How it feels to be dry
Walking bare in the sun
Every mirage I see is a mirage of you
As I cool in the twilight
Taste the salt on my skin
I recall all the tears
All the broken words
I am paralysed by the Blood of Christ
Though it clouds my eyes
I can never stop
~The Blood,
The Cure
CHAPTER 1: DAYS OF FUTURE PRESENT
She woke in the middle of the night, soaked in the sweat of bad dreams, and
reached for him. Six years, almost seven, and she still woke up reaching for
him, hands falling upon that cool, empty length of bed sheets with clutching
need. Tangled in bed clothes, wild-eyed and scarcely awake, she was still
always surprised to find him gone. No warmth to cradle against, no broad chest
to press her head against to listen to the sound of breathing; only cold, empty
sheets and a desperate, whispered plea from her own mouth.
Memory returned with the feel of un-warmed linen, unbidden and hated. She
pushed it away and rolled over, filling the empty space with her own warmth,
eyes squeezed shut as she breathed deep. She could stave off reality for a few
moments more. Could pretend he had gotten up to go to the bathroom and would be
returning to her side at any moment. Seconds passed with only the sound of her
own breathing, stretching into minutes, and at last her charade crumbled,
sorrow falling over her like an old, well-worn garment. She wept in the
pre-dawn darkness alone, her head on the pillow that had long ago been washed
of his scent, fingers digging deep into feather and seeking comfort that would
never be found there.
Letting go. Magnus said that was the hardest part. But Rogue had found a
different truth, one that was even harder to bear.
There were some wounds that never healed.
*
*
*
*
* *
*
*
*
* *
Morning broke as Magnus lay in his bed, the display that ran the length of one
wall simulating threaded rays of sunlight that weaved through the room.
Blue-gray eyes studied a contoured ceiling that nearly matched them in color,
steel rivets holding no more wisdom for him today than they had yesterday.
Another day, another battle ahead.
The sheets slithered away from him as he rose, and he stared at them without
interest, seeing nothing beyond shape and shadow as his mind lingered in older
places. He missed the days of old, and the irony was not lost on him. He had
always been a man of action, of fire and passion, and though there were still
battles left to fight in this flailing world, with every passing day he found
himself less willing to contend with them.
Oh, there were fights, certainly. The struggling, scattered masses of mutants
and malformed that still rallied against the new world order. But they were
meaningless, hardly worth the effort. He couldn't remember the last time he'd
broken a sweat when dealing with them.
His gaze went to his helmet that rested on the shelf where he had left it so
long ago. Red and purple metal still gleamed beneath the dust that had
collected on its surface. It was still bright and sharp, waiting to be picked
up and put on at any moment. Ready to be used, eager for action, its purpose
was eternal. And he… he was ragged and tattered at the edges, a faded
reflection of his former self, his purpose become something he could no longer
understand. These days he went to battle armed only with his mind and his
meager words. And while some might have thought them daunting, even formidable,
he felt weak--naked without the protection of his trusted metal carapace.
He understood armor, understood force, and in return, he had always felt it
understood him. In all his long life, it had been the only turgid romance he
had ever known, the only commitment he had ever kept. They shared a kinship, a
bond beyond that of normal mortal or mutant. And though Charles Xavier had
cited in him the heart of a diplomat and leader long ago, he still felt drawn
to his nature, ill-suited to the role of leader and peacemaker. It was a skin,
an identity that never quite fit, though he had clung to it the best that he
could after he had returned from the Shadow King's embrace. What else had been
left to him? World domination? A world where mutants ruled over the rubble and
ashes of the billions dead? Charles had abashed him of that line of thinking
long ago, though it had taken years for him to come to terms with it.
One corner of his mouth twisted in a roguish smile. You could take the man out
of the war, but not the war out of the man. His palms still itched to feel the
power of magnetism flow beneath them; his heart still sped up with the promise
of battle. All these years as a leader, all the lessons learned… how far he had
come. And yet he still longed, more than anything, for something he could simply
hit.
He paused a moment, perched at the edge of the bed--waiting, hoping as he
always did, for some simple menace to present itself and prevent him from his
daily duty. He was a stubborn man, and hope was the one thing that had never
evaded him, though it had worked differently for him than the man he had once
admired. Patience though, that had ever been his weakness, as it was now, and
after a few moments, he roused himself and rose from the bed, steeled, if not
quite prepared for the coming day.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
* *
* *
"Rogue?" Magnus knocked on her door with a gentle hand. She might already be
awake. She usually was, but if she wasn't he didn't want to wake her. She never
slept well even in the best of times, and these were certainly not those.
