Of Ruined Wings and Wakened Dreams

by Jaya Mitai

#Dayspring.#

No.

#Dayspring!#

He refused.

#Dayspring Askani'son. It is your name.#

Flonq you.

#It isn't over yet..#

Someone else's problem.

Nathan was yanked back to painful consciousness with such startling suddenness that he choked, gasping and swallowing at the same time.

#There is no one else.#

There were hands on his face, cool hands. He was surprised he could feel them around the pain. His jaw was curiously numb, so when the hands brushed it he lost track of them, as though they'd left him.

"Easy, Nathan. Try not to move."

Once again, he struggled with eyelids that strove not to move. He wasn't sure when they'd closed. He remembered Essex and Nur discussing death like a married couple debating china patterns. He remembered feeling a strange mixture of emotions from Sam, thoughts that had surprised him. He remembered watching Dark Riders fleeing, darting past him out of the room as though he weren't even there.

At some point, he had apparently ceased to be.

But he was back, groggily staring at a long strip of ruby quartz.

The face behind that ruby quartz looked about as bad as he felt. He dimly recalled Scott taking a beating, but aside from dust and a thin smudge of blood where his scalp met his forehead there didn't seem to be much damage.

"Take it easy."

Nathan didn't remember moving, but it was a moot point and he didn't argue it. He blinked again, a nagging feeling he'd already forgotten something important.

"Nathan . . . can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

What a silly question. He was -

* * * * * * *

Watching Cable's eyes, Scott wasn't really sure whether to attribute the sudden rush of pain to alertness or realization. Blazes! Stupid question, stupid question . . .

Nathan didn't appear to be in any more danger of coming around with a cry that sent him into a choking fit, so Scott gently released his son, ever so slowly easing him back down into a laying position. Cable looked confused, he shook his head weakly as an old man might to dislodge a fly, but he made no other sound, not even telepathically.

It was to be expected. He'd blacked out almost as soon as he'd delivered the killing . . . touch really, rather than blow. It had been his TK that had driven the syringe in. He'd seen it through Jean's eyes, as dazed as she'd been -

His gut clenched at the thought, but he steadied it, as always reminding himself he had a team in the middle of a hostile situation. The Dark Riders may have retreated upon finding their master down, but sooner or later they'd rediscover their courage, or fear of failing the Lord would drive them back into the chamber.

Gambit was very casually watching the doors and just as casually keeping his left wrist completely still. He had lost his bo staff at some point, and had long ago run out of cards. Possibly even charging energy. Despite spending an eternity in the desert, Scott had already used a good portion of the energy he'd stored. He wished for the umpteenth time they hadn't spent so long in the sunless, lightless sandstone tunnels.

Logan was crouching between Sam, Domino, and Jean. All three were prostrate, though Sam was doing a good job of staying alert. His not speaking was really starting to get to Scott, he obviously had the strength for it. It made him think Sam couldn't speak, and the implications there were staggering.

And sickening.

But there wasn't much of a choice here. Too much of the team was down. They'd never get everyone out of Akkaba.

Scott stood too abruptly, angrily clenched his teeth until the low rumble in his ears drowned the airy buzz of dizziness. He knew he'd hit his head, and a strange wheeze when he breathed too deeply was as telling. Only Logan had managed to get himself out of this unscathed.

Unscathed.

Summers crossed the chambers to Sinister, still studying the grey-skinned body. His armor had almost fallen from his frame, and his body had shrunk back down to the height and stature he had naturally acquired. There was no sign of regeneration, no movement of chest. No hint of pulse. But Sinister studied the body closely.

"I can take it on faith that we're on our own?" He hated to do it, it was like bartering a piece of his soul. Sinister was driving home a point, putting them in his debt, but his purpose was still unclear.

Sinister didn't spare him a glance. "You can take it on whatever you wish that you and your team will be my guests for a short duration. While all cellular respiration has stopped, there's a chance Nur mutated throughout all his many centuries and healings. Once the body reaches a certain state of decomposition I will destroy it, but until then I need to monitor it closely for any changes."

Perfectly reasonable. Sinister's experiment before anyone else.

"What sort of timeframe can I expect?" Guests. Scott's thoughts wandered to Sam Guthrie, Sinister's guest for only a few short days.

"Perhaps 24 hours. It should be enough time to confirm my earlier results." Sinister's pupilless eyes swiveled suddenly to Scott's. "Those that require immediate medical attention shall receive it. Consider it . . . a token of my appreciation in this matter."

For being your canon fodder, Scott wanted to snarl, but it died on his lips. Bickering wasn't going to get them anywhere. Any other time, he might have already lost it, but there was simply too much at stake.

Jean. Nathan. Sam. Domino.

Domino . . . there wasn't going to be much done for her, even with Sinister's technology. The Shi'ar equipment wouldn't have been able to handle this, and it had been more advanced -

"For a small price I will save the mercenary."

