The gleaming space-age doors of the War Room hissed open before the two clawed mutants, revealing the Professor, Cyclops, Storm and Jean gathered around the bank of instrument panels at the base of the overhead screen. At their entrance, Xavier turned his wheelchair and droned forward, motioning for them to sit down. Logan slung himself into one of the sturdy adjustable chairs with seeming insouciance, but the Professor could sense profound excitement layered with anxiety. Turning his telepathic focus to Helena, who had quietly sat next to Logan, he detected spectral emanations of similar emotions that were almost completely hidden by her mental shields.
"Whatcha got, Chuck?" Wolverine asked curtly, ignoring Cyclops visible bridling at his overly familiar form of address.
Noticing Jean did not give her usual half-suppressed smile at the mild antagonism between the two men, Helena knew that whatever the Professor had discovered was serious. Brisk in her starched labcoat, auburn hair piled on top of her head, Jean nodded to her. Shifting position slightly, Helena waited for the revelation.
"A number of things," Xavier began. "Most of the information on the disks you found at Alkali Lake is incomplete or irreparably damaged, but we've reconstructed some of the contents."
At his gesture, Cyclops leaned forward and pressed a pad on the console, activating the large rectangular viewscreen. Flickering fitfully, a document scrolled up, magnified many times above normal. Most of the text was corrupted, garbled beyond recognition, but the phrase 'Weapon X' was recurring.
"From what we can gather, the Alkali Lake installation was used by the Canadian government in a covert weapons project between nineteen seventy and the early noughties," Scott said, impassive behind his ruby quartz lenses. "It was then abandoned. There's hundreds of pages of data on the disks, mostly illegible, but it's clear that the Weapon X project was designed to exploit mutants – "
"Expecially those with healing factors," Jean broke in, her gaze encompassing both clawed mutants. "Which makes possible surgical augmentation using materials the body would otherwise reject."
Flicking a finger of telekinesis at the console, depressing a button, she pointed as the display crackled and altered to a list of names, each with a hyperlink to a profile and dates. As before, most were unreadable.
"We've counted a dozen different test subjects," she revealed. "Some are marked as category A felons, some as volunteers. Each is referred to by a codename and number, but most of the files are damaged… including yours, Logan."
Fists clenched until they were white, adamantium knuckles showing through the skin, Logan stared at his name on the screen, at the multi-digit number he knew was etched onto the back of his dog tags.
"What yer got, Jeannie?" he rasped.
"Not much," she admitted apologetically. "Several dates of military field operations, mostly search and destroy or tracking. There's references to surgical procedures and manipulation of the X-gene, but the files are so badly corrupted it's impossible to make head or tail of them… It's possible your memory was wiped as part of the procedures, or an unforseen side-effect."
Silently, Logan regarded the backs of his hands, feeling his claws shift and click as the muscles in his forearms tensed. At his side, Helena watched his reaction with a knot in her stomach, wanting to reach out but knowing at that precise moment he would not welcome comfort.
"Makes sense, I s'pose," he said, voice low, almost inaudible. "I wasn't given these damn claws ta prune hedges."
"That's not all," Scott said grimly, folding his arms. "There's entries under our mutual friend Sabretooth's name."
Wolverine scowled venomously at the mention of Victor Creed, rubbing his knuckles as his claws itched from the inside. He hated the huge feline mutant more than anyone, images of Creed lasciviously tracing a sharp black claw over Helena's cheek as she hung imprisoned by magnetised metal bars inside the Statue of Liberty and Rogue slung unconscious over his shoulder speeding through his mind.
"Hairy fucker," he growled. "Dead hairy fucker if I get my hands on him."
"And Raven's name," Storm said quietly, breaking her medative silence.
"What?" Helena demanded, eyes widening.
The Professor held up his hands, quelling further discussion, and motioned for Cyclops to change the image on the view screen. A grainy, somewhat distorted video still from a security camera filled the screen, casting a pale silver wash over the room.
"This was recorded six years ago," he announced.
The black and white image flickered and danced, momentarily dissolving into crackling static before coalescing into a long corridor containing grill-windowed cells. Six black-clad soldiers raced down the corridor, rifles at their shoulders.
"Special black ops," Logan murmured. Nobody asked him how he knew.
They turned and opened fire at a target outside the camera's scope, streaks of fire leaping from the muzzles of their weapons. Suddenly, the three leading soldiers cried out as their guns flew from their hands, pinwheeling through the air out of reach. Breaking away from their squad, they dived under the camera, only to reappear in frame moments later. Two were dead, slashed open from groin to throat, spilling slippery ropes of intestine, the third missing an arm. As the X-Men watched, he staggered and collapsed, a rapidly spreading pool of black slicking the floor beneath him. The assailant passed into sight, a tall gracile blur dressed in non-restrictive combat fatigues and a skin-tight dark-coloured vest. Curly hair shorter and scraped back into a sleek ponytail, features smeared with camouflage paint, bare arms gloved to the elbow in glistening wetness, Helena was nonetheless clearly recognisable.
