When the Love of Many Grow Cold Chapter 4: Sweet Revenge, a x-men: evolution fanfic

Although the island of Genosha was a country all by itself, the established mutant prison was currently held under control of the United States Government. And even though the original document of the U.S. Constitution still sat in display within the United States National Archives and Records Administration building in Washington, DC, mutants were an exception to the rights that the Constitution provided to all Americans. In fact, the island spelled hell for all mutants unlucky enough to be captured. Located south of Madagascar, more than half of the country's surface area was established as a prison facility where mutants were forced to wear metal collars around their necks. These neck constraints were a fancy piece of technology invented by Colonel Bolivar Trask, the cyberneticist who was also responsible for the creation of the Sentinels. The collars not only allowed the overseers to subject mutants to excruciating jolts of electricity whenever acts of disobedience occurred, but more importantly, it negated the effects of carrying the x-gene, rending the wearers powerless.

The situation was worse than the established Jim Crow laws against the African-Americans a century ago. No, Genosha was even worse than the apartheid system in South Africa. The mutants were not merely prisoners; they were slaves. They did not have freedom to walk the country. They were caged like dangerous animals in incredibly hi-tech holding cells. At night, they rested their tired bodies on uncomfortable cots while they dreaded the hard work that awaited them in the morning.

They worked without pay, of course, and it was not only hard manual labor, but it was the type of work that killed their spirits little by little as routine days passed by. Some of the newer captives could hardly believe what they were being told to do, but they lacked the right to refuse. Disobedience was uncommon, although there were still a few that had been foolishly willing to suffer the torture that the neck collars easily provided.

The enslaved mutants constructed the prisons that held them captive. They assembled equipment that was used against them. They built the Sentinels that hunted them.

It was cruelty at its worst, born from humankind's fear of the unknown.

An army jeep had picked him up from the airport in the capital city of Hammer Bay, Genosha. The thirty-something driver wore an army uniform, and did not talk much.

It took less than a half hour to drive out of the busy city, and another twenty minutes before the jeep stopped in front of a towering thick gate. Duncan looked up, impressed. The gate was the only opening to the thick gray wall –eighty feet tall and perhaps twenty feet wide– that surrounded the prison. He was awestruck. The wall was steep, smooth, and formidable. It was built to keep people out –and force prisoners inside.

"Do you know what this is?"

It had been two hours since Duncan first entered the prison, and now he found himself speaking with one of the most prominent anti-mutant supporters in the world. The man named Bolivar Trask had just lifted the weapon from the table with utmost care. A satisfied smile was planted on his face as he surveyed the glimmering weapon with keen eyes.

It was a small gun. It had a clear, transparent color, and Duncan wondered whether it was made of plastic. Its shape resembled a flintlock, a French gun widely used in the 16th to 19th century, but it was obvious that it was more than a simple pistol. Duncan bit his tongue to refrain from saying, "Of course, I know what it is, sir. It's a fucking gun!" Instead he remained seated on the wooden chair that had been offered to him minutes before, an irritated frown on his face.

"This gun was specially designed to neutralize the x-gene. One dart, one shot, one hit -that's all it takes." Trask grinned. "First, the subject will feel a surge of electricity running through his body, a quick wave of numbness will follow, all the while draining him of energy, and he will feel exhausted, as if he'd been running miles without stopping. Then pain –slow, convulsive; within seconds, he'll soon discover that his powers have been forcefully repressed."

"Quite useful," said a man who had suddenly appeared from the doorway. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his gaze focused on the weapon. His name was Henry Gyrich, and he looked to be in his mid-fifties, although he was in good physical shape. He was a burly man in a clean brown suit. He saw Duncan seated, but chose to ignore him.

"Indeed," Trask replied, but the smile from his face had disappeared. "Unfortunately, the effects are not permanent. It only lasts for a few hours. In our experiments, the longest that one of the mutants went through without powers was only a little more than four hours –and that mutant was one of the strongest. That's why we stick to using the collars here in Genosha."

"Probably the best invention you've produced, Col. Trask. Well, I take that back," Gyrich corrected himself, looking thoughtful. "The Sentinel was and is your best invention to date."

The other man shook his head. "Those robots are monsters. But they are necessary. These mutants are worse, and they need to be policed. Millions of innocents are in danger because these atrocities walk the streets. I'm glad the Mutant Containment Bill has finally been ratified and mutants are being shipped here to Genosha where they can be watched and controlled –properly."

"It's like a fortress," Duncan finally said. "Thick, high walls, guards everywhere, collars on their necks –you've taken extreme precautions."