Mind reading, are we?

"We shall call it anticipating. Though you've surprised me on more than one occasion."

Scott was vaguely rattled. Jean wasn't here to protect him - but Sinister had had ample opportunity to demonstrate psionic abilities in the past and he'd never conclusively done it.

Maybe for this very reason.

Scott crammed down what shields he could summon and stared instead at Scalphunter, watching Domino. Cyclops was the leader, technically hers in this matter, and she was in no condition to make the decision herself. But it really wasn't his choice. He had to guess her wishes as best he could.

Another look, Domino's red-tinted skin, head tossing back and forth in a terrified and fruitless attempt to shake off the pain. Jean was unconscious, no longer shielding her, and it was heartbreaking to see the normally reserved woman sobbing in uncomprehending fear.

Nathan would know what she would want, but Scott couldn't ask him that. Not now. Not even a year from now. Knowing the way Cable attacked responsibility, he was blaming himself for her . . . her wounds. Her death.

Scott remained silent, and Sinister seemed content to let him consider the proposition. The geneticist's eyes roamed the assembled group, clearly calculating something. Possibly transporting all that mass back to one of his labs.

Taking the X-Men into his home once more. Summers glanced back, looking at his wife, unconscious, blood still seeping from deep wounds in her face. He looked past her at Cable, barely conscious, burning with fever and pale, heartbeat rapid and weak. Looked at Sam, a terror in the young man's eyes he'd never seen before.

He made a mental note to stay with Sam, regardless of what happened. Sinister wouldn't let anything happen to the Phoenix. Jean was as safe in his hands as anyone else. But there was no interest in Samuel Guthrie anymore, and it was partially his own fault for Sam's capture. They should have anticipated actions against the Guthrie family, they'd seen hate in action so many times. A terrible oversight, one he was afraid would cost lives.

And Cable. Now that Sinister's weapon had done his work, what would the scientist make of him? And that begged the question, what did Blaquesmith and the chronovariant have in store for their messiah?

He had half expected them to have shown up already, but he couldn't say he was upset at their lack of appearance. With Jean unconscious, they really had no chance at preventing Blaquesmith from taking Nathan.

And did he have the strength to make that decision? To send Nathan back to his home, his fractured timeline, to be saved once again by the Askani he didn't even trust?

There was no way he could force his way along. And he would be left behind, that much was certain. He would be giving Cable up. Again.

It was a strange concept. The first time, the screaming, adorable little infant. Full of potential, promise. Full of love and curiosity. A beautiful little boy almost killed by a tiny little infection, a tiny little microbe of techno-organic hell.

And now, a man older than he was. Someone who killed first and never even asked questions. Someone who didn't give a damn for Xavier's dream of peace, pretended not to give a damn about anyone. Someone who had callously done things that made Scott's blood boil. An irresponsible, hot-headed solider with almost no discernable moral code and an inability to see what was in front of him.

Why did it hurt so much, the thought of losing him again? With everything between them, why was it so much harder to even consider letting him go? Insisting he stay here, that Blaquesmith bring the equipment and mutants to this timeline, it was all so ridiculous. It was the only way he could stay with his son, and it was all but a pipe dream. Nathan was going to die unless he went back with Blaquesmith.

And dying brought him right back to Domino.

"No." A rasp, a rough file drawn over delicate wood, and Scott turned to look at his son. Cable was leaning up as far as he could, his eye glowing fitfully. "No!"

Scott twitched a little as Sinister's cape moved in his peripheral vision, and that hesitation gave Blaquesmith all the opportunity he needed. He spread his hands slightly by his sides.

"It is done."

What was done? Cable was still there, his face a mask of horror and pain, but nothing indicated Blaquesmith had breached his shields or attacked him -

"It is what she would have chosen, Dayspring."

A loud snarl. Wolverine, who had kept his head all this time, leapt at Blaquesmith with a roar. Beside him, Remy LeBeau had already started forward. "Who give you de right to decide that, neh?"

Oh, god. Domino.

She had ceased her sobbing, her struggling with her pain. With everything. She lay as still as the dead beside Sam. He was groping for her wrist, groping for a pulse, but judging Cable's expression -

Blaquesmith had just decided for them all.

Gambit was advancing on the Askani tutor with what appeared to be full intent to kill him, Wolverine already in a full run, and Scott said nothing. The Askani was capable of protecting himself, and any energy he expended defending himself from those two was another opportunity to get a clean shot -

It was as though someone had paused a video. Gambit and Wolverine might as well have been carved of sandstone.

"A noble intention," Blaquesmith said softly, holding Cable's gaze. "But in this case, misplaced. All is not as it seems."

Cable was clearly struggling, his eyes never leaving his old tutor's. "You . . . why . . ."

Scott needed nothing else. He gathered a fairly strong blast, took aim, and released the pent-up energy. But he felt it remain behind his corneas, summoned but unreleased. In frustration he tore off his visor, but he might as well have been wearing a Genoshan collar for the good it did him.