Facing the remaining soliders, legs braced apart, her hand came up and their guns twisted out of shape like putty. Dropping the useless weapons, they snatched serrated combat knives from their belts and closed in. Fists lifting, claws sprang from between the knuckles, but they were bone, not adamantium. Lunging, she buried them to the knuckle in the throat of the nearest soldier, ripping them out in a spray of blood. The security footage was silent, but everybody watching could imagine the sickening crunch of cartilage. Flooring the second with a roundhouse, she flew to the nearest cell door, dropped to her knees and placed her palm flat to the lock. The door swung open and a dazed-looking woman with silver streaks in her dark hair staggered out, an inhibitor collar circling her neck.
Prying off the device with her claws, Raven framed the woman's haggard face in her hands, appearing to speak to her. A thin, vacant smile curled her mouth and she held up her hand, fingers splayed. The flesh of her palm split lengthways and an adamantium dart attached to a fine cable flew out, punching through the standing soldier's skull like paper. With a flick of her wrist, the mutant woman retrieved the barb, folding her fingers around it as it recoiled back into her forearm. Turning on the remaining soldier, eyes wild and one step away from mania, Raven's clawed hand came up.
"Turn it off," Helena whispered, shaken. "Please."
When Cyclops did not move quickly enough for his liking, Logan gave an inarticulate roar and leapt over the conference table, claws hissing out to smash the console. The image died in a frenzied riot of static and popping circuitry. Snarling, blue flickers of electricity snaking between the adamantium talons, he wrenched them free of the debris.
"Dammit, Logan!" Scott snapped, biting back further comments as Jean's hand came to rest on his arm.
Spearing Summers with a vicious glare, Logan crossed the room to crouch next to Helena, clasping her hands and looking into her face.
"It can be repaired," Xavier responded calmly, blue grey eyes concerned as they moved to rest on the newest member of his team. "Helena, all the data indicates you were there as part of a team freeing captive subjects."
She looked up, shock dulling her eyes, bracketing her mouth with deep lines.
"We've got an answer over the claws thing," she muttered, half to herself. "I had them all along…"
Trailing off, she stared at her hands, seeing bone claws impaling highly-trained special ops soldiers. She shuddered and made a concerted effort to compose herself, eyes momentarily falling shut as if to attempt to erase the images burnt into her retinas.
"Logan wouldn't have been part of this Weapon X project then," she said slowly, thinking. "What about Sabretooth? Please, for Chrissake tell me I didn't let that psychopathic wookie-lookalike out."
The Professor shook his bald head, fingers steepled before his nose as he ascertained the extent of her reaction to what she had seen. Ostensibly of a more stable temperament than Logan, despite her similar animal traits, she could be just as unpredictable in her own way.
"No, Sabretooth has had ties with the Brotherhood of Mutants for more than seven years… Whatever involvement you had with him, you did not let him out, if in fact he was ever a prisoner."
Helena nodded to signify she understood, gripping Logan's hands with all her strength. Knuckles white, any other man would be wincing with the pain, but he said nothing, silently offering support.
"Not that it's come as any great surprise, but…" she paused and cleared her throat. "If I was there trashing the joint, why am I listed under their subjects? They catch me or sommat?"
A flicker of discomfort passed over Xavier's face, quickly replaced by his usual indefatigable calm. He could not help but think of the newest member of his X-Men as the youngest, though she was almost certainly older than the rest of the team. To his eyes, she looked very young and vulnerable, despite he knew she was anything but.
"Yes. Apparently, the raid we just saw was not the first or last. There are fragmented records of security breaches at Alkali Lake and other installations dating from two thousand to two thousand and seven, which is the first entry on your file." Xavier halted and suppressed a faint grimace. "Between then and your 'awakening' in Ontario, we believe you were subject to experiments under Weapon X, although there are no references to surgical procedures…" He paused and steepled his fingers before his nose. "Cypher contacted me earlier today with his findings on the microdisc – it was booby-trapped, so to speak. His initial attempts to decode it triggered a cascade virus that wiped his system and most of the data on the disc. He managed to recover enough information to ascertain that you were working for MI6, though the purpose of freeing the test subjects remains unclear. There are, however, references to genetic enhancements prior to your capture… It seems some members of your team were mutants with artificially strengthened or added powers, which could go some way towards explaining your absorption and replication of adamantium. It's possible the scientists at Weapon X captured you to examine these modifications for inclusion in their programme."
Logan grunted disgustedly and visibly shivered. "Bastards used us both as labrats."
"They were trying to break me," Helena said tonelessly, as if she had not heard what Xavier said. "Trying to break into my mind to get to my team… and when they couldn't, they wiped me clean like a video tape."
Concerned by the odd tone to her voice, the Professor leaned forward in his wheelchair as Storm poured a glass of water and offered it to her.
"What makes you say that?" he asked softly.
