----
Chapter Nine: Secrets Upon Secrets Upon Lies
----
Hank moved with surprising grace through the Infirmary, clipboard tucked under one arm and glasses perched once more atop his head. He didn't really need them so much as he used to – his advanced mutation had the pyrrhic upshot of enhancing his sight – but it was a comfort to wear them anyway. He supposed, if he tried psychoanalysing himself, he was trying to maintain part of his – for want of a better word – humanity. He was certain there was a scientific name for such kinds of syndrome, but he wasn't so concerned about the matter to go look it up.
Pausing, he snagged another roll of gauze from the cupboard and went back to Feral's bedside, unwrapping it as he went. His hands smelled strongly of disinfectant, and he wrinkled his nose, glad his mutation hadn't altered his sense of smell to such a degree as, say, Logan's. There were some things that didn't need to be any more pungent.
"Now then," Hank announced to his patient, settling down on a stool and checking her IV was secure, before unpeeling the last set of bandages to apply the fresh set. "This shouldn't take long. I'm dreadfully sorry I forgot to fetch this before. I must be going senile in my old age. They do say the memory is the first thing to go…"
His words trailed off, and he peered closer at the shaven area beneath the old gauze. Blinking, he absently flipped the needless spectacles down over his eyes and squinted.
"Well…"
The puncture wounds caused by Logan the night before were a good deal smaller than they had been when he first wrapped them. The change probably would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but Hank could see quite clearly that they had shrunk. It was not a dramatic difference, but it made him give pause. It was almost as if the skin on either side of the wounds were pulling, slowly, back together…
"Now this is unexpected," he murmured, laying the gauze aside to lift the arm and inspect it closer.
Such was his absorption with this new development that he barely registered the slightly speeded up beeping of the monitor. Neither did he notice when one yellow eye slitted open, blinked once, and refocused uneasily on him.
----
Logan trawled through the undergrowth, nudging aside bushes and foliage, as he made his way to the spot where he'd encountered Feral the night before. The grounds were still wet in many places, cheery sunshine not yet reaching into the deeper shadows to warm and dry them. He grunted absently at the water sloshing over his boots, soaking the ankles of his pants. It was an inconvenience more than a real hindrance, but still, he kept up an unintelligible litany until he arrived.
He was fairly certain this was where they'd tussled. A sniff of the air brought back nothing more than washed out soil; a clean, wholesome smell, but not the one he was looking for.
He moved off towards the Western perimeter, searching the ground with his eyes for any signs of something incongruous, something that might give him a hint as to how they had been… invaded.
The earth gave up nothing. It seemed almost to mock him, and when he finally reached the outer limits of the Institute he had graduated from grumbling to growling softly, like a dog stretched to the full length of its chain with a burglar only inches further away from its nose. The grounds were vast and spacious, designed as they had been for large families who rarely ventured out into the world beyond their walls. Simple though the task of searching just one perimeter may have sounded in theory, it was a lot more arduous in reality.
Resigned to his task, Logan began systematically tracing the length of the wall. It was tall – thickset and sturdy – and he had to admire the architect that had designed it. In another, far distant time, it would have been a formidable barrier. Now, with a few augmentations and handy dandy hidden lasers, it was living up to its purpose once again in a more modern era.
On this side, copses of trees grew at intermittent points. They varied in density, ranging from two saplings strung together with string to stop them falling over – how on earth had they survived the previous night's thunderstorm? – to virtually impenetrable undergrowth, replete with snarls of bramble and other prickly bushes.
He was fighting his way through one of these when he happened across something that made him stop. A vague, half-there whiff of something. Something… off. Incompatible. Out of place…
Tilting his head slightly, Logan scented the air. It was permanently dank in here, the result of little sunlight and lots of closed space. Though not especially big, the thicket still managed to have all the solidity of a brick, what with the pressed together tree trunks and knotted jumble of scrub. It had almost created its own little world, completely separate from the rest of the grounds. The climate within was strangely warm and humid, and the heady smell of peeling bark overpowered almost everything else.
Almost.
Howdy doody, Logan thought dimly, turning his head. Now what do we have here?
He recognised Feral's scent instantly. She smelled wild, untamed, and her trail was infused with the unmistakable stink of trash and bilge water. He'd noticed it in the Infirmary, and wondered why nobody else commented. Manners, most probably. Still, the foul stench made for a good signpost.
He tracked it, refraining from crouching down and pressing his nose to the ground – not least of all because the brambles would have shredded his face. Healing factor was all well and good, but it didn't stop him feeling pain, and he didn't go out of his way to indulge in it. Masochist he was not. Thus it was that he moved slowly, forcing his way with careful steps, until finally giving up and slicing a path.
When he reached the wall, he was assaulted with another foreign scent that obviously didn't belong. It hid beneath Feral's overriding stink, but from his sensitive nose there was no hiding. He smelled… strawberries? And something not unlike Half-Pint's perfume – that expensive one her folks had sent her last birthday. His senses poked and pried it out, following until –
The brambles were wrong. His lower brain interrupted quite suddenly with this observation. They weren't supposed to grow that way. Logan squinted, reaching out with the backs of unsheathed claws to move them aside.
What was revealed beneath made his jaw set and a growl bubble in his throat.
The plants, growing unchecked for so many years, had made a sizeable hole in the wall. Old, dislodged bricks lay scattered about, half-submerged in spikes, thorns and what little grass could grow there. This in itself should not have been any bother. The brambles should have choked the opening, making it as impassable as the rest of the masonry.
Except that they had been carefully tied back, making a sort of narrow tunnel, just wide enough for a body to pass through if crouching. It was almost like something out of Alice in Wonderland, save for the shreds of thick fabric and twine applied here and there.
Logan bent forward and sniffed, just to make sure. The perfumey tang didn't abate. Neither did the vaguely oily smell that accompanied it, and the half-formed suspicion in his mind took proper root.
