Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission.
Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone
Part 2
The virus attached itself somewhat awkwardly to the reinforced cell membrane, not able to cling with its usual tenacity, and she jumped, startled, as the phone chirped softly at her side. As usual, she ignored it, taking a swig of lukewarm coffee before returning her eyes to the play of death. The virus hadn't attached properly; it had fallen off mid-transfer, spilling its precious cargo of death into the plasma, where it would be harmless, reabsorbed by the body.
Quickly, experience quelling her excitement, she centered the viewer on another cell, this one with a virus attaching itself rather solidly despite the slippery, thick cell membrane. It began its push through the thickened surface, and Moira MacTaggart watched with interest as nothing penetrated the stained cell.
"Mum," the soft voice rang out over the intercom, "Phone call fur ye. Mister Summers."
A single glance was spared at her wristwatch, and a second more passed before she realized it was in timer mode and spared the other hand to press the right, black button twice. Then she glanced back into the microscope, a new type entirely that could display the cells and virus at once, high magnification, and live. Part of her mind calculated the time on the eastern United States seaboard even as her hand reached for the phone, finding her mug instead. Her eyes stayed glued to the microscope as she groped around. Small, cylindrical -- pen. Flat, smooth -- paper. Round, cold -- vial of plasma. Kinked, curled -- DNA. She followed it up until she found the receiver, picking it up noisily from the cradle.
The virus had not yet penetrated the cell.
It was impossible to bring the phone to her ear and stare into the microscope at the same time, and after one more look, she set the video to on, watching the cell in a small television screen as she settled back more comfortably into the chair and raised the receiver.
"Evening, Scott, what can A do for ye?" She winced a bit as she saw the cell membrane begin to give.
"Your landing strip still in working order?" The transmission was fuzzy, almost like a radio broadcast rather than digital, and she pulled more of her attention to the conversation, hand reflexively going to her mug.
"Aye...."
"I've got two down, they won't make it back to New York. Can you treat them?"
She turned sharply, clear eyes moving instantly to her medical supplies. She knew the beds were there, screaming cleanliness, sheets still changed twice a week, and she knew she still had a decent selection of blood plasma and platelets available in storage. She mentally checked her stocks in suture and gauze, and her medicine cabinet, finding them to be in fine order. She wasn't exhausted yet, but a several hour surgery would be pushing her limits -–
"Injuries?"
There was the slightest of pauses. "Extensive. Both were caught in a rockslide. Cable needs a transfusion, both are on respirators, broken bones, internal injuries, shock."
Cable? Wasn't he running with his own team these days? She'd never really kept up with the time traveler as she would have liked, but he had piqued her interest, after showing up the way he had.
"A have the resources tae handle tha', but nae th' people. Is McCoy wi' ye?"
"Yes. He's got one of them stabilized."
Henry McCoy was a scientist before a surgeon, but he was skilled and would be invaluable. And with a list like that... Summers was right. They'd never survive the transatlantic flight.
"What's yuir ETA?"
There was another pause. "Fifteen minutes, maybe thirteen."
"A'll have Rahne oot tae greet ye. Bring them both tae th' main complex."
Scott agreed and hung up before Moira had the presence of mind to ask who the other man was. Probably one of Cable's new teammates, therefore a younger person, with a better chance at recovery. She got up from the stool swiftly, tossing back the remains of the coffee the way Wisdom might hard liquor, mind racing ahead as it took inventory of the precautions she'd have to take. Legacy would love to get a foothold in a person that badly injured.
As an afterthought, she turned back to the television screen, watching the discarded protein coat of the virus drift away into the plasma, the contents headed unerringly towards the nucleus of the perfectly healthy blood cell.
* * * * * * *
A quarter of an hour found Scott fighting to land the Blackbird as smoothly as possible on the windswept runway, decelerating carefully on the well-kept but slick blacktop. Weather on Muir was different from that any other place on the planet. It was either absolutely perfect, or absolutely hellish.
And, of course, this morning it had chosen to be the latter.
