The next morning saw everyone grouped at breakfast, as so often happened – with the immediately noticeable exception of Jean, something Ororo was quick to ask the students about.
Scott's answer was to mutter that she was probably tired after her "late night out".
Ray merely grunted that while anyone else couldn't do anything without the (expletive) teachers breathing down their necks, apparently the Golden Girl could get away with whatever she wanted to.
The others showed varying degrees of concern.
Generally, however, the consensus was that Jean was indeed asleep after her night out, and spending what the teachers considered to be a well-earned sleep in. As a result, it was not until Ororo knocked on Jean's door at a quarter past ten that morning that the first concerns set in.
Coming downstairs, the onetime Goddess encountered Hank and Charles seated at the kitchen table, reading over some obscure scientific textbooks. They glanced up briefly as she approached before returning to their respective tomes.
"I don't suppose either of you have seen Jean this morning?"
Hank turned a page. "Er, she's in her room if I'm not mistaken…"
"You are mistaken," Ororo responded. "She is not there. And as near as I can tell, the bed has not been slept in."
Real concern appeared in their expressions for the first time. Charles closed his eyes for a moment, his face a mask of concentration; when he opened them again the concern was stronger. "She is not in this building," he said simply. He pulled away from the table, headed for the door. "I will send the others to the dining room. Explain the situation to them and see if they know anything. I'll be in Cerebro's chamber."
Ororo and Hank looked at one another before leaving the room hurriedly.
To the credit of the students, they reacted to the news of Jean's disappearance fairly well, even Scott. In spite of Charles' earlier statement, they searched the mansion thoroughly, even the areas of the sub-basements that few people ever went. There was no sign of the missing telepath, a statement Charles reaffirmed when he finally exited Cerebro almost an hour later. The students were slumped in the Rec room, an air of defeat around them, none more so than Scott, whom the others were vainly trying to reassure.
"Relax, man," Evan insisted. "It wasn't your fault."
"Then whose was it?" Scott responded dully, not looking up.
Jubilee snorted. "How about Matthews?" she suggested. "He was supposed to be taking care of her…"
Scott's head snapped up. "Say that again."
Jubilee blinked. "Huh? Um, okay – he was supposed to…"
"No!" Scott cut her off. "You said it was Duncan's fault, didn't you?"
"Um… well, I didn't mean literally, but…"
Scott was not listening. Instead, his gaze shifted to Kurt, pinning the blue mutant in place with a look. "That car last night. You saw it. Could it have been Duncan's?"
Kurt saw where his friend was going. "It could have, but there's no reason to…"
His words fell on deaf ears. Scott Summers had left the building, and in his place, Cyclops jumped to his feet and strode from the room.
Professor?
Yes, Scott? Came the answer.
I may have an idea. Find Duncan Matthews for me…
She was cold. That was the first thing Jean thought of when she awoke. Slowly fluttering her eyes open, she raised her head, only to be stopped by a thunderbolt of pain from her forehead.
Then she remembered why it hurt.
Duncan.
The fear returned full-force with the memories of the night before, and she was able to ignore the pain enough to climb to her feet, though she needed to lean against the nearby wall in order to hold herself up. Turning around, she took in her surroundings, trembling as each realization struck her.
She was alone. She was in a cell. Her powers were still not active.
And, worst of all, she had been wrong. She wasn't alone at all.
Outside the cell, a soldier dressed in a plain khaki uniform with an assault rifle over his shoulder pressed a button on an intercom on the wall. "Sir," he barked. "Subject is awake and aware of her surroundings."
She stared wide-eyed at him as he resumed his impassive stance. "Where am I?" she demanded, and received no answer. "What's going on? Who are you?" Again, no reply. Swiftly she realized that no information would be forthcoming from this military figure and abandoned her futile questioning to look at her cell once more. There wasn't much to see – the cell was generally featureless, with three grey-tiled walls and one formed from bars. Jean eventually slumped against one wall, hugging her knees to her chest and trying not to let despair overwhelm her.
She didn't know how long she sat like that, but it couldn't have been for more than a few minutes before a door, out of sight from her cell, slammed open. Her guard turned and saluted smartly as Jean scrambled to her feet. Seconds later, a man stepped into view, casually dressed in sneakers, tan trousers and a blue button-up shirt. She gasped as she recognized him.
"Good to see you're awake, Miss Grey," smirked one Phillip Matthews, father of Bayville High's most notorious jock – and the man responsible for her current situation.
"And how are we feeling?" he inquired with mock politeness. "No nausea? Shakes? Rashes?"
