The Memory Remains
Chapter 8
----
If I could have my wasted days back
Would I use them to get back on track?
Stop to warm at karmas burning
Or look ahead, but keep on turning?
Do I have the strength
To know how I'll go?
Can I find it inside
To deal with what I shouldn't know?
---Metallica "Frantic"
----
Mystique was annoyed.
She hadn't meant to reveal her presence, and therefore tip her hand so early in the game. It was especially bad luck that she'd managed to do so for a pair of anti-terrorism mutant mercenaries like Cable and Domino. It had been such a rookie mistake after coming this far without being discovered.
After abandoning the rest of the Brotherhood at Times Square, Mystique and Sabretooth had escaped by using a Channel-Seven News chopper, the pilot of which was all-too-easily subdued. The two had gone as far as the half-full fuel tank could take them and then had painstakingly made their way on foot across the Canadian border on their way to Sabretooth's isolated dwelling in Northern Alberta.
It had taken several days of walking - taking care to stay off the main roads in case the law should have followed them into this country - before they had managed to hijack an unsuspecting traveler on an Ontario back road. Sabretooth had left the man's mangled body hanging from a maple tree (picked out specially as his own morbid little joke) on the side of the road, but not before Mystique had relieved him of his wallet.
For the rest of the trip, Mystique had assumed the form of the unfortunate man, while Sabretooth had tried his best to downplay his extreme appearance with civilian attire - steel-toed work boots, worn blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Even a quick glance at him had made Mystique chuckle; he'd looked like the stereotype of a Canadian lumberjack. All he'd needed, she'd commented, was a wooly toque (and she had received a low growl for her efforts).
It hadn't taken long, however, for things to go wrong. As the leader of the terrorist faction that had directly threatened the President of the United States of America, Mystique was not somebody whose presence in its country the Canadian government was willing to overlook. She had known that the clock was ticking on how much longer Sabretooth's cabin would make an effective hiding place. It was only a matter of time before the all-Canuck Alpha Flight or the US-sanctioned X-Factor would be on the hunt.
Fortunately, if Mystique was one thing, she was resourceful. The blue-skinned metamorph knew that safety lay in numbers, and where were there more people like her than the mutant-governed island of Genosha? And, she had realized, with the disappearance of the mutant overlord Magneto, the Genoshans would be seeking another to unite their strength and lead them to the 'Dream' of supremacy of Homo sapiens superior.
That's what she would let them believe, anyway. Mystique had never truly bought into Magneto's idealist views and self-righteous desires. She had certainly never had any problems working as an agent for hire for non-genactive employers, so long as the price was right. Her outlook on life was much simpler: get in her way or threaten her safety and suffer the consequences. By openly declaring war on mutantkind through their attack of Professor Charles Xavier, the Friends of Humanity had done both. The fact that they were bottomfeeding, mutant-hating scum would just be a bonous for when she put a bullet in each member's skull.
All that, important as it was, would have had to wait. The priority at that moment had been finding somewhere safe to lie low, and Genosha had been her best bet. The problem, of course, was in getting there. In lieu of recent events, she couldn't exactly book a commercial flight to the island located off the east coast of Africa. Even her shapeshifting abilities were of no help when there were no public transports to the mutant sanctuary. The only way in or out these days was under one's own power.
After a very animated discussion-turned-heated argument with Sabretooth, Mystique had managed to convince her partner that the easiest way to the island was a straight line across the ocean. Though they hadn't an ally with the gift of flight, they did have one with that of speed.
Mystique was convinced that she could win back Sasha's favour, despite her betrayal. She was, afterall, still her mother. For all the good Sabretooth's protests did he had made it perfectly clear he did not agree, though he recognized that he could not dissuade her with anything less than a knockout blow. Therefore, with a blasé promise to keep a low profile, he had watched as she left the cabin destined for New York City.
It had not been an easy journey but she had made it (and without the homicide required of the previous trip), only to discover a fact that had put the proverbial damper on her plans: Sasha was no longer in the Big Apple. In fact, as she had learned from an exceedingly soused Lance Alvers while in disguise in a bar one night, she was deep in a coma under the care of Moira MacTaggart at the Muir Island Research Facility.
Needless to say, Mystique had not been pleased. Leaving her former lackey in his drunken state of semi-consciousness, the metamorph had desperately sought a way to Scotland. Again, her powers of ingenuity would come into play. It had not been long (a day at the most) after letting a few key players in on her situation that Mystique received an invitation to an audience with none other than Mr. Sinister. The vile geneticist had helped her once before and had been intrigued with the case presented to him.