The door slid open and tired emerald green eyes greeted him with the tiniest of
smiles.
"Magnus," she said, mouth trying to form the same smile reflected in her eyes.
But her lips only trembled, finding the forgotten shape for a split second
before they settled back into a pale, pink line. He tried not to notice the
puffy skin around her eyes, to ignore the thin red lines that limned them. She
wouldn't want him to notice, wouldn't want him to worry, and so he said
nothing.
"I… ah," he paused and smiled with a touch of awkwardness--a site that few on
the face of the Earth had witnessed--then shrugged his shoulders. "It appears I
need a bit of help."
And now she did smile, though the curve of it was tired and worn. "Those ties
kickin' your butt again?"
He held up his hands in defeat, a long, deep crimson tie trailing between the
fingers of one hand, navy blue clutched in the other. "Thirty some odd years
spent fighting the dominating forces of the Earth, and now these are the
hardest decisions I have to make." He shook his head, rueful.
"Ain't that a crock?" she asked as she stepped out into the hallway. That
ghostly smile floated over her face again, and she paused for a moment as she
considered. Then she reached out, pulled the navy tie from his grasp, and
looped it around his head. Pulling it taut around his neck, she measured the
ends, then looped it again and pulled it through.
Magnus stood perfectly still, watching her face as she worked, all too
conscious of her fingers against his body. Even blunted as her touch was
through the cotton of the button-up shirt he wore, they left lingering trails
of warmth in their wake that made his skin tingle and his mind drift.
She pulled the knot tight and smoothed his collar. "There," she said, hands
still on him as she admired her handiwork. "All…" she trailed off, staring, and
her brows knotted together like the stem of a thorny rose.
He glanced down and realized that she wasn't wearing her gloves. Black heralds
wrought of silk and wreathed in mourning that never left her hands in the
presence of others. She didn't need them anymore but she wore them anyway, like
a scarlet letter for everyone to see. He couldn't remember the last time he had
seen her without them.
He looked back up and realized she was staring at him.
"Ah'm all right, Magnus," she said, voice soft but still somehow hard, threaded
with the steel of years that hid secrets in their hardened grasp. And yet they
were filled with a kind of quiet desperation that made him wonder if the words
were really for him, or to convince herself.
Ah'm all right. The mantra that she had recited throughout the years as
if she said it often enough, she might actually believe it one day. But she was
far from all right, hadn't been near "all right" since Remy's death, and
they both knew it. Her grief was still as palpable and real as her beauty, but
in all the years it had existed, they had rarely spoken of it.
"Rogue… if you need anything," he began.
"I know," she said. And instead of removing her hands, she laid them against
his chest, palms flat and fingers fanned wide as she quieted him.
She looked at him with those deep green eyes, their depths mysterious and
incomprehensible as ever for a moment, and then she smiled; that terrible, wan,
pale smile that reeked of sadness and regret. He knew that smile, though he had
seen it on her face only a handful of times in the passing years, and it was
all the more terrible because she conjured it for him. Only for him.
He knew it, and he knew what it meant, though if pressed he could never have
explained the complexity of intense emotion that accompanied it.
He raised his hand, crimson tie still twined between his fingers, and laid it
over hers, skin to skin.
She didn't move, didn't speak, just let the moment be, eyes staring up into his
like twin fires in the space between them. And then the stillness passed, and
she drew her hands away, running them over her own bed-rumpled clothing in a
self-conscious gesture. Unsuccessful in their attempt to smooth away the
wrinkles, her fingers fluttered like tiny birds, as if she didn't quite know
what to do with them. She looked down at them, then back up at him.
"Ah… should get ready," she said. The words were almost an apology, and he
wondered at them, questions leaping to his tongue and holding there, not quite
dared. She hesitated—one heartbeat, two--then took a step backward, into her
room.
Her eyes were veiled again as he nodded, and the door slid shut between them
with a soft sound that seemed very loud in the quiet of the hall.
He stood there for a long time, staring down at the tie that drifted in his
hand like lost hope. He could still feel the warmth on his skin where she had
touched him, and in the echoes of his mind, he could still see that sad, pained
smile she had gifted him with. In that poignant, solitary moment, he was able
to put a name to it at last.