Once he had the plane down to the taxi speed he brought her around, towards the small but sufficient hangar and the single figure standing in the well-lit structure, waiting for them.
He checked the fuel gauge as he brought the 'bird to a halt. He'd called ahead to Xavier, telling him they might not be returning today, and discovered Charles had already made arrangements that the Blackbird would be refueled in France before they made the flight back. They had roughly an eight of a tank left, and getting to Paris would be pushing it. He set the engines on cool down/shutdown and climbed out of the cockpit, assisting Gambit and leaving Logan to help Rogue. Hank ran back and forth between the two, making sure they were both still breathing after being removed from the respirators.
Jean went out and hugged Rahne, very briefly. "You're looking well," she managed over the wind, and Rahne tilted her head before smiling at the distraught redhead and then motioning. Without word the team of X-Men and their precious burden followed her out of the weather and into the warmth and relative quiet of the main complex.
Moira was there instantly, the shorter, auburn-haired woman darting between the two, only her eyes widening as she looked on the faces of her two patients, both partially obscured by oxygen masks.
"A take it ye found them like this?"
"Yes," Scott managed tersely, and Hank handed her the charts while she hurried them down the hallway, already dressed for surgery, minus the gloves. The mask around her mouth didn't muffle her strong brogue, and they heard her clearly swearing under her breath as she pored over them.
"What aboot th' virus?"
Hank blinked a moment, then glanced at Cable. "It's completely out of control. Jean thinks she might be able to combat it herself, once he's stable, but until then -"
"It repairs th' damage as it goes?"
Hank blinked again, then nodded. "Yes, I believe so."
"He has th' worst of the injuries," she muttered, "but his twin seems tae be worse off. How long was Stryfe wi'oot air?"
This time Scott spoke, voice strained. "We have no way of knowing. I think it was no more than five minutes, he had a pulse when we found him."
Moira shook her head, hipchecking the double doors to the surgical theater open, glancing with brief annoyance at Scott's still-bleeding hand before back at the charts. Inside, the surgery lights were already on and warming up, brightening the room almost cheerfully, the metallic equipment within sparkling. "A cannae tell which tae treat first," she finally admitted. "Hank, how much d'ye remember o' traditional medicine? We may have tae work on both at once."
Day Two
Scott woke with a start, just managing to quell his sudden impulse to sneeze as he realized the cause of that urge was the soft, red hair attached to his exhaustedly sleeping wife. She lay against him, head buried in his shoulder and chest, dry tear tracks staining the small amount of base still on her face. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but almost all the X-women applied a small amount of makeup before going into combat.
He had the feeling that, if he asked, they'd tell him it was warpaint.
He moved as little as possible, eyes roving the walls in search of a clock. Not finding one, he lifted his left arm up slowly, glancing at his watch. 4:42 AM eastern standard time. Which made it a good five hours later here, at least, and they'd arrived at around 2:00 PM by his watch, which meant --
Which meant that Moira had been in surgery all night, if she still was in surgery, and if he remembered anything, it was that the woman rarely slept at night. So they might not have disrupted her usual sleep patterns much, but it still must have been exhausting, however irregular her usual hours....
And suddenly the lack of clocks in the room made absolute, perfect sense. Why waste the electricity? Moira could hardly care less what time it was.
The door to Scott's immediate right opened softly, and Rahne, in human form, crept in quietly, peering at him, unsure if he was awake beneath the visor that covered his eyes. Belatedly he realized the cause of the hesitation, and spoke softly.
"I'm awake," he half-whispered, and her smile was slight and sincere. She had brought two steaming mugs of coffee with her, and she set them on the small, artificial wood table beside him in the makeshift waiting room nearly silently.
"Mum said tae tell ye she's oot o' surgery, an' both yer -- th' men ye brought pulled through." She blushed slightly, looking like she felt awkward as she continued in a near whisper. "She's sleepin' now, A dinnae ken when she'll be oop again, but A ken Dr. McCoy hasnae gone tae bed yet. Do ye want tae see him?"