'M gonna frikkin' kill 'em…
----
Ororo heard the screeching as soon as she stepped out of the elevator, and immediately broke into a run. The shiny, silver-grey corridor blurred past unregistered, her sandals flip-flopping noisily against the metal of the lower halls.
It sounded like a banshee. A very angry banshee, intent on wailing the walls to dust.
As she turned a corner, she began to make out the sounds of things smashing alongside the screaming, and the thump of heavy objects hitting the floor.
What on earth was going on down here? Her brow creased in instant worry when she noted where the sounds were coming from, and she doubled her pace, almost falling over in her inappropriate footwear. Though sandals were comfortable for a more sedate speed, sprinting pell-mell through the bowels of the Institute wasn't something they were designed for.
She turned a quick right at an intersection, avoiding the hall leading to the Danger Room in favour of a path to the Infirmary. Rounding another corner, she then braked hard and simply stood.
Hank seemed to be propping up the door, as evidenced by the way his knees were locked and feet splayed, finger-like toes spread to give greater leverage. His back was ramrod straight, pressed against the metal with flat palms and elbows. His hair was mussed. His glasses, usually a feature of the crown of his head, were skewed to one side, half hanging off one ear.
Ororo took a step forward, and then winced at the sound of something substantial slamming against the other side of the door. "Hank?"
He looked up, and she saw with some alarm that one cheek was dribbling blood from four shallow scratches. It matted into his fur, turning it a startling shade of purple, and tracked a line down his face.
"Ororo," he said calmly, as though telling her the predicted weather report for Southern California. His tone was so incongruous to his appearance that it made Ororo give pause.
Another heavy crash, this time accompanied by the jingle of breaking glass. Some distant part of her recounted what that could be, and envisioned the neat rows of liquid-filled beakers from the far side of the med-lab smashing to the floor. Her mind's eye filled with colourful spilled fluids, while the more logical element of her brain made a few key connections.
"Is that - ?"
"It seems my provisional dosage of sedative was a little awry. There were a few factors in motion that I wasn't aware of." Hank wiped at his cheek and glanced with something like surprise at the blood on his hand. He didn't appear to notice the half-moon of bite marks further down his sleeve.
Ororo raised an eyebrow, the action just happening to coincide with a particularly loud 'whump', like that of a chair being tossed around. A new lungful of screeches cleaved the air, caught somewhere between enraged cat and car-brake squeal. If there were words to it, then they were unintelligible.
"Just a little awry?"
"Your sarcasm is duly noted, if not especially appreciated." Hank grimaced, rubbing his palms as though it would do anything to make them clean, and startled as the door juddered behind him.
Unseen fists beat against the other side, escorted by a fretful yowl. Apparently, the one contained within didn't much like being cooped up, and proceeded to vent some more at the furniture and fittings. Noisily. Whatever her injuries, they weren't impeding Feral's ability to wreak havoc.
"Shall I fetch Charles?"
"No need. I've already informed him of the occurrence." Hank tapped at the side of his head. "He should be on his way down here at the moment to… speak with Miss Feral."
"Calm her down, you mean," Ororo translated, thinking of various telepathic methods that could be used to quiet someone. If she was to be treated properly for her injuries, then Feral needed to be of a state of mind whereby they could actually stand in the same room without her attacking them. Ororo had been hoping, as she knew Charles had, that Feral's disposition was a little more inclined to reason and accepting the hand of friendship than this.
"What exactly did you do to obtain this - " WHUMP! " - kind of reaction?"
"Nothing." Hank sounded quite affronted. "I was changing her bandages, when suddenly she upped and attacked me without warning." A hand went back to his cheek, prodding the area around it experimentally. "I was actually trying to take care of her. The adage springs to mind about hands, food and biting."
Ororo nodded and joined him at the door. Together, they settled down to wait for the length of time it would take a wheelchair at its highest setting to travel the mansion's hallways.
----
"Rogue!"
Rogue turned, face breaking out into as wide as smile as it ever did. She paused, stepping out of the between-class rush to wait for her friend. One or two students gave her filthy looks for daring to block their path, but she studiously ignored them, well practised in the Aloof Stare.
"Phew, thanks," Risty said when she was close enough to speak without having to yell. Bending slightly at the waist, she braced a hand against one knee and panted a little. "Sorry, saw you from the other end of the corridor and had to run to catch up."
"No problem," Rogue drawled, shifting her backpack and leaning backwards against the handy row of lockers. She rested the crown of her scalp against the cool metal, and busied herself taking in the cracks across the ceiling.
"What class do you have next?" Risty asked, straightening and smoothing the longer side of her hair back into place. Not that it had ever been out of place to begin with.
No matter what the situation, Risty Wilde somehow always managed to look perfectly coiffed and lacquered. Not for the first time, Rogue found herself admiring the odd haircut her only-friend-who-wasn't-also-a-teammate sported. Some people might think it peculiar or unsightly. She was more of the opinion that it was daring, and admired it as a consequence. Besides which, it dragged attention away from her own bi-coloured 'do – something for which she was eternally grateful after the endless 'Skunk Head' comments. The people around here really needed to buy themselves a thesaurus. To share.
"History, I think. At least, that's where I'm headin'."
Risty grinned; that mischievous half-grin she used when people-watching from lunch tables; the one that emphasised the perfectly straight line of her teeth. Rogue had long since come to the conclusion that they were caps, though Risty had never openly told her so. There was just no way teeth could be that faultless on their own. Nature had some big thing against straight lines.
"I'm library-ing. Study period." Risty raised her bag, extracting a small book with its spine unbroken and shiny cover unsmeared by fingerprints – obviously new.
Rogue peered at the cover, whereon a semi-clad man and woman were wrapped up in an embrace, set against the backdrop of a choppy seascape. 'In the Heat of the Moment', proclaimed the title in big, bold, gold-etched lettering.
"That don't look like no textbook I've ever seen."
