Clint and Cassandra appeared by the front porch steps of Clint's house. It had only been one, two hours at maximum, but it felt like so much longer. Clint's limbs were heavy, head slightly pressurized like he hadn't slept in days. The rate at which his brain was trying to process the last few hours was slowing the rest of him down. Added onto that, was the knowledge that his sister was about to do something dangerous. There was a risk that the moment she left, she wouldn't come back.
His brain couldn't decide which of the many topics of thought were most important, so they hit him all at once—mixing the confusion and terror into a poisonous cocktail that quickened his pulse and weakened his resolve. "Don't take this the wrong way, Cass," immediately, he turned to face Cassandra, finding her eyes. "But- this is insane. You know this is crazy, don't you? Tell me you're gonna make a plan."
Cassandra sighed. Of course it sounded insane—though, it wasn't as uncommon for her as it was for him. Events like this made up her life since she was eight years old. There was always a fight, always a mission, always a risk. Always. It was only a small part of why she left the school years ago, but being involved again only made her realize it should've been a much bigger one.
"Yeah, I know. We'll plan. I'll call when I've got some answers," she replied as she stepped back, her voice hollow with the distance of her mind.
"So, that's it? Am I supposed to just wait by the phone and do nothing?"
It was understandable, his response. Though, Cassandra didn't know how to answer it, not in a way that would satisfy him. Every option sounded wrong. Everything was wrong. "You have a family here, Clint. I can't risk you getting hurt," she shook her head. "You're all safe here. I promise. Don't follow me."
Fingers curled into fists, she disappeared before his eyes, wisps of smoke dancing in the afternoon breeze.
Scott glared at the professor through the dark lenses perched atop his nose as he exhaled a heavy sigh. Allowing Cassandra to go after Magneto, even just for questioning, was the least intelligent option. It was too personal for her. Letting her go with team members but without leadership was very closely the second least intelligent option. And, somehow, Logan agreed with him.
It was a rarity for the pair. Usually, they were subtly or otherwise at odds, disagreeing and bickering wherever possible. Though, when it came time for danger, they always set it aside. Now seemed as dangerous a time as any to Logan. So, he stood with Scott before the professor's desk, and the two took turns pleading their cases. Charles sat quietly as he listened to their concerns thoroughly—despite having already come to a decision himself.
"She's not the Cass we knew anymore, Professor," Scott said, however bitterly. "She's reckless and stubborn, and she's bound to get somebody killed. Who's to say she won't find one of Magneto's mutants and kill them herself? Or, she'll get the information she needs and keep us out of the loop?"
Logan snorted. "Yeah, she's reckless and stubborn as all hell. She always has been. But what you're talkin' about is pretty overboard, don't ya think?"
Scott's head snapped in Logan's direction, and the Wolverine could feel the heat behind those glasses. "I thought you were on my side."
"I am. But this isn't some criminal, Scott—it's Cassandra. She's hurt, and angry, and she wants answers," Logan defended his words—defended her—without hesitation. "I'm worried she'll get hurt. You're just being a dick to get what you want."
Callously, Scott huffed a chuckle as he shook his head. "Of course. It's not like you're the most biased person in the mansion."
"And you're not? You guys practically raised her."
"Only because you couldn't."
Logan's hands gripped the front of Scott's shirt and yanked, forcing Scott forward two stumbling steps. Rage coursed through Logan's veins as more images danced before his eyes. This time—ideas. Thoughts of what his life could've been like, what it should've been like. However, cruelly, it was none of those things.
Hurt collided with his rage to add a deadly substance to the grievances against his teammate. "Listen closely, bub," his voice lowered, the heat from his eyes almost more lethal than the beams threatening to release from Scott's. "I'm only gonna say this once—you don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about. So fuck off."
It was then that the professor had decided he heard enough. He turned his chair and began a path around the end of his desk, traveling toward the two men. "Alright. I truly understand the concern—however, I must urge you to let her lead this mission," he said, calmly.
Reluctantly, Logan released Scott's shirt from his grip. Scott's feet backed quickly as he looked at the professor with confusion, "You can't be serious." Surely, the professor of all people would know what trouble she might cause, what harm. He would know her mental state was unfit for something like this. That it would not help their cause.
"This is something, quite frankly, she needs more than we do," the professor continued, stopping himself beside them. "I fear that too much resistance may lead to more danger than if we simply let her discover this for herself. She is in a delicate spot as of late, as are we all. I trust that Bobby will keep her grounded should the need arise."
