Fugue: X-Men
Chapter 3
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.
"Why does Magneto want her?" Helena asked the room at large, leaving her chair to pace. Almost walking straight into Logan, who was similarly engaged, she glared. "She's a muddled teenager, not a super-duper uber-mutant." She stopped and shook her head, voice growing quieter, almost forlorn. "She's just a kid." It's not like she's forgotten half her life and has unsavoury characters like Sabretooth who seem to know more about her than she does. If it was Mr Happy over there the Brotherhood wanted, or even me, we'd stand a fighting chance. Shit. . . please, God, don't let them hurt her. . .
From his position behind his desk, Xavier watched the English mutant hug her elbows and worry. Tension betrayed by his tight grip on the arms of his wheelchair, the Professor bit back a sigh.
"I don't know," he admitted sadly.
Logan snorted, scowl deepening as he folded his arms and leaned back on the doorjamb. A dark indent appeared above Scott Summer's ruby quartz Oakleys and he sat up straight with dawning comprehension.
"Wait!" he exclaimed. "You said using the machine weakened Magneto?"
"Yes," Xavier agreed. "In fact, it nearly killed him."
"He's gonna transfer his power ta Rogue an' use her ta run the machine," Logan finished grimly.
Nobody spoke for a long moment, inwardly processing the revelation. Darkness had not long fallen and the buzzing activity of the school day had slowed as the students gathered in small groups to study and socialise. Bobby Drake had knocked at the office door a little while earlier, asking if they had found Rogue. Hands thrust into the pockets of his baggy khaki skate pants, his face had fallen and he hurriedly left. Glittering hexagonal ice crystals dotted the floor where he had stood, unconsciously produced by his heightened emotion. Bringing his strategic mind to bear, the Professor broke the silence.
"Cyclops, ready the jet. Jean - find Logan and Helena some uniforms," he instructed, trundling out from behind his desk. "I'm going to locate Rogue."
Jean stood, smoothing her knee-length black dress. Sensing reluctance from her fiancé, she raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Hold on, Professor," Scott protested, expression serious. "I don't think that's a good idea. They'll endanger the mission."
Before Xavier could respond, Logan unfolded his arms and wheeled about to confront the younger man.
"I wasn't the one who gave the train station a new sunroof, pal," he growled, bristling.
"No," Summers retorted instantly. "You just stabbed Rogue through the chest."
Sighing inwardly, Helena regarded the creamy plaster ceiling and counted to ten in her head. Finding it was not helping, she tried it backwards.
"Yeah? Well, yer can take yer little mission an' stick it - "
"Oh, shut it, the pair of you!" she snapped irritably. "You can wave your dicks at each other after all this is sorted out!"
Jean blinked once, slightly taken aback by the Englishwoman's blunt tone, and was obliged to smother a grin at the matching expressions of surprise on the two men's faces. Scott opened his mouth to rattle off a rejoinder, only to be deprived of the opportunity as the door banged open.
"Senator Kelly is dead," Storm burst out, brown eyes filled with dismay.
Xavier absorbed the news without comment and leaned forward in his wheelchair, encompassing everyone in the room with a stern frown.
"Settle this," he ordered with the firmness of someone accustomed to authority.
With that, he touched the control lever on his wheelchair and droned out of the room. Jaw clamped, Scott strode out after him, simmering with anger.
"Storm - we've gotta get the jet ready," he informed the weather goddess curtly as he passed.
Wordlessly, the African woman nodded serenely and followed him towards the sublevels. Jean turned and trained her grey green eyes on the two clawed mutants.
"I've a uniform that should fit you, Helena," she announced. "And one of Scott's should do for Logan. . . Meet me in the foyer in ten minutes."
As soon the door clicked to behind the red-haired doctor, Logan turned to Helena, who was staring out of the window over the vast wooded expanse of the school grounds.
"She can forget about that," he stated firmly. "Yer not comin' on this little jaunt. It's too dangerous."
The Englishwoman turned around, eyebrows escalating, and her hands crept to her hips indignantly.
"Excuse me," she said sharply. "Run that one by me again - did you just try to tell me what to do?"
Logan scowled, realising that he had just made the mistake of attempting to govern her actions. It had not worked in a year of travelling around Canada, and often as not led to heated arguments.
"Darlin', this isn't the same as beatin' up on rednecks," he offered by way of justification. "These Brotherhood fuckers are serious - Magneto stinks ta high heavens of fanaticism."
She inclined her head, features hidden in the shadows cast by her hair. Logan did not need to see her expression to know he had angered her - he could smell it, slow-burning with increasing intensity. Leaving the window, she rounded the desk and strode up to him, so close the tips of their boots were almost touching. Her chin lifted so their gazes locked, neither one willing to back down.
"What makes you think I'm not serious, sunshine?" she breathed icily. "You think I'm gonna sit here and crochet a blanket while Marie's being stuck in that awful machine?"
