Moira woke up, and everything hurt. It was a familiar sensation, but, this time, there was something soft beneath her. Her wrist was bandaged, and she could feel blankets tucked up around her. She groaned and, immediately, felt a hand on hers.
"Moira? Love?"
She turned her head and saw Charles seated next to her, his earnest eyes capturing hers. She swallowed hard, feeling herself tear up. There was no pain in her throat, no itching, no swelling. Finally, something had quenched her thirst.
Charles reached out, cupping her cheek, wiping away the tears that had already started to spill down her cheeks. It had been so long since she'd had enough water within her to cry, but the feeling of his cool hands on her hot cheeks felt glorious.
"Shhh, shhhh," he murmured, "You're safe love. You're safe. It's going to be alright."
She swallowed and grasped his hand. As she did, she became aware of the IV stuck into it. His hand kept stroking her cheek, and with each progressive breath, she felt herself become a little more real.
Moira let out a soft sigh, only wanting to hold onto him and never let go.
"How...?" she murmured.
"Not without some difficulty I'm afraid," he said, "I had to...we had to call in so many favors but...well, you're here now. that's all that matters."
Charles managed a small smile.
"I must say, you gave us all quite the fright when we first found you," he said, "For a moment I thought...I thought I was going to lose you."
"You won't," Moira said.
He squeezed the side of her cheek and she closed her eyes. She was tired, so very tired.
"Where's Kevin?" she asked.
"Resting," Charles replied, "It's very late. And...when you came in...we knew you were going to be fine, but I thought it was best Kevin didn't see you looking like that. I hope I didn't...overstep myself."
"No, you were right," said Moira, "Thank you for thinking of him. He's so young and...there are things I'd rather he not know I...never mind."
She tried to push herself up, but Charles put out a restraining hand.
"Don't push yourself," he said, "Moira, they weren't...they weren't taking care of you."
His voice darkened as he spoke, and she reached out to give his hand another reassuring squeeze. She closed her eyes again, settling further into the pillow. God, it was so soft.
"Moira, I'm so sorry to ask you this," whispered Charles, "But...Raven and I were talking...Moira...what happened to you? What did they want?"
She opened her eyes and turned her head slightly. Charles was looking at her so sadly, so earnestly, and she let out another deep breath.
"My research," she said, "I just...they wanted times, dates, even sources. They were looking for specific files, things you could only get from a government agency."
"Specific files?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "The unique ones. Some papers, Nazi experiments..."
She trailed off, trying to remember if there'd been anything else.
"You came across Nazi files?" asked Charles.
Moira stiffened and jerked her hand out of Charles's grip. He looked alarmed, but Moira sneered. The expression hurt, yet her anger was reaching a place where it was difficult to calm down from.
"Goddamn you," she said, trying to push away further from him.
"Moira?" asked Charles, "What's wrong?"
"You know what's wrong," Moira snapped, "Get the hell out of my head!"
"Moira, I don't-"
"Get the hell out of my head you stupid bitch!"
The room melted away. The scratchiness returned to her throat. The pain in her wrists returned full blast, rubbed raw from the cuffs. Hunger pains again reasserted themself in her stomach, and her unwashed hair stuck to the skin of her forehead.
Something dripped from the ceiling next to her. Moira swallowed, her tongue fuzzy and her throat on fire. Even her teeth felt strange. Her mind felt like pudding, but the anger was helping her focus it.
"That was really rude."
She forced herself to look up, leaning against the metal chair she was handcuffed to. Martinique leaned against the door, far away from where she could even attempt to throttle her. She was smoking a cigarette and looking angry.
Moira allowed herself a thin smile. So she was angry. Good. A sharp pain resonated in her head. God, her headaches were back.
"Stay out of my head," Moira hissed.
"Oh darlin, your head's already been screwed around with enough," Martinique said, getting up, "Seriously, does your boyfriend just scramble your brain recreationally? Is that a turn on for you? I'm really quite curious at this point."
Moira wished she could save up enough saliva to spit. She forced herself to stay calm though. They weren't giving her much water, and she knew the only benefit she'd get from spitting would be a bolster to her pride. While it was certainly a coveted attribute, it wasn't something she could afford.
Martinique flicked the cigarette on the ground, smashing it with the tip of her shoe as she approached. Keeping her distance, she lit another one and took a long drag, giving Moira a critical look.
"You know," she said, "You could just let me see your files. In you head I mean. It would certainly make things a lot easier."
"Easier on you, yeah," Moira said, "No thanks."
Martinique snorted and took another drag. She got a little closer. Moira would kick her if her legs weren't securely fastened to the chair.
"So, what gave me away this time?" asked Martinique.
