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.:The Bayville Bone-Claw Massacre:.
Part Three
For Jean, sitting in the Cerebro room, it was like the loss of her own thoughts, or of some strain therein. Kurt was gone. Though she saw him on Cerebro she could not feel him, and there; the other mutant - she was aware of it - but Kurt had not 'ported away. There was no distance between the two. Jean could not reason with the reality of the events that had unfolded. She made no decisive connections and merely sat in a bewildered state for some time. 'It could be another mutant,' this thought she held and it gave her some comfort, but it was not born of any rational process. Jean was, at this point, truthfully too timid through guilt to approach anyone else over this situation. Why hadn't Kurt told them earlier! Concern all turns to anger. 'Oh, god,' Jean put a hand to her forehead. 'I hope he's ok,' perhaps five minutes later and again she probed desperately to recognize some thought of his. Something to tell her it was ok. 'Kurt…' she thought morosely, but as if in answer she knew something. He was awake, and it hurt. She couldn't feel it but she knew it. It was painfully apparent: whoever had knocked him out - it was clear he had been knocked out - hadn't wasted any time making a fucking mess of him. His nerves were illuminated, all of them in him and they played out a running chorus of filth; Kurt was choking on it, swimming in it, soon to drown. Jean tried to take something coherent from his thoughts or to make her presence known, but clearly Kurt was not receptive. She felt contact slipping, he was going. 'No,' Jean grasped for it, but it slipped away. Kurt was gone again.
Jean stood up. She had to get help. Nobody could possibly get to him on time, but she didn't care. She was in no state to evaluate the situation so cynically. Taking a step back from the machine while still searching telepathically Jean made contact again and was bowed over by the sense of what she now knew. There was Kurt, and there was something in his face. Jean ran through the shabby excuse for imagery that filtered through Kurt's convulsing thoughts as she attempted to make sense of his situation. Someone was standing over him, Kurt was laying on ice, but Jean probed to greater depths and now, disproving this, it was beyond her to simply feel sick at the revelation. She became sick and felt cold; something stuck in her throat. 'Better to be unconscious,' this was the most intense idea she received from Kurt as applied to his situation. He was giving up. Contact was broken again.
She couldn't be sure how many times Kurt came to and passed out in the following five minutes. Each time he fell away she felt it had been the last, and progressively paced toward the exit; loathe to abandon him in presence, and as foolish as that may have seemed; to her it was vital. Jean couldn't tell what he was going through, but she could guess. Her guess was vivid enough to drain all colour from her face. She felt prickling about her face, something like the foretelling of a sweaty fever, something in her expelled her breath and she pulled desperately at the air; taking one troubled gasp to fill her lungs. She had to get help. Jean impressed one condition upon Kurt whether he could hear her or not, she pleaded and demanded one thing: 'port,' this one word repeated over until it faded as she fled the room. The only sound, her shoes slapping on the hard floor to contrast against the total silence of the lower levels.
There was gravel stuck in Kurt's cheek. He wanted to curl in on himself and go to sleep. Something vital from within him had been separated and removed and while the pain had not increased, but remained a steady and complete experience, pervasive and mind-numbingly brutal, Kurt could not reconcile with this feeling of having lost something. He was bleeding everywhere, but the most striking sensation he knew was that of dirty gravel sticking out of his cheek and how it stung. He was going to go to sleep and forget about this, but he realized he had something to do first. It would be hard and he did not want to do it. Kurt just wanted to sleep, but this had to be done, if only to be out of the way, and he could sleep. Time would pass and Kurt knew he would soon be cradled amidst things positive and familiar, and then he would be fixed. He would not be laying here looking up through one remaining good eye at a man who was taking his skin off in neat strips; someone working coldly on him like surgeon while he laid prone and helpless; carved like a piece of meat. He did not want to be conscious until he was fixed. Too much was wrong. Something sharp ran along his temple and pressed into his eye from the side; pushing insistently against the soft tissue before gouging it, and he felt himself now bleeding profusely, and it curled down his cheek as Kurt felt the pain of blinking in the protests of his bludgeoned and abused head. That same claw scraped part of his eye away across his cheek bone and his vision could not be relied upon any longer. Kurt was only seeing in blurred flashes. It hurt; throbbing dully. Feeling very cold; Kurt roused himself from the verge of non-recognition and set against this pain and all his draining strength that one last thing he had to do. Kurt closed his eyes when he knew he had ported and he did not care where he was, or who was with him; he couldn't feel much of anything anymore.
