Chapter 40 - Tangled Webs
"But when she was scared, she was a child again, and she was more afraid of being a child again than anything else in her life." ~ Tamsyn Muir, Harrow the North
Pain.
A thin lance of lightning jagged across the velvet black landscape. So small, little more than a prick, yet that splinter of hurt ruptured the impossible membrane between life and death. Air, bitter with the harsh tang of antiseptic, rushed to fill her lungs. In her chest, her heart - that treacherous organ - thumped on without pause as if that wasn't utterly impossible.
Why, though? Why is that impossible?
Confusion filled the shredding darkness while her thoughts stirred and muttered through the fragmented landscape of her mind.
Heart.
That was important, wasn't it?
Each heartbeat whispered of things that couldn't be, truths she didn't know she wanted to face. Wouldn't it be better if the darkness returned? Something waited, hovering at the edge of forever for her mind to acknowledge it. Retreat back into the darkness, or step forward into the light?
The choice was taken out of her hands.
"Wake up."
The rumbling words were accompanied by a rough shake, one that jolted through her entire being. Emma's eyes snapped open before clenching shut as new pain speared her. Blinding white light ate at her retinas, but even that brief glimpse was enough to jack her heart-rate up to almost unbearable levels.
Panic tore at her system as recognition burned her soul. The overhead lights, blazing with hungry intensity, made her aware that she was laid out on an exam table, a dissection table. "No!" she cried, jolting upright and nearly falling off the table. That she could move at all was a shock in and of itself. The lack of straps added to her confusion. Another tiny flash of pain burned in the crook of her left arm, and Emma reacted without thought, yanking the IV line out even as she slithered off the table, putting its gleaming metal surface between her and the bulky man giving her an unimpressed look.
Without consciously deciding to do so, her secondary mutation kicked in. It clenched around her, filling her with glassy coolness as she confronted the stranger. Even though Emma's diamond form snuffed out the emotional storm as it locked her mental powers away, it couldn't stop her racing thoughts.
She died. She had died. Stryker's new pet forced her to walk to her own destruction. Kayla. The name was like a gong vibrating through her inhuman flesh, making it almost chime with the intensity of emotion waiting for her in her other form. But now it was a distant thing, more memory than sensation even as her eyes darted around the lab.
Newborn hope fell to ash when she found herself alone with the guard. Perhaps it was too much to ask for two miracles, if this proved to be a miracle and not a new level of torment. They were in a lab after all, but it looked nothing like the Doctor's blood-soaked domain. Everything gleamed with near OCD perfection, a place for everything and everything in its place. More than that, this particular lab felt far more advanced than anything the Doctor's torture chamber could boast.
"If you're quite done, follow me. We can't keep the Doctor waiting."
Doctor. The word struck with the force of a hammer. Emma grabbed the edge of the table to keep from sinking to her knees at the dreaded word. Of course the Doctor was here, of course he was, the torment would never end. Not for her. It doesn't matter, not this time. They don't have Kayla to hold over my head now, and nothing they try will be able to shatter me. Not in this form.
"Are you coming, or do I have to drag you?" At the sound of his gruff voice, her attention jerked back to the only other person in the room. Broad shoulders, a military-style haircut that kept his dark hair close to his scalp, and a wholly unimpressed look on his face made her attempt to shift back to her normal form. I can crawl into his head and make him take me out of here, wherever here is. But nothing happened. Like a muscle cramping, her own subconscious terror of the situation refused to release her back into a form that was vulnerable. Not again, she would never willingly walk to her own death again.
"Where am I?" How am I still alive? I died. Emma demanded, folding her arms over her chest as she tilted her chin up in defiance. The overhead lights, brilliant as they were, sent sparkles and rainbows cascading through the room with her every shifting movement.
An exasperated sigh escaped the man at her antics. "Look, you and I both know I don't have any answers for you. Why don't you let me bring you to the man who does? We can make this easy or hard, but one way or another you're going to meet him."
Emma thought it over, she could try to fight but the guard looked far more experienced than she was when it came to that sort of thing. While she couldn't be harmed in this form, that didn't mean she couldn't be tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. That thought drew her eyes down to the lilac scrubs someone put her in. Revulsion twisted through her at the thought of someone dressing her while she'd been unconscious - dead?
The guard tapped a foot impatiently, letting her know that if she didn't make up her mind soon, he'd do it for her. "Fine," she snipped before taking a step forward, edging around the metal table. Her nose wrinkled at the odd squeak accompanying her mincing steps. For a second, all she could do was stare in utter dismay at the pristine white crocs someone forced onto her feet. "You have got to be kidding me."
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing. Be a good dog and lead the way to the Doctor," she said, still scowling over the atrocious footwear and half-considering kicking them off here and now. The only thing that kept her from doing so was the desperate hope that she might find a way to escape, and while she hardly needed shoes in diamond form, she would have to return to her more human state eventually.
The insult earned her a low chuckle and not a growl of irritation. "Don't worry, Princess. You'll learn to wear your collar with pride soon enough." With that, he led the way out into the unknown.
Emma couldn't help but wonder what happened. Was the Doctor working for someone else now? This looked nothing like Stryker's facility. Had they moved to a different location? Even the outfit was all wrong. Not the dirty orange jumpsuits they'd forced all the prisoners into. Everything felt off, from the guard's easy banter, to the flavor of the air around them. That, and the lack of bloodstains on the floor filled her with a tiny spark of hope. Even if this was a new lab, wouldn't the Doctor continue his brutal ways here? No, something wasn't adding up. Some factor she didn't have yet that would bring it all into proper focus.
It was the need for answers more than his threats that forced Emma's stiff legs into motion. Endless questions darted through her mind while she reluctantly played follow-the-leader through the strange compound. One whose interior was sleek and futuristic enough to satisfy any science-fiction lover.
Another thought itched at the back of her mind, and it took nearly a full minute for it to register. For the first time in what felt like forever, she couldn't hear the low-grade hum. A distinctive sound every telepath was sensitive to, one that warned of neuroinhibitors embedded in their surroundings. The low buzz forced them to stay in their own mind or face the agony of a thousand mental cuts to push past them. She'd witnessed more than one telepath break under the strain of the inhibitors back in the pens.
Again, she tried to slip back into her normal form. The promise of freedom screamed at her, but no matter how hard she fought, Emma's body remained stone. What if I can never go back? That thought should have filled her with panic, yet like the rest of her emotions in this form, it was a distant thing. More an echo than true emotion.
Perhaps it was for the best. The impossibility of the moment, the mere fact that she was walking at all and not dead, stole her agency. Too many unknowns kept her from doing more than following meekly after the strange guard, unable to defy him. At least, not yet. Not when so much of what was, and more importantly what should be were still up in the air. More than anything else, Emma wanted - needed - answers.
Before long, they reached their destination. The guard stepped to the side, after dipping his head respectively to the man sprawled comfortably in what could almost be classified as a throne. Emma didn't need telepathy to recognize him for the mutant he was, even if his physical appearance was hardly the most extreme expression of mutation she'd ever seen. His completion was a ghostly pale that could have been the result of shunning sunlight for a decade or three, but it was the eyes that would have branded him as other to the humans.