To see Hank. Not to see his... sons. She was right, of course, whether or not he wanted to publicly admit it, Stryfe was as much his son as Nathan in blood.
In spirit was another matter entirely.
"Yes, thank you, Rahne. I hope you got some sleep yourself?"
She smiled slightly. "Nay, A've been learnin' tae keep Mum's hours. Only way tae make sure th' woman eats."
Scott allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "Thank you, Rahne. Tell Hank I'll be there in a moment."
She nodded and padded quietly out of the room, careful not to let the door slam. Scott contemplated waking his wife, wondering if she'd sleep through his moving. Deciding she'd wake up, and wake up cranky at finding he intended to leave her, he brought up his right hand, his shoulder rolling as his hand found her hair, stroked it gently. He regretted the motion instantly as his hand, until that point just uncomfortably aching, screamed in protest, and he stilled it with a mental curse, untensing his shoulder with effort. He should have seen to it; it had been foolish of him to have fallen asleep without at least a cursory bandaging --
"Jean?"
The slightest of moans came from that relaxed face, and then her eyes tightened as more awareness seeped in, and his heart reacted instinctively to it, drawing her closer.
"They're out of surgery now, Hank wants to give us an update."
She leaned off him quickly with the deep sigh of a waking person, and Scott twisted, stretching his aching back and picking up one of the mugs, giving it to her. She stretched slowly and then took it, sniffing it suspiciously.
"Did Moira make this?" Without waiting for an answer, she took a sip, eyebrow raising in contemplation as she stood. "No, she didn't. Where's Hank?"
"You'd better sit back down, my friend," the mutant in question advised as he came through the door Rahne had left not a minute before, carrying a small plastic tray. His blue fur was mostly covered by the light blue scrubs, the haircap and mask hiding most of his face. To top off the strange picture, his feet were in huge, light blue static-boots, and a surgeon's portable light, like a miner's helmet beam, was placed around his forehead, held in place by the black plastic band. Jean sat back down slowly as Hank dragged a stool before Scott, plopping on it tiredly and placing the tray on the table beside him.
"Scott, let me see your hand."
Scott did, quite obediently, and Hank swore softly as he inspected it. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" Almost to himself, he kept grumbling. "Lucky Moira mentioned in on her way out, it could have become infected hours ago, don't know when to say enough's enough --"
"Hank."
He looked up, haggard and blue eyes strained. "What? Ah, yes. Cable and Stryfe." After dabbing the hand gently with alcohol, his own blue paws in gloves and still steady, he began introducing a stinging local anesthetic to the site. His voice was extremely detached, very professional. "Nathan is stable, off the respirator. The virus has taken almost his entire left side. It appears to be halting, whether Nathan is controlling it or it's simply taking a breather isn't clear." He took a breath. "However, it seems to be avoiding his heart, surrounding it instead. If the virus starts spreading again, it could begin to constrict the heart."
Jean tensed, already starting to move, and Hank put out his other hand, stilling her. "It isn't a danger at the moment, I'm more worried about his lower abdomen." He paused a bit, almost seeming to gather resolve as he took another deep breath, shaking his head slightly as he handled Scott's hand. "His liver and right kidney appear to be failing. We'll know in the next few hours if it was just the anesthetic; they may begin functioning again on their own.
"His small intestines took a lot of trauma. We had to remove about a foot, and clots in the rest may have to be removed with further surgery. As of now, he's on a dialysis machine, oxygen, and we're still dripping in the blood you so graciously donated --" and he spared a glance at Scott before jabbing the needle in even further, a sharp sting before a cool numbness spreading through his hand. Hank dropped the needle in favor of an alcohol dipped Q-Tip, and began to poke into the wound.
"Will he die?" Jean's voice was strangely empty, hollow, her hands white around the coffee mug, and Scott wondered at his own relaxed pose. He must not be completely awake, he somehow couldn't manage to feel panic at Hank's words. Major organ failure. Threat of the T-O finishing him off right here. Not to mention the coma, telepathically induced, something that would take every bit of Jean's skill to repair.