"Stop, Dayspring." A snapped command, angry. The first Scott had ever heard leave the mutant's mouth. Cable too seemed surprised, but he shook his head, eyes still glazed.

" . .. why . . . are you . . .?" Sudden realization dawned on his face. "No!" A sudden blaze of gold.

"You leave me no other option." A twitch of a lip, almost distasteful.

Cable almost leapt off the ground, back constricting like Apocalypse's had done when the toxin had finally reduced him. Nathan's heels and shoulderblades made contact with the floor, the rest arched off the gouged metal, arms rigid and splayed at his side, and his mouth was open in a silent scream -

White, hot pain, and Scott remembered no more.

* * * * * * *

Sam would have hollered if he could have, Cable's voice, Domino's sudden, last headshake, her body finally relaxing, free of the pain that was tormenting her. For a moment he thought maybe Blaquesmith had done something, knocked her out, taken the pain away like Mrs. Summers had probably been doing -

But Domino was so still.

Sam blinked, swallowed, watched - nothing. He snatched her wrist, digging his fingers into her skin, aware of how soft and flexible it was compared to his own. Where his dry skin had cracked in the desert there was a clear fluid seeping out, and a permanent dizziness. He knew he couldn't feel very well, didn't have that much of a sense of touch, but he tried anyway, vainly.

He probably didn't have the strength for CPR, and besides, if Blaquesmith had killed her, there wasn't anything in the world that would bring her back. A telepath's version of murder was always very permanent.

Sam lifted his eyes to Cyclops, ripping off his visor, staring at Blaquesmith - but nothing happened. Gambit was standing stock-still, a man who spotted a rattlesnake just before he might have stepped on it. Cable . . .

Cable jerked off the ground in such a familiar way that Sam flinched, watching in horror. Blaquesmith had been speaking, he was _doing_ that to Cable! He had attacked him - why would he -

A loud blast to his right. Sam yanked his eyes away from Cable, face upside-down and facing him in a scream that just hadn't found its voice yet. He was so _helpless_ -

Scott had been running, was now falling, a thin smoke rising from his back. Sinister lowered his hand.

Sam yelled then, he yelled with all his might, making just enough sound to attract the attention of Blaquesmith. Cable hit the floor with a strangely metallic clatter, eyes still open, jaw hanging slack. Blaquesmith had . . . had . . .

No. He couldn't have.

Scalphunter had approached Gambit, still frozen in the Askani tutor's grasp, and struck him efficiently, viciously across the temple with a gun he then used to simply shoot Logan point-blank in the chest. The bodies still remained standing, still curiously ready to spring forth, but eyes drooped, breathing slowed.

Blaquesmith didn't even glance at him, letting the mutants slide from his telekinetic grip. His eyes were only for Essex.

"You will not succeed with this endeavor. It is he you underestimate."

Essex was still, but Sam got the impression of an expansive shrug. "We shall see."

Blaquesmith merely stared at him, and Sinister raised a hand at his side, palm to the ground. "Do you mean to interfere?"

Silence. "I cannot."

"You will not."

"Your life and death must follow as closely in this timeline as in mine, or we have struggled in vain."

Essex appeared to consider this comment deeply. "A warning?"

"A truth."

Blaquesmith turned, gesturing with a strange, small hand, and Cable's body floated upwards, stopping at waist-height to drift seemingly of its own accord to the Askani master. Sam watched it, unaware he was holding his breath until his lungs began to ache.

Surely it wasn't . . . surely he hadn't . . . like Domino . . .

But no. Under his crushing grip, he could feel the tiniest of movements. It could have been his own pulse, he was crushing her wrist, cutting off circulation, it wasn't hers -

When Cable reached Blaquesmith's hand, the two vanished in a flash of light, leaving Sam alone with the Marauder and the geneticist.

Neither seemed particularly interested in him. They surveyed the unconscious X-Men, Sinister with a passing glance but Scalphunter a more penetrating one. It found Sam and settled on him like pouring sand, gaining weight, suffocating him.

Sam took a breath, only a little hitch in it, and Scalphunter blinked.

"What about him?"

Sinister gave Sam a cursory glance, reaching down to pick up the limp body of En Sabah Nur. "Bring him."

* * * * * * *

The PACRAT was very quiet. It was a lot like the trip up had been, each person alone with their thoughts.

Now it was still for much the same reason.

Proudstar was on the medbed, the IV line swinging gently as the PACRAT cut smoothly through the air. Terry was piloting, Dani by her side. Neither seemed badly injured.

Odd that the men had taken the beating, Paige thought to herself, using what cold water could be found to cool Warpath's burns.

Julio had also gotten burned, though not as badly; his was a moderate sunburn compared to the blistering she was seeing on Jimmy. It wasn't the first time she'd treated burns. The twins had leaned on the wood-burning stove when they were toddlers and cooked their behinds quite well before realizing it and running through the house squalling.

