Foreshadowing does a lot to hint about what's to come. That is all I will say about that.
Honestly, guiltily sorry about such a tardy update. It sickens me b/c I'm the speedy updater around these parts. --sigh-- What will you do, huh? Somehow I don't think people would understand if I told them I was getting behind in school work because I was writing fanfiction. The world is so critical. --rolls eyes--
Blackrougefillie: Of course Rogue lives! If she were to be comatose, then, well how bored would we all be? Sneakiness is the key to a seductively intriguing storyline. Yes, keep "rouge", it sounds pretty. Flowerperson: yeah, Rogue's not exactly being completely wise at the moment, but urgency calls for quick action, right? As for sinister and such, well, the plot leaks into a different story--we'll never know in this fic! Sweety8587: that mop of yours seems to come in handy. As for Rogue...hmm...you'll see in the next chapter. Cd lover: a genius among geniuses?? Don't worry, I'll never get sick of hearing it. Very glad you're loving this fic so much! Enchanted light: as always GreenFairyGirl88: Yay for me...sniff, oh the stress...at least I have fun writing this stuff. Kendokao: Gosh, I know. Sometimes it's embarassing how us girls love all the romancey stuff. Heh, more like lost. Allie: --sigh-- sweet Remy kisses...don't you just wish? Epona04: Isn't it cool how things can turn out so nicely when so unplanned? The way the mind works...! SickmindedSucker: Hmm, didn't think of Remy going with her...but she left urgently without warning anyway so that accounts for it. As for Annabel appearing, she's trying to get Remy's attention because, well, stuff's about to happen that she doesn't favor. RogueCajunozsgirl: I'm sorry, didn't mean to ignore your question, just didn't notice it as much. Theodore isn't going to have Sinister manipulate Annabel's genes. The thought doesn't cross his mind because it's not the central focus of the story--as far as Theodore is concerned, Annabel is going to be kept sleeping for as long as he can manage. Hmm, so you've heard of "coonass". Good, wasn't sure if it was a real word or not. A.M.bookworm247: Holy...for a middle school girl your review is impressive. You must write really good papers--as a senior, I haven't seen some people in my own grade who're as literate as you! Thank you so much for being so sweet, kind, and complimenting. The description of the angst, love, hate, fun--very understandable and I'm happy to be able to give you all of that. I wrote this with hopes of being different from all the other mindless fics out there that just weren't satisfying. Glad this worked! Just me: is getting funny lately...What's up with all the changes every two days? Jeez... Farrat doesn't want Rogue, he's just the deliverer for Sinister. And it was about time for some good Rogue and Remy sweetness, don't you agree? They're sure gonna need the motive to keep fighting once all the drama unfolds. Ishandahalf: Sure would be nice if Remy had this innate intuition to whenever Rogue's in trouble--sorta like that empathy deal. As for her powers--you'll just have to see. By the way, I'm eager to know what's going to happen in your fic now that both their memories have been erased. Aro: Thank you much! Did you read all twenty-one chapters in one sitting? I'm impressed, and glad you enjoyed it. Freak87:I can't remember why I even included a hobo--I think it was completely by impulse! Great insights into Thompson, don't think many got that. And it's so timely you should ask about the Prof, Wolvie, and 'Ro b/c here they are. PomegranateQueen: Completely chance that I stumbled upon the term. Worked nicely incoporated into the story. But are you being sarcastic? I seriously can't tell. Totally Obsessed47: I think this was rather tardy. Gren44: Ol' Theo is questionable, very wishy-washy with his thoughts and values, but we'll see how he turns out. Ugh, don't remind me about college--applications and essays are hell!! I should really be doing those instead of this but...silky black: it's so hard to have geniune moments of happiness admist just extreme action and angst--but there is no worry with Rogue and Gambit because, come on, it was just meant to be! Oh, and I totally empathize on the school-bitching bc--look how long it's taken me to update! And I'm stressing out bc of two papers due on Monday and a physics test with material I don't understand. I'm so screwed.