Sinister had just so happened to have an invested interest in the Russian mutant speed she-demon as well, and had agreed to help Mystique in getting to her. His terms, however, had stated that it would be as an agent in his employ in order to monitor the young woman's progress and relay information as it was acquired. It was his demand in return for a past favour that if and when Sasha Romanov should emerge from her comatose state, she would be turned over into Sinister's custody - for reasons he would not divulge. Mystique had hastily consented; she had been anxious to go. As for allowing Sinister possession of her daughter, she had decided that she would cross that bridge when she came to it. Satisfied with the arrangement, Sinister had transported her to Scotland.
It was there that she'd met the charming young Irishman going by the name of Mickey McKenzie who worked as the First Mate on the Muir Island Ferry. The libido-driven youth had been easily seduced under the guise of a sultry femme fatale and then held hostage in his own home after she revealed her true form. Mystique had been reluctant to kill the boy; he'd proven to be irresistibly attractive. She was certain she'd find a use or two for him in the future, and had therefore spared his meager life.
Afterward, she had taken his place on board the ferry for the ensuing months in the service of Captain William Douglas. This had been the exact reason Mystique had chosen Mickey in the first place; what better way to keep tabs on her daughter than to work so near the facility in which she lay? She had kept her ear to the ground for any word of change as to Sasha's condition, and for months the situation remained unaltered. Imagine her surprise, then, when, one night, her daughter had turned up in front of her on the shore! The shapeshifter had been so startled that she'd nearly forgotten herself and betrayed her disguise...
It was strange to think that had only been a few short hours ago. Mystique's lips curled into a slow snarl; she had been so close to getting her back, only to have her hopes dashed when those three bumbling idiots of her former employ stumbled onto the scene, followed by Rogue and then the mercenaries.
Rogue. Seeing the skunk-streaked X-Man had only helped in reminding Mystique of the last time she had tried to reclaim a daughter - an endeavor that had ultimately led to failure. In a desperate attempt to have Rogue break through the mental barriers constructed in her mind by Xavier and remember her time with the Brotherhood, Mystique had urged the young woman to touch her skin and absorb her memories (and subsequently, her shapeshifting powers) that would reveal to her the truth. It was an effort that had nearly cost Rogue her life as the imprisoned psyche of Carol Danvers - known to many as the superpowered Avenger Ms. Marvel, the woman whose identity the X-Man had once stolen - had attempted to use the Mississippi-born mutant's newly acquired morphing ability to manifest her consciousness and form in this new body. Only with the help of fellow X-Man Jean Grey was Rogue able to survive the ordeal as the two women fought Danvers on the psychic plane and together overcame and incarcerated her within the deep recesses of Rogue's mind.
It was an episode that had left Rogue emotionally scarred as she attempted to come to terms with the monster she had been and the crimes she had committed. It was the moment in which the Southern Belle had rejected the invitation put forth by her foster mother and had walked out of her life. It was a day Mystique would never forget as long as she lived.
It had been an opportunity presented to her by none other than Mr. Sinister. It was her debt to him: one daughter for the other.
And it was beginning to look more and more like Sinister would stop at nothing to obtain his prize. Whatever the reason for his interest in Sasha, Mystique did not care.
"If he wants to involve those three pathetic whelps," she said of Pyro, Avalanche and Toad, "then so be it. He'll soon discover what a liability they truly are. Probably about the same time he discovers his mistake in underestimating Raven Darkhölme."
She checked the sights on her handgun by setting her target between the baby blue eyes of the true Mickey McKenzie where he lay bound and gagged on his oak-framed bed. She had taken over the boy's Glasgow flat during her time here (and not a day had gone by without a complaint about the distance to travel from the city to the coast and back again). The small desk was cluttered with pilfered handguns - her weapon of choice - and their accessories.
A cruel smile crossed her face as beads of sweat appeared on the boy's brow, and she lowered her adjusted pistol. "Nervous, pussycat?" she purred in delight and concealed the weapon in a holster on her leg beneath her flowing white skirt. "No need for that; I've told you already that I won't hurt you," she said as she seductively stalked over to the bed and then crawled onto the young man's chest, "unless you ask me nicely."
Mickey was unable to hide the arousal in his eyes - or anywhere else for that matter.
Mystique pressed her lips against his in an aggressive kiss, finishing by biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a drop of blood. As she lay on top of him, she transformed her appearance until he was looking into the eyes of his doppelganger - a sensation he wasn't sure qualified as disturbing or strangely stimulating.
