Chapter 9

Click.

The lights buzz into life overhead, row by row, the pitch-black giving way to glaring white.

Anna and I stare around in disbelief, greeted by a virtual warehouse of memories, shelves and shelves of mem-chips climbing up to the rafters as far as the eye can see.

"Welcome," Pete Wisdom says smugly, "to our little archive."

Neither of us says a thing. I know I'm awed by this, so I guess Anna must be too. The head archivist, a middle-aged black woman with a ponytail of dreadlocks, just looks terminally unimpressed. This is her job, to be fair.

Wisdom leads us down an aisle at a slow clip, making sure we have time to appreciate the collection.

"Here we have physical copies of just about every memory uploaded to the cloud," he's explaining in his usual full-of-himself tone. "A comprehensive collection of the combined memories of the entire United Kingdom. Quite a something, don't you think?"

Something is a way to describe it. The idea that the US most likely has a similar stockpile somewhere back home is enough to make me shudder.

"Why waste space keeping all of these in physical format?" I wonder out loud.

"Preserving the digital has its own problems, Mr. LeBeau," Wisdom reminds me officiously. "Having both formats means if one collection is lost, the other still survives."

I give a grudging grunt of agreement.

"It's climate-controlled," the archivist adds unnecessarily, as if I couldn't tell. Outside is summer, and down here it's freezing.

"I do hope," Wisdom is saying almost to himself as we walk down the stacks, "that this Jean Grey woman gives you the in you need."

"It'll give me a persona to work with," Anna says.

"But will it be a persona Logan will trust?" Wisdom asks doubtfully.

I glance over at Anna, but she doesn't return the look.

"Well, I guess we're going to find out," she replies in a monotone.

Wisdom looks back at her, his expression thoughtful, before turning back. I don't like this. I don't like how much he knows about her, about us. But she's taken this job, and it's her decision. Right now, Dr. Jean Grey is the safest way of contacting Logan. And Anna is strong enough to do this, to make this work. Essex's gene therapy cured her of the walking, barely-functioning mess she used to be. There's nothing for me to worry about. Even if Weapon X pulls her back in again, she can handle it.

She's stronger than you are, LeBeau.

We finally reach a side room, and the archivist lets us in – it doesn't escape my notice that the amount of security on this door is pretty insane. We step inside. Compared to the gargantuan warehouse outside, this room is tiny, almost cramped.

"This is our special collection," Wisdom says in a now hushed tone.

This time it's the archivist who leads us down the stacks. As soon as I see the names on the drawers, I know what this place is. It's a repository for the memories of the 1%.

"The collection's far from complete," Wisdom's saying modestly. "Nowhere near as comprehensive as our colleagues in the United States. But there's quite a bit we've managed to put together over the years."

We walk past A, B, C. We get to E and I see Essex, Nathaniel. Anna stops and stares at the drawer instinctively.

"Don't worry," Wisdom says with a smile. "You'll get it. That and Mr. LeBeau's. Once the job's done. Although," he adds, walking away again, "I can't imagine why you'd want the memories of a dead madman."

Is Essex dead? Y'know, sometimes I wonder. They never found his body, but then they didn't find a lot of bodies in the mess the Empharma building left behind. It's another source of guilt I have to contend with, and I suddenly find the hackles on the back of my neck standing up. Weapon X is all around me here. I wanna be as far away from it as I can possibly be.

We get to G, and there's Jean Grey's name. We come to a standstill and the archivist opens the drawer.

"What do you know about Jean Grey?" Anna asks.

Wisdom shrugs.

"Not much. She was merely a researcher on the Weapon X project."

"I didn't know staff had their memories recorded," she muses to herself.

"As far as we can tell, those involved with the project had standard scans. Admittedly, Dr. Grey appears to have had more than most."

I've wandered down the next stack over and I run my eyes over the names there. Haller, Gabrielle; Howlett, James; Hudson, Heather… I back up a bit. Huh. James Howlett sure has a lot of shit archived here. There's about ten drawers dedicated to him alone. Hm. I open the first drawer and take a look inside. The shiny slivers of plastic and silicon are all lined up in their slots like dominos. I slide the draw shut and look down the rows of drawers. I see my name. LeBeau, Remy. I can't help it. I open it.

"Excuse me!" The head archivist is suddenly upon me. "No touching!"

I put my palms up inoffensively, and, after a quick glance inside to make sure nothing is missing, she slams the drawer shut with a furious glare at me.

"Sorry, ma'am," I apologise politely. "I forgot."

If looks could kill... This woman could give Raven a run for her money. She darts me a final glare and moves back to Dr. Grey's drawer. I step away from the stacks, just to ease the tension a little.

Having finally retrieved the chips, the archivist then leads us out of the room and into an adjoining corridor.

"Where we goin'?" I ask.

"The reading room," she replies tersely, as if I should know what the hell that means.

