FIC: Utopia 17 (WIP)
Title: Utopia
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairings: Charles/Erik
Genre: drama, angst, au, dystopia, future!fic
Rating: R
Word Count: 4600/?
Warnings: dubcon, emotional manipulation
Summary: Based on this 1stclass_kink prompt (and originally posted there).
"Erik has succeeded in taking over the world, but mutant utopia has yet to materialize. Charles is his reluctant companion."
Beta'd by the wonderful idioticonion and the incredibly talented subtilior, who flavors her Scotch with the tears of men.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23
lxxxvii.
Charles had a fleeting impression-blood rushing through his skull, pooling there, swirling-god, was he going to be sick? There was something hard jammed into his gut. A shoulder, he realized; someone’s shoulder.
Was he going to be sick?
But now he was sitting-when had that happened? This wasn’t good-and Charles couldn’t remember: had he been sick? Would he feel better if he had-if he did? He probed his tongue around his mouth. It didn’t taste like that way, although that… That was the unmistakable tang of a bitten lip.
His head felt no less untethered than it had when he’d been dangling over someone’s shoulder, and now it hurt as well; when he moved his neck Charles felt his chin roll over his clavicle. Then his head thumped into a wall and for a moment everything jarred to a stop-
“Jesus, how much juice did you give him?” a voice murmured nearby. It was unexpectedly loud; Charles cracked open his eyelids and peered out from them, squinting. Someone crouched over him, a dark blur; Charles tipped his head a little, facing them more fully, and the blur sharpened into something like focus.
Oh, right. It was Skink-Charles remembered now. He was close enough to see the uneven patches of black scales, a rough mosaic over smooth skin, and there was that damn helmet again.
“Look, see, he’s coming out of it,” Skink said, without moving his lips. Charles frowned; no, someone else was speaking now. Why couldn’t he think…? “He’s going to be fine.”
What was wrong with…
Charles snapped his head up; the lights were off. Hadn’t they been on just a few seconds ago? …Oh god, he realized, curling down until his forehead rested on his knee. I’m suffering the neurological symptoms of electrocution.
No, another part of his mind corrected, Electric shock. Electrocution only refers to an incidence of fatality caused by…
Charles heard, muffled, as if from another room: “The coast is never going to be more clear so I suggest we move now.”
The symptoms… Symptoms of electrical shock. Charles drew his eyebrows tightly together and then ground them into the hard knob of his patella. There was actually some muscle on his legs now-no longer were they the sad, withered things he had imported from Canada, but they were still thin and of course his knees would always be knobby and hard, except for the rubbery bindings of tendon…
The symptoms, he repeated to himself, like a slap-They include… Headache… Which he had; Charles pressed his head into his knee again until it hurt almost enough to distract from the slow throb of his skull.
Nausea… Well. Suffice to say, Charles was fairly certain now that vomiting would not allow him to feel better-rather, he was sure that if he started, he might not stop for a while.
Fatigue, he mused, and rocked his forehead back and forth over his knee, considering. Perhaps not so much, but then there was… “Confusion,” Charles muttered to himself, into the warm fabric of his trousers. “Short-term memory loss, and maybe, in severe cases… Delirium.”
He didn’t feel delirious-but then again, how would he know?
Charles picked himself up and set his back against the wall; opened his eyes against the gyrating pain lurking behind his retina. The room was still dark, and he didn’t think that any more time had passed. He lowered his hands down to the floor, laid them flat and squeezed-carpet, but thin carpet. Concrete underneath. The air smelled musty, as if it periodically mildewed and dried.
He couldn’t remember anywhere in the mansion like that.
His second realization: his hands weren’t tied, and-Charles felt for his ankles-neither were his legs. That was good, right? But-he peered around the room, at all the lurking shadows-he didn’t see his chair. They-Skink and Zeus, he reminded himself-must have left it behind when they’d taken him.
A bitter taste rose in Charles’ throat, followed quickly by a warning spasm of his stomach; they’d taken his chair. His one mode of transport-essentially a part of him-and it was gone, unreachable. Even Erik had promised never to do that to him; had assured Charles that, no matter what else he might take from the telepath, he would never leave him without movement.
Erik… sighed Charles’ mind. He was reasonably sure, by now, that his captors weren’t working for the Brotherhood’s leader; in fact, quite the opposite. Shocked into unconsciousness, taken from his chair, manhandled into a room and left there in the dark while they deliberated nearby-for he could still hear the vague noises of their talking-no, Charles did not think that they had come to rescue him from himself. At least, however… They did not seem to want him dead.
Yet, his mind whispered, and Charles exhaled shakily through his nose. Erik would not like that. Erik would find him; Erik would…
Charles blinked into the light, startled, but… His eyes were not as dazzled as he’d thought they would be, and there, in front of him, stood that duo: Skink and Zeus.
“-interested in your pleasantries, Xavier,” Zeus concluded, and Charles frowned at him. What? His confusion must have been evident, because the man scoffed and turned away. “Useless,” he declared, disgusted. “Useless to talk to him now.”
“Yes, I’m rather concerned about that, now that you mention it,” Skink snapped, narrowing his eyes behind his spectacles. The glasses were crooked, Charles noticed-they didn’t fit well within the confines of the helmet, which was slightly too small for his head. Too small, Charles repeated to himself, frowning. Too small…?
“There’s no point in having him if he can’t hold a thought in his head for more than a minute,” Skink scolded, and Zeus dismissed his concern with a roll of his shoulders.
“It’ll wear off,” he assured the other mutant. “It always does.”
“Excuse me,” Charles interrupted, and was alarmed by how thick and-and unwell his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and continued, enunciating carefully: “Just what, exactly, are you intending to do with me? I can’t help but think that it is somewhat of my concern.”
“I’m sure you’ve already figured it out for yourself, Professor,” Skink stated, only barely glancing at him.
