Sinister Designs: Chapter 13
The lab was finally cleared of combatants. The few guards that survived the X-men's intrusion were swiftly restrained, and Moira found some very potent sedative that she made sure to pour into Nathaniel's open wound. As for the rest of the crew, though Logan caught several unfamiliar scents, they were long gone from the building. It was assumed that the rest of Nathaniel's men must have escaped at some point, but whether they made it into the countryside, or were currently orbiting the earth with the rest of the tornado-strewn debris, was up to anyone's guess.
When Kurt finally took the time to poke his head through the hole in the basement, and really, really look at the landscape, he saw... well... he wasn't sure how to describe it. For a several hundred foot radius, the land was scoured to the ground. Tiny bits of rebar marked the outline of the lab. Decorative shade trees were now ugly stumps; in three cases, they had been yanked out by the roots. The asphalt was all that survived. Yet past that point, rye still swayed in the breeze, and the trees had all of their leaves firmly attached. It was as if God's hand came down, touched a small section of the Earth, and left everything else unscathed.
Kurt casually pulled himself onto what was left of the laboratory floor and walked to Ororo's side. Her eyes were fixed on some gray clouds as they moved swiftly out to sea.
"That was draining," she said. "Very, very draining."
"Where will all this 'stuff' land that the tornado took up?" Kurt asked.
"The heavier things will land in the ocean somewhere between here and Ireland. The lighter debris..." She shrugged.
"It would seem that out fat friend has a long swim ahead of him."
"By which time we should be long gone--" She stopped herself and held up a hand, tilting her head in the direction of her comlink. "Yes, Moira, we did that the first thing...Iceman froze the coolant..." Her eyes widened. "You're not serious...? No, wait, hold on: I'm going to put this on speaker for Nightcrawler."
Ororo removed her headset and held it between her and Kurt as she activated the exterior speaker.
"We're on?" Moira's slightly distorted voice asked.
"Go ahead, Moira," Ororo answered.
"I'm down here in the control center with Henry, and we're both thankin' God ye shut the power off. If ye hadn't, this whole place would be flooded with nerve gas by now. He had lasers, he could seal off corridors, it's like somethin' out of a movie down here... What, Hank?... Oh sweet Lord..." Moira's voice shook with rage. "Hank says the bastard had a secondary disposal for the rest of the test subjects. He'd just pump a cocktail into their I.V.s... God, he could've done this any time..."
Kurt let out an explosive sigh and crossed himself. "May God be praised that he never found that time."
"We've got five 'subjects' that we can save," Henry's now very deep voice rumbled. "Two of them... we'll see what we can do. Moira says she has room at her lab until they recover. If they do recover."
Sparkles of light shone dimly down the road. Light in shades of white and red, alternately flashing.
"We've got company," Ororo said. "I think it's only fire and emergency vehicles, but there could be a SWAT team as well. It depends on whether or not Nathan called for help."
"Let me take it," Moira said. "I'm comin' up."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, 'take it'?" Sean interrupted. "What do you mean, 'take it'? You're not just gonna go out and talk to them, are you?"
"Why not?"
"They'll confiscate everythin' and everyone on the grounds! We should be evacuating all these people, not playin' with the Brits!"
"Pardon my intrusion, Banshee, but that's a logistic impossibility," Hank said. "These people down here need treatment and handling that the Blackbird is ill equipped to handle. We might be able to get away clean, but we'll lose half of these poor devils in the transfer. Like it or not, we must rely on the constabulary's good graces."
"Nathan isn't the only one with pull upstairs, Sean," Moira added. "Of everyone here, they wouldn't dare lock me up and throw away the key."
"I've heard that before," Sean grumbled. "Right before the wind shifted."
"Banshee, your caution is commendable, but the fact is that these victims come first," Hank said patiently. "Besides, with such personnel as we have available to us, how long do you think any unjust incarceration would last?"
"I hate to interrupt, people, but those lights are getting closer than I feel comfortable with," Ororo said. "Moira's staying here, that's decided. Hank, what about you?"
