Stryfe didn't like ambivalence. Actually, that was putting it too mildly; he despised ambivalence, saw it as a sign of weakness. It was a vice he'd never practiced. If he wanted something, he took it. If he thought something, he said it. If he decided someone would look better with their entrails artistically arranged on the nearest floor, evisceration was carried out either swiftly or slowly, depending on his mood.And if he felt something, he acted on it. A good philosophy, really, except right now he had no idea what he was feeling, and thus, no plan of action. A plan, Stryfe thought, and the astral plane took shape around him in the form of the command tent he'd inhabited when in the field in his home century. He definitely needed a plan.
He looked irritably at the nineteenth century grandfather clock that had appeared in the corner of the tent. "The miserable son of a flonq is late," Stryfe said aloud, to himself. "Why am I not surprised?"
Madelyne should have been here, too. Only she wasn't just not speaking to him, she was actively avoiding him. He supposed he really shouldn't have chased her down after she'd fled from the scene in New Mexico, let alone insisted on showing her the memories he'd lifted from Nathan's mind, but he'd seen too many campaigns lost for the lack of proper information-sharing. Well, either that, or he'd had a cruel moment. Who was he, to question his own motivations?
Stryfe sat down cross-legged on the crimson-dyed carpet, trying not to growl. He'd picked up the habit somewhere since this new life of his had begun, and he was really going to have to see about breaking it. Half the time when he heard himself do it, he automatically started looking around for a canid. But he was frustrated, and there was no one to take it out on. Yet. If Sinister would just get here, he'd do, but that wouldn't solve the problem.
Anger was so much more enjoyable when it had clear motivations and clear targets. Things had gotten so murky, Stryfe thought darkly. Oh, he still adored the idea of a dead Apocalypse, and Sinister was definitely moving up the list, too, but it was all hampered by this--uncertainty that afflicted him every time his thoughts turned to Cable. Ridiculous, really. Of all the things to get confused about at this stage of his existence--
I should have killed him. It would have been more efficient, and infinitely more merciful, to have ended his brother's life there on the side of the mesa.
So why hadn't he?
Why had he tried to convince Nathan to let him undo the mindwipe, instead?
Stryfe shifted, biting his lip hard to stifle another growl. Dwelling on those particular questions made him feel--odd. Unsettled--no, disgusted! Disgusted, because he'd been an idiot, because--
--he'd just stood there and watched Nathan fighting for the strength to crawl back to the base. Watched, and then LEFT, just because he couldn't--because he didn't want to see--
"FLONQ!" Stryfe leapt back to his feet, pacing the confines of the tent, hissing profanities under his breath. "I am going to make you pay for every moment I've spent thinking about this, Nathan. How DARE you infect me with your flonqing obsessive tendencies--"
"Talking to yourself?" Sinister said smoothly from a corner that had been empty a moment ago. "Not a good sign, Stryfe."
Stryfe growled, and instead of answering, snatched at the geneticist's astral form, drawing on every lesson Madelyne had given him on how to enhance the physicality of the astral, and sent Sinister flying across the tent and crashing into the holotank. Stalking over, Stryfe hauled him to his feet.
"You--you--" Words failed him, and Stryfe willed the tent away and threw Sinister a good fifty feet across the desert. "I should rip your mind to shreds and leave you a vegetable!" he snarled.
"Temper, temper," Sinister said, righting himself easily. His voice was utterly impassive. As usual, Stryfe thought sullenly, seething inwardly. "What would the problem be today, then? And where is dear Madelyne?"
"What would the PROBLEM be?" Rage crested inside him, so rapidly, so overwhelming, that he lost his grip on the illusion of the desert. For a moment, they were mere presences, entities of light floating amid the astral plane. Before Sinister could take the opportunity to supply a pseudo-physical setting of his choice, Stryfe wrestled his emotions back under control and recreated that spot on the side of the mesa, just as it had been that day. "THIS would be the problem!" he shouted at the perfectly-composed Sinister. "Did you think I wouldn't sense something, Essex?"
"I see." Sinister gave him an almost amused look. Amused. Stryfe was going to kill him yet. "Your point?"
Stryfe hissed and willed himself across the distance between them, too angry to bother with the illusion of walking. "What's my point?" he snarled, grabbing Sinister by the throat. Madelyne had shown him - along with a lot of other things - how to manipulate the fabric of the astral plane to make what he did to someone here seem absolutely real, on a physical level. It was a matter of forcing them to believe the illusion, and right now, he was putting his mind to utilizing those lessons as ruthlessly as he could. A little--all right, a lot of pain was definitely in order. No one double-crossed him and got away with it, and Sinister, though he wasn't showing much sign of it outwardly, was beginning to project a very appropriate level of discomfort. "Does the sociopathic anarchist need a point?"
"Stryfe--"
"Shut up! I really should kill you--" But he was too angry. He'd always had a problem with concentration when he was at the mercy of his temper, and Sinister took advantage of it, freeing himself and reappearing five feet away, looking entirely unruffled. Stryfe growled and started for him again, but Sinister raised a hand, angry crimson light pooling around him, and Stryfe paused, wrestling himself back under control and reflecting that there were probably better ways to resolve this situation than getting into an astral wrestling match.
Subtlety wasn't a bad thing. Much as he hated to admit it at the moment. Stryfe struck a bit of a pose and pouted quite blatantly at Sinister, who looked momentarily taken aback. Gleefully, Stryfe jumped on the opportunity.
"Why, Gramps," he said mournfully. "I thought we were all friends here." It took an effort, but he smiled sorrowfully at Sinister. "I thought you were going to tell me when my brother wandered outside the base shields. Wasn't that the whole point of you making nice with Apocalypse in the first place? So that we'd have someone on the inside?"
Sinister's eyes narrowed slightly. Stryfe would never cease to be amazed by how clearly mannerisms came across here--and his mind was wandering, again. Infuriating, how it did that. He was sure it was a sign of incipient senility.
"There wasn't precisely time," Sinister said smoothly. "Or opportunity. Apocalypse kept me in his presence, fearing I'd interfere--"
"Oh, I believe you," Stryfe gritted, still smiling. "I can see that. Sounds like a thing my father would do. But I confess to a certain amount of curiosity about why you didn't inform me any of the other times Nathan left to train Nur's little terrorist cells." He advanced on Sinister slowly, the smile turning into something harsher and sharper, a baring of teeth with no humor in it at all. "Whoops," he said very delicately as Sinister's eyes narrowed further. "Yes, I did traipse around in my dear brother's memory a little while I was there, and fancy my surprise when I stumbled around all those little day trips."