Hank sighed, adjusting the light on his forehead as he grabbed the small forceps.
"I don't know, Jean." He paused again, huge, sharp canines coming out to bite his lower lip gently as he carefully maneuvered a piece of rock out of Scott's hand. "He most certainly would have passed on to another plane of existence before we returned to the mansion, and if his organs refuse to function... if we had the Shi'ar medunit back home, it wouldn't be a question, but --" He broke off, carefully wiping off the piece of debris before poking further into the gash. "We'll know in a few days. I wish I could give you more reassurance --"
"What about Stryfe?" Scott almost winced at his own absolutely emotionless voice, but Hank didn't seem to notice.
"Stryfe is doing a bit better. He still isn't breathing on his own, but he didn't have quite the extensive damage that Nathan suffered, I assume because of his armor." He fished another piece of dirt out of the wound. "However, what he did suffer is far more severe. The weight of the pressing rocks forced a vertebra out of place, effectively crushing the spinal membrane, cutting it off as a broken bone might cut off an artery. There was no exchange of liquids for probably eight hours, little to no oxygen to those nerves. We're flushing it, but there's been widespread swelling that is showing no signs of remission, as well as undeterminable nerve damage.... I believe Stryfe may be confined to bed for the rest of his life, and it may be a markedly abbreviated one."
Hank seemed satisfied that he had fished out all the pieces of the mountain, and sprayed something in the wound, leaving it for a moment as he met their eyes.
"Furthermore, a CAT scan revealed hemorrhaging in Stryfe's frontal lobe. Not much, but it may be an indication that his mental abilities are permanently damaged."
"He burned himself out?" Jean's voice was much more animated than Scott's, her eyes surprisingly soft, considering the subject matter.
"I'm not a telepath, but the damage is similar in many respects to the reported physical indications of telepathic burnout, yes. Furthermore, Moira says she's seen like damage, much more severe, in two of... Kevin's hosts." Hank dropped his eyes back to the wound in Scott's right hand.
"You've clipped a ligament and a nerve cluster, and stitching it now might foster an abscess. I'm going to dress this, and we'll leave it for a week, to heal on its own. After that, I suspect surgery will be necessary to remove scar tissue and give you back the use of your...." He eyed the hand a moment. "Middle finger."
All three looked up as one, and between them managed a single smile.
* * * * * * *
"Ma'am?"
She had to keep looking, he had to be there. "Nathan? Nate, answer me!"
The hall was long, metallic, and empty, not ending, just growing smaller and smaller as it stretched forever into the black and white distance. Even now, it still rang with the whisper of that terrible scream, still trembled with a terror she had rarely felt in this place. The hall grew longer by the second; she felt as though she were running backwards as it stretched forever before her. Her footsteps were absolutely silent; she couldn't even hear her own frantic, rapid breathing, just the echo of that agonized yell.
I'm here, Nate, I'm here, for the love of God, Nate, tell me where you are!
"Dom?"
But... that sounded like Sam....
"Ma'am?"
Domino opened her eyes with effort, her eyelashes sticking together with a gummy substance, and squeezed them shut against the intruding light. The hallway, the scream was gone.
And the link was silent as a stillborn infant.
"Domino? Are yah all right?"
She took a deep breath, bringing a hand up to shade herself from the light of the medbay, squinting as much as she could as she pried her eyes open again. She could make out Sam reaching up to turn the light away from her, James beside him, looking concerned. Shatterstar was to her right, and Tabitha paced behind him, clasping her hands and smiling tremulously as Domino met her eyes.
Why am I in the medbay?
Sam helped her sit up, and she blinked several times in the dimmer room, shaking her head, aware of an ache not unlike a migraine pounding behind her eyes. She was still in the jeans and tanktop she'd been wearing after session, her boots were gone, socked toes wiggling as she made sure she had all her parts. Her hair was clinging a bit to her forehead, and she wiped the sweat from it, surprised at how hot she felt.
"Sam? What --"
"You collapsed, ma'am, and you've been unconscious for almost a day," James said, surprisingly softly.