After mutation became more common, unusual eye-color was a regular occurrence. However, this stranger took it a step further. While she'd seen a number of mutants boasting crimson irises, he was the first she'd witnessed with black sclera. Those unique eyes, paired with the odd red gem embedded into his forehead gave the man an ethereal look. One that made him feel more like a character out of a fairytale than a simple mutation.
Then he smiled, showing a hint of fang. "Good of you to join me." The cultured voice slid over her diamond skin, and it took everything she had not to gape at the stranger like an idiot as the most absurd thought slammed into her.
Holy shit, he's a vampire.
That led almost immediately to a new splinter of crazy as her tongue prodded at one of her canine teeth, testing its sharpness. Do NOT tell me he turned me into a vampire. The paranoid thought was so ludicrous she dismissed it out of hand, but not after swiping her tongue over her teeth one last time to make doubly-sure they weren't sharper than she remembered.
His pristine white lab coat, and neatly tailored black pants did nothing to break the illusion even if he looked like the sort of man who should be draped in silks or wearing a floor length opera cloak.
Perhaps it was the lab coat, mixed with the title of doctor more than his strange eyes and fangs that made it impossible to speak. Words tangled in her throat, an avalanche of questions all fighting to escape at once, leaving her mute in the face of the stranger.
"Time is short. Allow me to bring you up to speed before I offer my proposal." Those strange red eyes bound her to the spot more effectively than any chain.
"I am a man of science, as you might have guessed given the state of this facility. As such, I keep an eye out for unique specimens such as yourself." The words specimen, and the chilling way he spoke it made Emma flinch. Perhaps his lab was cleaner than Stryker's pet researcher's, but the way he said that told her all she needed to know about his philosophy and where she stood in the grand scheme of things.
"Stryker and his butcher failed to look beyond the surface when it came to you," he stated bluntly, giving her glittering skin a pointed look. "Much like the farmer in that old fairytale, they sought to cut you open to see what riches might be hidden within, never realizing there would be nothing but entrails." Then his gaze sharped into something predatory, a look that made her heart pound painfully in her chest. "Though, if this endeavor doesn't pan out, I wouldn't mind a diamond heart to display on my desk."
The threat hung between them, letting Emma know how much trouble she was in. Odd, having died once, she thought she would be able to handle the risk of dying again, but that wasn't true. Every part of her screamed to live, to survive. I won't die so easily this time, she swore. Taking her courage in both hands, Emma lifted her head and locked her diamond eyes on his. "What golden eggs would you have me lay?"
A sharp-toothed smile rewarded the question. "I'm glad to see we're on the same page. Have you ever heard of the X-Men?"
Xavier hesitated on the threshold of Cerebro, the tips of his feet mere centimeters from the edge. He stared down at those feet, studying the reflected light in the smooth brown leather, unable to bring himself to look up. Beyond the tips of his dead toes he could feel the chamber, a yawning emptiness beckoning him to enter. Sweat broke out on his skin, dewing the shiny dome of his bald scalp.
It slid down his skin unpleasantly dampening the collar of his shirt, but Xavier hardly noticed. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing and tried to force it into a smooth rhythm while ignoring the way his heart thundered in his chest. Far too hard for a man of his age.
His finger hovered over the controls on his chair. Push it, just push it. There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. A hollow laugh escaped him. How these many years seemed undone, and in the blink of an eye he felt like a boy again. Afraid of the monsters under the bed and the bitter knowledge that he'd have to face them alone.
The image of a man dressed in blood-stained white flashed in his mind. A man he should have known about, should have heard but hadn't, burned in the back of his mind. Self-reproach wound itself into the tangled ball of fear, anger, pain, and panic burning in his chest. He gave the chamber beyond his feet a defeated sigh.
Still not looking up, he thumbed the reverse button on the chair and made his way to the study. Apparently, they had a guest in need of sanctuary. A harsh jolt of laughter escaped him at that. "Sanctuary, as if we were a medieval church." As amusing as the notion was, in its own way it was apt. They took in those who'd been turned out from their own homes. Those scorned by a world that hated and feared them. Were mutants any different from Quasimodo?
There were plenty of humans who thought of mutants as mere birth defects. He'd even heard rumors that countries like Iceland were considering a similar cure to the one they'd implemented against children with Downs Syndrome, by aborting all the babies who tested positive. Perhaps the only thing that kept similar practices from being adopted for the X-Gene was that most of the time the gene remained dormant, and they weren't willing to cull perfectly normal children who may or may not ever awaken as mutants.
Yet.
When they reached his office, Xavier sat waiting for them. He'd dabbed the fear sweat off his brow and offered a welcoming smile that failed to erase the worry in his eyes. For the count of almost seven heartbeats, Zen stood resolutely in the doorway, his slight frame blocked the way as he locked eyes with Xavier. No thoughts whispered between them, but the Professor could read the ex-assassin's disapproval in every line of his stiff form. Then he stepped aside, allowing Fantomex to enter the room.
"Good evening, Fantomex. Please take a seat." Xavier gestured to the pair of chairs in front of his desk, the professional smile never left his face as the stranger dressed in blood-stained white sat with easy grace. Once Fantomex settled himself, the smile on Xavier's face dimmed as he steepled his hands atop his desk. "I must apologize for leaving you outside for so long. I was unaware of your presence." Xavier's lips twitched in a suppressed grimace at the admission. "Please explain your request for sanctuary, and we'll see if we can accommodate you."
Before Fantomex had a chance to speak, the door opened again. Zen stiffened slightly, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Logan. "Ah, do come in," Xavier said, false cheer flavoring the words.
A low rumbling growl tickled the back of Logan's throat, but he stepped into the office anyway. He held a large tray in his hands and grumbled under his breath as he set it on the desk. "Here, C-" he hesitated over the insult before switching to, "Charles." Then he looked the telepath in the eye and thought hard enough to make the older man wince. I might have brought it, but you can pour your own damned tea.
"Are the grounds secure?" Zen's words were unusually sharp-edged as he stared at Logan.
Ignoring the pair, Xavier poured two cups of tea. "Would you care for cream or sugar?" Xavier asked.
Another low growl trickled from Logan's lips, a sound that normally marked X's appearance, but this time it was all Logan. "No, I was sent to fetch drinks instead."
Before the smaller assassin could tell him to go make the rounds to ensure the school was safe, Xavier's fingers gave a subtle twitch. Both Weapons settled back at the non-verbal command. Zen's eyes narrowed but he held his peace. While Xaiver played the proper host, Zen pondered the mental silence radiating off his Wielder. Usually, the man would have given them telepathic commands. That he'd resorted to hand signals plucked from Zen's mind at some earlier point to get his meaning across did not bode well.
"Beast is giving the grounds a good once over to make sure there are no other unexpected guests lying about," Xavier said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. The worlds fell flat as both ex-Weapons stared at him.
"No cream or sugar," Fantomex said, breaking the mounting silence as he reached for one of the delicate china cups. Without a word of warning, he settled back in his seat, held the cup of steaming hot liquid over his head and began pouring. The unusual action drew all eyes to him, instantly breaking the tension.
