Growing Pains

Part Two

Warren and I are flying high above the Westchester landscape, our combined resources (my telepathy, and his enhanced sight) focused entirely on trying to locate our missing child. By the time Warren was able to move, Rebecca had escaped the Professor's attempts to telepathically restrain her, and had taken Logan's Harley-Davidson from the communal garage, and by the time he could stand up on his own without vomiting, she was halfway to the highway and her destination – Hoboken, New Jersey, where her former partners and comrades-in-arms, the Marauders, are currently engaged in some low-rent thuggery. Warren told me I should have gone straight after my child rather than stay with him after he'd regained the ability to control his lips properly, and while that would have undoubtedly been more expedient, I told him that he obviously didn't know me very well. So here we are, the two of us combining our talents in an attempt to find our missing little girl.

It's funny to hear myself think that way. After all, Rebecca is anything but a little girl – physically, and to some extent mentally, she's a strong and capable young woman, after all – but she's still so inexperienced, despite all the information Sinister put into her head. She doesn't know his true nature, and I want so very much to protect her from him and his twisted amorality. Warren shifts his arms around me a little, to get a better grip, and I instinctively tighten my own hands' hold around his neck just in case. He smiles briefly at me and then resumes scanning the horizon, his enhanced vision granting him the ability to see a pin in perfect clarity at a distance of about half a mile.

"It's no use," he tells me. "I can't see her anywhere. What about you?"

"I can't sense her either, Warren – she must have shielded herself somehow," I tell him dejectedly. "At this rate she'll have found the Marauders before we find her."

"And we both know what'll happen then," Warren says, frowning, his gloved fingers pressing into the small of my back with just a little more bite than a moment beforehand. "Maybe you should just contact the Professor and have him do a sweep with Cerebro. That ought to help us get to her a lot faster – she's obviously nowhere near here right now."

Resignedly, I nod in agreement. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" I close my eyes and allow the gentle, flowing folds of the astral plane into my mind like a lover. A flush of colours and swirling patterns fills my vision for a second, and then I am in contact with the Professor, his mind functioning as a beacon to guide me to him. Professor, I say, we need your help.

Go ahead, Elisabeth, he replies, his focused telepathic tones ringing in my mind. What do you need?

A full Cerebro sweep, I tell him. We're not going to find Rebecca just by flying towards New Jersey and keeping an eye out for her, I'm afraid.

Consider it done, Elisabeth, the Professor tells me. I'll notify you when the sweep is complete. In the meantime, keep on your present course – the rest of the team is presently engaged with the Marauders. I shall tell you if Rebecca appears there, also – her doppelganger is holding her own against Gambit and Cyclops at the moment, and –

Thank you, Professor, I tell him abruptly, and break the link. I have no desire to listen to what Sinister's grotesque imitation of my daughter is doing.

Warren notices I have opened my eyes again, and inclines his head down so that he can look at me. "What did he say?" he asks.

"He'll run the Cerebro sweep for us, and he'll tell us if Rebecca appears where the rest of the team is fighting the Marauders," I tell him. "He'll tell us when the sweep is complete so that we don't have to waste our time here, too." I sigh. "That still doesn't make me feel any less useless, though."

Warren shakes his head. "I know how you feel, Betsy," he says quietly, his voice audible even over the rushing wind, and I can feel his great wings begin to beat faster and faster, the wind snapping at the point of each long pinfeather and blowing my long blonde hair out around my face. "Hold tight," he tells me. "I'm going to try to get us to Hoboken as fast as I can, and that might mean I have to let go of you a few times. Just hang on and we'll get there soon." I can feel his body slicing its way through the air like a sleek fighter jet, every beat of his snowy feathers propelling us forwards at a startling rate. Even when we'd flown together before, I'd never known him to exert himself so much. I can feel the tension in his wing muscles, their corded fibres bunching underneath his costume, and I can see the sweat beginning to bead on his temples, his teeth gritting, and his blond hair whipping back past his temples. I have to close my eyes as the wind bites with icy, stinging teeth, causing my vision to blur with tears. Warren sends an apology through our rapport, but he doesn't slow down.

I cling to him precariously, feeling his pectorals roll and knot against my breasts, and I feel the distance between us and our destination falling away like autumn leaves. The Professor's voice intrudes suddenly, distracting me from the chill that snaps through the air like frost against my flesh.

Elisabeth, he says urgently, I have pinpointed Rebecca's location.

Where is she? I say, suddenly completely focused.

