“And what, exactly, is that gonna do?”
“Well, if it’s a sedative,” the woman said, with more than a trace of annoyance, “I’d imagine it’s going to put her to sleep. ”
The guard scratched his head in confusion. “But, she was sleeping just a little while ago. Why would you want to put her out again?”
The woman turned to face him, a sneer on her lips. “Look, don’t you have something else to do—kick in another prisoner’s teeth, maybe slap around somebody else who’s tied to a chair?”
The guard shook his head. “My orders are to remain with the prisoner until Viper gets back. That includes any time you spend getting Bird-Girl here ready to go sleepy-bye.”
The woman gestured with her chin past the guard’s shoulder. “Then you can start taking your coffee break, soldier-boy.”
Clearly confused, the guard turned around, expecting to see Viper approaching—only to cry out in surprise as the woman clamped a hand over his mouth and plunged the syringe into the base of his skull. Convulsing wildly, he crumpled to the floor for a few moments, then lay still. A thick cloud of mucousy foam billowed from between his lips, and his glassy eyes rolled up in his head. A few more twitches, and he lay still.
“Idiot,” the woman muttered. “Oldest trick in the espionage handbook.”
As Jean watched, the woman’s features blurred, her clothes changed color and style; within the space of a heartbeat, she had turned back into Mystique. Jean almost said her old enemy’s name aloud, then remembered the rubber ball in her mouth. Holding her breath, she waited for Raven to make her next move.
To her surprise, it was to remove the gag and unfasten the straps that held her head in place. Jean started to whisper a thanks, only to wince in pain as her jaw muscles cramped from the strain of being held in an open position for countless hours.
“Don’t try to talk,” Mystique said. “You’re going to be in some pain for a while, so just listen: I’m here with friends to get you and your teammates out of this torture chamber.” She moved to a control panel and pressed a sequence of buttons; with a soft clang of metal, the restraints around Jean’s arms and legs retracted. “I still don’t know why Magneto thinks you’re so important to the cause, but just the fact that you’re still alive, as he had believed, makes me start to think I shouldn’t question him as much as I do.”
Jean started. “M-Magne—” She whimpered as a bolt of pain shot through her jaw.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Mystique said scoldingly. “Yes, Magneto. And you have no idea how much effort it took on my part to keep him from just barging in here and tearing the place down around our ears.” She dragged Jean from the chair, since the fiery-tressed mutant was to weak to stand on her own. “If you have any questions, I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to answer them—after we’ve gotten away from here.”
Slowly, Jean tested her legs; she was unsteady, like a new-born filly trying to find its feet.
“Just a second,” Mystique said. She reached into a pouch attached to her skull-decorated belt and pulled out a metal band like the one she was wearing around her head, and placed it around Jean’s. “It’s a psi-scan blocker—it should hold up long enough for all of us to get out of here before any of the mentos start picking up our thoughts.” She grabbed Jean around the waist. “Let’s go.”
As they stumbled toward the door, Jean pointed to the guard lying on the floor.
“W-what about t-that m-man?” she asked, though the pain caused by talking made her quickly wish she had remained silent.
“Oh—him.” Mystique shrugged. “He’s dead.”
Jean stared at her in shock. “Thought you s-said ‘pheno—’ ” “Phenobarbital?” Mystique asked. Jean nodded, and the shapeshifter softly laughed. “Hell, no—that was window cleaner. Why waste a perfectly good sedative on a piece of trash like him?”
Stepping outside the interrogation room, Mystique shifted into a perfect replication of Viper, checked to make sure no one was in the hall, and then guided Jean away from the interrogation room.
Two corridors away, a pair of guards slammed open the door to Rogue’s cell. Their names were Morales and Poe. The former was a hulking
Latino in his mid-thirties, with short, wavy, black hair and a chilling smile; the latter was a Caucasian in his late twenties, not as muscular as his partner, with dark-brown hair and a severe case of acne-scarring. From the way in which they barged into the cell, it apparently could never be said that they did not enjoy their work.
“Rise and shine, sweetness!” Morales barked, and hauled the exhausted mutant to her feet.
