Dark Side of the Moon
By: InnerFathoms
Setting: A few months post-'Ascension.'
Summary: The visions glimpsed in Apocalypse's mind by Professor Charles Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near. For Bayville's mutant population, everything is changing and the lines in the sand are fading. As they face the darker depths of what it means to be different, the idealist known as Professor X comes to realize the fragility of his dream. Even the "greatest mind in the world" is powerless to stop the oncoming trials witnessed from a bleak future where his pupils are no longer the individuals he once believed them to be.
Discretions: The doctor from this chapter is in fact a mutant. Guess her identity if you want. Another mutant makes her first appearance near the end of the chapter; the group Gambit assembled is varied slightly from the comicverse group of mutants he recruited. And the "experiment" of the chapter was actually performed by Apocalypse in the comics, though it is not his doing in this story.
Pairings: Nothing new here.
Genre-Rating: Action, Adventure/Angst/Romance
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I am not making any profits.
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Chapter V: Experiments
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When consciousness came, it forgot to tell Warren.
His eyes refused to open, his heart refused to beat, and his mind refused to think, as all of the focus concentrated on only one aspect: fear. Simply put, it was eating him from the inside out, rusty chains binding him everywhere, like a man sinking to the ocean's deepest fathoms without sight or movement. The darkness of the sea was the darkness of the cell, or whatever it was that he was in. If the people who'd gone through so much to capture him and maim his restaurant were the ones holding him, then they were likely to make sure his means of escape were close to none.
Yet, despite the constricting fear he felt, no physical binds had been placed around Warren's body. Not that he felt like he could move on his own, actually.
The pain was leaden inside of him; dull not fiery, but heavy enough to resemble the weighted-down feeling of his skin tissues being replaced with cement. The burden of pain was too much to accommodate any form of motion, albeit the slow rise and fall of his chest. Not even his eyelids could lift.
However, his senses were returning to normal with the arrival of consciousness, and the sound of footsteps reached his ears. Warren acknowledged them, focused on them with his foggy head, hoping that the passing of time would quickly restore equilibrium to his mind. Otherwise, he was doomed to lie on the floor, unable to wither with discomfort or even scan his surroundings. The intruding footsteps-----soft enough to indicate a light-weight person-----were a welcome break from the silence.
They paused within a foot of his head, somewhat muffled by a barrier he could not see. A stranger's eyes burned into him; the feeling of being watched was not easily overlooked. He wondered if the room he was lying in was pitch black, or if his lack of sight only led him to believe that he was without any source of illumination.
A mechanical hum drew his attention to the left, and then to his right, as something-----possibly a sliding door-----parted with the floor and slid up into the top of the containment cell's threshold. With a whisper click from above, the rising door completed its ascent and allowed full access to the cell. Had Warren been a fourth less physically drained than his current condition, he would've forced his body to attempt an escape, wings curled in front of him to create a battering ram that would drive his visitor backwards. Despite the desperate urge for action, the winged mutant's taxed muscles would not work, and the pain in his wing was ready to sneak up and render him into a worse condition. He vaguely recalled a bullet piercing the feathery appendage, but the pain had been numbed, whether by time or drugs, he did not know. All he could do was feign unconsciousness and hope his visitor had not come with dark intentions, but with news concerning his present situation instead.
A small hand of soft skin touched his temple, fingers tracing down the not-so-fresh gashes along his cheek. The hand swept off the cliff of his jaw and settled onto the left side of his torso, coaxing a very tender spot along his shoulder. Somebody had cleaned and dressed his wound, though Warren could not imagine the low-lives who'd kidnapped him and decimated his establishment giving him medical attention. Mutant-haters just didn't have a turn-of-heart like that, especially after committing such heinous acts.
Warren felt his arm being lifted and inspected, and then his other arm. He was rolled off his side, exposing more of his back and wings. The hand trekked down the curvature of his spine in the center of his broad back, gingerly moving towards the skin tissue encompassing the origins of his massive wings. He was turned back onto his side, so that he would not accidentally roll onto his back and further injure his bruised wing.
His visitor brushed a few stray hairs from over his closed eyes and smoothed them back. The touches were too gentle, too contentious and subtle to be a man's, which would also explain the soft, almost soundless footsteps. Warren had no recollection of a woman being among the perpetrators of the bomb in his restaurant.
"Is he ready for the transformation, Doctor?"
Warren stirred, pinpointing a second presence farther away that had gone unnoticed the whole time he'd been awake.
