A/N: I always aim for posting on Tuesgays... and always fail miserably. : /
...
Chapter 9: Sanctuary
"Bringing a mutant criminal into an unsupervised space? Are you crazy?" the Captain blurted as soon as Charles meekly entered the office. A storm cloud in a tweed pantsuit, she hovered over him dangerously. Logan peeked in once for a signature, but booked it out of there as soon at the tension in the air snapped at him.
"It won't be entirely unsupervised," he pointed out weakly, nearly cowering beneath her seething scowl. "As I outlined in the-"
"Charles," she warned, eventually collapsing into her chair, rubbing at her temples. "There's suddenly a lot riding on this. A lot." Her expression softened. "Although it looks like this library project has both sides of the aisle optimistic. Even a few anti-mutant and pro-mutant groups have written letters of support."
He perked up. "That's wonderful."
"It's wonderful until something goes wrong," she cautioned him softly.
A few minutes later Oliver stood respectfully at the main office door, his gardener's hat clasped in his hands. As the Captain and Charles filed out after him, Logan called, "Good luck!"
They made their way down through the newly reinforced entrance connected directly to Juniper. Charles had barely any time to check on progress in the greenhouse, too busy making title listings and planning out how to categorize what and where. Hank had caught some of his enthusiasm and manufactured a card-based check-out system kept neatly in a remodeled card folder. The rest of his time between sessions with inmates was spent huddled over the books in his office or with a box or two in his room, tirelessly applying the tracking numbers. In Logan's opinion – which he expressed skeptically until Charles bullied him into helping – the counselor was far too thrilled with sticking on the alphabetical tape, the genre color sticker, and sneakily attaching a tiny dot to the backs of the pages beneath the spines.
"It's a library, not Fort Knox," Logan grumbled, carefully aligning the letters B and A along the spine of a book written by an author with the last name "Bailey". Satisfied with his handiwork, he set the book down and glanced at his roommate. "It's not like they can steal these."
"Principle of the thing," Charles had replied good-naturedly, using tweezers to straighten the letter labels.
Now as he followed Oliver and Moira a coil of excitement wound tight in his stomach, fingers still slightly stiff from all the careful labeling that had kept him and Logan up half the night. Oliver turned to grin at them, unlocking the door and pushing it open.
"Oliver," Charles exhaled, eyes wide and bright as he soaked everything in.
Even Captain Moira made an impressed noise, stalking forward to prod at the shelves. They were deep carmine red, metal with neatly rounded corners. They stacked seven shelves up, rows upon rows that stretched across the space. The floor was still ruddy cement, but shone with new polish, the former troughs for crops smoothly filled with more cement to stabilize the shelves. Rolling up the stone walls was a soft mantis green, contrasting beautifully with the red of the shelves and the deep polished gray of the floor. To the right of the entrance, tucked away in an open corner, was a cheery desk. A worn but comfortable looking chair was propped behind it, and Hank's card catalogue set atop the desk, already bolted down. A soft felt marker, chained subtly to the desk as well, sat neatly next to the catalogue.
Outside it was muggy and gray, drizzle streaking the glass ceiling and walls. The lights cast a cheerful golden glow over the space and Charles crossed his arms over his chest as an unnamed emotion clouded his eyes. It was perfect.
…
Sinister was smirking when Erik met him, waiting patiently as they were chained together to be escorted down to the library. Once they started walking he allowed himself a small smile, bursting into a full-blown grin when they were walked along a hall with wide windows showcasing the roiling sea outside, rain slapping frantically against the glass. It was one of those days where the sky was gunmetal, the sea an angry pewter color, and the grass a vivid gold whipping across the ground with the force of the wind. Erik took a deep breath, heart racing as they got closer to the library. Charles.
The counselor was alone by the time they arrived, sleeves already rolled up as he pulled book after book out of the boxes brought down from his office. He glanced over at the door before his eyes got stuck on Erik, lips quirking as the mutant's infectious grin came into view. Standing quietly next to him, Sinister looked around appreciatively before he caught Charles' gaze and nodded his approval.