Jean shook her head slowly. "Why… why would I?"
Phillip laughed, a laugh that didn't fit his evidently sadistic nature; it was the laugh of a man who loved life, and had not a care in the world. "Isn't it obvious? Miss Grey, you are alive for a reason. You're the first real mutant we've tested Azmodium on. You must be able to appreciate how interested we are as to your reactions."
Jean's throat tightened. "Wait, you… you mean I'm a test subject?"
"Well, it's a preferable term to 'lab rat'." Phillip grinned. "After all, you're a mutant. I wouldn't want to insult some perfectly decent vermin by comparing them to you." Chuckling at his own barb, he stepped back to leave. "Don't get comfortable, Miss Grey. Your first examination is in one hour." With that, he left.
Jean slowly slid back down the wall into a huddled ball on the floor. She began to shake uncontrollably; a few moments later, she began to sob.
She was alone.
Kurt balanced easily atop the pole, the shadow of the building behind him leaving his form mostly invisible. His usually affable grin wasn't present; possibly it had been left at home with his image inducer. Instead, as his tail whipped the air behind him, an uncharacteristic frown marred his indigo features. His gaze, focused directly on the exit of the building across the street, only wavered once as he searched for the form of a large red wolf, crouched behind a dumpster and watching the door as intently as he was.
It had been some hours since Scott had developed a plan to find the missing Jean. As it happened, Scott's plan had been direct, simple, and as far from subtle as could be imagined. By his reasoning, Duncan had been the last one to see Jean; therefore he was most likely to know what happened to her. The best way to interrogate him was, in Scott's mind, to threaten him with a painful death if he didn't spill the beans. Logan voiced a strong backing for this plan; Charles only agreed when it was pointed out that he could simply erase the memory after all was said and done. At which point, he was promptly instructed to locate Duncan, and to provide some useful information for the interrogation.
The jock had been located, after a short search, inside the Tolero motel, which was now carefully being watched by Kurt and Rahne, with Logan and Scott waiting in a car four blocks away for the action to start. Kurt had had a few objections to why he was chosen for this task, but agreed; Rahne disagreed on principle, but didn't object. The reason they'd been chosen to single out Duncan was that, according to Charles, the jock had a morbid fear of wild animals since an unpleasant incident in his childhood (1). These two, with the possible exception of Logan, or Rogue in the morning, were the most animalistic of the residents of the Institute.
So now they waited.
At around midday, some thirty minutes after the stakeout had begun, Duncan came outside with a backpack slung over his shoulder. In a few steps, he reached a light green car, unlocked it, and got in. Kurt spoke into a small radio as he watched Rahne get to her feet and glance up at him.
"He's out. We're moving now."
The wires they had frayed in the engine compartment of Duncan's car managed to get him several blocks before the car died – far enough to remove him from the eyes of any passers-by, but easily close enough for him to be followed.
Which was why, when Duncan got out of the car, swearing volubly, it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a deep snarl from a few feet away. He turned, spotted Rahne, and stopped dead as his internal temperature plummeted to well below normal. Then, issuing a high-pitched scream, he scrambled back into the car and pulled it shut, staring out of the window with wide eyes. The fear had heightened his senses; and so the unfamiliar smell filling the car seemed exceptionally vile to him. Rotten eggs, or something…
Another, deeper growl sounded – this time from inside the car. Very, very close. Whimpering, the jock turned in his seat to look at the source.
His scream was even shriller and louder than the previous one; both Kurt and Rahne, in possession of extremely sensitive hearing, winced before Kurt cut the scream short with a short chopping punch into Duncan's neck.
"Shut up," he growled, trying furiously not to grin – punching Duncan was something he'd wanted to do for some time, but had been forbidden to do so. His strength, out of proportion to his size, would have been suspicious even to Duncan.
Duncan gave a choked whimper, pressed back against the window, and seemed to remember the wolf. He glanced over his shoulder. Rahne wagged her tail, then promptly shifted into human form and opened the door, causing Duncan to sprawl out onto the road.
Duncan wet himself.
Kurt climbed into the driver's seat so that he could lean over Duncan's prone form. "Last night, Duncan, you were out with a friend of ours. Today, she's missing." As realization, mixed with pure terror, crossed Duncan's features, Kurt's voice became thickened with anger. "I think we need to have a little talk."
Seizing the blubbering, urine-reeking jock with one hand and throwing the other around Rahne's shoulders, Kurt closed his eyes briefly and the three teenagers disappeared in a particularly large cloud of smoke.
(1) Based on, and referenced to, a theoretical conversation spawned on the BBS of the InterNutter.