“I’m sure I haven’t,” Charles protested. “I’m a telepath, not omniscient, you know.” But he inhaled slowly and looked around; now that the lights were on, he could see that there were two duffel bags on the floor outside of his reach, packed to bursting. One wall of the room was studded with hooks, from which several ratty-looking coats hung, and there was a line of use-softened boots underneath. They were going somewhere; that was clear enough.
He turned his attention back to Skink and his vision swam dizzily along the way. Charles pressed his eyelids closed, blinking a few times, and found himself with his chin resting sharp on his sternum.
Charles yanked his head back up and his stomach churned; he screwed his eyes shut tight against the searing pain driving into his temples. It took a moment, but soon it subsided again, became… Manageable, if not especially comfortable. He peered around the room; Skink was rummaging through the larger of the two bags while Zeus stood at the door, arms crossed and tense with impatience as he stared at his companion.
“Where are you going?” Charles asked, and god, it sounded so moist. He swallowed, and for a moment thought he might choke; he tried again and it went more smoothly. “Where are you-taking me?”
Skink stood up, arms dropping to his sides, and glared at Zeus, who now wore a small, twisted smile. The scaled mutant then turned to look at Charles, expression frank with exasperation. “I told you already.”
“Obviously it didn’t take,” Charles observed, leaning back against the wall. “What did you tell me, again?”
“I’m not telling you again until I know that you’ll remember. If,” Skink directed another glare at Zeus, who grinned, “you ever start again.”
Zeus shrugged. “I’m not worried.”
“I can tell,” Skink replied, coldly. “Trust you to go and fry the one part of him we really need.”
“Oh, you want me for my telepathy,” Charles commented, voice flat. “I can see why you’d have so much difficulty explaining that to me.”
“Quiet,” Skink ordered, without looking over at him. He crouched down over the bag again, and Charles saw clothing in there-tools; camping tools? Very plain. Military. Coated dull green.
“We should get a move on,” Zeus grumbled, glowering over from the doorframe. “My contingent will be waiting, by now, and it’s only a matter of time-”
“No,” Skink snapped. “We need to wait for an escort. We can’t carry him around and deal with security.”
“But we can’t stay here; the entire hive’s been kicked into action now and it won’t be long until we have to deal with them anyway. It won’t be long until we have to deal with him,” Zeus hissed, and Charles understood that he, himself, was no longer the “him” under discussion.
With a huff of irritation, Skink threw himself to his feet. “They’re your people. If you’re so impatient then yell at them for being late.”
Charles cleared his throat. “How long have you had this plan, anyway? If my guess is correct, not long at all. Did you get the idea when you saw that helmet sitting on the table?”
Skink sneered. “Planning ahead, sadly, isn’t a virtue where telepaths are involved. The opportunity presented itself, so we took advantage of it.” He walked over to Charles; loomed over him. “I must say, you did complicate things by not being in your rooms like you were supposed to, but at least we didn’t have to go far. I suppose you’ll be relieved to know, since you were so desperate to get away, that you’ll be leaving Magneto for good. If you remember, of course.”
Charles tipped his head back to stare up at the other mutant, jaw tight; in one corner of his mind, he was reaching out-out to Zeus’ mental shield, where it buzzed and crackled at the edge of his awareness. It was only a matter of finding the correct-the correct resonance, to break through. Of being subtle, so that Zeus didn’t have warning. That part of his mind sidled up to Zeus’; pressed up against it and hummed, testing the barriers.
Aloud, Charles replied, “Is that what this is, then? You’re rebelling against Magneto? Are you sure that’s something you can afford to do?”
Skink’s eyes glittered; they were human, like much of his skin, but they seemed somehow still reptilian in their calculation. “By ourselves, of course not; but with you… We can make an army.”
Just another minute, Charles told himself; his eyelids drooped and he snapped them open again. His vision wouldn’t focus, and he faltered against the wall of Zeus’ thoughts; almost tripped right into that electrified shell. No, no, not now, he mumbled in his mind, and surged toward concentration; focused hard on meeting Skink’s gaze. On the crystalline sparkle of his spectacles. Hung onto them, like a rope tossed to-to-a drowning man, his subconscious offered helpfully, and Charles rolled his eyes internally. Fine, sure, that works.
“That’s… Very optimistic of you. And tell me; how do you intend on controlling my army, in that case…?” Charles asked, hoping that his squinting appeared inquisitive and not… As if he were trying to work his telepathy on Zeus, or as if he were maybe about to pass out again-which he wasn’t.
The scaled mutant hmmphed. “If we control you, we control your powers. Easy enough.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Charles barely heard himself; too much of his attention was bleeding out elsewhere-into that part of his mind that was still humming, humming away alongside Zeus’ shields, trying to blend in. Why is this so difficult, he asked himself, and immediately heard the reply, like an echo: Fatigue, confusion, delirium…
Skink’s answer came from somewhere outside: “Well, you’re just an academic, after all-I’m sure we’ll find a way-”
There. He was in; Charles sank through Zeus’ thoughts and alighted on: anger, impatience, fear-not so unfamiliar really-and pulled, drew those emotions along on a curled finger of power and held them against: snooty pompous fucking lizard-
And then Charles retreated to watch as, behind Skink’s back, Zeus suddenly scowled and picked himself up from the wall, uncrossing his arms. There came the crackle of electricity as sparks arced between the man’s fingers, danced over his skin-
Without turning to look, Skink drew back his scaled hand and slapped Charles.
The telepath only just caught himself on an elbow and then hung, for a moment, panting; his ears rang. He no longer felt in any danger of passing out but his stomach twisted and he focused on controlling it with a grim determination. Somewhere, he could hear Zeus swearing in shock and fury, but Charles couldn’t feel him; had slipped out from his head.
Rough fingers wrapped around Charles’ jaw and pulled him upright; Skink knelt before him, face drawn in tight lines around the mosaic patches of his scales. Charles kept his own expression neutral; not innocent, perhaps, but… Inoffensive.