She dipped the wide square of gauze into the syringe tray, soaking up more of the water, patting the burns that seemed the hottest. Water wasn't the best thing to use on burns, but it was the best they could do at the moment. Hopefully Dr. McCoy was still at the house, having someone well used to their medical equipment would be a great help.

Well, she supposed Teri and Dani also knew their way around the medbay, but it was new equipment for Paige herself. She would be better suited riffling through the evidence Shatterstar had had the presence of mind to grab.

Not all of it. Not the stuff Dani had been fishing for. And once the place had gone down . . . retrieving it had been out of the question. Good thing about living in Cumberland - wrong side of the state for the New Madrid fault. Unfortunately, it was the right side of the state to hit the Southern Appalachian fault. Or rather, seismic zone. It extended down Kentucky's eastern border down into Tennessee in a broad parallelogram.

It wasn't as active as the New Madrid, and very strange since it was one of the few in the world that existed without two tectonic plates meeting below it. The mines and caves in the areas gave evidence that it had at one time been very active, and many blamed them for the earthquakes - the biggest in recent history had been only a 4.6. Unlike the 8.3s that leveled New Madrid.

What had hit them the second time had been a lot stronger than a 4.6. Unless all they felt was the collapsing of the sinkhole?

Shatterstar had turned on the news as soon as he'd gotten on the plane, but so far nothing was being reported that she'd heard. Then again, she was paying it little attention. As was 'Star; he had since passed out, and now sat straight up in his seat, jaw clenched and hands near his swords even in sleep. She had no doubt the landing would not wake him; she wasn't sure an explosion would. She had tried to dress still-oozing wounds but he had turned down her attentions with a brief explanation that it was unnecessary.

Terri glanced back now and then, but if she were worried about him she hadn't mentioned it. It was Richter she was watching, Ric and Jimmy.

Julio was in many ways worse off than Jimmy. He was laid across two seats, an IV bag dangling from the rear atmospheric controls, covered in a blanket. His temperature had plummeted with his blood pressure, a sure symptom of shock, and Terry had decided to keep him sedated, lest he try to use his powers on the plane itself.

She wondered what his powers had already done.

She wondered if X-Force even really cared.

Then again, it wasn't a fault line known for devastating cities, either. She just couldn't believe there was so little . . . interest in what they might have done.

She couldn't believe she'd really had her part in it.

Another glance at Shatterstar, nodding ever so slightly with the slight turbulence.

* * * * * * *

In so many ways it was the same.

Nathan ached to stretch his arms, ached to see, needed to see with such a frantic intensity that he'd been rubbing his closed eyes as hard as he could just to cause the white spots to fly by, blinding him, forming fractals as he squeezed them shut.

It was all almost metaphorical, of course; he hadn't any eyes.

Nor any fingers. Or arms. Nothing, in fact, but awareness of the vast, silent darkness.

And that was one thing he could have lived without. Or maybe not. Maybe that was the point.

It was likely it was only partially the point. In the 20th, even before, it had been the habit to lock particularly difficult prisoners into a space of confinement, isolated from any person, most sound, any sort of contact. To sit with their thoughts until they broke themselves. To contemplate their fate until their contemplator fractured.

This silence was total. It was more than mindblind. Here there was no hint of anything else, ever. Everything stretched out endlessly in this, there weren't even any borders. He couldn't stretch his aching arms, he felt as though he were locked in a clothing trunk, but if he did reach out, there wasn't so much as a boundary.

Here, there was here. And that was all.

Emotions were difficult to muster, and they changed nothing. Everything brought with it a fear of the same continuing. Anticipation for something to break, only to have that anticipation die away. Everything in this place died away but the growing, frantic need to stretch out. He had been confined too long, something truly terrifying, painful, something unalterably _wrong_ was going to happen if he didn't stretch out his arms.

But he couldn't. Boundaries that weren't prevented him. Even his voice was silent.

Like Sam's voice. Silent. Always silent. Always here.

But maybe there was something to be done for Sam's voice. Maybe there was some strange hope . . . Maybe if Sam came here, and was allowed to stretch his arms again, his voice would return. It would find him here, stick to him like glue when he finally left.

Bright Lady, how his arm hurt!

There was no breathing, here. No heartbeat. There was no warm or cold. No desire to do anything besides leave. No sight. No taste. No mouth, just hands that touched nothing, eyelids that could be rubbed until the bright spots blinded.

But it wasn't really seeing. It wasn't really there.

Because there was here, and here was nothing.

Let me go, he thought at it, but it was unmoving. Let me go.

Let me go, pipe-crawler! Let me go!

It wasn't right! It wasn't right . . . Domino. Bright Lady, Domino. He had done nothing. Hadn't even tried to shield her from the pain when Jean went down. Hadn't gotten it together, too much pain of his own, too afraid to touch her mind again, in case . . . in case . . .

