Sinister Designs: Chapter 7
It didn't take Scott too long to find Katherine Pryde. She wasn't with the students, and she wasn't in the hanger bay, so that left one other likely spot. Sure enough, she was in the danger room, alone. A quick glance at the control panel let Scott know he didn't have to chew her out for indiscretion. The program was just an exercise run, a setup of forcefields at varying frequencies. The worst she injuries she could sustain would be from running full-tilt into a wall.
Scott watched her from the darkened observation booth for a bit. She was in her old dancing leotards, and she wore a less-than-perfect French braid. It was rather sloppily done, probably braided without help and in haste, but it served its purpose: keeping her hair out of her face. A line of ten forcefields stood in front of her, each one ten feet apart, each one a different color and frequency. She crouched in front of them, a runner ready to bolt into action.
"Start!" she shouted.
The automatic timer began as Kate sprang forward. The first three forcefields didn't seem to exist for her, the fourth she had to push through, the fifth didn't exist. The sixth one stopped her cold, however, and it took five seconds of straining to bypass. She collapsed to her knees, swearing, between it and the seventh wall.
Scott turned on the mike and asked, "You're not going to bother with the next three?"
She looked up, startled, while Scott turned on the main light in the control booth.
"I didn't know you were up there," she panted.
"That's not an answer, Kitty. You got all the way through the sixth field in record time, and then you stopped. Why?"
She looked away, silent. Scott left the observation booth and made his way down into the danger room itself. By then Kitty was sitting on a nearby chair. Every inch of her body screamed frustration, even if she didn't say a word herself.
"You really wanted to go with the team, didn't you?" he asked softly.
She winced before turning meekly to face Scott. "You saw me?"
"My vision's not that bad. It was a nice idea to crouch so low to the ground in the hallway, but I was looking down at the time." He knelt in front of her chair. "You've only had a few hours of sleep. Are you sure you don't want to rest instead?"
"I should be on that jet. I should be going with them."
You and me both, he thought. Aloud, "I know. It's hard to wait here. But I'm glad you didn't try to sneak onboard."
"I could have. I could have gotten in one of the holds, and even Logan wouldn't have known. No one would have known until I got out at the end. I could've done it."
"If you're so sure of that, why didn't you?"
"I made a promise," she whispered.
"Good to see you're taking your parent's concerns seriously."
"Not them. Dad'd be proud of me. He's been facing down the Klan all his life, and it didn't even matter when they tried to firebomb the house. He never backed down."
That's a lot different than putting your daughter into the line of fire alone... "Then who did you make the promise to, Kate?"
She gave a trembling sigh. "I promised Rosa, okay? She was really scared one of the amp suits would come for her, and I told her I'd protect her, all right?" She looked down at the floor. "She was so scared. She looked at me like I was her only hope. I couldn't... I just couldn't leave her like that when I promised her I'd protect her."
Scott had difficulty swallowing. For once, he was glad that his eyes were perpetually hidden behind his ruby shades.
He cleared his suddenly constricted throat. "Well, if you're going to do that, you could probably do with a combat simulation instead of just an obstacle course."
Kate's jaw dropped. "You'd do that for me?"
"Marie's taking care of monitors right now, and it's taking all of the Professor's concentration to contact Isidro. I've got some time on my hands. Unless you're tired."
"No way! I don't get one of these solo ones very often."
Scott nodded and left without a word. Outside, in the hall, his vision blurred for a second, before this glasses misted inside, then cleared under the constant bombardment. I just couldn't leave her like that when I promised her I'd protect her...
He ground his teeth and jogged up to the observation booth.
:
The Blackbird pushed the envelope of space as it silently screamed along at mach 3. Kurt gripped the yoke tightly as he watched the soft red glow of the Blackbird's nose. He had only simulated supersonic flight a few times, and this was his first real-world experience. In fact, the only ones who were familiar with supersonic flight were Ororo and Piotr, and only she had been "behind the wheel".
"What's that sound?" Kurt asked. "That sizzling? Is that normal?"
Ororo nodded. "Perfectly normal. It's just ionizing air."