Xavier's mouth dropped open, a sharp demand almost escaping before he noticed that the tea wasn't spilling all over the man. The odd headgear protecting the stranger's thoughts also absorbed the tea with ease. He'd seen a lot in his day, but this was one of the most peculiar. The urge to ask, to steer the conversation towards safe waters and avoid whatever disaster brought the man to his doorstep was almost overwhelming, but the words stuck in his throat.
A smile wide enough to crinkle the edges of his white mask flared across Fantomex's hidden face as he neatly set the empty cup back on the tray. "Now that we're through with the pleasantries, it's time to get down to business." Still flabbergasted by the odd display, Xavier nodded his consent.
Fantomex settled back in the chair and locked eyes with Xavier. A chill passed down the old man's spine as he stared into those empty doll-like eyes. He couldn't help the itch of dread that bit into his bones in anticipation of what the strange mutant might say.
"I'm a thief, and I stole something I shouldn't have." Fantomex paused, and it took more effort than Xavier wanted to admit not to demand he go faster. It felt strange to have to wait for information. Before Alkali Lake, he'd been accustomed to slipping in and out of minds at will. Half the time it wasn't even on purpose, merely habit. Being forced to wait for information, the slow transmission of the spoken word, felt physically painful to the telepath. Yet, he didn't try to stretch out his mind in search of chinks in Fantomex's strange armor. No, he waited for the information like everyone else in the room. "When I did, something big and bad got loose on the C-Train. They call it Weapon XII." The last two words punched the air like hot lead as Fantomex's pale gaze flicked knowingly between Logan and Zen.
"The civilians are dead by now."
"Get tHEm! geT THE muTanTS!"
A chorus of voices shouted as one, a howl belched up from the pits of hell. "kiLL THem. TeAR thEM to PieCES."
The four lone mutants pushed back against the doors between the cars. Marty turned, his deep prune skin blending almost perfectly in the darkness as he tried to jerk the door open. Nothing happened. "No, oh God, no. Not like this. I won't go out like this."
"Marty, don't! You won't make it," Linda shouted as the alien-looking young man leapt. His body twisted in a way that would make a falling cat envious. Mid-twist he kicked off his shoes, revealing his bare feet. Like a human fly he clung to the top of the car. "Not that way!" she shrieked as he began to move with surprisingly nimble grace, trusting his superior reflexes to see him through the danger. Her arm stretched, trying to grab him, but too late. Her fingers clamped on air, and then he was over the mob. Even if she managed to get a hold of him now, all she would do was pull him off the ceiling and into the forest of hands and teeth.
Another shrill scream filled their end of the train car, this time it was torn from Alana's stone throat. Her slate gray eyes widened in horror as they watched agility fail in the face of sheer numbers. Marty dodged one set of long arms only to run face first into an artificially-clawed hand. Fingers tipped with long red nails, the stick-on type made to mimic a manicure, sank into the living strands of his hair. Three popped off under the force of her grip. Marty's shrill scream cut the darkness, a perfect match for Alana's. More hands twisted into his clothes, his hair, gripped arms and legs and tore him off the ceiling.
"KiLL IT kiLl It KiLL iT!"
Every voice but the mutants rose up, chanting their judgment so loud it drowned out Marty's terrified screams, but they heard the second those screams turned to howls of agony. Countless cell phones littered the floor, screens cracking under indifferent feet, but still casting their eerie glow over the horrific scene. The strange blue-colored light stole the red from the blood, turning it to black tar covering the hands and teeth of the possessed humans.
The screaming came to a gurgling end and as one the mob stood. Their strange reflective eyes locked on their targets. Every set of eyes reflected that eerie, unholy blue light.
"Please don't," Linda sobbed as she sank to her knees, arms covering her head to block out the sight.
Reggie straightened and adjusted his glasses. He stepped in front of her and looked at the oncoming mob with narrow eyes. "Reg," Alana hissed, but she didn't try pulling him back.
With an inhuman roar, they charged. Two feet in front of the young man, they slammed into an invisible wall. Reggie staggered and almost fell to one knee before steadying himself. "Get that door open," Reggie snapped.
"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name." Tears slid down Reggie's cheeks, as unnoticed as the blood dripping down his chin from his nose. He tried to remember the rest of the prayer, but it had been too long since those hot afternoons in Sunday school. Years had passed since he'd set foot in a church. Not since he'd developed his mutation and left the family. Not because they would have rejected him, but because he knew how the rest of the town would react. Small minds who couldn't even handle two men loving each other wouldn't be able to cope with one of their own with powers that should only be in the Bible. His parents would have stood by him, he knew that, but then they would have been pariahs too. He refused to let that happen. So, he'd gone off to college and never came back. No one back home knew what he was, and he'd planned to keep it that way.
The blood flowed faster, making it hard to breathe as the weight of the bodies began piling up. Panting, he watched fingernails and then fingers break as they tried to claw through air as hard as brick. More people, men, women, children, were crushed against the barrier. "Hurry!" he managed to shout; the words half choked as blackness began to eat at the edges of his vision.
Glass broke behind him and he thought he heard Linda shout his name. Then the wall broke, unleashing the dam of insanity. Reggie tried to back pedal, tried to get away from the mob who stumbled over the corpses at their feet to get to him. Hands grabbed him around the waist, and he screamed before he realized the fingers were long, thin, rubbery as the hands stretched around him like a rubber band. "Linda," he gasped when she jerked him back.
Or tried to.
"Let go!" He cried as more than a dozen hands caught hold of his front. Locking on pants, his legs, belt, shirt, arms, hands, hair. On the hands wrapped so tightly around his middle. Behind him, he could hear Linda scream as teeth sank into her odd flesh. In a moment of absurd clarity, he stared at the hunk of flesh torn free from his friend's left wrist, at the blood gushing from the wound, at the strange white that he knew were bones. I didn't think she would tear, his thoughts jibbered, even as teeth found his own flesh.
Alana couldn't stop screaming, but she didn't let the panic keep her from acting. It didn't take her long to give up on the door between the cars. In desperation, she turned to the large window and, still screaming, slammed her stone fist into it. The first punch bounced harmlessly off, making her shout again. This time in terrified rage. Putting all her terror into it, she hit the window again, again, again. Behind her she could hear Reggie telling her to hurry. Could hear Linda's begging. Then, finally, the glass cracked. Three more hard hits and her fist went through. Jerking it free, she began clawing at the glass, pulling it out of the window frame so the others wouldn't get cut when she boosted them through.
A wild, half-mad grin painted her gray stone features as she turned, her hands reaching for her friends. The look faltered and fell away as the scene burned itself into her brain. Reggie was totally engulfed, being pulled to pieces by the mob. His high, piteous shrieks reminded her obscenely of a rabbit caught in a snare.
Worse, so much worse, was Linda. They'd gotten a hold of her arms, and now were dragging her into their madness one stretched inch at a time.
Alana could have grabbed her. Could have tried to pull her back, starting a hellish tug of war with the elastic girl. Could have.
Didn't.