"Doctor?"
"Yes," the woman kneeling next to Warren said. "Yes…he's healed surprisingly well. One could suspect a healing factor, possibly traced to his blood."
"Interesting…The operation should go smoother then. Your requested preparations have been fulfilled for the procedure, Doctor. I trust that you have already observed the details concerning this project?"
"…Yes."
"Then there will be no further inquiry. I will have him escorted from this room shortly. Feel free to adventure some, Doctor. This is an experiment, after all. There are neither moral nor financial boundaries for you to consider. Nor will the ramifications come to light of your knowledge. This is a test of your expertise and an opportune time to push the scientific envelope. You will be creating something very special, Doctor."
The voice drifted away without the accompanying sound of footsteps. "And remember to refrain from letting ethics hinder progress. A good conscience is a terrible restriction to this science, my dear."
No door opened or shut; Warren was left to believe that a ghost had been doing all the talking and had just left by way of incorporeal travel. He didn't want to believe that a human could sound so sophisticatedly cold-hearted and nonchalant.
"I…don't want to hurt you, Warren. Please know that…under true circumstances I would never subject anyone to experiments. It's not the kind of doctor I am."
His muscles grew livid, still refusing to move but hardly untouched by the tension of apprehensive anticipation. It was a feeling akin to that of venturing into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. A cold sweat broke out, slicking his skin in due time, as the doctor continued to look over him.
Her hand found his and squeezed it. "Any man can forget. Only the bravest can forgive."
He sensed her removing something from her pocket. "The healing factor present in your bloodstream will compensate for some of the procedure. Anesthesia will cover the rest. You won't feel anything, Warren." She drew in a deep breath. "That's only half the problem, though. I don't know how to prevent the rest of the horror."
Unable to move, to resist or shout any protests, Warren was terrified in his bed of silence, incapable of escaping the fate about to befall him, whatever it was. The words he was hearing iced his veins with anxiety, made him feel trapped and helpless. He was no better off than someone tied to a railroad with a speeding locomotive barreling in his direction. This was worse in a way-----in the imagined scenario, he would be able to see the train coming. In reality, it was going to blindside him, and no amount of fathoming could prepare him for what was about to jump out from the shadows and begin the insanity.
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Being open-minded and optimistic was one of the strongest, most reliable defenses Carol Danvers possessed, in a world that was becoming increasingly fraught by mindless persecution. Differences were not valued, they were disdained. Special talents were scrutinized, and the accused were regarded no higher than a scourge in need of eradication.
Carol Danvers was a mutant, but neither proud nor pitiful. She was made to be who she was for a reason, and there was no changing it. The strength, the flight, the "seventh sense" perception were as much of a part of her as the blonde hair and blue eyes. Regret was hard to avoid when she was looked upon like an outsider, or even a threat, but bathing in a sea of self-pity and self-depreciation would serve her in no way.
To survive, her inner strength must match that of her superhuman asset. A weak mind and broken spirit would lead to the corruption of her character. Despite having never played any superhero roles, Carol would never falter in choosing between hero and villain.
With this night's prior events, her apprenticeship into either camp seemed inevitable. Her indifference to Bayville's mutant factions had been shattered by the fact that she had been drawn onto the beach where lines in the sand were drawn. Humans played a part, too, some of them choosing to side with their weapons and destruction to compensate for their crippling fear. The X-men were some of the city's unsung heroes, and one with an open mind who watched the news and observed the streets could not miss this. Mutant propaganda, hate crimes, fear, confusion, and bigotry mixed into the melting pot of Bayville's human populace, further distancing them from the group of mutants who only wanted to make a difference and protect those who hated them so.
Carol didn't want to be hated for being different. Such an unfair accusation was beyond her control; she was a born a mutant and no medical drugs or procedure could change that-----not that she would ever take anything like that.
But she could stand in the background no longer; she could never be another face in the crowd. Though only her parents, Mr. Worthington, and a few select others knew of her mutation, the entire town would soon discover her secret if she joined the vigilant team of superhero mutants.
Losing one identity for another, no matter how much the newer one would be loathed by the public, was worth the chance to save both humans and mutants. She'd never been around others like her; the notion was new and exciting, even in the darkening times. She would not live in the shadows forever, especially when people like the X-men were using their powers forsaken by the public to save those very people and thwart the dark plots of other mutants.
