No I in Team
"The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently." —Friedrich Nietzsche.
9. Mary Celeste
Location: Secret Soviet Communications Outpost
Kalmykia Oblast, USSR
13:50 HRS
John Wraith stepped carefully over the bodies, searching for the source of the sound. He finally found it, in the form of a Soviet guard who'd managed to drag himself away from the carnage before succumbing to his injuries. Now he lay groaning in agony as his guts spilled out over the ground. Evisceration wouldn't kill him directly, but his intestines, exposed to the open air, would soon start to dry out, and that would kill him, over a period of long and excruciatingly painful hours. When he heard John approach, the soldier lifted his head and said something in Russian.
"I have no idea what you just said, friend," John replied, "but you're lucky I'm here."
He lifted his rifle and fired several shots into the man's head. A spray of bullets, a spatter of blood, and the pained groaning ceased. John looked around at the rest of the corpses. One or two had been shot or stabbed, but most had been savaged; ripped-out throats, cracked skulls, bodies flung around like rag-dolls by Victor in a furious rage. His rages had gotten worse since Logan had left; now, he didn't hold back at all. His aggression went mostly unchecked. Stryker seemed to care little for the body count, and Logan had been the only other one who could keep his brother from going too far. Without anyone to leash him, he'd become violence incarnate.
Victor wasn't the only thing that had changed, recently. From time to time, Stryker had Team X hunt down other mutants, capture them alive and bring them in so they could be shipped off to some government facility. Stryker claimed the mutants they hunted were dangerous, and that Team X was protecting people by capturing violent mutants, but Wraith had stopped believing that after the third mutant they captured, a young woman who couldn't have been more than twenty years old. She'd had the power to… well, not turn herself invisible, but blend in with the background. Camouflage. Wraith just couldn't figure out how a young woman in college who could do nothing but camouflage herself, was a threat to national security, and the capture of mutants hadn't sat right with him since then.
But at least they captured the mutants alive. It was more than could be said for Team X's current victims.
"This ain't right," he said, half to himself, half to Dukes, who was on look-out duty with him.
"What ain't right?"
"This!" He gestured around at the bodies.
Dukes ran his eyes over them. "They're the enemy."
"If Logan were here, he'd have ordered us to capture rather than kill."
"Well, Logan isn't here," Dukes pointed out. "He left."
"I know he left. And I'm beginning to think he had the right idea."
It still stung, how easily Logan had been able to drop it all and quit. After all his talk of teamwork and co-operation, he'd cut and run as soon as the work started making him uncomfortable. Victor was right; Logan was selfish. But the way John figured it, a man had the right to be selfish, every once in a while, and he had to admit that Logan had done an otherwise great job. One only had to take a look at Bradley, to see just how good a job Logan had done. When Bradley had first arrived at Bunker Five, he'd been a twitchy kid who jumped at his own shadow, and Wraith had mentally given him about eight months before he either cracked and ran, or died. But here he was, three years plus change later, going as strong as any of them.
In the near distance, a temple bell rang out, and Wraith turned his dark eyes towards the monastery. He'd ignored it at first, because it wasn't part of the mission, and frankly, he hadn't expected to find a Buddhist temple in Russia. Now, though, he could see robed individuals going about their daily work, tending their gardens, touching up parts of the temple with a fresh coat of paint, and generally doing their best to ignore the fact that all of ten minutes ago their quiet little neighbourhood had sounded like a war zone.
"I hope this doesn't go down like that village outside Lagos," he said quietly.
"It coulda been worse," Dukes shrugged. "At least we left most of them alive. And Stryker got his rocks. So that's the end of it. Right?"
"Who're you trying to convince? Me, or you?" John asked.
Dukes shrugged again, and John shook his head. Dukes wasn't a bad guy… not really. Sure, he was slow on the uptake sometimes, but he hadn't joined the military to shoot people up. Especially not unarmed civilians. He just wanted to do his duty and earn his wage. Overall, he was a pretty transparent man… for his size.
When he heard the rest of the team return from the bowels of the secret communications bunker, John turned and gave them the once-over. Stryker looked displeased, Wade bored, Bradley concerned, Victor eager and Zero… well, it was hard to say. The man was as cold as a stone, and now that the main source of his displeasure—aka, Logan—was gone, it was even harder to judge his moods.