Sinister actually took a step backwards, but the retreat didn't last long. "And what would you have done if I'd told you?" he said coldly. "It wasn't practical, Stryfe--"
"I'll be the judge of that," Stryfe growled, dropping the smile. Enough game-playing. He concentrated, spinning the fabric of the astral plane around Sinister into a trap Sanctity had taught him. It had been harder to do, as a flesh-and-blood human. Astral ghosthood definitely had its benefits. He envisioned sharp teeth, closing on Sinister, and felt a surge of cruel satisfaction at how Sinister's astral form shimmered like a faulty hologram. "I've really never played well with others, Gramps, and right now I'm leaning towards the school of thought that says I should kill you for double-crossing me."
He could feel Sinister testing the trap, trying to find a way to break it. Outwardly, the geneticist was still perfectly calm. Stryfe supposed he was impressed. It took a certain level of insane self-confidence to be in that situation and still exert energy to make yourself appear nonchalant, and he could respect that. He was still going to enjoy this, though--
"I am--slightly curious myself, Stryfe," Sinister said suddenly, breaking his train of thought. Stryfe glared at him, and Sinister tilted his head, smiling faintly, seemingly unaware of the fact that his astral form was shivering again as it began to pull apart at the seams. "Why precisely did you leave him on the side of the mesa? Why not the take the opportunity and remove him from Apocalypse's control?"
Stryfe growled, not wanting to go there, as he still wasn't sure that he would have failed in teleporting Cable away if he'd made a truly concerted effort to do so. Which he hadn't. And he wasn't going to let Sinister manipulate him into obsessing over the reasons why. "Don't turn this around on me, Essex," he said threateningly, and tightened the trap a little further. "I'm not the one on trial--"
"Oh? You've appointed yourself judge, jury and executioner?"
"Why not?" Stryfe laughed. "Oh, I suppose I could have waited for Madelyne to start speaking to me again, and then we could have killed you slowly together--making up for all the mother-son bonding we never did and all that, but I've never been the patient type."
Sinister gave him a contemptuous smile. "You avoid questions very nicely, Stryfe," he murmured, his form flickering dangerously. "What happened--did you spend too much time relishing the sight of Cable in such a position and lose your opportunity to spirit him away?"
Stryfe clamped down firmly on that first, impulsive retort, which would have involved a lot of profanity and not much else. Then, he smiled back pleasantly at Sinister--and closed the mouth of the trap around him, tearing his astral form apart.
He let the construct go an instant later, and watched with mild interest as Sinister struggled to reconstitute his astral form, projecting levels of pain and indignation that really were quite gratifying.
"Whoops," Stryfe said again, smiling happily. "Slipped."
#Enough!# Sinister's voice snarled in his mind. Abruptly, his astral form reappeared, popping out of nothing and wavering for an instant before it grew steady once more. He glared at Stryfe coldly, his defenses higher and stronger than before. Clearly, he was ready to fight if Stryfe launched another attack. "That is quite enough," he went on, icily.
So Stryfe didn't. "Enough?" he gritted. "Oh, you're quite right, Essex. That's quite enough of pretending to work together while you pursue your own agenda--"
"Let's put my 'transgressions' aside for a moment, shall we?" Sinister said, his eyes narrowing. "The fact remains that you had the opportunity to retrieve Cable and failed to seize it. The reason why escapes me, Stryfe, it truly does."
Stryfe's jaw clenched. Trust him to keep hammering at that point. "It wasn't practical," he sneered for lack of any better answer, tossing Sinister's own words back in his face. He'd be damned before he let Sinister see the uncertainty that plagued him about--well, about whatever the flonq had been going through his mind on the side of that mesa. *You weren't going to think about it, remember?* But the fact remained that one did not bare one's figurative jugular to an enemy, even - especially! - when the enemy wore the cloak of a temporary ally.
After all, Sinister would turn on them eventually. Stryfe was more or less completely sure of that. He would almost certainly decide, when it came down to it, that the most efficient thing to do would be to remove Nathan from Apocalypse's control and then dispose of him as a failed experiment, and Stryfe had to watch for that moment of decision, to thwart it, because of course that wasn't acceptable--and what the FLONQ WAS HE THINKING?
"How, precisely, was it not practical?" Sinister inquired, the merest trace of irony in his voice.
Stryfe shook off the bewildered frustration into which his train of thought had derailed, and glared back at him. *Still trying to turn it back on me,* he thought, seething inwardly. He wished suddenly that Madelyne was here. Sinister actually seemed wary of her. Maybe it was a dysfunctional father-daughter sort of thing. "You are NOT the one asking the questions here, Essex," he hissed. "And I would be very careful about how far you push me. You're not precisely high on my list of people to keep alive for the foreseeable future."
Sinister didn't bat an eye at the threat. "You are not nearly as predictable as you used to be, Stryfe," he said, almost thoughtfully, and Stryfe nearly writhed at the confirmation that Sinister had sensed more than he'd wanted him to sense. "I'll have to remember that." And he was fading, almost gone before Stryfe could react.
"ESSEX!" Stryfe roared, reaching out to try and grasp at his astral form and drag it back to solidity. But he'd acted too late, and all he grasped was the fading wisps of something that felt almost like dry amusement.
#He has left the base again, to make contact with a cell in Prague,# Sinister's voice echoed in the distance. #If you choose to act on the information, do be circumspect. If you choose to act.#
Definitely mocking, that last jibe. Stryfe ground his figurative teeth, and then lashed out angrily, disassembling the astral landscape around him. Stab his eyes, he was done wavering, equivocating, and wandering around like an idiot at the mercy of nonsensical emotion. One way or the other, he was going to do something--
And it wasn't going to be the obvious thing, either. If I don't get to take the easy way out, Nathan, neither do you, Stryfe thought savagely, and stretched his mind out across the astral plane, searching.
***
He should be vigilant now, Cable thought dimly, limping from the portal room with a brief sideways glance at the Rider operating the console. Time to be on guard, in case anyone was planning a preemptive strike. The Riders were sharks who'd smelled blood in the water. If the worst of them saw him like this, they'd seize the opportunity.
