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Chapter Thirty-Nine: Monkey Man's Acquaintances and a Very Drunk Pig
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The astral plane had never seemed so all-encompassing.
Xavier knew the sensation of leaving the corporeal world behind, of accepting the mentally projected universe over the physical one, but never before had he been so keenly aware of his own sensitivity to it. These were surroundings he had known since the dreams of his childhood, a place that had long since become his only refuge. It was here that his devastated limbs were no longer a liability, and his incredibly powerful mind could expand to the fullest of its limits.
Now, the astral plane seemed oddly cold, unresponsive. He floated here, his mind as useless as his crippled body, and he couldn't explain why. Somehow, his telepathy was blunted, even here in the place where it had always seemed most vivid. All he could do was drift, silent and fatigued, letting his physical body slowly gain strength as his mind tried to do the same.
In the hospital room, he lay limply, a respirator pumping air into his dilapidated lungs, his sallow face looking haggard and far more elderly than his years. He could not see himself, but rather sense his situation. To his distress, he could not detect the feelings of those that were there with him either, or even gaze across their thoughts for more than a moment or two. He could not contact the doctors and nurses, or even the students with whom he had shared his life for so many years, those that knew his mind better than any others.
With an agonizing realization, he took note of the fact that he could not even reach into Moira's mind, the only woman with whom he had truly shared love for most of his life. Now, she was his closest friend, and even she could not sense his gently seeking mind.
So, Charles Xavier slipped back into that purring, hovering, soundless dwelling where no one touched him, and he touched no other. His mind was bare, and he was intolerably tired. It was a great weariness that slipped between his bones to deaden his flesh and melt his brain to unconsciousness with any contact. It was a long, numbing sleep with no apparent imaginings to liven it a little.
For the first time in a great while, Xavier was truly scared. It went beyond the fear he had felt as a child, mercilessly tormented by Cain Marko, while his mother's new husband beat her and humiliated the boys, or even the fear he had felt when he faced the Shadow King in battle, and his body was crushed beneath a slab of stone. It was reminiscent of the fear he had felt in the minds of so many others, some driven to the brink of madness by their pasts, but so unlike anything in his own experience.
He was unsure of why he was here. He recalled the heat of a fire and the agony as he had tried to breathe, even the last few seconds of psychic squalling he had sent out to his students. There had been no time for an answer to come, he supposed, but part of him could vaguely remember a familiar shape standing nearby.
It was Natalie, it must have been. He saw her face, even through the flames that had engulfed her, and she moved with a startling grace. She had not been burned or even uncomfortable by the unbearable ribbons of heat that snaked around her body, her skin white and unscarred. Her mind was calm, a shuddering star on the astral plane.
When he saw her, the professor had known instantly that he had been right about the possibility of uncharted mutant ability, a suspicion that he had long held. Nat had more hidden in her grab bag of talents than simple pyrokinesis, or even her incalculable invulnerability to heat. She had powers that Xavier had not even comprehended, let alone anticipated.
There was something much larger happening here.
In those last few moments before darkness overcame him, he had seen her face, her dark eyes glowing with an eerie orange reflection, and knew in an instant that she was unaware of what she was doing. Natalie, for all the anger and confusion that she harbored, had been oblivious of her own destructive potential. She was a psychic arsonist, just waiting for a spark to bring the detonation. Her hands had not sparked the blaze that consumed the mansion's wing, but her mind, unknowingly, had enflamed the professor.
This simple ignorance, and her own innocent concern for his welfare, had brutally intensified the onslaught, and made it all the less restrained. She had come to his side to help him, her mind reaching out to his with fingers of flame, like the thrashing of a drowning person that takes down their rescuer in a fit of panic.
And so the detonation had come.
His mind had frozen, as paralyzed as his broken limbs, and become an inadequate weapon against whatever was happening to him. Great swinging axes of psychic fire had come crashing through his head, his mind reeling back to protect itself, the astral heat singeing through his mental barriers. A blaze began to rage on the astral plane, and had not been squelched in the long days since.
He had been helpless, utterly incapable of fighting back, and now he was blocked from the outside world until his psyche could repair itself. It was an impatient wait for the professor and all the while he knew that Nat was out there somewhere, frightened and unaware of her own budding abilities.
