Zero walked down from one of the towers, followed closely by Chris. John looked over at the two of them, adjusting his cowboy hat. Zero was looking grimly pleased, and Chris was just looking grim.
Like John, Chris had begun wondering what the hell he was doing there. He'd probably been wondering it long before Vic had ripped into Kayla, before Logan had been carted away. Yes, they had never been close, and what he had Kayla had been doing was foolish, but they'd both been teammates.
Chris had always been the softest of them. Or maybe, in his own way, he'd been the wisest, the sharpest. He knew that they were damned, and that's why he kept plodding on. No point in trying to change course now.
"I heard some of our guys encountered mutants in the lower levels," Zero said, "One that zaps himself and another one who likes to fight."
"No special mutation?" asked John.
"Not that they can see," said Zero, "But apparently she's a pretty good fighter, and she's definitely going for the CIA woman you picked up."
John tilted his head but, inside, his head was churning. He'd teleported struggling captives before, watched as their disorientation slowly made them lose consciousness. He'd never experienced that and had something else struggling to get in his mind. He'd felt another presence, felt them pressing their mind into his.
It had been painful, and terrifying. Not even when Kayla had practiced on him had he felt that same sense of invasion. He'd been glad when he'd lost the mind, but it had made him uneasy. It was so determined, so angry.
Truth be told, it reminded him a bit like the look Logan had in his eye when he pointed the gun at Kayla. The only thing was it was more subtle. Logan could rip you apart. Whatever the mind that had touched his was, it could, he realized, cause much more insidious ways of suffering.
"But there were only two, and the boss is predicting higher numbers," Zero said, "Much higher."
"Right," said John, "Want me to scout?"
"If you could," Zero said, picking up one of his guns and fiddling with the ammunition chamber.
John pulled his hat down further, and something wet and cold fell on his nose. He frowned and touched the top of his hat. When his fingers came away, so did tiny, delicate flakes of ice, melting under the warmth from his fingers.
"Was snow predicted for tonight?" he asked.
Chris narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and looked at they sky. It was dark, so John didn't know exactly what it was he was looking for. Clouds? Again, it would be impossible to see in the dark night.
"No," he said.
Despite his better instincts, John looked up too. Large white flakes were beginning to fall, thicker and faster. John suddenly realized just how cold it was, and he shivered underneath his tactical coat.
Then the wind picked up, cutting through the fabric. The cold pierced his bones. He blinked. How the hell had they gone from a peaceful, albeit cold, night to what was shaping up to be a blizzard?
No, he knew the answer to that one.
"Think they've got a snow mutant?" he asked.
The wind picked up by him.
"Actually, we've got like a weather mutant, but, ya know, kudos for getting close! By the way, asshole, you didn't introduce yourself in the woods."
Something grabbed the back of his neck, and he found himself buried deep in a snow drift. Punches rained down on him as he tried to orient himself enough to teleport away. Gunshots flickered in and out of the distance. More were coming.
"What, nothing to say?"
More punches. God, who was this?
"You should've left her alone! She's got a son you know! He's like, eight!"
He opened his eyes, trying to find the source of the attack, but he couldn't see anything. He caught a flash of silver, but that might have just been the snow. Then the punches came back, and he tried to focus on a spot, somewhere far away.
A bright red beam cut through the darkness. He saw two guards pushed away by it, but it offered some temporary illumination. John teleported away to where he had last seen Chris. Where was he?
Something hit him hard in the chest. He looked up and saw the silhouette of a man, or was it a man? It seemed blue and furry, but that might just be the light. It was so difficult to see anything in the snow, but it seemed to be falling around the man, not on him.
He teleported behind the man, punching him, teleporting all around. Each time he made contact he realized that, yes, the man was blue and furry. He'd never seen this particular mutant before, but he'd been with Logan and Vic enough to know that he didn't know everything about his kind.
The man growled, lashing out at him, but John managed to duck. He kicked low, sending the man falling down in a heap in the snow. He was struggling to get up: even if the snow wasn't falling on him, it was certainly still deep around his feet and knees.
John pulled a knife and moved in, but the wind increased, and he felt himself flung away, into the cold snow.
"Dude, leaving before the party's over is lame. I've still got more shit I wanna tell you!"
He looked up and, for the first time, saw a young man with a cocky grin, goggles, silver hair.
"Because man, I am pissed at you," the man said.
Emma took a deep breath, trying not to panic. She didn't know why they were strapping her in like this, what the helmet was for. It wasn't torture, at least she felt it wasn't. They wouldn't need this many people for that, or would they?
