Title: The Genesis Strain
Author: furygrrl
Archive: Just ask first
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore
Disclaimer: Not mine - and neither is CNN.
Yrch Monger - ::cackles:: Jesus/Legolas?! You're right, I'd better not ask. As for the Jean/Evan aspect - I wondered if anyone might take their behaviour as suspicious! Never fear, I have no intention of fixing 'em up - well, with each other, anyway. And yes! You are doubly observant! Blondie is most definitely a 'Nancy-ish' character. As for my prose being addictive...what can I say but thank you! I'm completely flattered you think so! :D
Purity Black - you are such a doll, putting my humble offering on your fave's list. Thank you so much! :D
CPBaker 12 and pristinediamond - thanks for reviewing!
Question: Does anyone think I should just announce the pairings I've planned for, or continue on all mysterious-like? Please enlighten me!
Chapter Six: Swan Song of a Blackbird
Xavier Institute For The Gifted
Westchester County, New York
June 27th 9:20 a.m.
Rogue strode down one of the stainless steel corridors that lay far below the mansion, face pinched with worry, gloved hands smoothing down the sides of her recently donned uniform. The main Communications Room was her destination, and the sounds of shouting men, firing guns, and above it all, the hoarse cries of a local CNN news affiliate, floated from its open doorway and to her approaching ears.
"...don't know how much longer the decimated police presence here at the West Grove shelter can maintain the barricade, as a crowd of the afflicted, numbering in the hundreds, continue to try and break through. More than fifteen officers and at least two dozen civilian defenders have been reported as missing and assumed killed, after they were injured and then forcibly pulled over the barricade's walls by members of the attacking group."
Stepping into the dim room, Rogue's anxious eyes sought and immediately located the hunched form of Scott - a dark silhouette against the brightness of the large wall monitor. The sinking feeling in her stomach became more pronounced when she noticed he hadn't moved an inch since she'd gone to shower and change - or, now that she thought of it, since their vigil had begun.
Mere minutes after Hank and the Professor had left, she and Scott had decided that the communications room - equipped with television, internet, security camera feeds, and the ever-important radio link to the Blackbird - would be the best place to bunker down until the jet's return. It was there, hours ago, that they'd started searching through the various news channels, hoping to discover more about the mysterious situation that had called their instructors away.
At first, only a few of the major networks were commenting on what had originally been dubbed 'isolated incidents of unexplained violence', briefly mentioning a handful of cities and vague accounts of possible casualties, before moving on to other topics of interest. As the minutes ticked by, however, the violence, the list of affected cities, and the tally of the injured and dying, began to grow.
The broadcasts started dropping other segments, ignoring sports and weather, politics and entertainment, to focus solely on the increasing mayhem that was rapidly traveling throughout the country and, according to overseas correspondents, to nearly every other part of the world.
Less than two hours after they'd first started watching, a state of emergency had been declared. Shelters had been designated, an evacuation order was put into place, and the horribly erroneous phrase 'isolated incidents of unexplained violence' had been replaced with the more disturbingly apt 'explosion of widespread carnage'.
But what was worse - at least to the two teens so far removed from immediate danger - was the silence.
Teammates on vacation, friends throughout Bayville, the Professor and Hank; no one had contacted the Institute all morning.
"Anything?" Rogue's question - one that she instinctively knew the answer to already - was hushed, but Scott heard it over the television nonetheless.
He glanced up at her, the smooth contoured quartz of his visor gleaming dully in the scant light, and shook his head, face fixed in lines of worry. "No," he replied, just as quietly. "No sign of the Blackbird yet."
Rogue slipped into the seat next to him as he turned back to the console, watching as his fingers fiddled with a variety of dials and buttons. She could feel his agitation spread to her, as if it radiated from his skin like heat. It sent a tremor of impatience through the muscles in her legs, forcing her to cross them before her feet could begin tapping against the floor.
"What about the others?" she queried.
Scott snorted, a sound completely devoid of amusement, and motioned for her to take up the phone that had been built into the console's facing. Rogue frowned, but did as he instructed, plucking the receiver from its cradle and obediently holding it to her ear.
The echo of her heartbeat, a soft hissing sound, a stuttering 'click', and then...nothing.
"What the hell?" she breathed, reaching out and frantically stabbing her index finger against the phone's hook switch to no avail. Her wide eyes flickered up to Scott, the useless phone sliding down her cheek. "The line's dead."
Scott simply nodded, splayed fingers running over the inactive radar screen absently. "It must have happened just after you left. I'd wanted to try Alex again, but..." He shrugged, tone defeated.