About three miles from your present position, Charles replies. She is in an extremely agitated state of mind and did not respond to my telepathic contact – I'd suggest you approach her with extreme caution. That doesn't surprise me – nor should it; Rebecca has been in an extremely agitated state of mind ever since I first met her, frankly. Thank you, Charles, I tell him. Warren and I will be there as soon as we can. I can't promise I'll let you know when we do, but I'll keep you appraised somehow.

Thank you, Elisabeth, Charles replies in his turn. Good luck. His voice slips out of my mind, leaving me with the soft echoes of his last words. I hope I won't need luck at all, but I'm grateful for the sentiment nonetheless.

How much further? Warren's voice is tentative inside my mind, almost as if the idea of telepathic communication will hurt him somehow.

About three miles, according to the Professor, I tell him. You should ease up a little, Warren. You're still not one hundred percent, and –

Would you, Betsy, if you were in my place? That stops me cold, and I shake my head. He has a point, I have to admit.

No, Warren, I wouldn't. I brush his cheek with mine briefly, and cling a little tighter to him. Just be careful, my angel.

Warren nods ever so slightly, still keeping his eyes on the sky in front of him. I will, Betsy. I promise.

I know you do. I close my eyes again, feeling the wind flow over my face like ice water. I know you do.

Rebecca is riding Logan's bike as if the Devil himself is following her – her foot is jammed down on the accelerator, and the bike's engine howls with the effort. Warren beats his wings a little harder to try and catch up to her, and I send her a little telepathic greeting to let her know we've found her.

Come home, darling, I beg her. This isn't going to solve anything. Rebecca snarls something – I can't hear it over the combined noise of Warren's beating wings and the rush of air in my ears, but I can guess the general gist of it when she fires an optic blast just wide of us.

That was a warning shot, she snaps. Leave me alone. I know where I belong.

So do I, Rebecca, I tell her. You belong with me, and with Warren and Scott. We love you, Rebecca; I swear we do. Sinister could care less whether you live or die.

Shut up! she howls, her telepathic voice like nails on a chalkboard in its fury. You're lying. I don't believe you! I don't believe you! I don't –

Believe what you must, my love, but I'm not going to tell you anything different. I've never lied to you, my sweet child, and I'm not going to start now. I keep my telepathic voice even, calm, in order to provide a counterbalance to her hysteria and rage. You don't need to do this. Rebecca's harsh telepathic laughter slices my soul right down to its foundations, and she guns the bike's engine even more, causing it to growl and belch exhaust fumes. I can see her pulling away from us, and I can also see Warren's face twisting with frustration and pain. What is it? I ask him.

It's my wings, he says, his psionic voice filled with anger and exhaustion. I can't keep up with her at this speed for much longer – I'll need to rest or ride the thermals for a while; her damn psychic knife must've taken more out of me than I thought. I'm sorry, Betsy. Helplessly, I watch Rebecca's bike draw away from us as Warren's wingbeats grow weaker and weaker. She lets us hear her laughter as the bike roars down the deserted highway. It carries on the breeze, like the howl of a beautiful jackal, as Rebecca disappears into the horizon.

We alight on the side of the road, and Warren folds his wings up flat against his back. He slumps to the ground, his legs wobbling and unsteady, and his blond locks falling against his sweating, sticky forehead. Breathing deeply, he says "I'm sorry, Betsy; I just couldn't go on."

"It's not your fault, Warren," I tell him, my frustration bubbling at the edge of my mind. "Sit and rest. We'll move again when you're able." Warren nods, and exhales loudly, kicking at the dirt with his boot.

"We should let the others know we're coming," he says. "Can you send a message ahead?"

"Done," I tell him, and within a heartbeat, I have sent a pulse of psychic energy to Jean, telling her who to expect and when.

Understood, Betsy. See you soon, she tells me briefly, before breaking the conflict in an abrupt fashion, indicating the sort of conditions she and the rest of the team are finding themselves in at this point in time. It doesn't bode well for us – with me so distracted and Warren dead on his feet, we'll not be much help to them.

Warren sits for about five minutes, slowly breathing in and out. Then he stands and begins a kata that I taught him when I was still Asian, harmonising his equilibrium and helping the tensions in his muscles to ease themselves out. His lithe, wiry body goes through its paces with a flowing motion and an easy grace that makes him like his namesake in both form and function. He flaps his wings once or twice experimentally, and holds his arms out for me. "Come on," he says softly. "Let's go." I wrap my arms about his waist, and we leave the ground with a few gentle movements of his wings. Once we are properly airborne, he says "Thank you for waiting, Betsy."

"That's all right, Warren; I hope you got the rest you needed." He frowns, his beautiful features clouding over.