If only there had been enough time to warn her.
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Irene shot upward in bed, almost rapping her skull sharply against the headboard in the process. The light bedcovers had been kicked away and she'd been lying there, cold but perspiring, in a state of fitful rest that couldn't quite be referred to as sleep. She was disoriented for a moment, and by the sounds of the street outside she discerned that it wasn't much later than nine or ten. Stress had driven her to bed quite early, and she had hoped to stay there until morning.
Unluckily, it hadn't worked out that way. As if she had expected it to.
Her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat, and her hands felt clammy and cold, like wet sculptor's clay on a wheel. She ran her damp palm across her equally sweaty forehead, reaching for the glass on her bedside table to take a long, soothing swig. There was a peculiar sensation in the air tonight, and she felt utterly certain that something out of the ordinary was happening, somewhere.
Trying to calm herself, she sighed and let her feet slip out of the bed and onto the cool floor, wrapping her robe tightly around herself to ease her shivering. She made her way out of the room and down the stairs, not bothering to turn on the lights. In any case, the bulbs were likely to be burned out. They did her no good, anyway.
She nearly tripped over a furry lump at the bottom of the staircase, but shifted her foot at the last possible moment and sidestepped the sleeping golden retriever. The dog lifted its head and yawned, then flopped back down to return to its nap, glancing at the slippered feet of its master as she disappeared into the living room and sat down in one of the easy chairs.
Irene's hand hovered near the dusty green telephone, waiting for the ring that she was sure was going to come. She could practically taste her own anticipation. The tang of nervousness was slightly bitter on her tongue.
Sometimes, knowing what is likely to come is worse than having to wonder. When you speculate, you lay in bed, wide awake, thinking about all the possibilities and dwelling on the worst of them. There is always that chance that things will work out for the best, even when the mind has convinced itself otherwise. When you know what is going to happen in the future, with all the life in your body and mind, then all of the wondering is eliminated. It takes away the unnecessary stress of those times when things work out for the best, but provides a sickening amount of certainty when the future looks less than bright.
Despite her most desperate attempts to persuade herself that perhaps she was wrong, she was quite sure of what was happening with that poor girl. Irene had known from the first moment that she had "met" Natalie Fairbanks that the child was far more powerful than she knew. The blind fortuneteller, despite her inability to see a centimeter in front of her own eyelids, could see the paths that Nat's powers were doubtlessly taking. This certainty was practically driving her insane, and it was not a comfortable feeling. It went beyond her usual pattern-sensing: there was only one strong path for the girl's powers to take.
And there was not a doubt in her mind that the young Brit was just the mutant that Magneto was looking for. Would it really be so bad if Natalie ended up with the Brotherhood? Irene didn't think so, at least not most of her. After all, there was always Pietro, and the girl's world wouldn't stop revolving if she ended up with him. But it just might if she ended up in the hands of Magneto.
She didn't jump when the phone rang, but she did sigh loudly and hold the earpiece tightly to her head. She fought the urge not to wait for the voice on the other end to initiate conversation.
"Irene?"
The blind woman paused to swallow deeply. She had hoped that she was wrong, and that her painful certainty had been based on sleep-deprivation or something else of the sort. Apparently, she couldn't be so lucky.
"I'm here, Raven." Irene squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingertips against her sinuses as a headache set in.
"Good." She could practically hear the red-haired mutant smiling over the line, and suppressed a sigh. "I assume that you know why I'm calling?" There was no question in her tone.
"I suppose so. She's come to you?"
Raven chuckled, and the sound came out sounding like somewhere between chocolate and steel. "Of course. It appears that our young Pietro has been doing his research, and putting it into practice quite successfully. I'm on my way to meet them at the house in Bayville right now."
There was a long pause as Raven apparently waited for Irene to congratulate her. She received no such praise. The brunette cleared her throat and licked her lips, which were suddenly dry, then quietly added, "Do you really think you're doing the right thing?"
Irene heard her friend's sharp intake of air and the hiss of breath against her teeth. "Not this again."
"I was just asking, Raven."