At first Charles frowned when the guard who'd brought the two men in fetched a stepladder. Wordlessly the guard stepped up and attached two separate chains to tube-like bars snaking intricately across the ceiling. Charles hadn't seen them before and now he looked at them dubiously, stepping out of the way as the guard trailed the chains over and attached them to the handcuffs Erik wore. He repeated the process for Sinister and Charles realized with a bitter taste in his mouth that they were basically leashes. Before he could argue, the guard left.
"You can't say you didn't expect this Xavier," Sinister pointed out, testing the perimeter of his lead, walking around with crimson eyes fixed above his head. The metal circle wrapped in rubber slid along the bars mapped over the ceiling. He tugged experimentally, forced to stop roughly 6 feet from the exit. Chuckling, he looked back at his companions.
Erik was too busy looking at Charles to care whether he was tethered like a dog. It didn't matter; he wouldn't go anywhere anyway. But the psychologist looked sincerely dismayed, blue eyes moving over the labyrinthine guides on the ceiling. Moving forward, Erik murmured, "If it means we get to be here then it doesn't matter, does it?" Charles turned to look at him searchingly, handsome face breaking into a soft smile.
"I suppose you're right." He looked over at Sinister as the mutant was poking around the check-out desk. "We have a lot of work to do, gentlemen."
The first box was opened, and soon the three of them were busily sorting. Sinister volunteered to take mysteries, shooting Erik a pointed glance as he slid down to the other end of the room. Flushing from his neck to the high tops of his cheekbones, Erik looked worriedly down at Charles in case the counselor had caught the look. Unsurprisingly, Charles was completely oblivious, attempting to lift far too many volumes at once out of a box. Instinctually Erik knelt down and helped him, their fingers touching across the worn backs of books. Their eyes met and Erik's heart clenched at the shadow of concern that crossed Charles's face. Setting the pile down quickly he ran a hand through his hair and it was accompanied by a musical chime of metal from the chains. Staring at them as they swayed slowly through the air, he said, "The colors today are so vivid."
The corners of Charles' eyes crinkled as he grinned. "It's a bit like being outside, isn't it? You won't have to escape to the roof anymore." Thumbing through the pages of a book, he asked flippantly, "Do you like it?"
There was a lot of weight in that question, so Erik took his time. He let his eyes wander over the boxes of books, the shelves, back up along the line of his chain to the glass ceiling that continued to erupt with raindrops. The quiet was muted, carried faintly by the sound of the rain outside. Distantly Erik remembered a car wash he'd been through while on his own, driving around the country. He'd chosen to remain inside the car, pressing his hands against the throbbing glass as water, soapsuds, and massive brushes battered the metal structure. There weren't words to describe the strange cozy net of safety he'd felt being enclosed in the epicenter of a storm, even if it had been manmade. It was similar to this feeling now. "It's wonderful, Charles," he answered sincerely and didn't miss the light dusting of pink over the other man's cheeks. "It feels like..." he hesitated, searching for the right word, "Like a sanctuary."
He beamed, dropping his gaze and biting his lip. "That's precisely what it should be," he whispered, glancing back up to meet Erik's gaze, suddenly so intense that Charles' breath left him. The mutant's hand was frozen, inches from Charles' face; eyes a torrent of emotions. At the last moment the chain had gone taught, merely a ghost of touch brushing an invisible sensation across his cheek. He held his breath.
"I do believe a guard is about 4 seconds away from checking in with you, Xavier," Sinister informed them primly, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Three, two, one-"
Charles snapped to attention as Alex poked his head in.
"Everything good here?" he asked, "Whoa, it looks great, man!"
"Thank you, Alex," Charles murmured, cheeks aflame. Standing and clearing his throat, he stuck his hands in his pockets and meandered over to the guard. Alex was poking at the shelves and tugging on the chain leading to Sinister's wrists. "Everything is going swimmingly."
"I was also stopping by," he said in a low voice, pulling Charles over to the side, "to tell you that Mojo's made a complete recovery."