Skink held up his human hand-the smooth-skinned one, without claws. “You’re a geneticist, right?” he stated. “I’m sure you know what I am.”
Charles tried to pull his chin out of the other mutant’s grasp, but his head was pressed into the wall and he couldn’t move away. He moistened his lips, tracing the edges of the scales with his eyes. “You’re a chimera,” he pronounced, finally. “The product of two genetically distinct embryos fused together into a single transgenic organism.” Charles paused, then offered: “You really are quite extraordinary.”
“Sure,” Skink commented, disinterested. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. “Neither of my mutations are especially useful in combat, or I wouldn’t be… Have been… The Brotherhood’s accountant. This-” he shook his scaled hand, and therefore Charles’ head- “doesn’t cover enough of my body to protect me, and this-” he waved the fingers of his smooth hand- “isn’t strong enough to do any serious damage.”
“Except…” Skink brought that hand up to Charles’ face and set his first two fingers very gently to either side of the telepath’s nose, just beneath his eyes; Charles blinked and twitched back slightly, but did not look away. “…For when I’m very close,” Skink finished, and pulled his hand away sharply.
It wasn’t the pain-no, that was dull, and nothing compared to the headache-but something in Charles sinuses gave and then there was something else tickling down through his nasal cavity, along the back of his throat, and Charles gagged-smelled blood-flung himself forward and coughed. There was blood-blood in his mouth, in his throat, and now-he drew breath through his lips-seeping down through his nose and ah, yes, there it was: a drop-two-more pattered down onto his trousers, one after the other.
“It’s only a slight affinity for water,” Skink explained, somewhere above him. “Not much, but, well… If I rupture the veins in your eyes, you can be sure they won’t work any more. After all, we really only need your brain and an ear for you to hear out of-the rest is expendable.”
The blood wasn’t a stream, but as Charles hung his head-watching the dark material of his trouser stain even darker-it didn’t slow, either. He curled down, and rested his head against his knee again, feeling something like-like a sloshing in his nasal cavity, and then a warm damp spreading out along his thigh where his face rested. He didn’t doubt Skink-didn’t doubt that the other mutant cared about his wellbeing only as far as Charles’ usefulness as a telepath went; that he would, if he had to, fulfill that threat.
What have I gotten myself into? Charles asked himself, but of course-he couldn’t have known, although maybe… Maybe he could have guessed, if he’d been more diligent.
“-know how you expect me to stay in here with that-”
“-will do this, you don’t have a choice-”
Charles’ head hurt. He’d noticed before, of course, because it was inescapable, but now… Now there almost wasn’t anything else; just the hard slide of his patella over his forehead and pain. It came and went; it washed over him in waves. Charles imagined himself as a shell-no, as a snail, tucked away inside hard calcium carbonate and refusing to emerge until the world went still, rocking with each pass of the water. Maybe I do have a touch of delirium…
Charles woke for a moment; started to struggle. Someone had a hold of his head, was doing something to him, something that hurt, and as he slapped out with his hands Charles thought, my eyes, they’re taking my eyes-
But no; there was some swearing, soft, close to him; a rasped, “Stay still, damn it,” and then a long line of friction, of tearing up through his nose and Charles couldn’t breathe, it was all plugged somehow and he couldn’t smell but all he tasted was blood-
Zeus’ voice, farther away, observed, “Oh, so I’m the one who doesn’t know how to control his powers, huh?”
“Be quiet-it’s not that much blood and you know it. This is all your fault; you were so eager to electrocute him-”
“It’s only called electrocution if he’s dead,” Zeus pointed out. “Besides, I’ve done it to loads of people, he’s the first one who’s gone all-all wrong like this; it’s probably a telepath thing. He’s probably walking around half-fried anyway.”
But then it was dark, and still. Charles brought a hand up to his face and felt around, expecting a gaping hole, surprised when-no-there was his nose, just as protruding and irritatingly bumpy as ever, except that-oh. There was something-two somethings-stuffed up his nostrils; fabric, it seemed.
He pinched the ends between his fingers and tugged, experimentally; hissed between his teeth because ah, that hurts, doesn’t it. The skin must have inflamed around the cotton and wedged it firmly in place, but… At least everything was still intact.
Charles tried to sit up; wavered and almost fell until he propped himself up with a hand. Even so, everything tilted alarmingly, and he inhaled fast and shallow through his mouth. His breath, where it stirred back up through into his nasal cavity, was foul, almost carrion. How long had it been…?
“Hello…?” he croaked, voice whiny to his ears without the resonance of his nose, and swallowed thickly. Blood-but at least it wasn’t fresh, really, anymore; he wasn’t still bleeding.
Staring blankly into the darkness of the room, Charles thought: I can’t stay here. No, because if he stayed-then there was a good chance that he might end up injured further, whether by Skink and Zeus’ hands or by accident, and as much as Charles didn’t want to stay under Erik’s control… He shuddered to imagine himself trapped somewhere else, under another tyrant-an incompetent tyrant at that-coerced and… And tortured? …Tortured into ravaging the minds of unlucky conscripts for their army.
No, that… That did not bear thinking about, so Charles leaned over onto his arm and shuffled over a little-he thought he remembered a table over there; yes, he could see its shadow. He half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward it, and soon his hair brushed against the wood of a chair.
Charles reached up and groped around for the back of it, and then for the table, and pulled, clambering up to his knees; then, shaking, trembling, to his feet. He wasn’t standing, really-he leaned heavily against the table, almost sitting on it, and found the outline of the door with his eyes: the white edges of a rectangle, unbroken except for the black of the hinges.
Not far. Not all that far; if he was fast, maybe… Maybe he could make it over there, catch himself on the wall, open the door-then, well…
Did he really need his eyes?
Charles made a soft, involuntary noise in his throat. Yes! his mind railed at him, Yes of course you need your eyes! But the truth was… He didn’t, really. He could… He could see through other people’s eyes, if he needed to. In the future.