"A dream I've been having," she said, voice so cashmere soft that only Logan did not have to strain to hear. "It didn't make much sense until now… I'm tied to a metal table, restraints, inhibitor collar, the whole works… There's this feller asking me the same questions again and again… 'where are they', 'how many are there', 'where's their next target', but I can't see his face because of a bright light."
She smiled bitterly and took a swallow of water, hand vicing the glass so tightly that it suddenly shattered in her hand. Shards of glass tinkled to the crosshatched metal floor as she raised her hand and watched the cuts shiver and flawlessly heal.
"I'm hooked up to a drip, my eyelids are pegged open and there's some sort of monitor attached to my temples … I can see this feller's blue shirt and tie as he walks around the table – he's got a tazer and he uses it when he doesn't get the answers he wants. If it wasn't for the inhibitor collar, I could psy-blast him, use my TK to strangle him with his own tie or unfasten the restraints… But I can't. I'm strapped down, drugged to the eyeballs and halfway to hell."
Jean flinched, grey green eyes crinkled with sympathy and horror as she thought of her friend suffering in such a manner. Wordlessly, Scott looped his arm around her waist, jaw set beneath his red-lensed glasses. Delicate jaw tightening in a rare display of anger, Storm bowed her white head as her eyes flickered mecury.
"Jesus Christ, Hels," Logan said hoarsely, aghast. "Was that what yer were dreamin' when yer woke up fightin' the other night?"
She nodded mutely, hazel green eyes boring into his, demanding that he not pity her. Woken by her hard adamantium elbow landing in his gut, Logan had instinctively popped his claws and ripped three long tears in the bedcovers before realising she was having a nightmare. Before he had chance to try to wake her, she sat bolt upright, gave a low, keening whimper and woke with a convulsive shudder. She had refused to tell him what she had dreamt and he knew better than to try to coax her into talking. He had fallen asleep again and woke some hours later to find a cooling space next to him. Active, noisy nightmares had been Wolverine's bedfellows for as long as he could remember, but hers were new. He could not recall being woken by her during their travels around Canada.
"How long have you been having these nightmares?" the Professor asked.
"About five, six months, something like that," Helena said with a forced shrug. "I don't have them all that often, but they keep getting more detailed."
"Could be a memory block disintegrating," Jean theorised, her scientific head firmly on as she looked to Xavier, intent on beginning an investigation.
"No psy-scans, Jay," Helena warned, recognising the inquisitive expression on the doctor's fine-boned face. "I've gotta deal with this shit in my own mind before I let you or the Prof go spring cleaning. It's not everyday you find out you were a guinea pig for a covert government experiments on mutants, or you've-" She swallowed and her features crumpled. "… and..."
Wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulders, Logan directed a broad-ranging glare around the room. He had not discovered much more than he already suspected about his own past, and as far as he was concerned, the soldiers at Alkali Lake had got exactly what they deserved. His logic and ethics were very much black and white – if he slashed someone, there was a reason, and they had got what was coming to them. He did not often allow for shades of grey or stop to feel remorse, but he recalled the first time he had killed after his awakening and how he felt afterwards, despite a rootless conviction it was not the first occasion in his unremembered life he had done so. He knew how Helena must be feeling, detecting the tension and distress in her scent.
"No more," he declared. "That's enough fer today. It'll keep… C'mon, darlin', I think we both need a few whiskies."
Xavier and his X-Men watched as he shepherded her out of the War Room without a backward glance. Touching the control on the arm of his wheelchair, the Professor trundled forward, hearing the broken glass and scattered remnants of circuitry from the console crunch beneath the wheels.
"Scott," he murmured. "Print out all the relevant data, I think they'll both want to look at it at a later date… and it might be prudent to give them breathing space, especially Logan – we don't want anyone confined to the infirmary."
Cyclops nodded, ruby quartz winking in the overhead light. Despite her tendency to tease him and not always be a team player on missions, he liked Helena and valued her as a colleague and friend. He knew she was deeply affected by what she had learned.
"That's if he stays around after this." If he cuts and runs, I'll help Elliot kill him.
The Professor fixed his gaze on the metal door, mind scouting up through the sublevels and into the mansion. After a few moments, he turned knowingly to his protégé.
"He'll stay."
*
2 Months Later
Waking with a huge intake of breath, Logan stared into the blue blackness of his small attic room, heart pounding, every feral instinct he possessed on full alert. Sitting up, hearing the bedsprings creak arthritically beneath his weight, he sniffed the air and listened intently. When he did not hear or smell anything untoward, he frowned, unable to shake the feeling there was something wrong. Popping the tip of a claw, he scratched under his chin and clambered out of bed. Glancing at the bedside clock, he saw it was just after two a.m.
Goin' soft, yer canucklehead, he told himself. Yer don't like it when yer wake up an' she's not there.