But he shouldn't have left it for Blaquesmith. The Askani should have waited, waited for him. He would have, he just needed a little more time.

A little more time . . .

His arm throbbed, and he cradled it to his body. Bright Lady above, he just needed a little while to face things, just a little while longer to consider it all, to make the right choice. Just . . . had it been a battle, had it been somewhere with him and her and a wound that would never heal, he could have. She would have wanted him to, told him to.

She hadn't told him to. She was afraid. She was afraid of the pain, she was afraid of him.

Just a little while longer, a little less fear. Going into the unknown with a little less of that terror, that unseeing, blind fear that he'd never imagined she could feel. Jen . . . she'd been afraid too. Afraid for Tyler. Afraid for him.

Not afraid of him.

Let me go . . . please just let me go!

Sam was afraid. Helpless, at the mercy of those that had none at all. Afraid of what had happened to his family. No time to tell him they were all right, no time to prove it. No Sam to bring back to Lucinda. No team leader. A little husk that had once been a man. A feeble remnant that had once been a son.

A bird with no voice. A bird with clipped wings.

No! Sam is stronger than that! he screamed. He screamed without a voice.

He was afraid.

His arm throbbed, no beat to it. Unable to predict the pain, to get ready for it, it was overwhelming. He couldn't even feel the pain it was so strong. He couldn't even see because colors were too bright. He couldn't even hear because sound was so deafening.

He couldn't even feel because his fear was all-consuming.

* * * * * * *

Blaquesmith had long ago learned to desensitize himself. Countless battles, countless deaths, countless tiny tortures had made it all too clear he needed to find a way to shield himself when things got too intense, too . . . too difficult.

This was the most difficult thing he had ever done.

He had long since demanded to be left alone with the Askani'son, but even through the door he knew the cries could be heard. He had put Nathan as deep as he dared, to slow the virus, to slow cellular respiration. To dull the pain, he had possessed the mind.

Nathan was crying.

He'd always loved Dayspring's mind. It was sometimes a cluttered place, but underlying it all was a sunny golden glow of power and confidence. He had a sense of self-worth, a sense of purpose. He rose with the sun each morning to accomplish things.

That glow was gone. And it had no intention of rekindling.

The insectisoid tutor shifted, allowing more blood flow to his legs, bent almost double over the Askani'son, the cries washing over his face to reverberate around the stone room. Bright Lady, he was begging.

To allow him to leave, to 'wake,' it was unthinkable. The pain itself would simply drive him mad. He was already so close . . . he had always been close. Too much responsibility. Too much training. Too little reacting.

Nathan had shields too, and they were simply too effective.

Deep within that screaming mind, Stryfe was curled in a ball, aware of the pain without being party to it. He reacted strongly against Blaquesmith, but his prison was too complete. Rachel had left very precise instructions, they had to be obeyed.

Stryfe had to remain. His part was not yet finished. Once more, fretting upon the stage. Apocalypse's words, remembered with perfect clarity in that fracturing mind.

Blaquesmith indulged in a short cursing session. Lying on that metal, back against the stone. No, the battle had gone badly. Nathan was not ready. Too worried about the others, he'd frozen for the first time in combat, then. Because of others. Because of himself. Because of his own fear. Fear that was rolling off him in broken, rasping cries.

He was begging for release, and it wasn't because his mind was under the control of another.

No, Nathan was not ready. Those ties that he had discouraged. Domino, particularly. He had loved her as he had loved Aliya. The Askani sister that some part of him had always known was there to keep him in line.

His team. He considered them his 'kids.' Blaquesmith smiled softly, finishing the next tributary in the channel that would soon be complete, ready for the first tricklings of telekinetic energy. His love for those young people was light, just being reminded brought a brief flicker of distraction. They would do him damage, take focus from his mission.

But Nathan wasn't ready to lose them, not yet.

He put Nathan a bit deeper, lessened the pain for him a bit more, steadied the mind as it made a further drop. He was walking a very fine line, he was dangling their last hope just a few breaths from death. A mistake would cost them everything. He felt the sweat dripping from his nose, striking Nathan on the face, receiving no reflexive reaction at all. His eyes were half-open, eyelids too relaxed to remain closed, and an almost constant stream of tears trickled to meet the sweat, running down his swollen cheeks, pooling in his ears and staining his hair.

Blaquesmith remained bowed over him, noses almost touching. Breathing the same air.

Nathan, I regret this.

But you must remain. Your task is not yet done.

* * * * * * *

Sam watched Arclight dully as she hauled the body in like a heavy set of dry cleaned clothes in a plastic cover.

It wasn't a bad comparison. Mrs. Jean Grey-Summers looked as though she'd been steamed and pressed. Her face was almost perfect, only the thinnest line of red testament to what the Dark Rider had done to her. The blood had been cleaned from her body, and her uniform had been cleaned of dust, though it was a bit tattered in places.