“Wh-what’re y’all doin’ . . . ?” Rogue asked sleepily. Her legs felt like mush, her head like a punching bag leaking sand.
“Miss Frost wants to have a word with you,” Poe said. There was just enough of a hint of malice in his voice to get his prisoner’s attention.
Rogue snapped awake, eyes wide with fear. “N-no . ..” she gasped, and started struggling. Despite her mental anguish, she managed to find the strength to push the men into the hall, kicking and lashing out with her fists in a vain attempt to break free.
“Get the stun gun!” Morales yelled to his partner, just before a hastily-thrown elbow broke his nose. He cried out in pain and stumbled back, blood pouring from his nostrils.
The second guard managed to catch Rogue in the right temple with his fist. As she staggered into a wall, momentarily stunned, he reached down to his utility belt and unclipped a small, black device. He pressed an activation button on its side, and a jagged bolt of electricity rippled between two metal contacts on one end. Poe stepped forward, intending to jam the stun gun against Rogue’s waist.
“What are you idiots doing?” demanded a sharp female voice.
Rogue and the guards turned to find Viper standing a few feet away, a disgusted sneer on her emerald lips.
“Umm . . . Director,” Poe said, with just the proper tone of fear. “We were ordered by Miss Frost to bring this prisoner—” he gestured toward Rogue, who was slumping against a wall “—to her office for interrogation.”
“Well, you can disregard that order,” Viper said. “I’m taking charge of the prisoner.”
Both guards looked confused. “Ma’am . . . ?” replied Morales, trying his best to look respectful while keeping his head tilted back to staunch the flow of blood from his broken nose. From the comer of his eye, he glanced at his partner.
“No disrespect, Director, but that goes against Psi Division regulations,” Poe said. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that S.H.I.E.L.D. has no claim to our prisoners—not without a direct, written order from the Minister of Defense.” His hand was hovering near his utility belt—and the gun holster attached to it; the shiny black handgrip of a .9mm pistol could be plainly seen. .
Viper’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you refusing my command, you worm?”
Poe shivered in undeniable fear for a moment, but he stood his ground. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Viper sighed. “Very well.”
The throwing knives that suddenly appeared in her hands—and then in their throats—silenced both men before either could raise an alarm.
Viper looked over her shoulder. “You can come out now, Red.”
Using the wall for support, Jean staggered from the adjoining corridor to join her. “Is all this killing really necessary, Mystique?” she asked; it was becoming a little easier to talk.
The faux S.H.I.E.L.D. director grabbed her around the waist. “You know, if I were in your position, I’d do my best to see every last one of these soulless buzzards bum in hell for what they’d done to me and mine.”
“That’s the difference between you and I,” Jean replied. “You see them as ‘soulless buzzards.’ I see them as innocents, twisted by the hate-filled dreams of one man.”
“Von Doom.” The shapeshifter grunted. “Maybe we do share the same goal, after all.” She gestured toward Rogue. “Let’s collect your friend and see how th
e others are doing.”
They were doing just fine, actually.
Making use of the information provided by Pietro’s contact, Mystique’s fellow acolytes had moved quickly through the facility, aided, as it turned out, by some of the contact’s highly-paid spies—psi-agents, surprisingly enough. They had allowed the group entry to the complex, and had even provided the locations of the prisoners. It seemed that Pietro’s mysterious friend was networked throughout the Empire, making deals and gathering information behind von Doom’s back, without any apparent fear of reprisal.
It had also made Mystique wonder if someone other than Magneto was, perhaps, vying for possession of the throne.
Of course, the X-Men themselves weren’t much help in carrying out the escape. Wounded, broken, their psyches ravaged and mutant abilities deactivated, they could only rely on the kindness of people who would have otherwise been their bitterest of enemies, solely dedicated to their extermination. For the moment, the concept of the entire world being unaware of their identities was a blessing in disguise for the half dead super heroes.
Now, the acolytes and their charges were assembled in an interrogation room, waiting for the last of their group to join them.