Jean's news had not gone over well, but there had been no dissent intoned. No dissatisfaction in anyone's voice. This was of immense reassurance to her. The simple knowledge that here in this moment of crisis there was nothing to be said of how the situation had come about but rather all thought's had been turned toward finding a solution. It was a thing to take confidence from, but this conversation so far had not been to her liking. Again she forwarded her point 'Hank, you'll need me there,' her voice was calm. There was truth in what she said, but Hank was adamant.
'As much as we might need you out there, we need you more in here, someone needs to guide us' this was Hank's stance and it could not be argued with for lack of solidity. Jean knew she would have to concede to it and did not wish to draw things out. She took one look toward Scott - who had been about to leave to check on storm when he had received her news - but she did not see the disapproval she had worried she might. Standing motionless in the rec room as he was; he did not seem at all impassioned. No anger, nothing, just cold and still. Jean swallowed.
'All right,' she took a step back. 'Keep in contact,'
'We will,' Hank responded. With this he was off. Scott lingered a moment and as Jean made to leave he took her arm in passing. Though she could not see his eyes she knew he had fixed her with such a look; concern and all things related as they ran in pure form. 'It's going to be all right,' he said and she found no words with which to answer this, but as Scott left Jean opened her mouth.
'Good luck,' she intoned. Jean turned and ran. She had to get back to the Cerebro room quickly and had no time to waste dwelling on sentiment. With her athletic qualities it did not take Jean long to get back to the lower levels; passing two students as she went and ignored them; having no time to fill them in. When she reached the doors that once, as a younger student, she had dreaded as a thing which foreshadowed difficult sessions of training; Jean made to pass through. Upon opening they revealed to her something she had never before seen in waking life. No picture, nothing in film, nowhere before had Jean ever seen a body so fucked as to be unrecognisable as human. Devoid of skin in parts which hung from others as bloody flaps draped off the edge of the causeway leading to Cerebro's controls; twisted and broken utterly. Bones exposed in places. The face no longer a face; sporting only unrecognisable features and in places teeth where none should have been; Jean almost threw up. 'Oh god,' were the only words she found to intone and these fell short in strides. Jean took a step back to realize something was behind her.
'God's not in right now, can I take a message?' a voice she knew. Cynical and gruff. Always a touch too loud. Jean did not attempt to respond but instead spun about and thought of her powers, but it was all too sudden. Her head was snapped around by force and something was in her throat. Three things actually. Fingers to be precise.
'Yo-' she had no chance to finish this as her attacker heaved her feet from under her and drove her down against the hard steel floor with great force. It took the wind from her and further than this; her head clapping against the floor shocked her from all sense. So that for a short, numb, time she was not aware of who was kneeling over her with three clawed fingers driven past the second knuckle into her throat while her blood pissed out through, past and over them, at a rate diminished due only to their presence. Her assailant closed over the space between them; straddling her at the waist. Jean did not dare throw him back with her powers lest the violent withdrawal of his fingers kill her. She squirmed back reflexively nonetheless and before she even realize she was doing it he had and a fist crossed her temple hard enough so her ears now rang. For a moment Jean could not see properly as the same hand clamped over her face and obscured her vision. With even the slightest shift of the claws drilled into her neck a shudder would run through her. She tried in desperation to focus on her telepathy and in so doing to invade the mind of her attacker. In response he twisted and pulled on the fingers in her throat and withdrawing one hand leaned over to pummel her. She was struck fourteen times in half as many seconds and now found concentration an impossibility. Jean tried not to choke on the blood poaring back down her throat from her bleeding nose and where her lips had been mauled against her teeth. Something warm slid over her tongue; slick and almost living, and she spat it out. It had been part of her lip.