His students had already tried. A few of them, at least. He wasn't sure exactly how many. They'd all blurred into each other in his mind, become nothing but a series of young mutants watching him, sizing him up. Challenging him.
He hadn't actually killed any of them. Corpses were valueless as tools. Efficiency. It was all about efficiency now. The one boy, the pyrokinetic who'd refused to back down, had screamed and screamed when Cable had turned his own fires back on him, but he'd live. Heal. Learn. Or at least provide an example--
"Cable!"
His mind burning with fatigue, he gathered in his telekinesis and bracing himself with a hand against the wall as he turned to face Longrifle, who was hurrying towards him from an intersecting corridor. Not going to blast him, Cable told himself light-headedly. Not unless he gets too close. What little energy he had needed to be conserved.
"You're back," Longrifle observed unnecessarily, coming to a stop several steps away. Not crossing that invisible line. But then, Longrifle tended to respect certain boundaries, like he had back on the side of the mesa, by walking away--
Don't go there. Idiot. Cable leaned back against the wall, inwardly recoiling from the emotions trying to push themselves through his fatigue, up to the surface where they didn't--where he wouldn't LET them belong. "Glad to see me?" he rasped aloud, trying and failing to make the words sarcastic.
Longrifle only frowned. "We need to talk."
"No. We don't." Cable pushed away from the wall, his vision going white with pain as he put weight on the injured leg. It got worse when he stopped moving. Only the knowledge that he couldn't fall, didn't dare show weakness, kept him walking down the hall.
Longrifle trailed along beside him, annoyingly persistent. "I know you'll be here in the fortress for a while."
Eight hours. Did that classify as 'a while'? It had taken him three days to get back on schedule with the cells, three days in which he hadn't slept and had barely eaten. But it was done, and all he wanted to do now was stop, just for a while--
"Cable? Cable, are you listening to me?"
"Go away," Cable muttered. His quarters weren't far; the healer had shown him where they were when he'd briefly returned to the fortress to 'check in', as the healer had insisted he do.
"I want to know what you're going to do, Cable."
What are you going to do? a voice at the back of his mind hissed spitefully.
What are you doing?
Where are you going?
Who are you becoming?
Hearing things now. Definitely not good.
"Apocalypse won't approve of you killing Seth and the others."
Oh. So that was it. A soft, cracked laugh slipped out before Cable could stop it. "So sure you know what he wants, Longrifle?" he murmured without looking at the man. His voice came out gravelly, but a little less broken-sounding. An improvement. "You really thinkg you know his mind? I wouldn't say that too loudly."
"So you are planning to kill Seth." Longrifle came around in front of him, stopping. Blocking his way, Cable noted, and laid a hand against the wall to steady himself again. Longrifle's face was white and set, and part of Cable wanted to laugh again, and ask Longrifle whether he was really that attached to his fellow Riders. "That's not the point of what happened, Cable," Longrifle went on, forming each word clearly, as if he were talking to someone whose understanding was impaired.
"You're jumping to conclusions," Cable said hoarsely, tiring of the exchange. It was pointless, a waste of time. "Get out of the way."
Longrifle hesitated, but then stepped aside, not following as Cable limped onwards. He'd gotten more cautious, Cable reflected distantly. Not that he'd ever been reckless, like so many of the other Riders, but he was even more circumspect now. Longrifle had learned. Maybe the ability to learn was why he led the Riders, low-level powers or not.
Why he'd thought the first thing on Cable's mind would be to kill Seth and Morel and the others, though--does he think I've forgotten already? Pride meant nothing, and slaughtering them all would be too easy. A simplistic answer to the complex problem Apocalypse had posed to him. And Apocalypse would be watching, waiting to see what he did. The test wasn't over.
He was beginning to realize that the test would never be over.
He passed no one else in the halls on the way to his quarters. The solitude should have been welcome--was, in a way, but it left him alone with his own thoughts, too, and that wasn't the best place to be. Nothing to keep his mind occupied. No distractions. Nothing except--
Not going to think about it. Cable shook his head slowly, denying the images that spun through his mind any purchase. He wasn't going to let himself dwell on it. He was just going to sleep, and hope he was tired enough not to dream--
The door to his quarters slid open, and Cable stared blankly at the woman sitting on his bed. "Tal."
"Cable."
He kept staring at her. What--possible reason could she have to be here? Maybe it was the exhaustion getting the better of him, but he couldn't figure it out. "I don't remember inviting you," he finally said, dully, as he took an unsteady step forward into the room. The door slid shut behind him.
Shutting them in together. The room, which was spacious enough, suddenly seemed too cramped.
"I thought I'd invite myself."
So calm. Just like the last time. The memory brought with it a surge of nausea, and he forced it back, limping slowly over to the window. It looked out over the desert, and Cable felt some of the numbness return as he stared out at the sand. The sight of the empty land was somehow comforting.
"Cable?" Tal had gotten up, but she made no move towards him. "Are you just going to ignore me?"
"That was the plan." Ignore her until she went away. Or hurt her, if she crossed that invisible line. One or the other. It didn't really matter to him.
"I just wanted to talk."
"Talk's cheap," he pointed out, feeling growingly light-headed. "Talk is very, very cheap." He'd always liked that saying. Apocalypse probably would, too. The weak talked. The strong acted.
"You're right." Tal crossed the room to the window, but kept a prudent distance between them. Almost too close, still. "How are you feeling?"
"Why?" They'd had much the same conversation three days ago, Cable remembered suddenly. And he'd actually told her they'd talk later--or something like that. It was all a little blurry. He hadn't been--quite together when he'd been first up and around. Not that he felt all that together now. He was still having to keep a very tight grasp on his thoughts. His concentration kept wandering--
"I told you that you didn't want them to think they'd affected your actions in any way," Tal said, not answering his question. "Remember me telling you that?"
She had something of the same tone of voice Longrifle had used, as if she wasn't quite sure he was understanding her. It really should irritate him. He was so tired. All he wanted to do was curl up on the bed and pass out, so why wouldn't she just go away?
"Have to keep up appearances," he murmured, pulling his original response out of his memory. He'd done that by facing down Seth and the others, hadn't he?
