Fugue: X-Men
Chapter 1
by
Duchess of the Dark
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel Comics and Fox. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. Helena Draven and her 'remembered' friends are mine.
Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. Alternative scenario of the movie.
Notes: Loved it? Loathed it? Tell me please... Although I'm a 'struggling writer' by trade, this is my first fanfic.This assumes the events in "X-Men" take place around 2010. Sorry if I screw with the geography of Canada, it wasn't my strongest subject in school! If you don't understand the English slang, email me. Text in Italics indicates thought. Italic text in apostrophes 'italic' indicates telepathic conversation. Oh, and my Logan is tall, dammit!! Can't be doing with short-arse men.
Inwardly fuming, outwardly scowling fiercely enough to melt glass, Logan glanced at the cold, scared teenager who sat next to him. Huddled inside her travel-filthy coat on the trailer seat, she was warming her hands on the small fan heater in the dashboard. She had just inhaled a full packet of chocolate cookies with the voracious appetite of someone unaccustomed to true hunger, cramming them into her mouth with thankful little sighs. He knew she was a mutant, had known since he took a good noseful of her scent back in Loughlin City. She had got herself mixed up in a scuffle between him and some disgruntled cage fighters who had realised he was a mutant. He had popped his claws and ended the matter, bisecting the bar owner's shotgun along the way. The kid, who called herself 'Rogue', confirmed she was a mutant when he had reached out to pull her freezing hands to the heater and she jumped like a scalded cat.
"Relax, kid," he had said. "I ain't gonna hurt yer."
"Something happens when people touch my skin. They get hurt," she had whispered in her soft Southern drawl, not elaborating any further.
Turning on the wipers to clear some of the snow from the windscreen, he reflected on how he had managed to pick up another stray. She had hidden in the bike trailer attached to the back, shivering under the tarpaulin until he had stopped and discovered her stowing away.
"Get out," he had ordered, throwing her lumpily-packed bag on the hard snowy ground.
"Where'm ah supposed t'go?" she had asked, obediently clambering out of the bike trailer.
"I dunno," he had shrugged.
The kid had fixed him with huge, melting brown eyes, pleading, begging him not to leave her behind.
"You dunno, or you don't care?"
"Pick one," he had snapped, disregarding her sudden, involuntary flinch.
Turning his back, he had stalked back to the driver's side, leaving her abandonned in the middle of the road, facing a long hard trek in the bitter cold and snow to the nearest town.
"Ah saved ya life!" she had cried desperately.
"No yer didn't," he had growled.
A hundred yards down the snow-packed road, seeing her forlorn figure in the rearview mirror, he had stopped and let her get in. Feeling the nervous, curious glances she was flicking at him, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. She had already asked him about his claws, ironically enough asking if they hurt.
This is yer fault, Hels, he thought accusingly. Yer've turned me into a push-over. I may as well start a damn menagerie for runaway mutie kids with puppy-dog eyes.
Peering through the thickening snowfall for the turn-off he wanted, he turned to Rogue, who shrank back in her seat the merest fraction. She trusted him more than she did the rednecks in the bar, but was still unsure. Like many teenagers who suddenly found themselves developing mutant powers, she was jumpy and uncomfortable around people.
"Just gonna pick up a friend," he informed her tersely.
The teenager's chocolate brown eyes widened and she stiffened, fearfully imagining what kind of 'friend' it could be. She was a long way from her home and family, having got so far on luck and a stash of saved pocket money, but all the instructions about not trusting strangers because of the horrible things that happened to young girls were at the forefront of her mind.
"Relax, kid," Wolverine said for the second time. "You'll like her. . . she's English."
Rogue looked less uneasy at the prospect, working on the naive assumption that another woman would not do anything nasty to her. Looking through the snowy windscreen, she spied a lone figure in an ankle-length leather coat and thick hat pulled down over her ears, a bulky bag at her feet. Behind her, indistinct in the near distance, was another ramshackle bar with a neon Canadian Gold sign in the window. The camper sighed to a grumbling halt and she stepped up to open the door. She stopped short and looked at Rogue, her eyebrows disappearing beneath the cuff of her black fur deerstalker hat. The Southern girl looked back and swallowed, squirming at the piercing scrutiny of her clear hazel green eyes.
"Are yer gettin' in or what?" Wolverine demanded.
Shuffling along to allow the other woman in, Rogue found herself sandwiched between two people she did not know - at least one of whom was an extremely dangerous mutant. The dangerous mutant in question grunted disparagingly and restarted the trailer. Eyes softening, the English woman pulled off her hat as they moved away, releasing an unruly mass of very long curling brown hair.
