Flight
Author: Apathy
Title: Flight
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All your X are belong to Marvel and Fox. No profit.
Summary: Things change.
Written for: newredshoes (pinch-hit)
Pairing/scenario requested: Gen: the conversations among the students that Piotr lead into the forest. Condition: at least one doesn't know what their mutation is yet.
Warnings (if any): A bit of gore/medical grossness, implied violence. Nothing particularly mentally scarring.
Acknowledgements: Big love to innle and c_elisa for the beta, and to penknife for playing research monkey. All stuff-ups are, of course, my own.
Story notes: Draws from various universes (mostly movie and Ultimate), with a healthy dose of Making Stuff Up. Since Kitty's age appears to vary wildly between the two films, I've gone with her X1 age, i.e. sixteen-ish.
Note to Newredshoes: This is ridiculously, inexcusably late. (Obviously.) I am really, really sorry. *headhang*
It was a dark and stormy night....
Some might say that now is a bad time for her to be mentally composing her creative writing piece for next Tuesday's English class. She disagrees. Not only is she keeping her mind off what just happened, but she's also getting a head start on her homework. Nobody has ever accused her of being impractical.
The thunder rolled in seemingly from nowhere, a sudden thump-thump-thump bass rumble that rattled the very windows, as floodlight lightning cut crazily along the walls....
So much for distraction. She turns her mind to practicing future tense conjugations for Wednesday's Italian test. Future tense is good. Forward-thinking. Optimistic.
The air is oddly still as she runs, the noise from the mansion having long faded into a night silence one can only find in the middle of nowhere. Here, it's just her and the trees, and the skitterings of a few nocturnal creatures. She passes through it all without so much as a whisper of bare feet on fallen leaves, forsaking the obviousness of the paths for the anonymity of the shadows. If they come for her, she could hide within the most solid of trees, and they would never know. Sure, there's the possibility that she's horribly lost - scratch that, it's pretty much a fact - but being lost means that the soldiers are probably less likely to find her.
She takes comfort from the dubious logic, and starts running just a bit faster, in order to get herself lost just a bit quicker. She doesn't know how long she's been out here, where she's going, or why she hasn't passed out yet. And she's been cycling through the conjugations for morire for at least five minutes. Time to think about yesterday's math class, instead. Surely numbers won't betray her -
The unexpected crunch of dead leaves from just up ahead almost echoes through the trees, and she trips over her own feet in shock, letting out a decidedly undignified squeak as she rematerialises just in time to hit the ground face-first. She peers into the impenetrable gloom, wishing that her stupid noisy breathing would stop until the threat passes by, and feeling the sudden urge to fall asleep right where she is and deal with it all in the morning.
She remains stock-still, cheek pressed into the cold dirt, and re-phases. If they find her, there's nothing they can do to her as long as she stays like this.
Probably.
Silence returns, but this time it hums with tension. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a weak glimmer of metal.
She recognises it. Knows it by heart.
Still, she waits a few eternal moments longer, just to make sure. Checking time and time again, not allowing herself to trust her eyes in the slightest.
She's right. She knows it. And there are no soldiers to be seen.
With an effort of willpower that’s almost physically painful, she makes herself solid again. Raising herself into a crouch, she clears her throat quietly, licking parched lips.
'Petey?'
His head whips around; against all instincts, she stands up and moves a little closer. She gives a pathetic little wave, feeling rather stupid.
'Uh. Over here. Hi.'
His eyes settle in her general direction; she takes a few steps towards him, slow, careful. He's much more distinctive than she in this near-black, and she doesn't want to spook him. When she's near enough to be recognised, she swipes her hand through a nearby tree. Proof.
The metal disappears, and then there's just Piotr. Three huge strides, and he's crushing her to him in a bear hug of epic proportions.
He pulls away a little, and checks her over. His voice is barely loud enough to be heard. 'Are you okay?'
'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. What about you? What about the others? Did you all make it out?'
It's at this point that she notices a bunch of kids huddled not far behind Piotr - only about ten feet away, but in this light, they're practically invisible. The older ones stand protectively in front of the younger, and she's not sure, but it looks like there are… bodies? She thinks she might throw up.