I soon find out.

The reading room turns out to be a pretty comfy suite with a huge interfacing unit in the middle. I look at the machine with interest. It's the latest Trask Technologies model, with multiple slots for multiple chips to be 'faced with all in one go. I get the sense – and I know Anna does too – that this is where Logan spent most of his time 'working'.

The archivist turns on the machine and begins to load in Dr. Grey's chips.

"Well, Miss D'Ancanto," Wisdom gestures towards the recliner. "It's all yours."

I place a palm on the small of her back.

"You sure you still wanna do this?" I ask her quietly. I know I'm being selfish, but I don't want her to. I don't want her to go back down this road straight towards Weapon X. If it sucks her in, it might not spit her back out again.

"I'm sure," she answers simply. The words would almost have been dismissive, if it wasn't for the look she gives me. She knows I don't like this.

For a few lingering seconds our glance doesn't break. My mind is still on last night; hers is too. The physicality of what we'd shared hasn't dissipated yet, and it demands something more between us. An embrace, a kiss. Some token of closeness. This ain't the place for it. I realise my hand is still on her back and I let it slide away slowly. I think about the texture of her tongue and the moisture of the tears touching the corners of her eyes, and I want so much more. Of it, of her.

She walks on over and arranges herself on the recliner, lifting up the visor and putting it on her head like I've seen her do so many times before. It strikes me now that I ain't seen her do it much since she got here.

"Anything you need?" Wisdom asks, sounding a little awed that she seems to know exactly what she's doing. Ha. This dick don't know a thing.

"Nothing," she says, flipping the visor down over her eyes. "Except time. And peace and quiet."

He takes the hint and backs away towards the exit.

I don't follow, not straight away. I'm overcome by this sudden urge to stay, to hold her hand. I'm getting nauseating images of her hooked up to the Machine, and it's stupid and irrational... The things she's been through, that she's survived... The strength she has... She's going to be fine. She's going to be fine. But I still want to stay.

"Good luck, Marie," I murmur.

She smiles under the visor, and then hits the on-switch.

I slip out the door and join Wisdom in the observation room. Light refreshments have already been laid out on a corner table. I pour myself some coffee, all the while keeping an eye on Anna through the one-way window. I sip at my drink distractedly as I walk over to the glass. She's lying on the recliner, still and silent – peaceful. At home.

"You seem worried," Wisdom says over my shoulder. I grit my teeth. Everything he says – especially the way he says it – seems specially designed to jerk at every chain I possess. And don't think I've forgotten that slick dipshit move he pulled on my woman last night.

"Do I?" I ask with false nonchalance.

"A little," he replies.

I say nothing. Better not to give him any rope to hang myself with.

"Seems like you've worked pretty closely together for a while," he observes, clearly not able to let this conversation lie.

"On and off," I reply distractedly.

"And the relationship's become more than just professional over the years."

I eye him over my shoulder then.

"Our 'relationship' was never professional to begin with," I level at him sourly. "What're you gettin' at?"

He shrugs.

"Just wondering how well you actually know her, I suppose."

"Ha!" I turn back to the window with a sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, I bet you'd love to know all there is to know about her, Wisdom. But it ain't my call, and I ain't the kiss-an'-tell type."

I've probably annoyed him. I sure hope so.

"Shame," he replies, after a short few seconds of silence. "Sounds like there's an interesting story there."

I laugh wearily.

"Prob'ly more interestin' than you can handle, Wisdom."

There's more silence, Wisdom thankfully giving up and going back to his phone. I'm glad for it. I can't wait for this to be over – this entire place, the whole set-up, is giving me the heebie-jeebies. I stand by the window and think about what I could've become.

About five minutes pass before Wisdom stands up and joins me at the window, coffee in hand. He says nothing for a good long moment before commenting off-handly: "It's always interested me how you people manage to do this."

"Do what?" I ask in a low voice.

"'Face with the memories of strangers as if they're just simulations. No side effects."

"Logan prob'ly won't agree wit' you," I note acidly. He laughs.

"No, I suppose not." He looks me over. "How often do you do this… type of thing?"

"Not often."

"Why?"

I shrug.

"Too busy livin' life, I guess."

Silence.

Anna's barely moved in the past few minutes.

"You don't want her to take this job," Wisdom states out of the blue.

I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on her.

"What makes you say that?" I murmur.

"Just a general impression."

"Heh."

He's not very good a fishing, I decide.

"So what made you change your mind? About letting her go ahead and take the job?"

I pass him a sideways glance.

"Pretty simple, mon ami. You got somethin' that belongs to me. And I want it back."

He thinks about it.

"That mem-chip is all you want?"

Yeah. So I can smash it with my boot heel. I ain't even gonna 'face with the fuckin' thing. But I don't tell him that.

"I'd prefer it if my stolen mem'ries weren't sittin' here in your 'archive', thanks," I reply sarcastically instead.

