“Betsy . . .” Phoenix whispered, her thoughts immediately flashing on the image of the shapeshifting chess piece back in Roma’s sanctuary.
“All right, people,” Cyclops said calmly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He looked to his wife. “Jean, scan the area. The school is just around the bend in the road—see if you can pick up any stray thoughts that might allow us to get a handle on the situation.” Phoenix nodded, and he turned to face the others. “I want this played by the numbers, all right? The last thing we need to do is go charging in halfcocked because we’re concerned for our friends’ safety, only to do someone a favor by conveniently walking into any traps that might have been laid for us. Agreed?”
Slowly, the remaining team members nodded; Wolverine, however, still looked ready for a fight—head lowered, body tensing like a spring about to be released.
“Oh—oh my God . ..” Phoenix suddenly wailed softly.
Cyclops was at his wife’s side in a split-second, steadying her trembling body as she clutched the sides of her head in agony.
“Jean!” he yelled, unable to keep a note of panic from creeping into his voice. “Jean! Let it go! Whatever you’re picking up, just let it go!”
“They’re dying . . .” Phoenix cried, her eyes brimming with tears. “They’re all dying .. .” Her voice trailed off, but her lips continued to move silently as she mouthed the word “dying” over and over again. She blankly stared straight ahead, clearly unaware of Scott’s gentle grip on her shoulders, or even the worried expressions etched on the faces of her teammates, who clustered around her. Whatever thoughts she was tapping into, though, seemed to be providing her with a vivid display of what it might be like to stare into the pits of hell.
Tenderly, Cyclops pushed aside Jean’s fiery locks and placed his mouth beside her ear.
“Jean,” he whispered. “Please. Let it go.” He reached out to stroke her cheek, then turned her head so that he could look into her eyes. “Come back to me. Please, Jean . ..”
It took an agonizing moment or two, but, slowly, Phoenix’s numbed expression softened; her trembling muscles relaxed.
But the haunted look in her eyes remained.
“Scott. . .” she whispered. She reached up to wipe away the tear that had slid down his cheek from under the golden visor.
Cyclops smiled warmly. “Welcome back.”
Jean’s eyes sparkled. “It’s good to be back.” Gathering her strength, she straightened and stepped back from her husband, letting her hand slip down to hold his.
“You all right, Jean?” Rogue asked. “Y’all had us worried there for a minute.”
“I’m fine,” Phoenix replied, though the strain in her voice said otherwise. “I just wasn’t prepared ... so much sorrow . . .”
“You said, ‘They’re all dying,’ ” Cyclops said. “Who did you mean?
Is it the other X-Men?” It was apparent from his expression that he regretted having to press Jean for information so soon after she had recovered from her ordeal, but it had to be done.
“I didn’t detect any of our friends,” Phoenix replied. “Ororo, Betsy, Warren, Hank—either they’ve left the area, or. . .” She paused, then shook her head, pushing the unpleasant alternative from her mind. “They’re not there.”
“Then who—?” Nightcrawler began.
“I don’t know, Kurt. When I scanned the area, I ran into ... I can only describe it as a ‘psychic tidal wave.’ A culmination of powerful emotions—anger, fear, despair—created by a large group of minds nearby. It was like opening a door and finding a wall of water bearing down on me. I wasn’t able to erect a stronger mental shield fast enough to block it before it struck.”
“And it was coming from the school?” Cyclops asked.
Phoenix nodded. “Or some place very close to it.”
“All right, then,” Cyclops said. He glanced at each of the men and women under his command. “Same positions as before, but let’s doubletime it. And be ready for anything.”
As before, the X-Men spread out as they moved down the road, but now there was a nervous energy that seemed to hang in the air around them—an electricity formed of worry, and anger, and, yes, even fear.
Cyclops frowned. Fear had its uses in battle; it kept the edge on, kept you moving, as long as you didn’t allow it to overwhelm your thinking. But fear could also be a deadly distraction, especially considering the amount of danger involved in their line of work. He risked a quick glance at his wife. Phoenix was trying to appear stoic, doing her best to focus on her job, but from the way she was chewing on her lower lip, it was clear that she was still haunted by the mental images left by the psychic assault.