"Had us worried there, for a while," Sam added, blinking those huge eyes twice before reaching out and taking her chin, tilting her head up, staring into her eyes. She pulled back, surprised, and he blushed slightly.
"Wanted tah make sure you weren't concussed," he said, by way of explanation. "Y'nose was bleedin' pretty bad for a while."
Nosebleed? Very dimly, the hallway came back, the strange dream...
#Nate?# she sent out tentatively. They weren't speaking, not since he had left, but surely he'd answer her, surely he wouldn't be that much of a stubborn ass. She sent her concern down the link with his name, and waited for a response.
Nothing.
#Nate, if you can hear me, you damn well better answer,# she snapped, as loudly as she dared, eyes narrowing. Sam looked at her, not at all surprised to see her confusion turn to irritation so obviously, and Tabitha came around from behind Domino, a mug held in her outstretched hands. Domino ignored them.
#Dammit, Nate! Answer me!#
Silence. More than silence. She felt like she was talking to a dial tone, that no one was even there on the other end to listen.
Like no one was there.
"Shit, no," she moaned under her breath, and was up and almost out the door before she realized her legs weren't going to support her. Rictor caught her not ungently around the waist.
"Whoa, Dom, where'd'yah think --"
The phone rang, blinking innocently on the wall.
* * * * * * *
Scott nodded to Moira as he walked in, carrying her covered plate in his right hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
"You missed dinner," he said, his voice hushed, as if afraid to wake the other occupant of the room, as if anything as simple as his voice would be equal to the task.
Moira pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her face up, holding it for a second before relaxing her facial muscles. An almost fragile-looking hand, attached to an equally frail-appearing wrist reached out and took the plate, placing it on the counter before turning back to her charts.
"Thank ye, Scott."
It wasn't exactly a dismissal, but it was hardly an invitation for conversation, and Scott found himself once more drawn to simply looking at Moira.
She was thinner than last he'd seen her, even bundled in a cotton sweater and labcoat, her khakis baggy; he could see the outline of her frame, almost painfully thin. Her face was more lined, thinner without being haggard, her emerald eyes somehow darker than they used to be, but still absolutely clear. Her hair, cut short for convenience, was still immaculately combed but graying more by the day, and she obviously couldn't be bothered to dye it. Her hands were steady as they shuffled through multiple x-rays, fingers nimble and nails strong, unpainted as they drummed a staccato rhythm on the countertop.
"A can't tell a thing from this," she grumbled half to herself, eyeing a spinal x-ray blurred by what he assumed was swelling around the column itself. "Impossible tae tell th' damage."
"That's...."
"Stryfe," she muttered, sticking it on the running light, parallel to the countertop, hanging another x-ray beside it, this one of a knee. "This is Cable's. Ye can see th' joint's out of place, it'll be a miracle if he can walk with th' ball as damaged as it is." She leaned forward, shoving her glasses up as a very steady finger traced a tiny black crack in the ball part of the joint, and followed it to an equally tiny crack in the cup, traveling nearly four inches into the tibia. "He's lost joint fluid, then. A cannae replace it; the joint will have tae be surgically reconstructed."
Beside that x-ray she put up a ribcage, broken bones obvious, as well as the pins she and Henry had inserted to keep them in place. "He cannae break them again, they're frail, an' he's askin' fur cancer this way. Marrow cannae replenish, they will grow back together poorly." Her finger followed Nathan's sternum downward, and she tapped it thoughtfully once before dropping her hand back to the counter, then picking up the mug of coffee, food untouched.
"His jaw is th' only part o' him that may heal decently," she growled, after several sips of the hot liquid. "He's too old tae be running around getting rocks dropped on him."
"You know Nate," Scott said softly after a moment, studying the damage done to Cable's chest. Four left ribs, all very high, all beside his heart. And the T-O was plainly visible, a huge white scar across him, stretching from his scapula across his left side. It looked even worse internally than it did externally, and the thought sent an icicle into his stomach as painful as a blade. How much more could the virus spread before it became a threat to his life? Was it already too far along for Nate to recover?
