good did heroics do if he was in a body bag?

He opened his eyes and let out a small breath. That was when he saw it. His stacked deck. And he couldn't stop the crooked hitch of his lip that slid into a full-fledged grin.

Dimples and all.

Distraction is an art.

From the fake lashes and push-up bras filling the bars on Saturday nights to the fake passes and zigzags on the football field, distraction is at play any day in any given place. Some diversions are simple, unplanned, yet welcomed for their ability to capture the attention away from the more mundane or distasteful tasks that fill each day. Others are more elaborate, perfectly planned and executed with the full intent of keeping eyes off of the real target. Like the beautiful assistants in a magic show, some distractions are the key to the trick, to the science that lies beneath the smoke and mirrors.

At that moment, Gambit didn't have the luxury of a beautiful assistant designed to keep the Friends' gazes off of him. But he did have a diversion…unplanned and volatile as it appeared to be, he did have one. And he enjoyed the humor of its irony with a smile and a low, unhappy chuckle.

He pushed through the encircling bush and put the tree between him and his Diversion. Keeping low to the ground, he pressed his cheek into the dirt and, careful not to move the branches too much, lifted the leaves at the bottom of the bush so he could peer out and see the front entry to the amphitheater.

Shaking with insanity or anger and covered in mud and blood stood Graydon Creed.

The Friends' seemed to freeze in his presence, mystified by their leader's uncharacteristic lack of suavity and clarity. They stared at him, eyes wide with fear and grotesque admiration, as they waited for him to speak, to lead them to the promised future of the human race. And, he too, seemed frozen, his maddening eyes flickering between sanity and the not, gazing into their faces, trying to make sense of all that he was seeing. He stood, his back to the tree, facing the gathering that was filing in from the woods and raising his hands and his voice.

He didn't see him.

Until he tripped over his legs.

And then Kurt picked himself up and stared down at the inert body of Sam Guthrie. At first he'd had a sense of terror seize at him. He was positive Sam had been discovered by the Friends and murdered on the spot.

Then, it occurred to him that there wasn't any blood.

And Sam was breathing.

Quickly and carefully, he pulled Sam up and threw him over a shoulder and began teleporting toward the Blackbird.

"Rogue, I think it would be in the best interest of the mission if you stayed on the Blackbird and helped Storm, Kitty, and I with the necessary medical—"

"No offense, Professor," Rogue began as she stalked down the ramp, Cannonball's power already flickering against her legs, "but Ah have a previous engagement."

He found the truck.

It was parked at the rear of the amphitheater behind a couple trees. What was easy a 25-foot flat bed trailer was hooked to its bumper. Gambit leaned against the trailer, resting for just a moment. The crawl from his hidey-hole beside the tree had all but exhausted his usually endless bounty of energy. Breathing was starting to be too tiring. Gathering himself together, he pulled himself up onto the trailer.

Filling half of the bed's capacity was an army of silver, cylindrical sentinels. Gambit felt his chest tighten against the awkwardness of the metal mutant kennels.

Somewhere, in one of those little prisons, had to be JP. They had to be holding him, saving him for some other psychotic rite of passage ritual to re-establish their faith in themselves as God's supreme creation. He stared at the canisters. Wished that he didn't believe they were full. Wished that there was a better way to go about his self-inflicted job. But he had to find JP, and, unfortunately, he couldn't run the risk of attracting too much attention. Not yet anyway. Not without ample back up.

So he was faced with yet another moral conundrum. Rescue his friend and let all the others suffer or rescue everyone and run the risk of being re-captured and re-tortured and possibly not save anyone. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that he could live with his decision.

A curl of silver flittered away from him. Like a butterfly alighting on a flower, his empathy flitted and fluttered across the metal garden, gingerly touching down on each canister, sipping from the emotions of those inside until he found a pattern he recognized.