"Right. That's why I'm here."
"You're not making any sense." But she was, suddenly, and the thought of touching her, of letting her touch him, made him nauseous again. Cable leaned his head against the window, fighting to slow his breathing, to control the abrupt, near-overwhelming panic he felt.
The glass was warm. The desert heat, seeping through. His knee buckled and he nearly fell, his shoulder hitting the glass hard. Hurting. The pain brought back a memory like a knife in his mind, a flash of kneeling on the stone floor in front of Apocalypse's throne, arms bound behind his back--
"Stop it--" he muttered faintly. Hadn't he decided that image--memory, whatever it was, couldn't have been real? Or that it didn't matter? He couldn't quite remember.
Tal was edging towards him. "Cable?"
"Go away," he rasped, regaining his balance. He felt angry, suddenly, angry in a restless sort of way, and he glared down at her, wondering if he maybe shouldn't give in. Lash out. She was handy, after all--
"I thought you might want me to stay," Tal said evenly, stopping where she was.
Either she didn't see any danger to herself here, or she didn't care. Cable didn't know which. Didn't really care, himself. "Oh, you did, did you?"
"Just to keep up appearances," she said, still with that perfectly straight face as she parroted his own words back to him.
To keep up appearances. Confusion to the Riders. If they thought he'd decided to--to keep Tal, it would make them doubt. A broken man didn't take the first opportunity to look for a bedwarmer. He'd started to put up the facade by facing them down outside the control room. Maybe this would be another step. Another brick in the wall. If they thought he was shrugging off what they'd done to him--
"You and your risks," he said to Tal, and breathed more easily as some of the emptiness returned. All he'd needed was to start thinking tactically, again--find himself a distraction. "Stay if you want. I don't care."
At the moment, what he wanted was a shower. He started in that direction, only to have his knee try to buckle on him halfway across the room. Tal started to move towards him, but he pushed her back telekinetically, not gently. She gave a grunt, but managed to keep her balance and stay on her feet.
"I said you could stay," Cable said, not looking back over his shoulder at her. "Don't push your luck."
He managed to limp into the shower, shed his skinsuit, and turn the water on as cold as it would go before his leg gave out on him again. Leaning against the wall to steady himself, Cable stood there, breathing heavily as the icy water cascaded over him.
He didn't know why he hadn't thrown her out, let the other Riders have her. For all he knew, she was some sort of trap herself. Wheels within wheels--
But he couldn't figure it out. He was feeling sick again, graying out a little, and everything, every trace of emotion, was trying to dissolve into a numb haze.
Cable closed his eyes.
***
"So that's it," Domino said, her voice cracking. "That's what I got from the link."
It hadn't been any easier to tell it the second time. She'd tried to treat it like a pre-operational briefing, but the pretense had worn thin about two minutes in. At least she'd managed to keep control of her emotions this time. That was an improvement.
Her audience was having mixed success on that score. Tabitha had bolted to the washroom five minutes ago and Domino had heard her retching, all through the rest of her 'briefing'. Terry was very obviously trying not to cry, while Jesse looked confused and nervous and Jimmy was utterly expressionless.
Domino was more concerned with the other two. Sam was flushed and shifting restless in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes. She could almost feel the rage boiling off him. Almost as worrisome was Logan and his poker face, which would have been entirely convincing if his eyes hadn't been burning into her, silently demanding more details.
The sound of running water stopped, and Tabitha, white around the lips and holding herself stiffly, came back out into GW's living room. "Tabitha?" Domino asked hoarsely. "Are you okay?" Tabitha shook her head and sat down beside Sam on the couch. After a moment, he put his arm around her.
"You didn't call us all here just to tell us this, Neena," Logan said, his voice sounding more than usually gravelly. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes locked on her and still blazing. "What're you thinking?"
Now came the tricky part. "It's not quite all I got from the link," Domino confessed wearily, slouching. GW, perched as best as someone of his size could perch on the arm of her chair, reached out and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I've been--meditating. Using some of the tricks Nate showed me." She swallowed. "I saw where it happened."
Sam looked at her for the first time in ten minutes. "You know where he is?" he said in a low voice that reminded Domino eerily of Nathan.
"I--" Her voice wavered again and she stopped, clearing her throat before she went on, a little more firmly. "I think it's New Mexico." The terrain, the vegetation--she'd spent enough time in that area of the country to have recognized it. "There was a mesa. Really distinct." She took a shuddering breath and straightened in her chair. "I'd know it if I saw it again."
"And you want to go looking." Logan leaned back, grim satisfaction on his face. "About fucking time."
Domino glared at him for a moment, but GW's hand tightened on her shoulder and she told herself that Logan hadn't meant it that way. There was no condemnation in his eyes. Just anticipation.
"It's--more than that," she forced herself to say, aching at the way the mood in the room, which had just started to lighten, took a downward turn again. "I don't--I can't describe to you what I'm feeling from him now. What this has done to him."
She knew what she had to say next.
She had to say it.
She--
"I think it's time to end it," Domino managed, her throat as dry as sandpaper. *Great,* she thought bleakly. *Still hiding behind the euphemisms.*
Terry was the first to break the silence. "Meaning what, exactly?" she said slowly. She didn't look like she was trying to fight back tears anymore. A little stunned, still, but there was suspicion surfacing amid the shock and horror. Domino could see it in her eyes.
"You know what I mean, Theresa," Domino muttered, rubbing at her own. As hard as she'd imagined this would be, it was ten times worse.
"Wait a second," Tabitha said, her eyes widening and her face going a shade or two paler than it already was. "Dom--you can't be serious." Domino met her eyes as levelly as she could, and Tabitha looked stricken. "You are serious," she whispered, horrified. "Dom, you can't. We can't."
Jesse was shaking his head. "I'm confused. You're suggesting we find Cable and KILL him? I thought you and he were--" He stopped, grimacing. "Well, you know what I mean."
The rest of the kids were beginning to give her looks that were definitely on the accusing side. Sam in particular was glaring at her like he was fighting back the urge to jump up off the couch and kick her ass. Logan, on the other hand, just looked speculative. Domino really wished he'd stop that.