"I don't give a damn whether you're asking or insinuating. If you have reason to believe that this isn't going to turn out the way we've planned, come out and say it. But don't keep beating around the bush."
"Fine. I won't. I don't think you should be doing this." Silence greeted her flare-up of conscience, and she couldn't help but wonder if her little outburst may not have had the desired effect. "Raven?"
"Are you sensing another possible outcome, then?" the other woman asked, her voice sounding clipped and short.
Irene wet her lips and thought for a moment. Fairbanks was the mutant they were looking for, she was sure, and she had no reason to believe that she wouldn't join the Brotherhood after what had happened with the professor. Of course, it was dangerous to tell Mystique that, in so many words. It would be easy enough to lie, and hopefully get the kid off the hook. Then again…
"Not exactly."
"Then I think this conversation is finished, don't you? Perhaps I'll give you a jingle when the girl has fulfilled our requirements."
There was a sharp snap as Darkholme's receiver was dropped back onto the cradle, and Irene sat in the chair for several minutes longer, silently listening to the tone on the other end of the line.
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Jason tossed an empty beer can over his shoulder, waiting for the sound of the crumpled aluminum meeting its long-lost brothers. He grinned when he heard it, and belched wetly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Harry glared at him, his upper lip curled and his heavy forehead lowered. The man looked like an enormous ape, and it stunned Jason every time he saw the older man that his massive girth didn't sprout from mutant genes.
"You're a pig, boy."
Yawning loudly, Jason shrugged and reached for another beer, popping the tab and spraying his shirt with foam. "Maybe, but at least I ain't a freakin'—" hiccup "—monkey man."
Harry sighed and rolled his round gray eyes, with the dark, caterpillar-like eyebrows knitting together above them. He grasped the half empty cardboard case, which had originally held an entire twenty-four-pack, and slid it to his side of the table. Smiling crookedly and patting his companion's elbow, he draped his thick forearm protectively over the case. "I'm thinking that you've probably had more than enough of these for the evening."
Through the haze of alcohol, Jason hardly heard him, and smiled blearily, flashing a twisted thumbs-up sign. Harry sighed again. The kid was a moron.
They'd been sharing the same hotel room for the past week, ever since their group had been kicked out of the last one, and the twenty-something with the bright red mullet never passed up a chance to get as wasted as possible. He was a scrawny man, barely passable for an adult, with acne-scarred skin and body odor that was enough to anger a farm animal. Harry, ever the pinnacle of hygiene and etiquette despite his brawn, found himself appalled at least a dozen times a day.
At least it would be over in a month. Harry would stay for the conventions and to inaugurate the new local chapter, and he could be back to his wife and his daughter. It would be heaven on earth to be done with this hell-hole hotel room and ill-mannered roommates that smelled like vaguely like unwashed feet.
Harry left the inebriated man at the table with his last precious can of warm alcohol, hauling the rest of the case away to be hidden where Jason wouldn't find it for days: the shower. The kid would probably drink himself unconscious and pass out at the table, which was of no concern to him, so the older man decided to get ready for another night of sleep interrupted by the sounds of snoring and vomiting.
He was standing at the bathroom sink with his toothbrush in his hand when a loud eruption of noise from the hallway made him jump, and he splattered toothpaste across the mirror. He swore under his breath and raced into the room, confused and ready for a fight, if it was necessary. It sounded as if someone very large was trying to maneuver with a great weight in his arms. Harry scrambled to the door with surprising speed for one his size, and Jason teetered for a moment, his head thumping against the tabletop.
Silence descended again. Harry could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Another loud thud, and the rustling of bodies, sounded from the hallway.
"Who's there?" he barked, tensing his shoulders to prepare himself for whoever, or whatever, might be there.
There was a hush, as the people fell quiet and waited to listen. "That you, Harry?"
Relief flooded through Harry's barrel-like chest. For all his vastness and his almost supernatural ability to throw a well-aimed punch, Harry Kincaid was no fighter, and had no desire to quickly become one. He hated the sight of blood.
Flinging open the door, he grinned as several of his pals poured into the room, excitement etched on their faces. The scent of booze was on them as well, due to an ever-present boredom that had been dragging down morale, but some sort of thrill had sobered them right up.