"Did you get everything you needed, sir?" John asked of Stryker. He had no idea what the major had brought Bradley in to hack, and he didn't really care. That info was for the bigwigs and the brass to know. For all John was concerned, it was the Russian recipe for goulash that Bradley had intercepted.
"No," said Stryker curtly. His face was dark, like a thunderstorm waiting to brew. "This… facility is empty. A decoy. These guards were protecting an abandoned concrete bunker."
Wraith shook his head. What a waste of life. Had the guards known they were protecting nothing but an empty shell? And if they'd known it, would they still have stood and fought despite Victor's onslaught?
"Does that mean we're heading back to base camp?" asked Dukes.
Stryker shook his head. "My superiors in Washington were certain this was the place. We know there's something here. Perhaps underground, or hidden in another location. Bradley, scan the airwaves for radio signals, see if you can pinpoint the location nearby."
Bradley nodded his head and closed his eyes. John watched his expression as emotions flickered across his face. Poor Bradly hadn't had an easy time of it since Logan had left. He'd always been frightened of Victor, and now, with no-one to keep a check on Creed, Bradley was more scared than ever.
"Well?" Stryker demanded, after a few moments of silence.
Bradley opened his eyes, and they looked troubled. "Err."
"Would you care to elaborate, Bradley?"
"Well, sir, I've detected some radio signals being transmitted and received. I can't say for certain that it's from the comms bunker, because the messages are encrypted. And, well… in Russian, sir."
"That's okay, Wade can translate them later."
"Wait a minute… I don't speak Russian," Wade said.
"Not yet. But you will, soon. Now, Bradley, tell me where the radio chatter's centred."
Bradley hesitated, the first time John had ever seen him do so. Then he lifted his arm, and pointed at something in the distance. John didn't turn to follow the direction of his finger. He didn't need to. He already knew what Bradley was pointing at, and it made his stomach feel cold inside.
"Then that's where we're heading," said Stryker. "Victor, you're on point. Zero, bring up the rear." When only Victor and Zero moved, Stryker turned a questioning glance on the rest of the team. "Well?"
"Umm… Buddhists, sir?" Wade said. "Aren't they… well… sorta pacifistic?"
"In which case, they shouldn't offer any opposition."
"You're afraid of a few monks, Wilson?" Zero said, a half-smile curling one corner of his lips.
"I kinda draw the line at killing funny little bald men in dresses," Wade countered. "Tell you what; if they happen to be Shaolin monks, then I'm more than willing to introduce them to Mr. Pointy and Mr. Stabby. I figure that'll be a fairer fight."
"You named your swords?" asked Bradley.
"So? People name their children. I don't see much difference."
"Let's get one thing straight," Stryker said, stepping between the pair to get their attention. "This, gentleman, is the army. If you're not the one giving orders, then you're following them. This isn't a democracy, and I'm not your mother, so if you want to talk about your feelings, do it in your own free time. Now, I'm ordering Team X to infiltrate and secure that building with whatever force is necessary. If anybody has a problem with that, feel free to take it up with your Captain."
Victor gave them one of his creepy smiles. When Stryker had promoted Victor to captain a week after Logan's leaving, John had thought the guy was nuts. Then he'd thought that the guy was actually very clever. Whoever played captain after Logan had some big boots to fill, and Victor had always had something of a rivalry with his brother. Siblings; who'd have 'em? At any rate, Stryker was doing his best to keep Victor sweet. Zero hated the whole situation of course, because it meant his master had a new lapdog, but as far as John was concerned, Victor made a poor team leader. He just wasn't command material, and everybody knew it. Even Victor. Which, of course, made him even more pissed off and violent.
Stryker was a smart man indeed.
"I hope this won't get me barred from Mensa," Wade sighed, falling into line behind Victor. Bradley hesitated for the second time, then joined Wade. John shared a glance with Dukes, and then they followed too. The bell continued to peal.
"This ain't right," Dukes rumbled quietly, for John's ears alone.
"Great, now he gets it," said John.
"So what're we going to do about it?"
