Author Notes: Hello Readers! I just wanted to let you know we're done with the books. Now, we're moving on to the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine. This is going to be wildly AU. IM me if you have any questions.

Edited: 2/29/16

Chapter 12 – Return to Civilization

"People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed." –The Fox, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,The Little Prince

The rhythmic clank of chains was punctuated by low snarls heard even under the deep thrum of the chopper blades. Every time the beast strained against the bindings, the chains would hiss and groan against the bolts holding them tight, and Charles Drum would give a minute twitch. Even though Weapon X was secure, he couldn't halt the natural reaction to reach for a weapon with the Weapon's every shuffling movement. Even worse, those inhuman eyes watched them all the way a caged tiger watched the toddlers who came to stare at it in the Zoo.

Hungry and without remorse. Unlike those witless children, Drum knew exactly what moved through its predatory gaze, and what the creature would do if it wasn't bound and held behind bars. Like the big cats held captive for the public's amusement, there was a frightening majesty to the dead Professor's creation. Something about the man turned Weapon set the beast apart from humanity, elevating it to a different plane of existence.

Another clank, and another twitch. This time, the motion was accompanied by a rough laugh. "Oh relax Charles, you trussed Weapon X up tighter than a virgin's thighs on her first date," Le Quont said. His tone was laced with pain, but the bandages kept the blood loss to a minimum, and the dopey grin showed the pain meds had kicked in just fine.

"Yeah, yeah, better safe than sorry. If it gets out now we're all fucked. Those claws would split this flying tin can open so fast we'd all be headed for the ground before we could bend over and kiss our asses goodbye," Drum huffed, his eyes flitting back to the bound Weapon. A shudder raked sharp claws through his gut when his gaze was caught by feral whisky eyes, and the beast's lips pealed back in a snarl that would make a mountain lion turn tail and run. Even caged, there was no containing the sense of overwhelming danger. Of all who'd gone up against the behemoth, we few were the ones to walk away victorious. Pride welled in his chest, and he returned the snarl with a feral grin of his own, making X lunge against his bonds before falling back, unable to break free.

Contemplative green eyes studied the kneeling creature that took the form of a man. Perhaps it was woman's intuition, but something about the mission felt off to Sarah.

It was too easy. Settling back in her seat, Blake didn't share this observation with her fellow teammates. She doubted Le Quont would agree with her assessment of the situation, but looking back at the fight she couldn't help but think things had gone too well.

Bone deep weariness fought a losing battle against IX's ingrained training. At precisely ten minutes to oh-eight-hundred, his eyes cracked open. Sitting up, the short male assessed his physical status, and found it lacking. It felt like his bones had been drained of marrow, and if he moved carelessly, they would crumble. Taking a shallow breath, IX forced his body into motion. He rejected the weakness in favor of the mission even though his magic cried out for rest. The fire consumed so much of his power he could no longer feel the quiet strength that usually whispered in the back of his mind. Now, it felt as cold and hollow as his bones.

Is it depleted, or was it destroyed in the effort? The Weapon wondered, acknowledging the fact that he would be of less value to his wielder without the power. If he damaged himself irrevocably on this mission, it would be his wielder's right to see him terminated for the failure.

A broken weapon had no value.

Walking slowly to control the tremors trying to wrack his body, IX stepped out into the quiet morning light. His head throbbed in time with his heart, and the unusual desire to turn away from his duty and crawl back into the bed of skins plucked at his mind like a small golden spider.

The thought was crushed underfoot with supreme indifference, ignored as unworthy and dismissed from existence; banished like all the other thoughts that had plagued him during this excursion. None of those treacherous musings mattered, and now they could be rejected in favor of Duty.

Turning his back on the cave and all it represented, Weapon IX followed the familiar chop of a Blackhawk's rotor blades as they carved a path towards his current position. He came to a halt when he reached a plateau large enough for the helicopter to land. Wind crashed around him, and IX slitted his eyes against the sharp sting of old snow kicked up by the torrent. I will not miss the cold, or the weakness it carries, IX thought, ignoring the memory of warmth he'd found when cradled in X's arms.

"Sir, the rogue agent and the escaped mutant have been captured. Should I give the order to terminate?" the mechanical Voice drew the Director from his turbulent thoughts. Weapon IX and X had performed flawlessly, but they were not the only programs he had going, and the latest drama occurred when most of his attention was focused on field testing the new Weapons.

