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"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."
-William Congreve
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Chapter Fifty: A Woman Scorned
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Kurt Wagner squinted just slightly so he could see through the semi-tinted windows of the Bayville High cafeteria. Inside, by a table at the far end of the room, he could make out two vaguely visible and almost watery figures through the murky glass, one dark-haired and the other fair, framed by a limp length of orange vinyl curtain. His heart felt a pang when the two came close, almost touching along their lengths, but a flood of relaxation passed quickly through him when the smaller of the two jerked away and sent the male shadow stumbling and nearly falling backward. He felt his mouth go dry and licked his lips as the two continued to converse, pressing his forehead to the window in the hopes that he'd get a better view.
"Kurt?" asked a female voice from not far behind him. He didn't respond, his thoughts too consumed by his current attention. "Kurt, what are you doing?"
Surprised, he swung around to face Doug Ramsey and Kitty, both looking confused at his apparent shock. He tried to grin nonchalantly but it came off looking embarrassed instead. Kitty cocked her head to one side, frowning, and clutched her books a little tighter to her chest. Her brown ponytail spilled over the edge of her pale pink collar, and her eyebrow was raised in curiosity. Doug, smiling to calm the awkward tension, reached out and patted Kurt's shoulder. "Class is starting, man. You're gonna be late if you don't hightail it on outta here."
Glancing away nervously and stepping slightly in front of the window, Kurt attempted to casually block their vision of the scene that he had been so faithfully viewing. "Ja, I, uh, I know. I vas just finishing my…lunch." He reached into his backpack, propped up against the side of the building, and pulled out the nearest plastic bag, which just happened to contain a half-dried glob of Silly Putty. He stared down at the unappetizing plastic-wrapped lump in his palm, and a quiet laugh escaped him. He held up the bag and chuckled. "See?"
Doug joined in after only a moment's hesitation, laughing falsely for Kurt's benefit, and elbowed Kitty between the ribs to get her to do the same. The slender brunette yelped but recovered quickly and forced a little giggle, muttering, "Uh, yeah, Kurt, that's so totally believable." She rubbed her side with one hand and glared at Doug.
The three teens stood in awkward silence for a moment, Kitty gazing inquisitively at her housemate. Doug swallowed hard and caught Kitty's eye, tipping his head back toward the school to indicate that she ought to leave him alone with the distracted-looking German. Kitty's eyes narrowed momentarily and she came close to protesting when she thought better of it and nodded. "Well, I, uh…I've got to get to biology, then. I'll see you guys later." Sounding unnaturally strained, she made her exit and disappeared through the side doors beyond a large rhododendron bush, glancing behind her every few seconds to try to catch a glimpse of whatever was making them all behave so oddly. The door swung slowly in her wake.
Doug took a seat on a nearby bench at the edge of the courtyard, ignoring the irritated look on Kurt's face. He lifted his empty hands in a sign of non-interference and winked. "Don't worry about me, man. You can go ahead and spy on your girlfriend all you want while I'm here."
Despite the holographic projection that shielded Kurt's true visage, his muscles twisted into a surprised and sheepish expression mirrored perfectly by the artificial face that graced his features. "I…I vasn't–"
"Oh, please."
"Alright, fine," Kurt huffed as he rolled his eyes and dropped beside the blonde-haired boy onto the seat, still trying to make out the vague shapes just beyond the window glass. "I vas spying on her. But it's not like she's in the shower or something. She's out in public. Is there a law that makes that illegal?"
There was a long moment of silence. Doug ignored his question. He sighed and leaned back so his weight was balanced on his palms, casually propping up his heels on the edge of the bench. He watched his companion's profile closely, noting the drawn nature of Kurt's forehead, the determined set of his eyes and jaw. "Dude, why do you care so much about what she's up to? Kitty told me about what happened and…well, if you don't mind me saying so, it seems to me like it would be better for you to just forget about her."
Kurt whipped around, glaring at the slightly younger boy, who had suddenly taken it upon himself to act as a counselor. Seeing the shock on Doug's features, his anger subsided into an uncomfortable frown, and he sighed. Her arms felt heavy. "I do mind you saying so, actually."
Running a hand through his short, wavy hair, made flat from months of wearing a baseball cap outside of classroom hours, Doug sighed and shook his head slowly as if he were trying to comprehend exactly what was making Kurt behave this way. "Not too many people around here know what went down at the institute, Wagner, and I'm still not sure why you and Kitty have confided in me. I mean, I know I'm probably the only mutant at this school that doesn't have an alliance with either you guys or the others, but…oh, whatever. Anyway, I appreciate that, really I do, so I feel bad getting involved in stuff that's not my business. But still, everyone's worried about you. Kitty told me what that girl did. Now your professor's laid up and you're still worrying about what's going on with Natalie. All I'm saying is that I don't get your devotion, you know? Mixed up loyalties, it seems."