"I just wish I hadn't needed it in the first place," he murmurs, glancing at the horizon for a moment. "I'm sorry, Betsy."

"Self-flagellation isn't going to help either us or Rebecca, Warren," I tell him, perhaps a little too bluntly.

He sighs. "You're right. It won't. Old habits die hard, though, I guess."

I have to concede that he's right on that point. We fly as fast as Warren's wings are able, and eventually, we arrive near where the X-Men have engaged the Marauders. The large block of offices nearby says "Mortenson Genetics", and has been half-demolished by the Marauders' onslaught. I can see Blockbuster and Harpoon still in the black darkness of the gaping hole smashed into the east wall. Their eyes gleam out at me like snakes, and I feel a shudder run down my spine. Remembrances of their gentle-but-not-gentle touches surge to the surface of my mind. Memories of their laughter as they brutalised me crackle through my brain like lightning. It's like I'm being forced to watch myself being raped on a TV screen somehow. I hesitate slightly, causing Warren to look briefly in my direction.

You okay? he asks through our rapport, concerned.

I'm… all right, Warren, I tell him. I'm just… not totally ready for this, that's all. I wave him away, and despite some initial reluctance, he understands, and moves away in order to tackle Arclight alongside Wolverine. I shake my head and find that Blockbuster has lumbered towards me, towering over my head like a flesh and blood skyscraper. He grins.

"Long time no see, beautiful," he snarls, cracking his knuckles one at a time. They each make a sound like a neck breaking. "What say you and I get reacquainted some, huh?" I can see by the telltale bulge in his costume that he is already anticipating having his way with me, and I know that he will take his time to make it as enjoyable for himself, and as painful for me, as he can. I also know that I have the edge on him in terms of speed and agility – and for that matter, intelligence too. Flipping away from him so that I come to rest a good five metres from where he is standing, I make sure that there is sufficient distance between us so that he can't get those huge hands on me – any part of me. My psychic knife flares to life instinctively, but then I realise that I don't have to tackle him close up. My time in Kwannon's body has made me prefer physical confrontation over the simpler solution, and with Baer, the latter is infinitely preferable. I gather my telepathic powers into a tight, burning ball and fire them like a magnum load straight at the centre of Baer's slow, dull-witted brain. The psi-bolt sizzles through the air and hits him in the middle of his bald head. He screams – a sound I hadn't expected to hear – and clutches at his face as if he has been blinded. Then he falls, his body limp. That draws a savage smile to my lips – it's not much consolation for what he did to me, nor will it make those memories go away, but there's a small amount of satisfaction to be gained from seeing him felled by me, and me alone. I spit at his prone body briefly, in a concession to that dark part of me, and then I am moving again, as one of Harpoon's ready-made energy harpoons sears the air in which I had been standing moments before. Excellently done, I find myself thinking involuntarily. Harpoon let Baer throw himself at me so that he could let me expend my psi-bolt on a worthier target. I am powerless now, my more aggressive psionics exhausted for the moment, and he is fully capable of using those dreadful spears to pierce my body and turn my insides to pulpy liquid. It would seem that I am going to die.

Or perhaps not.

From one of the belt pockets of my full-length, figure-hugging bodysuit, I quickly draw a small capsule. Smiling at Harpoon, I hurl it at the ground by his feet, a puff of green gas erupting from its shattered remains and engulfing the young Inuit. His breathing becomes a hacking cough, and he doubles over, staggering out of the mist with streaming eyes. Once again I have to thank Henry for giving me this new costume, complete with tear gas containers and other delights. Harpoon took me for the ninja slut I used to be – the ninja slut he and Scalphunter fantasised over like teenage boys – and that was a big mistake. He collapses, even his giant body unable to withstand the potent concoction contained within the capsules, and his eyes close.

Don't ever underestimate me again. The anger and rage in my mental message to Harpoon is raw and searing, and I wish that it could burn the Marauders as much as it does me.

And suddenly, I see her. Or rather, I see them. Rebecca is stood stock still, staring at her doppelganger, who is returning her glare with a demonic grin. Behind her is a vision of death in red and black – Sinister himself, smiling at Rebecca with those awful black lips and pointed teeth.