You’re quite possibly delirious, another part of Charles’ mind told him. You can’t make judgments like that now, not like this.
He drew breath, long and juddering. “Be quiet,” Charles replied, on the exhale, and threw himself toward the door-
-Took three marvelous, glorious steps-
-And then his knee wobbled, quivered, and gave and Charles crumpled to the ground with a betrayed gasp and lay folded over his legs, staring sightlessly at the carpet rough under his palms. What had he been expecting? That despite the fact that he could barely walk on crutches, despite how he was currently weak and sick, that he would simply get up and magically be able to walk?
You’re a fool, Xavier, his mind sneered, and Charles closed his eyes, resting his chin on crossed wrists. He puffed air through his cheeks and the pressure built up behind his nose, pushing on his blocked nostrils. They throbbed, and the swelling seemed to go into his sinuses, too, merging seamlessly with the bruise across his cheek and into his headache. His entire face hurt, but more than that-it made him feel sluggish and sticky. Slow.
Where are you when I need you, Erik? Charles asked, and reached out, but his power only coiled around the room, nudging at the walls for a way out-and even if he could find Erik, he couldn’t get through the helmet. And of course-he had chosen this night specifically because Erik would be gone.
How silly of me was that, he thought faintly, sinking further to the floor. Well. He would simply have to try harder, next time…
A boot prodded at Charles’ ribs, and he woke again. His throat tingled as if he’d just recently groaned, and he looked around for the owner of the boot; ah, there. Zeus stood over him, surveying Charles’ sprawled body with a raised eyebrow.
“Feeling adventurous?” Zeus asked, and without waiting for an answer bent down, seized Charles in a vice-like grip around his upper arm, and pulled. “Up you go,” he grunted, and without any more warning than that set his shoulder into Charles’ stomach and pushed upright, lifting the telepath with him.
Charles’ eyes went wide and he held his breath against the sharp spike of nausea, and he could see, vaguely, his own pale hands splayed flat against Zeus’ leather jacket; could see himself struggling, even if he himself had made no conscious decision to do so.
Blunt fingers jammed themselves deep into the junction of Charles’ femur and tibia and pain flashed down both of those bones; he froze. “Wriggly bastard,” the chest he hung over rumbled. “Surprisingly heavy for a guy who only uses half of his body.”
Charles started at a metal stud inches from his nose, embedded in the leather. Metal; if only-
No. He was going to have to save himself; he couldn’t rely on-on the very person he’d been trying to harm. He’d have to risk-risk being harmed, in turn, but… But it was something Charles had to do-
“-Got him secured? Don’t know where your damn escort is-”
“Stuff it, lizard,” Zeus growled, unaware of Charles at the edge of his mind again, looking in-bracing himself, because he didn’t know if he could concentrate well enough, even if he ground his fingers into his temple hard enough to bruise-which he couldn’t.
So scattered, Charles mused, and felt himself begin to drift again-no, come back-he had to do this now; had to, before there were others, before they left the mansion.
He heard the door open, and then… Silence. But not, not the silence of unconsciousness.
Charles turned his mind away from Zeus’ and looked out, tripped and fell into another mind-he felt a shock of recognition. Oh hello, Azazel, Charles whispered, and gazed through the teleporter’s eyes to see: himself, or rather, well… His backside, really, slung over Zeus’ shoulder, and both of those men with their eyes wide with surprise, staring back at Azazel and… And Charles couldn’t quite feel for whoever Azazel stood next to, although he was there, he didn’t wear a helmet-but Charles didn’t get the chance to look because he could see himself slip from Zeus’ shoulder, could feel himself slide, and then-
All the air left Charles’ lungs and his vision snapped away from his eyes; all of his bones seemed to have crashed into each other, but still he squinted up to watch as Zeus flared in a shower of sparks, listened to the crackle, smelled the searing air. Electricity flashed past his face and he realized that he was the closest to that mutant, and in danger of being shocked again.
Charles heaved himself over and rolled away; finally saw the other man that Azazel was with and his mind insisted: bear. But no, he appeared human enough-bear, his mind repeated-but he had claws; sharp black claws at the ends of his fingers and sharp teeth bared in a snarl. He had a mane of pale hair and his eyes were dark with nothingness but glittered with a horrible intelligence; too much intelligence for something so savage.
Charles peered beyond them for a third figure but saw no one. Erik? he wondered, and reached out to feel with his mind-but of course he wouldn’t be able to find him. Of course not. It had been a long time since he’d been able to.
Azazel vanished in a rustle and a wreath of smoke and Charles blinked; remembered: oh, yes-there were more serious matters at hand. He frowned at the spot where Azazel had been and saw the feral man leap at Zeus, clawed fingers readied for gouging.
Then red hands seized Charles’ lapels, dragged him up, and an arm wrapped tight around his torso-there was an instant of insubstantiality and then gravity, a terrible squeeze all inward, crushing Charles as if he had to fit through the narrowest seam in the fabric of the universe, and then-
They re-emerged in the quiet of the hallway, and Charles hung from Azazel’s arms as he emptied the contents of his stomach over the tile. Azazel leaned away as delicately as he could while still holding onto the telepath.
“Sorry,” Charles gurgled, and fumbled for Azazel’s jacket, squirming around to meet the teleporter’s startled blue eyes, to assure him that he was, in fact, sorry.
“It is nothing,” Azazel murmured softly, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of Charles’ skull, seeming at a loss. “You do not need to apologize.”
Charles blinked at him; peered through the stinging of his eyes at Azazel. “No,” he explained, in a rush: “No, I mean, I’m sorry-the other night-the coatroom-”
“There is no need,” Azazel assured him, pulling Charles’ head down to his shoulder. The telepath closed his eyes and breathed in through his mouth, tasting cigarette smoke. Azazel’s voice spoke near his ear; not smooth, but close enough to bring the memory of smooth. “He is nearby-I brought him here from Virginia-he will be here soon…”
Chapter 18
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairings: Charles/Erik
Genre: drama, angst, au, dystopia, future!fic
Rating: R
Word Count: 4600/?