Empathy was not as complete as telepathy. He couldn't read minds; he couldn't detect malignancies hidden within a person's soul. No, he had to read emotions. Emotions, he imagined tasted differently than thoughts. Thoughts were more matter of fact, colder. Emotions, on the other hand, could run the gamut from bitter to sweet to sour to hot to cold to tepid. And to make matters worse, it wasn't unheard of to experience several emotions all at once. But emotions were patterned in a way that was similar to a personality. And lucky for him, he happened to know a great deal about JP's personality.

The cylinder that gave him pause was spiking all over the emotional roller coaster. He felt relief, anger, denial, fear, hatred, love, hate, inappropriateness…

"We have been infiltrated."

The rush of whispers swerved through the crowd, but Creed silenced it with one look.

The sneer twisted his face and accentuated the eyes of a madman. The crowd gave a collective gulp. Creed continued, his hands rose before him like he was a prophet to the Master Plan.

"Friends, we have been infiltrated. Our pureness has been tainted by the hands of the enemy. They walk among us. They pretend to be us. Look at your neighbor and try to determine the amount of sincerity in his heart. Where are the pledges?" He scanned the increasing crowd with narrowed eyes and cut his shaking finger in the air before him. "Bring all of the pledges to the stage. We must rid our citadel of its trespassers!"

The Friends were frozen to their spots, each looking at one another and back to Creed.

Finally, someone spoke.

"Sir, but, excuse me, sir? How—How will we tell them from the humans?"

Creed tapped his fingertips together and then folded his hands before him. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made."

The lid was heavier than it looked. Or, maybe, he was weaker than he wanted to admit. Either way, it was a bitch to lift.

Inspecting the can a little closer, (he half-expected to find a foot pedal to lift the cover) he noticed a small hole that slid back across the lid like a miniature train tunnel. Okay, so he wasn't as weak as he feared. He needed a tool. Searching the truck's bed, he spied a tool chest near the cab. Then, with tool in hand, he slid the hook neatly into the tunnel. Using his body for leverage, he pulled the lid up from the cylinder. He pushed it over and carefully set it on the bed, not wanting to drop it for fear of attention. Peering inside the cylinder, he felt his breath catch.

JP's eyes slid open and squinted up at him from the tube. He was bloody and bruised. His right cheek had a deep gash running across it and his eye was swollen so that Remy could barely make out the thin river of blue from between two purple mountains. Dried blood crusted in streams from both nostrils and by the way he was holding his arms, Remy was pretty sure they were both broken.

Anger bubbled inside of him. He swallowed it. It threatened to boil him alive. Instead, he forced an easy smile to slide across his face, forced the words to stream from his mouth in a slow, southern canter, "What say, me an' you, we get outta dis hellhole?"

"Merci, Dieu, Remy. I thought I was going to die in here."

Remy leaned in and carefully hooked his arms around JP's chest. "Not today. Not if I can help it."

"Is something wrong?"

The Friend blew out a breath. "Ma'am, I don't really know. All I know is that I was told to gather up as many pledges as I could find. I don't remember this happening at the last retreat."

"Is this some kind of impromptu awards assembly for catching muties?" Bobby began, "Now, we don't have one yet, but I know I got a good shot at one. Just a matter of finding where he went to die. I think it was that one with all of his powers. They haven't caught him yet have they?"

Emma glared at him.

The Friend raised an eyebrow, but continued to lead them toward the amphitheater. "Not that I know of." He led them to the entrance. "Head on to the stage." He pointed down the stairs.

Emma's heart stopped in her chest. "Oh, dear, God."

Bobby gripped her hand in his. "This doesn't look good."

Lines of people were being ushered onto the stage by gun-wielding Friends. There were easily a hundred people, standing upon the stage in nervous little rows.

Bobby scanned the stage with his eyes; Emma used her powers.

"Piotr's there," he whispered.

Emma nodded. "Betsy, as well."

"Great. They got both of our telepaths. You better call it in. Once we get on that stage, we are so screwed."

Cyclops slammed his fist into a tree. "Damn it!"

"That's it! I'm tired of pussyfooting around! I say we go in there now. What the hell are we waiting for?" Wolverine's claws opened and closed with each word.