"Surprised, my dear?" he says, a trace of dark amusement in his voice. "You shouldn't be. Evolution is harsh. The weak must be weeded out and destroyed, if that is what must be done to make the strong stronger." He steps forward and strokes his new pet's hair gently – affectionately, almost. "You should have known that, when you were taken by your mother, I wouldn't waste my valuable time rescuing a flawed device when I could just as easily – more easily, for that matter – grow myself a new version of you, who would be just as loyal, just as strong and fast and cruel, but better than you are." His own nasty smile widens. "Evolution is harsh," he says again. "Evolution is pain and death and blood. You will be cast aside like the dead end you are, my once and former princess. But you will be doing it for science, and there is no greater cause in all of Nature's haphazard creation." He pauses, and laughs at his formerly so prized creation, a sound that chills my bones. "You may take some comfort in that."

No…

I begin to run towards them, my body feeling like lead inside. I feel as if I'm going to get there too late, no matter how fast I run. All around me I can hear, feel and see the Marauders and the X-Men. Wolverine and Arclight pound each other, the little man using his agility and quickness to avoid the super-strong woman's swinging fists – fists that can shatter concrete with a single blow. Cyclops fires a wide blast of energy at Prism, causing the man of glass to crack and shatter into jagged fragments. Phoenix uses his broken pieces to create a whirling telekinetic maelstrom that shields her husband from the chunks of concrete thrown up by Scalphunter's weapons as their searing energy bites into the ground near his body. Rogue and Archangel fly circles around Vertigo, causing her to lash out with her disorientation power in all directions. A wave of nausea hits me and everyone else in the immediate vicinity – all except Sinister, who, it seems, has calculated the probability of this happening and has protected himself suitably against it. I sink to my knees, retching, and I feel vomit rising in my throat. After I have emptied my stomach, the bitter taste of bile stinging my throat, I look up through my hair, through painful tears, and I can see the thing impersonating my daughter has already risen, and is moving in on Rebecca like a panther closing in on a blind fawn. Rebecca is still on her knees, her body shuddering with dry heaves, and she looks unable to move. Staggering to my feet, I know that I have to help her somehow. Rebecca, I tell her urgently. Move. Now. It's not much, but it has the desired effect – Rebecca manages to roll to one side just as her doppelganger stabs down through the space she once occupied with a burning red psychic knife – a psychic knife that I know would have killed her outright if it had made even the slightest contact. Rebecca kicks out with her left foot as she does so, hitting her double on the side of the jaw with a resounding crack and making her stumble, spitting blood. I can feel my body recovering its balance, strength returning to my limbs and flowing through me more powerfully than before. I can see Scalphunter rising to his feet too, the rest of the Marauders still down except for Vertigo, who has slunk into the medical facility and grabbed a few more hold-alls' worth of medical samples. He notices me trying to make my way towards my daughter, and grins.

"Well, well, if it ain't my favourite Limey fuck-machine," he snarls unpleasantly, hefting one of his myriad of different guns – this one looks like a variety of energy rifle with an underslung grenade launcher, from what I can tell. He points it at me, and I freeze. Nonetheless, I keep my face impassive and my voice calm.

"Get out of my way," I tell the Amerindian hunter firmly, my hands clenching into fists. That does nothing to make him move or lower his gun. I hadn't expected it to, really.

"I love it when you talk that way," he snarls lecherously. "Really turns me on." I can feel him forcing himself on me again, the weight of his body pressing against mine and making me moan with despair and pain and hate and rage. The thought of it repulses me, the memory like a black stain on my mind. It brings the boiling anger that I have kept in check for these long months to the surface in a searing black wave of agony. No one save Slaymaster and the Mandarin have engendered so much hate from me. I let its energy fill my veins, oh God, fill me like a drug injected right into my heart. I duck his first spray of energy bolts with ease despite his surgical, precise aim. I can hear him curse as I flip and twist inside his reach, rendering his weapons less than useless. He tries to connect the butt of his rifle with my skull, but I am too close for his hulking form to operate properly. In return I hit him with an uppercut and, as he staggers backwards, a satisfying right cross. You told me once that you thought my 'ninja bullshit' was inferior to your weapons, I send to him. Are you still so sure?

"Bitch," he sneers unpleasantly. "I'll skin your ass alive."

"Really?" I say aloud, connecting my heel with the side of his head, spinning elegantly so as to face him once again. "Try it." Scalphunter's bulk is unsuited to the speed of combat that I am used to, and he flails with his big brutal fists. He even throws in a few kicks that I am sure are ninjitsu-based, but they are sloppy and crude parodies of my own, and I am easily able to avoid them. Scalphunter's hands open out into flat-edged knives and he aims a chop at my throat, his intention to crush my windpipe and cause me to suffocate on my own cartilage. I slap it aside easily and parry the other hand – which was the real attack, aimed squarely at my belly as it was. I can sense his frustration and, to a lesser extent, his anger flowing off him in waves. Good. The angrier he gets, the less focused he'll be. Against a trained soldier like Scalphunter, that's all I can hope for, really.