Warnings: dubcon, emotional manipulation
Summary: Based on this 1stclass_kink prompt (and originally posted there).
"Erik has succeeded in taking over the world, but mutant utopia has yet to materialize. Charles is his reluctant companion."
Beta'd by the wonderful idioticonion and the incredibly talented subtilior, who flavors her Scotch with the tears of men.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23
lxxxvii.
Charles had a fleeting impression-blood rushing through his skull, pooling there, swirling-god, was he going to be sick? There was something hard jammed into his gut. A shoulder, he realized; someone’s shoulder.
Was he going to be sick?
But now he was sitting-when had that happened? This wasn’t good-and Charles couldn’t remember: had he been sick? Would he feel better if he had-if he did? He probed his tongue around his mouth. It didn’t taste like that way, although that… That was the unmistakable tang of a bitten lip.
His head felt no less untethered than it had when he’d been dangling over someone’s shoulder, and now it hurt as well; when he moved his neck Charles felt his chin roll over his clavicle. Then his head thumped into a wall and for a moment everything jarred to a stop-
“Jesus, how much juice did you give him?” a voice murmured nearby. It was unexpectedly loud; Charles cracked open his eyelids and peered out from them, squinting. Someone crouched over him, a dark blur; Charles tipped his head a little, facing them more fully, and the blur sharpened into something like focus.
Oh, right. It was Skink-Charles remembered now. He was close enough to see the uneven patches of black scales, a rough mosaic over smooth skin, and there was that damn helmet again.
“Look, see, he’s coming out of it,” Skink said, without moving his lips. Charles frowned; no, someone else was speaking now. Why couldn’t he think…? “He’s going to be fine.”
What was wrong with…
Charles snapped his head up; the lights were off. Hadn’t they been on just a few seconds ago? …Oh god, he realized, curling down until his forehead rested on his knee. I’m suffering the neurological symptoms of electrocution.
No, another part of his mind corrected, Electric shock. Electrocution only refers to an incidence of fatality caused by…
Charles heard, muffled, as if from another room: “The coast is never going to be more clear so I suggest we move now.”
The symptoms… Symptoms of electrical shock. Charles drew his eyebrows tightly together and then ground them into the hard knob of his patella. There was actually some muscle on his legs now-no longer were they the sad, withered things he had imported from Canada, but they were still thin and of course his knees would always be knobby and hard, except for the rubbery bindings of tendon…
The symptoms, he repeated to himself, like a slap-They include… Headache… Which he had; Charles pressed his head into his knee again until it hurt almost enough to distract from the slow throb of his skull.
Nausea… Well. Suffice to say, Charles was fairly certain now that vomiting would not allow him to feel better-rather, he was sure that if he started, he might not stop for a while.
Fatigue, he mused, and rocked his forehead back and forth over his knee, considering. Perhaps not so much, but then there was… “Confusion,” Charles muttered to himself, into the warm fabric of his trousers. “Short-term memory loss, and maybe, in severe cases… Delirium.”
He didn’t feel delirious-but then again, how would he know?
Charles picked himself up and set his back against the wall; opened his eyes against the gyrating pain lurking behind his retina. The room was still dark, and he didn’t think that any more time had passed. He lowered his hands down to the floor, laid them flat and squeezed-carpet, but thin carpet. Concrete underneath. The air smelled musty, as if it periodically mildewed and dried.
He couldn’t remember anywhere in the mansion like that.
His second realization: his hands weren’t tied, and-Charles felt for his ankles-neither were his legs. That was good, right? But-he peered around the room, at all the lurking shadows-he didn’t see his chair. They-Skink and Zeus, he reminded himself-must have left it behind when they’d taken him.
A bitter taste rose in Charles’ throat, followed quickly by a warning spasm of his stomach; they’d taken his chair. His one mode of transport-essentially a part of him-and it was gone, unreachable. Even Erik had promised never to do that to him; had assured Charles that, no matter what else he might take from the telepath, he would never leave him without movement.
Erik… sighed Charles’ mind. He was reasonably sure, by now, that his captors weren’t working for the Brotherhood’s leader; in fact, quite the opposite. Shocked into unconsciousness, taken from his chair, manhandled into a room and left there in the dark while they deliberated nearby-for he could still hear the vague noises of their talking-no, Charles did not think that they had come to rescue him from himself. At least, however… They did not seem to want him dead.
Yet, his mind whispered, and Charles exhaled shakily through his nose. Erik would not like that. Erik would find him; Erik would…
Charles blinked into the light, startled, but… His eyes were not as dazzled as he’d thought they would be, and there, in front of him, stood that duo: Skink and Zeus.
“-interested in your pleasantries, Xavier,” Zeus concluded, and Charles frowned at him. What? His confusion must have been evident, because the man scoffed and turned away. “Useless,” he declared, disgusted. “Useless to talk to him now.”
“Yes, I’m rather concerned about that, now that you mention it,” Skink snapped, narrowing his eyes behind his spectacles. The glasses were crooked, Charles noticed-they didn’t fit well within the confines of the helmet, which was slightly too small for his head. Too small, Charles repeated to himself, frowning. Too small…?
“There’s no point in having him if he can’t hold a thought in his head for more than a minute,” Skink scolded, and Zeus dismissed his concern with a roll of his shoulders.
“It’ll wear off,” he assured the other mutant. “It always does.”
“Excuse me,” Charles interrupted, and was alarmed by how thick and-and unwell his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and continued, enunciating carefully: “Just what, exactly, are you intending to do with me? I can’t help but think that it is somewhat of my concern.”
“I’m sure you’ve already figured it out for yourself, Professor,” Skink stated, only barely glancing at him.
