Emma coughed, her head hitting the hard, stinking metal of the floor. Her hands were twisted into the floor and, distantly, she realized there was blood underneath her fingernails. She'd been scratching at the floor.
"Well?"
She looked up. Martinique was there, the prod she'd used in one of her hands. Emma felt fear leech into every fiber of her being. Martinique was smiling again, and she knew nothing good ever happened when Martinique was pleased.
"So, you found it all, didn't you?"
Emma found herself wanting to nod, but she hesitated. She didn't dare look back at the woman in the chair, the woman she firmly believed was in more pain than she was. Her own silence, the absence of even a whimper, proved she'd passed out.
Soon though, her pain would be over. Emma didn't think that Martinique would keep Moira around after she got what she wanted out of her. Would she kill her quick or slow? Moira had seemed so kind, so she hoped it was quick.
And yet, why did she have to die? It was a small, insidious thought that curled up inside her head. She wanted to tell it to stop, that she didn't need it. Emma had to put herself first.
At the same time, Moira had cared. Moira had been kind. Even amid her pain, she had been kind. She had cried for her in her head. It was true that Emma didn't need pity, but it was such a rare quantity that it all but left her speechless.
Then there was that man in her head. Was he really going to help them, or try to? She hoped so. He was someone who cared about Moira, that much was plain. He was powerful too, having made it through all the trappings of Essex's hellhole.
Maybe he could find them. That would take time though, and she didn't know how much time they had. If he was able to come, then it might be too late for Emma. It would most likely be too late for Moira.
Martinique's hand shot up, grabbing her by her collar and yanking her to her feet. The metal dug into her throat and Martinique snarled at her.
"You're testing my patience," Martinique snapped.
She nearly giggled. What a stupid line. Had Martinique gone fishing in the encyclopedia of stereotypical evil sayings? The laughter didn't even make it to her throat though, given what had happened the last time she'd laughed at something Martinique had said.
Anger suddenly flared inside her when the urge to laugh died. She knew it was dangerous, knew she had nearly been killed for it in the past. Rage was an indulgence she could no longer afford. Rage and pride. They had been some of the first things to go.
But it was growing inside her nonetheless. She hadn't been born to the life of a slave. She'd been born a princess. They had taken everything from her, forced her to grub around on the floor, hurt her. Why should she help them instead of a woman who gave a damn?
It gave her a modicum of courage, and she used it before she could think twice.
"I...I think I got a lot of it," Emma whimpered.
Martinique pulled her closer, snarling. Emma flinched. She wished she was only acting, pretending to be more frightened than she actually was. However, this was exactly how frightened she was. She knew what fighting back, what signs of resistance meant.
But Moira had reminded her of her sister, another luxury she hadn't dared to indulge in. So she swallowed her fear and sought for her courage.
"I mean...I think I got a lot about the cults," she said, "There was more and then I...I...when you hit me, I lost it, and I was trying to find it, but I think she was just screaming so much, and I think I was hurting her, and then the collar came back on-"
Martinique threw her to the ground. Emma immediately curled up, protecting herself from the kicks she knew were coming. As usual, Martinique didn't fail to disappoint. But with each jolt of pain, Emma grew angrier. It was warm, fighting against the cold of the pain.
The kicks stopped, and Emma heard the click of Martinique's heels.
"How long do you think she needs to recover? Her brain's probably mush right now."
Emma licked her lips and tried to think of something that would sound plausible. Martinique, she realized, was underestimating Moira's strength. She wasn't sure if this Charles had felt what she had while she was inside of Moira's head, that burst of mental adrenaline.
That could be good.
"Three days," Emma said.
Martinique snorted and grabbed her by her collar. She was already dragging her down the hall before she answered.
"You have two."
Emma hoped it would be enough.
"So, what caused this?"
Essex sighed as he peeled the latex gloves off his hands. Regan watched him, bored. The only thing less interesting than an autopsy was watching Essex clean up afterwards. He was so methodical it was maddening.
As such, it had taken him a long time to take apart the bodies of his soldiers to satisfaction. He was looking for every shred of evidence. Regan was just angry at the detour from their destination, but also slightly anxious. The men's death had been brutal in a way that even made her wince.
"They were all killed by bullet wounds," said Essex, "The type of gun is familiar. I issue it to you, even gave it as gifts to Stryker's pets."
"They might be able to hear you," murmured Regan, looking at the door.
"No, they won't," Essex said, "And if they did? They're his creatures, so they might complain to him, if they think he gives a damn. He even let us have Kestral back, although I could've told him teleporters can only teleport where they can see."
"He thought he could push him," Regan yawned, "I heard them talking about it."
"Well, more fool him then," said Essex, "He could've gotten Kestral stuck into a CIA wall, no closer to MacTaggert's research. If your sister's done her job, she'll have it waiting for us when we get back."
He turned on the sink and began washing his hands. Regan waited, but soon lost patience. God, he was infuriating.
"So, do you know who did it?" she asked.
"Why the curiosity Regan?" asked Essex.
"Because they're saying it's Logan out there," she said shortly.
Essex laughed and dried his hand.
