A/N: HOLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY YIKES!!! It's been forever since I updated this story. I brainstormed and brainstormed, and finally finished the plot in my head
to the point that I am comfortable posting chapters again. So here y'all go, enjoy x-D and sorry for the delay, rather give you quality than quantity!
Chapter 2
01:40 January 3
Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen
"Yeah," Logan says, leaning on his elbows on the kitchen table. He's interrupted Laura's accurate narration to get them more alcohol. At first
he'd demanded a less complicated version of the story, but she had insisted details were important, relevant. Then Logan realized she probably
needed to tell someone about it. Women loved talking. So they've done some shots and she's begun to tell him the story, which he is
thinking has a bad ending.
Laura is silent now, her fingers curled around the beer can. She has the distant look of someone who has survived something quite horrible.
"You want somethin' to eat, half-pint?" Logan asks.
Laura shakes her head. He makes her a sandwich anyway and forces her to eat it, guessing correctly that she probably hasn't
eaten properly in days.
" Continue," he instructs her.
…
10:56 September 12
A & W, Lincoln, Nebraska
Laura fingers her napkin, restless. Every small sound makes her twitch. Movements keep catching the corner of her eye and she often snaps
her head around, paranoid that Kimura or some equal monster is creeping up behind her, somehow invisible to her other senses. She refuses
to accept the fact that Kimura is dead. She can't be. Kimura is a god, and gods do not die.
Julian follows her latest gaze direction, occasionally making a soft noise as he eats (mostly groans of satisfaction—Laura had refused to stop
for about fifteen hours and he's only now convinced her to let him rest). The burger is the biggest, juiciest thing on the menu and he is
devouring it as fast as is humanly possible. He has a momentary urge to—like a starfish—expel his stomach and digest it outside his
body, for speed.
" What the hell is up with you?" he asks, having swallowed the last mouthful. "You're acting like you've got ants in your pants. You
make me nervous. Can't you just relax for a bit? Have fun?"
Laura's gaze shifts back to him. She looks serious.
"I do not wish to relax. It would be a strategical disadvantage."
" Pfft. You're paranoid, Laura—absolutely paranoid." He takes a sip of his rootbeer and grins around the straw. "Nothing is chasing us, and
if something shows up, I'll send it out of here so fast it gets friction burns."
Laura does not smile. She studies her hands on the table. He reaches over and touches her chin. "I'm serious, I'll look after you. I'll never
let anything touch you again. I'd die to protect you."
She remains silent. That is exactly what she is afraid of.
"I love you," Julian adds.
"I love you too," Laura responds, sounding unhappy.
…
12:19 September 12
Interstate 80, North Platte, Nebraska
The feeling of paranoia continues for Laura. She performs shoulder-checks, almost upsetting Julian's balance on the bike; he clings to her tightly,
annoyance plain to be seen on his face. Annoyance is a common expression for Julian. There is just so much he does not understand—so much
that Laura hopes he never will have to understand. He should remain innocent. But innocent is dangerous, vulnerable, like a clam without a shell.
She switches lanes on the empty road, travels a kilometer, then switches back, even though there are no other vehicles. They are all alone.
A feeling of tension is growing for Laura, but nothing happens.
There—a car on the interstate, behind them. A red Pontiac. Laura shoulder-checks again, eyeing the car as it accelerates. She tries to judge if
it is just civilians—or—she doesn't know what she is expecting.
The car passes them and is gone. Laura does not relax—they could be waiting ahead.
"I need to take a leak!" Julian shouts again.
Laura sighs in frustration, decelerates. Knowing he will not be quiet until he is allowed to go.
…
13:29 September 12
Interstate 80, Colorado
They are at the Colorado border when a black SUV joins the interstate and begins to trail them. Laura's fingers tighten on the handle bars, and
her mouth sets in a grim line. She can hear it. She does not say anything, and Julian does not seem to notice. She is sure he will notice later.
"Slow down!" Julian shouts, concerned. She ignores him.
Ten miles later, nearing an exit, the SUV draws up alongside them, as if to pass. She knows that this is not its intention, but the motorcycle is
already at maximum acceleration—there is nothing Laura can do. Except for one thing.
"Julian—lift us," she shouts.
"What? Why? I don't—"
"NOW!"
Her voice is serious and commanding. Julian responds well to direct orders, like most people, and a moment later they are airborne, sweeping
diagonally across the field beside the interstate. Laura knows that's not the end of their problems—here come the helicopters she's been waiting for.
And something else that she was not expecting. Julian's grabbing his helmet, seemingly in agony, and they are tumbling to the ground at a
very fast rate, descending fifty feet at a rate of ten meters per second in accordance to the law of gravity, without calculating wind resistance.
"Ugh!" His powers fail completely in a weak burst of green that burns the grass with an acrid smell. Laura lands hard on her behind and her
claws come out even though she has not summoned them. She sits for a moment in confusion before her healing factor rights the shock.
"We've got to—"
She scrambles over to Julian who has blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth. And his nose.
"I can't—there's something wrong—" he looks up as the helicopter descends slightly, hovering. Someone is kneeling at the entrance, a woman,
wearing a plain white mask made of plastic. Similar to a hockey mask.
Holding a firearm. It's pointed at them. Laura throws herself in front, but bullets sweep through the grass in a wide, gentle arc. Thrrrpt. They go
right through her body and the wounds don't close like they should. One nicks her lung but it does not collapse. She rolls over, trying to ignore
the pain; the helicopter is only a few feet from the ground now. The woman is descending on a rope ladder, holding another firearm.
A buckshot rifle.
She approaches Laura matter-of-factly, holds the firearm to her cheek, and aims it at the girl's head.
"Laura—" Julian makes an odd noise, somewhat like retching. She smells a lot of his blood—probable mortal wounds.