'Are they... they....'
'No, no, they're okay. They got hit by those darts, but they should be fine.' She can hear the unsaid I hope. 'We have to move again. Can you carry Theresa?'
'Sure, sure.' She nods almost frantically and bends down to pick up the girl, who is awake, but out of it. God, she doesn't know how long she can carry Theresa, but it's not like there's much choice. She does a quick headcount while she's at it, and searches the faces. Definitely all fairly young, although she knows most of them to some extent. No sign of any of her close friends.
'Do you know what happened to the others?'
'It was crazy - I couldn't really tell. But Wolverine stuck around. Anything those soldiers manage to get won't come easy.' He lifts Daniel carefully, making it look effortless. The boy's glasses are bent. 'Most of these paths join up - if any of the others came out this side of the mansion, we might run into them.'
It's not really the best news she could hear, but she shoves her worry to one side, to be dealt with at a later date if necessary.
She realises for the first time that her feet are numb with the cold. And that there's absolutely nothing she can do about it.
They set off. The kids are absolutely silent, none of them showing even the slightest desire to talk. Bobby's often joked that having them all shut up at once would be a sign of the Apocalypse. The thought hits a little too close to home for comfort.
Eyes on the path ahead, every one of them. Their footsteps are almost silent. It's far more eerie than her solo flight through the trees was.
It hits her for the first time just how much trouble they're really in.
*
Time passes. It must - her whole body progressively feels more and more like lead. Lead that's been doused in gasoline, and set on fire. Repeatedly. Under and around the cold, she burns.
The trees all look the same, though - spectral outlines in the dark - and the stars aren't visible through the branches. Could've been hours, or maybe they've only just started walking. She can't tell.
It's hard to believe that these are the same woods she's often explored over the years. Even when she went on camping trips with the other students, the trees still felt familiar and comforting. The difference that a few flashlights can make. Oh, and not being chased by a bunch of gun-wielding commandos. She's heard that can help.
The line of children in front of her comes to a sudden halt, and she peers around them, trying to see what's going on. There are some pale blurs on the path up ahead, and she tries to find that comforting. If they were soldiers, they surely wouldn't be that obvious. She's only ushering the children into the shadows as a precaution. And she only feels like she's going to throw up because she's hungry and thirsty and tired.
Kitty bites her tongue to keep from screaming - funny, she never thought anyone actually did that - and makes ready to run. She'll give it another five seconds, and then she and the kids are out of here. Uses her jackhammer heartbeat as a stopwatch - onetwothreefour -
There's a faint call from up ahead that nonetheless carries perfectly well, and it's Piotr saying that it's okay, and he doesn't sound like he has a gun to his head. Surely he would die rather than betray the rest of them, anyhow.
She keeps telling herself this as she creeps forward, with a whispered instruction to the kids that they should be ready to run. She phases again - they can't touch her, no reason for fear, no reason at all - and prays with every step for the strength to take the next. Welcomes the déjà vu; after all, it worked out last time.
And apparently this time, too. Definitely students, and it's easier to approach this time around. Slightly.
She goes back for the others, coaxing them out from the trees and towards the newcomers. They approach the other group a little warily, as if their friends might have turned on them in the past few hours; but then it's as if a switch is flicked, and there are wordless hugs and silent tears. Maybe a few whispered conversations, but she can't make anything out.
Piotr takes a couple of minutes to get everyone up to speed and organised, swapping information with Warren, who leads the other group. Kitty counts only an extra six students, which leaves them still seventeen short. Her usual optimism seems to be in short supply at the moment; the figure sounds like a failure, no matter how she looks at it. Less than fifty percent. She can only hope that the others made it out in another direction.
They start off yet again, and she passes Theresa off to one of the new kids for a spell - thankfully, most of them are older than her group, and seem to be handling the situation slightly better. At the very least, they don't look near-catatonic.
She falls in next to Warren at the back, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder every five seconds, and failing miserably. She can almost feel Warren's smirk.
'Shut up.' She whaps him lightly on the arm, and he grunts. 'Oh, come on, you big baby. Like that hurt.'
No response, beyond too-laboured breathing. Concerned, she turns her head to face him.