Her stormy eyes narrowed with an impressive degree of menace, giving Logan pause for thought. He growled quietly, infusing it with enough vehemence to let her know he meant what he said. She growled back.
"Hels, yer can't intimidate me," he said, feeling his skin prickle as her telekinetic field leapt, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Maybe not," she agreed, flashing a humourless grin. "But there are things I can do to you that'll make you change your stubborn Canuck mind."
Her hands came to rest on the worn lapels of his leather jacket and she leaned a little closer, so close that Wolverine thought she was going to kiss him. Instead, her eyes flickered, pupils dilating, and he flew back like he had been sucker punched in the stomach. Colliding with the wall, he grunted as the air whooshed from his lungs. Glaring, he looked down and saw a large gap between his feet and the floor.
"Alright, yer've made yer damn point," he grumbled as she splayed her fingers and moved him about the wall like a fridge magnet. "Put me down already."
She shrugged and dropped her hand, releasing her telekinetic hold. Logan barely had time to register he was falling before he hit the floor, automatically bending his knees to absorb the impact. Beneath the rich paisley carpet, the wooden floorboards groaned alarmingly, unused to such treatment.
"So that's all settled then," Helena observed, a wry twinkle in her eyes. "Besides, who would you rather have watching your arse - me or Fearless Leader. . . ?"
Seeing his half-sneer at the thought of relying on Scott Summers for backup, she nodded knowingly and crossed to the open door.
"We'll work it like we usually do," she promised, laying an appeasing hand on his arm. "No different than poker hustling - you watch my back, I'll watch yours. Magneto's pet moggy apparently knows we're trouble, so let's not disappoint."
Logan nodded reluctant agreement, realising that in some ways he still saw her as the underfed barmaid he had grudgingly given a ride. He jerked his chin in the direction of the corridor.
"Ladies first," he invited. "I wanna see yer get yer ass inta one o'those tight leather uniforms."
"You mean you wannna see Jean's arse in one of those uniforms," she corrected with a derisive snort. "'Tight' and 'leather' being the operative words here."
He smirked unrepentantly as they walked with distance-eating strides along the wide corridor, passing the outsize ornamental plants in clay pots that were favoured decorations in the school. Helena guessed they were Ororo Munroe's influence, bringing her beloved nature indoors with swaths of pampered foliage.
"Whoa, pack that in before you make me retch," she rebuked with mock severity, catching Logan's imaginative constructs of Jean Grey in a figure-hugging X uniform.
Drawing breath to retort, the Canadian caught her by the arm as she suddenly cried out and staggered, a hand flying to her forehead.
"Hels! Y'alright?"
"Shitshitshitbastard," she ground out, features blanched
Clamping a hand onto Logan's arm for support, she hauled herself straight. Concerned, he took hold of her shoulders and bent to look into her face.
"Y'alright? What the hell was that?"
A modicum of colour returning to her features, she waved him away and took several deep, cleansing breaths.
"It's the Prof," she said, eyes glazed and disorientated. "He's just broadcast pain with the volume jacked up past ten. . . damn, that hurt."
Hurrying around the corner, Helena stumbling a little, they came across Jean. The auburn-haired doctor was partially collapsed against the concealed entrance to the sublevel elevator, leaning her forehead against the cool reddish wood.
"Something wrong. . . with Cerebro," she said faintly, pushing herself upright.
At that moment, the hidden door hissed back into its aperture, revealing a distraught Storm in the white cylindrical interior. Mocha skin pale, the weather witch all but dragged Jean into the elevator.
"Jean!" she cried. "Come quickly - it's Charles!"
* * * * *
Jean Grey wrenched open the service hatch set into Cerebro's walkway and peered at the confusing array of tubes, cylinders and conduits. Beneath her, the spherical expanse of the magnification chamber dropped away into shadowy oblivion. It had taken her a long time to become accustomed to the drop, to be able to walk in without casting nervous glances at the unfenced sides of the walkway. Frowning at the dull, murky brown sludge clogging the clear Perspex container, she removed the defuser vial and set the mechanism to auto clean. Within moments, the colour returned to its usual bright cerulean.
What if Charles doesn't recover, she fretted. What will we do without him? All my tests indicate he should be awake, but there's nothing. I can't even sense him. . .
Sighing, the sound echoing and multiplying in the vastness, the telekinetic doctor rubbed a hand across her brow, her chunky silver bracelet jingling quietly.
"Fixed your big round room yet?" a female voice asked.
Jean looked up to see Helena Draven standing a few feet from her, dark head cocked enquiringly. Sitting back on her heels, Jean pushed a wing of auburn hair from her eyes.
"How did you get down here?" she asked neutrally.
"Oh, I filched the access code from Cyke's mind," the Englishwoman shrugged nonchalantly. "Y'know for the boy toy of a telepath, his shields should be better."