She was laid on the cadaver table beside Scott, not too roughly. They had been covered with ivory sheets, and the metal daises glowed fitfully, heating coils maintaining body temperature so they would not chill.

It was a morgue. Sam was certain. It was the only reason there would be six tables of that style in one room. Five were occupied, though he was the only one aware of it.

The X-Men were sedated. They'd been kept unconscious since before their trip back to Sinister's lab, and Sam was pretty sure they'd remain that way until Essex decided to return them to the School For Gifted Youngsters - if he ever did intend it.

Logan was the one they paid the most attention to, but a strange, slender silver collar and intravenous injection of a yellow solution was keeping him just breathing. Gambit, Scott, both injected every six hours on the hour. It would be the same with Jean.

And in these last fourteen hours, no one had touched him. The Marauders had said boo occasionally, but not a finger was laid on him, not a drug injected.

It was as though they were purposefully keeping him awake.

"You look so lonely over there, sweat pea."

Sam closed his eyes.

"Oh, that's not very polite. I guess we have been neglecting you."

Footsteps, so painfully familiar his shoulderblades hurt slightly in sympathetic memory. She was right next to him, he could feel her breath on his face, gentle, cool.

"Come on now, Sammy baby. After all we've been through?"

The sound of her pulling out a tray at the counter, the sounds of a liquid being sloshed around.

"Awww. Whassamatter? You want to be tucked in like the rest of the X-heroes? Want a little blue pill to make it all go away?"

Sam strove not to move.

A tinkling laugh. "It's just milk, little one. It won't kill you, we don't import it from England."

Sam tried not to listen to the liquid swooshing invitingly in the cup, it sounded like it was right in his ear. His throat tightened eagerly.

"Although we do only keep it around for white Russians . . . get it?" Another laugh. "Well, it's here by your face when you decide to stop being too scared to piss yourself." The tone had gone from wheedling to vicious. "And you're a team leader. It's rich, really it is." The conversational tone was back. "It's like letting Scrambler make the decisions around here."

Sam refused to rise to the bait. If she thought he was too afraid to do anything, let her. He wasn't, there was just no point in having a conversation if half of it couldn't even _speak_.

Right. That was exactly why he remained perfectly still as her footsteps gradually faded out to the main hall.

* * * * * * *

Terry uncurled herself ever so slowly, muscles screaming their protest. The com center chairs were anything but comfortable, and spending only a few hours in them was backbreaking to anyone but James and Shatterstar.

What news there was was in. No point in staying up the rest of the night as they revised the numbers.

Unless they found a hospital out in the middle of nowhere had collapsed with a children's ward full of children, it hadn't been bad. Tremors had been felt through Kentucky, as far as Memphis in Tennessee, and in a pretty fair representation of a circle. Despite the fact that the tremors had reached the New Madrid fault, her first panicked assumption, there was no report of any activity and dozens of seismologists had gone on the air to guarantee it wasn't enough to shift the fault.

The claimed highway traffic during the holidays had a better chance of causing an earthquake on that fault than the six point two that had rocked eastern Kentucky and Tennessee.

Homes had collapsed near the epicenter, traffic accidents, broken water mains. Some places had temporarily lost power. A sinkhole had swallowed a sidewalk and part of a telemarketing business, but the injuries had been minimal. Two deaths blamed on the earthquake, both senior citizens who had been rushed to the hospital with heart attacks.

They'd gone wrong somewhere.

She defended her pairing. Ric and Shatterstar were a good team, but she needed a trustworthy team member at her back. No offense to Husk, who had had an excellent run last night - now two nights ago, a glance at the clock told her - but she needed a level-headed fighter with her in case their powers had failed.

And Jimmy was a heavy hitter, powers or no. He was supposed to defend Rictor, as Shatterstar was supposed to protect her. Dani was just as capable without powers, as was Paige since she'd already husked. Both could take care of themselves.

How had it happened? She had split off on her own, Paige had met no trouble. It wasn't that they'd split up, Jimmy and Ric. And Rictor wasn't the best hand-to-hand fighter, but he fought dirty, and he knew his way around a gun. However good the hired guns were, they can't have been that good. Surprise? But why, if they'd cleared the room? Dani confirmed it.

Unless they'd just been sloppy?

Terry clambered wearily out of the chair, towards the medbay. Dr. McCoy had not been enthusiastic at seeing their injured. Not in the least. Cable had found or brought or perhaps built some very state of the art equipment, and the burns, while extremely bad, didn't require grafts because of that equipment. Dr. McCoy knew his way around the lab, it was saving them from sending him to a hospital and using the DaCosta money to keep them quiet.

She was very grateful for him right now.

The medbay doors opened to admit her, and she stared around the small room, woefully crowded. Internal bleeding on Julio had meant surgery, and Dani had assisted. The Cherokee was sleeping in her room now, she'd been exhausted after the operation. Terry was sure it took immense concentration to assist McCoy; Jimmy had looked wiped after Tabitha's.

