It was the closest thing to having a red-hot poker shoved into her eyes.
Strapped to an examination table, her powers deactivated by a neural inhibitor, Rogue screamed in agony as the psychic probe slowly burned through each layer of the complex mental defenses that Professor Xavier had created for all his students, for exactly these kinds of situations.
For Rogue and the other X-Men, as it had been for Carol Danvers, the key to the defense was in finding a “happy place”—the center of calm that existed in the subconscious—and building protective walls around it. In Rogue’s case, that sanctuary came in the form of a small brook that ran near her home, though she hadn’t been back there in real life for years. Still, it was the perfect setting to which a troubled mind could find some measure of tranquillity—the soothing murmur of the water, the gentle whisper of a soft autumn breeze that prickled the skin, and a glint of golden sunlight that shone brightly from between the mountains in the distance.
And it was on the edge of that imaginary brook that Rogue now huddled, trying her best to ignore the tremors that ran through her mental landscape, to shut out the pain that caused her real body to convulse as each layer of her mind was peeled away. She knew it was a losing battle, though—prior experience with psi-powered opponents had made it quite apparent that if they wanted information, not even barriers created by the world’s most powerful telepath would stand in their way for long.
That didn’t mean she was willing to just hand over information to spare herself any further torture—the last thing she wanted to divulge was that the X-Men’s goal was nothing less than the total destruction of Doctor Doom’s worldwide empire. Fortunately—or rather, unfortunately, given the mounting fervor with which they relentlessly battered her mind—the type of information her captors were seeking was related to another, though related, matter: the whereabouts of Magneto. That knowledge wasn’t in her possession; she had told them that from the start.
Of course, they hadn’t believed her.
Sitting by the brook, Rogue watched with increasing horror as the sunlight began to fade, and the air grew colder.
A storm was brewing, just over the horizon . . .
Standing beside the mutant, her gloved hands savagely pressing against the prone woman’s temples, Psi Division Director Emma Frost was quickly losing patience. She had decided to start with the skunkhaired powerhouse because she appeared to be the weakest link among the prisoners, what with her wealth of insecurities lying on the surface of her mind, all just waiting to be turned against her by a highly-skilled telepath.
Unfortunately, after forcibly creating a psychic link with this “Rogue” in the first stage of the interrogation, matters had become far more complicated than Frost could have imagined. Now, an hour later, the armpits of her white blouse were soaked with perspiration, and her white, shoulder-length hair was a damp, disheveled mass of tangles.
“It doesn’t matter how long this is going to take,” she snarled through gritted teeth. “Eventually, I’m going to break through . . . and then I’ll scoop out all your lovely thoughts like the finest sherbet—and devour them.” Taking a deep breath, she focused her incredible psychic powers on the next “wall” in Rogue’s mind and drilled away at it like a jackhammer cracking through stone.
TELL ME WHAT 1 WANT TO KNOW, YOU LITTLE BACKWOODS WITCH! she screamed through the psychic link. TELL ME ALL ABOUT MAGNETO—WHERE HE’S HIDING, WHAT HIS PLANS ARE—OR I’LL BURN OUT EVERY SYNAPSE IN YOUR BRAIN, AND LEAVE YOU A DROOLING VEGETABLE!
Tears streaming from her eyes, Rogue whimpered as the attack continued, and tried to focus on a bubbling brook that she could only see with her mind’s eye.
Jean, where are you ... ?
Cyclops’s entire body was a mass of bruises and broken bones. His head was pounding from a hairline fracture, his torso ached from a halfdozen purplish welts scattered across his chest and abdomen—a dull, throbbing pain, made worse by the leather straps that bound him to the metal chair in which he was sitting—and the bones of his right arm were just about held together by a thread. The shattered limb had been fitted with a cast on the trip down to Langley, but it wouldn’t be of any use to him for at least six to eight weeks—not counting the additional weeks of rehabilitative treatments . . . should the universe live that long.