Charles' heart skipped. "Oh, has he?"
"He's asking for you."
"Nothing new," Charles assured him. "I trust he's back down in solitary?"
"Yeah," he said, looking at Charles with an unreadable expression. "Tried to climb the walls a few times; we had to shoot him down."
"Jesus," he breathed, a cold oily feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The thought of Mojo, like some giant white arachnid, scrambling up through the slimy dark... Charles openly shuddered.
"The Captain is reviewing his case file now," he continued, "And you might be called in to, uh, put him to sleep." At Charles' baffled expression he added quickly, "So to speak."
Sinister had sidled up next to Lensherr, both of them doing a poor job of pretending not to eavesdrop.
"It's always Mojo," Erik hissed, expression dark.
Sinister chuckled conspiratorially, "Can you blame the lunatic? Xavier is hard to resist. But you know that well enough yourself."
Alex clapped him on the shoulder. "I wanted to give you a heads up in case she calls you in, all right?"
Brow knit in thought, Charles hummed an acknowledgment; eyes following distantly as Alex made his exit. Would Moira actually ask that of him? To purposefully put someone in a vegetative state – if he'd understood what Alex was implying. It went against everything Charles believed, and yet... Mojo, he'd decided long ago, was beyond recovery. He hadn't a scrap of remorse in his entire body. The scrambled mess that was his mind projected nothing but darkness, rage, and memories soaked in blood. But still, could Charles do it when the time came? Could he truly be the one to condemn the mutant?
"My, my," Sinister mused, "Whatever could that have been about to leave you so very distracted, Counselor?"
He turned to see both inmates regarding him with vastly different expressions. Erik's face was stormy; knuckles nearly white over the book he was gripping. Sinister was smirking, red eyes moving lingeringly over Charles as if appraising him. The two of them looked comically ill matched and Charles found himself smiling back at them.
"Distracted? Not me," he said cheekily, returning to take the book gently from Erik's hand. "Ah, Winnie the Pooh." His tone was fond as he stroked the spine of the book. "One of my favorite's as a child."
Sinister slunk back to his post at the other end of the library, rolling his eyes as the tension riding Erik's shoulders melted away under the bright warmth of Xavier's attention. If only Lensherr could see himself. Ridiculous. Not that Sinister didn't make sure he had a good view in case things got interesting.
"I fancied myself like Christopher Robin," admitted Charles wistfully.
"I always figured he had a good reason to flee to the Hundred Acre Wood," Erik said, flipping through the pages. "He must've been a lonely kid."
Laughing, Charles cocked his head and peered amusedly into the inmate's eyes. "How do you figure?"
Shrugging, Erik snapped the book shut. "Well, it's obvious he didn't have any real friends. No siblings, or maybe they beat up on him." He frowned at the distinct shift of light in Charles' gaze. "They were just stuffed animals in the end."
"I wouldn't fault someone who has imagination," he replied carefully, taking the book back to draw his fingers over the cloth letters. "Every child has imaginary friends, don't they?"
"Some don't have the time," Erik mused hollowly. "Not much room left with all the nightmares." He blinked, surprised at his words. Charles' concerned blue eyes swam into focus and Erik shook his head. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he insisted, hand drifting to grip the other man's arm. "Erik, you don't have to be sorry about something you didn't deserve."
His smile was wan. "I'm not apologizing for my childhood, Charles. I just shouldn't burden you with my memories."
Frustrated, Charles pitched his voice lower, glancing in Sinister's direction. "Erik, it is not a burden to talk to someone. Especially when I am so willing to listen."
"You can't help me, Charles."
"Only because you won't let me," he snapped, immediately regretting his tone when Erik's eyebrow quirked and the ever-familiar mask began to slip into place. "No, please... Erik. You don't realize how much good it will do you."
Warmth bled from Charles' hand. Erik was looking down at it, resting on his arm. Slowly taking Charles by the wrist, he pushed the other man's fingers down until they rested over the row of numbers marring his skin. "My past isn't an infection that I can drain out. This ink has stained me."