"Don't see there's anything we can do. We're in the middle of goddamn Russia, at the mercy of a madman, being led by a lunatic. Do you want to say no to Stryker, with Victor breathing down your neck? If we disappeared out here, no-one would ever question it. Just two guys killed in a dangerous black-ops mission, right? Man, they wouldn't even admit that we existed in the first place."
"So… we wait until we're home. And then what?"
"Well," said John, "as a wise man once said, you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run."
Dukes looked thoughtful for a moment. "Gandhi, right?"
John shook his head. "Yeah, Fred. Gandhi. Anyway, what I'm saying is that when we get back, we do it all proper. Submit our resignations, cash in our cheques and accept whatever pension we can get out of 'em. We do it all right, in a way that suggests we might be useful guys to keep around for the future. After all, Team X isn't the be-all end-all of the military, right?"
"Yeah, I guess," said Dukes. "Might be a good time to open that restaurant I've been thinking about."
"You bet it's the right time." He reloaded his rifle, and set his eyes on the nearby Buddhist temple, where monks were starting to flee in fear. It wouldn't do them any good; Victor was like a damn bloodhound, once he got a scent. "One last job, and then we fold. Cut our losses and go. No turning back."
o - o - o - o - o
Location: Bunker Five
21:35 HRS
Bradley looked at the cards in his hand.
"Got a ten?"
"Go fish," Wade replied. "Hmm… got any sixes?"
With a sigh, Bradley handed one of his cards over. As he did, he glanced over the top of the remaining few, quickly checking that Victor was still crashed out in front of the TV. Not that he needed to check; Victor's snores should have been enough. But where Victor was concerned, he wasn't going to take any chances.
It was rec time for Team X… or at least, what was left of it. Wraith and Dukes had resigned from active duty over seven months ago now, and though Bradley had wanted to leave with them, he'd been too afraid, at the time, to speak up. He was afraid because he knew there was nothing for him, outside of this bunker. Unlike most of the other team members, he had no particular skills or talents that would lend themselves to employment in the civilian section… other than, perhaps, taking a job as an electrician, which just didn't appeal.
Stryker was away from base, visiting his family for a few days. Victor had drilled the team hard throughout the day, much harder than Logan ever had. He'd kept them going from sun-up till sun-down, and by the time they'd trudged back to Bunker Five, all mud-covered and scratched up, even Zero and Wade were weary. Bradley was exhausted, but he forced himself to be here, because otherwise he'd only spend the evening in his room, worrying about his plan. Victor could smell fear; everybody knew it. He was like a bloody dog. Or a wolf.
Zero was seated at a different table, cleaning his guns, and had declined a game of poker. When Victor, after several cans of beer, had fallen asleep on the sofa, Bradley had managed to pry Wade away from his 'Test Your Own IQ' book for long enough to play a few games of Go Fish.
"If you keep looking at him like that, someone's gonna get the wrong idea," said Wade.
Bradley turned his attention back to his cards, but his heart wasn't truly in it. Wade was already four games up, which was pretty much typical. Bradley never won at anything. He always came in last. That's why he didn't usually bother even trying to compete.
"He wants to kill me," he said, hoping that by confiding some of his fears to another person, it might make them… less. "I can see it in his eyes, every time he looks at me. He thinks that I'm weak, that I slow the team down. If Stryker let him, he'd kill me in a heartbeat. Or, well, probably not a heartbeat. He'd do it slowly."
"Well," Wade said, in a cheerful tone, "if it makes you feel any better, the moment I hear that Victor's going to kill you, I'll do it first. Quick and mostly painless. A mercy-killing sorta thing. Would you prefer decapitation, or asphyxiation?"
"Y'know, that really doesn't make me feel any better, Wade."
"Not now, no, but it'll make you feel much better when you find me knocking on your bedroom door one day, rather than Victor." Wade leant forwards, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Or Zero, for that matter. He doesn't like women, y'know. You definitely don't wanna find him knocking on your bedroom door."