The rogue was of no importance. Her gift was useful, but hardly vital to the team. She failed at her most crucial task, and that failure set back the Weapon X project by years. Still, the female had secured a number of favorable votes during cocktail parties with the right shareholders and key government officials. No, by herself, the agent was of little importance. However, her attempt to leave his service before he was finished using her spoke of a graver issue.

It was a matter of respect. If someone as weak as her thought she could not only walk away, but steal from him? Well, control had to be maintained. Especially with such a dangerous team. His withered lips pulled down in an agitated frown, and he brought up more files to study. The team couldn't be disbanded, their work was critical for the future. There had to be a way to keep control without disrupting the team.

"Might I offer a suggestion, sir?" the Voice asked.

"What is it?"

"The political atmosphere surrounding mutation will continue escalating. That should be your primary focus for the near future. Weapons IX and X are extraordinary creations, but they need time to settle and become seasoned before they are of any real use. Perhaps they could be integrated into the team as both support and persuasion?"

Stroking his chin, the Director's frown smoothed into a sly smirk. "That will provide the Major with the perfect reinforcement to keep the rest of the team in line, and give us a chance to fully test IX's loyalty. By integrating them into the team, they will form bonds of brotherhood, yet will also be the noose around the other members necks should they falter. Yes, a true test to see how effective the programing is," the Director said, running his fingers through his snowy hair before he sank back into the welcoming curve of his custom built chair.

"Inform Major Stryker that his presence is required."

"Yes, sir. The START team has returned, and Weapon X will be delivered promptly. Marcel Le Quont was sent to the sick bay and is undergoing surgery to repair the damage. Diagnosis is favorable, and he will make a full recovery."

"Excellent, send them in when they arrive. Weapon IX is also in route and should arrive in time for the briefing."

The Director relaxed in the quiet of his office and contemplated the future. There was a storm coming, and he knew his latest Weapons would play an integral part in who rose as the victors, and who became extinct. Let the storm break; we will carve a new kingdom out of the rubble.

"Commander, sir, you really should let me take a look at that arm," the nurse's breathy voice grated on Trent's nerves. He despised that doe-eyed look women gave him, and the endless prattle that fell from their pouty lips when they tried to impress him.

"I already told you," you foolish little girl, "it was a simple dislocation that was put to rights before we landed. Tend to Le Quont," he said, his gaze flinty as he abandoned his second-in-command to the tender care of the medical staff. Marcel might have been a ladies man, but he loathed hospitals with every fiber of his being. If the nurse hadn't been such an annoying little bint, he might have pitied her.

Stepping into the hall, he nodded to the remaining three members of his team. The wheeled cage stood in the center of the loose ring they formed, and Trent approved of the high-alert stance of his team. The mission wasn't complete until the package was delivered, and though the likelihood of it escaping now was minimal, they had to remain open to all possibilities.

"All right. We've been given the go ahead to proceed to the Director's office," he said, locking eyes with each of them. No words were spoken, but his message was clear. They were almost in the green, and while he wasn't a man of praise, they had done a damn fine job on their first excursion.

Shifting forward, Trent took the right forward corner of the cage and ignored the feral snarl that rumbled past X's parted lips at his approach. Willi von Trakker took the left forward corner. Drum and Blake took the back corners respectively. With a grunt, they got the cage rolling. It was amazing how much the Weapon weighed.

Weapon X watched them all with restless, aggressive eyes. His breath was a low rasp in his throat from the tightness of the collar, and his chest and back were painted with rivulets of crimson where the metal bit into the back of his neck from straining against the bonds. The impotent shink of his claws made von Trakker jump, jarring the cage and further agitating the weapon. Roaring in fury, X flung himself with wild abandon against the chains so hard that the whole cage rocked under the onslaught.

"Shit," Blake hissed before she jammed a cattle prod between the bars, slamming it into X's side. The roar was cut off by the electricity tearing a violent path through him, forcing his body to spasm against the chains holding him down. She kept the current flowing, and the stench of burning skin wafted down the hall.

"That's enough," Commander Trent barked, not out of sympathy, but from the need to arrive promptly. With a small huff, she pulled the prod back. Weapon X settled back into the full kneeling position. Blake swallowed, her throat suddenly dry when the burned skin smoothed over. "Let's get this delivered and turn in our report." Trent's voice jerked her out of the paralysis, and as one the team moved.

Weapon X shifted when the cage began rolling again, but didn't act out. Before long, they entered a richly decorated office. The Director leveled each of them with a probing ice blue stare before his gaze narrowed on the bound figure in the cage. Satisfaction lit his wrinkled features and took a decade or two off his rugged face.