Polaris was shaking her head. "Maybe it's some kind of ceremonial rite of passage?"

"I thought the hunt was the rite of passage," Hank murmured. "This could be one of two things. One, it could be a graduation-type ritual."

Wolverine narrowed his eyes. "And the other?"

"Ever hear of the Valentine's Day Massacre?"

"Well, that just rips it." The Canadian was on his feet and jabbing a finger into Cyclops' chest in a matter of seconds. "Okay, fearless leader. What about now, huh? You still feel like X-Men have to stay squeaky-clean or are you ready to get a little dirt on those manicured hands?"

"Well, this sucks." He peeked out from behind one of the trailer's wheels; JP was beside him, his back propped against the tire. Remy was studying the stage, which had suddenly begun to fill with Friends, many of whom had tiny arsenals looped about their waists. "What de hell is goin' on over dere?"

"Knowing the Friends, I doubt it is anything good." He shifted and a slight moan escaped his lips; Remy glanced over at him. "Desole. I think I have a broken rib."

Sliding that now not-so-easy grin on his face, he patted his friend gently on the shoulder, "We're gon' get outta here, JP. I just don' know how at de moment."

"You are not exactly a ray of sunshine, frere."

Remy nodded, his eyes keeping track of the people moving on and around the stage. "That's because it's raining shit." He nodded toward the stage, "I just noticed a particularly beautiful Asian woman being forced up on that stage."

JP raised an eyebrow. "Picking out your Saturday date?"

"Did I mention she had purple hair?" The frown tugged the corners of his mouth so far down, he was sure he'd strike oil.

"Betsy?"

"If not, she's a dead-ringer."

"Who the hell are you?!" The question was more of a command since it was violently punctuated by the barrel of a gun being thrust into his face.

Remy looked up and locked eyes with Alaska.

"Merde."

The larger man reached down and grabbed Remy by his collar. With what Remy considered very little effort, he felt himself being pulled out from under the trailer and hauled up until he came eye to eye with the monstrous Friend, his feet swinging freely beneath him.

Alaska's grip tightened around the collar and Remy felt nauseous as a slow, sickening chuckle bubbled up from the man's chest. His face screwed itself into a frightening compromise of murder and humor and Remy saw his life slowly ticking away.

Despite that fact, he couldn't resist the urge to shoot off his mouth. "What? You wan' kiss me?"

Alaska's lips parted and he bared his teeth. "I'm gonna enjoy cutting your fuckin' head off." He shoved his gun behind his back and reached for the blade on his hip. "See, I'm not as fancy as Creed. I don't go in for all of this drama. I just want to kill me some mutie bastards. And lookey here. I found me one."

Remy's eyes widened as Alaska's hand curled around the knife's handle. He felt himself squirm; his hand flew to Alaska's wrist. He grabbed it and pushed against the giant's chest with the other hand. "You put dat knife down or I'll blow you t' hell."

Alaska sneered. "You can't use your power back here."

WHUMP!

He hit the ground sideways. His head rattled. He felt hands on his ankles, trying to pull him back under the truck. He turned toward the hands; it was JP. He had a horrified look on his face and he was trying, with two broken arms, to drag Remy back to the pseudo-protection of the trailer.

Remy shook his head, rubbed his temples, and squinted at the body lying nearby. Alaska wasn't moving. He was knocked out; he'd hit the ground so hard.

He moved quickly, rolling back under the trailer, and squeezing against JP for the protection offered by the tires. Beyond the trailer he could hear the crunch of gravel. Remy scooped up a handful and felt a tiny burst of relief when the familiar magenta glow of his power moved from his hand to the make-shift weapon.

"Ya gonna blow me up too?" Her honeyed voice nearly broke him.