Rogue felt her heart lurch, prompting her to lay a hand on the youth's nearest shoulder in shared sympathy. Calls placed to determine the welfare of her few family members hadn't been successful either. She knew nothing of Kurt or Irene.
"I'm sure a lot of the people we're worried about are going to turn up just fine," she murmured reassuringly when Scott responded, leaning into her touch. "Your brother, my brother, our friends, Hank and the Professor - even my momma, blind like she is - they've all got their mutations to help them face whatever's going on out there, not like -"
A series of screams wailing out from the monitor's speakers interrupted, making the tendons in Rogue's neck tense involuntarily and drying the moisture in her mouth. She blinked, swallowed, and licked her unpainted lips before trying again - but it was no good. Scott's head had already swiveled from her to the screen. At his low gasp of horror, Rogue's gaze did likewise.
The CNN reporter was no longer in view, but the cameraman was filming regardless, the unflinching video diary showing whatever fraction of the world might be watching that the besieged West Grove shelter had fallen.
The barricade of hastily erected wooden beams and sandbags, previously manned by innumerable - and now tellingly absent - police, military, and civilian defenders, had somehow been breached. One side of the structure sagged under the weight of flailing limbs as bloodied, grasping hands pulled the remaining supports down, while pale-eyed howlers clambered through a newly created cavity on the other, pushing and trampling each another in their eagerness.
The camera jerkily panned away from the monstrosities, and focused instead on what fueled their unholy anticipation.
Huddled as far back as whatever building they were in would allow, were people - hundreds and hundreds of people. A mixture of races, a broad scope of ages, some brandishing weapons - axes, bats, tire irons - some weeping, some on their knees praying loudly, all terrified by the sight of certain death racing towards them.
The screams that had sounded up until that point were but whispers compared to the agonizing screeches that echoed over the airwaves seconds later, as a wholesale slaughter commenced.
Rogue watched it all with numb disbelief. She'd heard the details of events occurring beyond the mansion's gates all morning, had seen graphs and charts, frightened government officials and sporadic aerial views of cities, explanations all as to the level of suffering currently being dealt the nation. But they were sterile, impersonal, perhaps, as she'd hoped earlier on, even exaggerated.
As the camera's operator was felled, though, as the camera followed, tumbling to the shelter's floor to present the unfolding massacre in an unnatural angle through a blood-dewed lens, all thoughts of exaggeration, all notions of hope, were instantly quashed. The red tide of truth couldn't be ignored any longer, and finally coming to understand exactly what that meant, left her sick and shaking.
Likewise stunned, Scott joined her in bearing silent witnesses to atrocities once only reserved for the goriest of horror movies, until the broadcast cut out completely. One second there were panicked screams and a fuzzy shot of people fighting for their lives, the next, another frightened reporter, another barely intact shelter, surrounded by yet another host of inhuman attackers.
The switch was sudden and unprofessional, as if whoever managing the studio's feeds had only just realized what the viewing audience was being treated to, and did what he or she could to spare it the grand finale.
"Too little, too late," Rogue whispered, nearly jumping out of her frozen skin a moment later when Scott's fist came crashing down on the keys of the console.
"Goddammit all!" he cried, his other hand slamming down so violently that Rogue flinched. "Why are we just sitting here? West Grove is what - twenty minutes away? Why aren't we doing something? Why aren't we helping those people?"
"Scott -" Rogue began, trying to calm him down.
"And what about Bayville?" he continued angrily, riding over the interruption and gesturing wildly at the monitor. "How long before the same thing happens here? Before people start killing one another in the streets - if it hasn't started already? Our friends are out there, for God's sake! They could be - they could..."
He stood and turned to her, his voice cracking at the last, his visor doing nothing to hide the look of abject despair clutching at his features.
"Please Scott, don't," Rogue pleaded, rising to stand at his side, not knowing what to say or how to comfort him. She settled for touching his shoulder again. "Don't do this to yourself."
He barked out a bitter laugh. "Do what? Refuse to see what's right in front of my face? Refuse to acknowledge the truth? I can't, Rogue! I can't keep telling myself that this is all just a bad dream I'm going to wake up from soon! I can't justify hiding like some scared kid just because I've suddenly discovered that the monsters under the bed are real this time! Not when these," he slapped a hand against the band of quartz covering his eyes, "are telling me I could be doing something about it. Should be doing something about it!"
Not liking the conclusion his agitated speech seemed to be heading towards, Rogue took his upper arms in a no-nonsense grip. "Now you listen to me, Scott Summers," she chastised, feeling the trembles that wracked his frame even through her gloves. "You're the first person to charge into trouble, no matter the odds, no matter the danger. You know it, I know it, and the Professor sure as hell knows it - which is exactly why he made you promise to sit tight and wait for him to get back in the first place. It has nothing to do with bravery or cowardice, and everything to do with us following orders - orders meant to keep us out of harm's way so that when a new plan of action is ready, we're still alive to see it done."
