Author's Note: Sorry for the wait, but here's a new chapter! Warning: the end is a little violent. Thank you to everyone who reads this!
Breach of Trust
"Moira, we were wondering if your contacts have gathered any intel on Romulus?"
The human woman looks up from her budget reports at the feral couple standing in front of her with puzzlement evident in her large brown eyes. "Romulus?" she repeats. "I wasn't aware I was supposed to be gathering intel on anyone, let alone a Romulus."
Roxanne casts a confused look Hank's way, but he has a horrified inkling he already knows what happened here.
He lets out a long, slow breath and reminds himself not to take his frustration out on Moira, who has done nothing wrong. "Your husband is lying by omission, it seems," he tells the human woman. "He told us he would ask you to reach out to your CIA contacts regarding this Romulus months ago. Romulus erased Logan's memories and may have been responsible for the assassination attempt on the President."
"Why would Charles lie to us like that?" Roxanne asks, clearly outraged.
Moira sighs. "My husband does things with the best intentions, but..."
"Moira's being too kind. As a telepath, Charles thinks he knows what's best for everyone and likes to meddle. He doesn't want us to find Romulus because he thinks it's too dangerous," Hank explains through gritted teeth. "No offense, Moira, but I have no patience for his shenanigans right now. That assassination attempt may have been a smoke screen by Romulus to lure Roxanne out into the open. He's her uncle, and given the scant knowledge that we do know of her family history, his intentions are sure to be bad news."
The human woman nods slowly, eyes narrowed. She rises to her feet. "Come with me," she says firmly.
"We don't need to see you chastise your husband, Moira," Roxanne tells her, raising her hands.
Moira gives the feral a sardonic look that silences any further protests she may have.
The steel in her gaze makes Hank's heart swell with admiration for the older woman, despite his anger towards Charles. Moira has no powers, but has more heart than any of them. Hank has thought her to be the bravest of the X-Men from the moment she stepped on that Cuban beach with nothing but a handgun to protect her against the likes of Sebastian Shaw, and Egypt only confirmed his deep respect and regard for her.
If anyone can give Charles Xavier a firm dressing down- even with just a look- it's Moira.
The human woman makes the scantest of knocks on her husband's office door before opening it, revealing Xavier in discussion with a clearly irritated Raven.
Hank doesn't particularly care about her offended sensibilities right now. He ignores the indignant glare the shapeshifter gives him, instead focusing on her brother.
Charles, who automatically smiled at the sight of his wife, visibly deflates when he sees the stormy expression on her face- and those of her companions. He has the air of a child who got caught stealing from the cookie jar.
"Darling," he says, his voice a little strained. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Moira gives him a quelling look that clearly says "cut the crap, Charles," without her having to verbalize it. "Apparently I was supposed to reach out to some of my CIA contacts about an individual named Romulus, darling," she replies, in a tone that could freeze molten magma. "Why am I just hearing about this now, months later?"
"I- well, you see, I thought it would be better for everyone if we let the past stay buried and focused on moving forward," the telepath explains pathetically. "The signs point to Romulus being a very dangerous individual, so it would be safer if-"
"Safer? One of the would-be assassins at the White House mentioned Romulus by name, Charles," Hank interjects, "it's highly likely he could be the one responsible for the attempt on the President."
Charles blanches. "Oh dear."
Now Raven rounds on her adoptive brother. "You're telling me we have no information on this guy, after all this time, because you intentionally sat on it? God, Charles, this is the kind of shit that made me leave after Cuba," she hisses. "You do not get to make choices for people like this, dammit! We could've had a strategic advantage! You sent our people to the White House without complete intel and endangered us-"
"There was no way I could have known that Romulus would be behind it," the telepath protests weakly.
"But we could have, Charles, if you'd done what you promised to do and found out more information about him," Hank hotly retorts, breaking his habitual calm. They've known each other for well over a decade at this point, but this is the first time the feral has ever truly raised his voice at the other man. Hank feels he has a valid reason, given this breach of trust. "Raven is right- because of your meddling, we're two steps behind, and our people were in danger."
"I'm very disappointed in you, Charles," Moira says, her voice deadly quiet.
This statement, softly spoken, is the remark that cuts her husband the deepest. He shrinks into his wheelchair like a scolded schoolboy. "Moira, I-"
"Please excuse me," his wife interjects, turning on her heel. "I need to make some phone calls."
There's a leaden silence following her exit, a silence filled with unspoken accusations and righteous anger. Hank is sure that the atmosphere is probably crushing the morose-looking telepath with its oppressiveness.
"I'm... I'm sorry," Charles finally whispers.
"I know you are, Charles," Hank replies. "But you broke my trust. I'm not ready to forgive you yet."
Romulus awakens with no sense of how much time has passed-
As well as a very, very sore throat.
"Ah, good, you're awake," Essex's voice notes from the armchair in his room, where the mutate is primly reading a book. A fire cheerfully crackles in the hearth- Essex has certainly made himself at home in the feral's room. "Finally. I found you like this after breakfast yesterday."
Romulus painfully rises from a large pool of dried blood on his expensive antique carpet- he hasn't been moved since Sabretooth's surprise nocturnal visit, then. "You couldn't even put me in bed, Essex?" he gripes, stretching his neck to and froe. Of course he feels no soreness from his sojourn on the floor, but he still feels aggravated for being found- and left- in such a demeaning position.