Bradley rolled his eyes. Wade turned pretty much everything into a joke. It was the only reason Bradley had stuck around this long. But there was only so far jokes could take you, and with Victor growing more and more unpredictable by the day, Bradley knew his time had come. He'd been waiting for this moment for weeks. Waiting for the perfect opportunity. When Stryker had informed the Team he'd be taking a few days of personal leave, Bradley's heart had almost leapt out of his chest. He knew that it was going to be now or never, so he'd formulated his escape plan. He wasn't brave enough to stand in front of Stryker and say that he wanted out, so he was going to do what he'd done years before, when his parents had found out he was a mutant and pretty much disowned him. He was going to run, and keep running until he found a place where nobody knew his name.
"How's the book going?" he asked, nodding at the paperback test-book by Wade's arm.
The former merc sighed. "Terrible."
"But I thought you were really smart? I mean, Mensa-smart."
"I am, for sure. But the book is sooooo boooooring," Wade complained. "The logic puzzles weren't so bad, but mostly it's just maths. I hate maths. And number sequences. Fastest way to put me to sleep is by showing me a sequence of numbers and asking me to say what comes next."
"So what you're saying is that finding out your own IQ is too… boring?"
"Yeah." Wade flicked the book, and it landed on the floor. "I wish there was a more exciting way of doing it. Like, keeping a running tally of your bodycount on a high-casualty mission. But I guess the guys who wrote those stupid books didn't take into account the fact that I have the attention span of a—ooh, shiny!"
Wade reached down and picked up something sparkling from the floor, near where his book had fallen. It turned out to be a small diamanté hairpin.
"Must be Gina's," Bradley said with a smile. Gina, one of Bunker Five's gourmet chefs, was nice, but she didn't loiter around the rec room quite as much now that Dukes was gone and Victor was in charge. Bradley suspected she didn't like the way Creed looked at her.
"Guess I'll give it back to her tomorrow." A thoughtful look entered his hazel eyes. "Hmm, d'ya think—"
"No," Bradley said immediately.
"You didn't even give me chance to finish!" whined Wade.
"You didn't need to finish. I don't think Gina would be interested. She was pretty sweet on Dukes. I think she was cut-up when he left." Wade opened his mouth, and Bradley interrupted him. "And no, I don't think this is the appropriate time for one of your sword innuendos."
"I need to get some new material."
"Yeah." Bradley stifled a yawn, and realised just how tired he was. But that was for the best. The whole team knew he'd be exhausted after today. They wouldn't be expecting anything. Their guards would be down. And as for the human soldiers… well, they were used to his late-night wanderings. They knew how much he loved to look up at the stars. They wouldn't question him, and the security locks on the doors would prove no problem. By the time anyone realised he was gone, he would be miles away. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night. I'm absolutely exhausted from training today."
"Good idea. Looks like our illustrious leader is one step ahead of you." Wade shot a wry glance at the still-snoring Victor.
"Guess I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow."
"Yeah. Unless…"
"Unless?" Bradley prompted.
Wade gave him a grim smile. "Unless tonight's the night when you find me knocking on your door." He used his finger to draw a line across his throat, then grinned. "Sweet dreams!"
With a shiver, Bradley left the rec room and walked down the corridor towards the dorm. Sometimes, he wasn't sure just how much Wade was joking. It would be just bloody typical that tonight Victor would decide to off him, and after all the preparation he'd done ready for his escape. It would be yet one more instance of him coming in last again.
He got to his room and, for the first time, wished there was a lock on his door. Not that it would keep any of Team X out, but it would definitely have made him feel a little… safer. All he could do was close the door behind him and make sure it was firmly shut. Then he reached under his bed and pulled out the backpack he'd stashed beneath the mattress. It was already full of clothes and some of the polystyrene-flavoured army rations, and he added a small pile of cash to it too. Then he went to his closet and took out a camera, a telescope and its tripod. They were some of his most beloved items, but tonight they would serve only as props, and once he was far enough away from the base, he would abandon them. Much as he was loathe to leave them, he knew he'd travel faster without them. Their sole use tonight would be to convince the guards at the perimeter gate that he was just going star-gazing again.
Everything was in place. Everything was ready. He'd worked out every little detail and, as Logan had taught him, tried to account for the factors which he hadn't thought of yet. He was convinced he could get away. He knew he could do it.