He's hunched over ever-so-slightly, cradling his right arm protectively. Kitty squints; it's near-on impossible to see anything at this time of night, but his arm looks wrong, somehow. For one thing, it should be the same colour as his other arm.
'God, Warren. What happened?'
'What, my arm? Oh, nothing. Just a scratch.'
Dried blood. Lots of it. Fresher blood still coils sluggishly down his arm and drips off his fingertips; she grabs the limb and yanks it closer for inspection, barely registering Warren's rather unmanly whimper.
'The truth, now?'
'Bullet came from nowhere, got me right in the - gah! - arm. Lucky that's all they hit.'
She examines him critically, noting the slight limp, the scratches, the darkening bruises that are noticeable when she looks hard enough. 'What about the rest of it?'
'Huh? Oh, that. Hit a dead end - one of the second-storey windows. Soldiers coming up behind me - didn't have much choice. Landed in the bushes.'
She clamps her hand down over the wound, wincing in apology as he yelps. The two of them stumble along in a clumsy sideways hobble.
'We need to bandage this straight away. Take off your top.'
He shakes his head vehemently, face schooled into an expression that doesn't reveal too much pain. 'Look, Kitty, I'm fine. There's no need - '
'Warren, this is no time to suddenly discover dignity! You parade around half-naked all the time like you're Travis freaking Fimmell, for crying out loud! Stopping the bleeding is your top priority. Take the damned thing off, now!' It's all she can do to keep her voice down to a harsh whisper, and even that's too much. A couple of the other kids stop and stare at her, eyes wide. She shoos them forward with an annoyed hand-wave.
'No.'
'Alright, then.' She releases his arm, and starts to tear at the hem of her pyjama top as she walks. Stupid macho idiot -
'Christ! Alright, alright! Fine.' He starts to tear a strip from the bottom of his own shirt, and she quickly takes over the task. He still refuses to let her remove the remnants of the shirt, for some boneheaded reason, but at least he doesn't seem to have a problem with tearing the thing to shreds.
After a few attempts - deliberately tearing clothes is more difficult than she thought - she has a couple of serviceable pieces of cloth, and sets to work bandaging his arm, relying on him to tell her of any obstacles in the path as she walks along backwards. They debate for awhile over the merits of a sling, and Kitty eventually gives up, realising that she's finally met her match in terms of sheer pigheaded stubbornness.
As if to make up for his behaviour, Warren starts up some awkward, hushed conversation. 'Do any of your kids have mutations that'd be useful?'
She sighs. 'Not as far as I can tell. Apart from Petey, we don't have anyone with enhanced strength. No-one with heightened senses. No offensive mutations. No super speed. No psis. A couple of the kids here haven't even manifested yet, and out of those that have, most of them don't know how to control their powers very well. We could really use someone like Mister Summers or that Wolverine guy, right now.' A nervous pause - it doesn't get any easier with each time she asks. 'You didn't happen to see Jubes or Rogue or Bobby or John, did you?'
'Saw Bobby and John not long after the soldiers came in. Don't know anything about anyone else.' He shrugs helplessly. 'I'm sorry.'
She bends down to pick up one of the younger kids who's struggling. The boy - he's new, only been here a week or so, she can't remember his name - doesn't say a word, but clings onto her like his very life depends on it.
She doesn't want to think about how true that might be.
The boy buries his head against her neck, the quickness of his breathing and pounding of his heart belying the brave face he's been putting on. She never would've thought that she could carry so much weight for so long. She'll probably just keep walking until her body eventually realises that it's not supposed to be able to do this, and gives out.
Next to her, Warren swings Paige onto his shoulders, and he stumbles. Kitty hisses.
'Warren!'
'Hey, I'm not using my arm. And it's just for five minutes.' He gives her the puppy-dog eyes, charm almost covering the fact that he can't quite stand straight. 'Come on, she's exhausted.'
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue the point any further. It's not worth the energy.