Kurt slumped forward on the bench, grasping his hands together and squeezing his eyes shut. "Something's happening to her, and I don't vant her to get hurt. That's all. She's in a dangerous situation that she might not be able to handle simply because everyone blames her for something that she might not even have done." He rubbed his eyes with his palms, unwilling to look in Doug's direction. "Everyone jumps to blame her for vat happened to the professor, but there's nothing more than circumstantial evidence that says she did it."
Doug sighed. "Maybe so, but what about her…you know, preoccupation with that Maximoff guy?" Doug added, his voice low and anxious. He hadn't wanted to ask that question and he'd put it off as long as he could. The way Kurt cringed just served to make him feel worse. "You really might not want to be involved with someone who can't keep her legs shut."
"That's none of your business," Kurt whispered shortly, keeping his face turned away, too lost in his own fears to defend her. "Now vy don't you go to class? You've got no reason to be here."
There was a long pause before Doug stood beside his seated friend, his hand hovering just a few inches above his shoulder. Slowly, he withdrew and made his way into the school, glancing back a few times as Kitty had done. His shoelaces dragged behind him on the sidewalk like lethargic worms, making a quiet rustling sound as he made his hesitant departure.
Alone in the courtyard, Kurt sighed. There was no breeze to cool the early summer air, and he had begun to sweat. Unable to look back up at the window, he stared down at his feet. They always looked strange to him at the end of his artificially humanoid legs, small and incapable of balancing. It was peculiar to look down at one's own body and see what wasn't really there, and it had never truly become second nature. Around his feet he could see the cracks in the pavement, and he thought about the shapes that they made. There was a rabbit on its haunches, and beside it a girl with a basket under her arm. And there was a dog wearing a dress and a large flowered hat, boarding a train.
Kurt laughed softly to himself and rubbed his eyes. Imagination, again.
At least now all he imagined were harmless things.
A sudden loud, banging sound caught his attention and he glanced up, his eye catching on something he had been waiting to see. Her legs moving quickly and her hair streaming behind her like a dark russet banner, Nat was racing away from the cafeteria almost as rapidly as her feet could carry her. Kurt leaped to a standing position and moved to follow when another figure appeared in the doorway between the cafeteria and the courtyard, watching Nat flee, keeping a considerable distance between them despite himself.
Rage flooded Kurt's body, barely quelled, when the second person turned and noticed him. Both young men stood perfectly still, the tension between them sparking with barely contained violence. The clear blue eyes widened in surprise as they met the dark ones before taking on their more characteristic self-important gleam. Pietro shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned lopsidedly at Kurt, who felt the desire to launch himself, feline-fashion, at the pale boy's lean, defenseless throat.
"Well, well. What have you been up to?"
"I never thought you'd be the one to ask me that, Maximoff."
A short, brusque laugh escaped Pietro's lips. "Why does everyone feel the need to call me that, today? Seriously, I've got an actual name. No one even bothers with the 'mister' anymore."
"Und I'm sure you deserve to be called by it, considering how gentlemanly you always behave."
"Ouch. Really. That hurt."
"Vy von't you leave her alone?"
"What makes you think she really wants me to?"
Kurt bit the inside of his cheek, holding in his own urge to fight, crush and destroy in careful check. It would be so easy to fire one sudden punch, maybe when Pietro wasn't expecting it. He might not be as fast as his quick-talking gypsy, but his reflexes could certainly be classified as inhuman. Instead, he took one careful breath and stood his ground, watching over his nemesis' shoulder at the distant female figure that was rapidly becoming smaller as the time wore on.
Neither of the boys noticed the dark-windowed van that peeled out of the parking lot and followed her.
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The house stood before her like an asymmetrical giant, eaves hanging darkly over old stained glass windows on the third story and tapered peaks poking up at the blue sky. Paint peeled, several layers and colors showing through in some places, and a few of the windows were patched up with cardboard and pieces of plywood. A large, faded sign reading "Brotherhood of Bayville Boarding House" stood at the edge of the lawn.
Nat's teeth clenched tightly together and her tongue darted out between them when they parted, moistening her waterless lips. A slithering sound trailed behind her as the grass crinkled and died underfoot. Her own beads of sweat popped and evaporated before her skin began to dry and produced no more offensive dampness.
The front door made no effort to resist her, blowing off its ancient hinges with little more than a painful groan as a blast of heat sent it tearing out of the jamb, clattering against the stairs inside. Her hair whipped about her face as a hot wind began to swirl around her, smoky and golden, and she drank in the smell of her own power. Her eyes rolled back in her skull as smoke poured into them, stinging, but caused no pain. Her clothing had begun to flutter against her flesh, threatening to ignite as the grass had. The headache that had begun to throb between her temples had all but vanished, leaving in its wake only a dull memory, a ceaseless thumping that came and went with the beating of her heart. Her brow was creased with determination.