"Gotta go, lover boy," she cooed in his throaty Irish brogue. "We kin finish thess later."
Leaving him with that thought to chew over, Mystique pushed herself off the bed, pocketed several extra ammo clips and a large switchblade (this had been his), and walked out the door. The adrenaline rush she'd just achieved would give a much-needed energy boost for the task at hand. She exited the flat quickly, forgetting (for about the thousandth time) about the cobblestone that protruded a half-inch above the rest, and succeeding in stubbing her toe. The ensuing string of expletives that exploded from her mouth did wonders for draining her newfound energy.
Yes, regarding the situation as a whole, Mystique was most certainly annoyed.
*
"There was somethin' strange about the lass, Mr. Summers, aye, but I could no' tell ye what it was, exactly."
"Was she acting strangely? Or maybe something she said?"
"Oh, aye, a little of both I'd say."
William Douglas chuckled heartily as he spoke and took a sip of his morning coffee. He was in a rather cheerful mood, considering his lie-in had been interrupted. His eldest son, Malcolm, was running the ferry today, and he'd been looking forward to his day off. Until a few minutes ago, his list of things to do hadn't included a visit from a man asking questions about his most recent fare.
"If I may ask, Mr. Summers," William began after setting down his mug, "jus' why are ye so interested in the lass? Old girlfriend, perhaps?" His gentle teasing was rewarded with a look of sheer horror that momentarily crossed the man's face.
"This woman is a wanted criminal," he replied after regaining his composure. "And a dangerous one at that."
"Ah, yes, and ye're a detective, then?" William nodded.
The other man smirked, and sipped his own coffee. "Something like that."
"I suspected so," the Scotsman replied, taking in the skintight yellow and blue costume the man wore. "Is tha' regulation for ye these days, then?" He grinned and shook his head. "For the life o' me, I'll ne'er understand ye Americans."
Scott Summers had to smile; truthfully, he'd been expecting the comment to come much earlier in the conversation.
"Truth be tol', Mr. Summers, she were a lovely lass," William continued as his wife, Sadie, entered the room. Her long brown hair was pulled back and she carried a gurgling sixteen-month old boy - their youngest - perched on her hip. "But I dinnoh take much notice. I'm happily married, y'see."
"Good man," Sadie winked and rewarded him with a quick peck on the cheek before passing the child to him. "An' don' ye forget it."
"Sadie, my love, ye've not to worry," he replied and cradled the fussing baby in his muscular arms. "But if ye wan' my advice," he turned back to his guest, "ye'll talk to me First Mate, Mickey McKenzie. The lad thinks hisself t'be a bit of a lady-killer, an' he took quite a notice o' this lass. My guess - the state she were in - is tha' your girl spent the night w'im."
There was more than a bit of doubt in Cyclops' mind regarding William's suggestion, considering the level of the relationship between Velocity and Pyro. If Jean had been correct in assuming the state of Sasha's mind, however (and she was usually to be trusted in these matters), the idea might not be so out of the question.
"Thanks for the tip, Mr. Douglas," he said. "Do you know where I can find him?"
"Lad's got a flat in Glasgow," William nodded and turned to Sadie. "Fetch Mickey's address, will ye, love?" She nodded and hurried from the room. "I expect ye'll find 'im there. I gave 'im the day off on account us gettin' back so late."
"William?" Sadie poked her head through the doorway. "There's a young man at the door sayin' he works w'Mr. Summers. Shall I send 'im through?"
"Aye, thank ye, love," he nodded and soon Gambit entered, followed by a young woman. William took one look at the Cajun's attire and turned to Cyclops. "Well, he's certainly one o' your group, Mr. Summers."
Gambit raised an eyebrow but decided not to comment. "Merci beaucoup, Madame," he smiled in his natural charming tone at Sadie, and then approached the settee on which William and Cyclops sat.
"Mr. Douglas, this is Remy LeBeau," Cyclops introduced the two men. "He's investigating this case with me."
"Pleasure to meet you, m'sieur," Gambit extended his hand, which his host firmly shook. "An' dis be-"
"No need, Mr. LeBeau," William held up his hand. "This lass be me neighbour, Miss Mary Wallace." He smiled warmly and gestured to the large armchair opposite him. "Good t'see ye, darlin'. Make ye'selves at home." Gambit, ever the gentleman, moved aside to let Mary into the chair and opted himself to stand. "How's your dear ol' ma these days?"
"Much better, thank ye, Mr. Douglas," the girl replied; though her smile was not genuine. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose was a light shade of red as though she'd been crying.
