Chapter 26

Numbers

Eva tried not to panic as she stood in a small boiler room in the basement of the boarding house, looking at an array of weapons probably more extensive than the Army National Guard.

"How the hell did you guys get all of this?" she asked, exasperated, as Wanda pondered over what to bring.

"It's New York," Wanda replied. "If you've got a little money and intimidation, you can get whatever you want."

"But… you barely have any money," Eva replied, confused.

"Yeah, well," Wanda said, stepping forward and pocketing a small gun. "I'm loaded when it comes to intimidation."

Eva could definitely understand. Wanda was not a person she would want to encounter in a dark alley.

"Here," Wanda said, holding out another one of the guns,and a small pocketknife. "Take these."

"I don't even know how to fire a gun!" Eva gasped as she took the heavy metal firearm and examined it.

"Here, I'll show you the basics," Wanda said, stepping forward. "This is a police-issue Glock 26. This little notch here is the safety. When it's pointing toward the muzzle, it's on. Turn it off."

Eva pulled the tiny latch backward, then looked back to Wanda.

Wanda pulled on something on the side, and the round magazine fell out. "Standard issue 9mm's have a 10 round magazine. We always make sure these are loaded, so you're good to go. See here?"

Wanda pointed to the magazine, and each little chamber held the butt end of a bullet. "That spins when you trigger, setting a round into the chamber. That's where you'll reload. These," Wanda paused, handing Eva a box of ammunition, "are the bullets. Keep 'em in your pocket. Do not loose them. Ten shots definitely won't be enough."

Eva was starting to get cottonmouth just thinking about shooting someone… even if it was a bad guy.

"It'll rebound when you shoot, so make sure you've got a good grip," Wanda finished, checking hers.

"But Wanda…" Eva began, slightly frightened of the angered determination on Wanda's face. "We still don't know how we're getting there! I mean, we can't rent a boat, we don't have any money. I guess we could steal one, but I don't know how to drive it! Do you?"

Wanda sighed, obviously thinking about her brother. "What about that guy that brought the guys to you? He had a boat, didn't he?"

"Gambit?" Eva said. "He went back to Louisiana, no way would he get here in time."

Wanda sighed again in aggravation.

"Besides," Eva said, her own disappointment showing in her voice. "If the NSA caught seven very powerful mutants with little trouble, how are the two of us going to break in, break them out, and get out unscathed? It's impossible!"

Wanda rubbed her temples in obvious distress. "We need help."

* * *

John wasn't sure how much time had passed as he lay there, staring at the stone ceiling of his cell. After the beating he took from that guard, he hadn't felt much like eating, so the platter sat, untouched, right where it was by the giant metal door.

Escape hardly crossed his mind. This place was way less technologically advanced than the IFCM, so there was no possibility of creating a flame. He tried to sigh, but his ribs and lungs screamed in protest, so he resolved to taking shallow breaths and minimizing his movement. He wondered how everyone else was doing, and where exactly they were on this piece of shit island.

Scott was probably furious. John knew Scott had blamed him for the attack. He knew Scott figured he had led the NSA right to them. And at the moment, John kind of figured he had. He was getting fed up with trashing the lives of people who tried to help him.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door screeched open again. He jumped, crawling painfully as far away from the door as possible. But this was a different guard… smaller.

The man wasn't wearing the black uniform of the previous guard, either. This one was wearing a dirty white nurse's robe. But he didn't look like he was here to help much.

"You're coming with me," the man said shortly, stepping forward and unlocking the shackles on John's wrists.

On any other day, in any other situation, John would have said, "make me," but it seemed like a very unintelligent move considering his battered state. So he let the man put a smaller pair of handcuffs on him and lead him out of the cell and into an equally dark, dirty hall.

As he silently followed the man, he was appalled at the amount of doors identical to the one on his cell that were lining the hall.

There are mutant prisoners in all of these? There had to be at least fifty in this one hall alone.

John's pondering was cut short as the man led him into an adjacent room, which turned out to be much bigger than his cell; probably the size of a four-car garage. There was a line of prisoners, all handcuffed, stretching the far wall, and at the end was a metal table, more resembling an anvil, with a single man standing behind it.

However, that wasn't what caught his attention. At the end of the line, where he was being led, stood Scott, Donovan, and Dominic.

"What the hell's going on here?" John whispered as his escort shoved him into the line and told him to stand there "or else."

"You really wanna know?" Scott asked, one hand reassuringly on his (obviously frightened) twin brother.

John decided it was safe to be sarcastic. "No, I change my mind. I only asked to hear the melodic ringing of your pleasant voice."

Scott narrowed his eyes, but opted not to slap John silly due to the guards all around them.

"They're giving us numbers," Scott said, something resembling fear making his voice crack.

"What d'you mean, numbers?" John asked, his subconscious having already figured it out, but his conscious mind unwilling to accept it.

"Tattoos," Scott said, rubbing Donovan's shoulder again.

John's mouth fell open. I really am becoming Magneto.

It took almost forty-five minutes to traverse the length of the line, but Dominic was soon standing at the anvil, staring at the tattoo gun with surprising calm.

One of the guards stepped forward, grabbing Dominic none too gently, which caused him to stumble a bit. But the guard stopped when he wrenched up Dominic's sleeve.

"He's already got one," the guard said, looking confused.

The man at the anvil just looked up, and stared at Dominic. It was then that a wicked smile slowly began to spread across his face.

"Yeah, he's been here alright," the man said, and a look of pure hatred spread across Dominic's face. "I remember you," he continued, staring at Dominic with a sick smile. "Used to scream a lot, aint that right?"

Without any warning whatsoever, Dominic's hands rocketed to the man's face with surprising force. The man stumbled backward, clutching his face and staring wildly at Dominic. The other guard immediately stepped forward, easily subduing Dominic in a clutch-hold that looked more like a bear hug.

As the guard started dragging Dominic out of the room, Dom decided to give 'em one last parting gift. He spit in the face of the tattooer.

Scott, John, and Donovan all cheered for Dominic as he was dragged forcefully from the room. But their rejoicing didn't last long.

Another guard stepped forward, yanking Scott forward and placing his right arm on the anvil, which suddenly clamped closed, keeping him there.

"Yeah, we'll see how funny you think this is," the man said, stepping forward with his tattoo gun.

"Don't you touch my brother," Donovan practically screamed, throwing himself at the man behind the anvil. John, despite his small dislike of Scott, decided to pitch in. He went for the nearest guard; the one most likely to stop Donovan. He tried to get his cuffs at the guard's neck, but the man was too fast.

The man grabbed both John's wrists, spinning him around so that his arms were crossed against his own chest, and held him in a hold so tight a vice couldn't have done a better job.

It was then that he noticed another guard had easily done the same to Donovan. John watched helplessly as Scott tried to look brave for his brother as the needle came down.