Jean flinched as a powerful light shone into her eye, and would have blinked had the technicians – she didn't think of them as doctors, and even scientists seemed too flattering – not been holding her eyelids open with rubber-gloved hands.
"Minor dilation," recited a muffled voice. "Heart rate is elevated, breathing is shallow."
A nod. "Standard bodily responses to disorientation and panic," said another.
Jean gritted her teeth. "Of course I'm panicking…" she said thinly. "I'm being examined by a bunch of neo-nazi pencil-pushing assholeswho won't even-"
Her statement was cut off as a large syringe replaced the penlight, pointing directly into her eye.
"I will thank you, Miss Grey-" she recognized Phillip Matthews' voice "-to remember that you are here as an acquisition, not an individual. For our purposes, you only need to be alive, not necessarily unharmed. Should you persist, I will have no compunction whatsoever in silencing you by whatever means necessary."
Jeans' jaw muscles rippled as she gritted her teeth, but she said nothing.
"Good. Now remain silent, or I will relieve you of the ability to speak." Phillip lowered the syringe to her arm and rammed it into her flesh without warning. Jean managed to bite back a whimper as a vial of blood was filled and taken away for analysis, and the examination continued for a few moments until she felt herself moving.
She was strapped into a large adjustable seat, much like a dentist's chair, only far less comfortable and much smaller. Her clothes had been replaced with a light blue hospital gown, a comparison that seemed ludicrous considering her situation. As an aide manipulated the controls, she was elevated into a sitting position, but wasn't sure what was going to happen until another female technician lifted a large pair of scissors and seized a handful of her hair.
When she began to remove Jean's hair, she let out a soft moan in spite of herself. This was somehow the final straw, where she became something less than a person – the imprisonment, the examination, all of it, it was something that one person would do to another, albeit a very sick person and a very unfortunate person respectively. But this, shearing off the hair she'd taken years to grow into the style she loved so much, it was the final desecration. Phillip seemed to notice.
"Miss Grey, the loss of your hair is currently the least of your worries. However, we are not simply being sadistic this time; we have a purpose to our actions."
"What?" Jean whispered as the technician replaced the scissors and picked up an electrical razor.
"A series of examinations in which we will be examining your internal structure, among them an EEG and a CAT scan. Your brain waves in particular are of interest to us."
"Why?" Jean's fear had reduced her to monosyllable sentences by this stage.
Although an operating mask covered the lower half of Phillip's face, his eyes lit up at that question, and his tone switched to that of a lecturer speaking of a well-beloved life's work, which of course he was.
"Your brainwaves, Miss Grey, will inform us of how effectively the Azmodium has deactivated your X-Gene. Azmodium, Miss Grey, is a carefully engineered retrovirus – I assume you know what that is?"
As another technician took careful readings from a set of scales built into the chair, Jean nodded. A retrovirus, she remembered, was a crippled virus, one incapable of reproducing itself. It could enter a body's system and perform its purpose, but the inability to regenerate its cells meant that it died out rapidly and could not spread beyond the original infection site. This made them safe for experimentation, and they were commonly used for biological research.
At her nod, Phillip continued. "A simple retrovirus, engineered to target the special area in your mind that was mutated by the X-Gene. More importantly, though, it carries special enzymes for a special purpose." His eyes crinkled up as he grinned at his own brilliance, and he continued.
"These enzymes lock on to the cells that make up your X-Gene. They then double bond with the retrovirus cells and redesign them, making them a perfect match for your own body cells. Your own immune system recognizes these fake cells and begins to attach them to your system almost at once. This, combined with the retrovirus' nature to attack body cells, results in your X-Gene being coated with cells that are incapable of reproduction – essentially, dead cells. And this, in turn, prevents the X-Gene from releasing the electrical impulses that give you your mutant capabilities, essentially rendering the gene useless."
As Jean's eyes widened at the scope of Phillip's creation, the technician finished shaving her hair off and placed the razor on a table while an aide swept up the pile of shorn red locks. A clamp was lifted from the back of the chair to hold her head in place, but she barely noticed this as Phillip continued his explanation.
"But here's the beauty part – your own body can't tell the difference. The cells coating the X-Gene are still alive, even if they don't function. Your body thinks the cells are alive and in their rightful place, and so it fights to stop the cells from dying. Your own body keeps the retrovirus from dying. And the cells that form your X-Gene are incredibly long-living, so they last for some time, even despite the fact that they are artificial. They should, in fact, remain intact for several days."
The locks from the head brace snapped into place. "You know all this?" Jean asked, enthralled despite herself.
Phillip's eyes became even colder at that question, and Jean's newfound fascination for her situation withered instantly. "No, Miss Grey. We don't… knowit… yet. Which is why you are here." He chuckled. "Your species are notoriously hard to pin down, and show an unfortunate habit of dying under pressure. You will be the first mutant we've run these tests on." Finished speaking, he nodded to one of his technicians, who activated a strange machine next to Jean's chair.
She gasped in pain as a sudden flash of energy burned into her temples from the metallic brace. Phillip glowered at a monitor. "More power," he snapped irritably.
As the pulses became stronger and faster, Jean began to sweat, and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. She strained against her bonds, but it was not until her shortened hair began to singe that she screamed for the first time.
It was a long time before she stopped.
WHIIRRRRRRRRRR...
THUNK!
Duncan flinched as a thrown knife hurtled into the tree he was tied to and stuck straight out, quivering from the loss of momentum.
