Chapter 9: In Dreams

Larry was being given the grand tour, though admittedly there wasn't much to see as the new Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters had yet to be completed and the students had only recently moved into their reconstructed quarters. Despite these setbacks, however, Jean was very enthusiastic and answered all of Larry's questions with a smile and a toss of her perfect red hair. Scott proved to be less than keen when it came to answering the question of how the original mansion became a smoking pile of rubble.

"An old enemy of ours, an evil mutant named Mystique, infiltrated the mansion, took over the security system, and programmed it to self-destruct. Almost everything went up with it," Scott said, looking grim.

"Do mansions usually come with a self-destruct button?" Larry inquired. The comment was not meant to sound mocking, but one look at Scott's stern countenance told him his attempt at humor was unappreciated. Larry winced. Watch it, Trask. It's not like these people had to take you in, after all…

"Scott was the one who saved all the younger students," said Jean, throwing an admiring glance the field leader's way and breaking the tension. "When he discovered Mystique's plan he took them all to safety, and with almost no time to spare."

Larry nodded his head, wishing Irene hadn't gone off with Xavier and Logan and feeling embarrassed at his newfound dependence on her. She was his anchor, someone he could assuredly count on when his life had gone topsy-turvy yet again. As yet, he was not sure how to relate to these newfound "friends".

"And here's your room," Jean announced. Larry lifted his head and stared at her, so lost in his thoughts that he had tuned her out completely as they roamed one of the Institute's sparsely furnished halls. "I hope you don't mind sharing a room, but as you already know we're a bit pressed for space right now."

"Oh…thank you. It's okay." The words came out slowly.

Scott's raised eyebrows indicated that he knew Larry hadn't been paying attention. "Do you need any help settling in?"

Larry dropped the lone bag that contained his limited number of worldly possessions. His shoulder felt sore from carrying it so long. "I think I can manage all this."

"Well, in that case…" Scott thrust his hand forward for Larry to shake. "Have a good night. Wake up call is at seven."

Larry shook it. "Yeah, you too. Thanks."
"We're glad you're here, Larry," Jean said with a warm sincerity that was almost disarming. "Good night!"

Scott and Jean were already down the hall and fading from view when Larry managed to spit out a weak "Good night" in return. Sighing to himself, he picked up his bag with one hand and turned the doorknob with the other. A small, shocked sound escaped his throat when he laid eyes on his roommate.

His lips curled into a sneer. "Oh, this is just great!"

"So," Bobby said with a displeased frown, "I guess the Prof. wasn't kidding after all."

"Kidding about what?"

Bobby stood up from the chair at his desk, shortening the distance between the two of them. He snarled, "About me having to bunk with Larry, Son of Evil."

At first Larry was too shocked by the audacity of that comment to say anything in return, but then the words came spilling out. "What the hell is your problem with me? I don't even know you."

Bobby let out a short laugh. Is this guy kidding? "Your dad tried to kill the X-Men. Thanks to the Sentinel, half the planet wants us dead. That's my problem."

Larry shouted back, his cheeks burning red with righteous indignation. "I had no idea what my father was building under this stupid town…!" He straightened his back, looking Bobby dead in the eye. "And anyway, I thought not being ashamed of our genes was the whole point of this club."

"This isn't a club you stuck up daddy's boy!" Bobby balled his hands into fists, feeling the familiar chill in his fingertips as his defenses were raised. Icing up, he smirked at Larry's shocked expression. If he wants a fight, I'll give it to him.

Stop it this instant!

"Christ!" exclaimed Larry frightfully as he heard the Professor's voice inside his head. Taken completely by surprise, he stumbled back and bumped against the door.

"Oh no…" Bobby cringed, shifting from ice to flesh.

I could hear your thoughts on the other end of the mansion. I thought we had already discussed this, Mr. Drake.

Larry thought he heard a distinct "eep" escape the young X-Man's lips.

I see another discussion is in order. I'll speak to you in morning. Now, you will both go to sleep.