Moira didn't say anything. Her mind went back to the mention of the Nazi documents, the ones Charles already knew she had. She whisked away the thought. While she didn't think Martinique could read her mind, all of this would've been much faster if she could, she didn't want to take any chances.
"Whatever," said Martinique, "I really think you should reconsider. To start with, we could increase your water rations."
Rolling her eyes and ignoring her swollen tongue, she shook her head. Martinique took her cigarette out and looked at it, blowing the smoke out slowly from her lips. Moira watched her movements, already tensing up.
"Why do people like you have to be so difficult?" she asked.
Moira didn't answer. Martinique turned the cigarette once more in her hand, and then lashed out, putting it out on the back of Moira's hand. A scream burst from her lips, paining her throat, and the smell of burnt flesh filled her nostrils.
Martinique tossed the cigarette over her shoulder a second or two later, watching Moira with interest. A faint sweat broke out on Moira's brow as she gasped her pain, trying to get it under control.
"Next time, I can always put it out on your wrist," Martinique said, "Soft skin there. Tender. So many nerves."
Moira glared at her and Martinique snorted.
"Right," she said, "Well, it's almost lunch time. See you in a little bit."
She gave a small wave as she moved out, pausing only to crush the cigarette she'd thrown over her shoulder beneath her heel.
The door slammed shut behind Martinique, and she swore. With fingers trembling from rage, she lit up another one. She'd been close that time, so sure that, this time, her illusion would work.
It had been much more difficult than she'd expected to crack into Moira's mind. Granted, not everyone fell for her illusions, but after a few days, they did succumb. It wasn't telepathy, but it was easy enough to trick people into telling her something, doing something for her.
Even the strongest, most stubborn minds had succumbed to her. She'd thought that, even with Moira's reputation for being hard-headed, she would be able to break in after a day or two, no problem. Three, tops.
What she hadn't expected was the amount of mental scar tissue she'd encountered. Martinique had run into it a few times, people whose minds had been messed with by telepaths. It made it more difficult to get in there, to get the surface thoughts and relationships she'd need to get the information to make her illusions as strong as possible.
But when she'd entered Moira's mind she'd hit a brick wall. Oh yes, she'd been able to wean out details, such as what her son was, who her lover was. She'd caught glimpses of other things, of a room where bloody hands reached for a phone. That had seemed important, but she hadn't been able to tap into it.
The sheer amount of mental scar tissue puzzled her. The cause of some of it was easy enough to identify: the sharing of conversations with a particular telepath, the tenor of the man's mind so known to her own that it was likely to fight any other mind.
However, what was really causing problems was something else. It was like a knot in the middle of her mind, made of hundreds of broken shards. It had given Martinique a headache just looking at it.
Where had it even come from? It was the equivalent of someone lopping off a leg and then stitching it back in. It didn't feel infected, so it had been done by someone who knew what they were doing, but it was still terrible.
Martinique took a long drag and leaned against the wall. Essex would be coming soon. If he hadn't already be delayed, he'd already be there, with her sister. Her baby sister, who would just love to see her fail. Regan would be sure to say she could do it better and, even if she couldn't, Martinique could see her own stock rapidly falling.
She flicked the cigarette onto the ground. She was running out of options but, more importantly, she was running out of time. She wasn't a telepath, no matter what Regan and Essex liked to pretend or tell enemies. She'd spent days using her illusions on Moira, and she knew she was running the risk of irrevocably destroying her mind.
It wasn't a chance she could take. Essex only wanted Moira for her mind, for what she knew. He didn't care about her powers, not that Moira had any, and his fury would be uncontainable if he found out Martinique had shattered her mind.
Martinique ran a hand through her hair furiously. In a week or two, Essex would be back to inspect the mutants she culled from the latest ship too. So she had another opportunity to disappoint him, although a substandard crop was more excusable than not having what he needed from Moira.
A scream echoed from down the hall, and Martinique's ears perked up. Oh yes, she'd forgotten about their other guest. While she hadn't bothered to look too closely at their facility's other inhabitant, the only permanent one she'd been able to tell, she knew a little bit. The facility had another resident, but Martinique had the feeling she wouldn't be there for too long, especially with Essex on his way.
Slowly, Martinique lit another cigarette as an idea formed. It was risky, but it was certainly worth a try. After all, Moira was a CIA agent, trained in what to do under interrogation. The child was nearer to her breaking point, easier to manipulate.
Smashing her old cigarette, Martinique walked down the hall. It seemed like risks confronted her no matter where she looked. She hadn't been in this particular situation for such a long time, hadn't had her back up against a wall like this.
Then again, an uncertain future was still better than one with a certain, unpleasant outcome.