"This ink is testament to your strength, Erik," he whispered fiercely.
"Strength didn't keep me alive in the camps," corrected Erik snidely. "It was twisted luck. Plenty of strong, beautiful people fell in those camps. Strength had nothing to do with it. When your choice is a bullet or the gas, strength means nothing."
The bones creaked in his wrist, but Charles' refused to back down. "You're wrong, Erik. You didn't just survive the camps; you survived the aftermath."
"Anger helps," he said harshly, dropping Charles' wrist and turning back to the books.
"There's more to you than that, Erik."
"Are you so sure, Charles?" he asked wearily.
Coming close, Charles caught Erik's eyes and held them. "I've seen you, Erik." Pressing his hand over the mutant's heart, he murmured, "I've seen."
"You've peeped," he amended, eyes snapping to the counselor's mouth downturned in a petulant frown.
Snorting, Charles withdrew. "That's all a telepath needs. You should quit denying your good qualities, Erik."
"They are so few and far between after all," he jokingly divulged, smile fading slightly as the psychologist regarded him with a deceptively thoughtful expression. He bit his lip, raising his hand to trace Charles' jawline, looking a little lost when the man drew away.
"Erik," he whispered, "boundaries."
"I wanted-" he faltered, "I've seen you too, Charles." There was no way he would tell him what he'd heard that night through the pipes, when Charles had told Logan about his childhood devoid of affection. About the Academy, about being killed, over and over. Something akin to fear lit within Charles' eyes and Erik's heart clenched. "I want to talk to you, Charles. But not like this. Not here." He motioned with his hands and winced as Charles realized he didn't just mean the library, but all of Juniper.
"There is only here," Charles hissed, drawing further away. He reached out mentally, nearly flinching with the adamant rush of concern-concern-please-understand that was pouring from Erik's mind like a fount. "Erik, you're not getting out," he pressed, emotion threaded through his voice thick enough to choke on. "There's only Juniper."
Crimson eyes peering through gaps in the shelves crinkled around the edges as Sinister smiled crookedly.
...
Oliver handled the paintbrush with surprising skill, his letters perhaps not as whimsical as those decorating the mainland library, but no less inviting. Charles had his arms crossed while he leaned against the wall, Sean standing next to him to watch before heading back up to the crow's nest. With one last curled tail on the Y, Oliver leaned back to survey his work.
"What do we think," he yelled down from the ladder.
Sean gave him two thumbs up, grinning. Charles chuckled, "It's wonderful, Oliver. Thank you. The Senator will quite like it, I'm sure." He walked forward to pluck idly at the red ribbon strung across the entrance. Later the Senator would be blowing through with his trusty photographer to cut the ribbon and officially open the library for use. Not that inmates hadn't already been checking out books for the past week. Rather successfully, too. Sinister had proven himself an excellent librarian, and Erik a competent assistant. Charles' mind skirted around Erik, memory still bitter at their last encounter. Nevertheless, the inmate had been part of the library's great success despite the unfortunate naming process, which in the end left the inmates out entirely. McCone had ordered the library christened with his name and Captain Moira couldn't refuse, especially with Stryker breathing down her neck.
Regardless of the official title, it seemed that Erik wasn't the only one who'd had a mind for the small haven the library represented. Inmates had taken to calling it The Sanctuary. The behavior logs sat empty, morale was on the rise amongst guards, and inmates could be seen perched in gen pop reading westerns, mysteries, horror stories. Juggernaut had brought Winnie the Pooh to his last session so that he could read aloud while Charles listened.
Sinister spent his time drawing up recommendation lists for the inmates in solitary, using his ability time and time again to piece together a particular title or find an author. Though he'd never admit it to the counselor, he hadn't been so content in years.
With fewer incidents around the prison, more guards were able to provide chaperon service from a cell to the library, so on any given day the floor would be filled with milling inmates. Even Captain Moira, with a grinning Logan, had to admit that Charles' harebrained optimist idea had panned out beautifully.