The Professor had taken Helena and Storm with him to a black-tie charity ball in New York, leaving Jean and Scott to manage the school. Mixing with the rich and influential to promote the school brought in additional revenue as well as pro-mutant sympathy. The invitation had been politely extended to Wolverine with predictable results. He would not dress in a penguin suit and worry about which fork to use for the entrée for anyone. Helena had bitten her lip in an effort not to scream with laughter when Ororo innocently asked if he needed to hire a tuxedo. He had almost changed his mind when he saw Helena in an ankle-length black silk gown and Storm in shimmering silver. Almost, but not quite.
They bat them eyes at some rich old codger, an' he'll whip out his chequebook an' sign his damn life away. Gotta hand it ta yer, Chuck, yer know the effect of a beautiful woman, he had thought, watching as a bow-tied Professor hummed through the foyer with Helena and Storm flanking him.
A quiet, tentative knock at the door made Logan jump. Growling, he padded on sockless feet to answer it. Yanking the door open, causing the hinges to squeal protestingly, he looked out, and then down at three small boys aged about eleven. Black, brown and blond-haired respectively, he recognised them from Helena's classes. Hugh, Ray and Tyler, dressed in blue cotton pajamas, hair rumpled from disturbed sleep, looked silently up at him.
"Yeah?" he rumbled, seeing the boys cluster a little closer together.
"Um, sir, we can't sleep," Ray ventured in a distinctive Cockney accent.
Logan cocked his head, wondering when he had fallen into the category of lullaby-giver. Folding his arms across his bare chest, watching as Tyler began to pick his nose, he shrugged.
"Whaddaya want me ta do, kid? My singin' voice ain't up ta much. Go knock up Scoo-… Mr Summers."
Hugh shook his dark head firmly, hair stuck in random cow-licks, apple cheeks bulging as he blew out the long-suffering sigh of children dealing with stupid adults.
"What Ray means is, we were woken up," he explained in his Australian twang, as if to a particularly slow-witted student.
"And?" Wolverine sniffed, leaning on the doorframe.
He did not have much experience with children. Teenagers tended to avoid or emulate him, which had caused a few problems amongst impressionable boys since he had returned to the school. Younger children, especially those under ten, loved him for no reason he could think of. He did not view himself as loveable. Rogue had called him cute on a few occasions, usually when she thought he was out of earshot, despite all his attempts to disprove the notion. Rolling his eyes, Tyler continued to bore up his left nostril with a dedication that was nothing short of amazing.
"Miss Draven woke us up," he stated, pulling out something greenish and squashy with his index finger. "She's having a mundo-nightmare, and Hugh thought we should come and get you, seen as you… uh… like her so much."
Suddenly paying attention, Logan pushed himself away from the doorjamb as they snickered amongst themselves. Setting off along the corridor at a trot, the three tousle-haired boys trailing after him, he headed for the next corridor along. He did not realise he had an entourage until he stopped outside Helena's room and found them peeking around his elbows.
"Okay, kids, yer've done yer bit. Back ta bed before I tan yer hides," he ordered, hearing loud muttering behind the closed door.
Obediently, Hugh, Ray and Tyler shuffled off to their own room a few doors down. Slipping inside, carefully closing the door behind him, he approached the bed, smelling strong dream-terror. She lay on her back, sprawled diagonally across the double bed, every muscle trembling. Jaw clenched, lips peeled back from her teeth, she moaned and tossed her head.
"No… won't…. never tell… no…"
Moving to the side nearest her head, smelling a trace of the hairspray she had used to tame her riotous curls for the ball, Logan leaned over.
"Hels," he said close to her ear, stomach twisting as she whimpered like a trapped fox. "C'mon, darlin', yer keepin' the kids up."
Sighing, she shuddered violently, fingers screwing great handfuls of the sheets, biting her lip until it bled. Catching the coppery scent, Logan winced, even though he knew the small wound would heal in seconds.
Is this what I look like when I have those damn nightmares? he wondered. Thrashin' an' moanin' like I'm dyin'?
Not able to bear watching her endure a re-enactment of past horrors inside her head, he considered his choices and made a decision. Knowing what forcibly waking her would result in, Logan steeled himself and shook her hard. As he dived to one side, her claws missed his abdomen and sank straight through his shoulder as she woke with a cry. Eyes moist and crazed, she stared at him uncomprehendingly for several long seconds.
"Hels," Logan said through gritted teeth and burning pain. "Yer claws."
Exhaling thankfully as she retracted them, feeling the punctures swarm and knit, he crushed her into his arms, where she trembled with nightmare-induced adrenaline. Cradling her head to his shoulder, he murmured wordless comfort into her disarrayed hair as she clung to him.
"Sorry," she mumbled eventually, voice muffled.
"S'alright," he shrugged, feeling her heartbeat begin to slow from a rapid, desperate tattoo. "We're even now – yer've owed me a skewering."
Smoothing her hair as she sat back, kissing her forehead, he plumped the pillows and made an attempt to straighten the sheets. The nightmare-fear ebbing away to a low, threatening background thrum, Helena kneaded the bridge of her nose.