So, have any of you been wondering what's been up with the vacated X-Men that haven't gone comatose--YES there are still some remaining. If I, myself, have kept track accurately, they only ones left are...well, keeping reading and you'll see. They're not idle bystanders either--and we'll see how things in Austria are stirring as well.
The hour was late, or early, depending on how one perceived two o' clock in the morning. Though most along the eastern coastline were fast asleep, others were not granted such leisure. Others, like Ray Crisp, stayed up watching reruns of live news reports from earlier in the day. Sleep continued to elude him and he had nothing better to do.
"Mutant attacks have increased in frequency during the past week," the youthful reporter Trish Tilby said. "As the number of casualties mount, doctors are still unable to determine the source of these attacksor the reason for a prolonged comatose state." In actuality, it was not Trish Tilby he was looking at, nor was it Trish Tilby that he heard. It was a beam of electrons striking a phosphorous-coated glass screen, projecting the image of an attractive, dark-haired journalist. Where and how the sound of her voice came, was a whole other science--one that Ray knew nothing about.
He felt an electric cackle of energy in his hand as he grabbed the TV remote to turn up the volume. Struggling to subdue the current, he dropped the remote to keep from frying its circuits. He cursed under his breath, glad his parents weren't around to witness the little episode. They were still under the impression that he had unwavering control over his powers. Only with that belief could they cope with having a mutant son.
Ray did have control ninety-nine percent of the time. But in moments of anxiety or distressing revelation, a few surrounding things became slightly electrocuted. He scowled at his hand, willing the tiny bolts of electiricty to disperse.
Meanwhile, the electron-phosphorous projection of Trish Tilby continued to report: "Recently, one Dr. Cecilia Reyes of New York's Bronx district has formed a theory on the mutant victims' comatose condition. She believes that the stronger the mutant is with his or her abilities, the greater chance they have of survival. In this case, survival means a prolonged comatose state. Several victims have already perished, but from thorough investigation on the part of doctors and police officials, they were found to be unaware of their abilities or hardly used them at all..."
Ray's eyebrows shot up, the last of his electrical impulses disintegrating. He scratched his head in confusion. The stronger the mutant, the greater chance of survival. He wondered how the X-Men were doing at the Institute. What had the Professor, Logan, and Storm found in Austria? He absolutely hated not knowing. It was worse than being the spectator of an engaging ball game--he always felt the urge to leap in and participate. But the current situation was more critical than an innocent game--his friends were getting hurt. And he was stuck on the sidelines.
If he had counted correctly, then the only students remaining were him, Jamie, Roberto, Jubilee, Rogue, Kurt, and Jean. He forgot about the Acolyte house guest, but he wasn't one of the students anyway. Ray had received word just hours ago that Kitty had been taken, a lamentable turn of events. The X-Men ranks were dwindling day by day, and they weren't even together to work as a team. Each was separated by home and family; each alone to contemplate the horrible problem.
Ray felt electricity crackling in his hands again. He was extremely nervous these days--and who could blame him? Not only had the majority of his friends fallen victim to this mutant predator, he could be next. Any day, any minute, any second... He was not looking forward to knowing what made all the victims scream. A shiver tingled his spine. There was so much nervous energy bottled up inside him that his powers were becoming harder and harder to keep in check. He was aggravatingly restless and unable to sleep. The clock read two-sixteen.
A tap sounded at the window. Ray ignored it, assuming the presence of an annoying night critter. Suddenly there was a high-energy shriek and a burst of bright light. An angry pounding followed.
Ray spun around in his armchair, anticipation causing his pulse to quicken. In the span of three seconds he had shoved the patio door open and wrapped Jubilee in a crushing hug. "Man!" he exclaimed, as loud as he dared without alerting his slumbering parents. "I haven't seen you guys in ages!" He released Jubilee and grabbed Roberto's fist in a firm shake. Despite the two being constantly at odds, they were still good friends beneath the rivalry. "What are you doing here?"