The thrum of the energy began to increase. Emma took a shuddering breath, feeling panic and hysteria build. Regan moved closer to her and removed the collar, smiling thinly.
"Now then little princess," she said, "I want you to find the mutants attacking our operatives on this base. I think you know which ones are ours or enough anyway. Find them and concentrate on them. As hard as you can."
She moved a gun to where it was a few inches away from Emma's face.
"And I feel you in my mind, I blow your head off," said Regan.
Emma closed her eyes, trying to remember what to do, what she should say to give her a little more time. But all she could think about was the way the light glittered in her mother's hair when she'd seen her for the last time, tucking her in and asking Kayla to take care of her while she was away. She remembered her sister, her beautiful, fearless sister, telling her to be strong.
She jerked forward as what felt like ice water laced with electricity poured through her brain. It was like, suddenly, she could feel so much of the world. Not all of it, but so many minds. There was nothing but a slight glow from each of them in a sea of gray, and all she could see was the multitude of opportunities laid out before her.
It was both glorious and disquieting and strange and beautiful all wrapped into one. From far away, she felt tears running down her eyes.
"Hurry up!"
The voice was sharp and in focus. She jerked forward and her mind flew. In the smoky shadows she saw teenagers, two grown men, fighting what she thought were generic guards. Down in the lower levels, she saw two of them moving on, having just vanquished guards.
She didn't want to hurt them. That's what the machine was for, hurting people. Emma swallowed, thinking of the gun, of the fact that, even though she didn't have much of a life, it was still hers. She still wanted to live.
So she concentrated. It was difficult with so many, and in two different places, but she concentrated. Emma concentrated as hard as she could on them, pressing on, her mother and sister still in her mind.
They wouldn't have stood for this, wouldn't have seen her hurt. But they were far away, and they couldn't help her. Moira was here, and she would help if she could, but she would be hard-pressed to save herself. Her and her child. Emma doubted that even the man who had whispered in her mind could help her.
And so she concentrated more. Emma distantly heard their screams as she applied pressure to their minds, putting more and more on. Then, their pain doubled back, and she felt it creeping through own her head.
And she joined them in their screams.
Moira stared as Emma began screaming, thrashing back and forth in her chair. She started slightly, but Martinique wagged her finger.
"Don't worry about her," she said, "It's safe. Mostly. I think."
She shrugged.
"It's not done, and the range isn't quite complete. I also believe that some rather hefty advancements have been made on the original model," she said, "I don't blame them for updating, it was using a computer engine from the 60s, and that's what we had to use. It's quite slow. How could any of you get anything done then?"
Martinique chuckled.
"But you must admit, it's damn fine work," she said, "And do you know that all we had to go off of was a requisition list from when McCoy built the first Cerebro?"
Martinique smiled and gestured around the room. It all reminded her of that day where she, Charles, Erik and Hank had walked out of the main building and into a white room. Charles had been like a schoolboy afterwards, his head full of the mutants he'd found, of the joy and opportunity. It had been innocent and beautiful.
This was not beautiful. Emma was in pain, and she knew that wasn't supposed to happen. She'd seen Charles use Cerebro, seen the first rush in the past, even seen an ancient mutant take control of him while he wore the helmet. But he'd never screamed like this, like his mind was being torn in two.
"You're killing her!" Moira said.
"No, no, we're not doing that," Martinique said, "She's a valuable asset, like the little thing growing inside you. No. We're killing those brats your boy toy hangs around with."
Instinctively, Moira looked to the door. They were here. The X-men. After a month, they were here. And they were in pain. They were young, training, and they had come to save her. Charles must be there too, and they were all suffering.
The molten feeling inside her got hotter. She had to stop this, had to give them a chance. Martinique was still going on, but Moira could see the gun at her side. She needed her to come closer though.
Martinique was vain. She could use that.
"It surprised me that, with all of the work he did on mutants, he never thought of weaponizing Cerebro," Martinique said, "All that power, all that potential. He could just reach out and kill anyone he wanted, anywhere in the world. And he never bothered."
"You really like the sound of your own voice," Moira said, "But, trust me, no one else does."
Martinique rolled her eyes and, just like Moira wanted, came closer. Maybe to smack her, she wasn't sure. But when she got within range Moira lashed out with her legs, kicking them out from under Martinique. No one had thought to restrain her legs, probably due to the bitter hand-off that had occurred between the two sisters.
She heard Martinique curse, but she was already going for her gun. Moira felt her hands clasp around the cool metal, and she began to draw it. Martinique's hands came down on her wrist like a vice.
Her bones seemed to creak under pressure, but she didn't let go. Instead, she pulled the trigger.