Hank's sigh was clearly audible across the link. "I'm a material witness, I'm evidence, I'm one of the only ones who can make sense of all the data. I'm everything combined into one tidy package. As concerned as I am about my legal status, I can't afford to leave, either. However, I highly recommend that you leave to avoid international entanglements. If they want you, they can file a subpoena, but it's more likely this will never see the light of day."
"I'm more worried about the two of you never seein' the light of day," Sean mumbled.
Moira made a frustrated noise. "In that case, ye can come down with trumpets blarin' an' have your jailbreak. Happy?"
"What about the soldier?" Kurt asked. "He's definitely American."
"And from what I heard he has certain politically and diplomatically embarrassing affiliations," Hank said quickly. "Considering that Stryker still has enough allies in the government to make sensitive evidence disappear, I strongly suggest our new friend avoid any legal entanglements for the duration."
"Did Henry just say to take Herr Martin with us?" Kurt whispered, low enough that the comlink couldn't pick it up.
"Take him with us and don't let anyone know he exists," Ororo answered just as softly.
She glanced up at the rapidly approaching fleet of vehicles. They were close enough now that she could distinguish fire trucks from police cars. It seemed that this was indeed an emergency response as opposed to a military one. Good. That would be much easier for Moira to talk her way out of, if necessary.
"It's time for us to go," she said. "Moira, Hank, you two stay in contact with us. Call as soon as possible."
"Let's just say we have your number memorized," Hank replied.
The rest of the X-men clambered up at various points from the ruined lab. Even Sean chose to climb up, rather than risk his voice giving them away. Piotr came up last, cradling Sergeant Martin in one arm as easily as if he was a doll. They were airborne before the authorities were close enough to hear them take off.
:
John waited wherever he was for the Professor to return. By now the gigantic amplifier suit had been dead for several minutes, all electronic impulses long since gone. He waited there, feeling a bit alone, all of his other senses shut down and with only the electrical "chatter" of the institute for company. It was definitely a relief when he heard the Professor's voice again. As a matter of fact, he actually saw the man walking towards him in the darkness. Boy, did that look strange.
"John, I want to thank you for all that you did a few minutes ago," he said. "You were instrumental in the fight. And also, I want to apologize. I had... ulterior motives for shutting away your senses as I did."
"Um, okay, whatever," John answered. "Can you put everything back now? This is feeling really weird."
"Of course."
The Professor extended his hand and touched John on the forehead. All his senses began to return. It felt like someone slowly turned up the volume, giving him time to adjust to the influx. He was someplace quiet, with a fair amount of equipment, and it sounded more enclosed than the echoing, cavernous Danger Room. When John opened his eyes, he was slumped in one of several chairs in the medlab, with Professor Xavier retracting his hand from his face.
Medlab? Was that the "ulterior motive" that the Professor mentioned? He'd been injured, and maybe the pain would have made it harder to concentrate? John sat up straight and looked down at himself. He was still dressed in the same nightclothes as when all this started, and he didn't look like he'd been hurt.
Xavier sighed and looked over to the right. "No, Jonathan, you aren't the one who was injured, though you're very close to the reason I shut your senses down."
John followed Xavier's lead and looked in the same direction. On a table he saw Jamie, plugged into tubes and machinery and computers and God knows what else. What little of Jamie he could see was bruised and swollen.
John gasped in horror. "Holy shit, Jamie!"
"Jonathan, please," Xavier chided gently.
"I... I'm sorry, Professor... but... Jamie's not dying, is he?"
"Not anymore."
John stood up. This wasn't supposed to happen, Jamie getting hurt so bad. He was supposed to have his dupes go out instead. John started to feel sick. Here he was, all safe and sound inside the school, and Jamie was getting mangled out there. He moved closer to Jamie's bed, stopping a few feet away at the Professor's gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Is he gonna have to go to a real hospital?" John whispered.
"This is the 'real hospital'," Xavier answered. "You'll be hard-pressed to find an emergency room in all of New York that is willing to treat a mutant, let alone one with James' ability."
"That is so racist," John growled. "If someone did that to Mexicans or something no one would put up with it."
"In this case, they have a valid point. James' ability is purely reflexive, unaffected by his state of consciousness. What do you think would happen if a duplicate was created during his operation?"
John paused. "Jeez. That'd get messy."
"It might even cost James his life."