*
'... They wanted to send me somewhere exclusive, you see; but they also wanted to keep me out of the public spotlight, in case I ended up with some sort of obvious mutation that they wouldn't be able to keep hidden. So, by sending me to Xavier's, they were killing two birds with one stone. I mean, hey - what's more exclusive than a mutants-only school, right?' His tone is light, jovial; only the slightest hint of tension gives away his bitterness.
They've exhausted most sane topics of discussion - and some of the less sane, too - rekindling old conversations in hushed tones just to have something to talk about. Never mind that she's learnt very little that she didn't already know; she finds it all somewhat comforting. Safe. It helps keep Warren distracted from his arm... and it keeps her from dwelling on just how pale Warren looks. His face blurs through the dark like a ghost.
'Of course, I still haven't manifested. I could've spent all these years at Fairburn, and no-one would've ever known.'
She needs to rest her arms. She's dying. It's she's being stabbed by a phalanx of midgets armed with rusty spoons.
She shifts the kid a little, and continues on. Tries not to think about it. Thinking means realising that she simply isn't capable of carrying him any further. If it weren't for the rigorous Phys Ed classes at the school, she would've dropped long ago.
'Yeah, but you would've been paranoid all the time. Surely it's worth it, knowing that you're somewhere where you're welcome?'
'I don't know if I'd go that far. I'm a freak among freaks - until I manifest, I might as well be a regular human, in the eyes of a few mutants I could think of. Either way, I'm never going to be all that popular.'
This is one conversation they've had too many times over the years, and even at the best of times, it never ends well. She steers the topic away as far as she can without rousing suspicion. She hopes.
'I can't believe you haven't manifested yet. I mean, you're sixteen! Surely something should've triggered it by now....'
'Well, it's not as if I've ever had a moment of hardship in my life. My family does have money, after all.' The humour is so dry that for a moment, she's not entirely sure he's kidding... but then the edges of a wry smile escape, a gleam of teeth, and she can't help but grin back.
'Or maybe you just haven't hit puberty yet.'
'Oh, now that's harsh.'
They trail off into companionable silence. The kids in front of her are still barely talking, beyond an occasional whispered 'mind that branch' or 'look out for the ditch'. She wants to think that they're just being sensible, and keeping as quiet as possible.
Warren huffs a little, trying to catch his breath, and readjusts Paige's position slightly. The girl is obviously beyond exhaustion, her head bobbing about limply. Even in sleep, she shivers. Kitty wonders how long it'll be before the well-being of the children will outweigh her own pride and warmth, how long before she'll sacrifice her own pyjamas to keep one of the younger ones slightly warmer in the frosty night air.
She has a feeling she doesn't really want to know the answer.
She coughs a little, working her throat until she's reasonably sure that she'll sound like a normal person once she starts talking again.
'What do you think your mutation's gonna be? I mean, whenever it manifests.'
There's the slightest pause; when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly curt. 'No idea.'
It hangs in the air between them, and she wonders what she said wrong. She clears her throat in embarrassment, and tries for a change of subject.
'Hey, you remember that time when Bobby turned the pool into an ice-skating rink...?'
*
Piotr calls for a brief rest break, and Kitty and Warren lower their respective burdens gently to the ground; she goes around to check up on the other kids, while Warren collapses in relief. Theresa is conscious, but ill and feverish; Daniel is starting to come round. Other than that, it's mostly cuts, bruises, coldness, dehydration, exhaustion, and shock. Although it makes her feel horrible, she agrees with Piotr that they shouldn't rest long; even after only a minute or two, some of the kids look like they're about ready to curl up and go to sleep. They can't afford it.
They head off again, Kitty with Theresa back in her arms, and Warren with no burden, at Kitty's insistence. He looks terrible, worse even than he was when they stopped for the break. He's not just hunched over his injured arm, anymore - he's hunched over, period. Every step seems to be agonising, his movements jerky and awkward, feet catching on the most minor of obstacles. Sweat runs down over white, white skin, and the harshness of his breathing is stark in the quiet. She thinks that surely this is far too much for a minor gunshot wound... and then she thinks that maybe this is what it's like, that this is reality.
Worst of all, though, he looks terrified, although he's obviously trying not to show it. It's something she's never seen on him before, and she doesn't like it one bit.
She waits a moment for him to catch his breath, and he avoids eye contact.