'Tha-' she started but the hand returned clamping over her face and a thumb fell under her lip and the clawed end now pressed into her gum. Jean's back arched violently as she forgot the danger of struggling in light of the pain as a razor-sharp claw began to dig out the teeth in her lower jaw. A scream escaped her lips over the pain of it, and she thought to cry for help, but here in these lower levels the sound would not travel. No help would come. Jean spent more time now spitting blood than breathing. Both of her hands found his and clasped there about the fingers and wrist in an effort to remove it from her neck or at the very least to cushion them from jerking violently.
'Fuckin' pussy,' a gruff voice sounded in response to her articulations which had been reduced to timed, bloody sobs. Jean was struck to something beyond self-preservation when he spat into her face, and reacted instantly and violently; throwing him off her with every shred of strength that remained to her; focused through her powers. Free of constraint Jean stood up with all the grace of a dying cripple, and wondered how her neck and chest had suddenly become so wet. Finding no answers in the beaten daze of her own thought's she touched a hand there, to her throat, and knew it was over. She had told Kurt to teleport back, and he had brought his attacker with him. She had agreed with Kurt all along. Jean questioned why it had to be like this, but did not have long to dwell on those thoughts before she felt sick with nausea and her head spun violently as she slumped to the floor. Now crouching her attacker watched intently and did not move until Jean's body stopped shuddering violently. He shook what tissue - that from her throat - had been torn loose free from his hand as he stood up, and wondered, idly, what time it was as he paced out of the room.
'His enemies are mostly dead, he's mean and unforgiving,' half a line of lyrics half listened to. Rogue was seated on the couch in the rec room. The time was no issue to her, in fact she had clear-cut business here. It played on her mind the news Hank and Scott had given her about Kurt before they had left. She had, for obvious reasons, insisting on going with them but had been, at the time, unprepared and as time was of the essence they were presented with only limited options. So here she sat awaiting some word. The music was loud; even through her headphones tinny sounds could be heard in the next room. 'Bolted doors and windows barred, guard dogs prowling in the yard, won't protect you in your bed, nothing will-' Rogue cut this line off jumping nervously as she tossed the headphones from her ears. Certain she had heard something; the pale girl stood up. She heard nothing though and so reached down to retreive the headphones. 'Why headphones-' she had time to lament this act internally; the sentiment vocalized internally as something snatched around her neck in the fashion of a garrotte from behind and, heaved upon with great strength, dragged her bodily over the back of the couch. It could well have been a phone cord, or something else, but it was clearly plastic and now drawn so tight the only thing she gave vent to was a sick chocking gurgle as she found herself immediately struggling to breathe against the redoubling pressure. Rogue kicked up violently and flailed above her in an attempt to catch her attacker with a bare hand as she was quickly dragged into the kitchen. The contract from carpet to cold tile was noticed only for a moment as from the makeshift garrotte she was lifted bodily and before she could turn to meet the aggressor with her newfound balance and freedom a large hand clamped on the back of her head. Her face was driven into the corner of a granite bench. She came up groggy and bleeding from the mouth and was driven home again. This time her legs buckled and she swallowed a tooth. Now Rogue lost the ability to make a distinction in the different impacts as they all blended together into a chorus of sickly thuds; each one left her weaker at the knees and when at last she was let go to stagger free hopelessly Rogue's jaw was irreparably broken, most of her teeth gone. She felt pressure inside her head and it make her nauseas.
'ouy thas,' she could not speak properly. Rogue, seeing double, shakily swept a bare hand towards her attacker; to no avail. The cord was thrust about her neck again and she was jerked backwards violently and the cord affixed somehow, beyond her vision, to something. This left her hanging, literally, too close and too far from the tiles to find good purchase with her feet. Restrained in this fashion Rogue moved to do the only sensible thing and cry for help when her attacker bore down on her with a bottle in hand.