"Marie, isn't it?" she asked, her accent completely incongruous to the Canadian wilds. Her gaze grew momentarily distant, eyes making small, involuntary tracking movements. "Why d'you call yourself 'Rogue' when you've got such a pretty name?"
Startled, heart suddenly pounding, Marie's brown eyes flew up, fingers screwing the fabric of her coat. The English woman laid a soothing hand on her arm and smiled.
"It's alright," she reassured. "I'm in the same club as Logan there." She tapped a leather-gloved finger to her temple. "I'm telepathic. I sometimes forget myself and say things to people I shouldn't."
"Damn right," he growled, shooting her a disbelieving glower.
Ignoring the comment, she peeled off her gloves and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, sticking her tongue out at him when he turned his attention back to the road. Looking at Rogue, she winked, causing her to bite her lip so she did not grin.
"I'm Helena," she said. "And I'm far nicer than that grouchy bugger sat next to you. . . less hairy, too."
Rogue stifled a giggle, deciding she liked the English mutant. For the first time in weeks, she felt almost secure. Drawn to Wolverine, despite the brutality he had displayed cage fighting and the metal claws he had nearly taken out a man's throat with, she had gained a ride and possibly two friends.
"I'd like to tell you he doesn't bite," Helena mock-whispered conspiratorially, nodding towards him. "But I'd be lying."
Fishing in her bag, she produced a red thermos flask, unscrewed the top and poured steaming tea into the cup. Handing it to Rogue, who gratefully folded her chilled fingers around it, she eyed her knowingly.
"So, d'you wanna tell us why a Southern girl like yourself is in Canada in the depths of the big freeze?"
Sipping hot tea, feeling it thaw her from the inside out, Marie shook her head quickly. She had a feeling if she did try to explain, she would only start crying.
"Okay, sweetie," the English mutant comforted. "I understand. It's difficult for all of us when we find we can do things 'normal' people can't."
Drinking a little more tea, the teenager realised Helena knew she was a mutant and was not afraid of her. The thought was comforting. She began wondering what it was like to be able to read people's minds. Blowing on the tea, she was lost in a world of what-if's and possibilities.
'Where'd you pick this one up?'
Logan suppressed an instinctive jump as Helena's telepathic voice rang in his head. It always made him wince if he was not expecting it.
'Gimme a break, English. It's yer fault I've gotten soft. Anyway, she's out at the next town.'
Quiet laughter echoed in his mind, creating purple sparkles behind his eyes.
'Where've I heard that before? This poor kid's been through a lot, Logan - her mutancy is exceptionally dangerous. And yes, before you ask, I have been snooping in her head, but only a little - I do have ethics.'
Logan snorted out loud, causing Rogue to burn her tongue on her tea. Experimentally tonguing the roof of her mouth to assess the damage, she winced, finding an irregular smooth patch on the tip.
"Y'know," she observed, looking at them in turn. "Ya really should wear ya seatbelts."
Before either could respond, a massive dead oak tree toppled into the road directly before the trailer. Rogue cried out as the brakes screeched and the two seatbelt-less mutants shot head first through the windscreen in an explosive silver shower of broken glass. Thrown violently forward, the breath jarred from her lungs with the impact, she raised her head to see them lying motionless in the snow.
Lord, they're dead! she thought with rising panic, fumbling with her seatbelt.
Suddenly, Wolverine's arm twitched spasmodically and he levered himself up with a vicious curse. Crawling over to the English mutant, he brushed the uneven casing of snow from her face and helped her stand. Stunned, the Southern girl stared incredulously at them, watching their various facial wounds pucker and flawlessly seal in moments.
"Hey, kid!" he called, chest heaving, beard frosted with snow. "Y'alright?"
"I'm stuck!" she yelled back, tugging at the seatbelt, which obstinately refused to unfasten.
A strange, bestial musk reaching his sensitive nose, Wolverine's claws instinctively popped, echoed by Helena's. Alert for danger, acute senses straining for minute signs of whoever was concealed in the tangle of trees and bushes, they sniffed the air in unison.