Turning, still screaming, she scrambled out of the shattered window and ran into the gaping maw of darkness.
One by one, the agonizing cries of the mutants faltered and failed as the mob tore them apart. It took every bit of Emma's considerable mental fortitude to hold on to her human flesh and not automatically shift to her more durable diamond form. Only the knowledge that it was her telepathy keeping the monsters from sensing her stayed her hand. Intellectually, she knew a mob of humans couldn't hurt her in that form, but the sound of that irregular pounding coming from outside the train beat itself into the primal parts of her brain. The parts that cried out for her to hide, to keep away from the pack of predators at any cost.
Pain flared in Emma's palm where she gripped the crystal necklace, the finger-length stone's hard edges bit into her skin. The small hurt helped her focus even as resentment burned in her heart at the thought of her collar, and the master who'd locked it around her throat. "Time is short, I've arranged an incident to integrate you into the X-Men, but to make it in time you must leave now."
That now hated voice echoed in her memory, sharp with intellectual interest and cruel cunning. When she'd tried to get more information out of the man, he'd brushed her off. "I need your reactions to be genuine if you're going to pass inspection." At least he'd given her time to change into something more fitting than scrubs and crocs, though she couldn't help wondering exactly how much research he'd done into her background to know her style so well.
A little girl, no more than six or seven, shuffled past her corner. One small hand still held the tattered arm of a stuffed bear, though the rest of the once fuzzy creature had been lost in the chaos around them. Blood smeared over the girl's lips and chin, and her blue glowing eyes were vacant, empty as a corpse.
Because that's what she is. For a moment, the figure blurred, and Emma's heart broke as tears slid down her cheeks at the horror of it all. If she'd known this is what the bastard meant by an incident, then she would have balked. After all, Emma walked willingly to her death once, she could do it again. Perhaps this time when she embraced that ever-night, she'd stay dead. Yet, something about her new master made Emma's blood run cold. She had a feeling the man wouldn't have settled for a simple poison to kill her. No, he would have broken her down bit by bit until she begged to do anything to make him stop.
Emma didn't have to crawl around in the man's mind to know the nature of the beast. He was one of the most dangerous of beings be it human or mutant, a true scientist. The sort who saw the world as their petri dish, and all the small lives around them as little more than white mice. They existed merely to test out new theories, and should a mouse fail to perform… well, there were plenty more where that one came from.
Pressure throbbed behind her eyes, and Emma both dreaded and prayed for the X-Men to come. It felt like her sanity hung by a thread. To feel mind after mind fall, consumed by that strange plague, tore her apart inside. She knew every infected was already dead. Everything that made them a person consumed by the terrible pathogen. They were all dead, yet even so, she could feel the edges of the new alien mind using their bodies as meat puppets. Emma knew she could snare that mind. Hold it still for the killing blow, but she also sensed that the hold would be tenuous at best. A handful of minutes at most.
She would only have one chance. Regret slithered through her at the memory of gunfire. Had it been minutes ago, or hours? A small fire-team. They'd managed to get off a few shots, taking out a handful of infected and even burning holes into the protected mind who'd unleashed the beast on the unsuspecting train. Oh, how she wished her power had managed to crack open that odd mind, but even feeling the pain of the bullet holes carved into flesh vibrate off him, she couldn't get a foothold in his shielded thoughts. Those waves of pain filled her with cold satisfaction. Even if it was as fleeting as the soldiers' lives. The wave of corrupted civilians crashed over them before Emma could take control, sucking them into the fold.
Closing her eyes, Emma focused on her tiny bubble of 'not here' and waited for her salvation. Please hurry.
"What do you mean?" Xavier demanded.
Fantomex laced his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. A series of loud pops echoed through the office as he cracked his knuckles and back at the same time. "The Weapon is loose, Professor. And since you're already familiar with the sort of Weapons these programs produce-" he gave Zen and Logan another significant look, making Xavier's face still as he locked down his emotions. "The Weapon was designed to destroy mutants, and the tool it uses is humans. Infecting their thoughts, transforming them into suicide bombers without the bomb. They will tear a mutant to pieces with their bare hands and teeth if that's all they have. Any human who gets in the way is drawn into the fold. Human and animal alike. Every living mammal on the planet has the potential of being drawn into the horde."
Xavier's breath caught in his throat at the implications. He knew such a devastating threat had to be addressed, but before it could, it had to be confirmed. Thoughts and half-formed plans cascaded through his mind as he tested and disregarded method after method for discovering the truth. By the time he sent someone to scout the situation, it could already be too late to contain, yet he couldn't send in the full X-Men without being certain of the threat. Not when he couldn't read Fantomex's mind or divine his true intentions. It could easily be a trap.
"Xavier?" Zen's questioning tone sent a spike of impotent rage burning through his chest. Why did they have to look to him for all the answers? Why did Fantomex come here instead of going to... Where? Where could he have gone with something like this? Not the government who'd created such monsters in the first place. Not the humans who were merely walking ammunition for this Weapon. As was so often the case, the X-Men were the only ones suitable for containing the threat.
"Tick-tock Professor. We don't have all night. If they spill out of the underground, it will all be over. Not even you can contain the situation if it hits the streets of Brooklyn," Fantomex said, all the teasing gone from his voice. Now it was low and intense; a demand for action.
Again, Xavier's mind tried to reject the inevitable. He sought a way, any other way, and found none. He lifted his cup and drank the last of his now-cold tea to steel his nerve. There were no better options.
Fear sweat dampened Xavier's armpits and he found himself stalling. "What is Weapon XII, exactly?" They needed the information, he tried to tell himself. Tried to comfort himself by gathering the facts his team would need to defeat the threat, but he knew the truth. He was stalling for time, unwilling to plunge into the sea of minds in order to learn the truth for himself.
Something flashed in Fantomex's pale gaze but the stranger didn't call him out on his blatant change of subject. "Let's cut the foreplay and get down to it then. Weapon XII is humankind's latest answer to the mutant question, Professor X. Artificial evolution." He settled back in his seat and locked eyes with Xavier.
"I'm sure you've heard the whispers from the scientific community, rumors concerning the discovery of an extinction sequence in the human genotype. 'Artificial evolution' is human science's alternative to inbuilt self-destruction. Imagine, if you will, human genetic material crudely spliced with adaptive artificially-intelligent microbiology."
Zen reached up and lightly touched the back of his neck, wondering if the nanites in his and Logan's bodies were the precursors to the ones Fantomex spoke of.
"Weapon XII is a test tube mutation bred in accelerators. Human governments know far more about what mutants are and what they can be twisted into than you can imagine." Suddenly all the languid relaxation drained out of Fantomex's form and he sat up straight. "This is a live test of the Weapon they're developing to kill you all." Then he gave another one of those hidden grins. "I should know, I snuck on board to steal the dossier and found myself in the middle of a research and development operation."
He fingered one of the bloody holes in his outfit and gave an exaggerated huff. "They deliberately stopped the C-train. You see, they wanted a containable test. The subway is a perfect closed system full of guinea pigs." He wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes. "There were even mutants on the train. Enough for the test to be valid."