We ’11 get through this, honey, Cyclops thought. I promise.
Phoenix looked to him and smiled—she’d “heard” him. Two words suddenly formed in his mind, projected by Jean for him alone: Love you.
“Cyke,” Wolverine said, interrupting their silent conversation. “You better come see this.” The Canadian was standing just a few yards ahead, where the road curved toward the gravel driveway that led to the school. Cyclops smiled reassuringly at Phoenix, then jogged up to join his point man—
—and stopped dead in his tracks.
“What in God’s name ... ?” Cyclops whispered. Behind the ruby quartz of his visor, his eyes widened in shock.
The mansion—the home for these colorfully-garbed students of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning—was gone.
In its place, spread across the acreage that once contained a wide, two-story building, Japanese gardens, a small airfield, and an Olympicsized swimming pool, was a collection of wooden bunkhouses—about two dozen or so—surrounded by twenty-foot-high chain link fencing, the top of which was wrapped in lethal razor-wire. Thirty-foot-tall guard towers were spaced ten yards apart, their searchlights continually sweeping across the muddy grounds, their uniformed occupants walking a slow circuit around the steel-and-cement parapets, formidable-looking rifles clutched tightly in gauntleted hands.
“Oh, no . . .” Phoenix moaned softly.
Rogue gasped, clearly stunned by the unexpected sight. Beside her, Gambit said nothing, any sarcastic remark he might have been about to make lodging in his throat.
“Mein Gott...” Nightcrawler muttered, yellow eyes flashing brightly in the moonlight.
As for Wolverine . . . well, Logan had seen something like this decades ago, in Europe; it was the type of nauseating sight that one could never completely wipe away from the mind’s eye after witnessing it, no matter how much time passed. He growled softly.
“What’s goin’ on here?” Gambit finally asked. “Dat looks like some kinda mil’tary installation.”
“That ain’t no soldier base, Cajun,” Wolverine said, his lips pulled back in a savage snarl. “It’s a death camp.”
If there was one truism about being an inmate in Detainee Camp #1879, it was this: Life was cruel, life was harsh, life was what you tried to hang onto as long as possible in those rare moments between beatings, and only the dead were the lucky ones.
Lucky enough to have escaped their torment.
Carol Danvers had learned that lesson a long time ago, at the end of a guard’s truncheon, or the boot heel of a matron, or from the fist of one of the savage prisoners who were allowed to mix with—and terrorize—a general population consisting mainly of writers, musicians, and an odd politician or two. Some of the brutes she recognized as former second- and third-class “super-villains” who had been swept up by von Doom’s growing reserve of super heroes during the early days of the Empire; she had spotted the Trapster, Electro, and Titania her first day in the camp. Sentenced to life imprisonment, their powers negated by neural inhibitors that “rewired” their brains’ synapses so they were unable to use the mental “on-switch” that activated their powers, they were more than willing to vent their frustrations on the “normals” who cowered in their presence. Carol had tried to do something about the situation when she first a
rrived, but that selfless dedication to helping others had soon been beaten out of her, along with two teeth and a pint or two of blood. And for each day she spent here—she’d lost count of the exact number—there was always someone more than eager enough to take advantage of any opportunity to provide her with a refresher course on the perils of getting involved in other people’s business.
After all, it’s often been said that one teaches by repetition.
Life hadn’t always been this bad for Carol Danvers, though. By the time she turned twenty-five, she seemed to have had it all: an Air Force captaincy, a modest apartment in Manhattan, even her first stable relationship in years.
But then, one day, she made the mistake of questioning the government’s policy of imprisoning political radicals in what appeared to be work camps—a policy enacted by Emperor von Doom soon after taking power. She couldn’t understand how a man who seemed so benevolent to his subjects could be so willing to recreate the gulags of Stalinist Russia, just to silence his more outspoken detractors.