“I’m sure I haven’t,” Charles protested. “I’m a telepath, not omniscient, you know.” But he inhaled slowly and looked around; now that the lights were on, he could see that there were two duffel bags on the floor outside of his reach, packed to bursting. One wall of the room was studded with hooks, from which several ratty-looking coats hung, and there was a line of use-softened boots underneath. They were going somewhere; that was clear enough.
He turned his attention back to Skink and his vision swam dizzily along the way. Charles pressed his eyelids closed, blinking a few times, and found himself with his chin resting sharp on his sternum.
Charles yanked his head back up and his stomach churned; he screwed his eyes shut tight against the searing pain driving into his temples. It took a moment, but soon it subsided again, became… Manageable, if not especially comfortable. He peered around the room; Skink was rummaging through the larger of the two bags while Zeus stood at the door, arms crossed and tense with impatience as he stared at his companion.
“Where are you going?” Charles asked, and god, it sounded so moist. He swallowed, and for a moment thought he might choke; he tried again and it went more smoothly. “Where are you-taking me?”
Skink stood up, arms dropping to his sides, and glared at Zeus, who now wore a small, twisted smile. The scaled mutant then turned to look at Charles, expression frank with exasperation. “I told you already.”
“Obviously it didn’t take,” Charles observed, leaning back against the wall. “What did you tell me, again?”
“I’m not telling you again until I know that you’ll remember. If,” Skink directed another glare at Zeus, who grinned, “you ever start again.”
Zeus shrugged. “I’m not worried.”
“I can tell,” Skink replied, coldly. “Trust you to go and fry the one part of him we really need.”
“Oh, you want me for my telepathy,” Charles commented, voice flat. “I can see why you’d have so much difficulty explaining that to me.”
“Quiet,” Skink ordered, without looking over at him. He crouched down over the bag again, and Charles saw clothing in there-tools; camping tools? Very plain. Military. Coated dull green.
“We should get a move on,” Zeus grumbled, glowering over from the doorframe. “My contingent will be waiting, by now, and it’s only a matter of time-”
“No,” Skink snapped. “We need to wait for an escort. We can’t carry him around and deal with security.”
“But we can’t stay here; the entire hive’s been kicked into action now and it won’t be long until we have to deal with them anyway. It won’t be long until we have to deal with him,” Zeus hissed, and Charles understood that he, himself, was no longer the “him” under discussion.
With a huff of irritation, Skink threw himself to his feet. “They’re your people. If you’re so impatient then yell at them for being late.”
Charles cleared his throat. “How long have you had this plan, anyway? If my guess is correct, not long at all. Did you get the idea when you saw that helmet sitting on the table?”
Skink sneered. “Planning ahead, sadly, isn’t a virtue where telepaths are involved. The opportunity presented itself, so we took advantage of it.” He walked over to Charles; loomed over him. “I must say, you did complicate things by not being in your rooms like you were supposed to, but at least we didn’t have to go far. I suppose you’ll be relieved to know, since you were so desperate to get away, that you’ll be leaving Magneto for good. If you remember, of course.”
Charles tipped his head back to stare up at the other mutant, jaw tight; in one corner of his mind, he was reaching out-out to Zeus’ mental shield, where it buzzed and crackled at the edge of his awareness. It was only a matter of finding the correct-the correct resonance, to break through. Of being subtle, so that Zeus didn’t have warning. That part of his mind sidled up to Zeus’; pressed up against it and hummed, testing the barriers.
Aloud, Charles replied, “Is that what this is, then? You’re rebelling against Magneto? Are you sure that’s something you can afford to do?”
Skink’s eyes glittered; they were human, like much of his skin, but they seemed somehow still reptilian in their calculation. “By ourselves, of course not; but with you… We can make an army.”
Just another minute, Charles told himself; his eyelids drooped and he snapped them open again. His vision wouldn’t focus, and he faltered against the wall of Zeus’ thoughts; almost tripped right into that electrified shell. No, no, not now, he mumbled in his mind, and surged toward concentration; focused hard on meeting Skink’s gaze. On the crystalline sparkle of his spectacles. Hung onto them, like a rope tossed to-to-a drowning man, his subconscious offered helpfully, and Charles rolled his eyes internally. Fine, sure, that works.
“That’s… Very optimistic of you. And tell me; how do you intend on controlling my army, in that case…?” Charles asked, hoping that his squinting appeared inquisitive and not… As if he were trying to work his telepathy on Zeus, or as if he were maybe about to pass out again-which he wasn’t.
The scaled mutant hmmphed. “If we control you, we control your powers. Easy enough.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Charles barely heard himself; too much of his attention was bleeding out elsewhere-into that part of his mind that was still humming, humming away alongside Zeus’ shields, trying to blend in. Why is this so difficult, he asked himself, and immediately heard the reply, like an echo: Fatigue, confusion, delirium…
Skink’s answer came from somewhere outside: “Well, you’re just an academic, after all-I’m sure we’ll find a way-”
There. He was in; Charles sank through Zeus’ thoughts and alighted on: anger, impatience, fear-not so unfamiliar really-and pulled, drew those emotions along on a curled finger of power and held them against: snooty pompous fucking lizard-
And then Charles retreated to watch as, behind Skink’s back, Zeus suddenly scowled and picked himself up from the wall, uncrossing his arms. There came the crackle of electricity as sparks arced between the man’s fingers, danced over his skin-
Without turning to look, Skink drew back his scaled hand and slapped Charles.
The telepath only just caught himself on an elbow and then hung, for a moment, panting; his ears rang. He no longer felt in any danger of passing out but his stomach twisted and he focused on controlling it with a grim determination. Somewhere, he could hear Zeus swearing in shock and fury, but Charles couldn’t feel him; had slipped out from his head.
Rough fingers wrapped around Charles’ jaw and pulled him upright; Skink knelt before him, face drawn in tight lines around the mosaic patches of his scales. Charles kept his own expression neutral; not innocent, perhaps, but… Inoffensive.
