Title: Power Behind the Throne Part 3
Author: Ethiercn
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them, and I am making no profit.
Thomas Chase led Firestar though the house, pointing out the kitchen, dining room, game room, and the door leading to the garage, which contained his own private apartment. They paused in the study where he showed her, though the wide windows, the outdoor pool and pointed out the dormitory (his word; hers was barracks) in what had been a carriage house. "You'll join us for practice," he said. It wasn't exactly a command, more of a statement of fact.
Walking alongside of him, Firestar wrapped her arms loosely around herself. All this would have been impressive if she wasn't being blackmailed, and if the man giving her the tour didn't look so much like Randall Chase. She kept having to tell herself it wasn't him.
"And this is your room," Thomas said as they stopped in front of a door on the second floor. He opened it and stepped inside a room large enough to contain her bedroom and the guest room at home. "TV, DVD, computer without internet access, so don't get your hopes up," Thomas pointed out; Firestar couldn't figure out if he was attempting to joke with her or torment her. Did he, she wondered, blame her for the death of his brother, a death that she at times blamed herself for.
"Bathroom," he continued, opening a door in the wall, revealing a bathroom that looked to be half the size of the bedroom. He walked over to the closest and opened that as well. "Master Shaw had Rachel, the cook, get some clothes for you. Mostly jeans and shirts. If anything doesn't fit," he looked her over as if he were taking her measurements. Suddenly, for some reason, she felt dirty. "Or if you need anything else," he continued. "Let Rachel know."
Wishing he would just leave so she could think, Firestar said, "I thought I was allowed to go into town."
"Not at first. When you prove your good behavior, we can go, Angelica," Thomas replied, putting emphasis on her name, "We can go to dinner and talk about Randall." A pained look crossed her face, and she looked down at the carpet, her hair hiding her face. Interesting, Thomas thought, she cared for him; perhaps it hadn't simply been an attack of conscience that prompted Randall to rebel. Thomas had believed that the young mutant would be arrogant, more like a mini-version of the White Queen. But she wasn't. He had seen real fear and worry in her eyes for her father and the families of her team mates, which made her more dangerous to Shaw. He looked her over again, wondering how much he could play on his similarity to his brother. She shifted from foot to foot, refusing to look at him. Nervous, he thought and took in the tense shoulders, and added angry.
One of his men knocked on the door. "Yes," he said, shifting his eyes from his charge.
"We have news about Shinobi," the guardsman held out the folder.
Dismissing the guard, Thomas felt her eyes on him as he took the folder and opened it. He scanned the report about the defeat of Shinobi the Idiot at the hands of X-Force and the Warriors then repressed the curse that rose as he looked at the last few pages. He warned Shaw against this, said it would be too risky. Shaw overruled him again. "It seems," he said coldly, "that your friends were too late." He held out the sheets. "I'm sorry," he finished and added some pity to his voice, "But Shinobi killed him shortly after you were delivered".
Firestar took the sheets from him, reading quickly until she saw the photo. He watched the blood drain from her face as she studied the doctored picture showing Justice dead, with a gaping hole in his chest and sightless eyes in bloody face.
"Get out," she shouted, shoving the papers at him, pushing him out of the room, and slamming the door in his face.
"If there is anything you need," he said and heard her fist hammer against the door.
Firestar sank to her knees on the plush carpet. Her stomach cramped painfully, she felt dizzy, unsteady, could feel the tears flow from her eyes. She wanted someone to feel the pain she felt at this moment. She glowed.
That, she knew, she could not do. She didn't want anyone else to die. She powered down.
Think, she told herself, biting her lip to keep from crying out. The image had burned itself into her mind; it was hard to think around its harsh read. She had seen death before, had felt the blood of a loved one on her hands. The photo looked like death.
Breathe, she told herself, gasping for air.
Vance could not be dead, she thought. The photo had to be doctored. Stupid, she told herself, to shove it back at Thomas. Should've kept it; should've studied it. But he can't be dead; they would've said something earlier. They had just done it to make her feel helpless and alone.
She half believed herself.
She scrunched the palms of hands into her closed eyes, biting the collar of her jacket to keep herself from screaming. Think, she told herself. If Vance is alive, they probably did something like this to make him think she was dead. If, she cringed but continued, if he was dead, then the others would undoubtedly think she was too. Either way, she was alone with no expectation of help. Okay, she told herself, I've been here before; therefore, I can do this. Her hands shook from rage and grief.