It wasn't quite that Logan disagreed with the professor's sentiments—more that a sentiment was all it was. That was largely how he and Scott differed in their motives. Logan wanted to go with her, if anything, simply to do all he could to ensure her safety. Scott wanted to go in order to stifle her efforts, to keep a hand on a steering wheel that didn't necessarily need guidance.
That is what the professor knew. Though, he also knew it best both men stay right where they were. Cassandra's form materialized near the closed door of Charles' office, just feet away from the three of them. Already facing her directly, Charles smiled as he regarded her. "Welcome back, Cassandra," he said. "It's been decided. You will lead a primarily reconnaissance mission to investigate the attack on your brother. The team members you requested are getting ready downstairs."
Cassandra blinked silently. That couldn't be it, could it? How could they have agreed to let her do this? She'd expected some resistance, some push-back. Though, she was grateful for the decision. Her eyes flitted from the professor's up to Logan's. His features were drawn, shoulders tensed—he was angry. Scott looked downright ruffled, refusing to look in her direction—or Logan's—as he breathed a bit heavily.
What had happened? Clearly, there'd been push-back, just not toward her. It was almost worse, in a sense, to know they disagreed about her and chose to keep it between themselves, rather than outright denying her. The thought was like something sharp sunken into her rib cage. Still, she nodded as she looked again at the professor. "Mind if I borrow a suit?" she asked, swallowing an anxious nerve.
"Help yourself," Charles agreed with a singular nod.
Quickly, she was gone, reappearing in the silver room of hanging leather suits she'd been standing in not two hours ago. The concept of putting on her old suit was a bittersweet one. She questioned whether it would even still fit as her fingers carefully lifted it from its place. The leather unfolded rapidly with gravity, unfurling to reveal its full size.
How did I get here? she asked herself. How has it come to this?
She moved with a quickened pace to undress and step into it, but her mind was much slower—leaving her with a nauseous feeling of slow-motion. It was her hands sliding into the sleeves, her fingers pulling the zipper to her collar bones, her skin against the cold material. Though, none of it felt like it belonged to her at all. At least, not for a very long time.
Cassandra tied her now dry hair up into a ponytail to keep it out of her face as she exited the somewhat small room. It was something she'd done upon every other exit. And, as her feet crossed an invisible line in the doorway, she felt every past experience at once. All the times she was angry, or sad, or anxious. At different heights, different ages. It was dizzying.
Then, her front collided with something hard. Knocked off balance by the hit, she stumbled to the right, and she could feel hands gripping her upper arms to steady her before her eyes even looked up. But, as they finally did, they softened upon meeting a pair of golden irises. "Ah, Cassie!" Kurt was surprised by the sudden nature of their encounter, though he knew to expect to see her somewhere downstairs. "Forgive me, I was not watching where I was going."
"No, no...that was on me. My head's in about a million different places," she shook her head quickly, stepping back from him.
Her arms slipped easily from his hands, immediately moving to cross over her chest in a subconsciously defensive measure. Kurt nodded slowly as his eyes caught sight of the differences in her features. They had aged, though her eyes remained exactly the same—a fact that caused a dull ache in the center of his chest. "Your hair, the color looks good on you," he said, speaking kindly through the subtle pain.
She gave a small smile, teeth hidden behind lips pressed thin. "Thanks."
It was difficult to find words. The thought of seeming cold was hurtful but her guilt was hard to hide beneath an empty smile, one she knew he would see right through. There was a time when he was the only one capable of telling the difference. He'd waded through the fake, through the gestures and expressions made for appearances gleefully when it meant he'd find her on the other side.
Now, the same face was making the same faux expression, but he wasn't sure just what he would find. She hadn't come back to stay, he knew. She came back for a visit of necessity. So, it was easy to assume she hadn't changed the mind she'd made up prior to leaving them all for the city. Though, before the conversation could continue, it was interrupted by the appearance of a very tall man over Kurt's shoulder—a sight that caught Cassandra's eye almost immediately.
It was Peter. He turned a corner in the hall, walking toward them with Bobby and Jubilee at his sides. The interruption was a cowardly relief on its own. But, with the interruption being another set of positively familiar faces, it was a little more of a genuine distraction. As they approached, the group noticed the two standing in the hall. "Well, look who it is," Peter's smile was infectious, tugging at Cassandra's lips the second his voice touched her ears. "Heard someone placed a special order?"