"Extreme precautions have kept everything in order, boy!" Gyrich snapped, and spit splattered as he emphasized the last word. Boy? Duncan fought to hide the sneer that threatened to show on his face.

Gyrich continued, "These muties are clever, dangerous, resourceful… and now you are here to take away the most dangerous of them all from the only place that he belongs."

"Charles Xavier. He established an institution for the 'gifted' many years back," Duncan said. An image instantly appeared in his head: a vibrant Jean Grey, wearing a fitting yellow top and blue jeans, looking over her shoulder as she slowly climbs up the front steps of the Institute. She smiles warmly at him, and thanks him for the ride home with a gentle wave goodbye.

Duncan shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts away from his high school memories.

"Ha! A school for the gifted!" Gyrich scorned. "That was merely a façade. He was building an army! Training mutant kids to become soldiers… Xavier is the most dangerous mutant on the face of the earth, not only for his mutant abilities, but for his powerful influence. He is their leader, and he is their leader for a reason."

This time, Trask spoke. "He can read your mind like an open book. He can worm his thoughts into your head, make you think the way he wants to, force you to do things you'd never do."

"Control is power, and power is control," Gyrich said, glaring at Duncan. "You'd do well to remember that."

Duncan merely pursed his lips as he glared at the man before him.

"Enough." Trask had already put the weapon back in the silver suitcase. "Matthews, you came here for a purpose. But as Henry has mentioned, Xavier is a very important man. Enemies will clutter the path from Genosha to New Mexico."

"I know my duty, and my team and I have never failed," Duncan said stiffly. Who the hell did these old bastards think they were?

"I'm sure you haven't." Trask's tone was derisive. Duncan's eyes widened as he caught the suitcase with two hands in front of his chest.

"But we do not want any unnecessary risks."

The semi-trailer truck advertised a gigantic delicious Big Mac that was worthy of intense salivation as it drove down Interstate 25. The discomfort of the smoldering heat was unknown to Duncan, who currently sat on the stiff floor inside the fully air-conditioned trailer. There was a constant sloshing sound to his left, caused by the green paralyzing fluid that drowned Xavier in his containment cylinder.

The cylinder covered most of the space inside the trailer, but it left enough room for a chained ATV that was parked near the door located at the end of the trailer. It was there as a precaution, although Duncan wasn't entirely sure how that would serve as one…

Bored out of his mind, he eyed the silver suitcase that lay carelessly on the floor. For a while he debated whether to open it or not, when finally, sheer boredom won, and soon found himself he pulling the suitcase onto his lap. Unfastening a simple latch was all it took to open it.

There it was, the gun that Trask had hungrily gazed upon merely hours before: harmless to Homo sapiens, but something completely different to mutants. He pulled it out of the suitcase's velvet interior, and held it up against the light. His eye twitched slightly as his hand adjusted to the feel of the gun's handle. He aimed at the wall, and he felt a surge of excitement course through his veins. Power, he thought, this was power.

He aimed the gun at the bald man that floated in the green liquid.

"You can sneak into my head, read my thoughts. Powerful men fear you. They said you can make me do things I wouldn't normally do. But more than that, I think you can tear my mind apart, make me lose all sense of judgment and rationality, give me hallucinations, and render me insane. That is why I think you are the most dangerous enemy." Duncan lowered the gun, and continued to stare at Xavier. He scoffed into the silence that covered the gap between them. "But just one shot, and you are nothing but a cripple."

"You talkin' to yerself again there, Matthews?"

Duncan turned to see William Jackson sitting on the floor, wiping his gun with a cloth for the umpteenth time. A blond in his late twenties, Jackson was in the team that Duncan commanded, and through many skirmishes they had overcome, had earned Duncan's trust.

"Jackson, I thought you were sleeping." A smirk was on Duncan's face.

Jackson raised a brow. "Only for a little bit. It don't matter how much you let your team slack off, Matthews. We still got some dignity left in us, you know."

"Right."

"So that's Xavier, huh?"

"Yeah."

"The most powerful mutant?"

"That's what they say."

"You know what I heard?" Jackson looked thoughtful. "I heard this guy is good friends with that Magneto guy. You know, the one who built that asteroid in space?"

Duncan looked at him disbelievingly. "Urban legend."

At that moment, the green liquid swilled more persistently and the floor that Duncan stood on began to shake. The vehicle had strayed from the interstate and into a rough dirt road. It meant that only two more hours were left in their journey before they reached their destination.

Duncan walked to the intercom, and pushed and held the button. "Ryan, slow down a bit. The bumpy road's making our… package unstable. God knows Jackson and I don't want to drown in this trailer like Xavier's drowning in his little cylinder."