Yet, despite his massive injuries, his concerns were centered on his wife. He remembered how the attack at the library had started because Doom’s thugs had come for Jean. And after that terrible blow to the head she had taken, was there a chance she might be—•
Scott shook his head. No. He refused to believe she was gone. Their psychic link had been broken, but that only meant they were unable to communicate for the moment. Jean was in this place—somewhere— and if he ever got the chance to find her, hold her, smell the sweet fragrance of her hair once more, then no one—not Doom, not Magneto, no one—would ever be able to keep them apart again.
Just hold on, Jean. Hold on . . .
“This is the leader?” a male voice asked from behind him.
Cyclops started. He recognized that voice.
“Shaw!” he shouted. “Sebastian Shaw! Where are you?”
With surprising quickness, Shaw stepped around to place himself within Cyclops’s range of vision, then yanked the visor from the younger mutant’s head. Instinctively, Cyclops shut his eyes, prepared to hold back the torrent of destructive energies that were sure to follow, but the burning, rushing sensation that always accompanied a surge of optical power never came about—the neural inhibitor at work, he surmised. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Shaw was standing in front of him, his attention focused on the visor, turning it every which way in his hands; clearly, he was trying to figure out how it worked.
“Where are the others?” Cyclops demanded.
“I’d be more concerned for my own well-being, were I in your position, young man,” Shaw replied. He placed the visor over his eyes. “Ruby quartz, eh? I imagine that allows you to see the world through the proverbial rose-colored glasses.” He chuckled at his little joke. “Don’t worry about your friends—they’re receiving the same sort of hospitality any traitor to the Empire would get after they’ve been brought in for questioning.”
An image of Jean—lying face down on the plaza, being kicked by Mastermind—formed in Scott’s mind’s eye, but he fought down the urge to uselessly struggle against his bonds and snarl impotent threats at his captors. Better he remain calm and play for time.
“And when does Doom plan to show up?” he asked. “It wouldn’t be like him to miss an opportunity to gloat over a fallen enemy—especially when they’re old friends of his wife.”
That got Shaw’s attention. He lowered the visor and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Friends of the Empress, are you?” He slowly shook his head and made a “tutting” sound. “I never would have imagined Ororo could be so desperate for companionship that she would resort to trawling amongst the rabble.” He shrugged. “Ah, well—such are the eccentricities of the rich and powerful. As for the Emperor, he couldn’t be here—he has far more important matters to address than what to do with a poorly-organized group of mutants who’ve lost their way and forgotten their stations in life.” Shaw smiled maliciously. “That particular topic, I’m pleased to say, has been entirely left up to me to resolve.” Handing the visor over to a young man wearing a lab coat, Shaw removed his jacket and began rolling up his shirt sleeves.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing,” he said. “Well, I know the Psi-Division enjoys poking around in people’s mind, flipping through their memories like magazines on a newsstand, but I’ve always prided myself on being a bit more hands-on with my questioning— especially when it comes to matters involving Magneto.”
Scott was nonplused. “You’re going to beat the answers out of me?” he asked. “While I’m tied to a chair with a broken arm?”
“Not at all, my boy,” Shaw replied. A fire burned in his dark eyes. “I’m going to
thrash you to within an inch of your life, and then I’m going to ask my questions. It spares us both that whole annoying process of raising the level of punishment each time you refuse to answer, and dispenses with the time-consuming work involved in stripping away the psychic barriers protecting your mind. This way, by using my power to increase my strength kinetically, each blow I land becomes more powerful than the last, until I am literally grinding your bones to paste. With such excruciating pain coursing through every fiber of your being, the matter of mental barriers becomes a non-issue.” Shaw handed his jacket to his assistant and stepped toward Scott. “Shall we begin ... ?”
The first blow pulverized Scott’s already shattered humerus.
After that, his mind burning with pain, he could only pray that Shaw’s arms would begin to tire long before the Black King wound up killing him.
He was dying.