Kurt slowly let go of the yoke as he turned around. It was a relief to see that he wasn't the only one nervous about this. The rest of the Xmen were slowly letting go their collectively held breath.
"It's nerve-wracking the first time out," she called back. "You get used to it after a few flights."
"I thought the place was going to shake itself apart for a while, there," Logan muttered as he unhooked his belt.
"Just think how bad it must have been for Yeager the first time. That little turbulence was nothing."
Kurt turned back to the controls. "The simulator was certainly accurate about that shaking. I thought Scott was just giving me a hard time back there."
"Well, he might have been a little overboard on the shaking," she conceded. "But from here on out, it's smooth as silk."
"So now we just wait and watch the controls?"
"That's about right. And wait for that 'phone call'."
"I hope the Prof can get ahold of him," Logan said. "We find more of those amp suits, we'll need all the help we can get."
"I just wish I knew Mr. Cassidy better," Ororo said. "It's not easy fighting alongside of a man you've never trained with."
"Yeah, well, if his daughter's any indication, he's not designed for stealth," Bobby grunted as he stretched.
Logan unbuckled his seatbelt. "He'll make a damn fine distraction, though."
"Speaking of distracting, what was with all the door slamming back there?" Bobby asked. Logan gave him a curious look, and he clarified, "Before we took off, you were checking all the compartments down to the fridge. What was that all about?"
Logan turned away, and replied in his characteristic, almost unintelligible mumble, "Lookin' for stowaways."
"Stowaways?" Kurt asked.
"Someone who hides on a --"
"I know what the word means," Kurt interrupted, somewhat testily. "But what makes you want to look this time?"
"Caught Kitty's scent in the hall outside the study. She was listening in. Thought she might try gettin' onboard."
"How much do you think she heard?" Ororo asked.
"Don't know, but she was tired and pissed off. She might've tried tagging along." For no apparent reason, he came up front to the cockpit and looked out at the darkened sky. "Just didn't want to take the chance she might do it."
"Why didn't you tell us beforehand?" she asked softly.
He glanced back down at her before moving back to the main cabin. "Kid doesn't deserve to be embarrassed in front of everyone like that. 'Specially since I was wrong."
A soft chime issued from the control panel, prompting Logan to turn about in mid-step. The chime was immediately followed by a softly accented, Irish, baritone voice.
"This is the Banshee."
Ororo replied, "Banshee, this is Storm. It's good to hear from you."
"Same here. I'm glad this thing worked. Haven't used it in donkey's years." His voice held the last bits of sleepiness. "All right, Cyc told me about the kidnappin', but he didn't give all the bits like where we're goin'."
Logan stepped back up to the cockpit and leaned on the back of Ororo's seat, watching flight controls that he barely understood.
"Believe it or not, we're still narrowing down the 'where'," she said.
"You're kiddin' me."
"I'm not. We know it's in your area, but that's about it."
"Jays, Storm, I thought Cerebro could get better than that."
"The Professor's not using it."
"Well, why the hell not?"
"Because it's not doing the job, Banshee. It's like everyone involved just dropped off the face of the world so far as Cerebro's concerned. He's doing it the old fashioned way."
Banshee paused. "That could take days."
"Not according to him Not in this circumstance."
He hesitated again. "All right, so that's solved, but... Look, are ye absolutely sure it was Nathan?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because if he's really the one behind all this, we'd better pray he's doin' it in some super-secret facility even the Royals don't know about. The hoor's melt has big contracts with the British government, and ye can imagine what would happen if we got caught at one o' those installations."
"It means I want the flowers and the chocolate to go with this," Logan growled.
:
Moira stared at Isidro. Did he say what she thought he did? His lips moved just enough to follow his words, but the motion was subtle enough she might be misreading him.
It's Xavier, Isidro continued silently.
Moira quickly scanned the room and what she could see of the hallway. She knew Nathan wasn't stupid enough to leave them without monitors. Unfortunately, he was also smart enough to have them well concealed: she couldn't tell what angle they were being monitored from. She looked back at the withered hand that clutched hers.