Jubilee walked into the kitchen, taking in the environment of the Crisp household. "Everything's so screwed up, Ray," she said in a tight voice. She pulled her yellow jacket tighter around her petite form. "I couldn't sleep so I called the Institute a few hours ago and nobody picked up. Then Roberto called and said Kitty was attacked and uh...well we thought of you and Jamie..."
Roberto spoke when Jubilee lost her words. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We're going back to the mansion. This was the only time we could sneak out. You coming?"
Ray was still trying to get over the initial surprise of seeing them there. None of the X-Men had really visited each other's homes. Having his fellow team mates in his kitchen was completely out of context. When Roberto's words finally registered, he blinked and scowled. "What? Hold on, is Jamie here too?" He peered behind the two visitors, seeing nothing on his family's wooden deck.
"No, he's at home," Roberto told him. "He's too young to bring along anyway."
"You guys think something's wrong at the Institute?" Ray asked. Besides the obvious, he added to himself. A knot formed in his stomach as he waited for an answer.
Jubilee bit her lip and said simply, "They didn't pick up the phone." They could extrapolate the possibilities.
Ray nodded determinedly. "Right, just let me get dressed." He ran upstairs and changed out of his flannel pants and T-shirt. Moments later he snuck out of the house via the patio door. He followed Jubilee and Roberto to a sleek black Lexus convertible.
Noticing the questioning look, Roberto explained, "You know how my family is."
Spoiled rich brat, Ray thought, before going on to admire the car. He settled in the backseat while Jubilee took the passenger side.
Roberto geared the car and they shot down the street at a startling speed.
"Careful man!" Ray shouted. "I live in this neighborhood!"
Roberto smirked and swerved around a corner at forty miles per hour. Jubilee seemed unperplexed by the speed but Ray nervously strapped on his seatbelt. He hoped they didn't die before they got to the Institute.
Being under the employ of a Count was an honor. It also held many privileges and perks. The working conditions were hardly ever unpleasant, always within luxurious environments suitable for royalty. But unless there was a prominence of assasination attempts or terrorist activities, being under the employ of a Count produced heavy tedium.
Van Amburg muttered bitterly to himself, making his way down to the prisoners' quarters. Belkin walked beside him, hands tightly clutching a plasma gun. When they had first enlisted under the Count's service, there had been nothing in the job description about catering to a trio of captives. An assortment of bland foods littered a tray loosely carried in Van Amburg's hands. When he reached the bulky wooden door he kicked it twice. "Your meal," he barked.
An equally annoyed grunt replied, "Send it in, bub."
Belkin moved at Van Amburg's nod. He unlocked the door and held his weapon ready. Though the mutants were bound by power-negating collars, he was still wary about the feral one. There was a ferocity in those dark eyes that made Belkin nervous. As he opened the door, Van Amburg entered first, mouth sneering and face scornful.
Belkin did not fail to notice the darkness of the room. He held his weapon tightly, seeing his own shadow illuminated by the hall light. He realized too late that the prisoners could see them, but they could not see the prisoners.
"Vhere are you, freaks?" Van Amburg snapped. So deep in resentment and vexation, he didn't realize the austerity of the situation.
Before Belkin could warn him, a loud snarl erupted from the shadows. Van Amburg flew backwards and the food tray toppled as messy stains upon the floor. He collided into Belkin, who lost the plasma gun as they both sprawled off their feet.
Growling angrily, the feral man leapt towards them in attack. Van Amburg reached for his gun and fired, missing the agile mutant. He cried out angrily as Logan kicked the weapon out of his hands and socked him across the face.
Belkin's head was spinning. He had never dealt with mutants before, but if any of them were like what he'd heard of Countess Velkonnen, he never wanted to cross one. He groped desperately for his plasma gun, cursing himself and Van Amburg for not being more cautious. His hands found the weapon but never had the opportunity to lift it. A booted heel crushed his fingers before striking him across the face.