Lying on a cot in the darkness of his cell, Remy LeBeau breathed laboriously, each inhalation and exhalation an effort of almost Herculean proportions. The circuitry and machinery that had started growing on his body back in New York had continued to spread until he now looked more like a robot pretending to be a man.
And he felt so very, very cold . . .
He’d awakened shortly after arriving at the facility, to be greeted by the sight of a dozen or so men and women huddled around him, all of them covered head-to-toe in yellow Hazardous Material protective suits. There had been a lot of talk about “techno-organic viruses”— whatever those were—and the dangers of exposure and a lot of other scientific mumbo-jumbo Remy didn’t understand. Some Asian woman in green latex, standing in an adjoining observation room, had inquired as to his chances of survival. She’d been told they were nil—he had only hours at the most left to live, a day if he was lucky.
“Then I have no use for him,” she’d said angrily, and walked away.
He’d been dumped in the cell soon after that brief exchange, isolated from the rest of the facility while his captors waited for the final stages of the metamorphosis to run their course. They wouldn’t have all that long to wait.
Remy shuddered. His heart was beating much slower now, his skin icy to the touch. He didn’t even react, as the latest strands of monofilaments forced its way through his pores, tearing through his flesh like razor-sharp hairs.
He couldn’t really feel much of anything, as a matter of fact.
Death was close now. Her chilly hand was pressing down on his chest, drawing away what little warmth remained in his body. A feeling of loss washed over Remy, and he choked back a sob. It wasn’t that he feared death—Lord only knew how often he’d played “tag” with her since his days as a young pickpocket on the streets of New Orleans.
It was because he knew that he was going to die, alone, without ever having given his heart completely to the one woman who had found the soul of a poet deep within the breast of a simple thief.
A tear trickled from his remaining eye; it smelt of machine oil.
“Ah, chere,” he mumbled, his voice sounding more like an electronic burbling. “I’m sorry we didn’t make dat concert. .
Heavenly Father, grant me the strength to survive this ordeal. . .
Kurt Wagner had always been a devout Roman Catholic; in his younger days, he’d even considered joining the priesthood. An ironic situation, given his demonic appearance.
Of course, the lure of the seminary had been ultimately replaced by a higher calling of sorts—the chance to aid Professor Charles Xavier in bringing about his dream of humanity and mutantkind one day walking, hand in hand, down the path to everlasting peace. It had been the right choice to make, Kurt had always been certain of that, and up till now he had never been proven wrong. Thus, secure in mind and spirit, he had devoted his life to The Dream, rarely feeling the need to bother the Almighty with pleas for assistance.
But if ever there was a time he truly needed the Lord’s help, that time was right now. He couldn’t teleport, couldn’t melt into the shadows—there were none, the room being filled with blinding light—and the drugs he’d been given were wearing down his resistance to the psychic probing of the two people sitting across from him.
The woman was Wilhelmina—tall and willowy, with the face of a supermodel and the kind of condescending attitude one could only find in a follower of a despot like Doctor Doom. The man was William— broad-shouldered, powerfully built, with a head that seemed attached to his body without the benefit of a neck. Both wore dark blue uniforms with high starched collars.
“Talk, Wagner!” the woman demanded. “That bucketheaded leader of yours can’t be worth all this pain and suffering! Do you like working for a mass-murderer? Was the bombing of Paris just another ‘acceptable loss’ for the realization of his precious ‘dream’?” She pointed a commanding finger at him. “You will tell us everything, you blasted freak, or I’ll reach into that feeble little mind of yours and rip out every memory you’ve got!”
“Please, Kurt,” urged William. “Just tell us what you know, and we’ll end the interrogation right now—” he glanced at his partner “—before it gets out of control.”
Kurt’s mouth slid into a lopsided grin. “This must be . . . the ‘good cop/bad cop’ scenario . . . I’ve seen so often ... on American television . . He rolled his head around on his shoulders to look at the woman. “You are far too . . . attractive ... to play the ... ‘bad cop,’ fraulein...”