She could feel Scott's hidden eyes staring hard, could feel them burning against the flesh of her face with an almost palpable air of consideration. Strangely unnerved by the things she'd said, the emotions his mute appraisal stirred, and by the impassioned reflection of herself in his visor, she lowered her lashes.
Her grip loosened and fingers unthinkingly stroked down the length of his arms, finding his hands and curling around them. He latched onto her immediately, grasp going tight, like a drowning man holding fast to his only lifeline.
"I've never felt so...helpless," he finally whispered brokenly.
"I know," she agreed gravely, "but you can't let those kinds of thoughts take over. The people we love are strong, but they're counting on us to be strong, too. We won't do them - or anyone else who might need our help - any good if we rush off and get ourselves killed."
Scott sighed, sounding suddenly weary, and closed the small distance between them, pulling her, surprised but unprotesting, into a solid embrace. "I almost hope you're wrong," he murmured into her hair. "I'm not feeling particularly strong at the moment."
Rogue relaxed against his chest, her arms slipping around his waist a few seconds later. "That's why the Professor left me here with you - to be strong enough for the both of us," she replied with forced levity, grateful that her voice betrayed none of the inner turmoil his nearness was causing.
He shifted, his chin settling on the crown of her head, and she imaged that he smiled at her words. "I'm glad he did," he told her honestly before pulling away slightly. He gazed down at her upturned face, smile fading in favour of seriousness, thumbs absently tracing the line of her spine. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Unable to breathe, let alone respond to such an unexpected statement, Rogue simply stood there, dazed, staring at him dumbly, desperately trying not to shiver under his butterfly caress. She couldn't guess how long they remained that way, either - he, stroking the curve of her back without seeming to realize he was doing so; she, luxuriating in the sensation of his heart thudding reassuringly against her breasts. She only knew that it wasn't long enough - though she doubted even an eternity spent in his arms would satisfy.
A loud crackle of static bursting from the console's com-link was what eventually brought them back to reality and startled them apart.
"Mr. McCoy!" Rogue breathed with relief, muting the television and leaning over Scott when he'd reseated himself in front of the radio's controls.
"...ome in...are...proach.......will be...andin...roximately five...tes..."
Scott hurriedly positioned the microphone of a discarded headset in front of his face, while his free hand slowly twisted a series of dials in an attempt to improve reception. "Beast? This is Cyclops, do you read me?" he asked.
"I can't......can........."
"Beast? Are you there?"
"...the..rofessor....was..........and needs.....cal atten....as soon as we......"
Rogue anxiously watched the small golden blip inching across the glowing green radar field beside Scott's elbow, hoping that the sense of dread growing in her gut wasn't a product of hearing Hank sound so unlike himself.
The unrelieved static made understanding the usually calm and collected instructor nigh impossible, but no amount of interference could disguise the strained tone of alarm in his voice whenever his words did ring through.
"You're breaking up, Blackbird. Say again?"
"The communica.......was dam.......we tried to.......anta.........tack.....the Prof....was........nee...you to......in the......bay......over!"
Scott made a sound of frustration. "I can't understand him!"
"Doesn't matter," Rogue replied, pointing to the pulsating blip. "They're closing in fast. Looks like they should be pulling into the hangar any minute."
"Right," Scott sighed in irritation, tossing the next-to-useless headset to the floor. "Let's head over to the -"
Another blast of indecipherable static slashed through the speakers, halting both movement and conversation, the contents of the garbled message instantly flooding the listening teens' insides with icy tendrils of fear.
"The Profes........don't under.........shouldn't........be able.....k.....it back dow.........no.....stay ba........why are........this......op!....no, NO! Don't make.....ou..........don't....no....NO....NOOOO!"
An angry roar, a series of shouts, banging, the ear splitting screech of grinding metal, and then the sibilant hiss of disconnection.
Rogue and Scott stood staring at one another, refusing to breathe, willing and waiting for Hank's jovial voice to crackle through the link and tell them all was well, but it was a futile wish.
Instead of reassurances, a frantic beeping wailed to life, followed by an explosion of flashing warning lights that lit the computer console like a red and yellow Christmas tree.
"Oh no," Scott moaned, diving for his headset and hurriedly making an attempt to contact the approaching jet. He tapped several buttons, his head swiveling from one series of readings to another, until he ripped the mike and ear-piece away, his entire frame shaking visibly with angry disbelief. "No!"
"What?" Rogue cried, not understanding the implications of the rapidly blinking numbers scrolling across the circular radar screen.