Where was Logan now? he wondered. And what would he say, if he could hear Bradley's thoughts, and see the plan for himself? He suspected his former Captain would be proud of how thoroughly he'd planned this out. At least, he hoped his former Captain would be proud. Logan was one of the few men Bradley had ever respected. Perhaps, in a few months, or maybe a year, he'd track Logan down and surprise him with a visit. They could sit down with a beer and talk about how good it was to be free; of the violence, of the military, of Victor. Yes, that would be nice.
With nothing left to do except wait for the appointed time, he sat down on the edge of his bed and turned his thoughts to the stars.
o - o - o - o - o
Location: Some hotel
Moscow
08:50 HRS
Wade yawned and rolled out of bed, being quiet so as not to wake the sleeping woman beside him. Her dark blonde hair cascaded over the satin pillowcase beneath her head like a fountain of spun gold. Or something like that.
He dressed in the suit that had been provided for him, then glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. He looked almost respectable, in a suit. Of course, a suit was rubbish for concealing weapons in, so he'd had to leave his swords back home, which he wasn't thrilled about, but he'd managed to find himself a suitably shiny knife which was stashed in his inside pocket… just in case of emergencies.
Dressed for the day, he looked down at the sleeping woman. Natalia was her name, and she was pretty enough. A blonde, so not his usual type, but needs must when the devil drives. His orders were to infiltrate one of the less important branches of the Russian government, and the phrase 'covertly' had been reiterated by Stryker so many times that Wade suspected the man thought he didn't have a clue what it meant. But surely he hadn't forgotten about Wade's Mensa-like IQ, had he?
At any rate, upon arriving in Moscow five weeks ago, he'd been working hard at getting closer to the Minister for Agriculture. Natalia just happened to be the Minister's personal secretary, and she'd promised to let him meet her boss 'soon'. Wade's cover was that he had recently inherited an overseas fertiliser company from some distant dead relative or other—an absolutely genius lie, if he did say so himself!—and was looking for a buyer within Russia.
Of course, plans changed.
He'd never planned to be in the military. It had sorta just… happened. Shiny things may have been involved. Money and women might have been mentioned. These things happened, and the military had been where he'd ended up. At first it was great, because he sat around on his ass being paid to do nothing but undergo a few medical tests every couple of weeks, to ensure his body was still in amazing shape. Which, of course, it was.
Then Logan and Victor had come along, which was slightly less than great because it meant having to actually do stuff, but the stuff he was required to do was mostly okay, and sometimes challenging. A few killings here and there, infiltrating stuff, hiking through jungles/mountains/forests/sewers/delete as appropriate. He got to travel to new places, which he liked, and test his skills in combat, which he really liked, but most of all, he got to belong somewhere, which was pretty weird, but not as dire as he'd first thought.
That had changed when Logan had left. The younger brother of Victor Creed had always had a delicate stomach when it came to killing, and he'd never been happy with some of the orders he was asked to carry out. He tended to whine about them a lot, and sometimes wrestle with his conscience, and then brood, and possibly more whining, but eventually it had all gotten too much for him, and he'd quit. Just like that. It was such a snap, out-of-character decision—Logan was big on team-work and not abandoning people—that it had come as a complete surprise to Wade, as well as the others.
The journey since then could largely be described as 'downhill'. Oh, sure, at first it was all the same, more or less. Only, it wasn't. Victor grew angrier and angrier, and even more violent as the days went by, and Stryker did nothing about it. And as Victor descended into darkness, or whatever other metaphor was appropriate, the missions had gotten darker, too. There was very little that could keep Wade awake at night; Owls, the noisy bastards; Terrible nightmares of boat-fulls of supermodels drowning Titanic-style; The thought that French might one day become the sole official language of Canada. But the things he'd done under Stryker's orders… if they didn't keep him awake at night, they followed him into his dreams, and disturbed him there. Even a man's head wasn't his own, these days!
He'd been a mercenary before. He'd done his share of dark deeds. But the things he was asked to do by the military, in service to his country (well, technically not his country) were darker than any of those. The more time passed, the less Stryker seemed to care about collateral damage. Normally, Wade didn't care about it either, but the damage was getting extensive. Stryker would burn a whole village if it stood in his way. He would order a child shot to make its parents talk. And he turned a blind eye to everything Victor did. Looked away from the blood, turned away from the screams, and just let it happen.