"I see you were able to successfully capture the Weapon where other teams failed. Congratulations Commander. Give your report of the capture, and the operational status of the Weapon."

Drum shifted restlessly from foot to foot. His gaze kept darting from the bound creature, to the Director, and back to his Commander. Adrenaline still coursed through him like a drug, and he wished the Weapon had put up a better fight. Again his eyes lit on the Director. The man was old, bent with age, but there was a shrewd power in his stony features that gave the youth pause. He might have been the youngest member of the team, but that didn't make him a total idiot. No, he could recognize power when he saw it, and he'd spent enough time in the armed forces to know there were many different breeds of power. This man might not be able to kill him with his bare hands, but Drum didn't doubt if the Director wanted them dead, they'd be scratching their nuts in hell before night fell. Power came in many forms, and just one look told him the elderly man wielded more power than Drum would ever possess.

"And then Drum and Blake were able to chain the Weapon before getting it loaded in the cage," Trent finished, leaving no detail out, not even glossing over his less than perfect performance. I got too close, and I'm bloody lucky Weapon X was disorientated enough to catch the wing, and not gut me.

The Director nodded gravely when the report was finished. "Mistakes happen son, and if you manage to survive them, you learn from them. Now that your feet are wet, expect business for the team to pick up. For a first run, your team performed well. The polish will come in time," the old man said in a grandfatherly tone that was at once reassuring yet held the lick of steel promising a harsher reaction should those mistakes be repeated.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Commander Trent said before offering a crisp salute, and the rest of the team followed suit.

"You may go," the Director said, dismissing the team and silently gloating over the newfound confidence his mock-mission had instilled in them. Before this mission, they were celebrity heroes, but they'd lacked the grit needed to survive the trials ahead. One mission hadn't been enough to wear the shiny off of them, but it was a start, and they had survived to fight in future battles. Time and experience would finish tempering them into a functional unit, but this mission was the final strike of the smith's hammer. Now they were ready to be tested in the forge of true confrontations.

After giving a final salute, the team strutted out of the office with their heads held high. The Director's attention turned to the cage. Inhuman eyes bore into him, but they also held a passivity that had not been directed at the team members. A docileness one might recognize in the eyes of a tiger when its handler entered the cage. It was no less a wild beast, but it had been trained to obedience and recognized the human's authority. However, the Director was not a fool, and didn't attempt to release Weapon X from its captivity. He trusted the programming up to a point, but not with his life.

The Director studied every video feed of the Weapons training, and he realized the Professor took his words to heart. Weapon IX was trained as X's primary handler, and the Weapon responded best to the smaller male's commands. It didn't bother him that X's main loyalty would always be to IX because the Director knew that Weapon IX's loyalty belonged exclusively to him.

He owned Weapon IX, body, mind and soul. Through IX, the Director also owned X.

Samson fought the urge to look behind him again to make sure the boy was still following. The kid moved without making a sound, and glided after him like the spirit of a dead thing. He'd drawn the short straw out of the flight crew and had the dubious pleasure of escorting the strange youth to the Director's office. Earlier that day, they'd been ordered out into the God forsaken wilderness to pick him up, and he hadn't said a word to them the entire flight.

No one asked him a damned thing either, not after meeting those dead green eyes. The large man suppressed a shudder even though the kid didn't even reach his shoulders. He'd done his turn in Afghanistan, and he'd seen week old corpses whose eyes held more life. Samson didn't know who the kid was, and he didn't want to know. There was something about the liquid way the boy moved that made questions wither on his lips like fruit on a drought choked vine.

No, he didn't know how or why, but the kid was some kind of government spook, and the less one knew about those types, the safer they were.

A sigh of relief whispered past Samson's lips when he reached the Director's thick oak door. He rapped three times, and again refused to look behind him. Is he still there? Was he ever there? Don't be redic-

"Enter."

Taking a fortifying breath, Samson opened the door and stood aside, letting the small shape pass him. "If that's all you need, sir, I need to get back to the helicopter."

The Director's eyes glinted with amusement at the airman before he waved the pilot off. "That is all for now."

Weapon IX shoved the exhaustion back and stood straighter when he heard the sound of his Wielder's voice. Ignoring the guide, he stepped into the room and stood at attention before the elderly male. His bottle green eyes scanned the room the instant he'd entered, marking the exits and cataloging threats before he rested his full attention on the Director. IX hadn't given X more than the briefest glance, dismissing the bound male as harmless for the moment.