Her fall from grace didn’t take long after that, for only a fool questioned the orders of the Emperor—a suicidal fool, in fact. In the span of two days, Carol lost her rank, her apartment, her short-time boyfriend . . . and her freedom. It still horrified her, knowing how quickly, how easily, the foundations of her life had been shaken apart: One minute, she was a decorated officer, a respected member of her community, a woman deeply in love; the next, she was just another nameless victim— attacked on the street by a half-dozen black-suited men, drugged, tossed into the back of a nondescript van, and presented with the unwelcomed opportunity to experience first-hand just what life was like in one of the camps. Her family, she later learned, had been told that she had committed suicide, choosing to hang herself rather than face up to the shame she had brought them by her dishonorable discharge.
Her “ashes” had been left on her parents’ doorstep in the middle of the night, so they’d be sure to find them when they went to retrieve the morning paper.
Carol still shuddered whenever her thoughts flashed back to those first few days following her abduction: the crippling beatings, the maggot-infested food, the psychological torture. But, thankfully, when enough new “guests” had arrived at the camp to momentarily sate a seemingly endless hunger for doling out abuse, the guards and the once-powered prisoners eventually grew tired of using her as a punching bag and went hunting for fresher game. She knew that wouldn’t last forever, of course—even a grown child would go back and play with an old toy just for the sake of nostalgia—but she considered each day that they left her alone a blessing.
Now, one year later, she was twenty-six but looked forty-six, her smooth complexion and bright attitude replaced by callused skin and a bitter cynicism. There were streaks of gray in her blond hair, and her pale blue eyes always seemed to be bloodshot—brought on by a severe lack of sleep, no doubt. But that was to be expected in a place where death could come swiftly, silently, as a dagger in the belly, or a thin piece of wire pulled tightly across a frail windpipe if one slept too soundly.
Such was the glamorous life at Detainee Camp #1879.
Lying on her bunk in one of the “girls’ dormitories,” as they were known—as though anyone would mistake the drafty, wooden structures for some kind of college campus apartment complex—Carol tossed fitfully, unable to sleep. Her stomach ached fiercely, her bladder felt like it was going to explode, and she was starting to run a fever; more than likely, there had been some kind of bacteria in the water—possibly as part of a government experiment, if the rumors she heard whispered around the camp were true—and her body was demanding that she do something now to purge it from her system. Carol gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the pain coursing through her, but the fetal position into which she had drawn herself was as tight as it was ever going to be, and that had brought no relief.
There was no way around it: she had to go to the bathroom.
Slowly uncoiling her aching body, Carol slid out from under the coarse blanket that covered her bed and unsteadily rose to her feet. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her—she could taste the bile burning its way up her throat—but she fought the sensation and ordered her body to move forward; it responded, to a small degree, and she quietly shuffled across the rough, wooden floor in threadbare slippers. She glanced around the darkened room, but none of the other female prisoners seemed to have heard her movements, nor did any of them appear to be exhibiting any signs of the illness that now forced her to walk doubled-over. Carol swore under her breath; she’d probably been used as an unwitting test case—again—for some new strain of virus with which the government was experimenting. That would make three in the last year for her alone. Not for the first time, she wondered if there were any real uses for the bugs, or whether her jailers were just trying to discover what it would take to finally kill her.
“Better men than you have tried, jerkface . . .” she muttered to an imaginary scientist, just before another river of bile tried to force itself through her lips.
Moving to the front door of the bunkhouse, Carol paused to look around. Prisoners were not allowed out of the dormitories after “lights-out,” no matter the reason. If she were caught by one of the guards now, an upset stomach would be the least of her worries. The burning lava flow that seemed to be rolling around in her gut, however, insisted that she had to take the chance. The women’s bathroom was only twenty yards away, so even with her shambling gait, she should be able to reach it in under a minute.
Carol scanned the area from the dorm to the bathroom once more to make certain that no one was around, then set off for her porcelain salvation.
Unfortunately, she neglected to check around the comer of the bunkhouse. . . .
“Get outta my way, Summers . . Wolverine growled. Teeth bared, he glared menacingly at Cyclops, who was standing between him and the camp.
