Of Spreading Wings and Sickly Dreams
by Jaya Mitai
Disclaimer – not mine. Marvel’s. No money. Don’t sue.
Monosllybic. Now Tarzan want food!
# indicates telepathic speech. When more than one person is communicating telepathically, the person replying to the telepath will be in *. Ex. #You stupid son of a flonq!# *Your vocabulary needs work. *
And if you don’t feedback me . . . well, I would threaten you, but . . .. threats are so vulgar . . . =)
Finally, finally, he could breathe.
He tried desperately to use the opportunity to actually take in air, but the next convulsion had him, teasing him, plucking and chewing him like Sam would a piece of straw, bending him into knots and twisting him in its careless manner. His back arched him off the table, the restraints light enough to allow him the ‘luxury’ of nearly breaking his spine with every shudder. His diaphragm tightened, and the air that was in his lungs, maybe five minutes old, previously contained by a throat swollen shut, was exhaled with all the speed and sound of a freight train, his scream echoing and echoing around the room.
He hadn’t thought he’d had the air to scream that long.
His back untensed suddenly, his body collapsing again onto the table as he choked on the foamy liquid in his mouth, gasping for air. Three seconds, he had now, before the next convulsion plucked him up and continued where the previous had left off.
He kept his eyes squeezed shut. He hadn’t opened them.
Hadn’t open them since he heard the gunshot, and his mother’s cry.
Hadn’t opened them since he was roughly picked up, his left side screaming such agony that he couldn’t breathe for it, couldn’t think, couldn’t move.
Hadn’t opened them since these episodes had begun.
Afraid to open them. Afraid to see.
He’d half expected Hell would be hotter.
Still, the relentless, never-ending pain was as the preachers taught, cries for mercy ignored, screams of pain ignored, pleas for death ignored by the unseen demons that never spoke and caused such unbelievable, never-ending pain. They hadn’t spoken to him, he’d only once felt their physical touch, pulling him from one world to the next through what had felt like a very thick gel.
That had to have been what it was, because as he had gasped for air in the scant time they allowed, he felt ribs on his left side, and he clearly remembered breathing like so and feeling them crawling around under his skin.
He clearly remembered feeling each and every one break as he lay stunned on the dark braided rug in his home, unable to blast away, unable to dodge the four men that had emerged from the back bedrooms. It wasn’t just his exhaustion from the non-stop flight, and the sleep deprivation and dehydration.
Something had stopped his mutant abilities.
Like something had kept him from surviving the beatings. And whatever
External powers had failed him there were keeping him alive here. How else could he still live? He’d felt himself stop breathing four times now, each time the pain fading to an uncomfortable memory, only to suddenly clarify once again, each nerve in his body screaming.
All he wanted to do was die.
But apparently you were only allowed to do that once a day. Then again, he felt like he’d already been here an eternity. And he’d thought the beatings would never end. He’d never imagined that there could be any pain worse, but even the sharp break of bones and kidney shots had faded to a dull collective ache with time. This only faded when the demons decided, and even then for such a blissful short time, with no pain and the faintest stirrings of air, and then his left arm would run with ice, and it would begin all over again.
His three seconds were up, and he felt the gathering of his muscles, fought to relax them as some unseen force goaded them into action once more, tightening, his wiry frame putty as his back once more arched him off the table, only his heels, wrists and head keeping contact with the slimy, slick, hot metal he lay on.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, Sam felt bile rising in his throat, and didn’t have the muscular control to swallow it back down.
“A . . . clone?” Lucinda’s confusion seemed to echo the looks Hank was receiving from everyone but Logan and Cable.
“Our government isn’t capable of such a complicated product, is it?”
Hank glanced at Scott, then back to Lucinda, obviously having trouble deciding which question to answer first. He finally decided on the long, large worded approach.
“Mrs. Guthrie, for many years now, certain licensed and unlicensed persons in the scientific field have been able to grow carbon copies of humans from a single, intact strand of DNA. However, this clone was far too advanced to be the work of our government, that I know of, and certainly of any other. The United States is by far the most advanced of the world powers when it comes to genetic mapping and cloning experiments, but still should not be even close to the level of technology this would have required.
“However, to clone your son, the individual or individuals would have had to obtain a sample of his DNA; namely, blood, skin, or hair. I trust,” and he turned to look at Domino, rather than Cable, “that you have not recent had any escapades with our nation’s authorities?”