A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and reminded him of the multiple nights spent sleeping before open flames. IX's face didn't alter, instead the memories were buried in the same indifferent manner he had buried the bone deep weariness. Both were unimportant.

His attention did not waiver when a low growl rumbled through the room like captive thunder. IX could feel the burning gaze on his back, but he ignored it.

Ignoring the exhaustion was becoming more difficult, and Weapon IX swayed before spreading his feet a little farther to brace his uncertain weight.

The Director studied the young man before him, marking the deep black circles that hung under his brilliant empty eyes, and the way the Weapon could hardly remain standing. "What is your status?" he demanded.

A voice that could rival his IA Voice for lack of inflection spoke. "Critical sir. I was injured during Operation Obsolete. The wound healed, but between the injury and controlling the fire to finish the mission, my power was depleted to the point that I can no longer feel it."

Before the Director could react to the declaration, IX moved. The old man's heart gave a sharp lurch when the Weapon unsheathed a five inch long dagger. Turning the blade, he offered it to the man hilt first. "Without my power, I am of little use to you Wielder. It is your right to take my life in payment of my carelessness."

A roar, full of pain and fury, tore through the room. Weapon X made the cage rock as he thrashed violently against the chains in a desperate attempt to reach his mate.

The Director reached out, and accepted the blade.

Without looking away from his Wielder, IX spoke, "be silent." The two words were not shouted, but they cut through the Weapon X, causing the roar to die back to a whine. His large body trembled with the need to defend, but he could not break free, and even if he could, his mate would not tolerate his interference. X sank his teeth deeply into his bottom lip to stifle the low sounds of distress that clawed his throat. More blood pattered over the floor of his cage, small splashes of crimson life that would not be missed.

IX did not hesitate. He walked around the massive desk and stood before the Director. Closing his eyes, IX tilted his head back to expose the slender length of his neck for the killing blow. Every line of his body was relaxed, accepting his fate without question.

An aged finger whispered over the edge of the blade, testing its sharpness. The Director nodded when a bead of red welled from cut caused by the soft touch. Shifting forward, he rested the edge of the knife against the willing throat. Again, the chains groaned under the strain of containing Weapon X. The Director's eyes flitted past IX's shoulder, and locked on flaming brown.

His death was held in those unholy eyes. They contained a smoldering rage that would paint the walls in his blood if the Weapon was ever unleashed. The Director returned his attention to IX. It would take no effort at all to slide the blade through unresistant flesh, ending the Weapon's existence. He shifted the dagger forward, and watched a slim crimson line drip down IX's porcelain skin.

Kitty didn't care that all the other students teased her about her late night habit of drinking milk. It wasn't like she heated it up and lapped it from a saucer or anything, she just liked a cup of milk and some Oreos when she woke up was all.

Grumbling under her breath, Kitty phased through the hall wall and ended up in the kitchen instead of walking the long way around. She blinked, surprise flitting over her heart shaped face when she found the lights already on. Muffled sobs came from under the table, and Kitty sprang into action. Dropping to her purple pajama clad knees, she scooted under the table. Her brown hair was pulled up in a sloppy pony tail, and an escaped strand brushed her nose, making her sneeze.

Malcom's small red head jerked up at the sound, and Kitty's heart lurched at the tormented look in his watery brown eyes. Red blotches covered his face from crying, and the seven-year-old hid his face again when he recognized her. Unlike most mutants, his power did not appear at puberty. He could always see the pretty shifting colors, but it wasn't until he was five that the dreams started. Frustrated and afraid, his parents had turned to Xavier, hoping he would be able to help their son before he was driven mad by the uncontrolled power that hammered his young psyche whenever he slept.

"Oh Malcom, you're all right. Come here," she soothed, and gathered the little boy into her arms. She rocked him gently, not attempting to remove him from the imagined sanctuary found under the table. "Didn't you take your medicine?" she asked when his sobs died off to watery hiccups.

"I did!" he cried, not wanting to get into trouble.

"Shhh, it's okay." Kitty's fingers rubbed soothing circles over his small back. Malcom had become something of a mascot to everyone, and they all loved the little boy to pieces. He snuggled deeper into her arms, basking in her warm aura. He always liked Kitty's swirling aqua, it reminded him of a gentle ocean, quiet and rocking. It wasn't as powerful or as frightening as some of the other people here. "Want to talk about it?"