"Go back to bed," she instructed, expecting him to agree with her. "I think this bugger's gonna be an all-nighter. No use in both of us being kept awake."
Logan shook his head and absently ran a hand through his wild-spiked hair.
"Nope, I think I'll stay," he said. "Kinda gotten used ta havin' yer ta keep me warm."
Turning back the bedcovers, he climbed in next to her, lay down and looked her in the eyes, challenging her to argue. Opening his arms, he bobbed his chin commandingly. Feeling her heart expand in her chest, she nestled into his arms, snuggling down until they were both comfortable.
"No more nightmares tonight," he murmured, fingers lacing through her hair at the nape of her neck. "I'll chase 'em."
Curled around each other like two wolves in a den, they drew comfort and security from physical closeness. Listening to his heart beating beneath her ear, flesh warm and familiar against her cheek, Helena lifted her face in the darkness.
"I love you, Logan," she said softly.
When he did not answer, breathing long and deeply, she realised he was already asleep. Smiling, ignoring the part of her that asked what his reaction would have been had he heard, she kissed his bristly chin and settled down to sleep.
*
Rogue eyed the mountain of mint choc chip, vanilla and double chocolate fudge ice-cream, wishing she could smell it as well as Helena, who was appreciatively sniffing her tall, goody-filled glass. One of the bonuses of her temporary absorption of Logan and Helena's mutant gifts had been how mouth-watering her favourite foods smelled.
"Tuck in, Marie, before it melts," the English mutant urged, licking a creamy splodge from her spoon.
Grinning, Rogue did exactly that, giving a little sigh of pleasure as the sweet mint melted on her tongue. Only Helena and Logan called her Marie, virtually everyone, including the Professor, called her by her nickname. Watching the teenager enthusiastically devour her ice-cream while trying not to appear as if she was doing so, Helena smiled inwardly, casting an eye over the throngs in the busy Salem Centre café. All flatscans, they were eating various delectable ice-cream creations and drinking freshly-ground coffee or milkshakes. A Hispanic women with a toddler on her hip pointed to the list of treats, asking the child what she wanted. The toddler pointed a chubby finger at the biggest ice-cream and giggled.
Spooning a glorious, partially melted swirl of vanilla and cherry into her mouth, Helena saw Rogue had half finished her ice-cream. Seeing her moping around the school earlier that Saturday morning, missing Bobby, who was visiting his parents, and Jubilee, who had taken Kitty with her to a concert, Helena had taken her shopping. Her mutant power precluding her from many activities other teens took for granted, Rogue often felt isolated, something she denied if asked.
"Ah think ah'm gonna burst like a pumpkin," she declared, happily patting her stomach.
"That makes two of us, sweetie," Helena smiled with a gleeful twitch of her nose. "I don't care what anyone says, a bit of what you fancy does you good."
Rogue burst out laughing, the white streaks in her hair flashing as she shook her head, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin.
"Ah think ya right," she agreed with a sly twinkle in her brown eyes. "Ya've been havin' a good bit o' Logan, an' it ain't done ya any harm. Iin fact, ah think ya've gone back fer seconds an' thirds wit' a cherry on top!"
Swatting her gloved hand in mock-reproach, Helena tutted disapprovingly.
"Don't you let him hear you talking like that," she warned with a grin. "You're still his little innocent Marie – and we don't want him thinking Bobby's been corrupting you."
Rogue giggled and placed a hand over her heart with feigned righteous indignation, lips a perfect rosy bud.
"Perish the thought!" she exclaimed, fluttering her eyelashes. "Ah'm a good girl!"
"Yeah, right," Helena scoffed. "I've seen the way you've been looking at a certain young man from New Orleans."
To the English mutant's surprise, Rogue blushed a deep raspberry pink, fawn brown eyes dropping to her lap.
"Ah'm goin' out wit' Bobby," she muttered defensively.
"Yeah," Helena agreed neutrally, then gave a wicked smirk. "But there's nothing wrong in looking."
She nearly added "as long as you don't touch", but stopped herself just in time. The uncomfortable, unspoken fact that Rogue's touch would rob the recipient of their lifeforce, memories and mutant powers hung on the air. Inwardly kicking herself as the teenager's smile faded, all her animation seeming to seep away, Helena searched for ways to repair the damage. Before she had chance to speak, she caught two familiar scents and looked up to see Gambit and Elliot heading their way bearing steaming cappuccinos.
"Voila, chere an' petite cherie," Remy beamed, brandishing two steaming cups. Presenting them, he arranged himself in a vacant chair. "Shopping tires out de feet, nes pas?"
Helena did not miss the way Rogue suddenly sat up a little straighter at the Cajun's approach, her eyes sparkling, or how Gambit subtly stroked her gloved hand with his finger as he gave her a cup. Making a mental note to speak to the charming ex-thief about what was acceptable when it came to Rogue, and what would happen to him if he upset her, she smiled a greeting to Elliot, who nodded and sat down.
"How's it going?" he asked, placing a Tower Records bag on the table.