"Dis fille, she say she been robbed, mon ami," Gambit said to Cyclops. "Dat her wallet been stolen." He turned to Mary. "You tell Scott what you tell ol' Remy, petite."
"Well, Mr. Summers," Mary began, delicately wiping away the crust forming in the corner of her right eye, "las' night me ma called me to her room - said she'd heard the door slam. I tol' her i' must ha' been the shutters in the wind for I dinnoh see anythin' when I went down to 'ave a look. But this mornin', sir, I saw me coat was gone, and me bag an' all w'me wallet an' passport. I searched everywhere, but i's no use - i's been stolen, sir!"
Gambit looked at Cyclops as William sent Sadie for a cup of tea for the girl. "Only couple dat Remy can t'ink of could do dat so fast, mon ami," he said. "'Specially if dat someone be needing a nom de plume."
"Point taken," Cyclops nodded and the two X-Men rose to their feet. "Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas, for all your help. I think it best that we talk to your First Mate as soon as possible."
"Aye, well, good luck t'ye, lads," William replied, standing up to see them to the door. Sadie passed him a piece of paper she'd retrieved on one of her journeys to the kitchen, and William, in turn, handed it to Cyclops. "I 'ope Mickey'll be able te set ye right. He's a good lad, e'en if he is a wee bit of a pillock at times - don't think w'is head, if ye get my meanin'."
"Loud and clear," Cyclops nodded, shooting a meaningful look at Gambit, who smiled innocently. They thanked William again before walking out the door and into the cool, moist air surrounding the seaside village. Storm was waiting for them back at the Blackbird. "Any news?" he asked her.
"One man claims his truck has been stolen," Storm replied. "Aside from that it would appear that nobody noticed anything unusual."
"Not hard to believe," Cyclops frowned. "This is the location Cerebro detected Velocity's mutant signature. It all happened too fast for anyone to notice. So now, we've got a dangerous criminal with a potentially confused mind, a stolen vehicle and a fake ID."
"Dis day jus' keep gettin' better, non?" Gambit shook his head.
*
Snikt.
The telltale sound of metal scraping along metal echoed around the holding cell on the sublevel of Department H Headquarters, and all eyes went to Wolverine and the adamantium claws that had just popped from the backs of his hands.
Sabretooth's attention had been on him all along.
"Whatcha gonna do, runt?" he cackled. "Throw one o' your famous temper tantrums on me?"
"Wipin' that smirk offa yer face'll do fer starters," Wolverine snarled in reply. "After that, I might hafta let my artistic side out - the Van Gogh look would go great on you."
Heather was the only other person in the room; the other members of Alpha Flight were outside watching through an observation window along with Morph and Jubilee. It had taken a great deal of will power to remain silent and allow Wolverine to conduct the interrogation. She knew, however, that to interrupt and undermine the feral X-Man's authority in front of Sabretooth would completely compromise the chance of getting any information from him. Therefore, she kept to the background and recorded the readings from the machines monitoring the prisoner's heart and brain activity.
"We've done this dance before, Wolverine," the big mutant yawned. "Nothing ever changes."
"Last time it did," the shorter man corrected. "See, usually it's jus' you 'n me, Creed, fightin' our own private war - and that's just fine with me.
"But last time you made the mistake of takin' my buddy Morph hostage - threatened t'kill him even," his eyes narrowed to slits. "That's when things went from fine to not so fine, and real quick like."
Wolverine stalked to where Sabretooth sat strapped to a chair and leaned toward him until they were nose to nose. "You should know better'n anyone, bub - I hate it when a guy won't fight me man t'man. An' I sure don't take kindly to my friends bein' dragged into my business."
"You should know better too, runt," Sabretooth replied evenly, unfazed by Wolverine's speech. "It ain't just our war no more. Not since my kid's playmates made an example outta Xavier. Now your pal's just as involved as any of us."
"Since when are you a freedom fighter?" Wolverine retorted. "You've never cared about anyone but yourself."
"Don't act like yer so much better," Sabretooth snorted. "The only reason yer still hangin' around that wussy buncha do-gooders is cuzza that foxy redhead."
Wolverine's neck prickled and his top lip began to curl. "You leave her outta this."
Sabretooth's black eyes twinkled with malicious delight. "Yeah, Jean Grey - shoulda kidnapped that broad instead. She smells real good - wonder if she tastes just as-"
A wild savage howl rattled off the walls as Wolverine leapt forward. One set of claws swung past Sabretooth's right ear, cropping off a large chunk of thick, blond hair. The other thrust down and sunk deep into the man's muscular thigh. Sabretooth roared in pain as he felt his tendons shredded and bones sliced. Hot blood flowed from the wound and his muscles began to tense but he never broke eye contact with Wolverine.