Fantomex tapped his chest and said, "I have the whole dirty dossier on a flash drive if you want to know more. I'm willing to share. For a price, of course."
Xavier's eyes narrowed as he glared at the man. "Or you could gift it to the Xavier Institute."
Fantomex threw back his head and laughed at the suggestion. "I'm a mutant with no scruples, professor. Your personal fortune was valued at three-point-five billion dollars. I prefer to sell."
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the flash drive. "This contains the details of the entire Weapons Plus program dating back to World War Two. All the failed experiments." His eyes flicked between Logan and Zen. Logan shifted forward, but Xavier held a hand up to keep the feral mutant from pouncing on the man and taking the flash drive, and perhaps Fantomex's arm with it. Logan hissed but settled back at Zen's sharp look. "And all the successes. The results of thousands of illegal tests on animal, human, and finally mutant subjects. Like your Weapon IX and Weapon X."
The flash drive vanished back into the depths of his suit. "All yours for," he hummed and tapped his chin, thinking it over. "One billion. I'd be interested to see how much money you're willing to sacrifice for your ideals. The humans may not have special extra senses, but they're innovative. They've always had a talent for making weapons."
Xavier sighed and felt a flash of regret that this was one mutant who couldn't be bent to his will. Not that he cared to resort to such things, but in this case he might have been tempted. "We need that data. We need to know what we're up against. According to your story, there are mutants fighting for their lives right now. Not to mention the humans caught in the crossfire."
Fantomex leaned forward, every inch the predator. Logan and Zen both reacted to the shift and tensed in preparation for an attack. The attack came, but not the one the two Weapons anticipated. "Indeed, there are human and mutant lives in the balance, yet you haven't even bothered to send your thoughts out to verify my claim. Why is that, I wonder? I came here because you are the world's most powerful telepath. I need that to destroy Weapon XII."
Hooks of fury tore at Xavier's heart. Fury born of shame. He knew what he had to do as well as Fantomex did, but the mere thought of it made his stomach clench in terror. I can't do this. The thought rang in his mind. A bell toll of doom, yet what choice did he have? He started the X-Men for this reason. They were meant to stand guard and protect both the mutant and human communities. A threat like this could not be ignored, not if he wanted his own integrity and spirit to survive.
"You are correct. It is my duty to verify this troubling account." Now that he said the words, Xavier felt committed to act. Still, he found it physically painful to close his eyes and unclench his mind from the tight fist it had been kept locked in since he'd come back to himself. His heart began to speed, fast and faster, forcing Xavier to realize he wasn't as young as he used to be. Don't panic, you can do this, just take a breath. It took more effort than the rest of them would know to force his breathing to slow and to master his own wretched, fearful heartbeat.
Somehow, he fended off the budding panic attack without making it obvious. Then, like a man leaping off the top of a burning building, he flung his thoughts up and out. For the first time since his mutation activated, the process wasn't as easy as breathing. No, it felt more like prying a wounded animal from a den.
Xavier encountered the first mind and physically recoiled. He felt the scars, faded but there, lingering on the edges of Storm's thoughts. Scars he'd left. A mark forever burned into her from the searing touch of his power turned into a weapon. His stomach rolled and before he could stop himself, his thoughts retreated to the safety of his own skull. Sweat beaded over his forehead and slimed his armpits. Shakes rocked his body, not quite hard enough to be obvious, but there all the same. His heart was jack-hammered in his chest at an alarming rate and for a second he couldn't catch his breath.
"I... can't." The words were little more than a bitter exhale, ripped from Xavier's chest. If this was how he reacted to a mind as close and familiar to him as family, how would he handle brushing up against the countless minds between him and that train? Not to mention the terrified minds of the humans and mutants under attack. It would be akin to swimming through a swarm of jellyfish. Every scar left by him in those countless minds would sting his soul, flaying him alive with his own guilt. He didn't think he would survive the experience.
Eyes that shone with sharp intensity watched Xavier's every twitch and shudder before Fantomex sighed and stood. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at the crippled professor. "I see. This is the price of hastily thrown together weapons who haven't been properly tempered. They broke you. How... disappointing. Well, the odds of success have gone down dramatically, but I suppose I'd better get going. Worlds to save and all that."
Xavier reached out an imploring hand. Fantomex's dismissive words struck him harder than a physical blow. He knew he was failing, but also knew that - at least for now - his mind was as crippled as his body. Stryker's abuses hadn't only scarred the world, but his tool as well. It would take time to heal. Time they couldn't afford. "Wait. I know you said you needed a psychic but allow my team to accompany you. They can help."
Now that he wasn't attempting to use his power the terror released him, and he could think again. Plan again. Be the leader that the X-Men needed again. Zen and Logan could go. They'd both spent a fair amount of time hunting and capturing mutants of every flavor. But Xavier knew he couldn't let them go alone. Not without someone there to hold Zen's leash. Logan would bow to Zen, but Xavier wasn't comfortable letting the young assassin out of his sight alone without direct supervision from someone who could modify his orders as needed.
Storm? No, her powers were not suited to the underground, and he knew how much she loathed being cut off from the sky. She would be a liability in a situation like this. Another flare of pain flooded him when his thoughts touched on Jean. If only she'd survived. That's when he realized how short-staffed they were. If the world didn't come to an end between now and next week, he would have to increase the number of staff on hand both to teach the students and fight as X-Men.
"Zen, go tend to Scott. See that he's in shape to fight."
Fantomex gave a dramatic sigh as he plopped back down onto the chair and held up his wrist as if he were reading a watch. "Time's ticking, children. The longer we dally the greater the chance the world will end!"
Something unpleasant burned in Zen's gut at the words. The realization he would be forced to leave his Wielder in the company of this threat to go tend to a fool who'd only an hour ago attempted to drink himself to death stung the Weapon. Worse was the knowledge that Xavier didn't trust him to handle the situation on his own. He would send Scott along to ensure he behaved himself. This was the sort of mission X and IX were built for. They didn't need a squeamish teacher to play minder. Certainly not one with a death wish.
All of this churned inside him, but Zen held his silence. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before he turned and locked eyes with Logan. No words were spoken between the pair, but a wealth of knowledge passed between them in that second. Zen's silent demand that Logan keep Xavier safe, and X looking back, equally furious that his Wielder refused to trust them in this. Then he turned on his heel and left to find his wayward keeper.
It didn't take long. He found the man curled around a toilet in one of the small first floor bathrooms, the one closest to the door he'd come in from. Gray slate marched in neat rows across the floor and the walls were painted an innocent sage green. The whole room felt new, fresh, not yet lived in. The lavender air freshener puffed gently from its place on the pristine white counter-top, but the aroma wasn't enough to hide the smell. A stink that lingered in the air. The bitter, acidic stench that reminded Zen of the cages, and the girl who'd died after the doctor's experiments. The one he'd been tasked to watch over.
Most of the vomit made it into the bowl, but there was a liberal splash down the front of Scott's shirt. He moaned softly, every inch of him appeared to be one solid ball of abject misery. Worse, in Zen's mind at least, was the fact that he hadn't noticed Zen. Why anyone would want to ingest something so crippling was beyond him.