'Warren....'
'I'm fine, all right?'
He starts off again, that horrible, dragging step, and as he pulls ahead, she sees what she's been missing. A slow, spreading bloodstain across the back of his shirt.
'What the hell is that?' Probably not the most reassuring thing she could've said, but she thinks that she's got a pretty good excuse for being a tad frazzled. She passes Theresa off to Doug, and tells him to make sure everyone goes on ahead.
'You sure?'
'Yeah, yeah. We'll just be a few minutes.' He gives her a dubious look, and she huffs impatiently, trying not to lose her temper. 'Look, we're pretty much out of the woods now - so to speak - and this is important. I don't want to worry the little kids, okay?'
'What about the rest of us?' he mutters, but he dutifully jogs off to catch up with the rest of the group, Theresa in his arms.
She turns back to Warren, who's still studying the ground in front of him.
'Now. You. What's going on?'
His head snaps up, and he glares at her. 'How the hell should I know?'
'Well, will you at least let me take a look?'
He sighs. 'Do I have a choice?'
'Of course not. Now, turn around.'
She lifts the back of his shirt up gingerly, and can't stifle a gasp at what she sees. Most of his upper back is grotesquely swollen and bruised, like something out of a bad sci-fi film; thin rivulets of blood seep from cracks in the purpled skin. Even in the dark, it's bad enough that she can't quite force the horror down.
She replaces the shirt with exaggerated care, and moves around to face him. Lowers her voice to something a little kinder.
'Why didn't you want me to see?'
He tries to brush her off and walk ahead, but she blocks his path.
'I'm fine. We've got bigger things to worry about.'
'You stupid - goddamned - argh!' She stifles the urge to start screaming at the top of her lungs and poking him in the chest; in their current situation, either would probably be highly counterproductive. 'What we're worried about here, mister, is making sure that everyone gets back alive and healthy. And you're going to be neither of these things if you don't just let someone look after you for a moment, you stupid jackass!'
A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, winning the brief battle against his sour expression. 'You know, I hate it when you make sense.'
'Well, get used to it.' She smiles back, and indicates that he should lean on her with his good arm. 'But I'm not carrying you.'
'Damn.'
By the time they catch up to the others, the sky is starting to show the first vague promise of morning, and the woods have thinned out into semi-suburbia. Piotr and the kids are resting at the edge of the forest, a little way back from the houses. Piotr comes up to meet them. He looks about ten years older than he did yesterday.
'I was starting to worry.'
'Sorry.' Kitty eases Warren down onto the ground, where he slumps over onto his stomach. She gives the kids a few brief reassurances - Warren's fine, he's just a little injured, they'll all be safe soon - and moves off to one side for a whispered conversation with Piotr, who eyes Warren with some worry.
'We have to find somewhere to stay. The kids are exhausted and thirsty, and we risk being spotted.' He runs a hand through his dirty hair in frustration. 'I wish the Professor had a safehouse of some kind set up.'
For once, her mutation might come in handy for people other than herself in a real-life situation. About time. 'I think I can handle this. What say I call in on our friendly neighbours here in Salem Center?'
'You know, that's the best idea I've heard all day.'
She looks over to Warren, who looks dead to the world. She doesn't want to leave him. She wants to know that he'll still be here when she gets back. She wants to wake up from this.
Piotr has an annoying knack for mind-reading; sometimes, she wonders if he's got an extra power that he hasn't told anyone about. 'The sooner you leave, the sooner you get back.'
She nods, and fidgets nervously, swallowing hard. She can do this. Compared to escaping from an entire freaking team of military mutant-hunters, this should be a piece of cake. All she has to do is leave Warren behind. That's all.
Easy.
She looks at him one last time - gaunt, bloody, and horrific in the morning light - and tells herself that he's the reason she has to leave. Staying just means that she'll be making it worse.
When she finally manages to look away, she runs as fast as she can, and doesn't look back.
*
She trots down the deserted street, trying to look inconspicuous and natural in her pyjamas. If not for her bare feet, she could almost pass herself off for an early-morning jogger. That, and the dirt and dried blood smeared over her skin.