Straightening his tie awkwardly (though not so much his tie as one of Hank's), Charles waved as Oliver loaded up the paint and the ladder to head back out to the grounds. Sean had slipped away to the tower already, leaving Charles alone. Running his fingers over the red velvet ribbon, he chuckled to himself; apparently the Senator had his own pair of giant scissors for just this occasion. A sound caught his attention and he turned to see an irate Alex accompanied by Sinister and Erik.
"Alex?" he ventured, smiling at the two inmates.
"That damn senator sure likes to be inconveniently early," he growled. "The Captain's frantic trying to get ready and Stryker's on his way as we speak."
"And McCone, where is he?" Charles asked.
"Here, Xavier," the Senator barked jovially, striding down the hall with a frazzled looking Moira. The photographer looked resigned as ever, his droopy face melancholy as Charles remembered from the hastily taken photographs the last time the Senator had been by.
"Welcome, Senator," he greeted faintly, meeting Alex's wry look.
"Looks good, looks great!" he chimed loudly, spinning on his heel with arms akimbo. "We ready to get this show on the road or what?"
The camera was set up in record time, the photographer's practiced hands snapping pieces into place with a telling second nature. Stryker came huffing into view; tie on crooked and expression tight. McCone barked a greeting, clapping him on the back with a laughing, "Workin' too hard, William!"
With a voice like droplets of water, the photographer issued mild orders, lining them up. Charles jumped slightly when the Senator pulled a giant pair of scissors free from the equipment bag the photographer had lugged in. He was situated between Charles and Moira, flanked in turn by Stryker on Moira's left and the two inmates on Charles right. The Senator was turned, blades poised over the ribbon, grinning garishly for the camera.
"And hold," the photographer dripped, snapping a shot with the unsettling crack of the bulb. "Alright, now one more. Mr. Xavier, could you hold the ribbon for – yes."
Charles was looking at the camera when he felt the ribbon separate, fluttering to the ground, one end hanging loosely from his hand. Another crack of the bulb flashed in his eyes and then the Senator was shaking his hand with the strong, sure grip of a politician.
They left in a train, the photographer bringing up the rear as he struggled to collect the equipment, cursing as the heavy scissors swung at his leg. The Captain and Stryker had already disappeared, close on Senator McCone's heels.
Blinking away the fuzzy stain from the camera flashes, Charles turned sympathetically to an amused Sinister and a dazed looking Erik. "An abrupt man, the Senator."
"Don't flatter him, Xavier," Sinister murmured coyly, snapping the remains of the ribbon free from the wall. "Back to the grind, gentleman?"
Erik looked slightly distraught. Sinister shot him a look as the counselor rubbed at his eyes. "Lensherr?"
"What papers will circulate that photo?" he asked, voice superficially light.
Mister Sinister shrugged, "I'd assume the state at the very least. Though who knows, our dear Senator is an ambitious man. I wouldn't be surprised if it ran nationally."
"I'm sure it will," Charles added, still blinking spots from his eyes. "It's an election year, so politicians will be eager to make a statement, even if it's a second-hand one." He glanced over to find Erik sporting a troubled expression. Tension clung to his frame like a fitted suit and Charles frowned. "Erik?"
He snapped to attention. "Charles?"
Aware of Sinister watching them closely he smiled easily and stepped into the library. "We should prepare; first lunch is about to end and we'll be getting busy - oh." He'd forgotten he'd promised Hank one last trial. The young doctor was sure he'd done it this time and Charles had agreed – as he didn't have patients for today – to sit through this one last test. "I'm afraid I'll have to catch up with you later. Sean's up top, so no funny business," he added teasingly, swinging out of the door and securing it behind him.
He broke into a jog and made it to Hank's lab only a few minutes late. The scene that greeted him was becoming s typical one; Hank brandishing a syringe and a cotton ball dabbed with alcohol, looking far too excited for Charles' taste. Slumping onto the cot, he rolled up his sleeves, expression sour. At least this would be the last one if Hank's word was anything to go by (Charles had his doubts).