She wanted to fight the good fight, and it was a fight that required sacrifices for the greater good. It wasn't something she could forego with a simple bat of an eye or turn of the head-----inexplicably, Carol Danvers was a part of the increasingly dangerous world of mutants, and she wasn't about to sit back and play passive-aggressive.
The progenitor to the group of Bayville's most notable mutants sat across from Carol, his fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin as he looked at her with a contemplative gaze, his eyes showing signs of weariness but also a fierce understanding forged by fires over the years.
"Miss Danvers," he began, addressing her in a cordial tone. "I thank you for your willingness to come out here and alert us of this plight. Your assertiveness is a very deeming quality and is most respectful."
"Thank you."
He gave her a warm smile. "Many budding mutants out there would fear coming into our fold and "proclaiming" themselves as mutants to the world. Few, like you, would repress that fear to find a place for themselves in this tumultuous town." Professor Xavier's gaze turned grim. "I fear Bayville is becoming a dangerous vista for mutants, and our presence, even as a haven to young mutants, will soon fall short to compensate for all the hatred and distrust forced upon our kind. It is something we must look past instead of fight, or our efforts will be in vain. Whether humans accept us or not, there will always be malice to ward off and disastrous plots to prevent, and we are the ones who are fit for that role."
"I want to be someone, Professor. I mean…I just don't want to hide from all this. The fact that I'm a mutant puts me in this situation, and I know that trying to avoid it will be a major regret."
"It is becoming a very dark world for mutants, Carol. You are less vulnerable surrounded by those like you, mutants who have learned to control and harness their powers. But please, don't feel like you must join us. There are plenty of mutants who are living without persecution, who don't want to join sides. I will think nothing less of you for wanting to retain your innocence."
Carol bit her lip and stared at her hands resting atop her lap. "I want to find an innocent identity among humans, but it will always be false and it'll eventually crumble, Professor. Even the best façades, the ones with good intentions, can't last forever. I have these powers…but I don't want to be self-serving. It's just…not who I am."
"Your attitude is commendable, Carol. I feel your place on the team would be a strong fit. Please, I want you to consider this for yourself, and not for the benefit of anyone else. If you truly feel that this would be the best course of action, then you should-----"
He paused, closing his eyes and grunting.
"Professor?" Carol stood up from her seat, alarmed.
"Scott…" He opened his eyes, looking even wearier and now distressed. "Please excuse me, Miss Danvers. Feel free to roam around the mansion and meet some of the other students. I will contact you shortly."
When he disappeared from view, Carol collapsed back into the chair and dropped her head into her hands. She tried desperately to cling to reality in this tempest, and she hoped that her better judgment would shine through the storm. Maybe she didn't have to join the X-men, but there was no way she would be able to completely omit them from her life now.
With a growing sense of dread, Carol Danvers realized that she was being dragged into a war; her neutrality was a thing of the past and it was time to make a decision.
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The doctor was not a liar.
Warren felt no pain as he lay facedown on the gunnery table in the room; he drifted in and out of consciousness, blinded by bright lights with the occasional masked face appearing in a blur. The drugs partially nullified his senses; he could smell no blood, no sweat, and he could not hear the doctor working with her tools. His perception of time had dissipated prior to reaching the room while being dragged along by faceless lackeys who snickered in his ear and whispered to each other.
A hushed voice told him everything was alright and that his vital signs were well. The voice told him to not be afraid, but that he was going to be moved off the gunnery. Someone other than the doctor lifted him off the table and set him standing. Warren wondered if he was going to topple onto the floor with lifeless effort, as his bare feet squeaked in something slick along the tiles. But his blurry vision caught a hold of some strange contraption, its image looking even more foreign due to the distortion of his sight.
The unseen secondary figure pushed him towards the machine, which somehow resembled an iron maiden, sans the deadly spikes. He fell into the upright sarcophagus, while his fear fought wildly to break through his drug-induced calmness, like a sheet of ice preventing his terror from breaking the surface. He felt it clawing for liberation, but the induced sobriety could not be thwarted by his fleeting emotions buried deep inside.
Warren turned around as the machine's cover clamped close with a silent click, sealing him inside and breeding a sense of claustrophobia that allied with his earlier terror of this unknown mechanism. The words experiment and transformation whirled through his head, as the mysterious voice he had heard earlier rang with foreboding clarity. The mechanical coffin tilted back until it reached a horizontal position. Slowly, it slid backwards as if on a conveyer belt transporting him. The drugs made him drowsy, and the panic registering in his mind did not affect his body. His heartbeat rated a slow pace, hardly that of someone being fueled by adrenaline terror. He closed his eyes to the darkness and found that his mind was too foggy to focus on anything. Unable to escape, to sense his instincts or even pain, Warren remained in his empty shell state, worried about what was coming but almost too tired to care. His mind was slipping back into unconsciousness; the mechanical hum was soft and rhythmical.