Skink held up his human hand-the smooth-skinned one, without claws. “You’re a geneticist, right?” he stated. “I’m sure you know what I am.”
Charles tried to pull his chin out of the other mutant’s grasp, but his head was pressed into the wall and he couldn’t move away. He moistened his lips, tracing the edges of the scales with his eyes. “You’re a chimera,” he pronounced, finally. “The product of two genetically distinct embryos fused together into a single transgenic organism.” Charles paused, then offered: “You really are quite extraordinary.”
“Sure,” Skink commented, disinterested. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. “Neither of my mutations are especially useful in combat, or I wouldn’t be… Have been… The Brotherhood’s accountant. This-” he shook his scaled hand, and therefore Charles’ head- “doesn’t cover enough of my body to protect me, and this-” he waved the fingers of his smooth hand- “isn’t strong enough to do any serious damage.”
“Except…” Skink brought that hand up to Charles’ face and set his first two fingers very gently to either side of the telepath’s nose, just beneath his eyes; Charles blinked and twitched back slightly, but did not look away. “…For when I’m very close,” Skink finished, and pulled his hand away sharply.
It wasn’t the pain-no, that was dull, and nothing compared to the headache-but something in Charles sinuses gave and then there was something else tickling down through his nasal cavity, along the back of his throat, and Charles gagged-smelled blood-flung himself forward and coughed. There was blood-blood in his mouth, in his throat, and now-he drew breath through his lips-seeping down through his nose and ah, yes, there it was: a drop-two-more pattered down onto his trousers, one after the other.
“It’s only a slight affinity for water,” Skink explained, somewhere above him. “Not much, but, well… If I rupture the veins in your eyes, you can be sure they won’t work any more. After all, we really only need your brain and an ear for you to hear out of-the rest is expendable.”
The blood wasn’t a stream, but as Charles hung his head-watching the dark material of his trouser stain even darker-it didn’t slow, either. He curled down, and rested his head against his knee again, feeling something like-like a sloshing in his nasal cavity, and then a warm damp spreading out along his thigh where his face rested. He didn’t doubt Skink-didn’t doubt that the other mutant cared about his wellbeing only as far as Charles’ usefulness as a telepath went; that he would, if he had to, fulfill that threat.
What have I gotten myself into? Charles asked himself, but of course-he couldn’t have known, although maybe… Maybe he could have guessed, if he’d been more diligent.
“-know how you expect me to stay in here with that-”
“-will do this, you don’t have a choice-”
Charles’ head hurt. He’d noticed before, of course, because it was inescapable, but now… Now there almost wasn’t anything else; just the hard slide of his patella over his forehead and pain. It came and went; it washed over him in waves. Charles imagined himself as a shell-no, as a snail, tucked away inside hard calcium carbonate and refusing to emerge until the world went still, rocking with each pass of the water. Maybe I do have a touch of delirium…
Charles woke for a moment; started to struggle. Someone had a hold of his head, was doing something to him, something that hurt, and as he slapped out with his hands Charles thought, my eyes, they’re taking my eyes-
But no; there was some swearing, soft, close to him; a rasped, “Stay still, damn it,” and then a long line of friction, of tearing up through his nose and Charles couldn’t breathe, it was all plugged somehow and he couldn’t smell but all he tasted was blood-
Zeus’ voice, farther away, observed, “Oh, so I’m the one who doesn’t know how to control his powers, huh?”
“Be quiet-it’s not that much blood and you know it. This is all your fault; you were so eager to electrocute him-”
“It’s only called electrocution if he’s dead,” Zeus pointed out. “Besides, I’ve done it to loads of people, he’s the first one who’s gone all-all wrong like this; it’s probably a telepath thing. He’s probably walking around half-fried anyway.”
But then it was dark, and still. Charles brought a hand up to his face and felt around, expecting a gaping hole, surprised when-no-there was his nose, just as protruding and irritatingly bumpy as ever, except that-oh. There was something-two somethings-stuffed up his nostrils; fabric, it seemed.
He pinched the ends between his fingers and tugged, experimentally; hissed between his teeth because ah, that hurts, doesn’t it. The skin must have inflamed around the cotton and wedged it firmly in place, but… At least everything was still intact.
Charles tried to sit up; wavered and almost fell until he propped himself up with a hand. Even so, everything tilted alarmingly, and he inhaled fast and shallow through his mouth. His breath, where it stirred back up through into his nasal cavity, was foul, almost carrion. How long had it been…?
“Hello…?” he croaked, voice whiny to his ears without the resonance of his nose, and swallowed thickly. Blood-but at least it wasn’t fresh, really, anymore; he wasn’t still bleeding.
Staring blankly into the darkness of the room, Charles thought: I can’t stay here. No, because if he stayed-then there was a good chance that he might end up injured further, whether by Skink and Zeus’ hands or by accident, and as much as Charles didn’t want to stay under Erik’s control… He shuddered to imagine himself trapped somewhere else, under another tyrant-an incompetent tyrant at that-coerced and… And tortured? …Tortured into ravaging the minds of unlucky conscripts for their army.
No, that… That did not bear thinking about, so Charles leaned over onto his arm and shuffled over a little-he thought he remembered a table over there; yes, he could see its shadow. He half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward it, and soon his hair brushed against the wood of a chair.
Charles reached up and groped around for the back of it, and then for the table, and pulled, clambering up to his knees; then, shaking, trembling, to his feet. He wasn’t standing, really-he leaned heavily against the table, almost sitting on it, and found the outline of the door with his eyes: the white edges of a rectangle, unbroken except for the black of the hinges.
Not far. Not all that far; if he was fast, maybe… Maybe he could make it over there, catch himself on the wall, open the door-then, well…
Did he really need his eyes?
Charles made a soft, involuntary noise in his throat. Yes! his mind railed at him, Yes of course you need your eyes! But the truth was… He didn’t, really. He could… He could see through other people’s eyes, if he needed to. In the future.