"I do not enjoy confined areas," the white-haired woman said.
Van Amburg was not a soft man. He had been chosen as a member of the Count's guard for a reason. Dodging Logan's next swipe, he struck the man across the face and threw him against the wall. He pulled a knife from his boot and swung to slash when a triplet set of adamantium claws sliced his blade into pieces. He gawked at Logan, saw the mutant's bleeding fists where the claws protruded. Anticipating the next swipe, Van Amburg leapt aside to see Belkin struggling in the clutches of an African woman. The man's irrational fear of mutants was impairing his abilities. Growling in disdain, Van Amburg reached for the fallen plasma gun, only to be tackled aside by the clawed man. He rolled painfully away, colliding into Belkin and Ororo.
Logan dove for the plasma gun and raised it to fire. Van Amburg quickly shoved Belkin out of the way and snatched Ororo, jerking her in front of him. The plasma ray struck the woman and she cried out in pain.
Van Amburg laughed gutturally, tossing Ororo aside like a rag doll. "You missed, fool."
"No, I didn't," Logan smirked.
The smile disappeared from Van Amburg's face as the painful heat of electrocution traveled through his veins. He cried out in pain and glared at the pair of all-white eyes glowing in luminescent fury. The power-negating collar was no longer around the woman's throat, but clutched as a useless, fried band in her fist.
She spoke in calm anger, "Wolverine does not miss. Unfortunately for you." With a wave of her hand, the placid air around them swept at Van Amburg as a gust. He flew against the wall and crumpled into an unconscious heap.
"Well done, Logan, Ororo," the Professor said. He emerged from the far corner of the chamber, a pleased expression on his face. "I had initial doubts about this plan but..." His gaze landed curiously on the remaining guard.
Belkin's eyes widened with daunting fear. He scurried towards the door but Logan grabbed him easily and pinned him to the floor. "Not so fast, bub. You've got the honor of being tour guide."
"You promised to love me," Patricia said. Her voice held the barest semblance of her British heritage. She had not seen home in many decades, having abandoned what she considered a pitiful existence. Despite her age, she was still as beautiful as the day he met her. "What will you do now that you know what I am, beloved? What will you do now that you know I am a murderer?"
Armand stared at her wordlessly. Horror, shock, and despair ran through his mind. He shook his head, raising a hand to massage his face. He grabbed the back of a chair to keep balanced, objects in the spacious dining hall beginning to blur together.
"Haven't we been happy?" she continued to challenge him. The black lace of her gown ruffled as she stepped towards him. "All these years we've been together--every day more blissful than the next. You didn't have to know. You should have just let things be." Her icy blue eyes fell sadly to the floor.
Murderer--Wraith--vampire... The villain behind the killings, the bane of Europe's investigative forces, his wife. How could he not have known it? All these years she had preyed upon the people of his home continent and he had been blind, lost in the happiness only she could provide. She had drained many, ruined countless lives, and yet she was still the same Patricia Farrat he found all those years ago; she was still the intelligent, beautiful woman he had discovered among Oxford scholars.
"Have you nothing to say, Armand?" she demanded, eyes bright and piercing, timeless. "Or will you have this ridiculous telepath speak for you?" She glared daggers at Charles Xavier, her husband's old friend from years forgotten.
The man sat calmly in his wheelchair, hands clasped together before him. "Patricia, please, I am only asking to help you. We may be able to find a way around your mutation so you do not have to...take lives."
"You cannot help me," Patricia spat. "Nobody can help me--this is the only way I may survive!" She grabbed the sides of her head in frustration, clutching the thick curls that remained despite her late years. Though streaked with grey, they were were still as luminous and silky as in her youth. "No one understands what this life is like! Do you think I would choose this willingly? This is the only way and you do not see it, Charles Xavier, you and your pathetic ideals..." She glared menacingly at him, approaching with heavy steps. "You and your self-righteous morals..."