A tremble vibrated the boy. His breath hitched in his chest, but he forced himself to speak. Fear coiled in his chest, and he just wanted to forget, but he knew the adults needed know about the terrible power. "It was real scary, fire, but not like John's fire. His is just power ya know? Not this. It was animals, but they were huge and mean, like a bear with rables," a frightened whimper escaped him, and he pressed his face against her shoulder, trying to hide from the horrible dream.

"Kitty, the fire was alive, and then…then it was killed!" a fresh bout of sobs racked the child, and Kitty held him close. His words sent shards of ice through her veins. She knew how powerful John's fire could be, and it was often fueled by his rage.

When Malcom's crying eased, Kitty gently tugged him out from under the table. "Come on buddy, we need to tell the Professor. He'll know what to do." Scrubbing the tears from his face with the back of one small hand, Malcom nodded and gave Kitty a watery smile. He should have gone to her in the first place, but he didn't want to bother anyone, and was too scared to stay in his room. The kitchen was always his favorite place. It was full of warmth and the memories of helping his mom make cookies, and French toast. Sorrow mingled with his fear when he thought about his mom, he missed her so much, and he wished she was there to hold him and tell him the dreams weren't real.

But they were, and he knew a mutant with scary power was out there somewhere. The pure evil of that power seemed to ooze under his skin like black tar, and it made him sick to his stomach. He'd never felt anything like that before. Not even Marie, whose color was as black as a starless night, felt evil. Hers was like a hole, one that pulled everything in, but that didn't make it evil. Not like the fire.

"One moment," the sleep rough voice replied after Kitty knocked on a heavy maple door. Malcom's hand clung to hers, and he pressed himself against her side. He tucked the thumb of his left hand into his palm to keep from bringing it up to his lips. Before he could give in to the urge, the door opened, and Professor Xavier ushered them into the small sitting room that branched off from the main bedroom.

Kitty tugged him down onto one of the puffy arm chairs, large enough to fit both children easily. He gave the Professor a trembling smile, and watched the shift of silver power surrounding the man in fluffy sheep-like clouds. Small wafts of silver flowed around the room like mist, but Malcom was used to it. He couldn't feel the power brush over his thoughts, but he could see the little tendrils reaching from the clouds to touch everything.

"Malcom, may I take a deeper look?" Xavier asked, keeping his tone soft. The little boy's mutation was a Delta level, and not one the child controlled. The mutation didn't require control, it added a second layer of color to the boy's world, but didn't harm him. Until he went to sleep, that was. Then, the power grew, and separated from his body. It was pulled towards the greatest concentration of power, showing the child the power while he slept. Unfortunately, such power was as often dark as it was light, and the boy had seen horrors no child should be exposed to. Malcom was too young to learn to control his subconscious, so he'd decided to put him on medication to block the dreams.

The power that struck during the night had been so strong, it broke through the drug haze and sucked Malcom in. "Yeah," the boy whispered, his eyes wide when one of the silver clouds broke away from the main mass and settled over his head.

Xavier slid into Malcom's mind with gentle ease. He focused on the memory of the dream and had to bite back a startled exclamation. Now he understood why the boy was so upset. He watched the malevolent power devour a small village and almost gaged at the thick oily feel of it. The howling fury of the firestorm, thick with roving beasts that consumed everything in their path, crashed against an unseen barrier. He could feel the power, almost sentient and out of control, keen in mad rage. Then something pushed the hungry flames back, compressed them, before snuffing them out with a roar of equal power.

The second power didn't hold the taint of the first, but he got the sense that both came from the same source. Impossible. No, not impossible, Rogue could take other mutants power, giving her powers not her own for a time. Perhaps the mutant responsible for this destruction was of a similar type. He watched the memory one more time before he broke away from Malcom's mind.

"Thank you, Malcom. We will look into the matter and see what can be found. Kitty? Can you take Malcom back to bed?" he asked, his thoughts distant while he made plans. He would send the others to the site after morning came, it would be easier to explore the area in daylight. Perhaps, but Xavier knew the real reason he didn't send them now was the worry that the mutant was still in the area. The X-Men were powerful, but this mutant wasn't one they should attempt to engage before they had more information.

This time, Weapon X's howls of rage went unanswered. IX did not flinch away from the caress of cold steal, even when it bit into his flesh. His body remained at ease, not tensing to fight or retreat. Pure acceptance that his fate was now, and always would be, in the hands of his Wielder was reflected in his empty features. The Director pulled the knife back and returned to his seat behind the desk. IX let his head shift forward into a more natural position before his tired eyes slid open.

