A Simple Case of Scientific Curiosity
Part Three
"Kill her."
With those two words, Nathaniel Essex sets my own daughter on me as if she is nothing more than a rabid dog. Mindwipe, as he has dubbed her, is fast – maybe faster than I would be, if I were in peak physical condition, and certainly faster than I am now. Half starved, sick with fatigue, and as mentally and physically shattered as I am, I don't think I can manage to keep up any sort of pace for long. Unfortunately, my daughter seems unwilling to let up. She aims a blow with the heel of her hand at my neck, and I am barely able to drag my body aside in order to grab her wrist and aim an elbow at her collarbone, searching for the nerve centre that will render her left arm useless if it is hit correctly. She twists like a cat, and the blow is deflected off bone, sending jarring waves of pain up my arm and robbing me of feeling in my fingers for a few moments.
"Too slow, Mother," Mindwipe says, backhanding me across the face with the knuckles of her right hand. I stagger for a second, feeling blood spray from my nostrils in looping arcs and I cough messily, spitting more of the metallic-tasting liquid from my split lips out onto the floor. I have to admit, my daughter's good.
Too good.
So good, in fact, that it takes a moment of getting my thoughts together to realise what she called me.
"What did you say?" I say, as she hurls herself towards me again, with redoubled effort. Her red eyes burn with a ferocious desire. If my telepathy were active, I suspect I would be feeling it burning like a magnesium flare at the edge of my mind round about now. She smiles as I parry her fist, her icy grin filling me with stone-cold dread.
"You're my mother," she says, shrugging and tapping the side of her skull with a fingertip, her voice flat as she swings her foot around in a tight arc, barely missing my face. "Physically, at least. I don't see any point in calling you anything else. And before you ask, I know who my father is, too – my master told me everything I needed to know about you X-Men."
Her master. Sinister has her completely in his thrall, and she likes it. "What have you done to her, Essex?" I shout, as I fend off a brutal savate kick from Rebecca, feeling the pain from doing so jarring through my forearm.
"Done?" he says with a sneer. "You ascribe too much to me, my dear. I've done nothing at all, except take your unused potential and put it to good use. Isn't that right, Rebecca?" I look into my daughter's eyes and I can see that she is in total agreement, a sadistic smile flowering on her beautiful face.
"Yes," she says simply, confirming my initial judgement. Her crimson eyes glow brightly for a moment, and an optic blast burns out from them, pounding into the ground near my feet. I have barely enough time to throw myself aside and roll back up into a fighting crouch. I can feel a twinge in my back where Scalphunter broke a few ribs a couple of days before, and it gives me pause – time enough for Mindwipe to capitalise on my distraction and hit me again, connecting her foot brutally with a tender spot on my right shoulder. I scream as old aches are brought to the surface, flesh straining against bone angrily, and I sprawl to the ground hard, my shoulder shrieking with pain as it hits the floor awkwardly. I can see Rebecca launching herself into the air out of the corner of my eye, and it is all I can do to avoid her as she brings the heel of her right hand down hard into the ground, crumpling the plastic tiling with the force of the impact. She screams in frustration and rage and leaps quickly to her feet again, her blonde hair cascading around her face and framing the predatory look in her crimson eyes ominously.
"Stop running, Mother," she says evenly. "You're only making this harder on yourself." A crackling red version of my psychic knife extends itself from her right hand. "Don't make me use this." I wouldn't be worried normally – experience has taught me that mutants are generally immune to their children's powers – but this time I can't be sure, especially where Sinister is concerned. The way he constructed Rebecca, he probably altered her genetic structure enough to make her deadly to anybody, even her own genetic donors. This is probably Sinister's ultimate thank you to me – killed by my own child after servicing his Marauders like a cheap junkie-whore. Nobody said he had to make it a good thank you, after all.
One thing is for certain, though – I won't get anywhere here in this cramped corridor. I have to take the fight outside if I'm going to live. I need the space to put my experience into play, because going on raw energy and ability alone, I know Rebecca has the edge with her youth and programmed fighting skills. These cramped conditions will only favour her over the course of this unfortunate little conflict. Scrambling as quickly as I can towards the door, I manage to punch the release button, causing the door to hiss upwards and let in a cold blast of outside air. I can feel my body prickling at the sensation of wind on my skin, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and my skin breaking out into goose pimples. From our surroundings I can see that we are somewhere in the Bronx, which makes sense, I suppose. From here, Sinister can keep a relatively close eye on his favourite pet while sending his Marauders all over the globe with his tesseracts. The area he has chosen is just run down enough not to arouse suspicion from those people Sinister would very much like to keep out of his way – it provides extremely good cover for a base with technology as advanced as Sinister's, since it is probably the last place anyone would think of looking.