They were all waiting for her to say something to justify herself, she knew. "I--don't think there's anything left of the Cable we know," Domino managed, opening her eyes very wide, trying to focus on the living room, rather than the images and sensations still playing like a movie stuck on an infinite loop in the back of her mind. The link flickered coldly, and her throat went tight. "There's nothing left to rescue," she whispered raggedly, tears blurring her vision again despite her efforts to hold them back.
Damn it. She'd been so determined to put a professional face on this, for the kids' sakes if nothing else.
"Y'don't know that," Sam said suddenly, almost violently, as he stood up. His accent was thicker than she'd heard it in years. "Ah don't believe this! How can ya even suggest such a thing?"
"Are any of the rest of you tied into his brain? Don't tell me what I know and don't know, Guthrie." Maybe this was what she'd needed. A little confrontation, to provoke her own frustration. She didn't feel quite so much on the verge of crumbling now. Domino looked up, meeting those angry blue eyes, and found some anger of her own somewhere. "And don't you dare get sanctimonious with me, Samuel."
"How do you know it's not him?" Jimmy said suddenly.
Taken aback by his sudden entry into the conversation, Domino blinked at him. "What?"
Jimmy's expression had changed. The neutral mask was gone, replaced by the look of someone trying desperately to unwind the proverbial knot without taking his sword to it. "How do you know it's not Cable wanting to die?" he asked, looking up at her, his eyes begging her to consider what he was saying. "He could be--projecting, something like that. After what happened--" Jimmy stopped, looking sick. "I don't know. I just wouldn't blame him for wanting it all to stop."
Oh, so now she was being influenced by what Nathan wanted? Why the hell couldn't they believe her? If she had to find Madelyne and get her to make them all experience what she'd experienced through the link, she would. "Damn it," she snapped. "He's not projecting anything, Jimmy!"
GW's hand on her shoulder tightened again. "Relax, Dom," he said softly.
"Don't tell me to relax!" She shrugged him off and stood up, glaring at Jimmy. "I'm the one who's been living with this damned link for all these months!"
"We know." Sam came over, taking her by the shoulders as if he were about to hug her. Domino made an aggravated sound and tried to pull away, but he didn't let her go. Sam didn't try to pull her towards him, but just stood there, looking down at her with one of those deadly serious expressions that wouldn't have been out of place on Nathan's face. "Ah think I speak for everyone when ah say we're coming to New Mexico with you to look for this mesa, no question about that," he said quietly. "But ah'm not ready to give up on him just yet. Ah think ah probably speak for everyone else on that, too."
Jesse snorted. "Hey, I'm pretty much okay with taking Domino's word on it--OW!"
"Shut up, Jesse," Tabitha, who'd elbowed him, growled. "Dom, Sam's right. We can't go looking for him thinking shit like that."
"Aye," Terry said, looking more composed. She folded her hands together in her lap, gazing up at Domino steadily. "I cannae even imagine how hard this has been for you, but we can't be making decisions like that."
"Not unless we've done absolutely everything we can to help him," Jimmy said forcefully.
Seething, Domino broke Sam's grip, not gently. "None of you UNDERSTAND!" she started heatedly, but then stopped, biting back the rest of it. Shouting at them wasn't going to help. "Never mind," she snarled. "I need some air." She pushed past Sam, heading for the front door. *Have to get out of here before I explode--*
She made it to the front porch before her temper got the better of her. "Fuck!" Domino slammed a fist into the wall, then withdrew it with a hiss of pain, swearing under her breath as she went over to sit down on the steps.
Her knuckles were scratched and bleeding. From the numb feel of her hand, she'd probably done deeper damage, too. This was going to hurt a lot more in the morning than it did now.
Behind her, the door opened. "Well," Logan remarked dryly, "you sure showed that wall."
Just what she needed. *Remind me why I called him in the first place?* "Logan," she said as clearly as she could through gritted teeth, "I am not in the mood."
Logan sat down beside her. "So I see." He reached out and took her injured hand in his, turning it back and forth for a closer look. "Going to need ice on this," he pronounced."
"Fuck off."
"Come on, Neena. No point in sulking out here. You can't have expected them to agree with you." Logan gave a sigh that sounded oddly pained, and Domino looked sideways at him, part of her startled by the open regret on his face. "Bedlam's not got any ties to Nate, but the others--"
"I expected them to display a little common sense." The anger was fading, though, which made it much harder to keep sounding bitchy. Had she really expected any other reaction? she wondered despairingly. Maybe she'd just been deluding herself again. She was making quite a habit of that, these last several months.
"Is that what you call it?" Logan snorted. "Proudstar could be right, you know," he pointed out, almost implacably. "About what Nate wants affecting what you're feeling, I mean."
It was--hell, more than possible, if she had to admit it. If there was any part of the Nate she knew still left in there, aware of everything he'd done, everything Apocalypse had done to him--it was too plausible.
"He's given up," Domino said hoarsely, wiping the blood from the scratches on the leg of her jeans. "I know it, Logan. I can feel it."
"Is that any reason to do the same?"
She gave a despairing laugh. "You too? If you could feel like what's on the other end of this link, Logan--" She ran a shaky hand through her hair. "It doesn't even feel like him anymore."
Logan was silent for a long moment, as if deliberating over something. "If we find him," he finally said, slowly, "and he's really that far gone, I'll do it."
For a moment, Domino couldn't breathe, let alone respond. That, she hadn't expected. At all. "Scott and Jean would never forgive you," she finally managed, hoarsely.
"I know." There was a soft snikt, and Logan stared down at his claws, his expression grim and set. "But I owe Nate that much. And I'd sooner do it myself than let you."
Domino looked away, blinking back tears again. "I always suspected it might end like this," she said shakily. "I just didn't want to admit it to myself."
Retracting his claws, Logan reached out with that hand and placed it over hers. "It ain't over yet, Neena."
"Do you really believe that?"
"Yeah," he said firmly, and it occurred to her that he'd never lied to her, not in all the years they'd known each other. "I do."
***
"No--"
The choked moan woke Tal from her light doze. She sat up, tossing aside the blanket and sliding off the mattress pad she'd dragged in from an adjacent room so that she wouldn't have to sleep on the floor. "Cable?" she said uncertainly, looking in the direction of the bed.
Her only response was a string of feverishly muttered, unintelligible words. Not a response at all, Tal realized, getting to her feet and moving cautiously towards the bed. He was still asleep. Restless, though, and clearly in the grip of some unpleasant dream or another. He was tangled in the blanket, struggling with it and trembling violently.
