Editor's Note: I know, I know: it's been months since I updated, and I apologize for the delay. What can I say? A combination of holiday insanity and writer's block will fell the most ardent, prolific writer....
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Sinister Designs: Chapter 9
Most of the institute was gathered in the rec room, watching that gigantic television set. What had been rapt, silent attention at first had now turned to quiet commentary and grumbling among the stud to do that again, right?"
Jubilee: "Assuming they don't teleport here. Then we won't get any warning at all."
Regis: "If they could do that so easy, why did they keep coming after us in trucks? There's gotta be a reason they don't teleport a lot."
Rhane: "I say we do our own patrols. That way we'll fill in the holes the cameras miss."
The muttered conversation stopped. Everyone turned to look at Rhane, who was glaring at the TV as if it was Nathaniel himself. Then, in silence, they looked at each other.
"Scott's gonna shit bricks over this," Jubilee whispered, though her grin made it look like she was less than worried about possible consequences.
Judy shrank back into the overstuffed leather sofa. "You've gotta be kidding. Didn't you see the guns on those things? Didn't you hear Mr. Summers talk about how hard it was to take them down?"
"You're such a Goddamn princess, Judy," Jubilee sneered as she stood up.
Judy's face reddened. "Easy for you to say, Miss Sparkler USA! You can burn holes in stuff! I can�%9Rhane, who was glaring at the TV as if it was Nathaniel himself. Then, in silence, they looked at each other.
"Scott's gonna shit bricks over this," Jubilee whispered, though her grin made it look like she was less than worried about possible consequences.
Judy shrank back into the overstuffed leather sofa. "You've gotta be kidding. Didn't you see the guns on those things? Didn't you hear Mr. Summers talk about how hard it was to take them down?"
"You're such a Goddamn princess, Judy," Jubilee sneered as she stood up.
Judy's face reddened. "Easy for you to say, Miss Sparkler USA! You can burn holes in stuff! I can't! All I do is shape it!"
"You're a spoiled princess, Judy! You're always screaming and running away! Maybe you aughta do something useful instead of using us as armor!"
"Oh, yeah, I guess standing up to Stryker's guys got you someplace, didn't it? All the way to Alkali Lake!"
Jubilee went for Judy. Jamie deliberately bashed his elbow against the wood of the couch, and immediately four of him were between the two girls. Energy crackled around Jubilee as she hurled insults past the wall of Jamies. At that moment, Rogue appeared at the doorway, in uniform.
"Hey!" she barked. "Knock it off!" When Jubilee silenced, Rogue added, "Y'all want to sit around bitchin' an moanin', or do somethin' useful? What's it gonna be?"
"Like the princess here could be useful in a fight," Jubilee mumbled, glaring back at Judy.
Suddenly Rogue was inches away from Jubilee, pointing a gloved finger right between her eyes. "That ain't useful at all, Jubes."
Startled, Jubilee stumbled back and almost tripped. She and Rogue were close in size, but something about Rogue's attitude made her seem twice as tall that moment. She watched the "Xkid" with sullen respect.
Rogue addressed everyone. "Just because I don't slice and dice like Logan don't mean I ain't had some experience with those things. I've seen what they do first hand." She shuddered involuntarily, and her voice dropped in volume. "And second hand."
She quickly scooped up the remote control and turned off the TV. "In any case, it ain't gonna do us a lick of good to bitch at each other. So I'm askin' again; you want to defend this place or not?"
For several seconds, no one dared move or speak. Shocked silence descended on the room.
"Mr. Summers is really gonna let us go out and do something like that?" John asked nervously.
Rogue glanced over her shoulder, and her voice lowered in volume again. "Well... let's just say I'd rather beg forgiveness than ask permission. He ain't told me 'no', and he's workin' with Kitty on a training sequence for somethin' like this in the danger room, so that looks a lot like 'yes' to me."
"Wh...what about the rest of us?" Judy whispered, giving apprehensive glances Jubilee's way. "Professor always told us to run instead."
