Elise reviewed her options for escape, seeing as how the X-people were taking their own sweet time about rescuing her. She couldn't fault The Incredible Nightcrawler; after all, he didn't know the layout of the mansion as well as any of the others, and it could be quite a confusing trek from one wing to another, not to mention more secret passages than a Disney haunted house and a subterranean complex unmatched in H. G. Wells's most far-flung fantasies. Sneaky noises continued to emanate from the direction of the blue wall-crawler's room, so fleeing down the grand staircase on the far side of his chambers was out for now.
Although the bureau in Piotr's room was of formidable size, she did for a moment consider looking for a means of leverage, but, to be realistic, the tunnel from her current hideout was as inaccessible as if it had been hidden behind a mountain.
That left the stairwell at the east end of this hallway; if she couldn't figure out which way was safest to go, up or down, she might camp out there. From the day's experience with these new intruders, she supposed none of them would be bright enough to find the hidden emergency exits, let alone scope them out to see where they led. And if they were too nosey, the trap door to the Freak Dimension on what she thought of as the third-and-a-half floor landing might trap them for a while. She'd have to keep her wits about her and remember it was the only brass door knob in that stairwell; the stainless steel ones all led to actual hallways in the mansion proper.
The cook steeled herself to make a dash from the room of the man of organic steel to the steel door near the end of the hall.
Kurt crouched beside a wounded trespasser. The young man shook with fear, a reaction familiar to the mutant. He used his softest, friendliest voice, pouring on the charm the way he used to do while mingling with cruise patrons after his act.
"There is nothing to fear, you know. You will be turned over to the authorities, but we will not turn you into a toad or anything. Heh heh," he chortled, trying to prompt laughter in the frightened fugitive. "If we had sinister plans for you," eyebrows waggled to elicit a grin from his patient, "why would we patch up your lacerations, eh?"
"Y-you don't look like no doctor I've ever seen," the kid stuttered.
"I am not a Doktor, but I have been trained as a medic. One need not look harmless to be harmless, you know."
Apparently his forthrightness began to win over the punk, whose arm grew less tense. The boy narrowed his eyes and said, "Didn't it cause trouble having, uh, somebody like you in an EMT class? Or was you in the army?"
This time, Kurt's chuckle was genuine. "Nein, the good monks in my homeland saw to it that I received education in many practical areas."
"Monks? You grow up in an orphanage or something?"
A swell of homesickness flushed through the blue mutant, chased by a wave of regret-laced sorrow. He swallowed hard before responding, "I spent some wonderful years in a Benedictine monastery, back in Bavaria. That is the same area where Pope Benedict grew up," he added with a hint of pride. "As you can imagine," he continued, placing the items in his medic kit now that the immediate job was done, "it was hard for someone like me to make a living in the ordinary way. and so I spent several years in the good brothers' care before I … left to find my place in the world."I still have not found it, he thought, but perhaps this shiny new beginning will lead me in the path Gott has chosen. Und perhaps one day, into the arms of the charming cook? The patient looked to be barely out of his teens himself, and Kurt felt led to give him a morsel of advice, patting him on the shoulder. "You would do well to find better mentors than whomever sent you on this mission of hatred. Life is much too short to spend making others miserable."
The youth crossed his arms and hunched over. "Youse ain't gonna get me to spill who sent us, mutie freak. Fer a minute I fergot the mission, but you can't make me talk. Who sent me is nunya."
So much rejection, from friend and foe alike. Ah, well, one must carry on, Kurt told himself, as he carried his kit to the next person in need of minor medical care, this time one of the Institute students.
As Elise prepared to seek sanctuary in the stairwell, a brave young fellow sat on the top step of the landing to plot his glorious triumph. The fake grenade was broadcasting photos of some muties rounding up his comrades further down the corridor. He wished he knew who made the odd noises a bit closer to his station. No matter. Whoever tried to get away at this end of the hall would have to encounter him first, and he wasn't a dummy like the other dudes - no, he had brains and a plan. He wasn't sure what the plan was, but the chicks in charge would certainly tell him soon. Then the head terrorista would undoubtedly take notice of his brilliant performance and maybe let him clean her ultrasuede boots while they still encased her tantalizing calves.
Hesitation seized the cook as a conglomeration of concerns stewed in her head: how long would it take her to sprint to the stairwell; would she be dodging bullets or worse; and which of her armaments should she take? Some of the weapons might be handy in routing the tools that were attempting the takeover, but others might only weigh her down & reduce the chance of gaining the target area for escape. She'd always been handy with tools, improvising with whatever was at hand until something worked. In her Peace Corps days bringing clean water and sanitary facilities to remote regions, the crew often made do with whatever scraps the locals could find. This gift of easy mechanical inspiration served her well in the many mini-careers which followed, but never as well as when trapped in the X-mansion during an invasion.