John looked around at the other beds. Three of them were occupied by Jubilee, Judy, and Kate. Jubilee was propped up watching TV with headphones on, with her head all wrapped up. Judy and Kate seemed to be just sleeping, but looked pale and sick, like they had the flu. All three had electrodes on their head and somewhere on their chests under their clothes. Okay, so Kitty and Jubes got hurt outside, the same as Jamie, but the "princess" was in with the rest of them. What was her problem?
"What happened to Judy?" John asked.
"Judith is suffering the after-affects of pushing her abilities beyond her current limits," Professor Xavier said. "James came in with a crushed ribcage, and Judith put that ribcage back together."
John's jaw almost hit the floor. Judy wasn't supposed to be able to work with living material; only artificial stuff, or stuff that has been dead for a while. And he just couldn't believe that Little Miss Panic could hold things together long enough to do anything like this.
"Whether or not her actions seem to be in character, the fact stands that she saved James' life, and she did so of her own volition," Xavier continued. "I know that Judith has had a difficult time adjusting here, but it would be very good if you could give her a bit of breathing room in the days ahead. I think she has proven herself beyond any shadow of a doubt."
John just nodded, dumbfounded. A wall intercom beeped for attention, and Xavier quietly excused himself from John's side to answer it.
"I wanted to let you know a couple of things, Professor," Scott said through the intercom, his voice flat. "Our Rockem-Sockem-Robot doesn't have any conventional munitions onboard, so we didn't have to worry about any booby-traps. The power source is another matter, but it had safety interlocks, so Kitty shut it down instead of setting it off. And we've finally gotten down to the cockpit in the chest."
"Is the pilot still alive after Catherine's disruption?"
"Mostly. He's another old friend of ours. Three guesses."
Pause. Xavier closed his eyes. "Harold Trask?"
"Bingo. And he's twitching like an addict going through withdrawal. His eyes are open, but he's not tracking me or blinking. It also looks like he's trying to scream, but he's not making any sound."
"Was he 'plugged into' this vehicle in the same manner as the other pilots?"
"Yes and no. Instead of being curled up in an artificial womb, the cockpit here is more like a conventional fighter pilot. He has room to move, he's wearing an actual jumpsuit, and he seems to have a row of input jacks running down his back as well as one at the base of the skull. I'm not sure whether I should unplug him or not."
"I'm going to take a look inside from here. Give me a moment, Scott."
"Holding."
Xavier closed his eyes and slowly, ever so carefully, looked in highly agitated mind of Harold Trask.
Harold's eyes were open. He could see. His jaw ached. His tongue was dry. His body twitched. He could feel the warmth of the seat behind him, the shockingly cool air of the night in front of him. He heard the wind rustle the leaves of the trees that still stood. He saw the stars up ahead. But when he tried to swallow or close his mouth, he discovered that he had no control over his muscles, even those that focused and moved his eyes. He was forced to passively experience his world, until a memory reared up to overwhelm his senses.
Harold was a young boy, watching as father ranted against the coming mutant storm. Mother tried to calm him. It only made father shout more, even shove her away. Father was such a strong man.
Harold was back at the institute. The stars were overhead. The night was cool. The trees' rustle was much softer. Cyclops was looking down at him. Looking? Dear Lord, all he had to do was open that visor of his, and Harold was a dead man--!
Harold was dissecting a dead Talon, marveling at its input jacks and neural technology.
Harold was back at the institute. Cyclops was out of his field of vision. It was deathly still. In fact, he couldn't even hear himself breathe. His jaw didn't hurt so much. Wait, did he even have a jaw or tongue? He couldn't feel his feet--
Harold was in college, leaving a White Power rally, disgusted with its inhabitants. Didn't they realize who the REAL enemy was? The Klan paid lip service to the mutant threat, but they'd never amount to anything with this kind of racial separatism attitude. How much hope did mankind have if you divided it into petty races?
Harold was back at the institute. This moment of comprehension lasted long enough for him to fight through the disorientation of the flashbacks. He had the time to become utterly terrified. He was at the mercy of mutants. He couldn't so much as blink. Cyclops was staring at him again, and so was the girl, Rogue. Their lips moved, but he heard nothing.