"You will spend the next week recovering," the Director's voice was brisk, and he did not return the blade. Instead he set it on his desk, a physical reminder of the power he controlled. "We will re-evaluate your usefulness then." Reaching into the top drawer, he pulled out a small key. "Release Weapon X. He is your responsibility, keep him leashed. After you're recovered, we will reconvene to discuss where the two of you will be placed."

Reaching out, IX accepted the key. Every step towards the cage felt like a mile, but IX did not falter. He pushed himself to the brink to complete the mission. Once he reached the door of the cage, the short male leaned against the bars to keep himself upright before sliding the key home. The click of tumblers releasing sounded loud in the quiet office, and Weapon X's muscles trembled in anticipation. Jerking open the door, IX stumbled into the cage and fell onto the bound weapon.

X grunted at the slight weight that jarred his stiff limbs. Concern slithered along the base of his spine and grew when his mate didn't move. This close, he could feel the small tremors that wracked his mate's body, and the unnatural worry grew. His animalistic thoughts were unaccustomed to such human emotions, and the other that had whispered during their time in the forest was silent, not offering help or advice for how to proceed.

The chain latched to his collar snapped tight when X tried to turn his head to nuzzle his mate's side, and he gave a low crooning growl. Small hands, so adept at the art of killing, gave his side a near gentle stroke before IX pushed himself up again. Sinking to his knees, IX began the tedious task of unlocking the mountain of chain that held Weapon X. The larger male pressed his bulk closer to the ground, giving IX as much slack as the tight chains allowed to ease his task.

With a loud thunk, the titanium collar fell to the floor of the cage. Slender fingertips probed the blood stained skin, sending a storm of shivers over X's skin. Satisfied, the hands moved to the complex shackles that kept X's arms bound behind him. The locks were released one after the other, and X had to stifle a howl of agony when they were finally free. Muscle and bone protested against the freedom after having been bound for so long.

Again IX's hands were there, this time strong fingers dug into the muscles with rough grace, forcing circulation back into the deadened limbs. X whimpered against the harsh treatment, but didn't resist his mate's attentions. Another whine escaped his throat when IX nudged him into a sitting position so he could reach the chains wrapped around his legs.

After fifteen minutes of exhausted pushing and prodding, IX was able to unhook the last chains. Both men were panting, one from fatigue, the other from pain. Leaving X huddled at the bottom of the cage to recover, IX gripped the bars with one shaky hand and pulled himself to his feet. Through strength of will alone, IX stepped out of the cage and stood without gripping the bars for support. His tired eyes sought the Director, waiting for another command, even though it was clear he had reached the limit of his endurance.

The Director studied his masterpiece, and couldn't stop the dark smile that curled his lips. Weapon IX was magnificent, and even half dead, he would continue to push himself beyond all rational measure to please his Wielder. The large bulk of Weapon X shifted into a crouch, and the old man settled back in his chair to watch the show.

It was a testament to Weapon IX's compromised state that he did not hear the attack before it came.

"Ooph." The air exploded out of IX's narrow chest when the much larger man pounced on him. Together, they crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. With a final burst of strength, IX twisted under X so that when they hit the ground he was on his back facing the larger male. "Get…off…" he wheezed, his hand going for a dagger.

Sharp teeth cut a fierce line into the flesh of IX's shoulder. Hot blood rushed into X's mouth, and the worry that had been growing since he'd seen his mate spiked. The once rich liquid tasted dull, flat without the captive lightning that made it so addictive. Probing the wound with his tongue, he finally tasted a small spark of that once potent power like the flick of static electricity in his mouth.

Gently, he bathed the deep mark. It was only after the flow slowed to a trickle that X realize he wasn't feeling the sharp bite of IX's annoyance. Glancing up, he saw IX's hand wrapped limply around the hilt of the knife he'd managed to unsheathe, but hadn't had the strength to use. His mate's face was slack with unconsciousness, and only the slow rise and fall of the small chest kept the panic at bay. Leaning forward, X nuzzled the narrow column of IX's pale throat. His tongue swiped over the small cut left by the Director as he drank in IX's exhaustion tainted scent.

Exhaustion wasn't the only thing that marred the familiar scent. Blood, heavy and old, clung to IX's skin. Not the blood of enemies, but IX's blood. Snarling, X tore open the smaller male's shirt, exposing his chest. Soft blood streaked skin met his searching eyes, and near IX's heart, a quarter sized divot of shiny pink skin stood in silent testimony. X knew the mark would fade with time, but he couldn't stop staring at it.

