I know the pieces fit, cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed, will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes, testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

            ~Schism, Tool


CHAPTER 11: SCHISM

"You know, Dr. Hayes," Renaldo said, rounding the corner of his console and stepping toward her with sinister purpose. "Not everyone hated the Shadow King for what he did. Some of us adored him, worshipped what he made us."

Veronica stepped backwards, stumbling and nearly tripping over her own bag. She regained her feet and took another shaky step backward, her terrified eyes never leaving him.

"You're a mutant."

Renaldo agreed with a slight incline of his head, insidious smile widening just a fraction. "I can't believe it took you this long to catch on, Doctor."

"But… but… You're part of an anti-mutant project! Why would you be here if you're a mutant?" Her mind swirled in incomprehension, terror nipping at the heels of logical thought.

"Where better?" he asked, and spread his arms. "Why do you think Nimrod II failed, good Doctor? An acolyte of the Shadow King would never help create a robot that had any hope of destroying Magneto. Without him, the Shadow King has no chance of ever existing again."

"But the Shadow King destroyed the world!" she argued, her mind reeling. Her feet felt as off-balance as her head, and she could barely keep herself upright as she staggered back another step. "Why would you want that?"

"For a mutant, I'm incredibly weak. Even my telepathy doesn't work that well unless the thoughts are very well projected. But with the Shadow King in the world—ruling the world—I have a place of power, as one of the only telepaths at his right hand. When the X-Men killed him, they took that from me." His face contorted in a snarl of rage. "And I'll never let that happen again."

She grasped for the only thing that came to mind. "I thought the Shadow King killed all the telepaths?" This couldn't be happening, could it? A mutant? Here?

"He spared those who served him."

She shook her head in disbelief, her rage outweighing her fear in that instant. "So you came here, joined the project to sabotage Nimrod II?"

He gave a soft, disarming laugh. "Oh no, Doctor. I couldn't have done that. Too many people would have had my head for that, and your programming was far too precise to sabotage completely. But I did add a few quirks of my own. Ones that would send him chasing after every anomaly in the universe until he encountered one that could defeat him."

"I thought you said no one could defeat him."

"No one our intelligence knew about," he said with a sly grin. "But I happen to know of one who could. One who got brought back a few years ago. And apparently she got the job done."

She shook her head, wordless and numb.

"You know Doctor, I always thought mutants were ruthless, but I guess it's just anyone with power, huh? Working here with you like I have…" He shook his head, almost admiring. "You're the most cold-hearted human I've ever met. It's almost a shame to have to kill you."

She backed up another step and felt her back hit a table. Trapped. Nowhere left to run.

"Renaldo… you don't have to kill me. If the Shadow King's in power then there's no one left to tell--"

He pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his lab coat and aimed it at her.

"Oh," he said softly, and with aggrandizing regret. "But I do."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Veronica went very still, hands holding the table in a death grip. Her heart trip-hammered in her chest, and fear beat a primitive tattoo through her blood. Every nerve fired with instinct, begging her to run, but she stood her ground, chest heaving, dark strands escaping from the prim twist of her hair, and let him close the distance between them.

With a revolver that small, he'd have to get very close…

She kicked out with her foot, praying with every strain of her muscles, and connected with the hand that held the gun, sending it skittering across the floor. Seven years of self-defense lessons that she hadn't practiced in more than half that time, but it saved her. The look of surprise on Renaldo's face almost made it worth the pain in her foot where she'd struck metal. Almost.

She didn't waste any time gloating though, as she grabbed a tool from the table behind her—the mini-blowtorch exactly where she'd left it three days ago. It was small, but it was heavy, and it made sick cracking sound as it connected with Renaldo's skull and sent him flailing to the floor.

Her first instinct was to run, but she squished the feeling, letting her clinical mind take over again. Finish it, Veronica. Don't leave him alive to come after you.

She glanced around for the gun, but it was lost among the spill of wires and the bulk of equipment. No matter. She didn't need it, anyway.

She reached for a pair of scissors, and let her scientific knowledge of the human body take over.

Two sharp pierces later, it was done.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Remy sat at the edge of his bed, staring down at his hand. Connected to him, responding to his mental urges, fingers curling and flexing, so much a part of him; a marvel of biological design. So easy, so natural. Why didn't his mind respond the same way?

He knew the pieces fit. He could feel it. Tiny shards of memory rubbing together, their sharp edges cutting him as he struggled to untangle the skein that would weave them together in a complete tapestry. If he only knew how…

The hand was attached to him… he just didn't know who it belonged to. And this was all way too deep and philosophical for this hour of the night.