She met his eyes, hers considering but hooded. “Not that I recall. He hasn’t had a physical outside of this house for a year or more,” she added quietly. Thinking.
Hank placed his spectacles on the counter beside the microscope, sighing deeply. “If they’d kept it frozen, of course, the time would be excusable. However, this clone is very advanced. I’d even wager it matched brain patterns with our Sam.” Now his clear blue eyes traveled to Cable, and he found some of his anger evaporating as all eyes turned to him, Lucinda’s still confused but hopeful.
“I caught only surface thoughts . . .”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Pain.” He couldn’t make that come out as gently as he’d intended, and almost flinched as he saw Lucinda blink and turn away. “Pretty much all I caught. That and . . .”
_Please, God, let m’family be okay, even if it’s mah time . . . oh God, make it stop . . ._
“Prayer. He was praying.” Cable snapped down on his shields at Jean’s look, half expecting Stryfe to make a snide remark, but the man was quiet.
Maybe the barricade was working again.
Hank didn’t seem to notice the room’s sudden discomfort. “But it seemed like Sam, on the surface?”
Oath, of course it did! “Yes.”
Hank turned back to Scott. “I can safely say there are only four men capable of such an accurate copy in the entire world, and I cannot think of a single reason any of them would have to go to the trouble.”
Lucinda opened her mouth. “Ah’m sorry, Ah missed most of that conversation, but you’re saying th’ man in th’ other room isn’t mah son?” The disbelief was there, the hope, but beneath the skepticism of an exhausted mother who had watched her son die before eyes. Paige had a much different expression, one of cold, hard anger. She knew the possibility existed, and she would also have some idea of the four men Hank had mentioned and their capabilities. Josh merely stood behind his mother, silent, eyes dark and watchful.
Jean smiled and quickly embraced the woman, lest she fall. “Yes. And that someone would go to all the trouble to make us think that he was is a pretty good indication that wherever he is, Sam’s alive.”
Lucinda allowed herself to be hugged, swaying slightly in Jean’s arms before her hands came up instinctively and she hung onto Jean for dear life. Her shoulders began to shake silently, her relief so strong Cable could have reached out and touched it. The woman was exhausted with grief and her ordeal, and he was more than surprised that at this late hour the woman was still capable of such deep emotion. Jean smoothed her hair back, trading unreadable looks with Scott while Josh fidgeted with the hem of his old tee shirt and Paige continued to silently fume.
#Sinister. That’s what you’re thinking.# Cable really didn’t mean it as a question.
Hank allowed his own face to be split in a toothy grin at Josh’s confused but happy look. *Yes, I would wager that our dear friend had something to do with this. As to why . . . your guess is as good as mine at this point.*
Why indeed? On the list of powerful mutants, Guthrie wasn’t exactly top ten quality. Sure, he was invulnerable when in flight, but the only thing that made him really stand out was that he was External.
He was immortal.
But so was Sinister. Changed by Apocalypse sometime in the Victorian Era, they were both Externals themselves. There were at least a dozen known Externals around the globe, though Sam was by far the youngest of them.
Why would Sinister go to all the trouble to set this up? And where would he have gotten a sample of Sam’s DNA? As far as he knew, none of the kids had met the scientist, nor had contact with the Marauders, kept out of the tunnels during the massacre.
He felt the faintest, tentative tickle on a link that had been silent all day.
And he ignored it, choosing to look at her instead with a very neutral glance.
“Any ideas?”
Her irritation was plain to see, and Nathan had to curb the sudden, irrational surge of satisfaction that shivered through him.
“Yeah, actually.” She glanced at Scott before continuing. “I was thinking about the beach. Sam on the rocks. Bare feet. I wonder if he cut them . . ?”
The tall rocks had been less than smooth, it was a very likely possibility. But that would mean . . .
Nate blinked several times at the heavy implication there. “That would mean that they’d been following him. Or us.”
Her tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip, eyes roving around the room vacantly as she thought. “I didn’t see anyone else there, and I was _looking._”
Not sensing a Marauder would be just about the stupidest thing he could do, but distracted as he was, and Sinister’s technology . . . there was a good chance he wouldn’t have found one even if he had been scanning for thoughts besides Sam’s.
“You don’t think he set the whole thing up . . .?”
“No, but he sure as hell might take advantage of it.”