Risty pulled a face. "Well it wouldn't. Me, actually studying during a study period? Be serious, Rogue."
She pocketed the book in one of the volumous compartments of her pants – yet another facet of her look that would be considered hideous by most, but which Rogue found fascinating. Every time she looked, there seemed to be a new pocket in them, a new place to stash things and hide handy paperclips with which to pelt unknowing targets in class. True, the colour wasn't exactly inspiring – dirt-brown not being in the Top Ten of Rogue's favourite shades – but it hardly mattered. Somehow, Risty managed to pull it off without looking like she'd snaffled the outfit from a trashcan.
Rogue supposed that was why she had been drawn to Risty as a friend. Not that the whole proffered-hand thing hadn't helped, too, but it was nice to hang out with someone who really couldn't care less about how she looked or what other people thought of her. Somehow that was just something Rogue couldn't get with the other X-Men, though they would strenuously deny it if challenged. Simply put; they cared about how the world perceived them. Some more than others, granted, but all of them held a spark of self-consciousness.
Risty just didn't. Even the teachers failed to intimidate her, which was a feat in and of itself with some of the old battleaxes roaming the halls of BHS, waiting to clamp detention-manacles on unsuspecting kids. Nobody else had Risty's subtle gall – the kind that made people pause after speaking to her and wonder for several minutes afterward whether they'd just been insulted or complimented.
The object of her musings looked up, and Rogue startled at a poke in the ribs. For a second she panicked, but then relaxed at the feel of gauzy fabric against her skin. Safe again.
"You all right?" Risty asked, tipping her head to one side. "You seem pretty spacey this morning."
Rogue waved her away with one lazy hand. "Nah, I'm fine."
"Oh really? Then what was I just talking about?"
"Um…?" she offered feebly, unaware until that moment that Risty had continued talking, but was saved from answering by a sudden yawn pushing at the back of her throat. Covering her mouth, Rogue turned slightly to preserve decorum. Nobody had any desire to look at her glaring tonsils, as Irene had always taught her.
Risty folded her arms. "You look pretty bushed."
"Rough night."
Risty's expression at once became impish, and for a second it looked as though she might rub her hands together with glee. "Ooh, do tell."
"Risty!"
"What?" She spread her hands, face a picture of mock-innocence. "You're telling me you live with all those delectable boys up at that Institute place and it's never even crossed your mind?"
Rogue winced, but she was an expert at not showing such things. The notion had indeed crossed her mind. Several times. However, it had always come equipped with a hefty dose of reality, and she found herself looking with regret at the hand lowering from her face.
"Well, that's not a happy face." Risty pouted. For a second her lip jutted, until abruptly sucking back in to form an expression of guilt. Her eyes widened, and she touched her chin briefly with a forefinger. "Oh gosh," she said quickly, accent sharpening under the words. "I'm sorry, Rogue. I didn't mean to… I mean, I didn't think about… y'know…"
Rogue blinked, thrown. "Excuse me?"
"Well… you and Scott Summers. That's why your smile disappeared, right? I honestly forgot about, y'know…"
Ah. Rogue could feel blood rushing to her cheeks, even though it didn't show under her paler-than-pale skin. She still felt warm, however, and ducked her head to hide behind a curtain of hair. Hallway-talk was open house for eavesdroppers, and she had no desire for gossip about her unrequited semi-feelings for one Mr. Summers to get back to him. Or anyone else, for that matter. Risty only knew because she had some uncanny knack for reading situations and people. Had she been in charge of things, Rogue wasn't sure she would have told even her about such a detail.
"Rogue?" Risty bent and peered up at her, one hand snagging a locker door for support. "Are you angry with me?"
"Nah," Rogue replied honestly.
She wasn't mad at Risty. If anything, she was mad at the world. But it was the kind of anger that one lived with on a day-to-day basis, instead of venting. Quiet resentment, she supposed she should call it. She enjoyed her life; had it pretty good compared to some people. Roof over her head, three square meals a day, people that cared for her – even liked her upon occasion. Give her all that, and the skin thing was something she could deal with. Perhaps not well, and perhaps not candidly, but she could deal. There was no point in letting it rule her, after all – and gothic or not, continuous depression was not a nice pit to fall into.
Risty sighed. "I'll have you know that I feel pretty darn awful, now."
"Um, I'm sorry?"
"And you're apologising because…? Look, let's go out. After school. We can go… how do you say it - mall trawling?"
Rogue couldn't resist a smirk. Sometimes Risty's English-ness made for a few funnies. Her father was American, which granted her citizenship here in the States, but having lived most of her life in England there were a few lasting cultural differences – not least of which was slang. There were times when one girl was almost totally incomprehensible to the other, usually resulting in their dissolving into giggles and 'translating'.
"Crawling. Mall crawling," Rogue corrected, to which Risty waved a careless hand.
"Crawling, then. We can have a little shopping trip, girls only. No boys allowed." She stuck out her tongue. "Urgh, I sound like one of those annoying teenybopper door-hangs. So, what do you say?" Her grin was hopeful. Rogue felt herself weakening.
She really should go straight home, the more sensible part of her brain reasoned. After that whole business with Feral, the faculty at the Institute was sure to have some big speech planned for the moment they all trooped through the door.
Rogue was not especially close to any of the newer students, but the chat of the previous night had struck a nerve somewhere, and she felt the need to go and show support for a teammate. Solidarity, after all, was something the X-Men cultivated in the extreme, and even though her own tastes strayed more towards the life of a loner, she found herself liking the idea more and more the longer she stayed there.
Besides which, there were a few things she wouldn't mind finding out for herself, too. Like, what was the deal with this Feral chick, anyway? And where were they all supposed to go from here? As far as she was aware, Professor Xavier liked to recruit any and all mutants who were willing to join his little team of wannabe superheroes. It stood to reason that he would offer the same chance to Feral as he'd given to everyone else.