She might have gone back to her bed on the floor and left him to his nightmare, but the furniture was beginning to shiver ominously, and she could feel the energy gathering in the air around him. If he began to react telekinetically, things could get messy.
"Cable," Tal said again, more firmly, as she leaned over him. She wouldn't touch him. That would probably be pushing her luck just a little far. He moaned, a sound of pure anguish, and she felt a momentary flicker of what might have been sympathy. "Cable, it's all ri--"
His telekinesis lashed out and slammed her against the wall, hard enough that she crumpled, gasping for air. The stab of pain in her back as she hauled herself upright was unexpected, and she realized dizzily just how much power he'd used, swatting her away. She'd always known her invulnerability had its limits, but as reminders went, this one was maybe a little much.
His eyelids fluttering, Cable recoiled, breathing in short, labored gasps as he tried to push himself away from the side of the bed where she'd been. Still tangled in the blanket, he only managed to fall off the bed entirely, and Tal couldn't help a wince as he crashed to the floor, his injured leg bent at an awkward angle.
Pushing away from the wall, she went around to the other side of the bed, still unsteady on her feet. "You--were having a nightmare," she said uncertainly, keeping a bit of distance between them. Was he awake? His eyes were squeezed shut, but that could be just a reaction to pain, she thought.
Proving her right, Cable pushed himself up to a sitting position, a groan wrenching itself out from behind his teeth as he tried to straighten his leg. "I told you--not to touch me," he gasped, sweat standing out on his forehead.
"I just--"
"I meant it." He tried to pull himself to his feet and failed, slipping back to the ground and staying there, sprawled against the side of the bed and still breathing heavily.
"You should see the healer," Tal said, a bit cautiously. "He could give you something to help you sleep."
"I don't--need drugs."
"You need to do something," she pointed out a bit tartly, sizing him up. He was still shaking, and her hearing was sharp enough that she could hear how accelerated his pulse was. A violent reaction, even to a bad nightmare. If he was routinely going to be this dangerous when he slept, maybe she should rethink her strategy.
She moved closer - slowly, giving herself plenty of time to stop if he reacted - and knelt in front of him. "You do," Tal said softly, laying a hand on his arm and feeling the fine tremors in the muscles. "Your body language gives you away. They'll see it."
"They won't. I won't let them." His voice was a little stronger, and instinct told Tal to take her hand away. Cable straightened, his breathing gradually slowing, and gave her a look that chilled her to the bone. "I thought I told you not to touch me."
The way he'd gotten control again was impressive. It said a great deal about how intact his will was, beneath it all. Tal rose smoothly to her feet, backing away to give him room. "As you said before," she responded, "I like to take risks."
"Break the habit. Or I'll provide some incentive." Cable managed to pull himself back onto the bed, a grunt of pain escaping him as his bad leg dangled over the edge for a moment.
"I'll keep that in mind," Tal murmured, and went back to her makeshift bed on the floor, inwardly rather pleased. He might have threatened her, but he hadn't made any move to carry it out, and she'd definitely been pushing the limits.
Maybe this was going to work after all.
***
"This isn't wise, Scott."
From somewhere, Scott found the strength to give the Professor a wan smile. "Maybe not," he allowed, deliberately staying in the doorway and not entering the study. "But it's past time I did it." If he went in and sat down, Charles would take it as an indication that he was willing to be talked out of his current course of action, and that wasn't the impression Scott wanted to give at all. To anyone.
"Do what, precisely?" Charles asked, the faintest hint of an edge to his voice. Methodically, he started to collect the papers spread out over his desk, transferring them to a file folder. Scott got the bizarre impression that he was doing it because he was restless, and just needed something to keep his hands busy. "Do you have a plan, Scott?"
"I have some ideas." A plan would be overstating the case, but he did know where he was going when he left the mansion. He was surprised that Charles didn't. "Charles, I can't just sit here and wait anymore." Not after what Madelyne had shown him--*don't think about it,* Scott thought, fighting back a surge of sick anguish. If he didn't keep his emotions in check, the lack of a hard-and-fast plan was going to come back to haunt him. When you were planning to improvise, you needed to keep a cool head.
"You wouldn't consider sharing these ideas?" Charles asked stiffly. Scott shook his head, and the look in Charles's eyes turned almost pained. "Would it be a waste of time to appeal to your sense of strategy?"
Smiling was a little easier this time, although Scott imagined it was a pretty ghastly-looking smile to the casual observer. "I really don't think you want to hear my ideas, Professor."
"At the very least, you shouldn't go alone."
He's not trying very hard to talk me out of this. Hell, Charles could quite probably change his mind for him, if he wanted. Scott knew just how shaky his mental defenses were these days. "That's exactly how I should go," he said aloud, as calmly as he could. "He's my son, Charles. The risk should be mine."
"Scott." There was a world of concern in that one word, and enough weariness that Scott started, and gave Charles an intent look. "You're not thinking clearly about this."
"Things have gotten very clear recently," Scott muttered, wondering how he'd managed not to notice how worn Charles was looking lately. "Please, sir. Don't try and talk me out of this."
Charles sighed. "You may be shielding rather carefully, Scott, but I don't need to know your mind to see there's little chance of that." His eyes suddenly bored into Scott's, so intently that Scott stiffened and repressed the urge to take a step back. The Professor's next words were a surprise, though. "You will stay in touch with Jean?"
*--that's it?* Charles was going to let him out of the conversation this easily? "I will," Scott said hastily. "I'm not trying to be reckless, Charles. I just can't justify--" He trailed off, swallowing as he remembered Nate Grey, and how close a call it had been for Sam, too. "I'll be careful," he promised, his voice unsteady as he lifted his duffel bag to his shoulder and turned away from the doorway. "Goodbye, Charles."
#Remember we're here when you need us, Scott,# the Professor called after him.
When, not if. Scott swallowed a bitter laugh, and forced himself not to look back.
Out in the front hall, Jean was standing waiting for him, a forlorn look on her face and a communit in her hand. "Just in case," she said shakily, reaching out and unzipping his duffel enough to let her add the communit to the minimal gear he was carrying. "You can't rely on being able to contact me telepathically."