"Aw'right," came the static response and already the truck was slowing down. But…

Too slow, Duncan noticed. It wasn't long before they had come to a full stop. What the hell?

Under no circumstances were they supposed to stop. Trying to ignore the building panic within him, Duncan pushed the button again. "Ryan, I said drive slower, not come to a full stop!"

"There's somethin' lyin' on the road...!"

For a second, Duncan stared at the intercom in confusion, but then it struck him. "It's an ambush! Ryan, drive! Faster!"

Jackson was already on his feet, gun in hand. "I knew something like this would happen."

"No, wait." Duncan said as he glanced at the weapon on his hand. "I've got this. You're in command. Make sure our cargo gets to its destination!"

Jackson looked ready to protest, but Duncan cut him off. "See this?! This is the only thing that can stop them. Now, do your duty and follow my command."

At that, Jackson breathed a frustrated sigh, and Duncan got onto the all-terrain vehicle, yelling, "Open it!"

Jackson did as he was told, and pushed a button that operated the door. Duncan almost choked as he breathed dirt and sand; nevertheless, he revved up the vehicle. As soon as the doorway had swung downward fully, creating a makeshift slide towards the ground, Duncan drove the ATV down to the dirt, bouncing greatly at the sudden impact. He turned sharply, and stopped to take a look around. Some thirty feet away lay the body that Ryan had seen. The truck had run it over, Duncan thought. With a grunt, he started the ATV again and headed towards it. As he got closer, the body moved.

Duncan braked. His pulse got faster. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

The body stood up, but it was covered in an old brown cloak. Under the hood, the person cocked his head curiously.

Duncan swung his leg over the vehicle and stepped closer towards the mysterious enemy. He had his arms straight in front of him, the gun aimed.

A finger tapped his shoulder, and Duncan's blood ran cold. He lunged forward, rolling on his back and got up to his feet. He faced the other enemy.

Jean.

"Why do you do this?!" Sweat dripped down his temple. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the heat that caused it. "Why can't you just give it up?"

The redhead wore her usual black and green uniform. The wind blew her hair magnificently, beautiful, shining. It was fire against the sun's heat. She lifted her chin, but her eyes remained connected with Duncan's. "I can't."

"I'm not going to help you."

"You have to."

His face twisted into a pained frown. "No, I don't."

"Duncan–"

"Don't make me do this, Jean!" Duncan's heart thumped loudly, threatening to burst out of his chest. "You were my friend, but more than that, I loved you once… but we're not who we used to be. You have chosen your life; I have chosen mine –and I will live it the way I should!" He couldn't help but notice that his arm was trembling. He had to end this soon. "I'm letting you leave, so please, just go."

Jean stared hard at him, but not with cold eyes. Uncertainty showed.

It was only when her figure fled from his sight that Duncan lowered his gun. He turned. Jean's friend had already disappeared.

The Friends of Humanity facility was already in sight when Duncan was finally able to catch up to the semi truck. The doorway once again opened downwards, letting Duncan drive up the ramp. It had been a long and arduous drive, and Duncan could not help but groan as he finally got off the ATV. His lower region hurt.

"What happened?" Jackson asked eagerly as the doorway closed.

"I took care of it." Duncan's answer was blunt, and his voice flat, letting Jackson know that it would serve him best to leave his commander alone.

"Of course."

The rest of the drive continued in silence. Even when they had passed through the twenty-foot wire fence that surrounded the perimeter of the facility, Duncan's stoic demeanor remained.

The content countenances of Col. Bolivar Trask and Douglas Smith awaited him as he stepped out of the semi truck. Smith stepped forward, and offered a hand to Duncan. "Well done, Matthews. I knew you were the man for the job."

Duncan shook the hand, finally letting a proud smile break his impassive face. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm impressed as well," said Trask, though he did not extend a hand. He saw his invention which Duncan had holstered between his belt and waist. "You encountered trouble?"

Duncan's brows shot up as he too noticed the gun. He had forgotten about it for a while. Quickly, he glanced around for Jackson and Ryan. They were inside the trailer helping to prepare the cylinder so that it could be transported into the building.

"No," he answered. "We had no trouble whatsoever. Here," he said, pulling the gun from his belt. "I simply wanted it within reach. After all, I did not want to take any unnecessary risks."

Trask's lips thinned. "Keep it. There's plenty more where that came from. Besides, I'm sure you can find some use for it in your profession."

His mission had been accomplished.

