Author's Note: Erm...well, I suppose I did these next few chapters around Christmas. And uh...forgot about them. So...here they are.

Chapter 19

Toad was drowsy, weak, and hooked up to several monitors. Doctors looked down on him, examining charts and scribbling on clipboards.

One white masked man opened Mortimer's mouth gently, reached in to the back of his mouth, and carefully unrolled his long tongue. Mortimer hadn't enough strength to protest, and as the doctors didn't seem to be intent on harming him, so he reserved his energies.

Gloved hands probed the greenish muscle, and they collected samples of the slime secreted naturally by glands on the insides of his cheeks, making sure to keep the length of the tongue lightly sprayed with water.

These doctors were gentle and kind, keeping him comfortable and relaxed, the only thing he didn't quite care for were the frequent injections in his arms and legs- but he was to weak to protest.

When finished, they rolled his tongue back up, and told him to sleep. And so he did, oddly at peace. Bero smiled. This subject would do. He sent in two interns to transport mutant 1011 to his holding cell. Just a few more tests...

Mortimer was alarmed to see he was hooked up to several IVs, a heart rate monitor, and what seemed to be an oxygen mask. He pulled the needles out and discarded the mask, and stood, observing the room, alert as one could be under the influence of anesthetic.

All of the medical equipment was embedded in to the walls, shielded by a thick layer of plexi-glass. Save the medical equipment, the room resembled a prison cell. It housed a cot, a sink, and an open toilet. One walls were constructed of a thick semi-reflective material- a badly disguised two-way mirror. An intercom along with a small television screen was implanted in that mirrored wall.

Curious, he took off his gloves and began to climb. A thin circlet around his neck he hadn't noted before beeped shrilly- and Toad dropped from the wall, a small electrical shock kissed his fingers. He winced and shook out his hands.

"Alright. No climbing the wall. Got it." he growled to no one in particular. His head snapped up as the television sprung to life. A young man, younger than him, perhaps 19, stared back at him.

"Mutant 1011. Any use of your mutant abilities without permission will result in the activation of your collar. We can and will increase the voltage." he warned. He was just a number now.

"Where the hell am I? "

"You are at mutant holding facility A73. A dispatch team will be in shortly to bring you to research facility B23." Mortimer looked at the TV, seething. He would give anything to slime the damned thing- but the threat of any electricity was enough to make him instantly submissive.

"Am I in a hospital or somfin'?" he said, staring down the man on the TV.

"You are in mutant holding area A73."

"That's wonderful." he hissed. "Why am I here?"

"You are the only mutant we could locate with prominent mutated relations."

"I don't recall signing up for a dissection." he muttered, almost nervously as he saw shadows of approaching figures in the mirror.

"A dispatch team will be entering your cell in one minute. If you rebel, force will be used." The TV snapped off, and the intercom gave a final burst of static. He was alone. He sat on his cot, looking at webbed hands in defeat. The one time his poison pin would prove useful, he had left it in his battle-gear. In the X-Mansion. And he didn't dare expect that the X-Geeks would break in to this rat trap to rescue someone who they didn't give a shit about in the first place.

Several armed men and women entered the room, pointing guns in his direction. "Hands up." said one of the soldiers briskly. He complied, now in a stated of fuzzy shock. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't.

The collar was removed, but that didn't change the fact that fifteen or more gun points were pointed his way. He held perfectly still as they cuffed and muzzled him.

All the hallways looked the same- dark and damp with next to no lighting- it resembled a nightmarish hospital.

Gun barrels constantly brushed the back of his neck and dug in to his sides, reminding him 'who was in control', as if he were a wild creature. Assuming by the actions of the soldiers, an extremely stupid animal with a very bad amnesia problem.

He could have sworn one of them was whispering to him in low, reassuring tones as they walked.