Still, thoughts paraded, spinning like a grand carousel, strange creatures and prancing horses with menacing grins. He thought about the little girl who slept just a few corridors away, the hope and pain in her eyes. The boy who slept even nearer whose mouth had cut with anger and hurt. The woman who slept closer still, whose eyes had held the promise of a life that must have been good, once. It was all there, all his, and he could reach out with this hand and take them all in his arms, try to love them, try to remember, try to be the best father and husband he knew how to be.

Or he could scoop up the bo staff—the only part of his former identity he remembered so far—and set off to find himself. Who knew? Given what they'd explained about mutant life, they could all very well be swept up in some kind of mass delusion. He didn't really believe that, in his heart, but the possibility did exist. And if he stayed… he would only bring them more pain.

But how much more pain would it bring, for him to leave? Did it matter? He felt so much guilt already for a life he didn't remember living, for not being what they wanted him to be. It was too much, too hard… too soon. Some part of him wanted to give them everything, but he didn't have it to give.

Did he love them? He wasn't sure. He wanted to, but it was only an idea, nothing based on reality, or time, or experience. It would be living a lie, and he wasn't prepared to cheat them or himself like that, even if it might make them happy for a brief while.

But he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to.

He clenched his hand into a fist and held it there, staring at it as he pondered greater things. The man he had been, the man he might yet be. What he knew about his life, the love he saw in his family. And the pain. He wanted to stay, he really, truly did, and he marveled at that. But he didn't know if it was because of them, or because this was the only place he knew, the only safe "home" he'd had so far in this new life. And until he knew the answer to that…

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and opened his hand.

He stood up, took a slow turn and looked around the room that had been his home for these past few brief days, wrapped his fingers around his bo staff, and opened the door.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Ororo tossed uneasily in her bed, her dreams dark and troubled. There were faces… some she recognized and some she didn't, all of them twisted until mouths and eyes consumed their features. Mindless giggling demons without horns or tail, gleefully evil as they descended on her, fingers reaching beneath her skin and pulling out her heart, her brain, her liver. She writhed and begged and pleaded, and though there was no pain, the absence of their weight was a hollow ache.

Something twitched; some sort of sixth sense that was… familiar, somehow. And then a large shadow loomed over her, fingers reaching inside her, rearranging her, reordering her mind to its liking, hollowing out her heart and devouring her liver.

She woke with a start, the thing's laughter still echoing in her ears. And at the back of her mind, that sixth sense still rang out, still shrilled with the warning of impending danger. She clutched the sheets to her breast and closed her eyes, trying to find the spiritual center of herself.

By morning, she would have written it off to a simple nightmare, but right now, it felt entirely real, and it was all she could do to keep from opening her eyes to make certain she was still alone.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Irineé woke from similar dreams, eyes wide and fingers clutching.

Soon, child, the sepulchral voice still echoed in her mind. 

She kicked off the covers and rose from her bed, hurrying from the room as if she could leave the dream behind with her bed.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Remy hadn't gotten more than a few steps outside the complex before doubt began to set in. Where was he going? What was he going to do? He didn't have any clothes except the ones he'd woken up in, nothing to carry with him, save the meager amount of food he'd grabbed from the cupboard. Hell, he wasn't even sure which direction he was headed in, or where the nearest town was. He could get caught in the desert out here and die a long, lonely, painful death.

His feet lost their rhythm as the thoughts played out, but he didn't stop. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't know anything about what was behind him, either. Except that it was confusing, and it hurt.

A thin shaft of light cut across the floor of packed earth from somewhere behind him, and widened rapidly. Remy spun, bo staff gripped tight and held up in front of his chest on some kind of autopilot response.

"Dad?" Irineé stood in the doorway cut in the side of the mountain, her tiny face looking lost.

He lowered the staff and felt his heart sink with it.

She took an uncertain step outside, like a child who has lost her way and isn't sure if she might be dreaming. "Are you… leaving?"

He opened his mouth, not at all sure of what was going to come out. "I…"

She took another step, and the door closed of its own accord behind her, leaving her a silhouette cut from the cloth of night, moonlight reflecting in her luminous eyes. "You are leaving." And oh, the raw pain, the betrayal in that voice. It cut into him like a thousand tiny daggers.

He lifted his hands, beseeching her. "I… I don't know how to make it right."

"I don't know how to make it right either!" she snapped back, her voice tightening with anger as shock gave way to something more visceral. "But I'm trying! You can't just leave! You can't just give up!"