It was the line between what was and what could never be.
*
*
*
*
* *
*
*
*
*
* *
Bobby plucked another hors-d'oeuvre from the tray, grinned and slung one arm
around Lorna.
"You know, if I'd known the food at these things was so good, I'd have been
coming to these boring meetings for years."
"Pig," Lorna grinned back and shoved an elbow into his ribs.
"Hey, watch it there, strong arm," he said, removing her metal arm from between
two ribs. "Wouldn't want me to have to bust out the ice and go medieval on
you." When she only arched one pale green brow at him, he cleared his throat
and backtracked with haste. "I mean, uh, you wouldn't want to hurt the
merchandise you're so fond of, now would you?" He tried a disarming grin.
"Men," Madelyne demurred, and though the word was soft, it was somehow filled
with the sibilants of a hiss. She shook her long red hair, and Bobby thought
her presence was only slightly diminished by the simple clothing she wore.
Clothed in a white blouse and navy pants, she was still as striking as she had
ever been, a serpent coiled in the trappings of humans. He would have mocked
her for the lack of black leather she seemed to prefer, but he himself was shed
of spandex or jeans, clad in khaki pants and striped Oxford that would have
made Old Navy proud. They looked for all the world like normal people, and
despite himself, he couldn't help but wonder if they were simply repeating the
pattern all over again. Lie upon lie. Hey, look at me, I'm a regular Joe
just like you guys… except that I could go nuclear at any moment and plunge the
world into another Ice Age. Nope, nothing to see here, move along.
He hated it, but Bobby Drake had never been one for deep thinking, or aspiring
to the lofty goals of heading world peace. He wasn't much for taking orders,
but he wasn't so hot on giving them, either. Sometimes he thought it was a
wonder he'd ever ended up fighting for the forces of good at all. Then again,
it wasn't so much the side of good these days as it was shades of gray.
Maybe it was that Madelyne seemed softened by her normal clothes. Maybe it was
the thick air of tension that hung over them like a pall in the wake of
proceedings beyond their ability to affect. Maybe it was a random mood. But
something prompted him to let go of his hasty tongue as he replied, "Gee.
Couldn't guess why you don't have one."
Cat-like green eyes turned on him, and despite the complacence her appearance
had lulled him into, he felt a chill deep at the base of his spine that had
nothing to do with his mutant powers.
"Here comes Rogue," Lorna said, inadvertently—or perhaps with
purpose—interrupting the showdown.
Bobby glanced at her, the need for the announcement not understood, and she
shoved her elbow into his ribs again. With a reflexive swallow he gulped the
rest of his hors-d'oeuvre and stood straight. If he lived forever he thought he
might never get used to the accord afforded to his skunk-striped teammate.
"Senator LeBeau," one of the Counselors greeted, standing straight at
attention, head inclined just slightly in deference to the woman before him.
And then, Bobby saw her; tall woman striding with purpose down the corridor,
white streak flaring proudly through her hair, cloak sweeping around her form
and lending it a majesty he'd never noticed before. In her wake trailed two
children, thin and waiflike in their adolescence though they lacked the coltish
legs of true teenagers as yet. Emerald eyes like their mother's, hair white as
the shock that ran through her own hair, and skin tinted with the faintest
olive color of their father. So pale, so ethereal, they could have almost been
overlooked but for the qualities that made them so.
Rogue bowed as deep as protocol dictated, and then she entered the conference
room, children trailing dutifully behind.
"Well. Let's get this show on the road—quick, before anyone has any fun," Bobby
muttered.
He wondered, not idly, if they sold popcorn at these sorts of things.
*
*
*
*
* *
*
*
*
*
* *
Senator Alba raised his left hand to quiet the masses, his elderly face solemn
as he spoke into the resounding silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen of my fellow country, I welcome you. In times past, I
might have made grand speeches and presented poignant catechisms in the
supposed name of granting this day greater resonance. But in our present day,
there is no time, nor place for such pomp and circumstance. There is no time
for media or three ringed circuses. There is no time for political hoops to be
jumped through. In this time, there is only need, and that need must be
answered." He paused and surveyed the audience with dark, penetrating eyes.