'Shut the fuck up,' he intoned pointedly. Enlarged canines all shown as his lips curled into a grin. One end of the bottle was smashed against the kitchen bench before he drove the neck of it inside her mouth.
'Whad a ouy-' Most of her teeth were now either on the floor or working their way down her oesophagus and so this attempt to speak was cut short by her gagging as the 300ml glass construct found neat entry and the neck was jammed deep into her throat. Rogue's hands lunged foreword but fell against clothed skin only. Suddenly her assailent drew back and she took this time to try and dislodge the bottle; only able to breathe through her nose and unable to articulate anything save a hollow, gurgling and all-together not loud enough noise. Before any progress could be made on this front she saw the man take up a knife. Attempting to intersect it lead to nothing but concise gashes over her wrists and on her palms as it was driven into her twice; between the muscle over her shoulder and her collarbone; twisted and jerked violently while thrust six inches under her skin. Rogue shrieked but the only sound produced through the hollow glass gag lodged deeply in her neck was a sad burbling. The blade drove in again and again until her arms hung limp by her sides; lost to her control. Her eyes squeezed shut here. This whole attack, all of it, it had been so quiet; there would be no help, save by chance, and Rogue clung to that hope. Despite the violence of her sojourn her headphones were still planted in her ears. The music still played. 'Just another victim, kid,' Rogue had no time to muse over the irony as the bottle was driven further into her throat. Her lips were stretched out, drawn around it, and at this point of its girth they split painfully.
Her breathing came shallow as clawed fingers played over the tie of her pyjama pants and cut it at the knot. It was drawn free and though she craned her head weakly to see; it was lifted well from the frame of her vision. All she could see was the stinking, overbearing form of her attacker towering over her. Her arms came several inches from the floor in unison before falling limply. Someone was coming down the stairs. She knew it. She could hear it. It was the sweetest thing she had heard in all her life.
Rogue's attacker heard nothing. He tied several knots in the thin cloth in his hands before placing a bowl in the sink behind her - one of the taps being the thing her garrotte was fixed to - and turning on the tap. There were no footsteps. Rogue's heart sank when she realized it. Wishful thinking; it was a trick of some background noise in the song that now echoed over, and she found herself wishing it was gone. Shaking her head to dislodge them; she felt utterly isolated here; unable to speak or truly move save to shuffle vainly with her feet in an attempt to catch some balance and the headphones weren't budging. Trapped here mute, and deaf; she knew nothing of what was planned by the action of her assailent pouring something down her throat. Something else, clingy and wet, slithered with it and she gagged until her stomach throbbed. More water followed and she spat as much as she could, choking on it violently, hacking it back up. Droplets fell on her chest and over her attacker. More water followed. The process dragged on for what seemed like hours until a face fell to her level.
'-and you'll make some noise,' was all she could draw from what was said through the music. Then she knew the tie from her pants was in her throat; one end in her attackers hand. He tore it out violently and now she simply felt wrong. The next thing Rogue knew he was gone; she had been struck violently and the bottle had smashed. Jagged glass tracked it's way forcefully down her throat as the muscles there convulsed violently both gagging, retching and swallowing compulsively and Rogue slid out of her garrotte to slump foreword and see some of her teeth, glass, and no small amount of blood tinkle, click and drible down against the kitchen tiles. Cold, and shaking violently through the shock of bleeding from her shoulders Rogue was repulsed to see: there amoung the broken glass, on the tiles, things that were certainly important, things that certainly belonged inside her. She would have screamed had she the energy, but maintained only an elongated and pathetic whimpering sound; both loud and heartbreakingly pathetic The knots of cloth; swollen when moist had torn her up mercilessly and wrenched free things; turning parts of her fully inside-out . Rogue slumped down with the knowledge and curled up. She had bled too much. The shock of it would kill her. Shehoped, nevertheless, that someonewould get to her in time.
End Of Part Three.
Note: This is the last of my 'pre recorded material,' and new updates may take a little more time to complete. Please review. I don't see a point in updating, after all, if people do not review.