Zen never tried to treat a hangover before. Since his method of healing often came with agonizing side-effects, not even Wade had been dumb enough to try and get him to fix a hangover. Then again, the mouthy mutant never managed to get quite this apocalyptically drunk before. At least not to Zen's knowledge.
Again that strange burning seared his gut as he stared down at the broken-down man who would be handed leadership of the upcoming mission. Perhaps more than a small part of him felt a slash of vindictiveness, knowing how much the upcoming healing would hurt. While he'd never attempted to heal a hangover before, he had healed poison. And what was alcohol if not a mild poison?
"This is going to hurt." The cold, dead words held an edge of unmistakable judgment, and were the only warning Scott received before Zen's hands came down on either side of his sweat-slicked neck.
The feel of Scott's sweaty skin beneath his hands reminded Zen again of the girl, her body burning with fever, still hot even in death. But even freshly dead, there was something missing. Although her body heated his skin when he picked up the corpse, she felt dead. Some essential part of her gone, vanished with the beating of her heart. She'd gone from a living thing to a mere object. No more alive than a piece of wood or stone.
Zen wondered at that vibrating difference as Scott's body rejected the poison. What was that crucial difference? Could blood-flow account for the change? That shift from living matter to inert? Or were humans capable of sensing, on some subliminal level, the electrical impulses flashing through another living body?
The foolish turn of his thoughts made Zen shake his head as he pulled away, allowing his own thrumming power to settle inside himself. He turned away from Scott and washed his hands, wanting to be rid of that sticky, living heat. Then he filled a glass with sink water and turned to the glaring man still curled around the toilet.
"Wha-" The half-slurred word ended in a sharp cry of agony as liquid fire poured through him. It traced the lines of his nervous system, touching every fiber of his being while it rushed down his spine, branching off into his limbs until his whole body throbbed with unimaginable agony.
His breath ran out long before the need to scream did, and Scott found himself incapable of drawing another. Every muscle knotted at once, each cell fighting futility against the invading power. It felt like his own power filling him up from the inside. Any second now he would explode into a massive ball of destructive crimson energy, destroying the mansion and killing everyone in the vicinity.
NO! His mind shrieked in terrible pain, desperate not to be the cause of yet another disaster.
Then he did explode but not in the way he imagined. He surged forward as wave after bitter wave of vomit expelled itself from his body with enough force it felt like his stomach would turn inside out. Blackness ate his vision, but he wasn't even granted the reprieve of passing out. Not while his guts clenched, purging him of everything he'd eaten for the past week.
"Drink this. You need to re-hydrate," Zen's cold voice broke through the waves of misery. He glanced up to see the assassin holding out a glass of water. The muscles in Scott's shoulders twitched with aborted violence. Instead of slapping the glass out of Zen's outstretched hand, he took it on his own with a hand that was far steadier than it would have been a few minutes ago.
"What—" he paused, taking a mouthful of water and swishing it around before spitting it into the toilet with a wince of disgust. "What did you do?"
"I healed you."
A scowl twisted Scott's lips before he tossed back the rest of the glass, drinking it down in one long pull. "I wasn't injured," he growled when he was done.
Zen arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I wasn't hurt that badly in the fight, I could have healed on my own." That's when he realized his head no longer throbbed. The world wasn't trying to shake him off, and he didn't have to hold on to the toilet to keep from falling over. Even his words stopped slurring along the edges. "What?"
With a sigh that almost sounded annoyed, Zen took the glass and filled it again. "We don't have time for you to learn from your mistakes. Get cleaned up and go to Xavier's office." He handed him the now-full glass. "This is a time sensitive matter."
The words were spoken with his customary blandness, but they held none of the deference Zen usually displayed. Scott accepted the glass and found himself unable to look away from the hostile green eyes. What happened while he was puking his guts out?
Without another word, Zen vanished, leaving Scott to his troubled thoughts and the bitter realization that something else had gone wrong. Fear tried to root him to the spot. It was too soon. He'd lost Jean, failed the Professor, attacked the love of his life and then slept through her death. Even three months later, the pain, worse than anything Zen could ever think to inflict on him, swamped Scott and threatened to drag him down into the gaping maw of blackest depression.
Gritting his teeth, Scott slammed his fist into the big muscle of his thigh. Pain jolted through him, grounding him. There wasn't time to let the darkness consume him. Not when Charles needed him enough to send Zen to heal something as paltry as intoxication and poor choices.
Shame burned his face as he staggered to his feet. Even though the alcohol had been purged from his system, he still felt light-headed, dazed from all that happened in such a short period of time.
"Never again," he whispered to himself as he jogged to his room to take the shortest, hottest shower of his life as if the water could somehow wash the stain of bad decisions from his skin.
"Why are you doing this?" Xavier asked, wanting to understand the stranger's motives. While he and the X-Men regularly performed such missions, he couldn't grasp why Fantomex would want to risk his life to stop the Weapon. Especially now that he wouldn't have Xavier's mind as a trump card.
"I've read the Weapon XII file. I know exactly what I'm up against. You see, I humiliated them by stealing their data, but that's no big deal." He waved a hand as if to brush aside a bothersome fly. "I want to make a bolder statement against mutant vivisection. Weapon XII was bred to exterminate. His survival traits are the product of man/machine fusion. I may be brimming with self-confidence, but even I have my limits. I hoped to have your powerful brain along for the ride to help cripple it, but I think with Weapon X and Weapon IX I might be able to end the experiment."
Another one of those odd grins wrinkled his white face mask. "So, here's another difficult ethical decision for you. I'll help save the lives of mutants in danger and everything else in Weapon XII's vicinity, if a pacifist like you will help me kill it."
The words sent a chill down Xavier's spine because it proved that Fantomex knew exactly what Xavier was to Zen. That it would be his word that allowed Zen to kill or kept him from the task.
"Don't take too much time deciding. Weapon XII must die."
Xavier closed his eyes and felt the weight of being Zen's keeper settle a little heavier on his shoulders. "We will help you," he conceded, but he held off on agreeing to kill the unknown Weapon out of hand.
Fantomex hmmed, accepting the words. "They were trying to create supermen to fight future wars. That's how it all began. Weapon I was 'classified'. It was a volunteer, Weapons II through III were animals. IV to VI used various ethnic minorities. Then they stumbled across the ideal subjects for the VII trials onward."
"Mutants," Zen finished as he stepped through the door. Gone was the student's clothing. Now Zen wore an outfit similar to Fantomex, though his was as dark as the other's was light and lacked the dramatic headgear. Fantomex looked him up and down, his eyes dancing over the places that held concealed weaponry.
"Indeed," Fantomex agreed with a smirk in his voice. "Kidnapped mutants. The scum of the earth. Weapon X wasn't a letter, it was a Roman numeral. X equals 10. But of course, you already knew all that." He glanced between Logan and Zen. "Imagine my surprise when I found the last of the outdated Weapons' line here when I went in search of telepaths."
"Last two?" Xavier asked. "What about XI?"