Of course, plans changed.
Last night, as he'd been in the middle of burning the midnight oil with Natalia, he'd been thinking about things. Multi-tasking wasn't just for women. It was entirely possible to have a full-blown conversation with yourself inside your own head whilst a Russian hottie was riding you like a cowgirl. And he'd realised something; he couldn't stay. Team X had been slowly eroding away over the past twelve months. It had started with Logan's impromptu departure. Then had gone Dukes and Wade, retiring from active duty to live their dreams of helping impoverished black kids by feeding them burgers, or whatever. And then, barely three months ago, Bradley had scarpered.
Bradley! Wade could still scarcely believe it. Who'd've thought that the little fly-zapper had enough courage to rabbit like that? He'd gone in the middle of the night, whilst everyone else was asleep. The guards had seen him go out with his sky-watching equipment, but they'd thought nothing of it, because Bradley was a bit of a sci-fi nerd. When he hadn't shown up for breakfast, Victor had gone asking questions. He'd hurt a few people. Soldiers Wade had known from his first day at Bunker Five. And, for the first time, he and Zero had had to restrain Victor. They'd physically had to hold him down, and it had taken both of them, plus a couple of the uninjured soldiers, to do it.
There should have been a court-martial. But Stryker returned and remuneration was made to the injured soldiers, and then Wade, as the only member of Team X to speak fluent Russianese (of course) had been ordered out here for this under-cover mission. A few weeks away from the holder of his leash had given him some perspective. He'd come to realise that he didn't particularly like his job anymore. It was too dark, too bloody, even for him. He still considered himself to be in possession of a soul, tarnished and grimy as it was, and he didn't think he could afford to get it any darker.
Besides, Victor was a violent brute with few brains and little tact or skill, and Zero had never managed to get that stick out of his ass. Team X had been reduced to two people he hated. Not that he'd been BFFs with the others, but they, at least, were tolerable. Sometimes even entertaining. People he didn't mind hanging around and winning money off from time to time.
He'd left behind the life of a mercenary, choosing instead the stability of a steady job. Now he understood that stability wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In choosing stability, he'd signed away his freedom, and it was time to claim his freedom back. It was time to be a mercenary once again.
And perhaps submit his application to Mensa.
There was a suitcase, so he packed it. In went some clothes, some money, and Natalia's credit cards. She was still sound asleep, but he'd slipped enough sedatives into her drink the night before to ensure she'd be out for hours, yet. One could hardly set off for a new life… or rather, an old life… with a woman fawning at you and pouting and trying to convince you to stay.
He had everything he needed to survive, and he could get himself a bigger blade once he was away from Moscow. Carrying a sword down the city streets might get him a few looks, and right now, he wanted to avoid looks. So he simply left the room and went downstairs to the check-in desk.
"I would like to check out, please," he said (in Russianese, of course), and handed over a wad of cash. "The lady in my room requests the use of it until the end of the day. Oh, and you might wish to take a holiday."
"A holiday, Mr Dobrovsky?" asked the concierge. "I don't understand."
"In a few days, some men are going to come looking for me. You won't want to be here when they do."
"I… I understand, sir."
The man looked as if he might faint, but Wade considered it his good deed for the year. He left the hotel and hailed a cab, and one pulled up a few seconds later. He didn't bother looking back as he hopped inside and told the driver to take him to the nearest airport. By this time tomorrow he'd be in the Bahamas, sipping a Piña Colada through a straw and enjoying the beautiful… sights. He had seen his last of Stryker, and of Team X.
o - o - o - o - o
Location: East Park Hospital
New Jersey
14:15 HRS
William Stryker stood in the cold mortuary, his breath fogging as he exhaled shakily. In front of him, on a cold metal medical table, a clean white blanket covered an unmoving body. He was no stranger to medical facilities, but he'd never realised before how quiet they were. The silence was pervasive, filled only with little noises; the ticking of the wall-clock as it counted idle seconds; the gentle hum of the refrigeration units as they kept their occupants chilled; the tap tap tap of quiet footfalls as the coroner arrived.