Michael grabbed Harry by the shoulders, shaking him and breathing the smell of gin into his face. Harry fought the urge to curl his nose up in disgust, and laughed, pushing Michael away.
"What the hell is goin' on here?" he asked, grinning and trying to casually turn away from the three new reeking men that were invading his hotel room. Their exhilaration was infectious, however, and adrenaline started pumping through his veins.
"You're never gonna guess what happened to us tonight, man. Never!"
He grinned at Michael, amused by their enthusiasm despite his distaste at the men's drunken facades. A small Asian man named Dale, who looked like he couldn't be a threat to anyone but had an unnerving ability to intimidate others, grabbed the back of Jason's chair and sent him spilling to the floor. The offender laughed and straddled the newly vacated seat, propping his chin up on his palm. Harry felt himself snickering at the sight, and Jason snored away with his face planted in the carpet.
Jack, with his blonde hair flapping untidily around his pink ears, laughed loudly, slapping Harry's shoulders. "We saw that mutie girl!"
Harry frowned, staring at Jack's widely stretched, pinkish lips. He said nothing, unable to think of any way to respond.
"Ya know? That girl?"
Harry blinked. Jack just shook his head, looking ashamed. The room was silent for a moment or two, with the exception of Jason's gurgly snoring, and Michael laughed again, slightly louder than he would have been without the encouragement of his liquor. He grabbed the back of Harry's neck and steered the larger man's face down toward his own, grinning broadly.
"One of those girls from the amusement park," Michael said slowly, like he was explaining something to a brain-damaged child. He frowned when Harry still seemed to make no connection. "The one who wouldn't fight?" He waited a moment for Harry to catch up. He apparently didn't. "With the smoke comin' outta her and the freaky-ass mutie layin' in her lap?"
Understanding finally dawned in Harry's eyes, and Michael laughed, patting his cheek in what was almost a slap. Dale snorted and kicked distastefully at Jason's lax form. "Now he's got it!"
There was a moment of drunken celebration at Harry's recollection, but no one offered any further information as to why he should care so much about the reappearance of some mutie teenager. Harry nodded, smiling, and his eyes were wide with impatient questioning. "Sooo…?"
Dale suddenly rose to his feet, grasped Jason beneath the armpits, and dragged the unconscious man into the hallway. He came back empty handed and slammed the door behind him, dusting his hands together and flopping back down in his stolen chair. Everyone else ignored him.
Jack rolled his eyes, which were slightly bloodshot, and sighed loudly. "Ye're a god damned idiot, Monkey Man."
Michael glared at him for a moment, tossing what looked like a dirty napkin in his direction. "What our jackass friend here meant to say is that we think she might be just what we need for a little 'happy landings' present for Mr. Creed."
Surprised to the point of nearly swallowing his tongue, Harry's hands spasmed and he felt his eyes bug out slightly. "Creed? Graydon Creed is comin' here?"
Jack looked immensely pleased with himself. "Damn straight. Probably sometime in the next two weeks."
"There's always rumors that Creed's comin' to town, and I've never seem the man in person yet." With a roll of his eyes, Harry dropped onto the edge of the nearest bed, rubbing his aching temples. "Still, why didn't you nab her? Wasn't she alone?"
Dale shook his head. His feet were propped up on the tabletop, and he was flipping through a discarded magazine he'd found on the floor, looking bored. "Nah. She was in a car and there was somebody with 'er. A guy, by the looks of it. Couldn't tell if it was one of them muties she was with before, 'cause his face was sorta hidden. Barely made her out through the tinted window."
"But it wasn't the guy with the sunglasses, that's fer sure, so she might not be as well defended as before," Jack added. "The way it seems, she's somewhere in the neighborhood of this hotel."
Grunting as he flung the magazine onto one of the beds, Dale folded his hands behind his head and frowned. "Creed'll be happier if we manage to grab one of them stronger ones, don't ya think?"
Michael ignored Dale and smiled, running a hand back through his mop of curly, sand-colored hair. "When she's not with those freaks, she doesn't look like the type that can fight back all that much. Without them, she's probably helpless. We keep our eyes open, an' we'll get our hands on her soon enough. And if not her, then one of her mutie friends will do."