He spun around the tire, falling to his stomach in the dirt. "Rogue?!" He scrambled toward her and she helped him to his feet. "What are you doin' here, girl? I thought—"

She narrowed her eyes and poked him squarely in the chest. "What? That you 'charmed' me? Ah told you that Ah'm stayin' wit' you. B'sides, by the looks of things, Ah s'pose you needed me more'n you thought." She cast a pointed glance at Alaska's inert body. "So, whatcha gonna do with all that?" She nodded toward his hand, the pebbles still glowed their ominous color. "You let those go and everyone will know we're back here. We're already in the fryin' pan."

Remy looked down at his hand. "Yeah," focusing he pulled the power back into himself. He grimaced.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." He stooped down and carefully helped JP out from under the trailer. JP was pale, and his breathing was labored. "You gotta get him back t' de Blackbird. He needs a doctor."

Rogue shook her head. "An' what? Leave you here?! Ah told you Ah can't do that."

He lowered his friend to sit in front of tire; JP slumped against it. "We gotta get him outta here. He's got two broken arms. You can get him back to the 'Bird faster than me. I wan' you t' come back. Hell, I'll admit, I need you to come back. The Friends got a hundred people up on that stage and I know at least one of them is an X-Man."

"What 'bout him?" Rogue eyes jabbed at the unconscious Friend. "You reckon you can take him if he wakes up before I get back?" She set her eyes on his shoulder. "'Cause, between you and me, Ah doubt it."

JP's voice was small; his face was pale and his skin shone with perspiration. "What…about the…cans?"

"Pardon?" Remy leaned down to put his ear near JP's mouth. "What, frere?"

Clearing his throat, he was able to amplify his voice by a fraction. "Put your giant…in one of…the cans. Then…you won't…have to worry…about fighting…"

Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't got much of Sam's juice left. How on earth are we gonna lift that sonuvabitch?"

A wave of acridity made them all smoosh their palms against their noses.

A smile framed in blue fur and pointed teeth shined down on them from atop a cylinder. "Hello, mein freunds. The professor directed me to you. Maybe I can help?"

She felt the hand tighten around her arm as she was yanked through the crowd, and then shoved toward the lip of the stage. On one side of her, her chin jutting forward in defiance, stood a young woman with dark purple hair and the posture of a supermodel, on the other side, was a gray mustached man easily in his late fifties. She could feel herself shaking, as she looked behind her and saw a mess of people. They wore confused looks on their faces, and they melded together, each copying the look of the next one, the whole mass was a crowd of confusion and…fear.

On the ground standing before the stage was the Friends' leader, Graydon Creed.

He was so tall even from far away that she could see the command his character demanded. Now, as he stood before her, his eyes churning with mistrust and, what could only be described as…madness…she still felt mesmerized by the sheer power of his presence. He was the judge, jury, and executioner. He was their protector, leading them into a world where they could sleep at night and not have to check their locks for the fourth time. He was going to keep the mutant animals from carrying away their families like the rabid dogs that they were. She believed this, and yet…

There was something in Creed's stance, in the way his shoulders hunched, the way he regarded them from under dark, hooded eyes, knitted brows. Something was ominously different. She felt herself gulp.

"I think something's wrong," she whispered to the violet beauty beside her.

The other woman raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Now you think something's wrong?"

She wasn't sure what the sarcasm was about, but decided to ignore it as Creed was beginning to speak.

"Friends," his voice boomed, the crowd instantly stilled and turned their eyes toward humanity's savior. "I coined this word as our name, because that is what I believe us to be. We are the 'Friends of Humanity.' We believe in the human way. We believe that human children, our children, are the true successors of our ancestors. We are the children of Adam and Eve. We are the ones created in the image of the Lord. Not the mutant swine." He chuckled, "I thought this day was sanctified; that it was our means by which we could celebrate our righteousness and cleanse our world of the mutant filth and disease that is threatening to overcome it. I thought you, the brothers and sisters of a new wave, would want to celebrate the beginning of the human world with me. But you lied to me."

A murmur erupted from the back of the stage and heads swiveled around trying to comprehend what blasphemy Creed was addressing.

"Silence!"

And they all did just as they were told.

He licked his lips, laced his fingers behind his back, and began pacing.