She'd gone over the footage, watched the damage. She hadn't wanted to see what Richter looked like on the inside.

McCoy was nowhere to be seen, so she walked up to Tab's bedside. The girl looked almost exactly as she had when they left, and Terry smiled down at her, patting her shoulder. She didn't wake.

"Y'missed quite a show," she murmured. "We found the ones who attacked Sam." Her smile slipped and faded. "We didn't get what we needed, though. They were . . . we underestimated them. Verra badly."

Yes, Ryan McPhearson taking poison had been an eye-opener. They hadn't even gotten his fingerprints, whoever he'd been.

Whoever he'd been, he might not have had any.

"So it looks like you'll get yuir chance to pound on them some other time." She leaned over the bed, kissing the other woman softly on the forehead before looking over her, at Jimmy and Ric. Both were stable, though almost invisible from the stomach up for the equipment around them. Dr. McCoy had brought almost every available piece of equipment to work on them both, and she didn't doubt they'd needed it.

Without Sam here. Without Cable or Domino here. With her in the lead.

Three of the team down.

Tabitha isn't your fault, her mind admonished. Even Cyclops of the X-Men had been present when that had happened. She had saved Lucinda Guthrie, it hadn't even been a battle. A cowardly shot intended to lure the X-Men away.

Terry leapt upwards with a stifled shriek as a hand came down on her shoulder. Muffled just in time; a glass jar full of gauze hit the tile floor with a loud shatter that Terry was sure would wake the dead.

"I'm sorry," Paige began, already flinching back, but Terry just raised her hand.

"Yuir fine. I didn't hear ye come in."

"Sorry," she apologized again quickly, "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's no bother. What can I do for you?" She went to the closet, grabbing the broom out of the closet. The gauze was useless now, too much of a risk of glass pieces in it. The sight of it brought an irrational urge to cry.

"I was going through the evidence we grabbed . . . nothing in it is particularly incriminating except . . ." she was shuffling through papers, "this."

Terry glanced at the sheet of paper, a list of many-digit numbers and three letters beside each one. "I -"

"Coordinates. Global positioning information."

Terry stopped dead, then turned to look at Paige. "For?"

The young Southern woman looked particularly grim. "I think you should see for yourself."

* * * * * * *

"Concentrate."

Every last bit of it was gone. It was as though the link had never been.

"Dayspring."

Even the stump, the part of his mind that had reshaped itself around that bridge, it was smooth and solid, an unmolded piece of clay.

"Dayspring!"

She was gone.

And he had to go back. He had to go back to a place where she wouldn't be.

A telepathic swat, a swift hand on the bottom of a misbehaving child.

Nathan turned on her like a kicked door. All the force that had been used against him was visited on her full in the face, telekinetic as well as telepathic, he knocked the Askani sister clear across the tent.

"I understood the lesson two moths ago," he told her in a dangerously quiet voice, watching without changing his meditative position as she slowly rightened herself, touching her nose as though she couldn't really believe the blood was hers.

"Did you really," was her only response, and something in it made him snap.

"Yes!" He was on his feet, he had her on the ground, squirming beneath a crushing blanket of his newly-responsive telekinesis. The new channel burned with the power he was pushing through it, it burned like someone pushing a lit cigarette through his ear. Everything that came in contact shriveled away, blackening and steaming, hissing.

The pain only goaded him, enraged him.

"I understood it years ago! Years! When I choose to disobey, it isn't because I'm not _concentrating!_" It wasn't enough, to watch, to use his mind. Too much manipulation, too much of it mental. He leaned down, picking up the coughing sister, one hand tightly gripping her short hair as he dragged her to her knees.

"It is my _choice!_ It is my choice that means the difference between this timeline and the next, and if you don't want me to have that choice, you should have taken it from me long ago!" He was shaking her as though she were irritating sand that had crept into his boot, bloody sand, sand - he released her, suddenly sickened. He staggered back, staring at her, blood spread across her face, her eyes wide with fright.

Blue. A light blue, almost a lavender. Not violet. They weren't violet.

Were they?

Sand, and blood, and violet eyes.

The tent flap flung itself aside, the brisk steps faltering. He knew who it was, he didn't even have to look. More motion. More stumbling steps.

More disbelief.

He didn't care. He stared at those light blue eyes, just a hint of purple within them. No longer afraid. No longer even looking him in the eye.

"Nathan."

Soft. A voice he had come to obey, if not trust. A voice that brought with it the comforts of control and discipline. A voice that had betrayed him. As he had betrayed so many others.

The power of the moment crumbled, leaving him weak-kneed as the pain in his head finally let itself be known. He might have fallen had he not grabbed the tent support, and he leaned on it heavily, no longer seeking the Askani sister's eyes.

"Get out," he rasped. And she all but fled.

A silent bell tolled and the other Askani turned on their heels and left the tent. Only Blaquesmith remained.