Scott looked between the two of them. “Would you two care to explain that?”
Nathan leaned against the wall, folding his arms. “The only interest Essex would have in Sam is because he’s an External. But isn’t Essex himself?”
Jean shook her head, and in the near darkness of the medbay, her usually fire hair was shadowed, almost mahogany. It shifted into Lucinda’s blonde like blood.
“I don’t think so. It’s something you’re born with, unless Apocalypse sensed even then a latent power in Essex?” Having been to the Victorian period before, with Cyclops at her side, to keep Apocalypse from destroying humanity in its youth, she’d met the man even before he’d become more than Nathaniel Essex. “His makeup was changed irreversibly, but I honestly don’t know if he’s immortal.”
“It would make sense that Sabah Nur would want his right-hand man to live a long time, though,” Scott murmured, brushing the two days’ growth of stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “You’re not thinking he heard about what happened and simply up and decided to grab Sam?” He shook his head. “No offense, but I doubt Sinister would bide his time about inquiring of his own mortality. He wouldn’t have any compunction against sending the Marauders here to slaughter the lot of you for Sam if he were that worried about it.” Scott’s voice was hard, brittle. Cold. “Why wait till now?”
“Why don’t we ask him?” The sheer anticipation in that less-than-angelic half-growl made Cable’s lips pull back.
“I intend to.”
Someone was stroking his cheek.
He turned into the caress, the fingers soft, reassuring and welcome in the darkness. His mother used to wake him like that when he was ill, gently, to take his temperature or make him drink something. Good ol’ Momma, never used to let anyone but Pa baby her when she was sick, yet Paige and Jeb and Josh always found some excuse to get her to lie down, and it was up to Sam to make the chicken soup that seemed a cure-all for every bug they passed around.
Sam tensed under those soft fingers, and they froze a moment before continuing, as gently as before.
If he was in Hell . . . then . . .
No. There was no way on God’s green earth that his mother would have come here with him. He was the murderer, God would never punish a mother for her son’s sins. It was trick, to get him to open his eyes, see the terrors that awaited him in this place of permanent, never-ending pain.
Well, the Devil had another thing coming.
“Good morning, Sam Guthrie.”
Definitely the voice of a demon, hissed and eerily bereft of the usual rumbling overtones of human speech. The fingers never stopped, relaxing him despite himself.
It was the first touch he’d felt since his mother’s that hadn’t caused him unbelievable pain.
“You needn’t be afraid.”
He so wanted to open his mouth and actually speak without screaming, but the thought that he had no voice, or that it would sound like the demon’s, hoarse and hissed from his raw throat, stopped him before his mind could even form the words.
Nothing, just the continued, gentle caress on his fevered face.
He dimly recalled having choked to insensibility on his own vomit, but the taste was gone, his mouth dry but not awash with the terrible flavor of the liquids. He forced himself to swallow, as if to make sure he still had a throat, and while it ached a bit, and he felt a slight trickle of mucus along the back, it too was wet without being vile.
So it was true. He couldn’t die here. The cursed power that had let him die on Earth would not grant him that luxury in Hell. Not that he deserved that luxury. If this is what God chose for him, then it was his lot, and he should at least accept it.
The relief that the voice was not his mother’s was more than just reward for the pain he’d suffered already.
“Come now, it’s safe to open your eyes. I would have thought you’d be more curious.”
He ached to tell the Devil what he could do with his curiousness.
Something wet and cool touched his lips, and he couldn’t help himself. His eyes snapped open all of themselves as he started back against the unyielding metal bed..
A great expanse of silver metal was the first thing he saw; no sharp lights above him, no red glare of flames, no tortured souls swirling around him.
In fact, the ceiling kind of reminded him of the medbay back home.
The second thing he saw was familiar enough to drop his internal organs into the next deep freeze.
A white face, absolute alabaster skin broken only by a single red diamond on the strong forehead, the glowing red eyes and the pure black hair, having slight purple highlights in the soft white light of the room.
Not the Devil, but something pretty damn close.
Sam started back, panicked to find that his restraints kept him absolutely immobile as the cold liquid trickled over his lips. Sinister smiled, seated on a chair beside his head, eyes frighteningly sincere.
“It’s water, Sam. It isn’t going to hurt you.”