"This puts me at an impasse. You see, I don't believe that you are all liars. And while I do intend to find out who is, I can't allow the poisoning of my people anymore." He pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants. "I'm just going to have to sort it out later."

He leveled it and fired.

The crowd—on the stage, off the stage, everywhere—screamed in unison.

"No!" Betsy threw herself in front of the woman standing next to her. She gripped the woman's shoulders and looked her over wildly. "You—you're not—hit?"

The woman lowered her hands from her face and felt her chest with disbelieving hands. She was shaking her head, "N-n-n-no. But how?" She looked up and focusing her eyes on Betsy, her mouth dropped open. "L-l-l-look!" She gasped and pointed behind Betsy's head.

Betsy turned and she felt her breath catch. Hanging frozen in mid-air inches from Betsy's head, was the bullet.

The crowd was unmoving. The collective silence was unnerving.

"Interesting." Creed climbed the stage and moved toward them. He pushed Betsy aside and leered at the woman. "Interesting how you didn't get shot. Are you a mutant?"

The woman shook with fear. "N-n-n-no! I-I-I I'm not!"

"She's not," the crowd wildly looked around, "but I am!" The owner of the voice floated from the sky. Joseph snapped his fingers and the bullet clinked against the wood floor.

Creed chuckled, then, "Shoot him."

The Friends on the ground focused their weapons on the mutant hovering above and opened fire.

Betsy lunged for Creed, one arm wrapping around his torso, the other behind his neck. Her fingers rested in front of his ear, her palm against the back of his fat head. She dug her fingers into his temple. "Bloody good day for you to die, don't you think so?" She hissed into the back of his neck. "I can break your neck in one movement. Make them stop shooting."

His chuckle started slow and low and spread until it was almost a high-pitched squeal. "Stupid mutant!" He spat.

Someone slammed the heel of a boot into the back of Betsy's skull. She let out a gasp and then crumpled to the floor.

The bullets flew at Joseph. The magnetic field encircling him managed to repel most of the bullets, but the growing number was beginning to wear on his focus.

Suddenly, one whizzed toward him before freezing millimeters from his ear.

"Hey, bro! Thought I'd even things out a bit!" Polaris gave him a forced smile as she joined him in the air.

From the stage, Creed bellowed, "More mutants!" He jabbed his finger into the air and circled around him. "Friends, destroy them!"

The people on the stage began to panic. They started to leap from the stage, to bury themselves within the crowd. Within their ranks stood full-fledged Friends, each wielding an assortment of weapons.

The Friends on the ground pointed their weapons to the sky and continued firing on the air-borne mutants. A beam of red split them down the middle and they all stopped for a moment, and looked wildly around.

"That's enough!" Cyclops' voice held every bit the authority of Creed's and the Friends found themselves listening for a moment.

But only a moment.

"More of them!" shouted Creed and he kicked a fallen person on the stage. "Rid the world of them! Eradicate them! All of them! They're in disguise!"

Wolverine sprinted into the throng, slicing his claws through gun after gun. Another shot sounded and he fell to the ground. The Friends cheered. The bullets began again, followed by another round of optic beams.

Bobby and Emma were helping Betsy to her feet when an armed guard lowered his gun on them.

"Fuckin' mutants," he hissed.

"Da." Piotr grabbed him from behind. Bobby broke his wrist prying the gun away.

Hank was grabbing people from the stage, whether they wanted to be helped down or not. "Excuse me," he said to a sour-faced old woman, "but you can either let me help you down or get shot by one of your own." And he pulled her off the stage.

More gunfire. More screaming. More running.

And then…

KABOOM!

Explosives pelted the stage like some sort of twisted hail. The people became more erratic, thrashing against one another as they tried to abandon their sinking ship.

Creed hissed, pushed through the flood of people to get to the back of the stage. He reached it just in time to see his truck's taillights barreling through the brush. Rage flooded into him when he saw the mutant and his traitor girlfriend standing on the ground before him.

"You!" He yelled.