His eyes fluttered shut, as if to stave off the pain her words caused him, but it didn't help. Behind his eyes, he could still see her there, could imagine the tears that choked her voice rising in her eyes, the furious anger at his betrayal maligning her porcelain doll features. It wasn't fair, he thought. How could he be expected to make this right for her?

"Cherie… it's not dat simple--"

"I know it's not simple!" she cut him off, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. "It's not easy! But nothing we do is easy! Never give up, Dad. That's what you taught us. You and mom both."

"Petite…" he began, then stopped, his own frustration growing into burgeoning anger. He took a deep breath, let it out, opened his eyes. "I wish I could make dis right for you--"

"I'm not asking you to make it right!" she said desperately. "I'm just asking you to stay." Her voice broke on the last word, tears at last breaking free. She turned away, rubbed a hand over her face in a brisk, annoyed motion.

He stood motionless, unable to speak.

"I watched you in that bed while you were hurt…" her voice was calmer now, not verging on shouting, but it was still just as edged with anger and lament. "And I kept thinking that any second, your eyes were going to open, and you were going to smile at me and grab me up in a hug and tell me how much you've missed me all these years… how much you love me… and then everything would be okay again." She pressed her lips together and bit back a tiny sob that she couldn't quite keep from slipping out, and her voice grew even quieter. "You'd kiss my nose, and I'd feel like I was six and safe again and everything was all right in the world. And all the years you've been gone would just disappear like they never happened." Her lower lip trembled, and her breath caught. "But I knew that wasn't going to happen. I knew your eyes were going to open and you wouldn't even know who we were."

He shook his head, not understanding. "Den why…"

"But I thought, 'it's okay'," she went on, as if she hadn't heard him at all. "Because even if he doesn't remember us; he's alive. And as long as he's alive, there's hope. Hope that maybe one day he will open his eyes and know us." She heaved another sob, the sound wracking her fragile chest, and Remy's heart ached to hear that sound, broke for that pain.

"But if you leave… then that's never going to happen," she said, her voice a bare whisper that pleaded with him. She walked the few steps that separated them, and he could see her clearly now, child's face with the eyes of a woman, the eyes of an ancient, filled with tears and innocent hope.

He didn't know who he had been, but he felt he'd always been ill-equipped to deal with situations like this. "I'm sorry, Irineé…" he whispered, regret deepening the tone of his voice, and his eyes did not shy from hers, meeting her gaze just as bravely as she met his. "I feel like… I have to do dis."

She crumpled—there was no other word for it. One moment, she was standing, and the next, her body fell in upon itself, crashing to her knees. Her face twisted with the effort of speaking through her teary sobs, and her fingers dug deep into the hard earth. "Is it… is it because…" her eyes fell from his as another sob gripped her, and her shoulders sagged, crushed in utter defeat. "Is it because of what happened? Because of… what you did for us?"

His eyes widened, and he caught his breath. "What?"

She lifted her tear-stained face to his again, her eyes oceans where secrets and guilt swam like dark creatures beneath clear green. "Did it hurt when you died?" she asked, her voice a ragged, plaintive whisper that left her like the cleaving of a limb. "Did it hurt so much… that you had to… forget us?"

The words hit him with such force that they took his breath away.

"Mon dieu, child," he breathed in a ragged whisper as he fell to his knees. "Non."

He pulled her to him, gathered her in his arms and held her close, cradling her head against the curve of his cheek as he shook his head, feeling his tears sink into the soft silver of her hair as it brushed against his face.

"Non."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

And in the quiet moment between them, far away, other minds shivered in anticipation.

"Do you feel that?" Madeylne whispered, almost excited.

"Power," Jean whispered back, and they rustled against each other like autumn leaves.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"Rinny?" Jean-Luc burst from the complex's door like a hero from a storybook, all righteous anger and deadly intent.

His eyes locked on his sister and his father and flashed red. "What did you do to her?" he demanded, every syllable pronounced with slow, succinct enunciation.

Remy felt spiders skitter up his spine with the sound of that voice, its deadly calm hitting him with more force than the lash of a whip, leaving behind jagged lines of terror that jangled and sang in his nerves.

This was going to be bad.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Jean-Luc had woken from unremembered dreams with a certainty that something was wrong, the bond between him and his sister screaming with pain and indescribable need.

She was in so much pain. It filled him, foaming in his mind with madness. And it was his fault.

His father. His beloved father, who didn't even remember them. Who didn't even have the guts to…

His eyes widened as the full scope of the picture came into focus.