Nathan kept his breathing under control by sheer will.

Silence.

The wood of the tent support was smooth, worn by many years of the wind scraping sand across the surface. It smelled achingly familiar, and Nathan closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against it as he inspected the damage his lack of control had wrought.

"Let's have a look at that," Blaquesmith said, softly.

* * * * * * *

Sam didn't dare to believe it when the familiar morning sounds reached his ears. It was cold, far too cold, he shivered, taking a deep breath -

Hay.

His eyes shot open. He must have fallen asleep, he still felt so groggy, it couldn't really be hay, it must be-

Hay.

Well, mostly straw. There was light slanting in beautiful vertical stripes above him, the wood pulled apart by long years of hot summers and icy winters. He lay in a bed of straw, heard it rustling as others moved, came awake -

"Door t'door service," Logan grunted, and Sam turned his eyes to watch the mutant head immediately towards Jean. She looked none the worse for wear, no worse than the last Sam had seen her. She was still unconscious, and beside her Scott stirred, hand already twitching towards his visor even in semi-awareness.

"How y'doin', Sam?" The concerned eyes in his face.

"Ah'm alright," he said. He knew he wasn't making any more noise than air going over non-vibrating strips of flesh, so the effect was less than a stage whisper. But Logan could hear him, and his frown was softened a little by a corner-quirk.

"We'll see what Hank can do about that."

Even being picked up was a dizzying experience, and Sam reflected that accepting some sort of treatment wouldn't have been the end of the world. His skin was oozing off, which made no sense as he was so dehydrated. His throat was tight, it hurt, and he wondered if his uvula was dangling where it was supposed to be or all shriveled. A swallow.

And Sam was gripped with a set of dry heaves. Constricted at the stomach in, painful, he couldn't breathe. Frantic. His throat was glued shut, stuck to itself on what little moisture it had brought up from his stomach. He felt himself pawing at it, trying to swallow again.

Another spasm, but at the end he felt the skin of his throat pulling apart like two magazine pages adhered together with rubber cement. It left him gasping for air, feeble, thin tears streaming down his face.

"Okay, Sam, I gotcha, let's getcha in the house -"

* * * * * * *

"This is the last time I ask if my day can get any worse," McCoy muttered some time later, slipping the last of a syringe full of electrolytes and glucose into Sam's too-prominent veins, ever so slowly depressing the plunger.

"It could be worse than this." Yes, it could have been a lot worse. "Hank, I need you to do a complete physical on all of us. Does this house have the equipment -?"

"Sufficient to give me preliminary data, quite." He gave his friend a reassuring nod. "Though instincts assure me that I shall not discover a thing." The surgery on Jean had been one of the best he'd ever seen. Sinister had sped along her healing, but the reconstructive surgery that had been required for her had to have been done manually. Essex was a very talented surgeon.

Scott scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

Time for the difficult questions. "I see Cable and Domino seem to have parted your company at some point." He said it very lightly. Hank hadn't gotten a good look at Domino before Scalphunter had made his presence known, but the blood, the area in which it was flowing so heavily, the insinuated damage - he would have been surprised if she'd returned with them.

Then again, if Sinister could reconstruct a face, there wasn't any reason he couldn't deconstruct a skull.

"Domino is dead." His tone was flat and without inflection. "Nathan and Blaquesmith had a disagreement, but I'm assuming Nate lost." He was going to use every last one of Xavier's tools to locate a chronovariant and he was going to get his son back no matter what it cost him.

Hank continued to slowly let the contents of the 60 cc syringe trickle into Sam's bloodstream. A more watered-down version was in the IV bag, but his system needed this to continue running to the point it could even deal with saline. Right now Sam was too dehydrated to absorb water.

"I am sorry to hear that," he said softly.

"So am I." Scott yanked off his visor, rubbing his face vigorously. "Apocalypse is dead, as well. I think."

Somehow the triumph rang very hollow - the words didn't even see to make sense. "Do you expect we'll ever see Nathan again?"

Scott patted Sam on the arm, hand shaking just slightly, and he turned on his heels and left the medbay.

* * * * * * *

Essex turned away from the gel tube, watching the body slowly rise with the aeration process, and headed towards the computer bay. A few commands, the timer set.

No more distractions.

His steps carried him quickly through his labs, his home. His territory. He'd designed it down to the angle and its global position during all months of the year. His work.

He threatened it now, threatened everything. For something so much bigger than the huge, echoing hallways, the equipment and the decades of research.

The door he wanted was just off from the regenerative complex, and he hissed and hydraulically locked his way through the massive sections of security, three separate four-door-ed chambers, finally entering the observation room.

The room below him was blue, almost like a swimming pool, and it reflected on his alabaster skin, making him look frigid, drowned. The gray skin seemed to soak it up, it somehow made him seem more solid.

Sinister leaned down, holding the intercom button with a perfectly steady index finger.

"Good morning, Nur."

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