When he didn’t open his mouth, Sinister withdrew his fingers from Sam’s cheek, instead gently but firmly forcing Sam’s lips apart as the promised water tickled through his mouth. He swallowed in spite of himself, at first hesitantly, then guzzling greedily as the flavorless liquid, again as promised, didn’t hurt.
All too soon the small cup was emptied, and Sinister leaned back, sighing deeply and settling into a still very straight but more comfortable position, eyes never leaving Sam’s.
“I do suppose you’re wondering why you’re here.”
Sam found himself unable to look away from those hypnotizing eyes, but inside his head he was screaming. Monster! Murderer! As far as supervillians went, he was on the top 5 worst list of them. Tales of the Mutant Massacre floated in his head as he stared into those unreadable, unfathomable ruby eyes. The Marauders. Angel’s wings. Kitty Pryde’s near-fatal condition at their hands. They’d never met him, X-Force as a group, but his time in the X-Men’s library had taught him more than he ever wanted to know about the man once known as Nathaniel Essex. His trembling had nothing to do with his fever or the relative cool of the dry metal beneath him.
And if Sinister had him, that meant . . . The voices he’d heard echoed back to him, his mother’s cry, the unfeeling way they’d talked about the kids -
The concept of a Marauder touching his mother, being that close to his family, was enough to bring out a shuddering breath, too close to a sob for comfort. Oh, no, nononono -
“In short, you nearly died.” Sinister cocked his head slightly to the right, as if surprised by Sam’s fear, reading the terror there or perhaps even his thoughts. “Your family, unfortunately, did.” His sigh seemed sincere enough to make tears of a different pain gather in the corner of Sam’s eyes. “I would have been most happy to see if your mutation bred true in the younger ones. None of them manifested External powers, however.”
Family. Dead. The unearthly voice that had delivered the news with the barest shadow of remorse. Remorse at not being able to experiment on his siblings! Rage replaced fear, and his trembling grew.
“You are a very special mutant, Sam,” he continued in an almost understanding tone. “You’re immortal, or nearly so. You already know that. But something more shall set you apart. It is you that will save the world, my young friend. You that will decide the fate of mutants for centuries.”
Well, that was a load of crap. Cable rarely had spoken of the Twelve and his purpose among them, but it would be they that would decide the fate of mutants by either succeeding in killing Apocalypse . . . or failing. The utter conviction by which Cable believed that was enough to give Sam very strong faith that that was indeed the way of things.
And if he’s lying about that, then just maybe . . .
Some of his defiant confusion must have transmitted through the fear and hate and hope in his eyes. “How, you wonder. Of course.”
Sam tested his bonds as Sinister moved again, and held a syringe before Sam’s eyes. There was barely a cc’s worth of bright yellow fluid in the clear plastic.
Sam’s trembling then had nothing whatsoever to do with anger, and only his eyes were able to move, to watch the scientist carefully but swiftly inject the contents into his bared left arm.
“No . . .” Barely a whisper, in such a pain-filled, terrified voice that he didn’t even recognize it as his own.
“We can’t just storm every known base looking for him!” Scott slammed his fist on the table for emphasis, eyes glowing faintly behind the ruby red visor that at the moment was the only thing between Cable and certain death.
Cable had leaned forward some time ago to aid himself in expressing his opinions, and the heels of his hands dug painfully into the table. The War Room had been the next logical place to retreat, leaving the clone in the Infirmary and Mrs. Guthrie to her exhausted sleep. The table was quickly regretting the decision made by the people around it, groaning slightly as Cable leaned into it harder.
“Something tells me that if he loses two or three of the North American installations, he might actually take notice,” Nathan growled. “Otherwise he’s going to ignore us like a flonqing dinosaur would an insect!”
Jean was still beside Scott, her fingers on her temples in the standard telepathic position, but moving slightly, gently massaging. At his less than friendly stare, her emerald eyes opened to simply watch him.
#If you want in, all you have to do is ask.#
*I’m asking,* she sent back rather forcefully. *I’ve _been_ asking for the past three hours, but you’re too angry to have noticed-*
#In case _you_ haven’t noticed,# his telepathic voice spat, #as of now, Sinister has had Sam for thirty-two hours. I’m not going to bury him twice!#
*Sitting here arguing with your father isn’t going to help Sam any!* She sounded almost indignant. *This isn’t like you-*
#Oath! And back to Stryfe we come!#
Cable was momentarily surprised to see Remy eyeing him out of the corner of his demon’s eyes as Scott continued his tirade on how illogical, destructive, dangerous, and stupid base-hopping as a tactic was. He ignored both easily, leaning back in his chair impatiently as Logan quietly popped one hand’s worth of claws in and out, in and out.