The students divided into camps of anticipation and apprehension. Rogue had no illusions about what they must have been thinking. No one could forget being woken at 2am by Syryn's scream, and then the terror of running for their life from Stryker's commandos. And then it seemed to happen again just a couple months ago, though this time the assault never breached the institute's gates. She stood in front of the gray TV screen.
"Look, we've all been through having this place attacked. Y'all with me on this one? Ain't no way you can put up a good defense when you're woken up outa a sound sleep, all in your rooms, all disoriented like that. But we weren't prepared then. We weren't ready for it. This time, if someone thinks they can take advantage of the rest of the Xmen being away... we're gonna be ready." She crossed her arms and planted her feet. "We're gonna defend our home."
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"We're not landing?" Logan repeated with disbelief.
"Sean doesn't need for us to land," Ororo told him. "Just to slow down a little."
Kurt gave a snort of laughter. "That's the first time I ever heard of a thousand miles per hour referred to as 'a little'."
"We needed to drop out of mach anyway," she continued. "We won't lose much time at all. Kurt, could you open that third compartment down to your left? We're going to be needing those badly."
Kurt opened the indicated pop-out drawer and looked in. He saw a mass of pink plastic bits, glaringly bright against the navy blue interior: industrial grade earplugs. He grabbed a good-sized handful and took them back to the rest of the cabin.
"In the event that a screaming Irishman should enter the cockpit, take two of these and plug your ears completely," he said. "In the event of premature ramp lowering, check to see if ground is attached before exiting this aircraft."
"And remember that premature ramp lowering happens to everybody sometime in their life," Logan mumbled as he took a pair of earplugs.
Kurt lightly cuffed Logan on the side of the head as he passed by, continuing to hand out earplugs, and continuing his speech in that blandly pleasant manner so familiar to flight attendants throughout the world. "It is advised that you fasten your seatbelts, as I only rescue pretty girls when they are sucked out of an aircraft. The rest of you will just be laughed at."
Ororo couldn't help looking out of the cockpit as she searched for Sean. She knew she'd find him through the transponder, not with her eyes. Besides that it was pitch black, with no moon. But her instincts kept telling her to look up, to watch for his presence. Kurt would be back in his seat by the time Sean finally showed up on their sensors.
"Everyone strapped in? I'm lowering the ramp!" she warned.
A quick glance showed her three thumbs up, so she overrode the controls and opened the ramp in mid-air. Kurt turned around in his seat and clung as the hole opened up in the floor. They were only up a few hundred feet by then, speeding along at less than 100 MPH over the Irish Sea, but there was still a lot of noise from the wind, to say nothing of the chill. For a second or two there was just the sound of the wind buffeting against the ramp, then everyone heard a clear, tri-toned, dissonant set of pitches that didn't quite deserve to be called a chord. It quickly increased in volume, like someone managed to plug a random set up tuning forks into an amplifier. It was just getting up to the point of discomfort when it abruptly stopped. There was no Sean.
What had gone wrong? Kurt teleported to the edge of the ramp, gripping to the floor with both hands and feet, and looked down. On the ramp clung a man in a bomber jacket, slowly making his way up the steps. Every inch of his body was covered, right down to the goggles and old-style leather aviator cap. Kurt leaned over the ramp, grabbed the man by his shoulders, and pulled him in.
Ororo closed the ramp after the two men were clear, then demanded, "Sean, why didn't you fly in the rest of the way?"
"And burst everyone's eardrums?" Sean asked back. "That'd be a fine way to start this off."
He pulled down his protective mask and raised his goggles as he spoke. Despite what must have been a dreadful wind chill factor, his face remained pink with warmth, though he was panting a bit.
"I would've made it just fine," he went on. "But it was nice to have the a--" He turned to Kurt for the first time and stopped in mid sentence. After an awkward heartbeat, he finished, "Assist. I'm sorry. I shouldn't've stopped like that."
Kurt pulled the plugs out of his ears and smiled. "That's all right. Everyone does that the first time."
Sean was pushing 50. His face was weathered, his vibrant red hair just beginning to gray, and as he removed his gloves all saw that his hands were spotting with age. In this case the years only made him more dangerous, and more valuable. He slapped his gloves in one hand and looked about the rest of the cabin.
"Right, then! Has the Professor got us some more precise coordinates?"