I evade another brutally swinging fist and aim a couple of fingers at Scalphunter's right leg, pointing them towards the nerve clusters that, if hit correctly, will turn his leg into a dragging hunk of meat and bone. He tries to drag his hip around, but he is too slow, and his leg immediately loses its feeling. He staggers and falls, his knee folding underneath him. I pounce, sitting on his chest, my psychic knife inches away from his left eyeball. I can sense his fear – and I can sense him trying to hide that fear, too. Tendrils of psychic energy flicker out to touch him occasionally, causing him significant amounts of pain, but not enough to stun him outright. He grunts as they do, and I lean in closely to his face, smiling at him in the same way that he had smiled at me when he was the one with the power; the one with the absolute dominion over me. "I'll say this once, Grey Crow. If I ever see you anywhere near me or my daughter again, I will kill you. I will kill you and leave your corpse for the vultures to pick at. And I will laugh as your soul burns in Hell." I drive the knife in between his eyes, causing a feedback loop in his brain that replays every ounce of pain he has ever received – every death and rebirth – over and over again. His body convulses and judders spasmodically, and I leave him to face his demons alone. He deserves nothing less.

Stepping over his broken body, I direct my attention to Sinister and Rebecca again. Rebecca's clone has her beaten, her nose bloodied and her breathing ragged and uneven. I sprint towards her, all other thoughts erased from my mind. She's going to die, a terrible part of my brain whispers, and you won't be able to do a thing to save her, will you? Trying desperately to ignore it, I increase my speed, my psychic knife burning at my wrist, until I am stood beside my daughter as she cowers in a heap in front of the devilish mirror image that Sinister has brought with him. The doppelganger smiles – the same evil smile that I saw Rebecca use when I first saw her, but infinitely worse – and says, in a twisted parody of my daughter's lilting voice, "Isn't this funny? I think you and I have done this before, Mother."

Rage burns at the corners of my eyes. "Don't call me that. We never did this – you're not my daughter! You're just some mirror image of Rebecca that that madman created. I took away his favourite new plaything and he made you to replace her."

She's just as stubborn as my daughter is, however much I don't want to see the obvious similarities. "You're pathetic. That Rebecca Braddock is just a pale imitation of me – I am what we were supposed to be. She was a wretched little mouse trying to be a tiger, and she failed. I am that tiger, Elisabeth Braddock. I'll kill you just as surely as she couldn't." She steps forwards, her movements like lightning made flesh, and her fists connect brutally with the soft flesh of my abdomen before I have had a chance to brace them for the impact. Her eyes glow red and send a stinging blast of concussive energy into my face. It doesn't break the skin, but it does blind me momentarily. In that time I can feel her fists hitting my jaw, and were it not for my rolling with the punch, I'm certain I would have felt it shatter like glass. My vision clears slowly, and I am able to see again, albeit through slitted eyes. The Rebecca clone smiles a sweet, venomous smile and drops to one knee, intending to sweep my ankles out from under me. I am ready for it, though, and somersault away, coming to my feet again a few feet away, my hands swinging up ready to block any attacks she might be preparing to make. However, none arrive. She seems to be looking behind me, with some apprehension. I realise why when I sense the rest of the team is on its way, with Scott and Warren at their head. I can see Sinister's face fill with irritation, and he calls his pet back to his side. She slinks back to him with hesitation, and stands at his side, an angry look crossing her twisted features.

"Leave her alone, Sinister," Scott says, in his strong, authoritative voice. Sinister smiles his fang-toothed smile, as if he is meeting Scott on the golf course or at the country club.

"And what if I don't, Scott, my boy?" he asks. "What then?" Scott shrugs.

"We'll take you down," he says, simply. "We protect our own." Sinister sighs, and spreads his hands out to either side.

"As you wish, Scott. I have what I came for – the girl was simply an added attraction. I shall attend to her another time. You may keep her if you wish, but be forewarned – she is, and always will be, Sinister's. You will discover what a viper you have clasped to your breast only when it is too late, and you will wish that you had allowed Sinister to rid you of her when you had the chance. Be mindful of those words, Scott." His discordant, malicious laughter is ringing in my ears long after the tesseract he has used has disappeared.

It's then that I hear a choking, gasping sound at my feet. I look down, and the source of it is as surprising to me as the sound itself.

Rebecca is crying. For the first time since I've known her, she is crying. I kneel down, and she clings to me as if I am her only link to humanity.

"It's all right," I tell her. "It's all right."