She took the steps slowly, dragging her toes on the runner and carelessly sidestepping the door where it smoldered at her feet. She found herself standing at the entrance to her bedroom and entered silently, the hiss of heat sizzling in the air. She surveyed the room carefully, catching sight of the corner of a shoebox peering out from underneath the bed.
Last time she had seen it, her breath had caught in her throat. This time, it allowed her to exhale slowly, easing a pinching weight off of her chest.
She dropped to her knees, ignoring the crackle of protest from the carpeting below her, and eased the top off of the box, slipping her hands inside and removing a pair of elbow-length leather gloves. Her fingers slid gently over the cool material and she allowed her flesh to cool enough that she could slip her palms inside the gloves, flexing her fists. They fit snuggly, hugging the curves and angles of her knuckles and arm. She didn't pause long enough to wonder why she had donned them, and rose and exited the room, the paint on the armoire bubbling as she made her way out.
The door to Mystique's rarely occupied bedroom stood at the top of the staircase, and Nat approached it as she backtracked down the hallway, passing Pietro's empty bedroom on the way. The knob rattled and the metal groaned, the wood around it hissing as a thin ribbon of smoke rose from the keyhole.
Nat stood stoically at Mystique's door for a long moment, brushing her gloved fingertips across the grain of the wood before hastily blowing her way past the obstacle. Like the door that now lay uselessly on the stairs below her, this one was hurtled backward and landed with a smashing sound on the carpet, splintering and emitting the smelly odors of burned pine and stain. Behind her, the trails of smoke had dissipated from the bedrooms down the hall, but the scent of something recently burned lingered.
She cast her eyes back and forth, taking in the opulence of the room with a grunt of disgust. A lushly embroidered bedspread adorned a king-sized mattress on a four-poster bed, and exotic lamps with swinging chains would normally have bathed the room in golden light. An enormous Oriental rug covered much of the floor. There was a large cherry-wood bedside table and a matching desk, carved, it seemed, out of one large hunk of wood and polished until it gleamed. Several stacks of papers, photographs and manila folders scattered the desktop in front of a sophisticated-looking computer.
A dark grin spread across Nat's features when she noticed her name adorning one of those folders, and lifted it gently with leather-covered hands. It was thin, and she flipped through it rapidly. There were photographs of herself, and medical and family records that she was surprised to find, recording everything from her eye color and date of birth to the specifics of her particular mutation and even the approximate date of her first menstruation. She found photographs of her hometown, a blueprint of Xavier's mansion that highlighted her bedroom and newspaper clippings referring, however briefly, to the destruction of a small British private school. A glint of metal and plastic caught her eye as a CD fell to the floor at her feet, and she paused for just a moment before bending to pick up the escapee from her file.
Frowning, she turned the disc over and over in her fingers, examining it as if doing so would reveal its contents. Her heart beat wildly behind her ribs and she swallowed hard, reaching out to insert the disc into the slot of the waiting drive.
She stood at the desk rather than sitting in the high-backed chair, drumming her fingers nervously on the desktop as she read. She swallowed the words, devoured them, spitting out those that seemed unworthy and trying to digest those that managed to make sense in her rush. Most of it was unimportant to her, she quickly deduced, but one particular file caught her attention and held it tightly.
Psychic obliteration. Inability to resist. Living weapon of mass destruction.
Her heart had begun to race. Her lips had gone cold.
Psychic obliteration.
It was all there, outlined clearly and in plain text on the screen. Magneto's plan, including references to a prophecy about a mind of fire, a weapon that could be used to destroy the enemies of freedom and natural selection. There were several series of e-mails saved there, too: many between Magneto and Mystique, quite a few from someone that referred to him or herself only as Destiny, and even a few labeled with the despised name of Pietro Maximoff.
Inability to resist.
Fury seethed inside her. A strangled cry was choked out of her throat, but tears refused to fall. Her fist lashed out, slamming through the computer's LCD monitor in a crackle of electricity and snapping wires, and she roughly removed the disc from the drive before pocketing it and sending the computer tipping gracelessly onto the floor. The chair was overturned and lost a leg, and the bedspread, down pillows and luxurious bed curtains were consumed in a wave of flame that was extinguished quickly as its maker turned her attention away and slammed her arm through the plaster of the wall. Blood trickled between her knuckles inside the glove but she ignored the pain. The only thing that held her attention was her desire to cause as much damage as she could without actually burning the place down, and even that mildly contained concern was beginning to matter less and less.
Living weapon of mass destruction.
In her state of rage, she didn't hear the silver van pull up across the street on screeching tires, or the slamming of the doors and the muffled curses of men as they donned protective gear. She didn't hear them pause as they stepped over the destroyed door or the pounding of their footsteps as they raced up the stairs. She was deaf to the sound of weapons being trained on her back.
She didn't hear the tell-tale click of the newly-invented inhibitor collar as it was popped open.
She didn't hear them coming for her.