"Nae, that A dunnae," she murmured back in response. "A ken o' his mission, and A expect he ken it be soon? That's why he was oot alone at th' base?"
Scott didn't reply. Nate had dropped out of communication shortly before the entire affair with the Shadow King and the astral plane, and they'd heard from him briefly afterwards, just a communication to let them know he was alive and kicking before he disappeared. A few weeks ago they'd heard by the grapevine he'd come back briefly, then had a argument with Domino and took off.
Jean was calling the woman now -- it had only been fifteen minutes ago either one of them had thought to tell her. She probably knew, and may have even taken damage from Nate's scream, if they still had the psychic rapport Cable had accidentally formed with her. He wondered if Domino would make it down in time --
Of course she will, because Nathan isn't going to die, he informed the logical part of his mind, watching Moira still studying the x-rays.
"A gave Jean permission tae work on th' virus," Moira murmured consideringly after several minutes of silence. "Tell her I changed me mind."
Scott almost choked. "Excuse me?"
"Th' virus will repair more o' th' damage than Cable's body can. We'll have tae watch its progress, but it gives Cable th' advantage of swifter, more complete healing."
"It's already --"
"A ken the risks, Scott. Thank ye fur th' food."
Day Three
Jean's eyes flickered beneath her closed eyelids, eyebrows bunched together in concentration as her fingers moved in slow, circular patterns, one on her own temple, and one on her son's. She didn't know if it really helped the work, but even in the beginning of her training, Charles had confided that many telepaths often found touch greatly eased any very strenuous telepathic activity.
And she suspected her fingers were rubbing because her head was killing her.
It was a good sort of pain, though, an honest ache she wouldn't have traded with the sweetest pleasure as her eyes opened slowly, like a morning glory finally sensing the first rays of sunlight after the seemingly endless shadow of night.
He was sleeping. Not in a coma, not in some sort of terrible, eternal nightmare. He was sleeping.
Smiling a little, surprised at her shaking hand, she reached out and stroked his cheek, swollen and bruised, traced the cut spanning his forehead, requiring stitches in three or four places. She half wished he'd wake with the gentle touch, but he didn't, instead if anything settling into a more comfortable, deeper restful state, as if he knew the worst was over, as if he thought he could afford to treat himself to the luxury of carefree, abandoned sleep.
She'd watched him sleep as a child, so many hours. She had kept expecting each night to be their last, kept expecting never again to have the opportunity to watch his little mouth work soundlessly as he talked in his dreams, or his little fingers curl into fists as he snuggled deeper into his father's warm side. He had the cutest nose as a little boy, and it really hadn't changed much over the years, only now his face had grown into it, and it looked like it had been broken a few times, but skillfully set.
It wasn't any different watching him now from how it had been those less than restful nights, fighting the T-O even in his sleep, struggling against the virus and the pain it was causing him and crying tears that broke her heart, kept her up exhausting long hours before dawn, blocking the pain away to give him a few hours' relief from it.
Never, even as a child, could he ever, truly sleep the sleep of one.
He could now. The damage had been repaired, the loop of torture successfully broken, the threads of thoughts woven back together, bit by bit. He was starting to stabilize the T-O all on his own, the now automatic defense kicking in as his strength flowed back as surely as the blood his father had given to save his life. His body wasn't whole, but at least now his mind was, and not undamaged, but unbroken. It had taken everything she possessed, it had taken all her skill and energy and determination and being, but she'd done it.
And now he was going to just lie there and sleep! Some thanks, son, she thought fondly, not sure he'd heard her till she saw the faintest quirk on those slightly bruised lips. Oh, Nate... he was such a mess. So many torn muscles and tendons, so much damage. Even with the organs working on their own, even with the virus halted, if not beaten back, he was still dancing precariously, the moonlight reflecting in his clean but limp silvering hair. They wouldn't know if he would walk again, not with that knee like it was. Joint fluid simply can't be replaced, and a knee replacement in this condition was out of the question, at least for now. He had developed pneumonia on top of everything else, a raging fever that was more troubling than any other symptom, requiring a draining tube, a clear plastic lead that constantly carried the pus-like ooze from him. His chest was the most frightening part to look at, covered in one, impossibly colored bruise, broken ribs mending so slowly.