Except that none of them had broken into the grounds and tried to gut existing members of the team when they first arrived. Her own enrolment had been… unconventional – but even so. The whole thing in Alabama, and then that thing with Scott on the mountain had been a catalogue of mistakes – not all of which had been her fault. Mystique's spectre loomed large in her mind's eye. She hastily shook it away.
"Rogue?" Risty again, tone questioning this time.
Rogue took a breath, glancing around the hall. The crowds were fast emptying into classrooms, and she had yet to cross the building to her own destination. Someone brushed past at alarming speed, standing on her foot as he went. She yelped as several of her toes found their personal space very suddenly reduced.
"Hey, watch it!" Risty snapped. The boy took one look at her and scurried away. "Idiot," was the only label she threw after him. it wasn't her best, but the jagged underscore did its job. "I swear, this campus is populated by them."
"Tell me about it," Rogue couldn't resist sniping. Then she sighed. "I don't think I can make it after school, Risty. We kinda… got a little emergency at home."
"And people can't suffer it without you? Come on, girl – be a rebel! Or am I supposed to say something supportive and offer you a tissue?" Risty's face scrunched up. "For purposes of clarity, exactly what kind of emergency are we talking about? Tell me, did I once again place my size sevens halfway down my oesophagus?"
"Hardly. One of the guys had some bad news from… home last night. I think I'm expected to make an appearance. Y'know, play Miss Sniffle Shoulder?"
"And the task has fallen to you because you're just so dying to get mucus on your shirt."
"Y'all got such a way with words."
"Why thank you. I was rather proud of that one." Risty exhaled loudly and folded her arms. "It's just a shame, is all. We never seem to do anything except study anymore. I was quite looking forward to some, er, downtime."
Rogue took a moment to register the look on her friend's face. Risty's habitual smirk had fallen into an absent, droopy half-smile, her eyes drawn to the row of combination locks to her left.
It was true. Even when they met up out of school hours, they rarely did anything that wasn't in some way related to academia. The last party had been that misguided attempt at the mansion – the less said about that, the better – and as for shopping trips… well, Rogue didn't do closely-packed crowds very well.
Then again… Risty did look kind of bummed…
"Aw, hell. Why not?"
Risty visibly brightened, grabbing one of Rogue's hands and pumping it up and down enthusiastically. Her disappointment vanished in an instant, and Rogue was left a little flustered at the sudden lack of blood below her elbow.
A whirlwind of purple tripped away down the hall. "Cool. I'll meet you after final bell. We can take my car, if nobody in the carpark's boxed me in. See you, Rogue."
"Uh, bye Risty?"
----
Ray was distracting himself by doodling on his desk. The pen had started out in the margin of his book, and gradually migrated across the paper, over the edge, and was now scribing nonsensical words on the wood.
Juxtapose.
Falling.
Truth.
If it's the last thing we ever do.
Unison.
We have taken control of your television.
Fuck.
Jiminy Cricket.
Out of this world.
He wasn't really conscious of what he was doing. His thoughts were elsewhere entirely, so when a hand laid itself flat next to his he was both startled and flustered. The fact that he nearly fell out of his chair didn't help matters.
"Mr. Crisp," said a voice, and he looked up into the face of his history teacher, one hand immediately moving to cover the graffiti without any real thought as to what it said.
"Uh?" was the most intelligible response he could manage. It was greeted by barely-covered titters from around the room, which equalled only one thing in his mind. "Could you repeat the question?"
The teacher looked faintly disapproving, and gestured with one hand towards the door. Ray craned to look and saw Dorothy, the principal's secretary, standing half in the room. Her face was painted with a painfully cheerful expression, and in her hands was clasped a tightly folded piece of paper.
"It seems you've been summoned away, Mr. Crisp."
Nodding, Ray quickly gathered his things together, sweeping everything into the borrowed backpack in a single, fluid gesture – save for the pen, which found a place behind one ear. That done, he pattered from the room, falling into step behind Dorothy and closing the door behind him. In his wake the class restarted, at no disadvantage without him.
He was about to ask what was going on when Dorothy volunteered the information, unfolding the slightly grubby paper and handing it to him without breaking her stride. It was a small printed pass, signed and dated for today, which granted him immunity from truant officers.
"I just got a call from the Xavier Institute," she explained quickly, obviously in no hurry to engage in too much conversation with him. "It appears you're to return home as soon as possible to deal with a… visiting relative?" She sounded slightly unsure, or maybe testing the words to see the measure of truth of them.
Ray played along, simultaneously wondering what the hell was going on that he had to be summoned back to the mansion in the middle of the day. And after all the Professor had said about routines and dwelling, too. "Yeah, they're here for the… the funeral. They must be early, though. Weren't due to arrive until tomorrow."
"Ah." Dorothy sounded, if not convinced, then at least satisfied she wasn't partaking in anything untoward. Or illegal.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Turning a corner, Dorothy pushed open a set of double doors and they entered the foyer of the school office.
Sunlight streamed in through the large windows, highlighting pieces of dust dancing to their own rhythm in the force of the draught. In the corner of the dominating front desk, a small transistor radio was playing what sounded like Dean Martin. Strains of some nameless melody floated across the room to create a warm, ambient atmosphere. Completing the impression was a tall, leafy plant of which Ray did not know the name, but which draped over him when he sat in one of the hard-backed plastic chairs.
"The telephone call was rather abrupt," Dorothy admitted, and something in her tone made it sound like she somehow counted this as her fault. Ray blinked, wondering just how hard a taskmaster Principal Kelly was to his staff. "Apparently somebody will be along to collect you, so if you'll just stay here until they arrive…"
She trailed off, taking a last long glance at the only other occupant of the office, and then busied herself with something in a filing cabinet. It was coincidental, of course, that by doing so she turned away from him. Totally coincidental.