Fantomex gave a derisive snort. "Him? Stryker's puppet was never part of the Plus Program. He simply gave him that designation out of spite since he was jealous of the real Weapons Plus Program. No, IX and X were the last of the old breed. 'Logan', known also as The Wolverine was merely the tenth generation of living weapons. They've gone far beyond that now."
"Tell us," Xavier demanded, unable to suppress the sharp slash of fear from his voice. IX and X were devastating before Xavier tamed them. What were they up against now?
"Weapon XII becomes his enemies, Professor Xavier. They become him. He's the soldier who recruits his own army by merely touching them."
An aggravated sigh escaped Xavier at the cryptic words. "I dislike being rude to anyone, but I have to say you are a very obtuse and difficult man, Fantomex."
Before Fantomex could come up with a smart-ass reply, Scott stepped into the room. He wore his X-Man uniform and bore no resemblance to the drunk man who'd been puking into the grass less than half an hour ago.
"Ah, there you are. Take the Black Bird, they can fill you in on the details as you fly," Xavier said before his face clouded. "No, that won't work, it's still out of commission." He turned his eyes to Zen. "Have you ever been to Brooklyn? Can you jump that far?"
Fantomex stood and held out his blood-stained hands dramatically. "I have special powers too, you know. Just let me call my partner."
The small strike force stood on top of a parking garage in the middle of Brooklyn. All of them stared up into the sky where the strange form of transport winked away at speeds the naked eye could hardly detect.
"I prefer the Black Bird," Logan grunted as he turned to look down at the seething mass of emergency responders surrounding the mouth of the subway station. Like a kicked-over ant pile, police began erecting barricades and gently but firmly pushing back the gawking crowds. There were no less than six news vans parked among the milling people, their satellite antenna reaching eager metal fingers towards the night sky. News choppers hummed in the air, and Logan wondered how none of them noticed the freaking spaceship that dropped them off. Not bothering to ask, he clicked his tongue in annoyance and said, "Waited too long, now the police are involved."
"Who do you think shot me?" Fantomex snorted. If it hadn't been for E.V.A. he wouldn't have made it out of the city before bleeding out. He stepped over to the railing and rested his folded arms against the cold metal. For a long minute he stared at the humans below them, looking for the tell-tale signs that the cancerous experiment had made it topside.
"We have to move fast. Weapon XII's mind spreads like a disease into whatever he touches. Human, animal, it's all the same to him."
"Not mutant?" Scott asked.
Fantomex gave a hollow laugh. "Caught that, didn't you? No. Not mutants. For some reason our minds are barred against him."
"I'll go down first and get in deep enough to avoid being seen. Then I'll 'port the rest of you in," Zen said in a cool, detached voice. The mask he wore to appease his wielder had been set aside, neatly folded away with his civilian clothes. While he knew Xavier wanted to save the Weapon if he could, Zen would do what was needed. Save the mutants, save the humans, and, if possible, save the Weapon.
Fantomex reached out and grabbed Zen's arm before he could vanish. The short Weapon turned faster than a striking cobra, the tip of a dagger pressed between Fantomex's ribs. It wouldn't take much for him to drive the blade into the other man's heart.
They locked gazes and the height difference didn't matter in this dance of potential violence. "I am not your enemy." The words were leached entirely of warmth, spoken in a tone that would have been a match for IX at his worst. All the laughter, jokes, and teasing were stripped from his arctic gaze as the pair studied each other. Zen's own masks, flimsy though they were in the face of Fantomex, dropped away.
"Zen." His name, nothing more, but Zen could taste the command in Scott's voice. He held Fantomex's eyes for a heartbeat longer before he jerked his arm free and vanished.
With a soft pop, Zen appeared deep in the shadows at the edge of the chaos spilling out around the entrance to the subway. The stink of fear and adrenaline soured the air from the mass of police officers. Their fear alone told him that everything Fantomex said was true. Or at least true enough to spook the hardened officers. Closing his eyes, he focused on being unnoticed. A strange liquid sensation slid across his skin before he stepped out of the shadows.
While working his way between the huddled clusters of police, Zen listened to the agitated whispers.
"Mutants, no doubt about it."
"Did you see?"
"Torn apart."
"Turned our own men! We can't go down there."
"When will S.H.I.E.L.D be here?"
"We can't keep them down there forever."
Picking up the pace, Zen ducked under the thin line of police tape and entered the cold bowels of the earth. Passages carved out of the ground now infested with contaminated humans. He didn't go far, just deep enough to be sure he wouldn't be seen when he brought the others. Even this close to the entrance, he could hear the distant rumble of inhuman voices. Not loud enough to make out the words, but enough to hear the base snarl of insanity.
"Come on. We don't have a lot of time. They've called in S.H.I.E.L.D." Zen's voice cut the heavy silence surrounding the small group. Logan gave an irritated growl, not wanting to tangle with the government organization if they could avoid it.
Without hesitation, he held his hand out to Zen. The pair vanished. When Zen returned, Scott did the same though his face twisted with distaste at the mode of transportation. "I hate that," he gasped after Zen let him go. All the X-Men had jumped with Zen in the Danger Room so they wouldn't be thrown off their stride in a fight, but it was still beyond unpleasant. "I always feel like you leave my stomach behind," he grumbled, using his discomfort as a mask against the growing unease. He could hear the low mutter coming from deep within the tunnel.
Before he could tell Zen not to attack Fantomex, the assassin vanished again.
"Let's go," Zen said, holding his hand out to the white-clad bastard who'd brought yet more danger into their lives. Still, the thought of a real mission sparked an odd twist of anticipation in Zen's gut. This time there wouldn't be students in need of protection. He wouldn't be torn between his duty to protect and the need to finish the mission in an efficient manner. For the first time in ages, Zen felt like he was standing on solid ground. Back in a world that made sense.
To his mild surprise, Fantomex didn't hesitate. He settled his gloved hand lightly in Zen's. In an instant, the pair vanished.
When they reappeared, Fantomex gave a low whistle. "Not bad, but I'll stick with E.V.A. in the future."
"All right, children, it's time to get this field trip started. Since we don't have the good Professor to freeze the enemy in place, we're going to have to do this the down and dirty way. Scott, IX-"
"Zen." The word was quiet but laced with steel. Again the pair locked eyes, then Fantomex's mask crinkled with a smirk that put crow's feet around his exposed eyes.
"Zen then. You and Scott get to play bait. Give me enough time to get on the train. There's an off switch for Weapon XII in there. They couldn't risk the experiment getting completely out of hand. Logan, you're with me. I'm going to need those claws of yours."
Zen gave a slight nod of acknowledgement at the orders and wondered why he found himself so willing to obey.
Scott stood on the platform's edge and stared into the gaping, empty mouth of the tunnel. It wasn't pitch black—weak yellow light tried to push back the gloom—but the security lights in wire cages were set at one-meter intervals. They were too far apart to push back the darkness entirely. Instead it created an island effect, small pools of liquid light separated by dank shadows.
It felt strange to stand on the platform without the usual bustling crowd of commuters. In general, Scott avoided the subway whenever possible. Even though he had faith in his visor he couldn't completely escape the gut-churning anxiety that something would go wrong. The thought of his power slipping out of control here, trapped under tons of cement and earth, made his palms itch.