Before the burning that had increased his healing factor, X had sported a number of similar marks that took hours to fully heal. Bullet wounds. A low wounded sound thrummed in X's throat, and he leaned forward to lay his head against his mate's chest, needing to hear the stead thump of his heart. Too close, shouldn't have survived, the voice, brought near the surface by X's distress, whispered in his mind.

Snarling, Weapon X stood and gathered IX into his large arms. IX looked even smaller when framed by the large man's bulk, and the Director suppressed a smirk. Yes, IX was perfectly designed to go dismissed as a threat, especially when paired with Weapon X. A target's eyes were naturally drawn to the fierce aura of animalistic potential that X gave off, and ignoring the small serpent in the grass at his feet. While they focused on X; the death blow would come from IX.

Pressing a button on his desk, the Director said, "Jennings, come in." The door to the office opened, and X's shoulders tensed, preparing to attack if needed. A middle aged man with trim black hair shading towards grey at the temples stepped into the room.

"Sir," he said, and gave a salute. His somber brown eyes flicked to the agitated weapon before settling on the Director.

"Escort Weapon IX and X to holding cell eleven," the Director locked eyes with X. "You will both remain there for the week. Do not attempt to leave, is that understood?" he said, watching the mutant's eyes. He saw the leash of obedience tighten around X's mind. For IX, the large male could throw off the leash, but only for IX. With a low growl, X's eyes dropped in submission when the mental conditioning took effect.

"Inform the guards to repeat the order to IX when it wakes."

"Yes, sir," Jennings said, and with another salute, he turned and ushered the Weapons out of the office.

With a sigh, the Director said, "Inform Major Stryker that our meeting has been postponed."

"Yes, sir," the Voice responded.

The Blackbird settled in a clearing just west of the burned out circle they had been sent to investigate. Exiting the jet, Storm's nose wrinkled at the burnt stink that lingered over the area. The urge to call up a strong wind to blow the offensive odor away tested her control, but she managed to override it. They had a job to do, and couldn't risk losing valuable evidence to her wind.

"Do you really think a mutant did this?" Cyclops asked, his visored eyes trailed over the destruction in disbelief. They stood at the edge of the circle. It looked like a perfect line had been drawn, on one side was ice and snow, on the other black and grey destruction.

"Yes, Malcom's visions are drawn to active mutant power, not mundane power given off by weapons," was her husky reply. Fear stroked a lazy finger over her dark skinned neck, raising the hairs along her spine. "Whoever did this must be an omega, why didn't the Professor see this coming?" A mutant capable of this level of destruction should have been identified when they entered puberty and their power began to manifest.

Shaking his head, Cyclops began walking along the edge of the circle. The thought of stepping into the ash field disturbed him, and he wanted to put it off as long as possible. "I don't know. Something isn't right here, and we need to figure out what before it comes to bite us in the ass."

Storm was about to scold him for his foul language, but stopped when a spot of brown caught her eye. Kneeling at the edge of the circle, she leaned down. The snow was pressed down along the edge in a partial foot print, but that wasn't what had caught her eye, no, it was the small circle of brown beside the print. Reaching into her bag, Storm took out a small test tube and scooped up the dirty snow. It could have been mud, but she didn't think so.

They continued walking the circle, and found several more partial prints, never one complete enough to judge its size, but enough to know that whoever had done this, had walked around the town before the fire began. Storm also found more of the drops that she was now certain were blood.

"But whose blood is it?" She wondered out loud.

"What?"

"Is this the blood of the mutant, or someone else?"

Cyclops swallowed hard at the implication. Though rare, they had seen a few mutations that could drain power from another person, and that power was often harnessed in the blood. The victims of such power draining rarely survived. "That would explain the level of control," he replied. With the power filtered through a secondary source, the mutant would be able to wield it without having to filter it through their own body.

"Has there ever been an omega level drainer before?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Storm, look over here," excitement caused Cyclops's voice to rise when he spotted whole prints a foot or two away from the circle. "This must be where the mutant began the circle." Kneeling, he studied the prints. Strom settled next to him, and rummaged through her bag to get a ruler and camera. Setting the ruler next to the clearest print, she took photographed it.

"The mutant is female, based off the size. There's no way they could belong to an adolescent. Not with that level of control," Cyclops deduced as he studied the small prints. Storm gave a grim nod of agreement.