Harold was a teenager in training, running at the regional track meet. They called him a superman. It wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't enough. Not if the mutants took over. He'd be nothing. Everyone here would be nothing. The knowledge was at the forefront of his mind every day.
Harold was back at the institute. He couldn't feel the breeze on him, now. He couldn't feel the seat under him. He couldn't taste the air. He felt nothing at all. Only the stars were there. The mutants had left him alone...
Xavier pulled back as another flashback came forth from Harold's memory. This wasn't traumatic stress, nor mental illness; it was disruption on a massive scale. Neurons in portions of his brain were firing randomly, others shut down completely. The cascade of neural failure telegraphed its eventual end with brutal clarity. Soon Harold would be in a permanent state of physical detachment. He would be left without sight, hearing, taste, smell, even the most basic sensations of movement or touch. In the meantime the random firing of his memories showed no signs of slowing down. Harold was becoming a prisoner inside his own body, utterly removed, utterly alone, unable to stop the relentless onslaught of flashbacks.
A fate Xavier would only describe as Hellish.
"Can Mister Trask blink?" Xavier asked softly.
Pause. "I just brushed his eyelashes, and he didn't blink. We're looking at severe neurological damage, aren't we?"
"Yes. Close his eyelids, Scott. Otherwise his eyes may dry out and become damaged."
"My heart bleeds," Scott intoned robotically. "Maybe I should close his mouth too so he doesn't inhale any bugs."
Even though Xavier had pulled away from Trask's damaged mind, he clearly heard the man screaming.
NO! I'M NOT DEAD, DAMN YOU! DON'T CLOSE MY EYES! I'M NOT DEAD! I'M NOT--!
Trask's mental screams silenced under the weight of another triggered memory. This time, Xavier made a more concerted effort to block out the man's thoughts. Listening would only make him feel worse. This was a physical problem; there was nothing a telepath could do.
"Professor, not that I give a rat's ass, but what's this guy's problem?" Rogue asked. "He just opened his eyes and his mouth again. Is he froze like this or what?"
"Give me some duct tape; he won't be opening anything again," Scott grumbled.
"Is the man still breathing with regularity?" Xavier asked.
"Slow and regular," Scott said. "Don't tell me you want me to take his pulse, too?"
"The alternative of bringing him down to the medlab is somewhat less desirable."
"You're kiddin'! After what he did to Jamie? He don't deserve nothin' but a bullet!" Rogue said.
"To withhold life-saving medicine when someone is helpless is 'legally troubling', Marie," Xavier answered. "And it's highly likely the authorities will come here again, once the satellites pick up the image of a three story battlesuit in our backyard. We have to keep our hands as clean as possible."
"Well, at least he doesn't need life support," Scott said. "His pulse is regular too. Rogue, go and grab me a couple of cinch straps, a washcloth, and a blanket. We may have to keep him alive, but that doesn't mean he's getting a bed in the institute." He paused. "Hell, it might kill him to take him out of the suit. I guess we'll just have to leave him in there, cinch his eyes and jaw shut, and put the blanket over him."
Xavier had the feeling that moving Harold wouldn't injure him, but he said nothing. No one could legally fault Scott's reasoning, and the last thing Charles wanted was for Harold's presence to disturb the rest of the children. He'd be damned if he was going to put that madman's welfare over that of his own students. He looked back at his students, his eyes lingering on John and what was left of poor James.
God damn Harold. God damn the man. And Charles thought about what Harold Trask was going through, and decided that God had already done so.
:
"We just passed Iceland," Bobby said as he looked at the map display. "Think it's all right to give the Professor a call?"
Ororo nodded. "I'll hail him now."
She sent out the initiation signal with a casual touch. It took longer than she thought it should for the response to come back, and the responding voice made her stare at the instrument panel in disbelief.
"Hello?" Artie asked.
"Artie?" Ororo asked back. "What are you doing at the relay?"
"Ms. Munroe! Professor said for me to take it while he and Scott and Rogue and everybody took care of things!" Artie's words came out in a breathless, barely articulated rush of excitement. "You're not gonna believe what happened to us!"
Kurt swallowed nervously, his mouth suddenly very dry. "Please, God, tell me that the school didn't get attacked again?"