"My God!" Heather gasped; unable to control her horror, she felt her knees go weak.
"He'll heal," Wolverine shrugged off her concern. "Won't ya - ya big bastard?" Sabretooth replied with a throaty growl. "You ain't foolin' nobody, bub. That team meant nuthin' t'you. I saw what ya did to the Aussie."
"Kid got on my nerves," Sabretooth spat back. "Anyhow, way I heard it, them toothpicks o' yours did a number on Alvers. So what gives you the right t'preach t'me?"
"I ain't never fragged a teammate!" the other snapped, driving his claws in further. "That's a talent you got in spades."
"Like I said, runt - nothing ever changes."
Wolverine sheathed his bio-weapons and bent down to pick up the pile of hair on the floor. "You'd better do some thinkin' before we talk again, Creed," he said, dangling the strands in front of Sabretooth, who was glaring murder at him. "Next time I might not be in such a good mood. Might hafta start takin' you apart piece by piece."
"You want it to be our war again, Wolverine?" the big man snarled. "Just you wait. After all this is said and done, it'll still be you 'n me. Like they say: the only thing that could survive a nuclear holocaust's us 'n the roaches. So just you wait, runt."
"Count on it," Wolverine replied as he and Heather exited the room.
*
"You certainly have a way with words, buddy," Morph chuckled as the door slid shut behind Wolverine, and Heather immediately sought out the nearest chair and proceeded to collapse into it. Her knees were still knocking from what she'd witnessed first hand between the two feral mutants. Aurora met her gaze but was dismissed from further concern by a wave of the doctor's hand.
"Too bad none of 'em were inspirational," Wolverine replied. "Didn't get nothin' useful from him."
"Except a career tip," Jubilee wrinkled her nose as she noted through the window Sabretooth's butchered mane. "Don't become a barber." She smiled weakly, trying very hard not to look at the blood on the big man's thigh.
Wolverine saw how pale her face had gone and joked along with her to help divert her attention. "I dunno, Jubes. I kinda like his new do."
"Nevertheless, we've learned nothing new," Heather finally found her voice again and got to her feet. "Somehow I thought you'd be able to get something out of him, Logan."
"I'da been more surprised if he had spilled his guts," Wolverine mused, letting his eyes rest on the scarlet stains adorning his blue gloves. "Whatever I couldn't do for him, that is. Least it wasn't a total loss."
Jubilee felt her stomach flop and Heather made a face. "Our organization was issued on the case in the likely event he and Mystique would try to lie low in Canada, but there's no evidence they were even working together after Times Square," Heather continued. "It's just as likely he knows nothing."
"He knows," Wolverine muttered.
"I wish I had your confidence," she shook her head.
"Ain't confidence, sweetheart. It's instinct. Ain't no way those two weren't on the ups about Velocity's condition."
"Well, in any case, I'm headed to the control room. Snowbird and Sasquatch have been patrolling. I should see if they've checked in."
"I-I'll come with you," Jubilee offered, eager to get away from the bloody sight.
Wolverine watched them go before turning back to look at Sabretooth. The other man was staring straight at him as though he could see through the two-way mirror. He was breathing heavily as his mutant X-factor rapidly healed his shredded limb. There was hatred in his eyes and Wolverine's upper lip began to curl back to expose his oversized canines.
"Creepy," Morph commented, breaking the silence as he followed Wolverine's line of sight. He waved his arms over his head as if trying to catch Sabretooth's attention. "He can't see us, can he?"
"Not a chance," Northstar shook his head. "Dis glass is tinted and mirrored."
"Don't mean he don't know we're here," Wolverine replied. "Got the same heightened senses as me - he can hear us an' smell us standin' out here." He turned away from the window to address the members of Alpha Flight. "Heather said you were sent to find him," he said, following a thought that had just come to mind. "Who sent ya?"
"Classified information," Puck shrugged.
"Don't give me that, bub," Wolverine growled. "I ain't in the mood."
"You're also not part of dis team," Aurora's eyes flashed. "You left us, mon ami. Do not presume to give us orders - not after blaming us for t'ings we knew nothing about."
Morph held his breath.
"Wolverine, Morph," Heather interrupted the standoff as her voice crackled over the intercom. "Come down to the control room. We've just received a call from your team leader, Summers. He says it's important."
Neither Wolverine nor Aurora said a word as the two X-Men made their way down the corridor.
TBC