"This is it," he promised. "It's going to hit pretty hard, if my calculations are correct. I'm administering an insufficient dose to achieve the full effects, but you should feel an adequate amount, at least enough to prove it's efficacy."
The needle sunk in, another pump syringe that made Charles squirm. "What outcomes are we trying for?" he asked tightly, sighing with relief when Hank finally drew away.
"At this amount you should feel a definite drop in your ability," Hank informed him brightly; pushing his glasses back up his nose. "A lethargy that's going to spread from your body across your mind. The rest you'll have to tell me yourself. But I'm quite sure I isolated the chemical that can target and navigate the excess gyrencephalization telepath's should have in the temporal lobe."
He looked fondly down at the crown of Hank's head, snorting with amusement as the man continued to prattle on about the mind and using even more extravagant polysyllabic words to describe the varying states of wrinkles in each lobe of the brain. Distantly aware that Hank was checking his vital signs, Charles didn't realize he'd keeled over until it was Hank looking down at him. Instead of the worry he'd expected Hank looked ecstatic.
"Charles? Charles?"
"Mmm," he replied, mind strangely fuzzy.
"Can you hear me, Charles?" asked Hank urgently, "What I'm thinking at you?"
Gripping the crisp white lapels of Hank's lab coat, Charles raised his eyebrows, though his eyelids fought to close. "By George, I think you've got it," he slurred, smiling drunkenly up at his friend. "Can't hear a thing." He tried to reach out mentally, but it was with a phantom limb - one that weighed fifty pounds. Lying back, he let it go. Too tired. "Congratulations, Hank. I am now quite prepared to follow in the footsteps of Rip Van Winkle." Humming contently into the starchy cotton pillow, he peered beadily up at the doctor, "I just learned who that was. Not quite caught up on my Yank folklore."
"And as a bonus," Hank joked, "It enhances your Britishness."
"Jolly good," he proclaimed lazily. "Cheers."
...
The bloodied tips of his fingers ached, but that agony was secondary to the almost blinding rage beating beneath his brow. His voice, raw and hoarse from his screaming, still slithered along the walls like night crawlers, the same name over and over again.
"Xavier... Xavier..."
He stood abruptly, falling completely still and silent. Distantly he could feel it as hundreds of inmates moved. Over time in the dark he'd learned to sense the hour. In the stillness he'd learned to stretch, to feel. Up until now the feelers he flung out haphazardly like poorly cast fishing lines had been ineffective. But before he'd been searching, trying to find only Xavier. He'd lost sight of the forest for the trees, so to speak. Now the minds he'd brushed aside before pressed in on all sides and Mojo welcomed them.
Between first and second lunch there was a ten-minute window when nearly the entire inmate population was in transition. Mojo waited while the ticking seconds slid by.
There was something to be said for rage. Like a dull knife, when sharpened it could cut through flesh as easily as butter. Mojo had known no other emotion for so long, and all he'd had time to do lately was sharpen his knife. At the moment he cut through those minds he felt, his powers refined now that he'd had time to focus without the distractions of other inmates or the routine of movement around the prison. He'd made plans.
All it took to start such a violent fire was a lit match. Mojo closed his eyes and struck it.
...
For a moment time stood perfectly still. As Charles happily sailed down the hallway high as a kite, as Erik and Sinister shelved books, as Sean waved down at Oliver, as Hank prepared more doses, and as Captain Moira was on the phone with some unpleasant reporters, a storm was breaking.
It was his skin that saved him. The fist that flew into the back of his head was made of solid stone, but Darwin's flesh had morphed into something that much stronger and all he suffered was to be pitched forward into a very confused Alex. As the blond guard caught him, Darwin turned around to see a mass of inmates tearing at each other like dogs. Blood sprayed across their faces as one inmate sprouted spikes, the red tips gleaming under the artificial lights. That triggered a chain reaction and suddenly inmates had grown in size, developed horns, fangs, wings...