"Patricia," Armand called, afraid for what she might do.
She ignored him and reached for Xavier. Her absorbent hands did not touch him. Without warning she shrieked in pain and clawed at her head. Stumbling backwards she writhed and twirled, knocking chairs aside and rattling the contents of the dining table. Bowls shook and wine spilled. The many decorative candles trembled precariously.
"What are you doing to her?" Armand yelled. "Charles!"
Xavier gasped and broke the psychic link. "She has powerful mental barriers for a non-telepath," he said, massaging his head. "But there must be a way to get through to her..."
Armand turned to wife, who had collapsed onto the dining table. He was afraid she would hurt herself with the many sharp utencils. Instead, she grabbed a wine bottle and hurled it at Xavier. Her aim was poor and the bottle shattered upon the floor, crimson liquid spreading across the polished stone.
"No, Patricia," Xavier said calmly, and fell into deep concentration again.
Her blue eyes disappeared behind clenched lids, her lips twisting into a pained sneer. "No!" she screamed. "Get out of my head! Get out of my head!" She thrashed about uncontrollably, knocking plates and bowls off the table, spilling more wine and other substances. "Leave me alone!" she shrieked in hysterical panic. "You have no business here! Get out, get out--" Her words erupted into bone-chilling screams, her limbs flailing in all directions.
"Patricia!" Armand reached out for her too late.
The candles fell, tiny flames igniting into raging infernos from contact with flammable wine. The fire spread quickly and Xavier lost his concentration. He had not been able to penetrate the deep fathoms of Patricia's mind. His venture had only managed to tap into her angry hate.
Armand lunged forward for his wife, but stopped as flames blocked his path. The searing heat singed the ends of his hair, scorched parts of his skin. He yelled out in pain and stared helplessly at Patricia. She was no longer screaming from a psychic assault; flames traveled up her long gown, licking hungrily at her dry form. She staggered away from the main body of fire, igniting everything she touched.
"Armand!" Xavier called urgently. "The fire is spreading too quickly!"
Guards stumbled into the dining hall and were greeted with a horrific scene. With an ear-wracking scream the Countess hurled her blazing self at Charles Xavier, but one of the guards quickly pulled him away. "The Count!" he yelled, wheeling the guest to safety.
Armand fought against the hands that gripped him. "No! I must save Patricia--ve must help her--" He twisted and writhed, desperate to aid his wife. "Unhand me! Fools!" His efforts were futile as they dragged him away and the room became engulfed with flames. He tried to catch a glimpse of her, tried to find any remainder of her, but all that he saw was the fire that consumed everything in its path...
Ten years ago, the Count thought, staring into his extravagant fireplace. Has it veally been that long, Patricia? Have I lived so many years in solitude? It seemed just yesterday that she died. He could remember every detail of that fateful night, tortured himself by contemplating alternate scenarios. If only he hadn't invited Charles to dinner, if only Patricia had gone to visit her brother like planned, if only.... Even then, would it have made a difference? Would he have preferred to live in ignorance while she continued absorbing and killing?
Her death was partially his fault and he did not take the blame lightly. He couldn't even look at their young daughter without being reminded of the harrowing events. So he came to a decision. Little Annabel could not be allowed to grow up under her mother's shadow. Nearly everyone knew of Patricia Velkonnen's killing ways; nearly everyone knew the story of Wraith. Even as a count Armand could not shield Annabel effectively. It was very fortunate that Patricia's brother decided to attend her funeral. Armand had found a solution.
She is safe in America, he told himself every day. She was too young to understand. She is safe and happy.
Every once in a long while he would reach for the phone to call her, wishing to speak to her and hear her voice. But fear and guilt stayed his hand. Years passed and he knew nothing about his daughter. He had severed all contact and decided it was best that way. The less she knew about him and her mother, the better off she would be. She could have a chance at a normal life.
Theodore assured him Annabel was doing fine. She was a normal girl living a comfortable life with the plethora of funds the Count provided. Everything was as good as could be.