“That’s distractin’, shugah. Ah don’t suppose ya could stop?” Rogue’s delicate tone seemed to startle the short mutant, but didn’t stop his metronomic popping, in and out.
“Find me something tall, pale, an’ ugly to stick ‘em in, an’ you got it, darlin,” he growled back, sliding his booted feet off the table to hit the floor with a resounding *thunk!* “I’m with the Tin Man on this one. We gotta get his attention fast, let him know we mean business. Takin’ one of th’ kids is plain _low_, and we need ta let him know loud an’ clear that it ain’t gonna be tolerated.”
“The chances of finding the right base are slim to none! There’s no guarantee that Sam is still on the continent! Besides which, he may have a team of Marauders at every one. Even slightly better equipped than normal,” and he spared a glance at Dom in the corner, who’s half-lidded eyes didn’t acknowledge, “After the second base, it would be stupid not to expect at least heavy casualties, if not corpses on our hands.”
“Corpses, yeah. Theirs.”
“We’re running out of time!” Cable exploded suddenly, flinging aside the holocube before him, the black plastic-like gift from the Shi’ar crackling before plummeting down to the floor, where it bounced and rolled beneath the table. “This debate is pointless! We could sit here arguing all night and where to go and what to do, and it doesn’t change the fact that Sam is at the mercy of a flonqing angry scientist!”
Domino at this point opened her eyes more fully, watching his movements very closely, like a merc would another who’d been hired to help her with a job. Like she would a stranger.
A dangerous stranger.
#You too?# he snarled at her, and she physically flinched, eyes startled, one hand flying to her nose. Jean turned sharply to look at Domino, and Remy had somehow quietly gotten to his feet and was no longer in Cable’s field of vision. It didn’t matter; he had eyes only for the pale woman pulling fingers back from her nose, rubbing the blood between her fingers in something like surprise.
*Just who the hell are you,* she finally sent, tilting her face upwards so that her violet eyes locked on his. *The Nate I know doesn’t do a damned thing without planning through every move and every possible variation on the plan. The Nate I know doesn’t bitch and whine and snivel and then scream when people offer their opinions -*
#Go flonq yourself, you stupid mouthy whore,# he spat back, and then time seemed to freeze. He could hear Scott trying to calm him off to his left, he very clearly saw Jean turn from Domino to stare at him, saw every single hair on her head shift with the motion. He saw Domino’s eyes widen in slow motion, felt her emotions trickle down the link like one watches a waterfall as they fall with it, a frozen sheet of water beside them while the earth moved around them in a frighteningly fast manner.
*Nate . . .?*
He turned from Domino sharply, eyes finding a particularly interesting grain in the wood of the old table as he probed the barricade. Still intact.
I’ve always wanted to say that, Stryfe snickered. Oh, for so long now, just waiting . . . just look at the expression on her face, it’s absolutely priceless, Nate, just look, what art - LOOK!
Nathan found his eyes drawn upwards to look at her almost against his will, and a particularly strong scan battered at his shield. Not Xavier, thank the Bright Lady, he was nowhere to be seen, but Jean in her own was more than he was ready and willing to deal with at the moment.
Completely against his will, he turned to her with a disgusted look. “Spare me, _Mom_. I have better things to do than sit here and listen to her bitch! Why he ever puts up with her . . .”
Nathan struggled to even so much as turn his head, but it swung easily in the opposite direction, to sneer at Scott’s surprised look. “The next time I tell you something,” and Nathan felt a telekinetic force building, “don’t you DARE challenge me.” He released it, a rather strong, focused shove that sent Scott flying back towards one of the display panels along the wall. Without looking, most of the rest of the energy was sent Jean’s way, to knock her back, as well, and then his head turned to watch the rest of the X-Men, starting to circle him. The Beast was the closest by far, only a few feet away, Rogue had moved off to the right, and Ororo and Logan were taking the defensive approach, trying to appear non-threatening.
#Fools,# Stryfe gloated. #It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, brother.#
“You think you’re a match for me? Please. Even in this weakened old body I can still spank you like the baby you are, sweet pea,” and Stryfe leveled one hell of a leer at Rogue, who naturally immediately attacked, some witty comment rolling off her tongue that Nathan completely ignored, centering all his concentration on simply turning the last of the built-up TK energy inwards, towards him.