More blood stained the snow around the prints, heavier here. "This was the start of the circle. The mutant laid the circle first before unleashing the fire." Standing, she began walking again before coming to the next discovery.

"She wasn't alone." Storm was careful not to disturb the churned up snow. It looked like their mutant had fallen at some point. Footprints, larger than the ones they'd found earlier, lead to this point, and left again. The larger prints were cataloged, and they attempted to follow the trail only to lose it in the trees.

"Damn," this time, Storm didn't attempt to lecture. She was beginning to feel just as aggravated. There were so many questions, and no answers to be found. At least, not here. Perhaps Beast would be able to shed light on their findings once they got back to the lab. "Come on, let's start collecting the ash samples," Cyclops said in disgust. His feet were starting to go numb, and he wanted to leave this cursed place.

Trudging back to the circle, the pair set up a grid using stakes and twine so that they would be able to identify which area each sample of ash was taken from. It took over an hour to set up the grid, and another two to get four samples from each square.

The thoroughness of the burn scared Storm. After brushing the soft flaky ash away from the first grid square, she found the ground had been melted into broken glass. How much power was needed to reduce an entire town to drifts of soft ash? Sometimes, the glass was swirled with glinting metallic, marking where metal had been melted into puddles of super-heated liquid.

Once the ash was collected, both X-Men were frozen through. Their panting breaths formed plums of mist and it took an effort of will to close their cold hands on the sample cases and return to the jet.

The sharp stab of hunger penetrated the thick layers of cotton between consciousness and unconsciousness. IX tried to ignore the sensation, not wanting to wake, but it would not be denied. Groaning, he cracked his eyes open and huffed when his vision was full of X's disgruntled face less than an inch from his own.

"Get off," IX croaked, mildly surprised at the raspy tone. His throat felt drier than a desert in the peak of summer, and other bodily complaints made themselves known. How long have I slept? He wondered, and pushed ineffectively at the broad chest that hovered above his. It was times like this that made the smaller weapon wish the larger could speak. "Get off," he repeated, this time the words were punctuated by the sharp edge of a throwing knife.

X's bulk lifted high enough to avoid the cut, but the large man continued to hover like a brooding hen with only one chick to mother. Mild irritation flared in IX's green eyes before he ducked around X's arm and rolled off the narrow bed. He landed in a crouch on the cement floor and assessed his strength. His body still felt weighed down by weariness, but it no longer felt on the verge of collapse. Closing his eyes, he felt for the power, and was almost relieved when it sluggishly responded to his call. Like his body, it still felt drained to the dredges, but now he could feel it, and knew it would replenish itself.

Standing, IX swayed with dizziness. X reached out to steady him, but jerked his hand back when silver lashed out to cut the offending limb. He gave a pouting growl, and backed up to give his annoyed mate room. Ignoring X, IX padded silently over to the toilet and relieved himself without thought to the lack of privacy. He was so focused on remaining upright without aid that he didn't notice X's hungry eyes on him. Only after he tucked himself away did IX realize he was shirtless again. At least this time there wasn't a gaping wound in his chest, but he knew why was shirtless that time. What happened to his shirt this time?

Dismissing the question as unimportant to his current situation, IX turned his attention to the heavy steel door. IX continued ignoring X who followed at his heels like a puppy with separation anxiety. He closed his eyes and placed his palm on the door. Reaching for his power, IX whispered, "Open." With the slowness of molasses, the power responded and nudged the lock.

The door opened with a soft hiss, and revealed the startled youthful face of the guard who'd been assigned to watch them. IX remained on his side of the threshold and studied the youth. His threat level was minimal, and IX knew he could kill the boy effortlessly. That dark knowledge flashed in his poison green eyes, and the boy backed up with a frightened gasp. Tilting his head slightly, he studied the reaction and found the young guard wanting. However, since he had not been given the order to kill, he slid the small blade back into its sheath.

"What are my orders?"

The guard gulped at the emotionless demand. "Uh…oh, right. J-J-Jennings said t-that you and he are to say here until the D-Director asks for you," the young man stuttered, terrified that the order would be ignored.

"Acknowledged. How long have I been unconscious?"

Blinking at the unexpected acceptance of the order, the guard had to look at his watch and had to think about it for a minute. "Twenty-one, no, twenty-three hours, sir," the youth squeaked, forgetting that the man he was talking to was in a holding cell and not a senior officer.

"I require sustenance and fresh water. Go," IX stated before he reached out and touched the door again. It slid obediently shut, and the guard shivered when the lock reengaged of its own accord. Turning, he ran.

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