“No, Logan,” Cyclops said. Arms folded across his chest, he stared down at the feral scrapper, never breaking eye contact. “When I said we weren’t going to just charge into a situation without a plan, I wasn’t just saying that because I like the sound of my own voice. It would be bad enough for the team if you tipped our hand too soon by rushing in there, but what do you think might happen to the people in that camp if you started a fight with the heavily-armed, guards who are protecting it? Do you really want to put that many lives at risk?”
Wolverine said nothing. His teammates watched silently, breaths held in anticipation, waiting for Logan to make the next move.
“All right,” he finally said. “Point taken.” He pointed a warning finger at Cyclops. “But quiet or loud, with or without yer permission, I am goin’ in there.”
“Agreed,” Cyclops said. “We all are—but working together, as a team. Understand?”
Wolverine grunted.
“So, what’s the plan?” Rogue asked.
“First, we need information,” Cyclops replied. He pointed to Nightcrawler and Wolverine. “Kurt, Logan—you’re our stealth experts. Get inside the camp, get a lay of the land, then come right back. Once we’ve got a handle on the situation, we can form a strategy.”
“I’ll maintain a telepathic link with the two of you,” Phoenix said. “If there’s any trouble, give a shout.”
Cyclops glanced at Wolverine. “Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.”
“Don’t worry, Scott,” Nightcrawler said cheerfully. “We’ll be as quiet as church mice.” He stepped beside Wolverine and placed his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders. “Ready, mein freund?”
“Do it,” Wolverine said gruffly.
And with a burst of brimstone-laced smoke and an implosion of air, they were gone.
“What now, Cyclops?” Gambit asked.
Cyclops glanced at the wry Cajun, and frowned. “Now, Gambit,” he said, “we wait...”
Seconds later, their fellow X-Men reappeared within the grounds of the camp, just beyond the chain link fence. Wolverine immediatel
y dropped into a crouch—presenting the smallest target possible for any rifle scopes that might be trained their way—and surveyed the area. Nightcrawler, however, staggered back a few steps, into the shadows cast by one of the bunkhouses. Against the inky blackness, he was virtually invisible, but his labored breathing gave away his position.
“You all right, elf?” Wolverine muttered softly.
Nightcrawler nodded. “I’ll be fine. It’s just the strain of teleporting two bodies over such a great distance...” He glanced at Wolverine. “Have you put on weight?”
“Funny,” Wolverine said. “Real funny.” He pointed an accusatory finger at his teammate. “Little more time trainin’ in the Danger Room, little less time bein’ a couch potato watchin’ movies, bub.” He raised his head to sniff the air, then grunted in surprise.
“Something?” Nightcrawler asked.
“Familiar scent,” Wolverine replied. “Can’t get a good read on it yet—” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the center of the camp “—but it’s cornin’ from this way.”
“Then, let’s go see what it is,” Nightcrawler said.
Moving quietly, staying in the shadows, the two heroes began making their way through the camp.
Carol Danvers was just stepping from the lavatory, grateful for having regained the ability to stand erect again, when a callused hand clamped over her mouth; before she could pull away, a powerful arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.
“Don’t make a sound, ” a coarse, male voice whispered into her ear. Carol recoiled from the stench of cheap alcohol that seemed to explode from his mouth. Twisting her head to one side, she caught a glimpse of dark-green material and shiny brass buttons.
It was one of the guards.
“You’re a pretty one,” the man continued. “A lot better lookin’ than some of the others they bring in here. Don’t know how I missed you before, but we can always make up for lost time ...”
Carol’s eyes widened in fear. As the guard started to pull her back into the lavatory, she twisted violently, trying to pull away, digging her heels into the muddy soil to slow their progress, but the burning fever and her roiling stomach had drained away most of her strength. In desperation, legs flailing wildly, she raised one foot, then drove her heel into the top of his booted foot, just below the ankle, with all her might. Thankfully, it had the desired effect: the guard yelped in pain and loosened his grip, enough for her to tear herself away from him. Carol spun around quickly and lashed out with her hands clasped together, throwing her strongest punch. She was lucky; the blow caught him across the nose—his low moaning caused by the injured foot leapt a few notches in volume to a high-pitched shrieking amid the sound of delicate bones breaking.
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