Hide in plain sight.
A motto to live by, in Sinister's case.
Rebecca is not far behind me, her optic blasts burning into the ground and leaving steaming puddles of variously liquefied, cracked and broken paving slabs, and I can see that she is completely unfamiliar with her surroundings, despite her programmed knowledge. Good. That, at least, gives me something to work with. I'm tired of being the underdog. There is another benefit to this, though – being out in the open ought to give me more of a chance at being found by telepathic scans and Cerebro sweeps. All I have to do is stay alive long enough for the team to find me. Entirely more easily said than done, I realise bitterly, as Rebecca swings a roundhouse kick so dizzyingly close to my cheek that I can feel the movement of the air around it. She leaves herself open for a fraction of a second as she comes back to a stable footing, and I take advantage of that. I have to. My fist cannons into her stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs and making her stagger for a second. Following my initial blow up with a hard left cross, I upset her equilibrium even further, and I can see a nasty beetroot-coloured bruise already beginning to flower on Rebecca's cheek. Finally, I connect the toes of my right foot with her chin, causing her to flip clumsily over and crash to the ground, skidding through some old rubbish that litters the street, a long smudge of dirt staining her cheek as she fixes her gaze on me, an unholy anger in her eyes, her teeth bared in a furious snarl. Evidently she is of the opinion that she should be the one winning this particular conflict. She rises to a crouch, never taking her eyes off me, and then she springs, like a cat pouncing on an unsuspecting mouse. She barrels into me, but I am ready for her, falling backwards as she approaches and slamming a foot into her midriff. Using her own momentum against her, I am able to hurl her to the ground again, headfirst. Rebecca growls deep in her throat and her eyes glow red again. I can see the optic blast coming, but this time I can't avoid it quickly enough. It impacts below my ribs, and the pain is incredible. There is no real heat to speak of, but the force of the blast is enough to knock the wind out of me completely. Rebecca keeps the beam flowing, and I can feel my flesh beginning to be pulverised beneath it as the air is quickly sucked out of my lungs – my guts are being crushed between the force of the blast and the ground, and they are on the verge of liquefying, I can feel it. I have to do something, or I'm going to be coughing my own intestines up before long. I can feel some dust beneath my right hand, so I make a fist and trap as much of it as I can, and I hurl it towards Rebecca's eyes. She shifts focus to vaporise the dust, giving me just enough time to drag myself back to a standing position. I feel sick as a dog, but I'm alive, which is the most important thing.
Betsy, can you hear me? It's Jean. We're on our way. Hang on! Thank God. I regret that I can't send back a reply yet, but at least I know that help is coming. Now all I have to do is stay alive long enough for it to be of any use. That objective suddenly seems a lot more difficult when I see Sinister quietly making his way out of his base and into the chill night air. He doesn't move any further than the mouth of the doorway, but the delay suggests he has summoned the rest of the Marauders as back up for Mindwipe. I have to slow down my daughter before she breaks down my defences and makes me easy meat for the rest of her team-mates, and I think I have the perfect way. Psychological warfare can cut both ways, after all.
As Rebecca launches herself towards me again, I find voice inside of me to say "After you kill me, what then?" Rebecca smiles cruelly and aims a swift left jab at my face, which I am easily able to parry with a forearm.
"Simple, Mother," she purrs. "I do whatever Sinister tells me to do. I belong to him."
Perfect. "And what happens when he decides that he doesn't want you around any more? What then?"
She sneers at me. "You're pathetic. He wouldn't have grown me if he didn't think I was useful. I have all of his stored knowledge in my head – I know how he works. I know him better than you ever will, and I know that I'm indispensable."