"Great," she answered. "Me and Marie have done the whole girly shopping thing all day."
"Uh-oh. So that's what caused the trail of destruction and dazed clerks through town?"
Helena nodded and laughed, gaze moving to the numerous bags piled underneath the glass-topped table.
"You get that album you wanted?"
"Yeah, and a few others. Though I'm beginning to despair at Remy's taste in music."
Gambit looked up indignantly, cup poised halfway to his mouth, demon eyes hidden behind a pair of blue-lensed sunglasses.
"Mon ami, Gambit have some taste. It's you dat don't."
Rogue giggled and he went back to talking to her as if she was the only person in the room, venturing to touch her white streaks. Reflecting the Cajun was lucky Logan was not there to see him hitting on Marie, Helena turned back to Elliot. They carried on chatting and drinking coffee until Remy magicked up the keys to his BMW.
"Remy take de ladies shopping so dey no have to carry," he announced, gathering up the bags. "Coming, Marie?"
Flattered, Rogue was already out of her chair, smoothing her hair, giving him her best doe-eyes. Looping her arm through Remy's, they strolled through the crowded café and out onto the bustling street.
"That guy is too charming for his own good," Elliot observed with a small shake of his head. "Rogue doesn't let many people call her Marie."
"Mmmm," Helena agreed. "I think she's fighting being smitten – it must be the accent… I don't think poor Bobby will last much longer if Remy has anything to do with it."
Elliot drained his cup and examined the dregs at the bottom, contemplating going to the counter for a refill. He took one look at the busy Saturday afternoon queue and decided against it.
"It's hard when you're smitten," he said softly.
"El…" Helena began, but he cut her off.
"I need to talk to you, Ray," he said firmly. "I think you should be the first to know… I'm leaving – I've taken a job at Emma Frost's Academy in Massachusetts."
Helena put down her cup and blinked, taken aback. She knew his pride was dented and feelings hurt, but had not realised enough for him to seriously consider leaving Xavier's School For The Gifted.
"Oh," she said, then her brow crimped. "This hasn't anything to do with…"
"A little," he nodded, then gave a self-mocking grin. "Well, maybe more than a little. I can't stand it, Ray – the way he looks at you, the way he touches you. It eats me up, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't. I think some space is best for all concerned… Anyways, I'll be head of the music and performing arts department. It's a good career move."
She stared at him for so long Elliot felt sure she was scanning his mind, then her gaze dropped and she picked at her nails.
"A good move," she echoed sadly. "How long before you go?"
"End of term, after Thanksgiving. I didn't want to leave the Professor in the lurch, class-wise."
They were both silent, an uncomfortable awkwardness growing between them. Friendship tempered by a certain frission that had nearly developed into something more, they both knew a break was inevitable. Helena looked up, clutching her cup.
"You'll stay in touch?" she asked hopefully.
"I'll write you," he promised. "Real letters, not e-mails."
"Good," she said. "Massachusetts isn't that far away, I can always visit… That's if I can stand the White Queen for long enough."
Elliot regarded the English mutant questioningly. He had conducted an interview via video-conferencing with Emma Frost, whom he found icily beautiful and professional to the point of aloofness.
"Yeah? You don't like her?"
"Let's just say Frost by name, frosty by nature." Helena grinned slightly. "If you're not careful, she'll turn you into a square in a suit. Sean Cassidy's a good feller though, Irish by birth, likes his single malt."
Eyebrows lifting, Elliot listened without making any comments, momentarily wishing he had Helena's telepathic gift so he could tell what she was feeling. Her features had fallen into what he thought of as her 'careful' face, polite and neutral without any real indication of what was occuring behind her eyes. When hurt, she reacted in one of two ways; she went to the Danger Room and thrashed, slashed and pounded until she felt better, or bottled it for inward processing and venting at a later date. Elliot surmised she was bottling and felt a guilty twist in his gut.
Logan'll be pleased, he thought bitterly. He's getting rid of me, which is exactly what he wants. Out of sight and out of mind.
Looking under the table for shopping bags she realised were not there, spirited away on the strength of Remy's chivalry, Helena reached for her close-fitting three-quarter leather coat and shouldered it on.
"I think I'll head back home," she announced listlessly, tucking a lock of dark plum hair behind her ear. "I've some grading to do. See you later."
"Hold up a minute and I'll walk you," Elliot offered, grabbing his jacket and purchases.
Assenting, she paused and waited for him to catch up before heading towards the café door. Emerging onto the bustling Salem Centre high street, the two mutants blended seamlessly with the crowd, no different than any other Saturday afternoon shoppers. Teenagers skidded about on micro scooters and skateboards, hanging out on benches in unruly groups, chattering and sharing cigarettes. A grizzled black jazz saxophonist stood on the street corner busking away, his open instrument case scattered with an assortment of winking coins. As they passed by, they both dug in their pockets and tossed in some change, earning a smile and a nod.