Laura would react but something's wrong and she can't move. The holes won't close and she's cold.
Blam. And now she isn't anything.
...
Unknown time, September 13or 14
Location unknown
Laura comes to much later, like she always does even though she's been shot in the head. She's in a place that smells like electricity and unwashed
bodies—a cell. She stares at the ground with a confused frown. Her head hurts.
Finally she gets to her feet and limps to the bars of her cell, touches them with her hand. They are cold metal, dark grey. It is dark inside—but she
can see them clearly, with her night vision.
Snff.
Movement across the hallway. A head lifting. "Laura?"
Laura remains silent.
"I'm sorry…Laura…I didn't believe you…I…"
She touches the bars, studying them. Examining. Snnkt—CLANG! Her claws skip off the metal and hit her own arm, sending a momentary jolt of pain
along the nerves. Her expression does not change; she steps back and calculates.
Metal floor, metal bars. But not metal walls.
Crunch—her fist as it begins to tear through the concrete, ripping through the supports and constructs. They made a mistake, to think that a temporary
cell would hold her. To think that concrete could stop her. She is out already, blood still running down her skin from the wounds, being held open
by wall debris.
She approaches the other cell, studying its construct as well. Yes.
"Stand back."
"I can—"
"Do it."
Scuffles. She draws her arm back and slams it into the stone, baring her teeth as she forces her arm through. Ripping both it and the wall away in chunks.
Finally there is a hole, a hole in the cell, and she can see him on the other side, his face covered in bruises. "Crawl through," she whispers.
"I won't fit—that's way—"
"Do it."
Scuffling. Julian puts in one arm, then the other and begins to inch his way through, his face contorting in pain. He stops. "I'm stuck—"
"Exhale." Laura glances around. She keeps hearing whispers—but when she looks, there's nothing there. It's unnerving. He exhales hard and wiggles the
rest of the way out, collapses to the floor by her feet.
She bends down and grabs a hold of his arm. "We need to leave, now."
"I know." He pulls himself up with her help, and leans heavily on her shoulder. Snff. Metal, blood, and Julian. He has a leg injury, near a major vein in his
leg. If the wound tears further, he will bleed out. They must be careful.
Laura looks around them for the most likely way of escape. She should have done this first—examined their surroundings thoroughly before adding a
handicap, a burden to herself that may impede her. He was safe in the cell, for the moment. But she can't stand the thought of leaving him there,
should she have to leave in a hurry.
"The roof," she whispers. Julian looks up doubtfully. "Laura—they did something—I can't use my powers…"
Laura frowns. The metal she smelled. She turns him slightly and her eyes widen as she sees a scar with stitches on the side of his head, at the temple.
"You have been operated on."
Julian looks alarmed, and touches his face. "What? Where? Oh my god—I feel it, right here—right?"
Laura nods, then concentrates. "Later. We must leave." She looks up again. She can climb up—with her claws—the walls are full of metal and if she jams
her claws in sideways they will hold. But what about him?
"I can't," he says, following her eyes. "Laura—"
She decides they can. "Hold onto my back."
"You've got to be kidding me. We can't make it."
"Do it."
"Laura—"
Snkkt. "DO IT!"
Julian complies. Soon they are halfway up the wall, Laura looking carefully for each new hold where there are likely to be supports, deep within the structure.
They are three-quarters of the way up when she feels his grip weaken slightly.
"I don't feel so good," he says, his voice wavering.
"We are almost there." She moves them up another two feet. It's true, the ceiling is now brushing her head. Now for the hard part—to break through without
disturbing the boy's balance, or hers for that matter. She takes a deep breath, leans into the wall and slowly releases one set of claws, then jabs it upwards,
cutting. "Close your eyes." Drywall, insulation and metal rain down on them. She opens her eyelids and now she can see stars twinkling in the night sky.
"Urr…" Julian's hands slip; she has a fraction of a second to catch him before he falls, before he begins to accelerate at nine point eight meters per squared
due to gravity. She makes it, her hand squeezing shut around his at the last moment. He is a dead weight, head hanging to the side.
Laura looks up; this will be difficult. Not only that, but she knows it is insensible. According to her training, she should simply let him go, and consider his
casualty as a failed mission. She isn't going to do that though.
"Stay conscious," she orders. "I cannot pull you up. You will need to climb."
Julian leans his head against her shoulder for a moment. "Okay. I'm ready."
"Go."
Slowly he shoves his hand up through the gash she has torn in the roof and searches for a hold. He finds it and pauses. Just as Laura is about to rebuke him
for not hurrying he lifts himself up off, his knee hitting her in the rib and knocking the air out of her lungs. "Sorry," he gasps as he struggles to pull himself all
the way; a moment later he succeeds and rolls to the side of the hole in the roof.
Laura follows quickly after him with ease, her forehead wrinkled in concern. It is hard, but not that hard; he is lying flat on his back, his face pale. He is sweating.
"Your pulse rate is increasing," she observed.
He doesn't answer, just breathes slowly and heavily.
"We have to leave. Get up." She takes his hand. It's cold and slightly damp, not warm and dry like it normally is. "Julian."
"Alright…" he opens his eyes and slowly sits up, wincing. "Damn…my leg hurts…I'm sore all over. What the hell happened?"
"We were attacked." Laura hesitates, then presses a hand to his forehead, more of an excuse to touch him than anything else; she is surprised that it is hot.
Burning hot.
"I believe your wound is becoming infected. You require medical attention. We have to go." She helps him to his feet; he sways a bit. She makes her way to the
edge of the roof and peers over, afraid of what she'll see. Guards? Wire fences? Kimura?
Instead, nothing.
No one is there, at all.
They are alone.
Laura's hackles bristle—that can't be right. Where are the people keeping them here?