"You bet your ass I did," Cassandra quipped in reply. Kurt stepped aside, slipping into the doorway of the dressing room, to make space for the others to say their 'hello's. It was hard not to notice it, a pang of guilt hitting hard against Cassandra's bones. But she swallowed hard and fought to keep her smile intact in silence.
Peter Rasputin—affectionately referred to as Pete amongst the younger members, and sometimes Logan—was a towering six feet, seven inches. When compared to the five feet, three inches of Cassandra's frame, he was practically a giant. Though, the difference only made it fun to become friends. Once they'd discovered they could work very well together in the danger room, they started spending more time together casually, and they came to each hold a special place within the others' heart.
His stride naturally a bit longer, he used it to his advantage to arrive near Cassandra first. It was quite a bend, but he leaned down as he opened his arms, wrapping them around her small frame. Then, he stood upright—lifting her up with him. It managed to squeeze a genuine laugh from her throat as she quickly slung her arms around his neck to hold on, her legs dangling below. "It's so good to see you home, Cass," he said, as he gently set her back on her feet.
"It's good to see you, too," she agreed with a nod. Then, her eyes shifted to Jubilee, now beside Peter once more. "Both of you."
"I'm really sorry your brother got dragged into this," Jubilee tilted her head, tone apologetic as her eyes reflected empathy beneath the fluorescents.
Peter asked, then, "I heard he's awake now. How's he doing?"
"Jesus Christ…" the male voice from behind her sent a chill racing along Cassandra's spine. As she turned on her heels rather quickly, Barney came into view, standing several feet away in the hall. Eyes slightly rounded, features flattened out in disbelief and mild disgust, he held up a hand. "Someone tell me it's the concussion."
Cassandra fought to withhold an eye roll from the sheer nature of the comment, but began walking toward him swiftly. "Has no one told you that you're supposed to be resting?" she countered him with a question dripping of concerned frustration.
Barney was black and blue, the bruises highlighted harshly under the unflattering angles of the bright lights, but he could stand on his own now. Though, it did hurt considerably despite the pain medications he was given. He had seen a few of the more prominent, more public X-Men here and there during briefings. They were a kind of illusive creature, as a unicorn to the artists of the Middle Ages.
Seeing his sister dressed as one—his physical and psychological state unhelpful—was like seeing a unicorn up close for the first time, but they were next to a volcano while birds chirped in his ears, and the absurdity of the situation was causing his head to spin. "And miss all this?" he questioned, drunkenly sarcastic as he gestured toward her suit with both hands. Then, he looked over her shoulder as she stood before him. "Who're your friends?"
Cassandra sighed and wrapped her fingers around his wrist before picking up the limb, sidling against his ribs as she pulled the arm over her shoulders. "If you agree to lay down, I'll introduce you."
"You drive a hard bargain. Let's do it."
Now, she did roll her eyes—however, this time, it was more playful, more humored by the clearly out-of-sorts state of her older brother. If there was a serious, hot-head of their siblings, it was Barney. To witness him act as though he'd had one too many was indeed funny regardless of the circumstances. After all, the alternative to laughing was simply to cry.
So, instead, she carefully guided him toward the other X-Men by the dressing room, bringing him to the spot she stood before. He leaned against her shoulder as he shuffled along with her, though he appeared undeterred. "Guys, this is my oldest brother, Barney," Cassandra said, glancing around at the others. "Barney, this is—left to right—Kurt, Bobby, Peter, and Jubilee. I'm sure Kitty will be-"
As if her name spoke her into existence, Kitty materialized through the wall beside the group. She paused quickly, eyes shifting between Cassandra and the others as her expression fell into a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity. "Uh, hey guys. What did I miss?" she questioned, to no one in particular.
Cassandra gestured toward the newly arrived member. "And this is Kitty. Kitty, this is my brother, Barney. He's a little out of his mind right now, so I'm being humane. I'll take him back to the med room and then we can all talk."
Kitty nodded with a small chuckle. "Oh, got it," she replied. Then, she gave a small wave to Barney, "Hello. It's nice to meet you. I hope you feel better soon."
"Thanks, kid. I appreciate it," Barney tipped his head to Kitty.
Cassandra tightened her arm across his back as she began to guide him in a turn-around. But, the eldest Barton sibling regained his weight, refraining from leaning against her to stop turning just short of facing the other direction. Instead, he turned more toward the group to better see them. "Hey, don't let my sister do anything stupid," he said, looking between them all, before pointing a finger at Peter. "I'm lookin' at you, big guy-"
His words were interrupted by Cassandra's hand maneuvering up to pull down his fingers, shifting her weight to better pull him away. "Don't worry, we've got her back. Rest easy," Bobby spoke up, giving a confident nod.