“Somebody give me a hand,” Mystique said as she entered with Jean and Rogue. Scanner and Vindaloo stepped forward to remove Rogue’s weight from her shoulders, then guided the weary Southern Belle toward a chair.
Jean’s worried gaze swept across the faces before her, glancing briefly at Kurt and Logan as they nursed their injuries, looking for one face in particular. It only took her a moment to find it—much to her horror.
“Oh, my God! Scott!” Jean cried.
Scott sat on the floor against a wall, his right arm wrapped in a metal brace, his left hand gripping the ruby-quartz visor—a device useless to him at the moment. His face and bare chest were covered with fist-sized bruises and deep cuts. The swelling around his eyes made it impossible for him to see, and blood had crusted around his nose and mouth.
“Jean . . . ?” Scott tried to rise, but the effort was too much for him. He sank back to the floor.
“God ... oh, God . ..” Jean gasped hoarsely. With Mystique’s help, she staggered over to join her husband. Gingerly, she touched his swollen face. “Who—who did this to you, honey?”
“It was . . . Shaw,” Scott gasped. “Sebastian Shaw.”
Jean’s lips pulled back in a snarl; a low growl issued from her throat. “Where is he?’’ she asked.
“What’s this?” Mystique asked in mock surprise. “Miss Peace-and-Harmony turning into a lioness protecting her mate? What happened to all that talk of how everyone in this place is an ‘innocent’?”
Jean sneered. “That was before. ”
Mystique smiled. “I’m starting to like you, Bird-Girl. Unfortunately, much as I’d like to see you cut loose, you don’t have any powers, and we don’t have time for vendettas.” She looked to Cortez. “All right, Fabian, we got in—now, how do we get out? We’re going to look a little conspicuous trying to walk through the main gate with the Emperor’s favorite new guests. And the mentos have probably already spent the entrance fee they were paid, so I doubt they’d be willing to show us the back door for free.”
“I’ve already worked that out.” Cortez pointed to Nightcrawler. “This one is a teleporter, normally capable of moving himself and a passenger across short distances. By providing him with additional energy, I should be able to increase that range by a factor of three.”
Mystique nodded. “I see. So, if we all join hands, and you boost
Blue Boy’s jaunting power, he might be able to take all of us along for the ride.”
“That is the plan,” Kurt said.
Mystique shrugged. “No crazier than any other plan I’ve been hearing these days. Let’s get to it.”
“Remy!” Rogue suddenly exclaimed. “Where’s Remy?”
Mystique looked to Cortez. “We’re missing one?”
“Ah . . . yes,” Cortez replied slowly. “There were . . . unusual complications. We can’t take him with us.”
“Then we’re not leaving,” Jean said. “No one gets left behind.” Jean and Mystique stared hard at one another, neither batting an eyelash. Both were unwilling to back down, so it became a waiting game as to who would give in first.
Jean won.
“All right, Cortez,” Mystique finally said. “Why don’t you just show us these ‘unusual complications’ so we can get out of here?”
Cortez nodded and headed for the door. “Follow me.”
I’m gon’ miss dat smile, Remy thought.
Lying on his cot, he gazed into the darkness, his mind’s eye forming a picture of Rogue as he waited for the end to come.
Dat smile .. . De way de comers o’ her mouth turn up just so t’make her dimples show, de way her nose crinkles up an ’ twitches, de way her eyes sparkle like de Mississippi under de full moon. I’d give jus’ ’bout anyt’ing t’see dat smile one mo’ time . . .
That wasn’t entirely true, though. All he really wanted was one last opportunity to speak with Rogue, and let her know how he felt about— “Remy ... ?”
It was her.
Remy smiled. Maybe he was about to die, but maybe the man upstairs had decided to throw a little mercy his way before the end, and provide him with that last chance he had so desperately wanted. If so, he wasn’t about to screw it up.
Gambit forced his lips to move, to form one word that came out in a gasp of air from metal-coated lungs: “Chere... ?”
Remy tilted his head upward, just enough to see the door to his cell open, and Rogue start to enter.