"When the darkness fell fourteen years ago, we were but few; we human survivors
isolated and scattered to the far corners of the earth. In the years that
followed, we grew stronger, we came together and we were bound by the dream of
reclaiming this country that we built and returning it to its former glory. For
fourteen years, we have suffered in the shadow of loss. For five years, we have
gathered here, discussing plans for a greater nation and a stronger stance for
the continuation of humanity. None can deny the steps that we have made, the
order and cities we have rebuilt. But neither can we deny that this nation is
no longer ours alone. In the same manner this country has shared its soil with
the blood of other nationalities we now must recognize that there is another
nationality among us, for good or ill. Today we gather to discuss our future,
and what place they may have in it, if at all."
Alba sat back in his seat and shuffled through the papers before him, letting
the tension build in uncertain silence. "In the last five years, Senator Sabine
LeBeau, as recognized by the Council for Mutant-kind, has done much to further
human/mutant relations. It is at her urging that we gather here today, and for
the first time meet with those who helped bring our darkest hour upon us." Dark
eyes flecked with steel and fire rose to meet the eyes of those seated across
from the Councils half-circle. Alba lifted his right hand in a solemn,
commencing gesture.
"The Council of Humanity recognizes Senator Erik Magnus Lensherr, head of the
Council for Mutant-kind."
Magnus felt his stomach twist in disgust at the perfunctory tone of the
Senator's words, and wondered for the millionth time why he had let Rogue talk
him into this. He glanced to his left side, greeted by deep green eyes that
were the picture of calm; cool, jungle leaves, dripping rain and nonchalance.
He knew this was folly. They could only end as they had begun years before the
Shadow King had escaped his psychic prison. But one look in those eyes and he
knew he could not refuse. Not her. Never her.
Gathered in two tight semi-circles behind tables of polished wood, the humans
and mutants faced each other. Rogue at Magnus' left, Wanda at his right, three
mutants on his daughter's side and two on Rogue's for an odd number of seven.
Their formation was mirrored on the human's side. He looked to Lasher, to Piotr
and Ororo on his right, then to Theresa and Eugene on his left. Drawing
strength from their faces, he rose from his seat.
"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Council," Magnus began, his deep voice resonating throughout
the chamber. He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and the hint of smirk
creased his well-worn features. "I come before you today with a proposition.
For years we have toiled separately to rid this world of evil, to right the
wrongs and rebuild the world as we knew and loved it. We too have suffered
losses. We too have mourned. In our own time, in the manner only those of
Mutant-kind could, we have fought the same evil, and turned it on its heel."
"Evil you brought upon us," called a voice from the civilian crowd, and
several others were spurred by this pronouncement, their voices rising in noisy
assent.
"Order," called Alba, reproving as he slapped his gavel down upon the polished
wood.
But the murmurs were picking up momentum, and the woman who'd spoken would not
be so easily quieted.
"I lost my sons to this war," she called out, voice ringing with tragic
validation. "And you were the one who carried the evil that killed them!"
"Order!" Alba cried, half-rising from his seat. But the crowd was already
beyond his control. They were caught up in the seeming opportunity for
retribution, and hundreds of bodies shuffled together with ill-intent, feeding
off the dissonance of one voice, and their own voices rose and merged together.
The sound was sharp, like the point of a sword, and no less a weapon as it
wound higher and higher.
Storm clouds gathered on Magnus' brow, and his face curled with derision, mouth
compressing to a thin, firm line. He had barely begun, and already he was being
assaulted. And still, he couldn't really blame them. He understood now what he
hadn't so many years ago. To these people, he was nothing better than the
Nazi's that had exterminated his own race.
The knowledge did nothing to ease the acrid taste of bitterness in his mouth.
His fingers flexed, and he had a moment to think that perhaps he might get the
fight he'd been looking for after all—and then the crowd parted, startled into
silence as a lone man made his way up to where the objector stood.
Everyone stilled, unnerved by the self-possession, the utter ease with which
this man sauntered into the madness of their building mob.
"I'm sorry for yer loss, darlin'," the man said, voice rumbling through the
acoustics of the chamber. "I lost a daughter, myself."
The woman stared at him, her face a poem of rage and loss that trembled on the
verge of breaking temper. "Who are you?" she demanded, face flushed with anger.
"I know everyone in this town and I don't know you."
"Call me a concerned citizen."
She blanched, almost recoiled from the words. "You're not a citizen," she
accused. "You're one of them."
Logan turned his head to the side as if disinterested, and popped a single claw
from between his right knuckles. "Then call me security," he said, voice cool
and unaffected by the gasps of the crowd around him. "Still and all, I think
it'd be best to let the man have his say, bein' as that's why we're all here.