"They just came through a few minutes ago," Ororo said. "Give me a moment to pull up to a better altitude."
The Blackbird's nose tilted up, and while Kurt casually stood where he was, Sean hastily sat down before he risked losing his footing. He wound up sitting right behind Logan.
"Read your file on the way here," Logan said quietly. "One question; you made any 'long term' enemies with the Brits?"
"Just the tangerines," Sean answered just as softly. "And they consider carrots traitors for havin' greens."
"So you're not marked?"
"Shouldn't be. Sinn Féin got everyone a good deal, they did."
The jet soon leveled out, and Ororo called up a quick holographic map of the area in question.
There was one good thing about Nathaniel's technological abattoir: it was in a rural environment. In fact, it was in the middle of some farmland, with acres of rye spreading out in all directions. Security was apparently light to non-existent, with a basic chain link fence around the perimeter and a single asphalt road in and out. The building was relatively small, with no obvious power or phone lines above ground.
"It's listed as an agricultural lab," Ororo stated without turning around. "Considering how many patents he has on seed stocks and low-impact pesticides, it could be a legitimate lab on the surface."
"It's hard to get a sense of scale," Bobby said. "How big is that place?"
"Judging by the fields, it could be as big as the school," Piotr answered. He pointed to a spot on the building. "Here is where trucks would pick up and deliver. If they are using those mobile torture labs, they could change them here and no one would know." He pulled his hand back and rubbed his chin in thought. "I worry about those fields the most. With all that rye growing, it could hide a great deal."
"Like a suit?"
"If the rye is tall enough, and the suit laid down flat, then yes, it could. It could easy hide a man. How tall is the grain, Ororo?"
"I wish I could get a current satellite picture, but it looks like there's nothing in range now," she said. "We're pretty sure that Moira and Isidro are stationary, so either they're parked somewhere, or they're in a cell in the building."
"Or under," Logan added. "Basements are easy to hide."
"Power source?" Bobby asked.
"Officially they're connected to the local station, but they're sure to have backups," Ororo answered.
"Well, there's one thing we can count on," Bobby said. "You need a lot of water to grow grain...."
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One of the best things about working with Graydon Creed was the fact he made himself available at all times. On the rare occasion when Nathaniel had no choice but to wake him up in the middle of the night, Graydon had always been polite and cheerful, qualities that came through even though the voice disguiser. He always made it sound as if he'd been happily anticipating this call. Of course, those same qualities that made Graydon a joy to work with also made him a very dangerous adversary, but Nathaniel would burn that bridge when he came to it. Right now, it was enough to know that his call to the colonies would be answered in short order.
Within seconds, a modulated voice answered, "Good evening, Mister Sinister."
"Good evening to you as well, sir," Nathaniel replied.
"Was your trip as pleasant as planned?"
"Pleasant and profitable. However, I fear we may have a bit of a storm brewing on the horizon. Our favorite Sentinel has made repeated interruptions, and has been taking more and more of my time."
Graydon made a frustrated sigh. Nathaniel could picture him pinching his nasal ridge and contorting his face in a pained grimace. "He has."
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
"How many calls has he made?"
"Over the past ten hours, he has called me no less than three times. I hesitate to say this, but I'm beginning to fear for his welfare. He seems to be very anxious."
In the meantime, unbeknownst to either party, a third party was monitoring their conversation. Harold Trask had invited himself in. He sat at his secondary workbench, listening to Nathaniel and Graydon while he plotted orbital trajectories for his satellites.
Graydon: I don't suppose there's anything in particular he's upset about? Anything you could actually change?
Oh, yes, Mystique, there's a LOT I'm upset about, Harold thought, clenching his jaw in irritation. And you'd be amazed about how much of it centers around you.
Nathaniel: Well, not really. He seems to be growing more and more concerned about his lack of field control.
Graydon: In that case, you're not the only one. He's taken to spamming everyone in the organization, right down to the janitors. If anything, he's just proving why we made the decision we did.
After all, we can't have someone with FOH's actual welfare making tactical decisions, can we, mutant bitch?
Nathaniel: It's good to see I'm not alone, but the question is what can we do about it?