"This can't be happening...this can't be happening!"
"Dammit, Scott! What's going on?" she tried again, pulling at his arm until he looked at her.
"The Blackbird," he stammered, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Communications have been severed, and it's - it's falling. Fast."
"What do you mean, 'falling'?" Rogue demanded incredulously.
"As in it's losing altitude and dropping like a stone!" he snapped harshly, taking a shuddery breath when he saw Rogue recoil. "As in Hank better do something quick, or the Blackbird's going to crash."
Despite the softer tone, his words had the same effect as a slap in the face and a punch to the stomach. "Oh my God," Rogue whimpered when her throat unclenched, the sting of hot tears pricking her eyes a moment before her vision went blurry. "Can't we do something? Don't we have remote capabilities or - or...?"
Scott gave his head a little shake, his voice coming out in a choked whisper. "No, there's...we've got nothing."
The beeping noises swirling around them suddenly began stuttering wildly, rolling over one another, repeating faster and faster like a racing heartbeat, forcing their gazes back to the radar screen.
"Forty thousand feet," Scott noted quietly. "Thirty-six...twenty-nine."
Rogue bit her lip, fervently begging every deity that came to mind for help.
"Twenty-three...eighteen..."
"C'mon Hank..."
"Twelve thousand...nine..."
"Pull up, damn you - pull UP!"
Scott was gasping now. "Seven thousand...five...four..."
"Oh God!" Rogue sobbed, clutching at the hand blindly groping for hers and gripping hard.
"Three...two..."
The sensors went crazy.
Rogue squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against Scott's back, trying to block out the deafening cacophony of light and sound screaming all around her, until Scott cried out, "It stopped diving!"
"W-what?" She looked up.
"It's not falling anymore - it's slowing down!"
Dashing away tears with her free hand, Rogue whispered heartfelt thanks to whatever force had intervened, wondering why the lights and alarms had yet to cease, just as Scott's next words provided the answer.
"Not slow enough...not slow enough! Ease up, Hank - ease up! You're still coming in too fast!" he yelled at the uncaring screen.
The altitude readings dropped under one hundred feet, then under fifty, and then the numbers disappeared under a wash of blinking red. The rest of the warning lights suddenly died, and, save for a single, droning whine reminiscent of a flat-lining heart rate monitor, an ominous silence descended.
In Rogue's mind, it was a deathly quiet, a lifeless sound even more terrible than the calamitous riot of only moments before. She looked down at the frame slumped over the console, realizing the hand she held had gone slack.
"Scott? Is it...is it over?"
He moved a little, started to sit up. "Yes."
His figure swam in Rogue's sight as fresh tears surged anew. "A-and?" she prompted hopefully.
Scott stood, swaying as if drunk. "And we'll have to hurry."
"Hurry? Where?" Rogue swiped at her eyes.
"About five miles north of the Institute," he replied, sounding more like himself, less uncertain, as he moved towards the corridor. "That's where they came down."
He's grief-stricken...he doesn't know what he's saying...what he's doing...
"Oh, Scott," Rogue murmured brokenly, trailing after him and grasping his arm. "I don't know what you're hoping to find out there, but whatever it is, it won't be what you're looking for, I promise you that. Please, just sit down a minute and we'll figure some-"
He pulled out of her grip and kept going.
She stripped a glove from her hand in one smooth movement. "Unless you give me one good reason not to," she continued, torn between anguish and severity, "I will do whatever's necessary to keep you from setting one foot out this door."
"I have to see for myself, Rogue."
"What? Their bodies?" she demanded, choking on the last.
"If they're even dead at all!" Scott cried, suddenly angry as rivulets of liquid leaked down his cheeks unchecked. "I know what common sense is telling me - they hit too hard, they're more than likely gone, that it'd be a - a fucking miracle if either one of them managed to survive that kind of impact! But I'll be damned if I just write them off without knowing for sure - and I sure as hell won't leave them to be found by some thing roaming the streets!"
He shook his head, voice lowering to a pain-filled murmur. "I know you mean well, Rogue, and I know what you're thinking - that shock's made me irrational or suicidal - and who knows? Maybe it has. But my mind's made up. I'm going to find them - or whatever's left of them - with or without you."
Scott turned to walk away, but a hand snatched at his before he could move, making him cringe inside. He waited for the telltale ripple of Rogue's numbingly cold power to flood through him, to render him senseless and send him to the floor in a heap...
But it never came.
Rogue felt him flinch, saw his gaze go to her recently re-covered fingers interlaced with his own, and, when he looked up at her, she met his confused expression with misty eyes and a tremulous smile.
"You can go, Scott," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "But never without me."
