Reyna found her designated room with ease, shoving the barricade shut behind her, sanctioning the solitude of the desolate room to envelope her body in calm. Her mind, in contrast, was raging in a war of denial. Logan, she echoed psychologically. My god, could it be?
She recalled that her father had called her here not only because of the adolescents that she was charged with, but also because he believed that there were certain members of his faculty that could benefit from the experience she obtained and the nature of her mutation. She failed to see how anyone that her father employed would benefit from the skills of a secret operative or one with complete mastery of the mutation that allowed her to be an operative as long as she had. She had not questioned his motives at the time, seizing the invitation to relocate her charges to a more suitable facility without side considerations or hesitation. Now, in the sanctuary of her chamber, the faults of her haste were becoming evident.
It was not that she assumed that Charles would place any child in the destructive path of peril intentionally, but she, one the other hand, had not been a child for very long time, if ever. She chided herself for considering the incongruous situation that Charles would endanger his own flesh and blood's well being in any form. The more she dwelled, the more insignificant it became, paling in comparison to the man she had met downstairs. She was racked with sudden urge to scream in agony and cry with joy. Split evenly, her being had directed her to two very different, very extreme responses.
The moment his voice disturbed the air, she had known its owner, but even as his disheveled, natural appearance greeted her eyes, she had not accepted the verity that it was actually him. Anguish racked her body, rendering her weak and helpless. Anyone else would have been overwhelmed with joy and bowled into him, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder, then again, not everyone else would have the knowledge to construct a devastating experiment, destroying what little self control was present, forcing him to surrender to the feral instinct of survival.
She cried, crystals sliding silently down the slope of her marble cheeks. She transferred her weight to the wall behind her, body being overtaken by gravity and sliding to the floor. The tears slowed as her mind erased every thought she had as her blind eyes gazed at the room. Her emotions plundered her brain, the logical side rising to defend her sanity. The war raged for several minutes before the emotions were retreating to the recesses of her heart, and logic now conquered and operated her psyche once more. My father can't know anything about him, or at least I hope not. I'd like to think that he would have told me that he knew. Well, at any rate, if he doesn't know, I should tell him.
She nimbly used her strong legs to raise her form, arms yanking the door open as she exited. She strode down the hallway with confidence and an aura of leper. The eyes of passing students, as if by magnetism, were drawn to her. The message was clear: "Who are you and what are you doing here?" Once again, her eyes blinded, the ghost of consciousness guiding her through the labyrinth of constant oak paneling and staircases to her father's office in the main hallway of the first floor. She stood before the massive door for a moment, feeling dwarfed and childlike, allowing her brain to restart and begin functioning. When her systems were online, she politely knocked, entering after she had been bid to do so.
The room was much like every other classroom in the mansion, with the exception of an oak desk positioned prominently at the center of the window. Charles was seated behind it, gazing at her as though he had been expecting her. Their eyes clashed, tigers eyes against emerald, exchanging a calm, calculating message. The only movement Charles made was with his eyes, following the young woman's form as it sunk into one of the chairs. He sensed a disturbance in her, but was hesitant to intrude. Reyna was, after all, his offspring; therefore she had inherited minute traces of her sire's abilities.
"You can go ahead and have a look. I won't try to stop," she prompted, cat-like eyes narrowing in weariness, resigning herself to inspection.
He nodded, diving into her private thoughts. After several minutes of rummaging about the chaotic, forbidden chambers, he managed to whisper, "My god."
"I know."
"You're positive this is him?"
"Without doubt."
"You actually…"
"Yes," she answered unsteadily, voice cracking. "Yes, I did."
"There is too much anguish here for him to be a simple test subject."
"Well, you may believe what you wish, but he was just that."
"Reyna, I understand that I was not always around when you were growing up, and that you would much rather have this conversation with Eric... Let me finish," he added quickly, having watched her mouth open in protest. "I know that you connect more with Eric than myself, and I know that you are blocking me from seeing everything, but Reyna, you can trust me enough to talk to me."
"I do, but there's nothing to talk about aside from how you want me to proceed."
Charles leaned back comfortably, emerald eyes dulling in thought. He gazed at the woman, her image made of swirling thoughts and emotions. He was resisting the urge to rip the protected memories from her but reconsidered, knowing that the action would almost certainly cause her to lose control of what was already precariously equalized. He also knew that Logan was in a far more tentative state, the slightest wrong action holding the ability to awaken the beast caged weakly within.
"Do nothing," he answered sternly after time had stopped forever. "Act as though you have never met before."
"Why?"
"The reason I asked you to join me here is Logan. His mutation, you see, it is rather similar to your own. I don't know of anyone else who could understand his fears of becoming overwhelmed by that instinct. I want you to help him get a better control on that first."
"No, you don't," she accused. "You want to play the game with him, the one where you know something that he doesn't and you want to make him guess at it. You want him to figure everything out on his own."
"Reyna, I have studied the mind far longer than you have been alive. It is best in this case to let the mind reconstruct what has been lost. I'm hoping with your help that I can understand why it has left him."
"Don't insult me, Charles," she almost hissed, the use of his name cutting a deep laceration to the heart. "I may look twenty and happy, but you know how old I really am and what I have been through. You want him to figure it out, fine. But I'll warn you, my mutation is not the only barely under control thing. My mind rests on that same edge. If I slip, I was protecting myself. I can comfort him better than myself."
Without another word, she rose, stalking to the door. She paused, at the exit barely long enough to think "Sorry." With a rapid, ephemeral glance at her father, she slithered out the crevice in the doorway, striding down the hallway. This time there were no accusing gazes. No one paid her any heed; it was like she was invisible. Smiling to herself, she pranced about the hall, remembering the forgotten rush of irony. She felt the sensation of power that always came when she was on the job, moving surreptitiously amongst crowds. But her age old saying invaded her mind: The rush is getting in; the high is getting out