Smith had implied that he could safely expect a promotion, but his thoughts were far from what awaited him on Monday morning. Try as he might, his stubborn mind would not cease from replaying the scene with Jean a few hours beforehand.

He could not help but wonder if he truly had the guts to pull that damn trigger.

As he walked the empty corridors alone, he imagined her, writhing in pain as she fell to the ground, her lovely face contorting to suit the pain that she felt inside. She'd moan as her skin became cold as ice, but inside she'd be burning in white hot flames. Trembling fingers reached out to him…

He hastily dismissed the thought from his head. He felt about ready to hurl.

His rapid pace was brisk, aimless. Every corridor looked the same. He groaned in frustration. He needed fresh air! Turning the corner, he almost bumped into someone…

Duncan's eyes widened. "Summers!"

It was indeed Scott Summers, clad in his blue uniform with a large yellow X on his chest. Scott's right hand shot up to his temple in alarm, looking ready to blast Duncan.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" Duncan struggled to keep his voice calm. Then his mind clicked. "Jean's here too, isn't she?!"

"Keep your voice down!" Scott snapped, irking Duncan. What right did Summers have to order him around? "I hear something."

Footsteps echoed from the end of the passage.

"Someone's coming," Scott said.

"Is that a fact?" Sarcasm was evident in Duncan's voice.

"Come on!"

"No! I don't know this place well enough. We'll never outrun them."

Scott stopped. "Then what do you propose we do?"

At that moment, the guard emerged from the corner. "You there!"

"Stand back," Duncan ordered the guard, as his hand pulled Trask's weapon from his belt. He aimed it at Scott, whose jaw fell open at the sudden turn of events.

Duncan smirked.

And fired.

The dart pierced through Scott's uniform, landing at the trunk of his neck. On instinct, Scott reached for the dart and pulled it out frantically. "What the hell–"

Scott didn't finish his sentence for excruciating pain soon claimed him. His body shook violently as he fell to his knees. His hands clenched the sides of his head. It seemed the pain was centered on his eyes, Duncan observed.

It made sense.

He was running now, sprinting. He had left Summers in the corridor with the guard. Now, he had to find that stubborn redhead before the other soldiers did. He slid slightly as he came to an abrupt halt to turn the corner. The elevator he had been looking for was now in sight.

"Duncan!" a soft voice called.

He saw a flash of red hair just as he turned around, and in one quick moment, pulled his pistol from its holster. This wasn't Trask's weapon that fired tiny darts; this was his gun that killed.

He aimed, frightened emerald eyes facing his own jaded ones. Time slowed down as he watched her -a mere ten feet away- reach out a hand to him. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

His heart pounding, his shallow breathing stopping, he clenched his teeth and gripped the rough handle of the gun. He swallowed; spit felt like gravel as it slid down his throat.

It all happened in one painful second, but all the same; he felt his finger pull the trigger.

A loud bang, a splatter of metallic red.

Eyes glistened.

It was a miracle he didn't miss.

Duncan let out the breath he had been holding as the armed soldier behind Jean Grey fell backwards.

Thud.

He looked at Jean who gave a shaky smile. "Thanks."

He nodded, and they entered the elevator together.

"You know, you could have at least given me some sort of warning…" Jean began, as they stepped out of the elevator and into a new corridor that looked exactly like the one that they had just left. "Honestly, a simple 'Duck!' or 'Look out!' or 'Heads up!' would have sufficed. Instead you scared the heck out of me. I really thought you were going to shoot me."

Duncan looked at her, and for a moment no words were spoken. "Er… sorry."

A small smile escaped her. "No apologies, Duncan Matthews. After all, you still saved my life."

Duncan never got a chance to reply, as a loud blast had erupted from his left. Instinct drove him to jump to the floor, pulling Jean along with him. He twisted his body to face the shooter, aimed his gun, but gasped as he saw that it was too late. The shooter had already fired again.

Before Duncan could shut his eyes to block the sight of an incoming bullet, he felt his body being pulled upwards with unimaginable speed as he saw the ground shrink beneath him. His stomach lurched as he defied gravity, and he focused on keeping his grip on his gun to stop himself from throwing up.

As soon as the bullet that had been intended for him indented the floor, the shooter was telekinetically flung back against the hard wall. His body slid down in a crumpled heap, but the soldier was still breathing.

With that, Jean levitated Duncan down to his feet, and he could not help but clutch his stomach while his step faltered. He reached for the wall to steady himself.

"Are you going to hurl?" Jean asked cautiously, a look of disgust on her face.

"Don't ever do that again."

Jean rolled her eyes, turning on her heel. "Men are such babies."