Barney only returned the nod and allowed himself to be swept away as his sister turned him around, this time successfully. She guided him back down the hallway he'd come from and along the silver flooring to the table he'd prematurely descended from. All the while he hissed and groaned and muttered beneath his breath, and a spiteful thought crossed Cassandra's mind—maybe if you had listened to me, it wouldn't hurt?
But that was cruel. His sounds of discomfort were truly agonizing, further growing the lump in her throat she had cleared out with the brute force of her stubborn will, and the guilt she harbored was close to reaching its peak. Was it not in pursuit of her that this was done to him? There was a wrestle, a tug-of-war between self-destruction and reason in her mind. Though, despite it, she helped ease him back onto the table with careful hands.
"Stay here and rest until I come back, okay?" she told him. "If something happens before that—call me."
It was late in the afternoon when Cassandra appeared on the front walkway leading to Barney's front door. Those she'd brought with her stood at her sides. Their boots crushed the grass hedging the concrete, the sprinklers amongst the blades spitting small droplets far enough to freckle their leather suits.
The house was small but decently sized, and oddly suburban. It clashed with the character she thought her brother to possess—though, at the same time, she knew there were too many things she didn't know about him anymore for this kind of dwelling not to fit. After all, he chose it, didn't he? The lawn was sculpted, small flower beds free of weeds and intelligently designed, the siding free of dirt or cobwebs. It was all so well taken care of.
Absentmindedly, Cassandra started toward the front door. It was left open, hanging ajar from the rush to depart the night prior. As she got closer, stepping up onto the concrete slab of a front porch, red was visible on the large, silver handle. She assumed it belonged to Barney, most likely smeared on the metal in his quick exit. Reaching up a hand, her fingers carefully nudged the door open further, eliciting a quiet whine of the hinges as it allowed them all access.
Bobby, Kitty, Peter, and Jubilee all filed in behind Cassandra as she entered the home. It was best not to leave anyone lingering outside. The sight of an X-Man, or simply a mutant at all, would only prompt a call to the police. So, they tucked themselves inside the door—but Kitty remained near it as she left it open just enough to see the front lawn, keeping a watchful eye.
The interior did not match the well-kept appearance of the exterior, betraying its first impression with a kitchen sink full of dishes, plates and a lone bowl left beside it on the counter, the carpet in strong need of a vacuum, and dust layering every partially unused surface. It didn't help that the dining table was misshapen, one of its legs broken in half to force the furniture to kneel. Glass littered the hardwood of the dining area just past the kitchen, on the left—clearly remnants of a vase that was home to the petals and stems crushed against the flooring.
To the right, following the wall all the way to the far corner, was a living area. The couch was alright, though one of the matching chairs was turned over on it's side. A frame remained for a coffee table in the center, its glass surface broken through, hiding in the carpet below. Even a few frames on the walls were now either on the floor or hanging at an uncomfortable angle. "Jesus…" Bobby muttered, standing next to the dining table as his eyes moved toward the living area.
Cassandra stepped lightly toward the broken coffee table, eyes fixated on the red-coated glass shards still fastened to the empty frame. It was perplexing to see such a gruesome mess. To her knowledge, Barney didn't have wounds to match this kind of injury. Who had been thrust into the glass table? Was it truly Barney? Was it John? One of the other mutants with him?
Peter followed her into the living room, though kept a distance as he surveyed the damage. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm not sure," she shook her head with a sigh. "You all saw him—did Barney look like he was pushed into a glass table to you?"
"I mean, he looked pretty bad, but more like someone used their fists," Bobby chimed in as he, too, entered the living room.
Lips pulled tight as her brows knitted in thought, Cassandra turned around to see the others. She wondered, then, did Barney truly have the strength for that? As an FBI agent, he would've had to go through the rigorous training at the academy, so it would make sense to assume he wasn't totally defenseless. Though, it did entirely depend on which mutant he attempted to fight.
Considering they had no information on who the others were, it was difficult to even guess. Suddenly, the creak of a floorboard touched Cassandra's ears, sending a shuddering bolt of adrenaline through her veins. Her eyes widened with surprise as they quickly flitted to each of her teammates—but they were all doing the same. Quietly, Peter raised a finger, aiming it toward the ceiling. Upstairs.