Graydon: Well, I've warned him against this sort of action several times. I just sent an ultimatum to him yesterday, and he seems content to ignore me.
That's because you're not in charge! I AM! I wouldn't bow to another human on this, let alone a freak like you!
Graydon: His technical expertise is almost as valuable as yours, Mister Sinister, but his obsessive paranoia is about to make him a liability. I think our best bet is to quietly ignore him, but make it look like he's still part of the process. That way we can keep him happy without everyone playing babysitter.
Nathaniel: That requires the cooperation of the entire board. Is that a possibility?
Graydon: More than a possibility. We've been in agreement on it since the disaster. If it came down to it, that's what would be done. Now it's come down to it. If you can't work with him, then this is our only recourse. And to tell the truth, I'm kind of relieved. He could portray a bad image, if someone ever photographs him during one of his tantrums.
Tantrums! Is that what they called the defense of the human race? A tantrum? He banged on his keyboard, hitting so many keys at one time that an error screen popped up. Dammit! He entered the text again. He was going to get access to that satellite. He was going to watch Nathaniel's little testing lab like a proverbial hawk. Because if Nathan was going to turn against him, he needed monitoring almost as much as Mystique herself.
Nathaniel: A liaison is still needed. Do you have anyone in mind?
Graydon: Actually, I have several prospects. In the meantime, don't worry about him. Feel free to "screen your calls", or disconnect that line entirely if you'd prefer.
Nathaniel: Disconnecting sounds like an excellent idea. Now I'll actually be able to get some work--....
Harold looked at the speaker, surprised by the sudden quiet spot.
Graydon: Is something wrong, sir?
Nathaniel: I'm not sure.... hold on for a moment....
Harold sat waiting with annoyance. The speaker was quiescent, and the computer was updating. Long seconds passed in silence as he watched the progress bar.
Nathaniel: I'm afraid I'll have to speak with you another time, my friend. I have to tend to things here.
Graydon: All right, then, sir. Good evening.
Nathaniel: Good evening.
Harold crossed his arms and tapped impatiently on his elbows as he waited for the screen to clear and refresh. Finally, he saw a light-enhanced view of some British countryside or another. (He could never remember the exact address off the top of his head.) Harold zoomed in on a few key spots. Had more mutants been delivered recently? Probably not: the loading dock was clear, there were neither rigs nor trailers parked outside, the lights were off, and Nathan likely had his hands full dealing with Hank McCoy down below. He pulled back to check for other possible contact points. Maybe someone had pulled up to the front door instead of the loading dock.
And maybe the Xmen themselves might be attacking, drawn in by Henry's presence despite the 'Cerebro scruffs', Harold thought as he checked the perimeter. You should never trust unproven technology, Nathan. Never.
He skimmed past fields of grain, their stalks gently swaying with the night breezes, then headed to the edge of the property. Where he found a large black aircraft parked by the fence. A large, distinctly military, distinctly stealthy craft, with no civilian applications whatsoever.....
"I have to tend to things here"? That was a mild term for it! The Xmen were launching an assault! Good Lord, Harold was right! He knew something like that was going to happen the second they insisted on keeping Hank alive! That idiot, Nathan! He'd sealed his own doom!
Harold checked around the sleek jet, then the darkened building, but saw neither motion nor light. And even if he wanted to save Nathaniel's arrogant British hide, there wasn't anything he could do about it from here.
Wait....
Yes....
Yes, there was something he could do. Because if the Xmen were all there, taking out Nathaniel, it meant the institute's protectors were occupied as well. Oh, the might have left a token force, but if only three of Xavier's battle-hardened abominations had left the terrorist's camp, it meant there weren't enough left to stop him.
His thoughts raced with the possibilities as he ran to the hanger. FOH hailing him as a hero. Mystique being exposed for what she was. The blood of abominations beneath his feet, cleansing his soul as it nourished the ground. Just the thought of eliminating these threats before they blossomed and claimed innocent human lives sent his heart soaring with excitement and pride.
Stryker went in with normal weapons, searching for extraordinary equipment. This time, Harold Trask would be bringing that "extraordinary equipment" with him.
TBC....