"You missed," Jubilee commented. "There's only two shots left, or you owe me five bucks."
Ray snorted. "Fuck it, dontcha think if he can land it next to the asshole's head every time, he'd be able to hit him if he wanted?"
"I could," Kurt agreed. "But the bet was that I could hit him one time in five, so I only need to hit him on my last try to win."
Rahne, next to the tree, pulled the knife free and tossed it so that it landed in the grass at Kurt's feet. He grinned, nodded his thanks, and retrieved the blade. Carefully, he sighted along it, and with barely any wind-up, hurled it.
WHIIRRRRRRRRRR...
THUNK!
Duncan had been a guest at the Charles Xavier Institute for almost an hour now, and was less than thrilled with the hospitality he'd been shown. Promptly after arriving with Kurt and Rahne, he'd vomited up his last two meals as a result of Kurt heaping the brunt of several heavy teleports on him. Having caught his breath, he'd been introduced to the alter-egos of several of his fellow Bayville High students. Of these introductions, he'd at first thought that Nightcrawler and Wolfsbane would be the worst of a bad lot; his introduction to a psychotic individual named Cyclops had convincingly trumped it. The following relevation that Cyclops was, of course, a disguised Scott Summers, only made Duncan's apprehension more palpable.
Scott, not willing to wait for the formal interrogation to start, had begun 'questioning' Duncan almost immediately, using a method that even Logan had thought to be a unreasonably harsh. Once Duncan had regained consciousness, Ororo had instructed the younger students to take him outside for some fresh air whilst Scott calmed down and the Professor made his way outside.
Having had his knife returned, Kurt sighted along it for the fifth and final time. "Jubilee? Get your money ready," he advised. Duncan stared fixedly at the knife through blackened and swollen eyes, bruised by Scott's persuasion earlier. Rogue grinned at the jock's expression.
"C'mon, fuzzy!" she yelled. "And-a-one! And-a-two! And-a-"
"ELF!"
Very few people had ever been relieved to hear the sound of Logan's shouts; for a brief moment, Duncan was able to add himself to that list. Kurt immediately hid the knife behind his back.
"I wasn't doing anything," he announced brightly.
Logan scowled. "Cut the crap, Elf."
Ray snorted. "We didn't even touch the bastard," he muttered.
"I know," Logan agreed. "That's what I'm pissed about."
SNIKT
Duncan's throat was raw from the noise he'd been making since his arrival; even so, he managed to produce yet another shrill scream as a trio of blades erupted from Logan's fists and aimed themselves at his throat.
"Logan!" called Charles sharply from the kitchen door. The Canadian turned his head without removing his claws.
"Chuck, he-"
"No."
"But I was-"
"No."
"Can't I just-"
"No."
"What if I-"
"Logan!"
Logan's scowl deepened. "Fine," he muttered darkly and stormed over to where Ray, Kurt and Jubilee stood, Rahne following behind him.
Charles bit back a smile as he approached Duncan, still tied to a tree and drenched in sweat from utter terror. He had no compunction whatsoever about what was going on – he knew that Duncan would come to no serious harm until he'd yielded up the information they needed, and until then it would do their cause some good if the jock was too frightened to risk lying to him.
By the time he reached the trembling young man, however, any humour was gone as he remembered that one of his students may have been placed in extreme danger, and that the blame could be directly attributed to his individual. When he finally spoke, the icy tone of his voice carried this knowledge clearly.
"It's time, Mr. Matthews, that we found out what we want to know. I've instructed my students and staff not to harm you overly until we have our information – but rest assured that if we have ways of learning the truth. The easiest method is that you simply tell us; feel like talking?"
Whether out of fear, loyalty to his father, or plain stupidity, Duncan made no response. Charles waited a reasonable interval before speaking again. "One more try, Duncan. Tell us, or you will suffer the repercussions. Where… is… Jean?"
Duncan's body began to tremble, but he still said nothing. Charles sighed. "Very well. You leave me no choice…" Raising his hands to his temples, Charles focused his power onto the bound youth before him. The trembling in Duncan's body ceased, replaced by complete stiffness; an instant later, he shrieked in pain as his mind was invaded. The cry and the struggles, however, came to an abrupt halt as his conscious mind was sent into regression by Charles, and no further objection was made as his memories were pillaged.
Some minutes later, Duncan's body slumped against the ropes binding him to the tree, and Charles lowered his hands. "He'll sleep for some time," he informed the others. "We, meanwhile, have work to do."
Scott, having arrived with Rogue and Ororo during the last few moments, stepped forward. "Where's Jean?" he demanded. "What did he do to her? What happened?"
Charles met his eyes, an angry look on his face. "What happened, Scott? Quite simply, it was betrayal. Of the worst kind. Jean is a prisoner of the Friends of Humanity, due to the machinations of Mr. Matthews, here."
The grief on Scott's face was a palpable thing. "Where?" he said, simply.
"Not here," came the reply. "Suit up. I'll pass on the information as we go." He looked at the others. "All of you. NOW!"
As they departed, Logan hung back. He gestured toward Duncan. "Whaddya want done with the crybaby?" he asked.
Charles shook his head. "Leave him where he is. If we return with Jean, she can decide what we will do with him; if we do not return soon enough, he can rot here for all I care."
Logan did not move. "An' if we come back without her?" he asked softly.
Charles' expression was icy. "Then you may do with him whatever you please," he responded, equally softly. "Get changed. Time is not on our side."