Sinister laughs suddenly. "Ah, the idealism of youth. I remember it well. Rest assured, child, the world is not so cut and dried. The rest of my Marauders have accepted this, and you will too, after I have downloaded your mind into your fourth or fifth clone body. I believe you said it best yourself – you belong to me, and I will use you as I see fit. If that means discarding you like an evolutionary dead end, so be it. Pray that you keep me pleased. Now do as I have asked you, and kill her." His voice is filled with a deadly irritation that suggests if she hesitates once more, he will follow through on his promise. I can see indecision flicker briefly on Rebecca's face before she turns back towards me fully, her eyes cold and flinty. She's made her choice. I have to make mine, too.
It's at that moment that the Blackbird drowns out any other noise with the roar of its engines. The powerful downdrafts scatter loose rubbish and tip dustbins over with their sheer energy. The door in the belly of the craft opens and the X-Men who can fly quickly help the others who have no such ability to get down to the ground. Sinister looks upwards and rolls his eyes despairingly, raising his arms and firing a few bursts of the peculiar energy he is able to project from his hands. It sizzles through the air, almost striking Rogue and Storm and singeing a few of Warren's feathers as he carries Wolverine down towards the ground.
Warren. I can feel him in my head now, even the psionic inhibitor in my bloodstream not impeding our psychic rapport. The sensation is beautiful – the first beautiful thing I have experienced in too long a time – but I don't have the time to dwell on it for the moment. Rebecca has recovered from her momentary shock and is surging forward like an angry tide. Her advance is cut off by another optic blast that hits her squarely in the chest. I look around to see Cyclops standing with his legs braced so as to provide a steady platform to fire from. He smiles at me and offers me his hand. "Come on, Betts," he says in his strong, confident voice. "We're leaving."
I point to the fallen Rebecca, who is struggling to rise, her limbs twitching in shock. "We have to take her with us," I say breathlessly. "We can't leave her here. She's my daughter." That makes Cyclops' usual confident, stoic demeanour slip a second.
"Your… what?" he says, a little nonplussed. I shake my head, exasperated.
"It doesn't matter. We can't just leave her here for Sinister to experiment on. I'm going to get her." I run quickly over to where Rebecca is lying prone and I sling her over my shoulder in a fireman's lift. I can feel my weakened knees singing with the strain but I can't leave my child here, no matter how she was conceived. I can't. Cyclops takes her from me when she starts struggling, administering a field sedative from one of the pouches on his bandoleer to keep her still. He holds me up when I stagger, until he sees the Marauders swarming from the entranceway to Sinister's base. He motions to Warren to take Rebecca and me back up to the Blackbird, and I gladly take Warren's hands when he flies down. In the Blackbird, Hank is waiting with a blanket, which he slips around my shoulders as Warren lays Rebecca down in the Blackbird's small medical facility.
It's round about then that the walls I have jury-rigged for myself finally come crashing down, like those of Jericho at the sound of the Israelites' trumpets. I don't stop crying until we have got back to the Xavier Institute. Sleep comes in the midst of fitful sobs, when it comes at all.
In the morning, Warren comes to see me in the infirmary, bearing a bowl of hot porridge and a spoon on a wooden tray. "Hi," he says. "Hank said you were up, so I thought I'd bring you some breakfast." I do my best to smile, but from the expression on Warren's face, and the way his thoughts shift in mood, I can sense that I don't quite manage it. He sits down next to me, as if he's unsure of what to say. "You know I'm here for you, Betts," he says, finally. "If you want to talk, or –"
"Talk?" I snap suddenly, my voice colder than I'd wanted. "Talk? You think that you can help me just by talking? Do you honestly think this is going to get better through me sitting around in a circle of chairs and 'sharing my feelings'? I was raped, Warren. I was raped. I can't ever forget that. You might think all your cosy little support groups and wishy-washy damned psychobabble can help me, but they can't. Do you know what it was like? Have you the slightest idea of what it is to be violated like that? Have you ever felt that kind of terror? That kind of shame? No, I don't think you have. So don't try and patronise me by saying we can make this all better with the verbal equivalent of a Band-Aid and a cup of coffee. I hoped you thought more of me than to do that." I can feel my eyes burning again, and I put a hand to the inner corners of my eyes, feeling the tears squeezing themselves out and dripping off my face. "I'm sorry, Warren. I didn't mean to go at you like that. I just… I just felt so helpless while I was there. I couldn't do anything but wait to die. I hate them." My voice shrinks to a hoarse whisper – a stark contrast to a few moments earlier. "I hate them." Warren reaches out with his hand to stroke my hair, and I reflexively jerk my head away. I can't help it, and I can feel my heart crack even more as I do so. "Do you see what they've done to me, Warren? I can't even stand to be touched any more." Warren sits back down and folds his hands in his lap, a look of stark disbelief on his beautiful features.