God, her poor father.
Shaking she forced herself to think though a plan. If she obeyed, then she could go to town, and eventually they would relax. Then she could call the others and once the Warriors took out the guards, she could deal with Shaw and Hellfire, finish them off forever. Until she could do that, she could find out what Shaw really wanted and disrupt it as much as she possibly could from the inside. Not much of a plan, she knew, but it was what she had at the moment.
He couldn't be dead, she thought, curling up in a ball on the carpet, crying as quietly as she could.
Bart Jones put out Pumpkin's food and stared into space as the big, orange cat chowed down. He worried about his daughter who five days ago had called and said she had to do something with the Warriors, and don't worry Dad.
Right. Don't worry. I'm recovering from being shot in the chest because someone wanted to get at the Warriors, and I'm not supposed to worry, he thought as Pumpkin ate like a starving wolf.
There was the sound the door being unlocked. Leaning on his cane, he moved as quickly as he could to the front of the house. "Angel?" he called out, frowning in disappointment when he saw only a tense Vance Astrovik, who looked like he hadn't slept in a week. "Where's my daughter?" Bart asked before the boy could say anything; a knot of ice formed in his stomach. "Where have you been?"
Vance closed the front door, "Sir," he began his eyes troubled.
"Is she okay?" Bart demanded.
"I believe so," Vance replied, hesitantly. He didn't know how to go forward, just knew that Bart had to be told. He didn't want to shock the older man, however.
"You believe so?" Bart's voice grew hot as he clutched his cane and took a step forward.
"Sir, sit down, and I'll explain. It won't do Angel any good if you tear out your stitches."
Vance moved a chair over with his mind, and Bart found himself sitting down. This must have been how his Ma had felt when he was in the army, Bart thought, knowing, at least, that his girl was not dead. He listened as Vance told him the whole story, how he and this Night Thrasher had decided to infiltrate something called the Upstarts, how Vance had lied to and walked out on Angel, how he had returned when the Upstarts went after Angel.
"You said what?" he snapped before he could stop himself when Vance told him about convincing Angel to give herself up, so his cover could be kept. Bart frowned and stared at the floor. He had misjudged the boy like he had misjudged Frost and failed Angel again. He listened as Vance told him about waking up and discovering Angel gone. He heard about the few leads, something about property, that Warriors had and were going to track down. He heard but mentally rejected Vance's apology. Finally, the boy stopped speaking.
Licking his chops, Pumpkin came out of the kitchen, hopped on the couch, and meowed at the two men.
"Get. Out. Of. My. House," Bart Jones spat.
Vance bowed his head. He had foreseen this. "Sir," he said as he rose," We'll get her back. I promise. I'll . . ."
"You promise?" Despite his recent injuries, Bart Jones rose to his full six feet plus becoming the sergeant he had once been. "Really? And I can trust your word?" His voice rose. "I let you into my home! I trusted you with my baby girl! You lied to me, to us! Worse, you used us! You knowingly turned her over to killers because it suited your perverted sense of justice, you cold hearted bastard! Now I'm suppose to believe you'll bring her back? How? In a body bag?" Bart shouted.
Vance winced. Pumpkin jumped off the couch and headed for safe ground.
His face pained, Vance moved to the door. He deserved this, he knew. "Sir," he tired one last time, unsure of what he would say. That it felt like his heart had been ripped out. That he hadn't been able to sleep. That if anyone harmed her, he would kill them. Perhaps to try to share the pain and worry they both felt.
"You knew about Frost," Bart hissed. "And still you . . . Get out now!" Bart shouted, swinging the cane. The blow, never intended for Vance, stuck the wall, leaving a large dent. Bart pushed Vance though the door, "When Angel gets back, if you ever so much as look at her, I'll kill you myself!" He slammed the door shut.
Breathing heavily, Bart leaned against the door, listening as Vance slowly left the porch. He waited until his anger only simmered before hobbling for his phone. He had kept up with his service buddies, some of whom who were in the government. Frost had found Angel; therefore, he reasoned, there had to be a way to find mutants. If the government didn't have it; someone must know who does. Maybe someone who could hook him up with this Professor Xavier who was on the news so often.
He would get his baby back.