His beloved father who didn't even have the guts to stick it out.

Anger ignited and exploded in his mind, cleansing it with pure, animal rage.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"Poor thing," Madelyne crooned.

"Yes," said Jean, and gave her twin a sly smile. "Maybe we should help him out?"

Madelyne grinned back.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"You need to move now, chere," Remy murmured into Irineé's hair, shoving her away.

He rose to his feet, staff already in his hand although he couldn't remember having picked it back up.

"You wanna piece of your old man, boy?" he asked, face crinkling in a cynical smile. "Can't say I blame you."

The words barely spoken, Remy's mind detonated, fragmented shards exploding in a thousand directions, freezing him where he stood. He couldn't fight this. His fingers strayed, strained toward the playing cards in his pocket—the one thing he'd thought to bring with him besides food—and then stilled…

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"Jean-Luc!" Irineé cried, rising from the ground, her eyes and voice still filled with tears yet unshed. "Stop it! He didn't mean to! He didn't do it on purpose!"

But Jean-Luc was beyond hearing, beyond understanding. His rage was so complete that he failed to sense the presence of others in his mind, their emotions fueling his, sly fingers pulling the locks on his power.

His father didn't know them, didn't understand. Well… he'd make him understand.

"Stop," Irineé shouted, her voice harsh with reproach now. "Stop it!"

But he couldn't. The flow of power seeped from him, insinuating itself between the cracks of his father's mind, blowing apart every thought, every fragment he could find. The upper barrier of his mind had been breached, and he was cruising on sheer power. He was beyond reproach, beyond reprimand. He was a God, and no one could stand between him and his will…

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

His sister stood before him on the astral plane, her form larger than he had ever seen it. Larger than he was… larger than the threat that loomed in the distance.

Jean-Luc… don't make me, she pleaded, her face the picture of troubled serenity.

And it only made him push harder. Damn her for being stronger than him. Damn her for standing in the way of this when it was her, her feelings that had made this happen.

Jean-Luc, please…

He reached out with his astral hand, watched her image flicker and dissipate beneath his touch.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Remy felt himself coming apart at the seams; faint stitches made by the past few days split and opened like a gaping wound.

And strangely, he felt like this was the way it should be. He had already died; what more could he offer to this world?

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I already died… what more can I offer?

The thought hit Jean-Luc like a physical blow, and suddenly he could feel the despair, the weariness of his father's heart. His father was lost… more lost than they were. Jean-Luc recoiled, pulling back from the feeling.

And Irineé seized that moment to intervene.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"Time to go," Madelyne and Jean said in unison. They withdrew, their eyes fluttering open, and grinned at each other like mirrored reflections.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"He didn't mean to," Irineé sobbed into her brother's shoulder.

Jean-Luc's head lolled in her embrace, oblivious to her words.

"What happened here?" Their mother now, awake and frantic, her eyes burning holes into Remy as they fell on him with accusation.

"I'm so, so sorry," Irineé whispered, reverent and apologetic, although she knew he couldn't hear her.

She was the one who'd shut down his synapses, after all.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

And across the continent, the Shadow King craned his head in response to the ripples of power that had just exploded through the astral plane.

Soon, child, he thought.

Soon.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Elsewhere…

Veronica didn't stop running until the complex was a distant shape on the horizon behind her, and only then because her legs gave out. She fell to the ground, letting her bag break some of the impact of her fall, and lay there, panting, the stitch in her side digging deep into her lungs.

When she'd started to leave the lab, she hadn't thought much about where she would go—her only instinct had been to get as far away from it as possible. Renaldo's revelation and intervention hadn't given her further time to think on it, and her mind had been consumed by blind, gibbering panic until she'd collapsed. But as her breathing began to slow, and the pains in her body began to fade a bit, the questions crept back in. Where could she go that her superior wouldn't find her? He would hunt her down, she knew. There was too much at stake not to. And if the Shadow King had subverted him, as she suspected, then there was nowhere on earth that was far enough to run.

The Shadow King. He'd destroyed the earth once already… razed it to the ground, enslaved and killed both human and mutant. And he was about to do it again…. Unless someone stopped him.

An odd laugh escaped her as the thought occurred. She clapped a hand over her mouth to still it, the sound startling her heart into another frantic beat. Stop him… no one could stop him.

But someone had…

The answer to all her questions and problems occurred to her like a strike of lightning that left her dazed.

"No…" she whispered. "Oh no."

There has to be another way. Has to be, she pleaded.

But there wasn't.