"I know." He'd already put one in his bag, but if the gesture made her feel better about this, he wasn't about to point it out. "It'll be okay, Jean," Scott said, and felt angry at himself for the platitude. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly. "I'm just going to--check out some possibilities, that's all. If I find anything, I'll be back here before you know it."
They'd talked about this extensively--well, argued about it. Jean hadn't liked the idea of being left behind. But with the information from Bridge about Nathan's possible involvement in the recent outbreaks of mutant terrorism, Scott needed her here, where she could reach him instantly if anything developed. Or so he'd told himself, at least. It was an excuse, of course. He wanted her here, so that he'd know she was safe. Why she'd given in, he didn't know. He was only glad she had.
#I know the plan, Scott.# Her mental voice trembled, but she didn't make a move to pull away. #To think we're reduced to this--#
Scott drew back a little, and kissed her. "Calculated risk," he murmured softly.
Jean clung to him for a moment longer. "If you don't keep in touch with me, I'll come looking for you," she said vehemently.
"Promises, promises." There was silver in her hair that hadn't been there six months ago. "I love you," Scott said hoarsely, and forced himself to let her go.
***
There was value in persistence, Stryfe knew. Without accepting any of the scurrilous rumors about his mental stability, he could admit to himself that he sometimes took his persistence too far. His own history was proof enough of that. Obsession was a double-edged sword--a sharp one, but dangerously double-edged.
But persistence, properly-applied, could work wonders. He'd missed Nathan in Prague, but his brother hadn't stayed in the fortress long before leaving again, this time heading to Paris. There, Stryfe had finally caught up with him, and it had been child's play to slip through the cracks in Nathan's shields and hide himself once more in the secluded psyche-corner where he'd spent so much of his post-death life.
It had been as clear as dawn over the desert that trying to do anything while Nathan was awake was a perilous proposition, to say the least. Not that Stryfe was in any particular hurry. This wasn't much more than a reconnaissance, a little diagnostic dip into his brother's mind. Although if he found himself facing an opportunity to do something definitive, he'd take it--maybe. That was the extent of the rather crude plan he'd formulated while waiting for Nathan to finish making the rounds of several European terrorist cells and return to the fortress to collapse.
And collapse he certainly had. Frankly, given Nathan's mental and physical condition, Stryfe was rather amazed he'd made it through three days of dealing with these children without collapsing much earlier or, alternatively, snapping and slaughtering the lot of them. Perhaps a half dozen of the young mutants in the cells Stryfe had seen seemed to have the natural intelligence and viciousness to survive once they took an active role in whatever Apocalypse was planning. Certainly no more than that. Stryfe was beginning to be very curious about what exactly Apocalypse was planning to do with all this handy cannon fodder.
It was more than slightly interesting to see that Nathan himself didn't know what that plan entailed. Doesn't quite trust you after all, does he, brother? Stryfe thought, carefully emerging from his corner and slipping deeper into Nathan's mind, careful to keep masking his presence. Nathan was quite deeply unconscious - and no longer dreaming, thankfully; that nightmare had been, well, nightmarish to be witnessing from this level - but Stryfe wasn't sure what sort of subconscious defenses he might run into if he was too obvious about this.
This was, in fact, a rather idiotic thing to be doing, Stryfe reflected sourly as he continued to descend into Nathan's subconscious, taking note of the various signs of stress and damage along the way. Scars on top of scars, and gaping--voids, for lack of any better word, patches of black emptiness where there should be color and light and thought--
And why did that bother him so much? He'd probably inflicted a number of the older scars himself. In fact, he certainly had, there was no doubt whatsoever about that. If he remembered correctly, he'd enjoyed doing so. Immensely. Only he looked back on that now, and he felt--
The thought-energy around him, damaged as it was, began to ripple, clearly trying to form into a mindscape. Stryfe let it, knowing that any effort to stop it would likely trigger a more serious reaction and possibly even awaken Nathan. If it was a defensive mindscape, there were other, more subtle ways to escape whatever traps Nathan's subconscious might be laying for him. He would play along, for now. It was the simplest way.
He hadn't expected the mindscape to form into the shape of a circus tent.
"This is very odd," Stryfe murmured, walking slowly forward, over hard-packed dirt. The bleachers were empty, and although the lights were blazing, illuminating the ring, there were shadows everywhere, almost too thick to be real. "I wonder what this represents," he mused aloud. "Circuses--spectacles--are you intending to show me something, Nathan?"
"Something like that," his brother's voice said coolly from the shadows, and Stryfe couldn't quite stifle a curse as he was thrown backwards through the air, coming to a sudden, painful stop as he slammed into a vertical surface that creaked like wood as he hit it.
Wonderful. Stryfe growled under his breath as the mindscape rippled threateningly around him, forming itself into a trap that manifested as chains wrapping around his wrists and ankles, forcing him into a spread-eagled position. The wooden surface began to spin, and Stryfe had a sudden flash of memory. He'd seen this done before--sometime, he wasn't sure when. It was a set-up for some trick or another, where a victim--no, volunteer, was spun on a wheel of some sort while another person demonstrated their aptitude with knives.
"If you throw anything sharp and pointy at me, Nathan, I'm going to make you eat it," Stryfe threatened, even as he probed at the trap enclosing him and began to realize there were no obvious weaknesses. Flonq. This wasn't like being on the astral plane, either. The usual tactics and techniques wouldn't work, not when he was this deep in Nathan's mind. His brother made the rules here. Flonq, that was an alarming thought.
"Very funny." Something whizzed out of the shadows, and Stryfe swore again, this time in pain. His vision went briefly white, but when it cleared, he wasn't all that surprised to see the hilt of the knife sticking out of his shoulder. A knife carved elaborately with Askani markings, too. Such a nice touch. "Whoops," Nathan's voice went on impassively. "Missed the heart."
"I thought I didn't have one?" This mindscape and what was happening on it felt entirely too real, Stryfe thought, gritting his teeth and ruthlessly suppressing as much of the pain as he could. It shouldn't have been possible for Nathan's subconscious to produce something like this--but then, it was entirely possible that his subconscious had developed something of an attitude, given everything that had happened. "Really, Nathan, you must try to be consistent, at least."