She fumbled for some way to disengage from Martin without giving Nathan more information. "Martin, I... I need to do something."
Martin's hand let hers go. She scuttled back to Isidro, who tracked her approach with disturbing slowness. She put her face right next to his ear, and cupped her hands around her lips to discourage lip reading.
"Charles, is that you?" she whispered.
She immediately put her ear in front of Isidro's mouth to catch any sound. Faintly, he responded, "Yes."
She went back and forth as she spoke with "Isidro", doing everything she could to hide their conversation from prying cameras.
"How long until ye get here?" she asked.
"Not long now. They have Sean with them."
"Charles, for the love of God, be careful. We aren't the only ones here. I dinna know how many else, but there's at least one more prisoner here besides us, and he's in frightful shape. There may even be another guard besides that walkin' blob."
"I had the feeling that was the case. We've sent all that we can." Isidro blinked, then closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Moira, I can't keep this up for long. I have to conserve strength. I'll... listen in..."
Isidro's breath released in a sigh, his head lolled to one side, and he seemed to have fallen asleep. After two seconds his whole body jerked awake with a startled cry, his eyes wide, his arms flailing out for balance. Moira grabbed him and held him against the wall. He immediately grabbed her forearms and clung.
"Say nothing," she hissed. "Say absolutely nothing."
Isidro made a quick visual check of the walls and corners of their cell, then looked to her and nodded. He closed his eyes and let go of Moira, his breathing slowing from frantic hyperventilation to something more sustainable.
"Son of a bitch," he whispered.
"How much do ye remember? Did ye talk with Charles first?" she whispered into his ear.
He swallowed and nodded, speaking only when she cupped her hands around his face and leaned in. "Yeah. He warned me. It's just... Dammit, that felt like being in the suit. Jesus, that was close. I don't like being pushed back like that."
Moira pulled away as he rubbed his face. They both looked back at the cell bars, where Martin's limp arm still rested. Isidro flexed his fingers a bit, then stood and moved over to that arm.
"Hey, fella, you gonna be okay over there?" he asked.
The arm moved a bit in response, groping for the person behind the voice. Isidro grabbed Martin's hand.
Martin's voice was still choked with emotion. "Gonna be fine. Just fine. Ain't nothin' more they can do to me, now. It don't matter none. They ain't gettin' the juice. They ain't doin' it again. That's all what matters."
Martin said words to that effect over and over again, his own personal mantra. It must have worked, because his grip grew more sure and less desperate, his voice more even.
That was, until their guard's voice called from down the hall.
"Hey! Nutcase! Pipe down in there! We gotta phone call!" Fred shouted.
Martin started to giggle. "What'cha gonna do about it, tubbo? Rip off'n my arm? That'll cheese off the boss right good, now, won't it?"
Fred's footsteps echoed down the hall as he walked closer, but the accompanying tremors were far more intimidating. He lumbered to down to Martin's cell and glared in at the man.
"I'm not kidding, buddy," he snarled. "You shut the fuck up and stick that arm back in there before I lose my temper."
Martin let go of Isidro's hand and pulled his arm out of their cell... then gave Fred the finger. Fred swore again, loudly, but seemed very reluctant to follow through on his implied threats.
"Mister Dukes, if you have to break his arm, that's quite all right, but I don't want any bleeding," Nathaniel's voice called from somewhere.
Fred looked back and forth, down the hall, at Martin, down the hall again. He then grabbed Martin's arm and pushed it back into his cell, taking care to stay in contact with the man as little as possible. Fred pounded once on the bars to Martin's cell, probably to intimidate, but no matter how much he tried to impress Martin, it seemed to have little effect. The caged man kept laughing.
"If any of your crazy rubs off on me, I'm gonna make your head into a canoe, buddy!" Fred shouted as he wiped his hand on his clothing.
He moved back down the hallway without sparing a glance into any of the other cells. His stream of grumbled profanity was cut off abruptly when that soundproof shield slid back into place. He quit the scene as quickly as he arrived, leaving Moira and Isidro to wonder just who Nathaniel could be talking to.