And yet it wasn't. Theodore had lied because something was preying on mutants in the States--and nobody could have powers so similar to Patricia's but Annabel. The Count wondered, feared how his daughter had inherited her mother's mutant genes. But her powers were of a different nature than Patricia's. This was something he had not anticipated. Never had it occurred to him that Annabel might be affected by her shadowed mother, even while she was an ocean away... The idea was very troubling and there was nothing he could do, nothing but keep her safe. Because she was his daughter. Because he loved her. Because he owed Patricia.
He wondered what else Theodore was keeping from him.
The Count was so immersed in brooding that he did not notice the room drop in temperature a few degrees. The blazing fire flickered near being extinguished as a chilling gust blew past. Turning around in his chair, tingles of vexation slithered through him at seeing his three prisoners. "How did you get free?" he demanded. His fury grew as the one called Logan dumped three of his guards onto the floor.
"You need to be a little more selective about who you employ," Ororo Munroe said. Her deep blue eyes stared at him levelly. "Your men can no longer protect you."
The Count stood, glaring at them furiously, "Don't think you frighten me, veather vitch." He turned his gaze on Xavier, "Iz this how you approach an old friend, Charles? Vith attacks and meager threats?"
"Our friendship became strained the moment you threw us in a dungeon, Armand," Xavier said calmly. "However, I am not keen on holding grudges. I believe in second chances. I know you are plagued, but you may redeem yourself by saving anyone else from death. It is selfish of you to protect your daughter at the cost of others."
The Count shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "No, Charles, you do not understand vhat it iz like...vhat I've had to cope vith..."
"But I do," Xavier said gently. "I have a child myself, a son--one that is very troubled. I wished to aid him but could not, and now he has gone off to whatever fate awaits him... Trust me, Armand, I understand."
"Vould you kill him for the sake of others, Charles?" the Count demanded. He pointed vehemently at Ororo and Logan. "Vould you sacrifice your precious X-Men for ze good of meaningless strangers?"
Xavier stared at him steadily but had no words.
The Count lowered his eyes solemnly, "Do you zee how it iz, now, Charles...Do you zee... Ze right thing to do may cause you ze most grief."
Logan growled deep in his throat, his claws extending with a gleam of adamantium. "Listen here, bub, we ain't got time for your personal issues. You've kept us locked up for who knows how long and your kid's still pickin' off mutants. Now tell us where she is."
"I von't let you hurt Annabel!" the Count bellowed. "She's all I have left!" He reached for his armchair and flicked a hidden button. The wall behind him folded open.
Logan leapt forward to intercept him but crashed against stone as the wall closed again. The Count had escaped. "Tricky punk," Logan spat.
Ororo frowned severely. "Charles?" she asked expectantly, but the Professor was in deep concentration. Ororo exchanged worried looks with Logan. "Charles," she called again.
Xavier finally opened his eyes. "We've been away too long," he said urgently. "The X-Men are in grave danger."
As Ororo grabbed the rungs of the wheelchair Logan asked, "The students--how many've been attacked?"
Xavier shook his head in confusion, "They are so far away...it is difficult for me to form a connection. All I could discern was much turmoil and fear. We must return immediately before the situation worsens."
As they rushed to leave the estate, the Count made plans of his own. Maneuvering through the hidden corridors of his home, he entered through a trap door into one of his private studies. He grabbed the phone and dialed long-distance to New York. Nobody answered even after twenty rings. Armand cursed under his breath--where was that blasted Theodore? He was beginning to question the reliability of the man. Patricia's brother had seemed trustworthy in the beginning, had truly lamented the passing of his sister. But he had also lied about Annabel's wellness and Armand feared for other perjuries.
There was only one thing left to do. He approached the wall, pressing the security control room's call button. Immediately someone responded, "Vhat do you require of us, sir?"
"Prepare a jet," the Count commanded. "Ve are flying to America."