Stryfe instantly sensed the movement of the energy, and threw it in one huge, diffuse ball at Rogue, who flew back with a startled cry and whizzed past the Beast before slamming into the wall, shaking the room and most likely the very foundations of the building. She slumped, a slight Rogue-shaped depression in the wall.
*What do you think you’re doing!* Nate screamed. *Had that been anyone else they’d be dead!*
#Oops.#
Nathan concentrated then on a much easier tactic - closing his eyes. They half-lidded as the two telepaths fought for control, just enough time for Remy to have snuck around Stryfe, and a hard kick to the back of the head sent the body sprawling, both tepes dazed from the blow.
Another blow came down on the back of their neck, nearly blacking them both out, but Nathan couldn’t wrestle vocal control from Stryfe.
“I got it . . . oath, I got it . . .”
“I t’ink, mon ami, y’t’ought dat earlier. Apparently y’were wrong.” While the voice was casual, as the Cajun’s voice always was in combat, he discontinued hitting him, and Nathan felt like screaming in frustration. Instead, he fought valiantly to even project a single thought.
*Jean! Stryfe’s in control!*
“A little . . . help here,” Stryfe gritted through their teeth, bringing both their hands to their head, allowing the T-O to spread upwards, the virus greedily grabbing what it could as Stryfe tapped into reserves that could potentially allow the virus to spread unchecked.
*You flonqing idiot! You’ll kill us both!*
#I’ve had ENOUGH of you, Stryfe! This is the LAST time!#
Stryfe . . .? Nathan floundered a moment in surprise, losing a bit of ground in their interal struggle for access to the telepathy. *She’s not THAT stupid!*
They both felt the Phoenix fire in their mind like a flame-thrower in a small cavern, hot and bright and royally pissed. Stryfe willingly let her in, and there she froze a moment., hastily building an astral landscape to better perceive them.
With a yelped curse Nate fell onto the clouds, instantly clothing his astral self in his Clan armor, psimitar at the ready, and whirled to find -
To find a mirror image glaring right back at him.
“I must be getting predictable in my old age,” Nate growled, circling Stryfe, who adopted the same position. The astralscape was not nearly as flawless as his mind should have been, and thick, sharp rocky crags poked through the smoke-like clouds that they stood upon, in some places not even rock was there, and it was just empty space.
This kind of damage . . . the gas? No, of course not; it was a representation of the mind she’d contacted to build the astralscape - it represented the broken psyche of Stryfe himself. As if that wasn’t a big enough clue right there! Briefly he wondered how his own psyche looked.
He spent no more than a glance on the mindscape as Stryfe hurled a psi-probe at him, sharp and potentially crippling in its strength, one that Cable barely deflected. He sent a probe Stryfe’s way in retaliation, and it too was deflected, and with ease Nathan hadn’t been able to reciprocate. He had the stronger half of their powers! How . . .? Oath! He knew the fighting style, as well. Unless she scanned deeply, it would be easy for her to mistake one for the other.
“I’m getting tired of this, Stryfe,” Stryfe snarled back. “I’ve got more important things to do than play your flonqing games!”
“I completely agree,” he countered, lunging for Stryfe, who parried the blow, swung around in a neat circle that Nate stepped out of, and the two set back to circling. “So get back into your nice little corner and we can settle this later!”
“Oath! So you can take advantage the next time one of the kids ends up dead? Have you learned _nothing_ in all the time-”
“Spare me!” Cable snarled. “You are _not_ one to lecture me on honor! You could flonqing care less about Sam! Oath, you’ve known all along that he means as much to me as Tyler!”
Stryfe flinched, his steps faltering for a single, split second, and then with a cry of pure rage and pain he struck.
And not only did he rush with the strike, but he made a fatal error, one he’d made in battle many times. He’d left his legs armored but completely open, and Nathan eagerly went for the opportunity. He couldn’t afford to let Jean scan him, not with Stryfe battering at his shields, that was asking for damage. If he could distract Stryfe, disorient him -
A flaming wing knocked him aside like he would swat a mosquito, a burning in his mind so strong it brought him to his knees with a scream that seemed to echo across the astralscape like a single clap in an empty cathedral.
