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.