His age was interfering, that she knew. He was on calcium supplements among other things, but Moira warned that he simply couldn't keep breaking bones like he was, even after giving the T-O almost a day to take over the ribs on his left side, repairing them. Nathan wasn't a child anymore, no matter how he looked when asleep, and he was getting too old to take injuries like this and bounce back. He almost hadn't--
A quick mindbrush revealed he was still sleeping, dreamlessly, and she allowed the temporary mindlink to slowly fade, drifting away rather than cutting, or anything so abrupt or destructive. Once it was gone, she leaned back, taking a deep breath, surprised at the stiffness in her back and neck.
"Ye finished? A was beginning tae think A'd have tae wake ye and drag ye off."
Jean opened her eyes and glanced blearily around for a clock, wondering how much time had passed. Not finding one, she blinked, then tried to focus surprisingly strained eyes on her small watch.
"Ye were in a trance fur th' better part of nine hours," Moira said softly, coming into the patient section of the labs, proffering an insulated mug of cold water. "Beginning tae think maybe ye needed some help."
"He's... sleeping, I think," she finally said, after she'd downed the entire mug and found herself wishing for more. "I've done all I can -- it's up to him, now. I felt him take control of the virus from me; I think he's aware enough to keep it in check himself." She really was too tired to sound that deliriously happy, but her heart was beating fast, and her stomach felt surprisingly light. Despite his condition, he'd made such improvements. He was halfway out of the woods. Organs working, T-O under control, and out of that blasted coma....
"Aye, that A can see," Moira murmured, with no small satisfaction herself, as she analyzed the activity of his brain. "Pretty close tae what it used t'look like. Ye've done a fine job."
"Nine hours? I certainly hope so." She got off the stool carefully, the light feeling leaving her suddenly weak in the knees. Nine hours. She should be in a coma herself. Then again, when Scott had had the nanobomb, she'd kept him together for nearly as long --
She had made it all the way to the door before she realized her knees simply weren't going to make the journey to bed unless she gave them a few minutes to think about it.
* * * * * * *
He had the distinct impression that he'd just been teased.
It wasn't so much that, that woke him, but the remnants of a headache and the terror he still remembered, in wisps. The kids, all lying dead in the rubble, Clansmen beside them, and high above on his carrier, Stryfe dangled Domino over air, so triumphant as he released her and she fell -- but that was just a nightmare. A simple dream. A sharp intake of breath somewhere to his right attracted his attention, bringing him more awake.
"Jean, are ye all right? We'd better sit ye down for a wee bit, A'll get ye some more water...."
He knew that accent. It was familiar in the way that Jean's mannerisms had been, before he'd known she was Redd. Familiar in that 'You should know who that person is, you idiot!' sort of way. Of course. Moira MacTaggart, the first person he'd spent any time with after coming to this century.
Which meant that he'd survived the landslide. And if he was here, instead of back in New York --
Then he probably had extensive injuries, and wouldn't have survived the trip home. He tried twitching his arms and legs, and they did twitch, each complaining bitterly of the movement. The virus, oh, the flonqing virus had spread everywhere, it was going to take weeks to get it back under control --
Was his telekinesis working? He thought so; experimentally, Nathan shoved the virus, feeling the weakness of the motion but also the familiar ache of the virus refusing to move. And telepathy....
He reached around, feeling the limitation of his scan. Instead of going for Jean, he tried to find Moira. He'd heard her, off to his left, and thought that way--
And gasped at the mind he found there.
Without thinking, he let his eyes fly open, not bothering to worry about his surroundings and the frightening amount of medical equipment around him as his head fell to the side, and took in the man in a bed beside him, eyes closed, and completely uncollared.
Quick as thought Nate gathered as much telepathy as he had, in a single attack against Stryfe.
* * * * * * *