by Drucilla
Mason Eckhart stared at the video that was playing quietly on his desk computer. He had been watching them for the past three days, off and on, when he could find a free moment. It looked like Angelique. It moved like Angelique. But cognitive dissonance was setting in, and he was starting to disbelieve that anything remotely like what he was seeing could exist. Tenderness. Kindness. Affection. These were not emotions shown to Mason Eckhart, ever. The universe didn't work that way.
Except that video evidence was showing him otherwise. He watched the tiny figure move around the tiny sleeping figure, with glances and touches he could never remember. Memories flooded back, things he hadn't thought about at the time and only vaguely recognized the meaning of now. It was all too much, even for him. Facts, data, analysis, numbers on a page he could comprehend, subjects in a lab. Emotions were completely alien to him.
"Sir…"
"I'm busy," Eckhart responded automatically.
"Sir, I really think you should see this."
"I said…" he frowned. "What?"
"I'm routing it through to your computer now, sir."
A window popped up on his computer. It looked like some sort of news footage. "I have it," he said, and would have signed off except for the interruption of the GSA agent.
"Sir, this was acquired from the news agency two days ago. Mutant X is probably aware of this by now and taking whatever steps they think necessary."
"I am duly advised, Agent Starkweather." Eckhart's tone had a heavy dose of irony in it, enough to kill if dropped on the agent's head from a great height. The agent took the hint (if it could be called such) and signed off.
Eckhart leaned forward, playing the footage the agent had acquired and trying not to think about the past. It turned out not to be that hard. He watched with feelings he couldn't name and didn't want to examine too closely as the semi crossed the median, nearly hitting the tiny black car, which went screaming down in the opposite direction barely in time. The footage then switched to a brief clip of a cop walking up to the car, clearly part of a broadcast and only a few seconds long.
It was interrupted by the GenomeX logo, and the scrolling words 'Analysis in progress.' A few more seconds and the clip was back. It froze as the cop was two feet away from the rear bumper, zoomed in on the driver's side window, magnified and clarified the image. Angelique. Yes, of course it would be, it was her car. What was she doing… holding her hands up to her head. It looked reasonable; she'd sustained some sort of head injury in the accident. But what was happening wasn't. As he watched, the skin and tissue began to knit itself back together, the blood to clot and fall away faster than humanly possible. Under ordinary circumstances, anyway.
Eckhart's face and hands burned. Fingertips flew across the keyboard as he broke the GenomeX database wide open and brought up Dr. Breedlove's files. Why wasn't she on record? Why hadn't she been listed? How had she managed to hide all those years? When did this happen? He ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that was asking, plaintively, why hadn't she told him.
"Sir! Security breach…" an agent burst in, and Eckhart looked up with the icy stare of someone who didn't care whether you lived or died, except that you had interrupted him in a vital task. "Uh. Sorry, sir. I'll… uh… tell the computer security people to stand down."
Eckhart didn't even bother to dismiss the man, and returned to assaulting the files like a mad thing, trying to find some evidence that she was listed somewhere. Finally, back in the genetic records from twenty years ago, he found it.
"DNA sample taken from Angelique Marie Delacroix, post-treatment. Subject shows signs of an extremely accelerated recovery…" Eckhart devoured all text on the screen, went back for more. They'd gone behind his and Adam's back on this one, most likely because they thought a nineteen year old girl would be more susceptible to their ideas than either of the two men. They'd struck a deal with her, a live test subject with all her research skills for a tailored mutation of her choice. He couldn't really fault her for what she'd chosen, either. He'd've done the same thing in her place.
And apparently it worked astonishingly well. If there had been any fatal side effects she'd conquered them all with her biokinetic ability. Her medical record for the present day was spotless; in fact, her doctors were amazed at her youthfulness. She was a flawless specimen of a human being: intelligent, physically perfect, resourceful…
Jealousy colored his vision red and made him blind, made his head swim. He wasn't shaking, he was sitting very still in fact, but he was entirely overcome by an unthinking rage at the young woman who he felt had betrayed him by having everything he didn't. The perfect life, all of her skills, the ability to carry them out in a manner more efficient and graceful than he ever had or ever would. No debilitating, crippling conditions. And what was left for him? Nothing, except an emotionless invitation to a public event and a harsh dismissal halfway through. No further contact, no further information, and she didn't want anything to do with him. He could still hear her voice, now, telling him to leave. He could still feel the tingling of his arm where her hand had touched it, only now he supposed he knew what it had been. Her biokinetic powers had touched him briefly, though most likely without effect.
And then, the rage was gone as quickly as it had began, leaving him tired, weak, and drained. Thinking of that moment had brought to mind a host of other moments, and even being as cold as he was (or tried to be) he couldn't maintain the heat of anger against her. He had one, maybe two memories of betrayal, and a whole host of others of support. Quiet support, much needed, the kind he'd never had from anyone before. It was… an odd feeling.
He still didn't know what to do. Ordinarily he would have already called in the GSA and had her brought in by now. On the other hand, he wasn't sure even the GSA could handle her, not when she could give them an aneurysm with a thought and a glare. And somehow… he felt he owed her the privacy she'd earned, the peace and quiet and retirement. He didn't want to hurt her, Eckhart realized abruptly, scowling at himself for what he saw as weakness. But it was there, all the same. He spent a few minutes, convinced himself that it was because she might hold the key to regaining his life and liberty, getting back some semblance of normality. She might be the cure. That was why he wanted her unharmed and safe.
Eckhart pushed the button for the intercom. "Starkweather. Assemble a team, pick up Delacroix. But keep it quiet, I want her brought in with maximum security, maximum secrecy. No one outside of your team is to know, not even the rest of the GSA."
"Sir?" Starkweather sounded nervous. As well he might, but that wasn't Eckhart's problem.
"Do it. Contact me when you have her in custody." He paused. "Bring her in unharmed." He switched the intercom off and leaned back in his chair. She wouldn't be hurt. Starkweather knew his employer too well to risk damaging her. She would be fine. And he could convince her of what needed to happen. She would help him. She'd always helped him.
Ma belle dame sans merci. Ma petite cherie, ma chere. He closed his eyes and remembered. Mon pauvre ami. Mon cheri, mon cher. N'importe quoi, mon cher. Mangé, un petit peu? Pour moi, cher? Et, dorme un petit peu, aussi. Pour moi. C'est quatre heur de matin, mon cher. Oui, cherie, mais un moment plus… je crois que, si je fait comme aussi… Et voila, bravo, tu as fait un grand dégat. Allez, cher, a ton chambre. Tu as trop sommeil pour …
He couldn't remember anymore. He wondered why it bothered him so.