"They're close," Helena hissed, shifting from foot to foot, eyes narrowed against the increasing blizzard. "I can smell them. . . over ther-"
With a resounding bass roar, a blond-maned giant dressed in shaggy tawny wolf furs leapt from the forest, swinging a large limbless tree trunk like a club. Caught squarely in the midsection, Logan catapulted backwards, landing on the bonnet of the trailer with a reverberating thud, clawed hands thrown out in seeming benediction. Bouncing heavily to the ground, he groaned and lay still. Long white fangs bared, the giant advanced on the English mutant, towering over her. He swung the trunk and missed as she threw herself flat, the dense wood whistling over her head. His eyes were unrelieved black, no iris, no white, simply solid shining jet.
Spitting out a mouthful of snow, fighting to rein in her fear, Helena concentrated on the log. The huge fanged mutant snarled as it was jerked out of his grasp by invisible hands, pitched away out of reach. Gritting her teeth, she launched herself at him, slashing for his throat with her adamantium claws. A rumbling sound akin to laughter issued from his chest and he lashed out, a lion lazily batting away a recalcitrant cub. Gasping at the sudden searing pain beneath her ribs, balanced by frigid winter air on skin, the English mutant heard the hissing pop of an igniting fire. She darted a glance back at the trailer, realising to her horror that the can of motor oil kept in the back had gone up and Rogue was trapped. Detecting new scents, she squinted through the blizzard at two black leather-clad forms, one white-haired, the other wearing some sort of visor. An immense dark-clawed paw caught her under the chin, violet stars exploding in her head, and everything went black.
* * * * *
Dr Jean Grey lifted the unconscious young woman's arm, manipulating the fingers and muscles of the wrist. When she failed to produce the deadly adamantium claws she knew lay concealed inside the deceptively slender limb, she raised an eyebrow and held up her hand. A hypodermic rose into the air from a small steel instrument cart and floated into her palm. She looked down at the comatose mutant, noting her athletic musculature. There was no sign of the gaping wound that had laid open her ribcage down to the bone. Slim, with pre-Raphaelite chestnut brown hair and a light dusting of freckles, she hardly seemed capable of taking on Sabretooth like Scott and Ororo had reported.
'You're lucky you have a healing factor,' Jean told her silently, slipping the needle into a vein to draw a blood sample. 'Or I would have been performing an autopsy.'
Rubbing at her neck, still feeling the impression of five iron fingers on her windpipe, she hoped this patient would be less volatile when she woke.
He can't be so bad, she thought. After all, he could of popped my skull with those claws and he didn't. I wonder what Magneto wants with them? Like the Professor says, there are more powerful mutants.
Like any cornered wild animal, the first clawed mutant, Logan, had attacked and fled through the shining metal sublevels. Guided up into the mansion building and into the Professor's classroom, he had stopped short when faced with a dozen curious teenagers and Xavier's benign gaze.
"What kinda place is this?" he had demanded, all coiled muscle and tension.
"You're in my School For The Gifted," Xavier had returned calmly, activating his wheelchair to drone out from behind the desk. "You'll be safe here from Magneto."
Logan's explosive hazel eyes had narrowed as if he was debating whether or not to leap across the room and pummel the bald scientist into unconsciousness as he listened to Xavier's explanation of events. His only concession to surprise had been when Kitty Pryde returned to collect a forgotten text book and phased straight through the door.
"Whatsa 'Magneto'?"
"A very powerful mutant. He believes that a war is brewing between mutants and the rest of humanity. I've been following his activities for some time. The man who attacked you is an associate of his called Sabretooth."
"Where's Helena and the kid?" he had growled, unimpressed. "If you've hurt. . . "
"They're quite well," Xavier had assured. "Helena has yet to wake, but Dr Grey tells me she will do so shortly. Rogue is attending class. You may see them whenever you wish."
Summoned by the Professor's inaudible telepathic call, the X-Men had entered the room to be introduced in turn. Logan had eyed them, instantly dismissing Scott Summers as a pretty-boy, but becoming more interested when presented with Ororo's snow-haired exotic beauty.
"Storm, right? Sabretooth. . . " he had said, not making any attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he turned to the Professor. "Whadda they call you - Wheels? This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Recalling his gaze travelling appraisingly over her, lingering over her hips, Jean chided herself for feeling a small charge of excitement. She was used to attracting admiring looks, but coming from the feral, wild-haired mutant, it had almost made her blush. Knowing Scott had noticed Logan gazing frankly at her, his expression unreadable behind his ruby quartz glasses, Jean made a mental note to talk to him. She did not want a single lascivious glance to escalate into a jealous feud, which was more than likely if Logan kept goading him at every opportunity. At the moment, the Professor was taking him on a tour of the school and extensive grounds.