Taking a short cut through the City Park, scrunching through a light fall of red gold autumnal leaves, Helena sniffed, catching the moist fecundity of leaf mold and damp grass.
"Any truffles?" Elliot enquired with a fleeting grin, desperate to dispel the air of gloom that had precluded conversation since their departure from the café.
Despite the melancholy heaviness weighing down her mood, Helena found the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. Scuffing her boots through a bright pile of leaves on the level tarmac path, she inhaled more deeply.
"What?" Elliot asked, seeing her smile suddenly fade as she stopped dead, nostrils flaring.
"Shit… El – go," she said, her voice harsh and urgent. "Head back to the main street and phone the mansion. There's gonna be a hell of a mess in the very near future."
The Brooklyn mutant's brow furrowed and he regarded her, puzzled. Chin lifting, head swaying gently from side to side as she sought to confirm what she had smelled, her gaze snapped to him.
"Go!" she ordered, the tone of her voice leaving no room for negotiation.
"What gives?" he asked, recognizing the sudden feral light in her eyes as her animal instincts came into play.
"Big hairy fucker," she hissed, claws popping with a sound like scraping sword blades.
"Sabretooth?" Elliot exclaimed, feeling a chill wind down his spine as the cool autumn sun reflected from the adamantium. The look in her eyes frightened him, it was an oblique version of what he saw in Wolverine's when they happened to cross paths – pathological hatred. He had only seen Creed in Danger Room simulations, but knew he was on her Most Hated list.
"Don't stand there gawping, get outta here!" she commanded, knowing that if he was still present when the feline mutant decided to attack that he would be a distinct liability and potential hostage. If she could smell him, he could definitely smell her, and he would not pass up an opportunity for payback.
Belatedly deciding to do as he was told, Elliot disapeared and set off for Salem high street, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cellphone. A teeth-rattling roar that he felt through the ground reached his ears and he turned to see Victor Creed surge from behind a nearby oak, tan leather duster swirling as he brought up a huge black-clawed hand. Frozen in place, he watched as Raven dodged the blow, metal talons painting three dripping gouges across Sabretooth's barrel chest. Elliot heard the breath leave her lungs in a pained grunt as Creed's giant booted foot caught her in the ribs, then the mouth, sending a splash of crimson sparkling into the air. Scant seconds later, she drove her claws through the leonine mutant's chest, only to have him thrust her away before she could open him up like a side of fresh beef.
The solid thump of flesh meeting tarmac jarred Elliot from his daze and he set off at a sprint, deliberately not looking back, a cacophany of growls, roars and snarling battering his ears. Heart pounding, a million thoughts racing through his brain, he forced his fingers to press the infuriatingly tiny buttons on his cellphone, cursing as he misdialled. He was about to key the dial button when he spotted Rogue ambling through the park gates, her step light, a small, secret smile curling her lips. Aware of how useful her unique power could be to the Brotherhood of Mutants, Elliot snapped into visibility directly in her path, making her squeal.
"Jeezus Haich Christ, Elliot!" she cried, her accent thickening with shock. "Ya tryin' ta give me a heart attack?"
Grabbing her arm, forgoing the care required, he hauled her towards the gates and the relative safety of the main street, earning himself a startled glance.
"Wha-wha' ya doin'?" she demanded. "Where's Helena?"
"No time," he exclaimed. "Sabretooth – where's Gambit?"
Peachs and cream complexion paling to a floury white at the mention of Creed, Rogue's gloved hand flew up to cover her mouth, brown eyes wide.
"He's comin', he went ta find you – ah said ah'd wait here."
A discordant roar of rage and sudden unexpected pain sounded further into park, the sound muted by distance and treetops. Rogue flinched, then realising that Raven was almost certainly the cause of Creed's discomfort and likely to be hurt, pulled herself free of Elliot's grasp.
"Ah gotta help," she declared bravely. "Ah ain't gonna let that big hairy bugger hurt mah friend."
Hearing a tinge of English creeping into her Southern drawl, punctuated by a Logan-ish growl, Elliot realised her absorbed memories where affecting her behaviour and stretched out a hand.
"Rogue, wait! You've not got a healing factor or claws – "
Ignoring him, she took off at a dead run, white streaks streaming behind her as she gathered speed. Cursing himself for not being quick enough to stop her, Elliot gave chase, undialled cellphone clutched in his hands.
Blood trickling into her eyes, Raven backflipped out of reach and quickly wiped a hand across her brow as the temple-to-temple gash healed. Sabretooth watched her with wary amusement, sunlight showing through the ragged slashes in his leather duster coat.
"Yer stink of the runt," he taunted, voice broken glass and gravel. "Yer lettin' him fuck yer?"
"Jealous, Creed?" she retorted, seeing he was favouring his left leg, a missing bone-deep chunk of flesh hindering his movement. "Mystique not giving it to you?"
He gave a bass laugh that rumbled like approaching thunder, mirror black eyes glittering with malign intent. Dark mane striped with wet redness, some his, some not, he watched his adversary for any sign of weakness.