"Dying with style. I wouldn't have expected anything less." Nathan stepped forward out of the shadows, and Stryfe, despite the pain, was immediately struck by the fact that his brother was wearing his X-Men uniform. That was either a sign that he didn't have total control over the mindscape after all, or a symptom of something even more interesting-- "You were always focusing on style over substance," Nathan went on, another knife winking into existence in his hand. "Like that damned red cape. Did you have any idea how asinine you looked?"
He drew his hand back, and this time, Stryfe had a moment to brace himself. Not that it really helped. The knife went into his other shoulder - placed precisely, just as the first had been; Nathan had always been very good with a knife - and Stryfe barely managed to stay silent. It was a good thing that what he was chewing on to keep any reaction back wasn't really his tongue, or he'd have bitten right through it by now. Very messy.
"I'm still--quite fond of that cape, actually. And the armor." Was that what he was trying to do? Die with style? No, no, Stryfe thought a little light-headedly, he wasn't going to die. He was just playing along until he saw a way out. Waiting to see what else Nathan might let slip. Something like that.
"Shut up." Another knife appeared in Nathan's hand, and those cold eyes, still fixed on Stryfe, narrowed dangerously. "Where do you want the next one, brother?"
"You're asking my opinion? How touching." Stryfe forced himself to take a deep breath - psychosomatic reaction though the stars spinning in his vision may be, he was still feeling somewhat oxygen-starved - and bared his teeth at Nathan. "What's with the uniform, Nathan? Feeling nostalgic?"
Nathan actually hesitated. He looked down at himself, paled, and the mindscape flickered for an instant. Stryfe seized the opportunity and fought to free himself, but the flickering stopped almost immediately, before he'd managed to do anything but create a few hairline fractures in the structure of the trap. Not enough, not nearly enough. He was beginning to feel very slightly peevish about this whole thing.
"Do you think that means anything?" Nathan was suddenly snarling at him, stalking right up to the wheel where Stryfe was restrained. Wearing black now, interestingly enough. His hand clenched and unclenched around the hilt of the knife, but he wasn't making any move to stab with it, which Stryfe could only interpret as a positive thing. "You're not in any position to be playing mind games!"
"I wasn't trying. I think you've got that covered--" Stryfe trailed off warily, gazing at the point of the knife as it hovered a few centimetres away from his right eye. "What are you doing?"
"I don't like the way you're looking at me." Another knife hovered up into view. "Should I do both eyes at once, or one at a time?"
Stryfe pretended to sigh. "Could you be any more melodramatic?" The knives edged closer, and Stryfe bared his teeth again. "Put the right one out first," he suggested. "Then we'll match. One-eyed men in the kingdom of the blind."
"I see just fine out of both eyes, Stryfe," Nathan hissed.
"You always were so good at lying to yourself, Nathan--" The knives shot forward, and Stryfe, rather futilely, closed his eyes, bracing himself again.
The pain never came. He felt, instead, the trap shattering around him, the mindscape itself disintegrating into a thousand pieces and dumping him somewhere else, a place of blank whiteness. The knives were no longer in his shoulders, which was nice, but that was really a secondary concern at the moment. If there hadn't been something solid beneath his feet, like a floor of white grass, he would have thought he'd dropped into one of the voids he'd seen on his way down into Nathan's subconscious. Only they'd been black, he reminded himself. This was white.
White. Like the storm, he thought, remembering the blizzard that had stopped him and Madelyne from reaching Nathan in time, back during that first confrontation.
White. There was something important about that. White meant--purity? But that was a meaning from this time, not the one he and Nathan shared. In their world, white meant death. Purity and death. Purity OR death?
"You're not supposed to be here."
Stryfe spun, instinctively raising his somewhat-battered defenses. But the child staring back at him merely smiled and spread his hands wide.
"You're really not," the boy persisted, tranquilly. The white streak in his brown hair was as luminescent as his white clothes. More white. Only there was absolutely nothing pure about what was beneath the surface of those too-serene eyes.
There was a name for this sort of psi-ghost, in Askani. 'Vei'nhragha'. Sanctity had taught it to him. There was no English word for it, not unless you wanted to be completely vague and call it a demon.
But maybe that would do. It looked like a boy, but Stryfe could see past the illusion with no trouble at all. The creature was an amalgam, a patchwork of bits and pieces of the bleakest, darkest emotions in Nathan's tormented soul. Only the patchwork had taken on a life of its own, something that only happened when there was enough 'raw material' to feed its formation. Stryfe was almost certain he didn't want to know what sort of havoc it had wreaked already.
A vei'nhragha's only purpose is self-annihilation, Sanctity's voice echoed in his mind. It is the Shadow given form.
The old witch had always been ridiculously poetic about such things.
He'd known Nathan was suicidal. He'd seen his brother's memories, back on the mesa, seen the self-inflicted injuries that had provoked the test with the Dark Riders. So Stryfe didn't know why coming face to face with the astral embodiment of that desire to die bothered him so, and bothered him in such a bizarre way. He couldn't summon up any anger at all, and disgust was eluding him completely.
It shouldn't. This was weakness on Nathan's part, a failure of will. He should despise him for it.
But he didn't. He felt--
He felt--
Stryfe forced himself to smile coldly. "Oh, you are an evil little thing, aren't you?" he murmured to the boy. "How long have you been hiding here?" He took a step closer, and the boy took one back, that placid mask cracking for a moment. "Actually, never mind that. I don't really care. I think I'll just wipe you from existence." Getting rid of it was the safest thing to do, before it did any more damage.
The boy pouted. "You can't do that," he protested, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm supposed to be here. I'm watching to make sure he doesn't come back."
Stryfe's eyes widened. "Oh, really?" he asked dangerously. "Where precisely has he gone?" The boy's eyes strayed off to the left, almost involuntarily. Instinct took over, and Stryfe whirled and ran in that direction--
--and found himself teetering at the edge of a precipice, looking down at a night-black river running with stars.
"Oh, my," he murmured, swaying at the wind that roared out of the chasm. A screaming wind. He wasn't wanted here, obviously, but here was precisely where he needed to be. "Now I understand. Hello, Nathan."
"No!" he heard the boy shout, outraged, from behind him. "No! You're not allowed--"
Stryfe laughed a bit shakily. "Too late!" he called back over his shoulder.
And dove over the edge.
to be continued...
Argent Miscellany | The Dayspring Archive | Alternate Timelines