Ray settled down to wait for whomsoever had been sent to fetch him, resisting the urge to nervously chew the inside of his cheek. He was suspecting Ororo, and so was surprised when a short, burly figure in a cowboy hat stalked through the doors as though he owned the place.
"Here for the kid," Logan growled, not bothering to ding the handy bell, and startling Dorothy who, until that point, still hadn't turned back to face front. She jumped, whirled, and immediately muddled around with a few extraneous sheets of paper under his hard stare.
After a few seconds and inexplicably reddening cheeks, the secretary pushed a clipboard and ballpoint across the desk. Logan took up the pen and signed - one, twice, three times. Then he flipped over the paper and did it again to the sheet underneath.
By the time he'd finished with this overlong bit of administration, his face had darkened even more than usual. It was with a thin squeak that Dorothy directed him to take Ray and leave.
Logan didn't even spare the words, simply jerking a thumb and marching away, knowing the boy would follow. Some part of Ray was sure it should feel irked by that, but the rest of him overruled it, too eager for information to bother with such petty things as a snarky attitude.
"What's up?" he asked, as soon as they were in the parking lot.
No answer.
The X-Van loomed in a space clearly marked 'for faculty members only'. Logan signalled that Ray should get in the passenger side.
BIP BIP
The lights flashed briefly as the immobiliser disengaged, courtesy of Logan's key-chain, and the two slid into their respective sides, buckling up in silence and locking the doors out of habit. With a sputter and then a roar the engine came to life, noise sinking to a dull purr when Logan thrust the van into reverse and backed out of the bay. With nary a word, or even so much as a look in Ray's direction, he then shoved it into gear and drove out of the parking lot. Bumpity-bump over the recently tarmac-ed spot where the Brotherhood had elected to play the fools (again), and they were away.
They pulled into traffic immediately, and advanced at a crawl in just enough time for Ray to start feeling truly uncomfortable. Not difficult when his travelling companion was doing a bang up impersonation of a brick wall.
"So?" he prompted.
Logan said nothing.
"What's the big emergency?"
A grunt. "She woke up."
A frission of fear. Ray didn't need to be told who 'she' was; he could hear it in Logan's voice. He wet his lips, nervous in spite of himself. "She okay?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. The look Logan gave him made him wonder how successful his acting skills were.
"Prof gave orders to fetch you. Seems she ain't taken too kind to bein' where she is. And he's havin' problems doin' the mind-to-mind schtick," he added, almost as an afterthought. His expression remained inscrutable, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Something about his tone told Ray that that was all the information he was likely to get. He sank back into his not-uncomfortable seat, worrying a fingernail with his teeth.
Streets alternated between inching and sweeping by, depending on whether Logan was weaving in and out of lanes or following signals like a good little motorist. Yet they were little more than a smear of colour to Ray's jumbled thoughts, and when they finally passed through the gates of the Institute he blinked back into the real world with genuine surprise.
"Out," Logan said needlessly, pulling up in front of the glass frontage but keeping the engine running. "They're down by the Infirmary."
Ray didn't need to be told twice. He hopped out the door, halfway up the steps before Logan had even eased the clutch down again. Taking the mansion's plush hallways at a run, he impatiently rode the elevator down to the sublevels, where gleaming metal took the place of burnished wood panelling, and the overhead lights assumed a burn-off-the-back-of-your-retina brilliance. Once there, it was easy enough to locate where he needed to go. Not least because of all the violent shrieking.
Mr. McCoy – Ray still couldn't get used to calling him 'Hank' or 'Beast' – and Ororo were standing to one side of the narrow corridor. They flanked the Professor, who wore fingertips on his temples and an expression that each of the X-Men knew all too well. He was obviously extending his telepathy – probably to Feral, if Logan's terse words were anything to go by. Professor Xavier was not the kind of man to give up on something just because it seemed to be defeating him.
However, judging by the frenzied cries coming from behind the locked door of the med-lab, this particular situation was not going so well.
Ororo was the first to notice him jogging towards them. She immediately left her post to take two steps in his direction. Her face was caught somewhere between relieved and not-quite-hidden-pity, which made Ray fall back into his habitual scowl. He met her greeting with a short grunt.
If she were hurt or offended by this, then she didn't show it, and he was received into their little fold with a nod from both her and Mr. McCoy. He got another when the Professor finally broke off what he was doing with a small intake of breath.
"Ray?"
"'S my name, don't wear it out." Ray nodded at the door. "Mind telling me what the hell's going on?"
It was Mr. McCoy who answered – and with a question, no less. "Would you mind telling me why you never mentioned that Miss Feral possesses healing factor?"
That had Ray bouncing backwards. "She has healing factor? What, like Logan?"
"That answers that one, then." Mr. McCoy rubbed absently at a patch of gauze strapped to his cheek, no doubt applied from one of the numerous medical kits sequestered around the mansion, since the med-lad was a no go area. "Nothing quite so dramatic – or powerful – as Logan's, but from what I could tell before I was… evicted from the lab, she does in fact have a small amount of accelerated healing dynamic in her blood. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it allows her to heal marginally faster than a usual mutant, who in turn heals marginally faster than humans without the X-gene. The latter is a proven scientific fact, so the former would not be so much of a hypothetical step to take."
The implications of that one were vast. Ray goggled for a second, until a heavy thump on the door brought him back to the present. "So… what's that mean?"
"Not that she's related to Logan, before your thoughts stray down that path. Much like my appearance and young Master Wagner's, I'm more of the opinion that they simply share a mutational attribute – like two people having the same colour eyes. It doesn't necessarily mean they are related. But it does support a recent theory I'd been noodling with concerning physical mutations and inherent accelerated healing - "
"Hank," Ororo laid a hand on his shoulder, "I think we should probably stay on the matter at hand."
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I was lecturing again, wasn't I? Well, simply put, this minor healing factor had the repercussion that the dosage of anaesthetic I applied was slightly… off beam, shall we say? She awoke before she was intended to do so, and I do believe that her surroundings, coupled with my own unfamiliar presence, served to agitate her into her current state."