William slapped his hands down on the table and jumped to his feet. “This is ridiculous!” he barked. “I’m tired of playing around with this freak!” He leaned forward and punched Kurt in the face with a meaty fist, almost pitching him from his chair. The wiry X-Man chuckled softly as a thin line of blood—a bright red streak against a midnight-blue field—trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“Now . . . who’s the . . . ‘bad cop’ .. . ?” he said.
Wilhelmina rose to her feet and walked around the table. She grabbed Kurt’s chin and forced him to look into her eyes. “You like movies, don’t you, Kurt?” She smiled as his eyes widened in surprise. “Didn’t think I’d gotten in there, did you? But I did. ” The telepath chuckled. “It seems Miss Frost was wrong about which one of you was the weakest link—and won’t she be angry when she finds out.” Kurt tried to pull his head away, but she held on fast. “I’m not all the way in, of course—that will take some time. But I have been able to sift through the thoughts lying on the surface of your mind—quite an eclectic bunch of images, I must say: movies you’ve seen recently ... your friends . . . religious icons. Are you a religious man, Mr. Wagner?”
“Why should you care?” Kurt growled.
“Actually, I don’t, ” Wilhelmina replied. “But reading your personal messages to the Almighty for help gives me such . . . wonderful ideas. William?”
The big man’s eyes flashed, and Kurt was suddenly airborne, tossed across the room by the sheer force of William’s telekinetic powers. He slammed hard against the far wall, the breath crushed from his lungs, and hung there, arms spread wide, two feet above the floor.
Wilhelmina reached into one of her boots and pulled out a pair of throwing knives—a gift from her grandfather when she had turned sixteen. Fluorescent light played along cold, thin steel as she gazed at Kurt’s prostrate form.
“Such wonderful ideas . ..” she purred.
Like the man said, “I can’t be dead—I’m achin’ too much all over. ”
Logan opened his eyes. He certainly couldn’t be dead—not unless St. Peter now operated his This is Your Life on Earth review of prospective heavenly candidates in a sterile examining room. And not unless St. Peter had been replaced by a group of gibbering scientists, dark-uniformed psi-agents, and heavily-armed guards. Their backs were turned to him; obviously, they thought he was still unconscious.
As they yammered away about who he might be, and how poorly the other interrogations were going—at least, that was the talk around the facility—he heard one of the scientists mention the neural inhibitors t
hat had been implanted in the prisoners, and how well they were still functioning. What his captors hadn’t realized, though, was that, in Logan’s case, the inhibitor had shut down his heightened senses, and his mutant healing factor—but, hopefully, not his claws.
An’ that’s the big mistake that’s really gonna costya, boys an’ girls, he thought, eyeing his captors. The kinda mistake that can kill.
Of course, such dark thoughts could not go unnoticed in a facility crawling with telepaths and telekinetics.
“The prisoner!” one of the male telepaths cried. “He’s awake!”
Logan couldn’t wait any longer. Knowing what would happen if he did release his deadly bio-weapons without an active healing factor— he’d gone through that painful experience a few times too many during his missions with the X-Men—Logan nevertheless prepared himself for the ordeal. He gritted his teeth, tensed the muscles in his forearms, screwed his eyes tightly shut.
And then triggered his claws.
The inhuman howl that filled the examination room sent a chill up the spine of everyone standing around him—and those passing in the outside hallway. Before the scientists or telepaths could recover from the shock, Logan had tom through his restraints and leapt at them, lashing out with deadly precision.
He crashed through the door and out into the hallway, ignoring the burning sensation in his arms, and the blood pouring from the open wounds created by the claws when they broke through the skin on the backs of his hands. Normally, his healing factor would have handled the damage already, stanching the bloodflow and repairing the tom skin, but the inhibitor was still functioning, still denying him
If I don’t make this jailbreak count for somethin ’ an ’ find a way outta here fore my injuries get t’me, Logan thought, I’m gonna feel pretty damn stupid passin’ out from loss o’ blood. He staggered around a comer—
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