Essex shrugs, supremely unconcerned by his colleague's pique- actually, he seems to be rather enjoying it, and that just aggravates the feral even more. "You're quite heavy," he retorts. "And I saw no reason to ruin my suit."
Romulus growls.
"Who was it?" Essex asks, marking his place in his book.
"Victor," the feral replies shortly. He has a feeling he knows what's coming next.
"Ah," the mutate murmurs. "Well, I did warn you it was a bad idea to use him. He was sure to notice the resemblance-"
"I don't need your commentary, Essex," Romulus snaps. "Get out if you're going to-"
Essex grins, a smile that is every inch as sinister as his nickname implies. "But I came bearing good news," he interjects, with feigned innocence.
The feral freezes. "You finished it?"
"I did indeed," Essex replies. He reaches into his suit pocket and holds up a vial of a violently red-orange compound. "I've managed to stabilize the mutant steroid compound Dr. Cartier created. The changes it induces are now permanent. Now you just need to supply me with a recipient. Unless you want to volunteer yourself?"
This last sentence is said with clear derision and disdain.
Romulus bares his fangs at the insinuation.
His sister's face floats before his mind's eye now, her expression steely but with a hint of fear in her gaze on that day over twenty years ago.
"Let Jimmy go, Romulus," she- there was no other word for it- begged of him. "This whole adamantium skeleton is a bad idea, and you know it."
Romulus laughed in her face at the thought of almost a thousand years of hard work and planning going to waste because his sister had a crush. "Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "He'll be fine."
"You don't know that," Remus retorted.
He took offense to that. "Yes, I do," he snarled. "My plans are flawless, as you well know. Careful now, Sister, or I may begin to doubt your loyalty. After all, why do you care so much, anyway?"
Remus gave him a disdainful look, one that he didn't think much of at the time, but looking back now he realizes the depths to which his sister had already sunk with their test subject. Her silence on the matter spoke volumes, he knows now. "Why don't you do it to yourself, if you're so sure it's a good idea?" she bluffed.
Romulus could never admit to even himself that the idea of that much pain- the procedure of coating a person's skeleton with molten metal, even a highly-evolved feral, was sure to be excruciating- frightened him a little, so instead he told her, "why would I, when I could do it to a pawn instead?"
"Jimmy isn't a pawn, Romulus," she snapped.
"Of course he is," he replied. "And I'm shocked to hear you say otherwise. Is there something you're not telling me?"
Her jaw clenched. "No," she said evenly. "Of course not."
"Good," Romulus murmured, watching her closely. "And just so you know, Jimmy volunteered for this."
"Well, I'm going to talk him out of it," Remus retorted.
And she turned on her heel and walked away.
"Not so fast, Sister Dear," Romulus mused as he watched her leave the room, so quietly she couldn't hear.
He could tell she was infatuated with the feral mutant, for reasons he couldn't understand. Jimmy was short, hairy, and abrupt to the point of impoliteness. He couldn't see the allure for his tall, graceful sister with all her finesse and refinement.
But he could put a stop to it.
And put a stop to it he did, by wiping the other male's memory, leaving him as compliant (at least temporarily) as Romulus could desire for his plans.
Remus' reproachful gaze burns in his brain now, magnified by the mocking expression on Essex's face. His very posture seems to taunt the feral, goading him unbearably. The mutate clearly thinks him a coward for not injecting himself with the steroid compound.
And that makes Remus angry. Very angry.
"Where's the rest?" he manages to ask casually, concealing his seething fury for the man who dared to think him a coward, dared to-
"In a safe place," Essex replies. His red eyes glitter, as if he can sense his ally's rage.
Romulus snorts- he supposes he should know better than that by now. Essex is almost as secretive as he is.
Almost.
"Oh well," the feral shrugs. "It would have been nice to have more, but that vial is enough."
The derisive sneer freezes on Essex's face. "Oh?"
And then, moving so fast the mutate likely can't even track it, Romulus seizes the knife from under his pillow and leaps across the room.
He grabs Essex by the neck and wrenches him forward, spilling the mutate onto the rug-covered floor. His knife is not long, but Romulus has had a millennia of practice. He easily saws right through his erstwhile ally's neck, cutting through skin and sinew with precision. Blood spurts in a rather impressive rainbow, expelling in concert with the mutate's heart as it beats its last.
Romulus throws the head- its expression is still frozen in that damnable jeer- into the fire, where it catches alight with surprising quickness and vigor. The room almost immediately fills with the smell of burning flesh and hair.
He chuckles to himself as he sets to work in hacking up the rest of the body. "My, that was a design flaw, Essex," he comments aloud. "You shouldn't have made yourself so flammable, old boy. You're going up like one of your dry old Victorian desks."
The feral keeps himself busy for the next hour or so, feeding body parts into the fire until nothing remains but ashes. He allows himself a small amount of regret- surely he could have waited until Essex revealed the location of the rest of his steroid compound before disposing of him?- but the emotion quickly fades. If the mutate hadn't been so damn smug, provoking him at every turn, maybe Romulus would have let him live.
Or perhaps not.
He's never had much patience for those who have already served their purpose in his plans.
Romulus picks up the vial and allows himself a triumphant smile. "Thank you, Essex," he tells the ash pile. He glances down at the blood-soaked remains of his antique carpet and feels a much larger swell of regret than he did for his former partner. "What a pity. Oh well. What's done is done."
He has the steroid compound.
Now he just needs to get his hands on the perfect pawn.