Easing the needle from the vein, watching as the tiny puncture instantly healed, Jean neatly labelled the sample and sent it zipping through the air to the test tube rack. Without warning, the prostrate woman sat bolt upright, her claws shooting from between her knuckles before her eyes had fully opened.
I should've expected this, Jean thought self-rebukingly, heart pouding as the adamantium talons missed her face by scant inches.
Leaping from the cold metal table to crouch in the corner, blazing hazel green eyes darting left to right, taking in the medical instruments and machines, the stark silvery alloy walls, the clawed mutant's gaze fell on Jean. Holding up her hands pacifyingly, she took a step towards her.
"It's alright," she said, seeing the other woman's eyes narrow dangerously. "You're safe. I'm a doctor."
As soon as she spoke, Jean inwardly kicked herself. Many mutants had more reason to distrust doctors than any other profession on earth. Very much awake, poised to attack or flee, the fierce spark of survival instinct and intelligence animating her features, the English mutant scowled. Moistening her dry lips, looking down at the flimsy hospital-style gown she wore, the young woman cleared her throat.
"Where am I?" she demanded in a soft English accent. "And who the bloody hell are you?"
Jean smiled warmly, relieved she had not been leapt upon and mauled, and ventured to approach and help her to her feet. Confused and highly suspicious, she allowed the assistance, but did not retract her claws. Pupils dilating, her forehead developed the concentrated wrinkle of a telepath attempting to sweep another's thoughts. Sensing her mind pushing against hers, Jean let down her mental shields a fraction, transmitting enough information to allay her fears.
"Xavier's School For The Gifted?" she repeated aloud, quizzically. "Dr Jean Grey?"
She retracted her claws with a sibilant metallic whisper and cocked her head enquiringly, pushing a wing of dark hair from her eyes. Of a considerably calmer temperament than her travelling companion, she appeared to consider her options, bouncing on her bare toes.
"So is the Prof really an industrial-strength telepath or what?"
Laughing, Jean took off her white labcoat and beckoned towards the door.
"Let me find you some clothes and I'll take you to meet him. . . and your bad-tempered friend."
Helena grimaced, noticing faint blue bruises developing on the doctor's throat. Slim and classically elegant in a tight red lambswool sweater and black knee-length skirt, she was collected and professional without seeming impersonal. Deciding to smile and nod in appropriate places, the English mutant followed her out of the medical bay.
* * * * *
Flanked by his X-Men, Charles Xavier regarded the twin X-ray images of a male and female skeleton on the overhead screen of the war room. Even an untrained eye would notice something unusual about them, from the tiny serial number on the base of the male skull to the peculiar opacity of the bones themselves.
"He appears to have had adamantium surgically laced to his skeleton," Jean was saying calmly, her cool professional veneer masking her abhorrence at what such an operation would have entailed.
"Experiments on mutants," Xavier said grimly, angry and disgusted. "It's not unheard of. But I've never seen anything like this before."
Visibly horrified, lustrous brown eyes crinkling beneath her shocking white hair, Storm looked from her to the Professor.
"How could he have survived the procedure?" she asked disbelievingly.
"Unchartered regenerative abilities," Jean clarified. "It also means we have no way of telling how old either of them are. . . . They could be older than you, Professor."
Xavier steepled his fingers before his nose reflectively, unsurprised by the revelation.
"There are more powerful mutants out there. Why should they be so important?" he mused aloud.
Cyclops gave a barely audible snort, arms folded across his chest.
"Maybe it's Logan's way with people."
The Professor turned to look at his protégé, sensing bubbling resentment and dislike. It was unusual for Summers to take an instant dislike to anyone.
"You don't like him?" he asked quietly.
"How could you tell?" Cyclops asked sarcastically.
"Well, I am psychic, you know," Xavier responded, displaying a shadow of dry humour.
Ruby quartz glasses winking in the subdued light, Scott relented and gave a brief smile, pointing at the second image of the female skeleton. Discernibly different from the first, it lacked serial numbers.
"What about the English girl?" he asked. "I'm no doctor, but her skeleton looks different."
Jean nodded, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
"Her skeleton seems to be coated somehow, rather than surgically augmented. There are no signs of invasive procedures or tool marks on the adamantium. My best guess is she somehow absorbed it, though all my preliminary tests indicate she is a just TP, TK mutant with a healing factor and enhanced senses - which is unusual in itself. Multiple-gifted mutants with physical and psychic abilities are relatively uncommon.The Professor thinks it's likely her X-gene has been tinkered with, which theoretically could produce anomalous one-off effects."