“You bastard! Is _nothing_ too low for you??”
Jean thought _he _ was Stryfe???? Nate risked letting down his shields, just a split second, enough time for a single thought. *Jean, it’s m-*
Stryfe struck with the psimitar, even on the astralscape still merely a visible embodiment of his telepathic weapon, something powerful, cold, sharp. It split into his mind exactly as a blade would through a skull, and the astralscape exploded around him as he cried out -
And then faded to black.
Stryfe yanked the psimitar out of the fading astral form of Cable, and around that body there suddenly erected a masonwork of metal bricks, a cold, completely closed box with no door, no windows, nothing. Against his will his astral self collapsed, weakened by the ordeal of fighting itself. He leaned heavy in the psimitar, resting his forehead on the fist that gripped it, gasping for air even though it wasn’t necessary here.
He felt a scan, a very un-gentle one, and the Phoenix floated before his eyes. Her face was clouded, conflicting emotions evident there.
“Let me in,” she said quietly, and he flinched, then dropped his shields, one by one, instantly planting memories of Cable standing at Tyler’s grave, of talking to Tyler, of hearing of his death, and memories of Nathan hearing Stryfe laugh as he took over. With free roam in Nathan’s mind, it wasn’t an intricate task and it was highly difficult to detect, though he put nothing past her skill.
As he expected, she flinched away from the raw pain she found in those memories, and even Stryfe himself was surprised at the sheer intensity of those emotions, even after so long, even after knowing the truth about him.
Inwardly, in the part Jean dared not intrude, Stryfe began to laugh, quietly. Nate was right. What he felt for Sam was exactly the same flavor of loss he’d felt with Tyler, so much guilt there, so much pain.
An interesting correlation, and a very useful weapon.
The astral form of the Phoenix faded, leaving Jean standing there, probably unconsciously appearing as Redd. She hugged him gently, and he briefly returned it before wearily rising, Jean helping him all the way.
“Thanks,” he managed roughly, brushing at an imaginary tear. He gestured at the astralscape to distract her from the movement in typical Cable fashion. “I had no idea . . .”
Jean followed his gaze, looking over the broken landscape. “I can’t image that gas would have done this . . . this is a representation of damage, true, but more in your psyche than physical damage to your mind.” Her concerned eyes turned back to him, watching him intently. “It was a clone, Nate . . .”
He turned away sharply, holding the psimitar in his hands and staring at it a long time before letting it evaporate into the clouds. “That doesn’t change anything,” he muttered viciously. “It gives me a second chance, but doesn’t change the fact that I killed him the first time around.”
“If the clone had had External powers, it would have lived -”
“It shouldn’t have happened, Jean.” He glanced back to the metal tomb with a heavy sigh, and continued in a gentler tone. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.” And he dropped the astralscape, returning to the darkness of Cable’s mi-
No. His mind. Cable’s body, but his mind.
Jean withdrew, sitting straight up in the chair with a deep intake of breath, much like a person does upon waking. He, on the other hand, carefully picked himself up off the ground with a muttered string of Askani curses that made his tongue curl.
As he had observed for countless years, he glanced once at Dom, only one, and very briefly, before snapping off the link, not killing it, which would make things so much easier, but closing it. She flinched as she felt it, and he had to carefully school his features away from the pleased look they strained toward. Instead, he nodded, once, to Gambit, glanced at Jean, glanced at Scott, who had regained his feet in that time. Hank was helping Rogue to her feet, rubbing her head and glaring icily at him.
“Maybe Ah could get him out,” she offered. “One good wallop tah the noggin -”
He kind of grunted at her, a very Cable thing to do, and pressed a hand to his head with another curse, nearly collapsing into a chair but managing to look graceful about it. What _was_ that pesky -
Oh, of course. The T-O. Almost without thought he stopped its advance, forcing it back down his neck and off his chest as Nathan had unknowingly taught him.
This was going to be very interesting indeed.
Sam panted, just beginning to catch his breath, as the door hissed open to his right. The taste of the slime was strong in his mouth, oozing down the back of his throat from his nasal passages. Not a gel-like film between worlds, or perhaps it was.
Had he died? He hadn’t been able to breathe for so long, he’d felt the weakness that always came over him, and then a numb, cold nothing. That he remembered from his first death. That dark, numb cold he knew. That was death.
He had died.
And now he was alive.