"Well, his old comrades might well have reason to fear him coming back. You too," said Essex.
As if she needed to be reminded.
But their fear is ludicrous," said Essex, "If Logan survived all that at the compound, and he very well could have, his healing factor was the most impressive I've ever seen, he would be in Canada, not in Europe. I doubt his mind would be in any state to have him plot this kind of heist."
"I thought they only got maps of some of our locations," said Regan, "And, to me, it looked like they just killed the guards and did a runner."
"True enough," said Essex, "But I put a little safety measure for our friend Mr. Logan. It was foolish to let Stryker give him a test run, granted, but he wasn't supposed to let him out before he put in the final program. Without commands, he was a feral animal. If he's alive, he's probably killing and eating bears in the mountains."
"Xavier's people then?" asked Martinique.
"They don't use guns," Essex said, "And these are very good shots. Not up to Zero's level, but still very good."
"So who?"
Essex crossed his arms thoughtfully.
"I have some theories, but they mostly involve the dead," he said, "I'll think it over. Tell the team it's time to move out. I heard there's quite the crop headed to Muir Island. And the delay here's cost me enough time."
Of course, it hadn't just been the delay here. He'd been waiting for the final parts to some sort of machine to come. He'd put several of them together on a hangar, muttering curses to himself in languages and phrases dead to most modern ears.
"I think it's time to visit MacTaggert and my...daughter," Essex said. "Yes. I'm in a hurry to meet them both. Not to mention it's time to see if Emma can live up to her potential."
Regan nodded and headed toward the door. She thought again of Logan, of the last time they'd met. She'd nearly been gutted before Martinique and her had brought him down, with a little help from his brother. It was the one time she'd been grateful for her sister.
If he was alive, she was glad he'd be too much of an animal to come back. Then again, if he'd just trained the Silverfox bitch like he'd been supposed to instead of screwing her, then things would've gone so much smoother.
When Charles woke up, Hank was finishing exchanging an IV. Once Hank realized he was awake, he quickly put a finger to his lips. Charles frowned, but Hank jerked his head to the side.
Kevin was curled up on the chair next to him, asleep. Charles couldn't help the sadness that welled up inside him.
"How long has he been here?" asked Charles.
"He never left," said Hank, his voice low, "Charles, you didn't see him when I first came in. He was shaking Charles. Physically shaking. Jean, who found you two, said his gifts were going crazy."
"He's shaken some things in the past when he was upset," said Charles, "Just like Jean. Just like any of us would have."
Hank looked like he would have said more, but Charles tiredly turned his head to him.
"When did I pass out?" he asked.
Hank didn't meet his eyes.
"You sedated me, didn't you?"
"After the first few minutes," admitted Hank, "You needed rest, real rest, not the kind you get when you're knocked out. And you just wanted to start researching."
"What else am I supposed to do?" asked Charles, "I felt her Hank. She was in pain. I know she was."
"And we'll find her, but you need to be at your peak running condition," said Hank, "You never let Alex go out with a wrenched arm, and if I had a concussion you wouldn't let me out of doors. You'd lost a ton of blood Charles. I had to dig up some of our reserves."
His eyes flickered down to the IV, and Charles suddenly realized what it was for. However, he wasn't budging.
"Kevin needs his mother," he said, "He needs Moira back."
"You need her too," said Hank.
Charles hesitated, and Hank sighed, still keeping his voice low.
"You don't have to pretend that you don't need her, that you don't love her," he said, "You don't have to be ashamed of wanting things."
"Moira isn't a thing," Charles said, "She's a person in danger."
"You knew what I meant," Hank said, "And yes, she's in danger. Yes, things are going bad. But she'll be pissed if you're dead. She loves you too, don't forget that."
"I know," said Charles, "All the more reason why I have to find her."
"Kevin needs you too you know," Hank said.
"Trust me, I know that," said Charles, "Someone else needing me to come through."
Hank didn't say anything for a moment. Charles turned his head away, back to Kevin. The child's face was puffy. He hadn't seen him that exhausted in many nights. How hard had he cried for the second person he cared about to be taken from him? True, Charles was fine, but Kevin hadn't known that.
"You're not doing this alone, believe it or not," said Hank, "We all share in the blame for her getting taken. Peter feels it, Kurt feels it."
"It's not their fault," Charles said.
"Then how come it's yours?" asked Hank, "Moira and Kevin don't need you to be guilty, and guilt shouldn't be your driving factor."
Laughter burst from Charles. Hank looked at him, startled, and Kevin shifted in his sleep, but it was too much. Charles quieted for a moment, tears building up in his eyes as he stared at Kevin.
"It's not guilt that's driving me," said Charles, "No. For once it might be selfishness, because I don't think I want a world where we're not in it to raise Kevin together. Because..."
He swallowed. A stray thought ran through his head, at how strong Erik had been to carry on after losing his wife and daughter.
"Because I don't think I want to live in a world where she isn't there," said Charles, "And if that's not selfish, I don't know what is."
Hank let out a little chuckle now, and Charles turned.
"That's not selfishness, that's not wrong," said Hank, "I think that's just love."