And with that, Larry felt the foreign presence in his brain disappear. "Was that…really the professor?" he asked, momentarily forgetting his enmity for Bobby.

"Uh, yeah." He pointed to his temple and wiggled his index finger. "The Prof. was working his telepathic mojo. Kinda creepy, huh?"

"Is he always reading our minds?"

"Oh, no way. It's like, sometimes thoughts are so strong he can't filter out them out and…" Bobby's voice trailed off as he remembered what exactly the "strong thoughts" were that had ruffled Professor Xavier's non-existent hair. He sneered as if Larry had tricked him into consorting with the enemy.

"But whatever," he snapped. "Thanks for getting me in trouble again."

"Anytime," Larry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he kicked his bag across the room to the foot of the empty bed that now belonged to him.

Why do I suddenly feel like I'd be better off rooming with the punk who tried to electrocute me?

---

Michael Rossi ran one hand through his dark hair as he passed over several items scattered about the surface of his desk. There was a large manila folder dedicated to a certain Dr. Trask, and he had already scanned the contents: notes from his work as an anthropologist, his SHIELD file, personal records, a dossier on his activities following his departure from SHIELD, and a smaller folder solely pertaining to his research on mutants.

Trask's illustrations of Homo superior—his "interpretation" of a world dominated by the next evolutionary wave of humanity--reminded Rossi of the science fiction comic books he had read as a child. Green-skinned mutants with enlarged frontal lobes whipping human slaves, arenas where Homo sapiens were killed for sport…if they weren't so frightening, they would be comical in their outrageousness.

"Tell us what you have on Bolivar Trask," demanded the ruddy-cheeked General Simmons on the wide monitor facing Rossi. The old man was a pompous idiot and President McKenna's lapdog, one who prided himself on his rank but in actuality was as clueless as a civilian—he certainly knew nothing about AEGIS or the continuation of the Weapon X project. Rossi could tolerate him, but only for so long.

"He was a rather forward-thinking and ambitious anthropologist when SHIELD recruited him fourteen years ago, sir. His findings and observations on human evolution were on the same page as our own, and he didn't have half our resources. SHIELD took him into the fold to aid our study of mutants, which as you know had come to a standstill in the years following that Weapon X massacre in Canada. Are you getting this image?"

General Simmons gave the affirmative; he was looking at the scanned copy of one of Trask's illustrations, which had been sent over the electronic line. The sketch was of a female mutant; her head was hairless and her eyes were entirely yellow and glowing with power.

"Twelve years ago one of our New Mexico bases was infiltrated, and Trask was attacked by this mutant, who remains unidentified. Her assassination attempt failed obviously, but she was never apprehended. It was after this that Trask made a drastic change in his line of work, and instead of studying mutants he concentrated his efforts on destroying them. He left SHIELD when he decided we were being too…short-sighted." Rossi pursed his lips before continuing, a cold and effective liar. "We don't know who he is working for now."

Simmons sneered. "HYDRA?"

"Unlikely. Our agents overseas are telling us that HYDRA is pooling its resources into cloning Weapon X with those DNA samples they stole from us, not constructing overgrown toy robots."

"Then what the hell do you have for me?" Simmons snarled, his cheeks growing redder. Before Rossi could answer the line was angrily disconnected, and he found himself staring at a black screen.

"Idiot," Rossi muttered.

Reaching into his coat pocket, the colonel removed a black cellular phone and pressed the number one, activating the speed dial.

His call was received. "Fury here," said a rough, gravelly voice.

"It's Rossi. I've just finished talking with General Simmons. He wanted to know more about the Trask situation, not that he'll ever listen to us."

"What is the real Trask situation?" Fury questioned, knowing full well that General Simmons had been kept unaware of certain events that had occurred only recently.

"Four hours ago we pulled Trask from his cell for another interrogation…we found something interesting on him when he was frisked."