“No, you little fool!” shouted a male voice. A powerful hand gripped Rogue’s shoulder and pulled her back into the hallway. A brief struggle followed
Remy struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the cot, then to his feet. It was hard to move—most of his flesh was gone, replaced by
cold, lifeless metal and plastic circuitry. Vaguely, he wondered if this is how it would have felt to be an old man—the aching body, the shortness of breath, the strain on a weakening heart to move atrophied limbs.
Not that he would ever have the chance to find out, of course.
“Let me go, Cortez!” Rogue shouted. “I’ve got to help him!” Slowly, painfully, Remy dragged himself to the door and opened it all the way. He was greeted by a chorus of stunned gasps and the wideeyed, fearful stares of his friends and a group of people he recognized as enemies of the X-Men in the “real world.”
“Bonjour, mon braves, ” he gurgled electronically.
“Mein Gott...” Nightcrawler whispered.
“Look at him!” Cortez said to Rogue, pointing at Remy. “Your friend has been infected with a techno-organic virus—you lay a finger on him, and the same thing will start happening to you! That’s why I had decided to leave him behind.”
Rogue seemed to be in a daze. “I... I can’t touch him?”
Cortez shook his head. “I’m sorry—it’s a highly contagious pathogen. And from his condition, I’d have to say he’s in the last stages of the infection. He . .. doesn’t have much time left.”
“Ironic, non?” Remy said to Rogue, leaning against the door frame for support. “All dis time we been wantin’ t’have de chance t’kiss wid-out de fear o’ your powers absorbin’ mine—you always worryin’ ’bout what it might do t’me—an’ now, when it don’ matter none anymore, it’s me who can’t touch you. ”
“No, Remy!” Rogue said. “We’ll get you outta here, find a cure—” Remy sadly shook his head. “No, chere. 01’ Gambit, he done played his last hand—now de time has come t’call it a night, I t’ink.”
Desperately, Rogue turned to Cortez. “We can come back for him, right? After Kurt has gotten us out of here, we can come back—we can take Remy with us. Can’t we ... ?”
Somberly, Cortez glanced at Nightcrawler; the blue-skinned teleporter looked as though his soul was being tom from his body.
> “Kurt. . . ?” Rogue said softly.
Nightcrawler looked up at her with haunted eyes. “I... I...” he began, then fell silent.
“I think any more than one jaunt would tear your friend apart,” Cortez said gently. “He’ll be lucky if the strain doesn’t kill him the first time.”
Rogue’s mouth moved, but no words would come out. Her panicked eyes refocused on Gambit. The Cajun shrugged and flashed a small smile.
“Dat’s okay, petite,” Remy said. “Somebody got t’keep dese pigs distracted while you get away. Sound like de perfect job for de Six-Million-Dollar Mutant, non?”
The quivering of Rogue’s lower lip made it clear she didn’t find his comment humorous in the least.
“And what are you going to use for weapons?” Mystique asked. “They confiscated anything you were carrying when you were brought in.”
Gambit chuckled softly. “But, I got one t’ing dey ain’t got,” he burbled electronically. He tapped on his stiff metal wrappings with his remaining hand. “I got me. ”
He looked around at his friends as they began to realize—in horror—just what he was saying. “You jus’ make sure you stop dat crazy tinhead Doom, mon braves. De whole universe is countin’ on you—” he winked his one eye “—an’ ol’ Gambit, too.”
“No, Remy—you can’t do this!” Rogue said. “Remember what Cyclops was sayin’ before: If we can find a way t’change everything back, then we can cure you, too—make it like this never happened! All you’ve gotta do is hang on till then!”
Remy shook his head. “I wish it was dat easy, chere, but de plain an’ simple truth is I’m dyin’, an’ no amount o’ hangin’ on is gonna stop it.” He turned to Mystique. “Can we have a minute?”
“Only a minute,” Mystique replied, but there was no caustic bite to her tone of voice—it actually sounded tinged with sorrow.
Gambit stepped back into his cell, and motioned for Rogue to join him.
“Remy, you’ve got to—” Rogue began, but soon fell silent as Gambit gestured for her to be quiet.
chaos engine trilogy Page 26