"God…" He runs his hands through his blonde hair. "I'm so sorry, Betsy."
"Don't be. You didn't do what they did. It's not your fault." I pause for a moment as the horrible memory of what happened comes bubbling to the surface of my mind like some thick, evil-smelling liquid spewing from the bowels of the Earth. "Oh, Warren… I don't know what I'm going to do. Every time I close my eyes, I can hear them laughing at me. I can still feel Blockbuster crushing my hand just because he wanted to hear the bones break. I can still smell the sweat on their bodies. Everything reminds me of what they did. They took my life away from me, Warren!"
"But they didn't take me away from you, Betsy," Warren says quietly, but with a slight tone of determination audible in his words. "If I can help you, then I'll help you, I promise. The last thing I want to do is abandon you – not when you need me the most. You deserve more than that." He intertwines his hand with mine, and despite the discomfort the sensation of another person's flesh against mine brings, I squeeze it hard, as if it is the only thing that will keep my heart pumping blood around my body.
"Thank you," I say, simply.
"You mean the world to me, Betsy," he replies, softly. "More than the world. We'll take this one day at a time, all right? All I want to see is you get better, and I know the others do too. Scott, Jean, Hank, Bobby – all the team – they told me to tell you they send their best wishes." He smiles. "They love you, Betsy. I love you. We want you to get well again – whatever you need us to do, we'll do."
"I don't want to be coddled, Warren," I say, firmly. "I'm not an invalid. The offer is nice, though. Tell them I appreciate it." Warren nods.
"I'll do that. Scott and Jean thought you might appreciate this, too." He reaches into a pocket of his jacket and fishes out a small book. When he hands it to me, I can see that it is a Bible, the pages edged with gold and the cover bound with new leather.
"I didn't know Scott and Jean were religious."
"They aren't particularly, no. But they do go to church occasionally, and Scott tells me that he finds a lot of comfort in some of the passages of the Gospels. He marked them for you, if you ever want to take a look." He opens the little book out and shows me where some of the verses have been lightly highlighted with small, darting strokes of red pen. "With all that Jean's been through, it does seem kind of appropriate, don't you think?" I have to admit that he has a point. Phoenix force or not, Jean's return from the dead alone should be regarded as miraculous.
"It's a nice gift," I say, and I mean it. "Will you tell him I say thank you?"
"Of course I will." He pauses. "Wait – you're a telepath. You can do it from here if you want to. Why are you using me as a gofer?"
"I'm not up to using my psi-powers yet. Maybe in a few days when I get my strength back, but for now I have to do this the old-fashioned way." Warren nods in understanding.
"I see. Now I understand." He shrugs. "Guess I'll have to get used to it, then."
I glance at the clock on the wall, and I can see that it is nearly ten o'clock. "Shouldn't you have gone to your office by now?" I say, curiously. Warren grins.
"I took the week off," he tells me with an airy shrug. "One of the benefits of being CEO. So you're stuck with me for a while, I'm afraid."
"Good. I think I need the company."
"I know. And that's why I did it." He inclines his head towards the other bay in the infirmary, where my daughter is lying sedated, with a ruby-quartz visor preventing her from using her optic blasts, and a small dose of neural inhibitor stopping her from accessing her telepathic powers. I think Hank wanted to take no chances around her, and I don't blame him. My daughter is as deadly as the rest of Sinister's Marauders, and at the moment we have no way of knowing whether she'll turn on us or not. Not to mention whether she might have had safeguards built into her brain in case she ever turned against Essex, safeguards that could kill her quickly and painfully. "I want to use that time to get to know your daughter, too. Hank told me who and what she is while you were sleeping – I hope I can be a good father to her. I just never imagined being a father this young, or to the artificially created daughter of my wife and my best friend." He laughs – a small, pained chuckle that has no real humour behind it. "Even by our standards, that's pretty strange, don't you think?"
"Business as usual, by our standards, I think," I reply bitterly. "At least Rebecca isn't infected with a techno-organic virus like Nathan." My smile is weak. "I take my comfort where I can, Warren." He nods ruefully.
"Yeah. I guess so. I just wish you didn't have to, that's all."
"Me too, Warren. Me too."