Listening to his X-Men discuss the two metal-boned newcomers, Xavier looked at the X-rays and flipped through copies of the test results.
What do you want with them, Erik? he thought. Of what possible use could they be? If it's their adamantium you want, there are easier ways to get it. Logan may side with you if approached in the right way, but Helena. . . no, she wouldn't, which makes it highly unlikely Logan would either. For all his faults, he's loyal to those he trusts. What do you want, Erik, what are you planning?
* * * * *
"Scott!" Jean flushed a pale raspberry pink and snatched her hands away from Logan's temples, head filled with painful surgical procedures, immersion tanks and restraints.
Cyclops looked from his fiancée to the infuriating slight grin on the muttonchop-bearded mutant's face, contemplating whether or not the Professor would fire him if he whipped off his ruby quartz Oakley glasses and killed him. Flustered, Jean edged past him and fled, her heels clicking on the dark varnished boards of the landing. The grin on Logan's face became wider as he saw how much he had provoked the straight-laced leader of the X-Men. Although Summer's expression remained carefully neutral, a change in his scent betrayed his irritation and instinctive male possessiveness.
"Yer going ta tell me ta stay away from yer girl?" he taunted.
Controlling his temper, he wondered why the clawed mutant nettled him so much. Other men had repeatedly tried and failed to steal Jean in the past and he had always dismissed the possibility one day someone might succeed. Logan looked like the persistant type.
"If I had to do that, she wouldn't be my girl," he responded evenly, ignoring the other man's wolfish smile as he turned to leave.
"Well, then I guess yer've got nuthin' ta worry about, do yer, Cyclops?"
Scott paused, feeling a sudden swell of anger in his chest. Against his better judgement, he turned back.
"It must burn you up that a boy like me saved your life, huh? Gotta be careful. Might not be there next time. Oh, and Logan - stay away from my girl."
Pointedly, he strode away, barely acknowledging the Canadian mutant's English travelling companion as he passed her on the stairs. Catching an impression of his emotions, Helena sighed, suppressing a smile. Making her way across the airy landing, savouring the mishmash of wood varnish, clean bedlinen from a nearby closet and the unique odour of a truly old building, she toed open the door of Logan's tiny attic room. Looking up, he inclined his head to invite her in, absently pulling at the wild points of his hair.
"Well, if you wanted to piss off Cyclops, congratulations," she remarked, stepping over the threshold.
Logan merely gave a wicked almost-smile in response, making her laugh in spite of her resolution not to do so. Plopping down onto the bed, hearing the worn springs squeak in protest, she crossed her ankles.
"This is new," he commented, peering into the recesses of the wardrobe, the open door releasing a waft of mothball odour.
"What?"
"You in somethin' other than black."
Helena's brows dipped, and she smoothed the emerald green sweater she was wearing.
"Okay, Jean Paul Gaultier - It's Jean's. . . and she's Scott's." The fact you wanna screw her until her head falls off is written across your forehead in twelve foot neon, you stupid bugger. There's at least three telepaths in this place and you're broadcasting lust like a longwave radio!
"So?" he countered, causing her to shake her head mock-dispairingly.
Watching as he thoroughly explored the small box room, opening the window to test for ease of exit, sniffing almost every surface, she waited until he had finished and sat heavily on the opposite side of the bed.
"Yer had the tour an' lecture?" he asked.
She nodded, "Yeah. All very laudable and super-heroish . . . I'd be suspicious if I wasn't so sure Xavier meant every word he said."
Logan frowned, but nodded in agreement, poking a lump out of the pillow. Outside on the landing, a trio of teenaged girls wandered noisily past, towels under their arms as they headed for the showers. Waiting until they had passed, the English mutant looked back, worry showing in her eyes. In her borrowed sweater and school-issue sweatpants, her hair untidily scraped into a ponytail, she looked like a student who had missed an assignment deadline.
"What does this Magneto character want with us?"
"Dunno, Hels," Logan shrugged nonchalantly. "I know one thing fer sure - if 'Sabretooth' shows up again, I'm gonna gut the fucker." Fer takin' me by surprise an' hurtin' you.
She shivered at the mention of the giant mutant's name, recalling the animal barbarity in his black mirror eyes, the almost complete absence of humanity. Seeing her hug her elbows as if to ward off cold, which due to her healing factor she did not really suffer with, he touched her shoulder.
"Hey - I won't let that overgrown hairball hurt yer again," he promised.