"So she came around before she was supposed to and went nucking futs?" Ray summarised.
Professor Xavier flipped a switch on his wheelchair and swivelled to face him. He looked tired, not a little drained, and Ray had to wonder just what had happened here before he arrived. "Feral is distressed. So much so that any and all attempts to reach out to her and calm her down have been unsuccessful."
Ray's brain did a few quick calculations. "That why you sent Logan to come get me?"
"Your presence may be just the catalyst we need to quiet her. After all, it worked last night."
"Plus, it got him out of the way before he did something inappropriate," Mr. McCoy muttered, sotto voice.
The Professor gestured to the door. It was still as solid as ever after being rebuilt following Jean's power surge, but was now issuing several unhealthy noises, one of which sounded not unlike claws being raked over metal.
"So I'm just supposed to waltz in there and hope she recognises me again?" Understandably, Ray sounded a little worried at the concept. He knew Feral better than they did, and if she was in the throes of a rage… well, there was a reason behind the moniker Callisto had chosen for her.
"Partly. From what I can tell, Feral's mind is rather fragmented. I've dealt with such phenomenon before, usually after someone has suffered great trauma, but it does make things rather… difficult. Her thoughts are not easy to pin down, and she seems to have lost contact with rationality at present."
Mr. McCoy's cheeks darkened under his fur. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of times when he himself had lost contact with the more rational portions of his brain – and had several awkward confrontations with the local law enforcements as a result of them 'catching him at a bad time'.
Yet Ray wasn't watching the teacher, too caught up as he was in processing what he was being told. Great trauma…
"There's a distinct possibility that Feral won't recognise you straight away because of it," Xavier went on, "and frankly, I'm not willing to put anybody in jeopardy by exposing themselves to her in this condition. However, we run the risk of her doing herself some serious damage if we don't do something." He spiralled a hand at the wrist, expression thoughtful and edged with obvious frustration.
"So what exactly did you have in mind for me to do, if I can't go in and see her?"
"We had hoped the intercom in the med-lab would provide a way for her to hear your voice," Ororo confessed. "Unfortunately, it was destroyed while you were still en route."
Ray considered this. "I could always just shout through the door," he suggested after a moment.
Xavier laid his hands in his lap. "Actually, we were thinking of a more direct approach."
Ray was not stupid. Not by a long shot. Even so, it took a few seconds for him to cotton on to what the they were proposing. When he did, however, he exploded, "You want to go inside her head?!"
"Usually I wouldn't be in favour of such invasions of privacy, but she does need to be calmed, Ray." Xavier's eyes were deadpan, but his mouth quirked into a penitent line. "Alone, I have made little progress. As I said, her mind is rather fragmented at present. Whether because of her agitation or something else remains to be seen, but it is possible that having you 'talk' to her would do the job."
Ray looked again to the door, stance uncertain.
"The only other option we have is Logan," Hank added manipulatively. "The tranquillisers are all locked away inside. But he did suggest a more immediate means of rendering her unconscious before we convinced him to go and fetch you from the school…"
"Bop her on the head with an adamantium fist, you mean." Ray sighed. "Okay then, but we don't go nowhere we're not supposed to in there, right?"
For a second, the Professor looked quite affronted. "I'm not in the habit of doing so, Ray, as I think I told you before."
"Just checking. So, uh… what the hell do I do? Just close my eyes and think happy thoughts, or do we need a little bit of pixie dust first?"
Xavier put his hands to his temples, and Ray heard the shush of fur as Mr. McCoy moved up beside him.
"Just… relax."
A thin beeping sounded, followed by the swish of metal. Ororo was at the controls for the med-lab doors. They slid open easily, despite everything they'd been through.
Feral, wild eyed and panting, was in the process of launching herself at the entrance. She pulled up short when it was suddenly removed. The abruptness with which she stopped said that, had anyone else been standing there, she might have barrelled straight through them. As it was, a single glance of Ray was all it took to curb her headlong flight.
She stared openly at him.
"Feral?" he tried. If he could get her to respond without any mind games mumbo jumbo, then he'd take any chance he could get. She didn't need to be fucked up any more than she was, he reasoned.
Feral didn't answer. Her brows knitted, and her gaze was unfocused, not lingering on him after the initial glance. A flicker of rage remained through her obvious confusion, as she swung her head from side to side, taking in the array of faces.
It ignited only seconds later when, with a howl, she shot forward, hands curled into talons and teeth bared. Ray stumbled backwards, surprised at the ferocity and swiftness of the attack. Surely she hadn't been that fast before…?
The world exploded with colour. It blossomed around his field of vision, and there was a flash not unlike lightning. Then darkness, suffocating where it should have filled his senses. Ray was aware of his body falling down, but also that he was watching it through another's eyes. The sensation was surreal, as was the feeling of leaving his own body and heading directly into another one.
The world tilted crazily, and then reformed into something else entirely. Ray was propelled speedily into it, and for a brief instant it felt as though his eyes had been gouged out and thrown ahead, without the rest of his body. When he ploughed into the… something, it was as though someone had stepped hard on the brake of the universe, and he yanked to a stop like a dog abruptly reaching the end of its leash.
Ray.
Professor? What the fuck was that
I told you her mind was disjointed. Usually we would not have had such a uncomfortable passage, but the disorderly nature of her psyche made things tricky. I simply picked a chink and pushed us through it as fast as I could. At present we are… somewhere in her mind.
Well that's specific.
Ray was aware of a presence next to him, and though he could see nothing as such, somehow he knew it was the Professor. A kind of gentle, almost paternal warmth suffused the area, surrounding and guiding his own insubstantial self.