Cassandra moved quickly, taking light steps to the dining room in order to look at Kitty, still standing by the front door. She shook her head, signaling no new arrival to the house. Cassandra didn't hesitate to then rush to the stairs just off the entrance. Bobby hurried from the living room to follow her, only a few steps behind as they ascended. They made virtually no sound as they reached the top.
The upstairs was a small, short hallway between two rooms and a bathroom between them, all their doors hung open and untouched. Cassandra paused at the top to let Bobby catch up. When he did, she quietly pointed toward the master bedroom, on the right. She pointed to herself and then to the left, and the pair shared a nod. They would split up to investigate. It wasn't a far-fetched idea, given that they were both capable enough to handle an attack on their own.
Their powers were reactive, explosive—excellent for defense and offense. Cassandra's fingers slowly, carefully worked at the leather of her right hand as she started down the small hallway to the left, stepping across Bobby's path as they traded routes. Subconsciously, she wanted someone to be waiting. She wanted to fight them, to finally have a reason to release her anger, her pent-up energy. However, she was unaware of her own motive, too caught up in the hunt to notice the heat swelling against her palm.
She peered into the bathroom, sidling against the door frame, but it was empty. Even with the light off, she could tell the small room was vacant. So, she continued. Her feet carried her, however cautiously, to the guest room at the end of the hallway. It was then that an oddly familiar, yet indescribable sound caught her attention. The sound came from beyond the doorway, drawing her closer as she pressed her back against the wall beside the open door.
Slowly, she leaned forward enough to get a glance inside the room. The glimpse she gathered was enough to stop her lungs. A man sat on the floor on the other side of the room, partially hidden by the end of the bed. His back was against the wall, face flushed almost completely pale, with an arm tight around his middle. Although, it wasn't his physical state as much as it was his identity.
"John?"
He perked up almost instantly, eyes moving quickly to the doorway. "Cass?" he questioned, voice weakened beneath its tone of disbelief. He barked a slightly deranged laugh as he tipped his head back against the wall, "I guess the carrier pigeon did its job."
Cassandra stepped out from behind the door with a hand risen, ready for whatever he might try, but John remained still on the carpeted floor. "What the fuck are you still doing here? Honestly, I didn't think you were this stupid."
"Well, you know. The sweet release of death."
"What are you talking-" she stopped herself instinctively, instead walking to the end of the bed to gain a better view. Sure enough, a large circle of blood had soaked into the carpet beneath his right side, even more of the red liquid slowly slipped through the cracks between his fingers, hand clamped over a spot on the right side of his torso. It clicked then in her mind. "You were thrown into the coffee table."
He exhaled, briefly closing his eyes. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"
"Cass?"
Cassandra's head turned quickly as Bobby's voice came from behind. He'd just reached the doorway, cautiously stepping into the room as he leaned to see over her shoulder, features etched with concern. His face fell when he realized just what she was looking at. Just what this situation was. But John grinned, lips parting to display the blood in his teeth. "Well, well, well. Look at us—all three washed up Musketeers in one room," he coughed hoarsely. "What's up, Vanilla Ice?"
"We can't just let him die," Bobby told Cassandra. His voice was small, quiet, and defeated. Every time his eyes left her face, a pang of guilt hit his chest. Yes, John betrayed them, abandoned them—and now he was someone neither recognized. But he was still once their friend. Each had loved him in their own ways.
Cassandra gave a shake of her head. "I wasn't going to. We need what he knows."
Bobby's head tilted, features contorting into an expression easily readable—really?—and Cassandra sighed heavily. "Not like that," she corrected him. "We'll take him back to the mansion, see what they can do for him."
"Cass? Bobby? You guys okay?"
Jubilee's voice echoed up the staircase as she hopped up the steps, quick to reach the top in case of an emergency scenario. But Bobby stepped halfway into the hall and waved away the worry. "We're good—we found John," he told her. Her eyebrows popped on her forehead, walking the short length of the hall to join him by the door.
Cassandra moved closer to John by the wall and crouched, eyes lingering on the blood trailing along the backs of his fingers. "Was it worth it, attacking my brother?" she questioned, stoic as her emotions conflicted.
Under other circumstances, she would feel sorry for him. Maybe she would even feel hurt, or worry, to see him injured after all the memories they shared. Instead, she only felt anger. John chuckled weakly, "You think that powerless dipshit did this? Give me a break."
"Then who?" she raised an eyebrow.
"Sabretooth."