Shaking her head, she forced a smile, toying with the cuffs of her sweater. His sense of outrage at being caught out, for not being able to land so much as a retaliatory blow, was palpable.
"It's not that. . . " she broke off and shook her head again. "It's just when he jumped us. . . He recognised us, Logan - he knew who we were, especially you. I got the distinct impression you've had something to do with him in the past."
He stared at her, a certain dark quality to his expression communicating his certainty that whatever occurred involving Sabretooth could not be good. Looking back into the fractured abyss of his memory, at all the faceless things done to and by him, his hands curled into fists.
"Yer said he recognised you too?"
She nodded, troubled, thinking of the decade-long fissure in her own memory, wondering what she could have done in ten years that caused someone like Sabretooth to recognise her.
"Yeah, I didn't catch much of anything - but when he looked at me, he thought 'Raven'." She grinned humourlessly. "What is it with the silly code names, anyway?"
Both mutants were silent, pondering the ramifications, staring at their fists and the claws contained within.
"Jean and the Prof think somebody's been messing about with my X-gene," Helena said at length.
"That's what makes us muties, right?"
She nodded unhappily and swung her sneaker-clad feet, blowing out her cheeks.
"Yeah. . . Jean was twittering a load of scientific guff, going on about how that's the likeliest explanation of why I absorbed your adamantium. Genetic manipulation isn't an exact science, it can produce nasty surprises."
Logan frowned, his hand coming up to where he usually kept his cigars in his breast pocket. Realising he was wearing a school sweatshirt, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in his lap.
"Yer told her that? Dontcha think that's a bit risky? We don't know if we can trust these geeks," he growled.
"She knew anyway. They don't have all these medical machines for nothing."
Huffing dismissively at the back of his throat, Logan inclined his head thoughtfully.
"So all yer gifts could've been cooked up in a test tube?" he asked, sounding unconvinced.
Helena shook her head, then pulled a disgusted face and shrugged.
"Nah. They're more or less certain I've always been TP, TK with a healing factor - sommat about the base DNA sequences being almost impossible to artificially reproduce, i.e., you can tell if they're forced mutancies. It's just the whole absorbing the hardest metal in the world and producing an integral set of cutlery that's got one huge question mark over it." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Like I don't have enough question marks over me already. . . I also heard the Prof muttering about you."
The Canadian mutant shrugged unconcernedly, "Don't take a genius ta figure out somebody's been ta work on me, darlin'."
"Maybe," she allowed, then frowned and scrubbed at her face with the heels of her hands. "I dunno, all this heavy talk. I think I was happier living in blissful ignorance - now my brain is doing overtime with all these possibilities. Bloody Xavier and his half-arsed crusade."
Collecting herself, she looked up and forced her lips to curve in a poor imitation of a grin. Knowing the look in her eyes heralded mischief, Logan waited expectantly.
"D'you know something," she said conspiratorially. "I took a trip to the kitchens before and found where Cyke stashes his beer. It's not Canadian Gold, but it's cold and alcoholic. . . Shall we?"
Logan's face brightened at the prospect of drinking cool beer and annoying Summers in one fell swoop. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of the grey school-issue zip-up sweatshirt he wore, he sauntered to the door.
"That's the best idea I've heard all day, English."
* * * * *
Rogue watched as the two clawed mutants headed past the rec room door towards the kitchen and took another sip of her cherry Kool-Aid. She liked Helena a lot, she was funny and kind without being patronising, but also scary. Rogue found it difficult to reconcile her image of the black-clad, slightly eccentric Englishwoman with the cold adamantium claws she had extruded before lunging at Sabretooth like a cornered bird of prey. Logan was different. She had known he was dangerous from the moment she saw him dribble another man about like a football. He frightened her, but she was also drawn to him. Rogue sighed. She was just beginning to stop jumping at every little noise, but felt it had more to do with tiredness than anything else. Shunning a place on the three-seater couch directly before the television, she had pulled up a beanbag. The made-for-tv film they were watching had just been interupted by a newsflash announcement that Senator Kelly had been kidnapped by mutant subversives, prompting much muttering.
"Hey, d'you want some more ice in that?" Bobby Drake leaned over and flashed his cute baby-blues, already extending his hand to partially freeze her drink.
Murmuring her thanks, she listened to Kitty Pryde and Jubilation Lee chattering. Popping bright pink gum inbetween sentences, Jubilee gestured excitedly as she was speaking.