From what he'd learned of telepathy since arriving at the Institute, Ray could understand that he didn't have a body here, and so left the actual traversing of Feral's mind to the expert. He was satisfied with being nudged this way and that, so long as they did what they needed and got out as soon as possible. Feral's words of the previous night meant that he was in no hurry to see the Morlocks' fate through her memories. Had he a spine he might have shivered at the unwelcome prospect.
What exactly do you call this place?
When it came, Xavier's reply was distracted, like he was divided between two trains of thought. There's no specific terminology, but I believe Jean calls this kind of visible internal world the 'MindScape'.
Feral's MindScape was bleak; a blackness that seemed to stretch on forever. It was eerie, and Ray found himself staring off into what passed for distance, looking for a horizon. There was none, of course, nor even a flicker of anything like one. Rolling swathes of shadow encased them utterly.
This is kinda freaky.
Indeed.
So, um, what exactly are we looking for in here?
Her consciousness.
There was no further explanation, and Ray fell into a semi-aware haze as they moved on, searching.
Gradually, the MindScape altered, shifting from matte to undulating clouds of black. Now and then these shades would shudder or move, and more than once they claimed Ray's attention with their sheer… oddness. There was no other word for it. He'd never seen anything quite like them before. They were like living organisms masquerading as mist, and seemed almost to pulsate, each to their own rhythm. One or two actually appeared to lighten when he and the Professor passed by, changing from black to grey and then fading away again, like half-remembered recollections absorbing back into a dream.
One in particular drew his interest. Flickering enigmatically, shreds of light filtered from it, and along with them came indistinct slivers of sound. Though he couldn't frown in puzzlement, Ray moved closer, not even questioning how he was able to do so without muscles.
Gradually, slowly, he recognised the hum. It was the echo of a scream, and as soon as the realisation arrived then the cloud reformed into a terrified, catlike face. It was spectral and blurry, but far, far too clear. Eyes wide as saucers, it opened its mouth in another desperate cry, and he saw the rows of needle-like teeth set in wiry grey fur. He seemed to be falling into the image, and it became clearer the further he went, wrapping itself around his wits and pulling him in…
Thornn…?
A sort-of growl from the periphery, and the clouds turned a deep, angry red – the colour of winterberries and blood. Something pushed against Ray, forcibly shoving him away from the image, and he felt himself slipping, splintering under it.
Ray!
Ray snapped back to himself, disoriented and momentarily confused. At once, the professor's protective aura was around him, reassembling his thoughts into a more coherent whole from where they had scattered.
What the f -
You strayed from the safer path, Xavier 'said', tone a mixture of reprimanding and concerned. I told you before that Feral's mind is uneven. There are dangers here that are inconceivable in the physical world – only a few of which non-telepaths have been introduced to. Stick close to me, or something more serious might happen.
I think… no, I know … I saw her sister, Ray replied dazedly. I think… I think Feral may have seen her die…
That would certainly support my conjecture of outside trauma being the cause of this distress. But come now, we must hurry. And stay away from anything else you see. A MindScape is no place to indulge in curiosity.
Savvy that.
They moved off, and though time didn't seem to exist in this most surreal of places, it was only a short while later that Xavier called a halt.
Something palpitated in front of them, throbbing so rhythmically as to put any metronome to shame. Its shape was like that of any cloud they'd seen so far, but its colouring shifted constantly, guttering from one hue to another in quick succession. It made no noise, but there was an impression of almost tangible menace that enveloped both it, and the area immediately around it.
Then it moaned softly. A very clear, very decipherable moan; like a creature in pain.
This it?
It is.
So… what do we do now?
The Xavier presence drew back. Ray felt his own motioned forward. This is where you step up. I can do little now, save provide a lifeline for you should you need one. You must try to make contact with the persona you know as Feral, Ray. I'm hoping that will be enough to - for want of a better phrase - reunite her with her rationality. However, if anything happens… I'll know.
Ray felt reassured. Not by much, granted; but just knowing that the most powerful telepath in the world had your back was a comforting notion.
And then, just as abruptly as he had entered this world of telepaths and psychics, he found himself crossing the threshold into something… indefinable.
There were no longer any sights or sounds or anything even vaguely like them. There was only intangible thought, emotion – sensation that was too formless to be named. It swirled around him, choking him, and for a second he felt as though he would be totally clogged by it all… until the sharp twang of Xavier's lifeline brought him back to himself.
Ray refocused, calling on every scrap of training he could remember. For someone whose exposure to telepathy had been Jean's lessons on shielding and a few sessions in the DR so as to recognise when an enemy was probing your mind, Ray considered himself to be doing pretty damn well, so far.
So far.
Suddenly, anger flooded the area around him. After a moment of getting his bearings, Ray concentrated on what he thought was the core of the stuff. Without direction, he went towards it, flowing as quickly as it took to have the idea of doing so. No laws of physics governed him. The effect was liberating.
Even so, he reeled back when smacked away.
Feral? More of a feeling than a conscious thought, it was answered nonetheless.
Go away, the roil of assorted emotion seemed to say. Something shifted in the core of anger; something more solid and manifest. It bristled, prickling him furiously for being there.
Then all at once it stopped, and Ray felt it become questioning – curious, almost. It prodded at his presence, turning him over and examining him in great detail. For his part, Ray let it, not sure what else he could do.
After a long moment, thin recognition permeated the all-encompassing anger.
Hothead? This time the thought was deliberate, constructed and fed into his mind as best the persona knew how.
Ray took the plunge. Feral, it's me, Ray.
Denial; disorderly and abstract. No. Hothead dead. You dead.
I'm not dead, he replied, wishing he knew what the hell he was doing. Remember last night? You came to find me. How can I be dead if I was still there to be found?
Ghost. Not meant be in here, in head, the voice persisted, words clunky and syntax virtually nonexistent. It was almost like talking to a child that was just learning how to speak. How you do?
I have… a friend, Ray said carefully. He wants to help you. He's a mutant, like us.
Mutant… Bad word. Make pain. No speak. You no speak no more. Go 'way.