Suppressing a flare of indignation, realising she was edgy and irritable because of what had happened to the Professor, Jean closed the hatch.
"Don't you have ethics over that sort of thing?" she asked, unable to stop herself.
Eyes hardening, Helena's spine stiffened and she took another step forward, metal-heeled boots clicking tinnily on the walkway.
"Don't you?" she retorted evenly. "Don't think I haven't sensed you skimming Logan's mind at every opportunity. Be careful, Jean - don't send out misleading signals. It's not a good idea to mess with Logan's head."
Getting to her feet, Jean smoothed her black knee length skirt and regarded the other woman, trying to conceal her discomfort. It was disconcerting to have another telepath make such blunt observations. The Professor sensed much and usually said little unless he believed a situation required immediate intervention. Stretching out a thought to probe the English mutant's emotions, Jean encountered the dense, opaque carapace of her mental shielding. In the absence of a telepathic assessment, Jean read her body language. Detecting a note of casually masked aggression in the straight back and folded arms, she realised she had no idea when talk would transmute into physical confrontation.
"Chill, doc," Helena said with a small, wryly amused grin. "If I wanted to kick your arse, you wouldn't have time to think about it. I'm not quite as much of a violence-junkie as the Wolverine. In fact, I'm surprisingly approachable. . . so what's the upshot? All I wanna know is if I'm going to be toddling on my merry way alone when all this is over. 'Cos unlikely as it is that Logan'll stay here, in a school of all places, he has an annoying habit of doing what you least expect. And like most men, it's not his brain he thinks with."
Jean's chin tucked in, finding herself once again taken aback by the Englishwoman's directness. Used to dealing with the intrigues and double-talk of the political arena, such frankness was almost shocking, and, she decided, refreshing. Resolving to respond in kind, she drew a breath.
"I find him. . . interesting," she admitted. "And I would be lying if I said I didn't find him somewhat attractive. But I would never jeopardise my relationship with Scott."
"No," Helena murmured, eyes making the familiar involuntary tracking movements of a scanning telepath. "I don't think you would."
Expression softening, she unfolded her arms, the implicit threat dropping from her demeanour. The behaviour was entirely unconscious, and in Jean's opinion partially due to living on the road with a volatile, abrasive travelling companion. Unlike Logan, she did not habitually carry herself with an aggressive confidence that bordered on arrogance, but when roused her eyes gained a certain cold gleam that spoke volumes.
"I didn't come here to start a catfight, Jean," Helena revealed. "Or to grill you. . . I just wanted to say I'm sorry, about the Professor, I mean. He's a good man."
"Yes," the doctor said with a small, worried sigh. "Yes he is."
Helena gestured towards Cerebro's skullcap headpiece with her index finger.
"You need any help with that?" she asked.
Shaking her head, Jean ran her fingertips over the coiled tubing attached to the headset. The technical specifications of the super computer took months to breakdown and understand.
"No, thank you. I've already repaired the damage."
"That's not what I meant," the English mutant elaborated. "We still need to track Rogue, and you've said yourself you can't use this gizmo without frying your synapses. No offence, but my TP is more advanced than yours - I'll probably be able to use Cerebro with less risk."
Jean shook her head again, feeling irrationally protective and unwilling to allow a virtual stranger to use the Professor's greatest technological accomplishment when he lay comatose.
"Maybe later. I've a few adjustments to make," she lied.
If Helena sensed the lie, she did not comment, but shrugged and turned to leave, looking around the vastness of Cerebro's dome with interest.
"Okay. Give me a shout. I'll go and make sure the boys haven't throttled each other then."
Watching her reach the threshold, the soft black fabric of her combat pants worn almost threadbare at the seat, Jean felt compelled to call her back.
"You don't have to, you know," she said quietly.
"What?"
"Leave, I mean. When this is over, you could stay. I've seen you with the children - they like you. The Professor is always looking for additions to the staff."
Helena turned back, eyebrows escalating with astonishment. She appeared genuinely amused and incredulous.
"What, be a teacher? You've got to be kidding. I can turn my hand to a lot of things, but teaching?!"
"It's something to consider," Jean returned evenly. "You can't live on the road forever. We'll help you develop your gifts and perhaps recover your memories. Surely that's a reason to stay?"
The English mutant frowned thoughtfully, gaze downcast, lower lip held lightly between her teeth.
"Maybe," she allowed. "I'll think it over."
"That's all I ask," Jean soothed.
Helena nodded to signify she understood and stepped within sensor range of the door. It sighed open with a hiss of hidden hydraulics and she stepped through. As it closed behind her, Jean picked up the headset and looked at it, steeling herself. Carefully looking around, she lowered it onto her auburn hair and pressed the contacts to her temples. With shaking fingers, she reached for the activation switch.
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