"Yer come over here, frail, an' I'll give yer somethin' he never could."
His laughter turned to a snarl as his head snapped back with an invisible blow. Wiping the torn corner of his mouth, feeling the flesh knit, he showed his ivory fangs and lunged like a monstrously overgrown panther. Nailed to the tarmac by his greater bulk, nostrils filled with musty leaf mold and feline musk, the English mutant cried out as his claws ribboned her left flank. Creed clamped a massive hand around her wrist, intending to keep at least one set of metal talons out of play. The thin bones grinding, only their adamantium lamination prevented them from breaking. Vision obscured by the tumbled lion-yellow mass of his hair, Raven stared with horror as she caught sight of Rogue running up behind him, her delicate features set with determination.
"Git ya paws offa her!" the Southern girl shrieked, landing as accurate a blow as ten months of Scott Summers' self-defence classes could produce. "Ya bastard!"
Sabretooth's bushy eyebrows escalated in bemusement as he felt a small gloved fist strike him squarely in the back, having as much effect as a light pat. Taking the opportunity as his attention was diverted, Raven head-butted him, spreading his nose across his whiskered face in a bloody smear. Temporarily deafened by the clang of adamantium and breaking bone, Creed reared up, roaring, and fell flat on his back at Rogue's feet just as Elliot raced to her side. Horribly fascinated by the sight of smashed cartilage reforming, stringy drools of red black blood and mucus stretching and dripping, she did not move.
Head ringing as if it had been used for cymbals, Raven clambered to her feet, desperately trying to stop the mad whirling carousel the world had suddenly become. Still spreadeagled, Creed's vicious black eyes rolled up to focus on the two mutants that had interrupted his fight. He knew contact with the female's skin would incapacitate him long enough for Raven to kill him. Past experience had taught him she would not hesitate, despite the fraudulent jumble somebody had made of her memory. A darted glance telling him she was still dazed, he licked his sharp canines, rolled over and was up with ivory claws outstretched before either could react.
Double vision clearing moments too late, Raven could only watch in open-mouthed horror as Sabretooth's giant paw wrapped around Elliot's neck. Screaming, Rogue ripped off a glove and flung herself at the huge mutant, only to be thrust away with a careless flick of his free hand before she could make skin-to-skin contact. She landed hard on the tarmac several feet away, one leg bunched awkwardly beneath her body. Creed bared his teeth in a savage grin and twisted like he was unscrewing a bottle cap. Vertebrae snapping, green eyes glazing over, Elliot concertinaed bonelessly to the ground, neck jutting at an unnatural angle.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
Sauntering through the park in search of Rogue, hands thrust into the pockets of his black leather trench coat, Remy heard the shriek of furious denial and broke into a sprint, automatically charging a playing card. A new female voice began to scream, growing louder and more hysterical with each passing second. Recognising Rogue's voice, he increased his pace, long lean athlete's muscles speeding him forward. Enhanced spatial awareness allowing him to quickly pinpoint the location of the young Southern mutant, he arrived to see Sabretooth holding her in one paw, a limp, seemingly lifeless Raven in the other, their cheeks mashed together.
Struggling with all her strength, wailing, hot desperate tears spilling from her brown eyes, Rogue strove to break contact. Feeling the English mutant's powers, memories and lifeforce surge through her system, the hot wetness of blood from reopening wounds trickling down her face, she screamed again.
Stoppit, please, stoppit!! Ah'm killin' her, she's dead, ohmahgodshe'sdead!!!!!
Card-clenching hand swinging back, Gambit let fly with the ace of spades, closely followed by the jack of clubs. Whistling through the air with a faint energy-propelled whine, glowing phosphorescent orange, they arced around and struck Sabretooth's back, missing his two prisoners entirely. Creed barely had time to register the impact when they exploded, the amount of charge expertly gauged to wound him without harming the two women. Howling as the tangerine explosion tore the flesh from his spine and shoulders, he dropped them and loped away, his enthusiasm for carnage dented.
Falling to her knees, shaking, crying and frantically trying to stop the sudden influx of thoughts and emotions rampaging around her head, Rogue tremulously reached out her gloved hand to the bleeding form crumpled on the leafy ground. Arms thrown out, adamantium claws unsheathed, Raven's hazel green eyes were wide, unseeing. The grotesque rippling of veins and sinew fading from her skin, she lay in a quickly spreading pool of liquid crimson. Letting out a stricken wail, Rogue clutched her temples, eyes squeezing shut as a cloud of telekinetically-levitated leaves and twigs began to swirl around her, the thoughts of every person within a mile radius clamouring inside her head. Dashing to her side, Remy's demon eyes darted between her and Raven, belatedly seeing Elliot's still form lying a few feet away. Rogue shrieked as without any warning bone claws sprang from between her knuckles, insensible to everyone and everything around her as her brain fought to process the newly acquired powers and personality.
"Merde," Gambit gritted, releasing that Raven was not breathing.