He smirks.

"Point taken." He looks back over at Anna. "Although I hope you appreciate just how much we're giving up in giving those two chips to you."

"Depends on how much this Logan's worth to ya," I say.

"A lot," he replies quietly.

"Oh, for sure. He's the only one who can read all the stuff in your stolen archive of mem'ries. But what if he don't wanna play your game no more?"

"I'm fairly certain your imagination can come up with a suitable answer to that question, Mr. LeBeau," Wisdom answers with silky smooth politeness. "Logan knows far too much. About everything."

"So do we," I counter frostily.

"Oh, not nearly enough to get you extradited," he grins. "Though that may change."

His threats bore me. He ain't got a clue what either me or Anna have been through or what we're capable of.

Through the window, I notice Anna's hands grip the armrests slightly. It's the first real movement I've seen from her, and small though it is, my anxiety inexplicably spikes.

"Does Miss D'Ancanto know Logan?" Wisdom is asking.

"No," I half-lie. My attention is back to being firmly fixated on her. "Why?"

"She just seems more invested."

"Weapon X was her life. This kinda thing is just what she does."

It's the kind of admission I don't even want to tell myself, somethin' that's a little too raw to the bone after last night. But he's fuckin' gotten it out of me, and I wrestle with the need to just deck this couyon bastard. I set my jaw so taut my teeth hurt in an effort to squash the feeling.

I focus back on Anna.

Her arms are warm around me; the taste of her sweat is on my tongue. The damp of her hair sticks to my cheek.

I lean back on my elbows and I look into her eyes.

"You do what you gotta, chere," I murmur, pushing the milky white locks from her face. "I'll back ya all the way if you want. Jes' don't ask me t' like it."

She's lying in the recliner with her hands gripping the armrests… and for some reason I'm thinking of her fingers clutching at the golden silk of her stole…. And, dieu, it sends an involuntary though powerful twinge of desire zigzagging right the hell through me… …

The rise and fall of Anna's chest is deepening, quickening, and at first I feel like she's responding to the feverish trajectory of my thoughts, like we're still in sync somehow, except… Her breathing is quickening and her hands are so tense it's not natural… … I push myself away from the glass and stand a little straighter, my senses tingling. Something is wrong...

"And do think she's ready to leave the life she had at Weapon X behind?"

But I'm no longer playing attention to anything Wisdom is saying. Anna is making jerky, agitated movements on the recliner, and suddenly my heart's poundin'.

"Something's wrong," I mutter.

"What?" Wisdom says, but I've already left the window and am marching to the door.

"Something's wrong!"

I race into the adjoining room, Wisdom close behind, only to find Anna already on her feet, tearing the visor violently from her face.

"Get it off!" she's screaming. "Get it offa me!"

The visor's off and she hurls it to the ground with a resounding crash.

She's pacing the same spot like a caged wildcat, tears pouring down her cheeks, her hands clawing at her hair.

I've never seen her like this before.

Ever.

"Marie," I say breathlessly, as soothingly as I can, hoping against hope she can hear me. "Marie. It's me. It's Remy."

She stops, she stares at me. Her eyes are moist with tears, wild. Her gaze moves to Wisdom and suddenly – just like that – she deflates.

"Destroy it," she mutters. A suggestion, a demand, an order?

"What?" Wisdom says in a perplexed tone, one that immediately sets her off again.

"Destroy it!" she shrieks, and storms out.

Wisdom shoots me a bewildered look, but I ignore it, following her out the door. I catch up with her in the corridor.

"Anna," I heave out the name on an exhalation, barely able to keep up with her. "What the fuck happened?"

"Not now, Remy!" she blasts at me. Her voice is fierce, almost angry – but it's not that that gets me. It's the waver in there. The way the words crack. She's upset. She's scared.

"Anna..." I try again, reaching for her – but she shrugs my hand away sharply, as if it burns.

"Don't touch me!" she screams.

We're at the front desk, the archivist on duty looking surprised by the sudden outburst. Anna scans herself out and marches on over to the lockers, literally throwing the door open and retrieving her purse and jacket with trembling hands.

There's something thick and slimy stuck in my throat. I scan myself out and join her at the lockers just as she's slamming the door shut.

"Anna," I murmur. "What was on that chip?"

She looks at me, her eyes bright, pained. She opens her mouth to answer – and that's when frikkin' Pete Wisdom jogs up, cutting us off.

"Miss D'Ancanto," he begins with genuine concern. "Are you all right?"

And then she does something that, despite the way my stomach's churning at the moment, makes me glow with pride for her. She grabs the front of his jacket, draws herself up to his height, gets right up in his face and hisses:

"Ya wanna know why Logan lost his mind? It's because of that fucking chip. Destroy it, Mr. Wisdom. D'you hear me? Destroy. It."

-oOo-