Remy's sideways grin was cocky. "Oui. Me."

Creed gripped his gun, a snarl curling his lip. And he fired.

Rogue screamed and fell to the ground, holding her hip.

Remy grabbed for her, his hands catching the warm blood. He turned, and lunged at Creed's feet, knocking him to the floor. He climbed onto the stage and dragged Creed up with whatever strength he had left.

Creed smashed his fist into Remy's jaw and dug fingernails into the open wound of his shoulder.

Remy howled and grabbed a fistful of shirt. He focused all his attention on his power and waited for the familiar warmth.

It didn't come.

He was bewildered. He tried again.

Creed's smile made him ill.

"What's wrong, mutant? No power?"

And Remy remembered. The stage.

Creed hit him again, and again. His fist pummeling into Remy's already worn and abused body. With each attack, he shoved him toward the front of the stage.

The crowd in the front was thinner, but still active.

And then they saw Creed and Remy.

The Friends stilled. The X-Men halted. Logan regained consciousness.

"What the fu—?"

Remy dropped to the ground, hooked his toe behind Creed's ankle and pulled. Creed staggered away, nearly losing his footing. He dragged Remy up by the back of his hair.

"Do you actually think you're getting out of this alive?" He glanced over his shoulder and laughed as he saw Rogue pull herself onto the stage, blood spilling down her leg. He looked back at Remy. "So, you're in heat, are you? Well, let me tell you what I'm going to do, dog. I'm going to shoot you and then, I'm going to shoot her. And you can watch as you both bleed to death."

He pulled Remy back, shoved him into Rogue, and buried the barrel of the gun deep into his gut. "Let's see if your mutie friends are fast enough to stop this bullet."

An optic blast shot into the lip of the stage. Another slammed into the back of the stage. Creed gripped Remy tighter and laughed at the missed onslaught.

"You stupid fools." He dug the gun into Remy's gut once more; his eyes turned with madness. "Now, it's your turn."

Another blast exploded against the front of the stage. And another. The blasts chipped away at the wood, sending splinters careening through the air. Creed's eyes glazed over. His face contorted with fear and anger. "NO! Stop!" He swirled the gun away from Remy, and shot haphazardly toward the stage's front.

Suddenly, the air seemed to turn electric. Remy's nerves sparked and his eyes began to glow with an ominous fire. Creed's brows furrowed and then pinched together in hatred. "No, you're going to die!" He slammed the gun back into Remy's stomach, his hands pulling the mutant into his face. "First you and then the girl."

Remy grabbed Creed's shirt, his power pouring into it, awakening balanced atoms and tipping their existence into instability. Magenta flowed over Creed's body. From his shirt to his pants to his shoes, he glowed with the promise of explosion.

Creed's smile turned feral. His eyes glowed in the magenta light. "Kill me and I become immortal."

Remy smiled back. "Okay." And he let go.

The explosion puctuated the maddening swirl of laughter quite nicely.

Well, there you go. I made a few changes because, well, it ocurred to me that it needed to be done. Remy's been reunited with the X-Men. But at what cost? Scott is a firm believer in the mantra "X-Men don't kill," so how is his conscience going to handle that he aided and abetted a murder? Will the X-Men ever recover from this mission or will its ghost continue to give them nightmares? Have the Friends learned their lesson? Are Remy and Rogue together for real? How on earth did they fit Alaska into one of those containers? Is JP going to be okay? Will Sam forgive Rogue for sucking out his power and leaving him in the forest with a bunch of vigilante wack-os? Stay tuned. It ain't over yet, but the end is definitely in sight.

Thank you to all of you who reviewed or sent me an email. I have read them all and I hope this chapter was worth your wait. Again, I look forward to your comments and constructive criticisms. I hope that you continue to enjoy this story. It's been my pleasure to write it. Oh! If you notice any words with extra t's in them, I apologize; that key seems to have started sticking, and it is driving me crazy. I've tried to catch all of them, but I wouldn't be shocked to find out that I've missed one.

Thank you!

Anamarie