"It was just huge!" Artie went on. "The ones before were about ten or fifteen feet tall but this one was as big as the whole school! It just popped onto the school grounds, kind of like how Regis pops in and out? And then it went after Rosa, and Jubes got in the way, and it was like firing into the pool and everything--"
"Artie, is the Professor or Scott available right now?" Ororo said loudly over Artie's voice.
"I think I can get the Prof, he's in the medlab, gimme a minute."
"In medlab-- Artie is he hurt?" Ororo gave an irritated snarl as she realized she was talking into dead air. "I swear, I am never leaving the school grounds again."
"Sonovabitch," Logan said from the back of the plane. It wasn't so much a curse as a surprised statement. "I just figured out who this guy smells like."
Kurt turned completely around in his seat. "The soldier?"
Logan had insisted on tending to Sergeant Martin in the back, for the obvious reason of figuring out what was so familiar about the man. Currently, Richard Martin was strapped in one of the seats, wrapped in a blanket, carefully sipping from a mug of hot instant soup. Logan stood nearby. He glanced back at Kurt and Ororo in the cockpit before turning his attention back to Martin.
"Rich, you got any relatives? Sisters, cousins?" he asked.
Richard answered without looking up. "Yeah. Got me a little sister."
Again, Logan glanced back at the cockpit. "Her name ain't Beth, is it?"
Richard then looked up, his grip tightening on the plastic white mug. "Beth? You know about Beth?"
Kurt unstrapped himself from the pilot's seat and moved back there as fast as his aching body allowed. Ororo leaned back in the seat and looked up. No, it couldn't be. This had to be a coincidence. It couldn't be the same Beth Hidoshi they'd met in West Virginia. Beth was a popular name. In fact, the poor man might be just latching onto whatever name Logan lead him with. That had to be it.
Logan must have been thinking the same thing. He asked, "Tell me her last name, just to be sure?"
Richard looked frantically between Logan and Kurt. "H-Hidoshi? Is she OK? God, she's still alive, ain't she?"
Logan looked to the back of the plane and muttered, "Jesus, the whole fuckin' world revolves around this woman."
Kurt knelt down and helped steady Richard's mug before he spilled it all over himself. "She's fine. We just didn't expect a coincidence like this, that's all."
"Storm, this is the Professor," Xavier's voice emanated from the speaker. "Is everyone well?"
"I was about to ask the same of you," Ororo replied. "What happened at the institute?"
"Something to make me think that we may be safe from further incursions of this sort for quite some time."
"Is everyone all right?"
Xavier paused. "No. I'm afraid not. There have been no deaths, but there have been injuries... some of them quite severe. I will have to contact James' parents once things settle down."
Goddess, no. Not one of the children. Anything but one of the children. "How severe?"
"His condition warrants intensive care, but he has stabilized. As for your mission?"
Ororo glanced back at Isidro, then at their latest addition, Sergeant Martin. "A success. For legal reasons we had to leave Moira and Henry behind, but Isidro's here, along with another one of Nathaniel's prisoners. He has some sort of ties to Stryker, but we're not sure what. He's not in the best shape."
"More mutant experimentation," Xavier said softly.
"No, sir, not in this case. We found plenty of 'experimentation' victims, but Moira's going to take care of them. This is a human male, military, a Sergeant Richard Martin. He recognized Kurt as someone who managed to escape Stryker's labs, and he doesn't harbor any ill will to mutants, so we're not sure what happened there." Ororo caught sight of Sean pointing to the control panel and mouthing his daughter's name. "Professor, we have Banshee here with us: is Siryn all right?"
"She's fine. At worst she may have a short-lived case of laryngitis. Can I assume Sean will be joining us in the states for a visit?"
Sean relaxed and nodded.
"Let's just say we aren't going to drop him off anywhere along the way," Ororo said.
From the back of the jet, she heard a muffled squeak. She turned about again, wondering just who or what could have made that noise. Kurt, still crouching in front of Richard, was holding his nose and leaning forward.
"After all that stuff with the silver nitrate, it started bleeding again," Logan said, shaking his head with a slight smile. "You're in for a world of hurt."
"Everything will taste like burned silver for the next month," Kurt moaned.
Next: Epilogue