Telling Scott or Professor X that the campus needed better security had always fallen on unwilling ears. They both felt that the presence of the X-Men was sufficient to counter any incursion. Hah. Would they never learn? But since the decisions weren't hers to make, she'd adapted to everything from street fighting techniques to employing beta versions of devices she'd suggested to people like Reed Richards or Tony Stark. In the current situation, she placed the flashlight on top of Piotr's massive bureau, aimed the bulb at the door, then crouched on the far side of the bureau and stuck a cartridge into the nail gun.
More scrabbling right outside the hallway. She mentally counted, "Five, four, three, two, one – yup, showtime," as an invader dived in the doorway, hollering something about letting blood flow to keep the bloodlines pure. "Hold it right there, pal," she said, flicking the flashlight so it shone in his eyes, "would it interest you to know that I'm not a mutant?"
The intruder blinked several times, then blindly fired his weapon in the vague vicinity of the voice. Elise observed it didn't do enough damage to provide her with a shot at safety.
"Okay. I tried to play nice with ya," she hefted the nail gun and held the safety guard, "but now I'm gonna have to give you the Acme Nail Gun Treatment." She squeezed the trigger, and three eight-penny nails flew into the floor near the bad boy's glitter deck shoes. He flinched and backed away; she moved the light so it shone again in his glazed eyes so she could go on the offensive. Blit! Blit! Fyoo-fyoo-fyoo! The sound of nails embedding in the floor coaxed the youngster further away until he thudded against the wall. "Drop the gun and put your hands up or I'll aim this at your face," she snarled. Sounding fierce was not her forte, but she could invoke the stern sound she'd used growing up herding her younger brothers. The youth hesitated, bringing his puny pistol to hip height, and Elise let 'er rip again, this time slamming the nails into the wall a foot or so away from the tentative captive's head. The pistol fell to the floor and his arms went up in the air. "Please, don't hurt me. I just did it 'cause Tyrell did it. We was gonna go for tacos after."
"Right," Elise said, "that's a perfect excuse for disrupting a school, threatening innocent lives, and wreaking untold damage on a fine old residence. If I didn't think you'd be totally useless, I'd ask the judge to make you help me repair this place for your probation community service."
"Judge?" He squinted at her, blue eyes practically making question marks.
"We're not gonna let you delinquents waltz on outta here without turning you over to the authorities." At the fellow's movement, she splutted a few nails in an arc around his feet; he pressed closer to the wall. She continued in the vein sharpened by years of practice cowing her brothers. "I need to rejoin the people who run this place, Kid, and you are not going to stop me. I have more weapons in my overall pockets than you have brains to use 'em. Got it?"
"Don't know why women always have to order us around," he muttered.
"Maybe because you don't listen to the perfectly good advice we give you in the first place," she said, grinning.
Elise pointed with the nail gun. "You drop down ... good, now wriggle under that bed like a harmless little worm." She saw his eyes cut over her shoulder and widen. One of the oldest tricks in the book, she snorted to herself, He wants to draw your attention behind just long enough to spring. She sidled toward the hallway, keeping the bed in view. As she came close to breaching the threshold, another bozo, who had escaped from the closet while she concentrated on Sparkly-Sneakers, lunged at her from behind. She twirled, drew a breath, and squeezed a warning shot past his ear; he ducked and collapsed. Again with the ice-cold authoritative voice, "Get up. Slowly. Hands where I can see them. Head to your time-out closet, Sonny. If I see you move my way again, you'll be on crutches or worse for a long, long time."
She held his gaze as he backed toward the makeshift prison. "You do not wanna mess with me. I've defended myself in hand-to-hand fighting, and once I cut off a guy's finger with my machete." He shrink further back, as if the wall could suck him into a secure embrace. She risked a moment of inattention to snarl at the boy cowering under Colossus's bed, "Don't make me do something you'll regret."
Once the would-be surprise attacker was stowed in the closet, she shot a few nails at an angle through the frame as a temporary seal. She left the nail gun on top of the bureau, retrieved her flashlight, and fished in her pocket for the X-comm. Might as well chance being overheard; after all, it seemed the world was beating a path to her hide-out anyway. She fiddled with the frequencies, flipping from one setting to the next. "Cyke? Storm? Beast? Helloooo?" Figuring the signal must be jammed, she kept it on Cyclops's channel in case it opened up during her planned run for the end of the hall. Elise tucked the X-comm in her bib pen pocket and checked the cylinder in a confiscated revolver.
A brief look out in the hallway assured her that all was temporarily clear. She fired a shot at a clay bust of Daffy Duck Piotr kept as a doorstop, then addressed the youngster under the bed. "You follow me, same result. Get it?"
"No worries. At least under here I won't get kicked around anymore," came the reply.
"Stay out of trouble," she said, then closed the door and dashed to the stairwell, jerking that door open to come face to face with another brightly-clothed jerk.