The sky is rapidly lightening, predawn pale, and she steps up her pace. Checks the garages for cars, sticks her head into bedrooms. Tries to decide which lame cover story is least likely to get her arrested, should she be caught.
She gives a wide berth to houses where known mutant-haters live. Anyone who's been at Xavier's for more than a month knows where the worst of them are, and there are some sidestreets she avoids altogether.
Time starts to regain some sort of meaning as the sun peeks over the edge of the horizon, and she knows she must've been doing this for at least twenty minutes. Far too long... but it seems like all of Salem Centre has decided to stay in for the night.
She's starting to get truly worried - only the fact that it's the weekend is keeping her undiscovered - when she finally stumbles across a possible prospect. One car in the garage, curtains closed tight, and a small, precarious mountain of unopened mail inside the front door. She rings the doorbell several times; no response. Stepping fully inside the house, she takes the grand tour, phased-out, ready to bolt at any moment.
Nothing. Probably on vacation.
She discovers the alarm system before the alarm system discovers her, and kills it. Permanently. She hates damaging property, but they really don't have a choice.
She hurries back to the others with only a perfunctory attempt at nonchalance, muttering the address under her breath over and over and over again. She knows the area, would normally be able to find her way back in her sleep, but she's not taking any chances.
Pete greets her with as much relief as she's ever seen on anyone. 'Kitty! Did you find anything?'
'791 Keller Road. 791 Keller Road.'
'What?'
'791 Keller Road.'
He smiles. 'Okay, got it. You can stop saying it now.'
She forces her mind to stop replaying that damned address, and kneels down to check on Warren.
Not good. Not good at all.
She can't quite keep the worry from her face, and she knows he sees. The fact that he doesn't say anything to reassure her only deepens her fears.
Piotr bends down, and, with infinite care, lifts Warren up into his arms. Warren cries out, and Kitty does her best to distract and organise the other kids. She's not all that successful; certainly, she fails utterly in her attempt to distract herself.
She bites down on her lip. Hard.
*
The house is still empty when they get there - she'd been convinced that the owners would return in the short time she was gone - and, if anyone spotted them on their short trek from the woods, they don't seem to have deemed them dangerous enough to warrant any kind of intervention.
She steps inside, and then pulls the others through, praying and keeping fingers crossed that no-one's looking. The house is explored quickly, but more thoroughly than before.
The older kids seem to find their voices again - quiet, hesitant, but they're talking. A whispered debate rages over where, exactly, they should hide. Most of them want either the basement or the attic, their desperate fear of being found overriding the need for multiple escape routes. In the end, Piotr simply pulls rank, telling them that they're staying in the main part of the house... and then softens the blow by saying that the house has beds and bathrooms and couches, which seems to placate them.
Kitty tries to glare at him, but can't quite muster it up. She wants to leave as little evidence of their presence here as possible; she knows that Professor Xavier is going to have his work cut out for him as it is. Everyone here is filthy, caked in sweat, dirt, and blood. They all reek. She doesn't want the kids climbing all over the furniture.
But really, what choice is there? Everyone's exhausted, and they've got to sleep somewhere.
She turns on the heater - just for awhile, just until they've warmed up a little - and searches the cupboards for towels and sheets that she can sacrifice. As much as she wants to grab the old ones, she goes for the newest. There's more of a chance that they can be replaced without the owners noticing.
She wanders through the house in search of Piotr, a gaggle of kids trailing after her. She locates him in the master bedroom, where he's just about to ease a more-or-less unconscious Warren onto the bed; she ducks in and spreads the towels out over the base sheet first, in an attempt to spare the mattress.
She shoos the kids out, telling them to drink a small amount of water and go to the bathroom, and instructing the older children to check everyone for frostbite and injuries. Once they’re gone, Piotr quickly shreds a new sheet, and the two of them clean and re-bandage Warren's arm as best they can. Thank God for Mister Summers' insistence on first aid training.
There’s only so much they can do before they have to face the inevitable. They share an apprehensive look, and then, with painful slowness, try to peel the shirt back.
'God.'