When the top of the casket automatically pried itself open, Warren blacked out, oblivious to the array of needle-like devices looming over him. A long, thin spike lowered towards him with that same mechanical hum that had lolled him to a convenient sleep. Twin pincers grappled each of his arms, forcing him in place. Had he been conscious, resistance would've been impossible. With the mercy of his slumber, he could not agonize over the needle-point device dipping into his flesh. The anesthesia reigned over him, and Warren felt nothing in his sleep, while the spindle pierced the dressing over his shoulder wound, protruding through the congealed blood and drawing a fresh dose from his veins. Like an inorganic leech, the needle sucked his blood through a miniscule opening at its point. A stray crimson trickle descended along his side, as the needle slid out from the wound and the bandaging, the white cloth soaking red.
A second hovered near his navel, while a metallic band shot out and wrapped itself around his throat, loose enough to allow the circulation of oxygen but little movement of his head. Other gleaming metal strips appeared from the right and hooked over to the left, one reaching over his chest and another over his waist. Thicker, wider bands slid over his knees and two tinier ones arced along his ankles.
The spikes prodded Warren in multiple places, most of them piercing and disappearing into his flesh with little intrusion and rarely any signs of blood other than his shoulder wound trickling freely but thinly. Something came up from beneath him, stabbing into his back and thrusting his torso upwards, wet sounds falling on deaf ears. His skin took on a gray parlor at first, the lackluster hue slowly melting into that of cerulean, then teal, and finally a deep blue.
After the transformation of his skin tissues, the needles retreated upwards and faded into the ceiling, harboring a supply of his blood as it escaped. The casket shifted its position until Warren was facing the floor, eyes closed and blonde locks trailing his temples. The metal binding kept him in place and prevented him from falling onto the dark floor, as new devices descended towards his back. The hotness on his back flowed without his knowing, and the shifting of metal alloy sang to the empty room. The devices configured the implants and worked through the crimson haze, articulating and grafting.
The device continued until the implants were structured to his bones and muscles, the metal flexing on Warren's accord, as he tested them out in his sleep, unaware of all that he was subjected to and what he had become. The metallic wings moved silently, their alloy sleek and sharp. His inorganic appendages folded onto his wet back. His burning nerves screamed, and the device continued to work with making more grafts and patching up the damage. A needle injected unknown fluids and more surgical work proceeded.
The man behind the single glass pane watched diligently, his arms folded and a small grin playing across his dark lips. The metal table turned Warren upwards, exposing his placid face to the man behind the glass. He wondered how much that expression would change when the young man opened his eyes and looked around the blindingly white room, currently painted red around him. He would see to it that the doctor would treat the physical pains of the boy, but his healing factor would greatly quicken the process. However, the man considered reveling in the emotional horror that would ensue; the bitter bewilderment and dark disbelief that would dawn on the Worthington heir. The boy was a fine specimen and would be manipulated into a formidable warrior. The forces of the man behind the glass were steadily increasing in size and power, and there was still much work to be done.
Though the patient could not hear or feel anything through his sleep, the man behind the glass did not let this prevent him from pressing an intercom button. His dark eyes glowed fiercely, and the delight in his voice was evident.
"Sleep long and hard, my boy. For as long as you sleep, there will be peace. But once you awaken, your world will be born anew, and the horror will be a reality. Everything is changing and inevitable is unavoidable…young Archangel."
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Upon entering the underground tunnels and receiving instructions from their recruiter, the group of mutants disbanded into three separate factions, each plotting their own course through the underbelly of Bayville and designating the location where they would converge on the sewer-dwellers.
Each step along the concrete sent quivers of guilt through Remy LeBeau's body that wrenched his stomach, seized his chest, and exploded in his skull. He surprised himself by keeping a steady walking pace, moving about the tunnels with honed stealth despite the tides turning inside of him. His dear Rogue…the only one he cared about at the institute. Every step he took was at her expense; she was a prisoner because of him. His selfish indulgences, the need for control, had set him up to be taken advantage of. Frequently he wondered if Rogue had seen through his charm during the date. Had her emerald gaze pierced through his façade?