:
As far as Harold Trask was concerned, his workroom was a wreck. An absolute disaster area, with loose wiring, test equipment, and "everything else" lying around. The fact that the place was a Class 10,000 cleanroom made no difference. The fact that every wire, every chip, every tool was in its proper place made no difference. The tools were mis-aligned at least three degrees off kilter. The chairs were out of place. The boxes of EPROM's were incorrectly stacked. It wasn't perfect. Therefore it was a mess. This whole business with FOH had him so agitated that he couldn't even keep his own lab up to his demanding specifications. And so he was alone in his own cleanroom, in the dead of night, trying to make things livable.
The more he tried to straighten the place up, the worse it seemed to get. His hands shook with anger, his face burned so hot that it was a miracle he didn't fog up the enclosed cleansuit faceplate (anyone who actually stooped to the term "bunny suit" was immediately removed from his presence). Everything he touched reminded him that he was effectively trapped there, in that cleanroom. Never to lead the troops outside again. All control of FOH, an organization that he founded, was slipping away from his grasp.
The Westchester attack was sound! The units were parked outside of the mansion's sensors, the government's spy satellites were elsewhere, and it was the dead of night! Everyone should have been asleep! Even that blue monstrosity should have been asleep, dammit! There was no reason for it to be awake at that hour, let alone in the exact position to see the missile racks! It should have worked! If it had, the entire training camp would have been destroyed! Why didn't anyone understand the importance of that?
Damn Graydon! he thought, slamming his fists on the counter. It's all about the politics and funding to him! All he talks about is how much this costs, how much that costs, we have to work slowly... This is a war, dammit! The costs of inaction are far worse!
Stryker's legacy would fall to dust if something wasn't done. No one understood how lethal the Xmen were. Not that arrogant pig, Nathaniel, not that greedy pig, Graydon. You didn't just leave terrorist nests alone like that. You eliminated them! It had to be done! Yet here he sat, completely isolated from all tactical decisions. His precious Sentinel project was no longer his to command.
He mumbled "damn you, Graydon" over and over, not completely aware of his own words. Graydon. Charismatic, smooth, the ultimate manipulator. He must be a mole, a mutant sympathizer sent to destroy FOH. He might even be Mystique in disguise...
His sudden epiphany froze him in his tracks. Yes. Of course. Graydon had to be her. Anyone who let the enemy survive was a traitor. Graydon paid lip service to the cause, but held it back every way he could. That's where Mystique went. That's why she hasn't been seen anywhere...
He sat back on a nearby stool. Everything made all too much sense now. Mystique and the Oval Office Assassin both could go anywhere they wanted unseen and unchecked. They could have met at any time with no one the wiser. "Graydon" must have found out about Harold's intended attack on the institute, and gone to warn the mutants ahead of time. That's the only way the blue freakish thing would have discovered them. The only way. If Harold was going to save FOH... if he was going to save humanity itself... Mystique had to be eliminated.
"Graydon" had to go.
He abruptly got up and left the cleanroom. No one else in FOH knew the truth, and if he attacked without proof, the results could be disastrous for the cause. He had to catch the bitch in the act, or at least make the effort. He ran through the possibilities as he stripped off the tyvek suit in the airlock/changing room. Satellite? Good, but took a long time to reposition. He'd work on it. Wiretap of her personal phones? It wouldn't show her face, and her voice was as malleable as any other part of her... but it was immediate and simple to do, and she might blurt out something incriminating. Personal surveillance? Possible, but who could he trust? How far had the "contamination" spread down FOH? How many sympathizers had crawled in under her wing? Worse, how many mutants could be there? That x-gene blood test suddenly didn't seem all that certain anymore, what with "Graydon's" authority to hide any inconvenient results. One telepath and the whole thing could be blown. No, he'd have to stick with remote surveillance for now, until he found someone he could trust to plant the bugs.
He tossed everything into the garbage and left the airlock. Wiretaps first. He could then monitor the phone lines as he programmed the satellite into position. He walked briskly to his secondary lab.
You tipped your hand too early in sealing me off, Mystique, he thought. That's going to cost your and your kind dearly.