"She's gotta stud in her tongue, I saw it when she was talking to Miss Grey. How kewl is that?!" the Asian girl squealed, twirling a strand of her straight shiny black hair. "And that accent! It's almost better than the Professor's! She's not gorgeous like Miss Monroe, or classy like Miss Grey, but she's kewl and that's even better!"
Rogue fought back a wince. Jubilee was friendly, bubbly, excitable and tended to squeal a lot. Sticking a finger in her ear, Kitty wiggled it and grimaced.
"Adjust the volume, Jubes," she complained. "I don't think some people in Alaska heard you."
Jubilee pouted and dug her friend in the ribs, only to find her hand passing straight through as she phased. Both girls turned to Rogue with an expectant gleam in their eyes.
"So, Rogue. What's the story on big, silent and grouchy?" Kitty asked.
"Don't forget 'clawed'," Jubilee chimed in. "Does he have any piercings you wanna tell us about?"
To her dismay, Rogue blushed a shade brighter than her Kool-Aid. Kitty frowned and poked Jubilee in the stomach for embarrassing their new room-mate.
"Ah dunno," Rogue stammered. "Ah don't know anythin' about him, really. Jus' his name."
The other girls looked deflated, deprived of their sport. Gossip concerning new mutants at the school, whether visitors, teachers or students, was hot property. Logan had spoken to Rogue only once that day, gruffly asking her if she was alright before being shown to his room by Miss Grey. Helena had spent more time with her, chatting for a half an hour until she was virtually ambushed by Jubilee and Kitty. They had bombarded the English mutant with questions, which she good-naturedly answered until Jubilee cheekily asked to see her claws. The resulting freeze of her smile had silenced even the chirpy Asian teen.
"Ah think ah'm gonna go t'bed," she announced, struggling up from the clinging grasp of the beanbag. "Nearly being burnt t'death while a giant tries t'kill ya friends makes ya kinda tired."
Carefully looping an arm through Rogue's, Kitty shot a warning glance at Jubilee.
"Yeah, it's almost curfew anyway. Night, Bobby, St John, Sam!"
An answering chorus of "night" rang out from the various chairs and couchs dotted around the large rec room. Allowing herself to be towed along the gleaming wood-floored corridor by her new friends, Rogue wondered if Logan and Helena would stay. She hoped so.
* * * * *
"So, what do you make of our visitors?" Xavier asked, reaching to pour more tea.
It was past curfew and the children were in the process of settling down for the night. He often chose this time to talk with his protégés over a steaming cup of tea or something stronger if the day had been particularly taxing. Sipping a mouthful of Earl Grey before answering, Jean Grey set down her bone china cup on the low glass-topped table.
"Logan? So much violence. . . but at the same time he's got, I don't know, a sense of honour, I guess," she admitted, curling her stocking feet beneath her on the firm white couch. "What d'you think?"
Xavier gave a small, wry smile and raised his cup to his lips.
"I think if you're going to read minds, there are safer places to begin than Logan's," he said mildly.
Jean's lips quirked and she nodded agreement, taking off her glasses and placing them on the coffee table.
"Mmmmm. . . what about Helena? I haven't been able to read much from her."
"That's hardly surprising," the professor observed. "Her mental shielding is much more advanced than I would expect for a woman of her apparent age." He paused and gave a small, elegant shrug. "Although her exact age is open to debate."
Seeing his frown, Jean felt her heart contract. He looked tired, careworn from hours spent in Cerebro attempting to trace Magneto's whereabouts. Sensing her concern, Xavier looked up and smiled.
"I'm alright, Jean," he reassured.
"You're spending too long in Cerebro, Charles," she countered firmly, in her doctor voice. Her features softened. "I worry about you, you're not as-"
"Not as young as I used to be," Xavier finished, nodding. "I know."
Draining her cup, Jean stood, slipped her shoes back on and crossed to his desk. Leaning down, she placed an affectionate kiss on his bald pate.
"Goodnight - don't stay up too late."
"Goodnight," he echoed, watching as she reached the door, unconsciously rubbing her neck.
Waiting until she had gone, the professor finished his tea, listening to the quiet tick of the antique grandfather clock in the corner. Setting down his cup, he hummed out from behind the desk and headed for the elevator leading to the sublevels and Cerebro.
* * * * *
Somebody was tapping insistantly at the bedroom door. Helena ignored it and buried her head deeper into the fat feather pillow. The tapping became hammering. Still drowsy, the English mutant rolled over beneath the warm blankets.
"G'way!" she grumbled, her eyes closed. "I'm asleep."