Another roil of force, pushing him backwards. Ray resisted it as best he knew how, impatience rising. Feral had never been especially easy to talk to, he remembered. Her suspicious and cagey nature had made her unapproachable amongst the Morlocks, and he recalled now how he had sometimes entirely avoided contact with her because of it.
Still, there was nobody else to help her now…
Feral! Feral, you're running low on options, here. Let us help you. Don't be a fucking idiot!
The persona gave pause. Then a small grain of something reached his thoughts, brushing over them lightly. To his surprise, it was humour. Speaky speak like Hothead. Fucking this, fucking that – damn, crap, bastard! Ghost know what saying. Good fooler.
I'm not a ghost. Feral, you have to… to… To what? Calm down? In here, she was at least lucid, if swaddled in anger. Ray searched for the best words to implement Xavier's plan. You have to take control. You're in a safe place, now, with good people. You gotta let them help you.
No! Upworlders no friends – hurt!
Feral, listen to me. The Morlocks are gone, right? You need someone to help you. They wanna do that. They took care of me all this time.
A pause. You… really not dead? Been with them all time? Been sun-child?
Ouch. Okay, maybe bringing up his departure like that hadn't been the best course of action, but it had got her talking, at least – maybe even accepting his offer. Ray hoped that, in light of Sevarius et al, Feral would be more accommodating of his own brief, turbulent past with the Morlocks.
Yeah. Yeah, they've been helping me deal with my powers – teaching me how to control them, y'know? They've helped me a lot. They can help you, too.
The persona writhed vaguely. Help… Fur-kin shout that. She so loud, make ears hurt. Screaming… she hurt bad… so bad… But won't stop. Can't make stop.
Fur-kin. That was the name Feral and Thornn used for each other, as a sort of joke after their habit of nicknaming everyone else. That was how Ray had ended up being known mainly as 'Hothead' instead of Berzerker, despite that being the moniker Callisto chose for him when he first joined her tribe.
Feral…
Morlocks gone. No place left there. Hadda run, get 'way 'fore they catch and make scream like Fur-kin. Hothead… not chase? Friends not hurt like bad ones?
'Course not. That's why they're friends – because they don't hurt people. They help them.
Help… me? Scratty, batty, mouldy hairball?
If you let them.
There was a moment, during which the core of anger, while no less fierce, seemed to turn in on itself. Ray felt a sort-of gaze on him, and then a tenuous touch of mind on mind. Feral's thoughts were unchecked and muddled, and the thread of confusion ran constant; but they were also hopeful, and he homed in on that hope.
Want help. Don't wanna run no more.
The lifeline to Xavier pulled taut, and in a flash Ray fell back into his own head.
He gasped, drawing air into his tight chest whilst simultaneously marvelling that he once again had lungs and mouth to do so. So abrupt was the transfer that for a second he simply sagged further backwards into what was propping his already slumped body.
It took another few moments for his jumbled brain to recognise Mr. McCoy's arms around him, stopping his skull from making sharp contact with the floor.
Prising his eyes open, Ray blinked out at the world, which mainly comprised of a large blue face. Concern etched Mr. McCoy's features, but relaxed when Ray slurred; "Kin' 'ell… whadda ride…"
"I see you haven't lost your alliterative skills because of it. A good sign."
"Mmph… feel like I was just pulled through a knothole backwards." Testing his muscles, which were curiously sore from the odd position he'd left them in when he vacated the premises, Ray tried to stand up properly. His feet, however, had other ideas. They flatly refused to cooperate until blood-flow had been restored. "Fuck - "
"I've got you," Mr. McCoy said soothingly. He looked up, and said to someone just out of Ray's field of vision, "Are you all right?"
"A little worse for wear, but ultimately fine," the Professor's voice replied. Ray craned his neck, and saw him sitting slightly askew in his wheelchair, rubbing at the back of his neck. Resting at the base of one wheel was the pen formerly sat behind Ray's own ear.
"Feral…?"
Ororo was cradling her several feet away, just inside the door of the Infirmary. Feral's face was a little haunted, but less savage than it had been as she shook off the last vestiges of telepathic intervention. And though she struggled out of the woman's grasp as soon as she could, there was no accompanying rage. Instead, she darted to Ray's side and hung onto his arm, watching Mr. McCoy apprehensively.
"Hothead okay?"
"'M fine," he said, forcing himself upright. "Professor, how the hell do you go through that every time without hurling?"
"Well, for one, that sort of experience isn't usual. And for another," a small smile quirked Xavier's lips, "I've been teleported by Kurt. After that, I have a very strong stomach."
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To Be Continued…
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Review Responses:
Angel of the Fallen Stars – If I wasn't telling you something, would I tell you that I'm not telling you something? ;)
Katatonia – FUITH Fucked Up In The Head. Just so you know.
Ivan Alias – Ah. Sorry. The 'out vile jelly' got confused in my head with 'out, damn spot'.
Todd Fan – Know the feeling. Hating my 'multiple roles of women' essay at the moment. Hope yours went/are going better than mine.
The Gothic Kleptomaniac – Ray fan! One more of us! Yay! I have to confess, I do love getting feedback about my fanfic. Though I draw the line at stalking, so I'm not soooo bad. And yes, I feel squiggly and special, now.
LanceIsHot – See answer for Katatonia. Sam is… wandering. I don't know. He may feed in, he may not. I haven't decided yet.
Rushikayu13 – Killjoy gave him a textbook. I was subjected to Austen from GCSE (when I was fifteen) and I've studied Pride and Prejudice four. Bloody. Times. Rar. So Sam gets to share my pain.
Madleinx – I take my lessons writing Scott from InterNutter and Minisinoo. But Min is a movieverse writer, so tempering has to occur. Yessum. But yes, go and read them, they're far better than me. Ooh, and Julia 456, too. Her Evo!Scott is wonderful.