Don't you?" he inquired politely, still not looking at her as his adamantium
claw scratched the stubble along his jaw, as casual as if they'd been talking
about the weather.
The woman bit down on her tongue even as Magnus curled his against his teeth in
sardonic amusement. New world, same old tricks.
"As you were sayin'."
Logan motioned to him with such a display of magnanimousness that even the
Master of Magnetism was hard pressed not to chuckle. He slid his tongue back
into its proper place and seized the moment before it could gallop away.
"As I said, we too have suffered losses. They are no less for the differences
in our genes. My friend Logan and the lady in the audience have just
demonstrated quite clearly the tensions that have existed between mutants and
humans, up until now. Perhaps in our old world, these things had a place. But
in this new one, we can scarce afford to discount one another, or make enemies
of one another, when it is clear that our goals are the same."
"Senator Alba," Magnus said, and turned toward the man. "Ladies and Gentlemen
of the Council, and fellow citizens, we come before you today to propose an
alliance; a joining of man and mutant-kind, the likes of which has only been
dreamed. We would become a Joined Council for the betterment of all--" Magnus
broke off, and his face turned pale with shocking suddenness. One hand rose as
if to touch his chest, and the other reached down to steady himself against the
solid wood of the table. He cleared his throat before the looks of surprise
could turn to concern, and forced himself onward.
"For the betterment--" His throat locked, and he choked on the last syllable,
the damnable words of politicians lodging in his mouth and sticking there. I
always knew they would be the death of me, he thought with an odd kind of
distance. The distance increased with the passing of seconds, and as though a
veil had fallen between him and his body, he viewed the pain that spasmed down
his left arm and up into his throat with a detachment that would have made a
Zen Buddhist proud.
He was vaguely aware of motion all around him--of bodies rising and pressing
toward him with able arms and helpful hands--and then he was falling down a
long, deep, dark hole into the abyss.
The last thing he saw was a pair of shocked green eyes that stared down at him
from miles above, the one emotion he had so rarely seen now reflected within
them.
He locked on to that love, and carried it with him into blackness.
After all; it was the only thing in his life worth taking.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
* *
* *
"Dr. Hayes?" The voice over the intercom was male, deep, and had only a slight
bit more inflection than the voice that spoke for their computer system.
Veronica steeled herself, took a deep breath and pressed the button. "Yes sir?"
"What is the status of the target?"
"Just a moment, sir." She let go of the button, turned to Renaldo and exhaled
in a shaky rush. "Do another scan."
"Scanning for target…"
Long seconds ticked by in the quiet hum of the lab, and Dr. Hayes offered a
prayer to the God she hadn't considered in years.
"…biorhythm found."
The weight of the information caused her physical pain, and she closed her
eyes against it. But she pushed the intercom button and spoke in a brisk voice,
in a hurry to be rid of the news. "Target still exists, sir."
"So he's still alive."
"Yes sir. It would appear that Nimrod II has failed its mission."
"Forgive me," Renaldo spoke up and looked to Veronica, as if speaking to her
might somehow lessen his breach of protocol. "But that's impossible Dr. Hayes.
The amount of damage it would take to destroy a creation like Nimrod II is
unthinkable. And utter destruction is the only thing that would have stopped
it."
Veronica stared at him, wordless as she let go of the button, surprised into silence
by his nerve. She didn't dare reply. No, she'd let him do that.
The intercom speaker rustled with faint static as the voice spoke again.
"Nevertheless, our target still lives, Renaldo. We must assume the mission was
a failure."
Renaldo fell silent, looked down at his control board.
"And the other?" the voice inquired after a moment.
"Still alive," she reported.
"Do we know what happened?" Was there cool mockery in that voice? She thought
there was.
"We're still researching sir, but we believe that for some reason as yet
unknown, we experienced a matter transference."
A slight pause, and then, "Have you confirmed identity yet?"
"Yes sir." She hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it again, some part of
her still unwilling to believe what they had discovered.
"Well? Don't keep me in suspense, Doctor."
She told him.
There was a long, contemplative silence on the other end that seemed to crackle
with electricity, and then he spoke with more emotion than she'd ever heard in
his voice.
"Then the mission wasn't a total failure."
"Sir?"
"This anomaly has just dropped Plan B right in our laps."