Reaching inside one of the other folders on his cluttered desk, Rossi removed a sealed plastic bag containing, of all things, a tarot card. "This tarot card was in his pocket. Number fifteen of the major arcane, the Wheel of Fortune."

"And this is relevant how…?"

"Hold on, I'm getting to the point. Trask didn't have this card on him when he was admitted here. Robot drones deliver his food for God's sake; he hasn't had any human contact in two weeks! He should not have had this card, and yet, he did. Only his fingerprints are on it, but there's a message on the back in handwriting that doesn't match his." Rossi cleared his throat to annunciate the message carefully.

"The Wheel of Fortune turns/I go down, demeaned/another is raised up/far too proud/sits the king at the summit --/let him fear ruin!"

For a brief, passing moment Nick Fury was without words. He pondered the passage. "Wheel of Fortune, eh? Where's it from?"

"We ran it through our databases. It's from the Carmina Burana. We think whoever wrote it—whoever gave our old friend the tarot card—meant it as a warning."

"What was Trask's explanation for it?"

"He said he found it on his food tray after waking up. But no one's entered the cell--"

Fury cut him off. "Then someone must have placed the card on his tray before the food was delivered."

Rossi scoffed. "Nick, are you suggesting that one of my men did this? None of them would have any motivation to pull such a pathetic little scare tactic…"

"Do you have a better explanation?"

Rossi's silence was answer enough.

"I expect you to be on top of this, Mike. I don't like mysteries."

Furrowing his brow, Rossi replied, "Neither do I, Nick...But on the subject of Trasks…what about Bolivar's bouncing baby boy?"

"Lawrence Trask has effectively dropped off our radar. AEGIS still doesn't have its hands on him, but I doubt Wraith's given up on adding him to his little mutant menagerie." Fury spat the words with contempt. "And in the meantime, they still have that blue shape-shifter down in Area 51 to play with."

Rossi spit out the name in disgust. "Mystique." Both SHIELD and Interpol had been pursuing her for international crimes, and even he could not protest the treatment she was surely receiving at the hands of Wraith's butchers.

Fury, however, stressed the matter at hand. "But right now, whatever you do, keep your eye on Bolivar Trask."

---

Bobby Drake tossed and turned in his bed, blankets twisted around his knees. Half awake, his eyes drifted to the alarm clock on his nightstand, and he let out a small groan when he saw the red numbers flashing 3:17. Next he heard a noise, and Bobby realized what it was that had kept him from sleeping soundly. Across the room Larry was thrashing about in his own bed, the bedsprings creaking in tune with his moans.

Sick, Bobby thought, grabbing his pillow and planting it over his head to block out the noise. I don't wanna listen to this freak's wet dreams.

But Larry was only getting louder. After about another thirty seconds of listening to it, Bobby sat up and raised his pillow in the air, ready to chuck it at his unwanted roommate. However, once fully alert and with nothing muffling the sounds, it dawned on Bobby that Larry was not moaning in ecstasy, but rather groaning in pain. In the darkness, Bobby could make out Larry's shape twisting as if he was having a fit, and he listened to the sounds from his lips that were actually words.

"Second door…has been opened…the world…will soon tremble…"

Bobby's eyes widened. What exactly was he hearing?

"The world will tremble!" the sleeping Larry said again, his voice shaky. "Long…may he reign…Hail…Hail Lord Apocalypse!"

There was a sting in Bobby's arm; he realized his arm was still hanging in the air, pillow in hand, and that Larry's bizarre words had stopped him cold. What's the problem-o, Iceman? Loser Larry's just having a nightmare. Big freakin' deal.
Opting not to throw the pillow after all, Bobby settled down and pulled the covers over his head before turning his back to his roommate. Eventually Larry would fall silent, but his words lingered in Bobby's mind until at last the black waves of sleep washed over him as well.

A/N: Trask's illustrations of a mutant-dominated future were taken straight from the X-Men comics, Uncanny X-Men #14, to be exact. (Very old school.)

Thanks for reading, everyone! --Sandoz