"The boss said to take no prisoners," Sabretooth said in his usual snarling tone, though this time with a touch of twisted humor.
"Liar, the boss said nothing of the sort."
The giant's feral gaze flashed at the woman next to him. Her purple ponytail swayed behind her slender back, sashaying with indifference equal to that of her demeanor.
Much to Remy's surprise, Sabretooth did not pursue the matter, instead choosing to give a guttural growl, menacing but hardly in comparison to the carnage he could inflict. The woman could hold her own; Remy had seen it himself. Her martial arts skills were formidable; her innate agility and gymnastic quickness made her skills even deadlier. Physically, she was stunning with Asian features and sleek muscularity. Her mind, however, was a place Remy did not care to vouch for.
"We are to capture and obtain the mutants with the strongest potential. You can have your fun with the rest of their kind."
"Yeah, we'll be 'thinning out the gene pool' as he put it."
The falter in Remy's stride almost cost him dearly. Neither of his accomplices saw it, and none of them suspected his hesitancy. Resisting the waves of guilt became harder, but this was what Remy had anticipated. Beyond the lies and deception he had played with the X-men-----with Rogue-----was the double-cross he had planned for this team of mutant mercenaries. Upon recruiting them, he had no idea that it was their boss's intention for them to eradicate the Morlocks. With his fears confirmed, Remy had no choice of escaping the betrayal he was about to orchestrate. Possibly, he could hinder the operation and alert the X-men to save the Morlocks, but he was traveling with two deadly mutants who would have no second thoughts about eliminating a traitor. Once Remy had learned that he was leading a mutant genocide, his acting skills were truly tested. No doubt his boss had suspected him of deceit, but it was the only option to escape the lifetime of guilt that he would earn for leading a 'mutant massacre'. All because he had sought a favor in one shady dealer. The boss had him trapped; resisting and aborting the mission would endanger both himself and Rogue.
There was no way Remy LeBeau could bear the responsibility of a mutant slaughter. If he could elude the two accomplices with him, he could contact the X-men in time for them to arrive and protect the Morlocks. His boss would not know about his treachery, and Remy would have a chance to ally himself with the X-men once more before it was too late. As long as they could prevent any of the mercenaries from escaping and alerting their boss, Remy would have ample time to devise a rescue mission for Rogue and the others.
"Stop."
The single word brought him out of his pensive reverie, and Remy paused in the darkness of the tunnel. As he turned towards the two mutants behind him, a sickening realization struck him in the gut. He had so carelessly flung about his incriminating thoughts, forgetting that he was moving through these tunnels with a telepath.
Even this insight and Remy's reflexes were not enough to save him in time. Sabretooth's claws tore across his abdomen as he lurched backwards to avoid the swipe. Hot pain surged across his stomach and the blood poured freely, soaking through his uniform and hot along his skin. The blow took all his energy away, and Remy collapsed onto his side, hand clutching the five claw marks across his abdomen and applying pressure to the blood flow.
Sabretooth smiled down at him with a toothy grin, and the purple-haired assassin stepped over him and continued down the hall, commanding Sabretooth to leave the traitor behind. Reluctantly, the feral mutant complied and followed, leaving Remy alone, wounded, scared, and withering with pain and guilt. In the darkness of the sewers, he waited for unconsciousness to relieve him of the hot pain spreading along his torso.
Yet, before he could succumb to the overbearing agony, there was still something he could do.
Pulling out his cell phone from a pocket with his other hand, Remy LeBeau dialed the number to the Xavier Institute and began to make amends.
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Author's Note: Now, how many of you saw that coming? Okay, so some of you probably did. Anyways, Warren's transformation was originally engineered by Apocalypse to make him one of his four horsemen, Death, though after some time, and upon joining X-Factor, he took the codename Archangel. Now, this chapter should answer some questions on the 'Mutant Massacre' plot. Expect some changes, some of which are evident in the end of this chapter. Not saying if the woman's Betsy/Psylocke or Kwannon/Revanche, but it should become clear soon. Besides her and Sabretooth, there are six more members who have yet to show up. Please remember to review! Feedback is appreciated! Comment or ask questions. Hope everyone's enjoying the story, and let me know if anything gets confusing. I will try to clear anything up.
Next Time: Chapter VI: Fractured
Ray learns of the Morlock's plight and leads his fellow teammates to rescue his former allies, while Scott heads up a team to investigate the abandoned warehouse discovered by Logan in his search for the missing X-men.
-fathoms-