"Shit," he hissed, pulling out his baton as another inmate lunged at him. "Alex!"
"On it," the other guard growled, rolling across the floor to slam his hand into the wall panel, breaking the glass. He pulled the fire alarm, yelling upwards as the intercom automatically switched to all channels, "Code Black, Code Black!"
...
Sean's eyes flew wide as Alex's crackling voice came over the intercom and he immediately flexed his throat to unleash a high-pitched call across the grounds. Below the groundskeepers immediately burst into a fit of motion, securing doors outside where inmates could try to access potential weapons, and barricading the exits. Sean knew that at this point the entire prison would go through a series of lock-downs to isolate the fighting before guns and powers came into play. He just hoped he got there in time to use his voice before any of the guards got seriously injured. Flashing through his memory, he clenched his teeth when he realized that Darwin and Alex were on lunch transport today.
Flying down the stairs two at a time, Sean went careening into the hall, sprinting as the alarms lining the walls began to shriek and flash. Gen pop was closer, so Sean went there first, tearing through doors still accessible, shouting at any human guards he saw on the way to retreat into the barracks and lock themselves in.
This was a fight for mutants.
...
Floors below the crow's nest Alex was loosing controlled bursts of power, singeing the jumpsuits of prisoners grappling. Blood was streaming down the side of his face, stinging as it mixed with sweat. Darwin had long since dove into the fray, pulling inmates apart, bellowing at them. Juggernaut had taken up mediation duty as well, tossing various mutants away from each other like toys. The air crackled with electricity, fire, water, even the ground beneath their feet was shaking as the inmates used the abilities that had landed them in prison in the first place, now to harm their peers. And that's what confused Alex; the guards weren't even the targets. There was no order like there was at any regular riot. Usually large-scale fights happened between distinct groups, usually racial or even ability-based. What's more, on average they lasted seconds; a flash of action and then they dispersed, usually leaving a specific victim in their wake. But there hadn't had anything near this scale for years.
"Where the fuck is the back-up!" Darwin roared from the middle of the room, his entire body covered in a metallic material. They'd been dealing with this for almost ten minutes; more time than most riots ever lasted. And no one was coming. At the very least Sean usually arrived to deafen the inmates into compliance before the rest of the guard showed for clean up, but he was nowhere to be found.
Alex sent another blast into a group of mutants, aiming for the plastic lunch trays one of them had melted into shanks. The man wielding the weapons screamed furiously, turning glowing white eyes onto the blond guard. Thin lips drew back over dripping white teeth long as knives and Alex gulped. Incapacitating an inmate was one thing, but Alex would do everything in his power not to take a life. But being surrounded by an all-out prison war didn't help matters when his control in enclosed areas was shoddy to say the least. His ability was never actually meant to be used and now when it was down to the wire Alex didn't know how much bloodshed he could possibly avoid when the inmates were ripping into one another with the obvious intent to kill.
"Stand down," Alex ordered the giant inmate, spine tingling as he tried to find the point of sight in white eyes. "I'm serious. Stand. Down." He crept backwards, eyes darting to Darwin. His friend was currently wrestling an inmate with scales and a tail off of another covered in feathers. Even though he was a mutant himself, Alex hoped he'd be able to laugh about this later. But the blood smearing the floor and the way that tail was wrapped around Darwin throat, and the way those feathers glistened with an ominous metallic sheen was no laughing matter. He looked back at his current problem, now looming several feet over his head. Along with the milky eyes and the terrifying jaws, the mutant was flexing bloody claws. They darted forward and Alex yelled and released a bolt of solid plasma square into the chest of the inmate, launching him twenty feet back like a bullet into the mass of bodies. They scattered like bowling pins, Darwin recovering quickly to run to his side.
"Nice," he panted, patting Alex on the back. "I got a look from the center of the room, up into the observation deck." He licked his lips, still trying to catch his breath. "This thing has spread. There's only one of us left up there."
Alex said very clearly, "Shit."
He didn't get another word in as the mutant he'd blasted tackled him into the wall.