"Cause of death was massive cranial bleeding and irreversible brain damage caused by a hand-drill," the faceless medic said, as easily as if he was reading a weather report. "You don't have to do this, Major Stryker. A neighbour already ID'd the body. It's not pretty."
"I'm a soldier. Ugly is my life."
"Very well."
The coroner stepped forward and pulled back the white blanket, revealing a crown of gentle brown curls which looked no different in death than in life. Then, Stryker's eyes travelled across to her face, and he felt his fingers dig into his palm, his fists trembling with the effort of showing nothing. Sarah's face was pale and scarlet-soaked, the right side of her temple a mess of blood and bone and brain matter. Stryker felt the bile rising in his stomach. To see death… to order it done, to be a witness to it for the good of his country, was one thing. To see the results of it inflicted on the woman he loved…
"I'm very sorry for your loss," the coroner added. "And I'm sorry to have to ask you this at such a difficult time, but did Sarah have a history of mental illness?"
Stryker shook his head. "Why?"
"Several of the women she was friends with from her book club reported to the officer who found her that she'd been complaining recently of hearing voices, of seeing things which couldn't possibly be real. Terrible things which left her living in constant fear."
Damn it, Sarah, he thought. Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you tell me what was going on? I would have come home. I could have helped. I know you wanted to protect Jason, but it wasn't worth this price. Without you, there is no light in my world. Nothing left for me but to ensure this never happens to another family ever again.
"Major Stryker?" the coroner prompted.
"No. No history of mental illness."
The coroner wrote something down on his report. "The tox screen came back negative, so I'm certain this wasn't caused by anything your wife ate, drank or came into physical contact with. I hope the autopsy will provide me with an answer for you, but I have to tell you that the damage is… extensive. We may never know why your wife tried to drill into her own brain."
"Just do what you can," Stryker said, emotionless. He couldn't let himself feel, because the moment he acknowledged his feelings he knew he would lose it and break down. That was something he couldn't afford. Not now. He had to be stronger than ever before, now. He had to be unbreakable.
"I will, of course. I'm told that there was a witness to the incident… your son?" The coroner shook his head and tsked sadly. "That poor boy. What he must be going through, after everything he's seen. May God help him."
"Don't worry," Stryker said, the sickness in his stomach turning cold, like liquid ice. "I'll make sure he gets the help he needs." He stepped forward, touched his fingers to his lips, and then to the cold lips of his beloved. "Rest in peace, Sarah. And may all the angels of heaven watch over you."
He turned and left the morgue. On autopilot he returned to his car, started it up, and drove home. He barely saw the traffic lights along the way, didn't notice if turning cars had right of the road, paid no attention to his surroundings. Somehow, he made it home without causing an accident or being pulled over by the cops. The building that had once been a mockery of a family home now laughed at him openly, the creaky front gate scorning him, telling him, this is what you get for not being here when she needed you.
He slammed the gate shut and it broke from its hinges, the creaking laugh dying on the wind. But no, that wouldn't do. He couldn't get angry, because once anger got inside, it left the door open for other things, such as sadness and guilt, feelings he could ill afford to feel. So, taking a deep breath, he calmed himself before opening the front door of the house, and he stepped inside the home he had been absent from so often.
The grandfather clock still ticked in the hallway, but it ticked for itself, now. Never again would Sarah stand in front of it, a small smile on her face as she remembered how it had watched over her as a child, sending her to sleep with its rhythmic tick-tock. There was a very faint smell of apple pie in the air; the last thing Sarah had ever made. She loved to bake, and apple pie was Jason's favourite. Stryker vowed he would never eat apple pie again.
He walked through the house, feeling the ghosts of the things she had touched plucking at his heart, every tiny thing within his home reminding him painfully of her. No matter how much he tried to ignore them, they wouldn't fade away and let him be. And when he reached the door to the cellar, and rested his hand upon the knob, he heard Sarah's voice plainly in his head as she sang her favourite poem, one she'd sung Jason to sleep to when he'd been but a babe.
My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born
And was always his pleasure and pride.
But it stopp'd, short, never to go again
When the old man died.
.
In watching its pendulum swing to and fro
Had he spent many years as a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered the door
With a blooming and beautiful bride.
But it stopp'd, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
.