You’re quite possibly delirious, another part of Charles’ mind told him. You can’t make judgments like that now, not like this.
He drew breath, long and juddering. “Be quiet,” Charles replied, on the exhale, and threw himself toward the door-
-Took three marvelous, glorious steps-
-And then his knee wobbled, quivered, and gave and Charles crumpled to the ground with a betrayed gasp and lay folded over his legs, staring sightlessly at the carpet rough under his palms. What had he been expecting? That despite the fact that he could barely walk on crutches, despite how he was currently weak and sick, that he would simply get up and magically be able to walk?
You’re a fool, Xavier, his mind sneered, and Charles closed his eyes, resting his chin on crossed wrists. He puffed air through his cheeks and the pressure built up behind his nose, pushing on his blocked nostrils. They throbbed, and the swelling seemed to go into his sinuses, too, merging seamlessly with the bruise across his cheek and into his headache. His entire face hurt, but more than that-it made him feel sluggish and sticky. Slow.
Where are you when I need you, Erik? Charles asked, and reached out, but his power only coiled around the room, nudging at the walls for a way out-and even if he could find Erik, he couldn’t get through the helmet. And of course-he had chosen this night specifically because Erik would be gone.
How silly of me was that, he thought faintly, sinking further to the floor. Well. He would simply have to try harder, next time…
A boot prodded at Charles’ ribs, and he woke again. His throat tingled as if he’d just recently groaned, and he looked around for the owner of the boot; ah, there. Zeus stood over him, surveying Charles’ sprawled body with a raised eyebrow.
“Feeling adventurous?” Zeus asked, and without waiting for an answer bent down, seized Charles in a vice-like grip around his upper arm, and pulled. “Up you go,” he grunted, and without any more warning than that set his shoulder into Charles’ stomach and pushed upright, lifting the telepath with him.
Charles’ eyes went wide and he held his breath against the sharp spike of nausea, and he could see, vaguely, his own pale hands splayed flat against Zeus’ leather jacket; could see himself struggling, even if he himself had made no conscious decision to do so.
Blunt fingers jammed themselves deep into the junction of Charles’ femur and tibia and pain flashed down both of those bones; he froze. “Wriggly bastard,” the chest he hung over rumbled. “Surprisingly heavy for a guy who only uses half of his body.”
Charles started at a metal stud inches from his nose, embedded in the leather. Metal; if only-
No. He was going to have to save himself; he couldn’t rely on-on the very person he’d been trying to harm. He’d have to risk-risk being harmed, in turn, but… But it was something Charles had to do-
“-Got him secured? Don’t know where your damn escort is-”
“Stuff it, lizard,” Zeus growled, unaware of Charles at the edge of his mind again, looking in-bracing himself, because he didn’t know if he could concentrate well enough, even if he ground his fingers into his temple hard enough to bruise-which he couldn’t.
So scattered, Charles mused, and felt himself begin to drift again-no, come back-he had to do this now; had to, before there were others, before they left the mansion.
He heard the door open, and then… Silence. But not, not the silence of unconsciousness.
Charles turned his mind away from Zeus’ and looked out, tripped and fell into another mind-he felt a shock of recognition. Oh hello, Azazel, Charles whispered, and gazed through the teleporter’s eyes to see: himself, or rather, well… His backside, really, slung over Zeus’ shoulder, and both of those men with their eyes wide with surprise, staring back at Azazel and… And Charles couldn’t quite feel for whoever Azazel stood next to, although he was there, he didn’t wear a helmet-but Charles didn’t get the chance to look because he could see himself slip from Zeus’ shoulder, could feel himself slide, and then-
All the air left Charles’ lungs and his vision snapped away from his eyes; all of his bones seemed to have crashed into each other, but still he squinted up to watch as Zeus flared in a shower of sparks, listened to the crackle, smelled the searing air. Electricity flashed past his face and he realized that he was the closest to that mutant, and in danger of being shocked again.
Charles heaved himself over and rolled away; finally saw the other man that Azazel was with and his mind insisted: bear. But no, he appeared human enough-bear, his mind repeated-but he had claws; sharp black claws at the ends of his fingers and sharp teeth bared in a snarl. He had a mane of pale hair and his eyes were dark with nothingness but glittered with a horrible intelligence; too much intelligence for something so savage.
Charles peered beyond them for a third figure but saw no one. Erik? he wondered, and reached out to feel with his mind-but of course he wouldn’t be able to find him. Of course not. It had been a long time since he’d been able to.
Azazel vanished in a rustle and a wreath of smoke and Charles blinked; remembered: oh, yes-there were more serious matters at hand. He frowned at the spot where Azazel had been and saw the feral man leap at Zeus, clawed fingers readied for gouging.
Then red hands seized Charles’ lapels, dragged him up, and an arm wrapped tight around his torso-there was an instant of insubstantiality and then gravity, a terrible squeeze all inward, crushing Charles as if he had to fit through the narrowest seam in the fabric of the universe, and then-
They re-emerged in the quiet of the hallway, and Charles hung from Azazel’s arms as he emptied the contents of his stomach over the tile. Azazel leaned away as delicately as he could while still holding onto the telepath.
“Sorry,” Charles gurgled, and fumbled for Azazel’s jacket, squirming around to meet the teleporter’s startled blue eyes, to assure him that he was, in fact, sorry.
“It is nothing,” Azazel murmured softly, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of Charles’ skull, seeming at a loss. “You do not need to apologize.”
Charles blinked at him; peered through the stinging of his eyes at Azazel. “No,” he explained, in a rush: “No, I mean, I’m sorry-the other night-the coatroom-”
“There is no need,” Azazel assured him, pulling Charles’ head down to his shoulder. The telepath closed his eyes and breathed in through his mouth, tasting cigarette smoke. Azazel’s voice spoke near his ear; not smooth, but close enough to bring the memory of smooth. “He is nearby-I brought him here from Virginia-he will be here soon…”
Chapter 18