A memory teased at the edges of his thoughts. Himself, so much smaller, a huge grin fairly splitting his face as he held his mom's hand while they walked down the stairs into the tunnel. Back then he hadn't paid the graffiti any mind. They'd been in New York for less than an hour and had to ride the subway to get to the hotel. It all felt like some grand adventure, not a hint of fear marred the experience. He could still hear his own piping young voice asking a thousand questions, and the soft, musical sound of his mother answering each one with endless patience.
Now a knot of fear sat low in his gut, not only fear of the unknown Weapon and what it could do, but fear of his own power unleashed in such tight quarters. Before he could stop it, another memory reared its ugly head. The weight of cement over his head, countless gallons of water pressing hard against it, eager to gush through any cracks. Again, he felt the clash of power as he threw all his strength against Jean's shield, pouring more and more of himself into it all while his mind screamed at him to stop. The memory of the explosion when their clash of powers reached an unsustainable fever pitch and the way the whole dam shuddered under the force. He knew firsthand what his mutation could do to cement.
Scott had to physically wench his thoughts out of the past and back into the present. Stop it, just stop. This is a totally different situation.
Before any other memories could plague him, Fantomex's voice cut through his inner turmoil.
"Time's wasting, let's get this show on the road." The white-clad mutant who'd gotten them into this mess took the lead. They had to move single-file along the narrow concrete service walkway. First Fantomex, then Zen, Logan, and Scott bringing up the rear.
If the platform was bad, the walkway was unspeakably worse. Scott could almost feel the cement tunnel squeezing tight around them. A space so small it could barely fit the trains that passed like blood through strange underground veins. The smell that wafted over them was damp and electrical, accented with an undertone of rot and something almost beastial. A scent that conjured up thoughts of skittering claws, and long bald tails.
Every step they took caused echoes to bounce back at them until it sounded like they were being chased. The hair on Scott's neck prickled with tension when he realized there was another sound under the clatter of their footsteps.
"Wait, do you hear that?" Scott asked, his eyes squinting a little as he tried to see deeper into the tunnel. The rest of the group paused to listen.
Under the oppressive silence, faint and far away, distorted by the distance the sound echoed back to them. Almost like the sound their feet made, but different. Sharper somehow. A discordant clanging sound, both rhythmic yet chaotic. "I hear it," Zen confirmed before he nudged Fantomex to get the group in motion again.
With every step they took, the pounding grew louder. Then they rounded the final corner and had to freeze for a long second to stare at the strange tableau laid out before them. The stalled train acted like a cork, blocking the tunnel farther back. In front of it, a group of people stood in a ragged circle. All of them had something in hand. Rocks, a discarded pipe, and one of them held what looked like the broken off foot of a Greek statue of all things.
All of them were slamming the makeshift weapons down on a half-hidden shape. The harsh clamor of blunt objects striking stone created a deafening cacophony of noise. Scott felt his gut clench when he saw a stone hand between the mass of seething bodies, its fingers gave a feeble twitch as the stone foot came crashing down on the mutant's face.
Scott's hand instantly went to the side of his visor, the need to save the unknown mutant pounding in his chest. But the angle was all wrong. Before he could adjust his aim, Zen's hand snaked around Logan's bulk and locked around Scott's wrist. In an instant the pair vanished, appearing fifteen feet up the track in front of the gang of crazed humans.
After they appeared, Zen brought his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. The shrill sound cut through the hammering and bounced off the stone walls. All the attackers froze as one, creating the illusion that all this was some strange breed of performance art. Then, every head turned in their direction. Scott cursed low under his breath as the unease in his gut ratcheted up another notch. Every eye locked on them glowed an eerie phosphorescent blue. The color held nothing human in it, and he couldn't stop the revulsion their totally in sync movements gave him.
While countless pairs of inhuman eyes locked on the new offering of prey, Fantomex and Logan walked silently along the opposite side of the tracks towards the stalled out train. In the back of their shared mind, X rumbled with displeasure as their path took them from Zen's side. Every inch of him wanted to fight with his mate at his back. Let Scott go with Fantomex while the Weapons dealt with the corrupted humans. Yet, the sight of Zen standing alone as he pulled a pair of retractable asps free made his lips curl in a snarl that wasn't entirely his own. Even with proof of their deadly nature not ten feet away, Zen planned to use non-lethal force all because Xavier didn't have the stomach for missions like this. You better not die before we get back.
The hard thud of a boot against flesh drew Logan's head around and he arched an eyebrow as Fantomex gave the downed officer's body another hard kick. "What?" Fantomex snapped at Logan's pointed look. "They shot me first, I only returned the favor." Three such corpses littered the ground even while the rest of the small squad turned from where they'd been using their spent rifles as clubs against the stone mutant and headed towards Zen.
"Come on," he hissed, keeping his voice low enough to avoid drawing the horde's attention. The words held a lick of command sharp enough to bite into their joined psyche. A low rumble vibrated the back of his throat, but Logan forced them to follow even as he wondered exactly what the files Fantomex had on them said. How much did he know about the conditioning and how to trigger it to his advantage? If not for the current danger, he might have given in to X's silent urging to plant their blades in the middle of that white back and put an end to the potential threat.
Kill the Weapon first, then deal with the army. That's the way it had to be, cut the head off the snake before mopping up the remaining mess. Logan knew that, hell even X knew that, but it didn't make walking away from Zen and the fight any easier. Not knowing his mate was hobbled by Xavier's high ideals.
"Zona," Fantomex's voice drew him out of his own brooding thoughts. There was an almost plaintive note to the word. 'His name was Zona Cluster 6. Before all of this," he waved a hand at the chaos, encompassing the micro-war going on around them, a test-tube battle that would become the real deal if they couldn't contain it here and now. "He had a life once, before the program twisted him into a super-evolved murder machine." As he spoke, his steps sped up to a near silent run. "We have to kill Zona now, before he can return to his pod for debriefing. I have to kill him." Resolve boiled in the words even as he pulled a pair of Sig Sauer P320 handguns and shot the figure staggering out from behind the edge of the train.
One of the officers from the earlier confrontation must have heard Fantomex's sharp words. The man twisted in their direction, showing off the deep furl of torn flesh peeling along the left side of his face where the bullet carved a non-lethal path through the tissue. Before he could charge, those eerie glowing eyes winked out when two perfectly timed shots cut the flesh-puppet's strings as Fantomex finished the job.
The explosive sound of gunfire drew their own wave of infected. With an almost pleasurable moan, Logan let go, sliding back into their shared mind-space and allowing X to take control. Claws hissed out of their knuckles, the familiar burn lit their blood on fire, the old battle fury sang in X's heart. Let Zen play nice with the enemy; he wouldn't be so gentle.
Just ahead of the pair, the train loomed over them like a crouching beast. More infected humans shuffled in front of it, glowing eyes burned with inhuman intent. The low lighting picked out streaks of red on hands and chests where the mob cut themselves as they crawled through broken windows in pursuit of their fleeing prey. "Let's get this done," Fantomex snapped before charging the mass. X followed, claws gleaming beneath the weak light.