The door swung open to reveal an extremely worried-looking Storm in a long ivory nightgown and robe. Reluctantly, Helena sat up and knuckled her eyes, pushing a sleep-rumpled lick of hair from her face.
"Whassup?" she yawned, the crinkled impression of the pillow etched into her cheek.
Yawning again, she folded back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the side, wriggling her bare toes in the thick carpet.
"It's Logan," the weather goddess began, her cream liqueur voice strained. "There's been an accident. Rogue heard him having a nightmare and tried to wake him up."
Fully awake and alert, Helena's hazel green eyes widened with horror and she leaned her head in her hands.
"Oh, shit. . . not again. . . " she groaned. "Please, for Chrissake, tell me he didn't kill her."
Storm shook her head, white locks swinging about her slim shoulders. "No. From what we can gather she touched him and temporarily absorbed his healing factor. She would have died otherwise - he stabbed her through the chest. Rogue is physically fine, but very upset. . . It's Logan we're worried about - he's still unconscious."
Shoving her feet into the new sneakers given to her by Jean, Helena stood and headed for the door. Storm led the way, bare caramel feet soundless on the varnished boards, then stopped and looked back at the English mutant.
"What did you mean, 'not again'?"
Helena sighed, "It's a long story, Ororo. Let's just say Rogue's not the first person to end up shish kebabed for trying to do ol' Wolvie a favour and wake him up."
Unconsciously rubbing at her chest where three adamantium talons had punctured her lungs, she followed the willowy African mutant downstairs to the concealed lift leading to the sublevels and the infirmary.
* * * * *
Squinting with concentration, Mortimer Toynbee peered myopically at the generator engine he was working on. Rubbing his nose on the back of his hand, he scrubbed at his greenish spikey hair and turned his head. Rubbery extensile tongue hissing out, he snatched a wrench from the workbench across the cold metal room. Wiping the thin coating of viscous yellow slime from the tool, he set about tinkering with the mechanical innards. Hearing a low, discontented rumble, he looked up to see Victor Creed stumping irritably into the room. Toad's warty features crinkled and he eyed the leonine mutant resignedly, realising he was in a foul mood and would probably take it out on him. Magneto was ensconced in his vast, spartan office, fuming over the apparent loss of the newly-mutated Senator Kelly. Mystique was prowling about the echoing sheet-metal plated corridors, skulking in shadows, only the occasional gleam of golden eyes indicating her presence.
Toad shivered. He disliked Mystique, but also had a recurring wish to get close enough to see if her scales were rough or smooth. The shape-shifter was exceptionally spooky, but also enticing, sashaying about in the nude. Putting down the wrench, Mortimer suppressed a yelp as a charge of static electricity stung his hand. The entire island lair hummed with the after-effects of the mutation device. He could still feel the scorched-in impression of white hot luminance behind his amphibian eyes. Sabretooth strode up and down, growling darkly under his breath, massive shoulders bunched.
"So you dropped him," Toad remarked in his Cockney twang, making sure there was enough space for him to get through the door should Creed decide to lash out. "It doesn't matter - the Gov'nor just wanted to see if his toy worked."
Sabretooth stopped pacing and bared his yellowed fangs, reflective black eyes suffused with umbrage and fury. Closing the hatch on the generator, realising he was not likely to get any work done with Victor throwing a sulk, Toad bounded across the room in a surge of superhuman leg muscles.
"You're still pissed-off about those two clawed marks with the kid, aren't you?" he taunted. "They really got to you, didn't they? Not used to girls who fight back, are you, Creed?"
Toad stepped back, preparing to leap away from the inevitable whistling swipe of a clawed hand. It was astonishingly easy to provoke Sabretooth, who had neither the wit nor the patience to engage in verbal sparring. To his immense surprise, Creed merely rumbled discontentedly deep in his chest.
"Nah. . . Would've been more fun if they'd remembered me," he growled. "Both had good head-jobs worked on 'em a while back. What they're doin' hangin' about together is buggin' me right out. Yer think the X-Geeks are pains in the ass, wait 'till those two get goin'. It's pissin' me off just thinkin' about it."
Realising he was preoccupied, a rare state of mind for a man who was almost solely motivated by instinct and rage, Mortimer's green, slightly shiny brow creased with puzzlement. Patting his huge comrade on the shoulder, he grinned gummily.
"Yeah, well don't think too hard, mate - y'know you'll only tire yourself out. Anyway, with what the gov has planned, the X-Geeks'll be so busy flapping about like headless chickens, that we won't have to worry about them."
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