...
Erik looked over at Sinister while the distant scream of alarms flooded the air. They jogged over to the door, stopped short as usual by their bonds, but Sinister didn't seem worried. He glanced at Erik and said calmly, "I'm going to take a look. Stay quiet."
Sinister caught the first mind he could, wincing at the scrambled state; like static on a radio. Focusing on the visual signal, Sinister peered out of the inmate's eyes and he felt Lensherr's tension as he hissed low between his teeth.
"They're rioting," he muttered. "The damn fools are rioting."
"Where, where is it happening?" demanded Erik, the metal warming around his wrists. Sinister's red eyes glazed over slightly.
"The mess hall, but..." he paused, blinking. He looked at Lensherr, face unreadable. "But there's something else moving through the halls. I feel it; it's catching on and the violence is spreading quickly. What are those damn fools thinking?"
Swallowing down a suddenly dry throat, Erik wound his fingers around the chain that bound him. "What..." he caught himself, tone dark, "Who is it, Sinister?" The answering look was all he needed; they both knew exactly who it was. "You're telling me that monster is on the loose. You heard what the guard told Charles last week. He's looking for him!"
"Then I suggest, Lensherr, you get us out of here," he recommended seriously. "I don't sense our dear doctor anywhere nearby."
"Charles," he breathed, the chains snapping from their wrists and clattering to the floor. Slamming his hand into the solid metal of the library's only door, Erik gutted the steel like a thin fish, tearing at the frame with effortless force. "Charles," he growled, voice cracking with worry as Sinister and he ran down the hall amidst the screams of the alarms.
...
He was hunting.
The scent of blood was high in the air; sharpened by the rage he pressed like spears into minds close enough to touch. His power had never been so powerful, nor so out of his control. Somewhere in the part of his mind that still made a feeble attempt at understanding rationality Mojo knew this wasn't going to last. But he didn't need it to last. He needed Xavier.
Raising his nose to the air like a bloodhound Mojo inhaled deeply. His mouth curled in an ugly smirk. He stepped into a long white hall, eyes sparking when he saw a lone figure standing at the very end. Thin hands were tugging futilely on a locked door and Mojo realized that Xavier's mental signal was... Normal. He nearly felt like a human. No. Not correct. Mojo sniffed again, catching that distinct scent he'd been pining after in solitary. Delicious. Xavier would never feel like a human. He felt the same as he did the first time Mojo had seen him.
Creeping along the hall, Mojo's breath staggered in excitement. Xavier was cupping his hands around his eyes to peer through the small window set in the metal door. The sleeves of his powder blue cotton shirt were rolled up his arms, tweed slacks hanging just right off slim hips. Mojo's eyes crept down below the waistline, tongue winding around his mouth as he salivated.
"Hello," Charles yelled against the glass, unable to see anyone on the other side of the door. Alarms had been going off, but everything was still muted from the drug. Hank had promised it would wear off before happily sending him out to wander the halls. Charles rubbed at his eyes, knocking impatiently on the door. If alarms were going off there was a station he was supposed to take, people to check in with. "For goodness sake," he grumbled, "I'm authorized! I have a badge... Open sesame?"
He was panting, fingers twitching as he reached out towards the counselor. There was nothing between them now. For whatever reason Xavier's senses had been dulled, and how could that not be more perfect?
Something crawled along his spine; an awareness that awoke him to the idea that he wasn't alone in the hallway. Straightening, Charles turned around. His heart stopped, and all he could do was stare into glittering yellow eyes as Mojo wrapped bloody fingers around his throat in a vice like grip.
"Hello, dear doctor."
...
A/N: Does it bug anyone that I spell Erik's name 'Lensherr' instead of 'Lehnsherr'? There's no political reason; it's just what was on the Marvel website and the movie credits/subtitles. Not to mention that both are used as canon in the comics. But I see 'Lehnsherr' almost exclusively used in fanfics. So I was curious. I just saw 'Lensherr' first, so that's what I used, but now I'm not so sure? : )
-Villain