Had Sinister brought him back? The slime one of his strange regenerative tanks? Sam bit back a sob at the idea that he wasn’t even Sam Guthrie anymore, that he was a clone like the Marauder that was wiping the last of the slime from his retrained body.
He recognized the dark-haired female as Arclight, and she was just as strong as the files had warned, less than gentle as she wiped the worst of the slime from him. As if being fastened yet again to a flat, featureless metal table wasn’t uncomfortable enough, he was completely unclothed and being . . . evaluated! by the Marauder, openly staring at him as if sensing his level of discomfort rising.
“Must be popular with the ladies back home,” she winked, and laughed throatily as he turned away, face afire, to the right.
And immediately shut his eyes as he saw who had come in.
Sinister said nothing to him, simply entering and moving to a keypad on the right, his fingers moving impossibly quickly on the keys of the panels around him, his not-quite-human head cocking first one way and then another as his attention shifted to different monitors.
Sam jumped as Arclight moved the towel roughly over a very sensitive area of his anatomy, and she laughed again. “Nice to have such a shy man around the place. Can we keep him?” Her hard voice left little to the imagination of what she’d like to _do_ with him should they keep him, and his skin crawled at the thought. Images of leather-clad women with various medieval instruments of torture seen in one of Ric’s magazines paraded before his closed lids, causing him to squeeze them shut and watch the white exploding stars, instead.
“Now, now, let’s not antagonize him,” Sinister murmured. “Increasing his stress may affect the results.”
He could practically hear the woman pout as she finished toweling him off, giving him a ‘playful’ smack across his flat stomach with the slime-sodden towel, the blow stinging like barbed wire pressed against flesh, but he held in the yelp, if not the flinch.
His eyes opened as he felt a breath of air across his face, and he again couldn’t contain the flinch as he realized it was Sinister, studying him very intently at incredibly close range. He immediately attempted to attack the scientist, who didn’t so much as bat an eye as the restraints kept Sam from moving more than an inch in any direction.
“For all your defiance and fear, you rarely speak,” the scientist observed, moving back to study Sam’s body, as if looking for signs of stress. Other than being thinner than he remembered, his ribs showing prominently, he didn’t think he looked much different, and again he colored as the scientist’s gaze loitered over him from head to toe. His gaze eventually returned to Sam’s glittering eyes.
“I can never truly make out what you say when you scream,” he continued in a frighteningly dispassionate voice, “and I simply must know - do you not speak to me because you’re afraid, or because you no longer can? I believe I’ve been able to repair the damage done you here, but if I’ve failed in any way, it would be beneficial to know -”
“What do you want . . . from me?” His voice did feel strange, muted, like after one spends all their time at a high school football game screaming, and Sinister nodded.
“Still strained . . . they tore quite badly the last time, I was afraid scar tissue might form.” He managed to sound even slightly disappointed. “That would take surgery to correct, and I simply don’t have the time at the moment.”
“Why are . . . you doin’ this tah me?” He tried to force strength into that trembling little pathetic whisper, but all he managed was making it more raspy, and he hated himself for it.
Sinister didn’t reply, merely stared at Sam for a long, long time, silently. Sam watched him unblinkingly for a while, and a sudden, irrational surge of anger shook him from head to toe.
“You’re a liar and a monster!” He didn’t care that his voice was rasping painfully in his throat. “When Ah get off this bed, Ah swear tah you, Ah’ll -”
“You’ll what. Kill me? Is that what you were going to say?”
Whatever threat Sam was going to utter swallowed painfully back into his throat at the sudden glow of those blood-red eyes boring into his, causing him to choke.
“Not a very Christian thought. I would advise you to repent to your God at once.” Those eyes never left his as the scientist reached over to a counter, bringing a syringe before Sam’s eyes.
“You may meet Him sooner than you think, Sam.”
The scientist lowered the syringe to his arm, again very gently injecting the contents, one hand clamped down with suffocating force on Sam’s chest as he struggled futility. There was very little liquid in the syringe, it was over in a few seconds, leaving Sam trembling visibly, feeling the ice travel down and then back up his left arm, the muscles already starting to cramp into knots that would send him screaming into the cold numb darkness once more.
Please, God, don’t let him bring me back.
Sinister smiled, the last thing Sam clearly saw. “That wasn’t quite the prayer I had in mind.”
continued in Of Raising Wings and Deady Dreams