My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire—
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place – not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopp'd, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
.
It rang an alarm in the dead of the night—
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight—
And his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side,
But it stopp'd, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
.
Ninety years without slumbering, tick tock, tick tock,
His life seconds numbering, tick tock, tick tock,
And it stopp'd, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
He closed his eyes, trying to banish the voice, that hauntingly beautiful sound, from his ears. Turning the door knob, he stepped through and climbed down the stairs, guided by the light of the single bulb set into the ceiling. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he looked around and saw Jason sitting in a corner. The boy had obviously tried to work his way free from the restraints, but he'd never been the most physical of children; his hands were still bound behind his back, the ropes around his ankles were secure, and the gag was still in his mouth. His hair was messy, his face dirty from rolling around in the dust trying to free himself, eyes wide and panicked with fear of what was to come. A twelve year old boy was no match for military knots.
"William."
Goosebumps prickled his flesh, the hairs on his body rising at the voice of his dead wife. Turning, he saw her standing behind him, her face warm and alive, her hair a perfect cascade of shining loose curls, as if death had never touched her.
"William, please stop it," she said. "You're hurting Jason."
He felt a frown crease his brows, and as much as it pained him to do so, he turned his back on her. It didn't stop her pleading.
"Please, William. It's our fault. We never should have taken him away from Xavier. All Jason wanted to do was stay in school."
His hands curled into fists again, fingernails biting into his palms. The pain helped. It kept the anger and the tears at bay. Pain, he could handle. He was a soldier.
"He didn't mean for this to happen, William. You have to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you."
Now he ignored the illusion of his wife, and stepped forward towards his son. Jason shrank back, but Stryker reached out and pulled the gag out of the boy's mouth.
"Father, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Speak when you're spoken to, boy," he said, and casually back-handed him.
Jason went sprawling, his cheek turning red, and he whimpered like a frightened girl. Disgusting. But Stryker was under no illusion about whose fault this was. Jason might have forced his mother to witness the things that had driven her to suicide, but it was that professor, that Xavier, who had let Jason become this… this… monster. When it had been obvious that Xavier had no intention of trying to cure their son, he and Sarah had taken Jason home and planned to enrol him in a normal school. That's when the illusionary nightmares had started. Little things, at first; injuries taken where none had been caused, items moved or missing, the car gone from the drive. And when Stryker had been called back to work to handle Victor-related issues, Sarah had borne the brunt of Jason's anger. If only Stryker had known how bad it would be, he never would have left his wife alone with the monster that had become his son.
"I thought you were different to the others," he said, crouching down before Jason, who turned his face away. "I thought you were better than them, because you're my son. But you're no different. In fact, you're worse. You're just a boy, and you drove your own mother to madness and suicide. I've seen a lot of freaks, but you are by far the worst." He stood up, looked down at the cowering child, and barely even recognised him as his son anymore. "I was wrong to think that mutants can be cured. It's obvious to me now that there can be no cure for monsters like you, Jason. Mutants can't be cured, only controlled, neutered like dogs."
"Please, father, I want to be cured," Jason said. He was crying now. He'd realised that his illusion of Sarah wasn't working.
"No, you don't," Stryker said in disgust. "You just want to save your own hide. Just like the rest of them. Well, don't worry, son. I'm going to fix you. Make you safe. And when I'm done with you, you'll never be able to hurt another person again."
He turned and left, and Jason cried out.
"No, father, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll do anything you want! Please, let me try again!"
Stryker ignored the pleas. It wasn't his son that he heard, begging for help, but a monster trying to save itself from the fate it deserved. The fate they all deserved. He knew, now, what it came down to. Control or kill. And he knew just the scientists to help him with his new, personal mission.
Wade's Note: Author asks me to tell you that the Grandfather Clock poem is an old song (1876, so not quite as old as Logan) by American composer/songwriter Henry C. Work, and not an original concoction. Now that's out of the way – pretty cool chapter, huh? My favourite part was the bit with me in it. So, next chapter is going to be the very last chapter about your favourite black-ops super-power mutant team! What does that mean? Mostly that I get to ditch the other losers and have my very own story, yaaay! But you should still read the next chapter for closure or whatever. See you next week, amigos!