It's... bad. The bleeding, however, is actually quite minimal; they decide not to bandage the wound, as it would probably do more harm than good, and settle for just washing off the worst of the dried blood and pus. She's not sure, but it looks like he's actually gained some muscle in his upper body; certainly, the rest of him looks like it's wasting away.
Piotr looks twitchy and nervous, and it takes her a few moments to work out that he wants to organise some defences for the house. At the moment, they're completely vulnerable.
He's also in desperate need of sleep, but she knows he'll never admit it.
Her voice is gentle. 'Hey. Why don't you go guard the front?'
'Are you sure...?'
'I've got it covered here. I can get some of the older kids to keep watch out the back and keep an eye on the kids, and I can look after Warren.'
He nods, looking almost pathetically grateful. 'Thanks.'
She wishes she knew what it is that drives him, his devotion, his protectiveness. Every time she's ever asked about his life before Xavier's, he's always changed the subject so smoothly that she never even realises he's done it until hours later. All she knows is that he has a sister. Had. Maybe. She can't tell.
She grabs his hand for a moment. 'Take care, okay?'
'I will.'
His leaving the room must act as a signal for the other kids to come back in, because they pile onto the floor next to her. Ali informs her that they all seem to be more or less okay, health-wise. Kitty makes sure that the worst of Warren's... injuries... are covered, and sits carefully on the bed.
'Hey, guys - there are at least two other bedrooms. You don't have to sleep on the floor.'
But they're not going anywhere, it seems, and she can't really blame them.
'At least go grab some blankets off the other beds, okay?' She sends Ali off to get blankets and pillows, and when she gets back, asks her if she could take one of the other kids, and keep watch for a little while. The girl agrees without hesitation.
The kids pile up on the floor, the younger ones huddled around the older - next to them, on top of them, over them, arms around waists, legs, anything they can touch. Ali tries to drape the blankets over all of them without running the risk of smothering anyone. The end result looks like a tired, lumpy marshmallow.
They're all asleep within two minutes.
Doug spreads another blanket as best he can over Warren, and one over Kitty's legs, before leaving with Ali. Kitty wonders if it's even worth it - she can barely feel the blanket's texture through her frozen feet, and the rest of her is shivering like mad, ice-boned. She'd almost forgotten that she was cold, but she's certainly noticing it now. The thin quilt seems feeble at best, and she curses the house's owner for being the only person in Salem Center who doesn't own an electric blanket. She curls and uncurls her toes, trying to work some feeling back into them, and considers the options. Maybe she could sneak out for just a minute, go grab a bucket of warm water to stick her feet in -
Warren wakes a little and shifts position, slowly, painfully, until his body is more comfortably arranged, and his head rests against her leg.
'Warren... are you sure you don't want your head on the pillow? It'd be more comfortable.'
He grunts, and falls back asleep. She sighs.
She stares at the Van Gogh reproduction on the wall. Her mind whirls at a hundred miles an hour, and yet processes nothing at all.
*
Some of the children are awake, and they keep a respectful distance, trying to simultaneously be supportive, understanding, unobtrusive, and fearless.
It's the last one that's giving them the most trouble, she can tell. Manifestations rarely run smoothly, and this one has them good and scared. For Warren. For themselves.
Kitty can remember when she first arrived at Xavier's. At that time, the most terrifying story was that of Mister Summers, who had disintegrated a wall with his force blasts and injured several people, before being forced into two years of blindness.
That had been it. The worst, most horrific possibility.
Then Rogue had come along. Boyfriend in a coma, death to those she touches.
Just after that - Jessie, who had accidentally killed half his town, and only avoided capture by the military through a combination of Doctor McCoy's scientific know-how and a whole lot of psychic interference from the Professor. Hundreds dead, and while the papers said it was due to a chemical leak, the students here know the truth. They don't judge Jessie for it, but they still fear what he represents, especially those who haven't yet come into their powers. It's made it to the point where the younger kids are absolutely petrified of what harm they could do.
And she sees that now, looking around the room. Most of the kids here know Warren pretty well - he's been at the Mansion forever, it seems. But friendship can't completely override instinctual reactions, and some of the little kids stare at him with big, round eyes, their thoughts clear as day on their faces.
That could be me.
Or, in the case of the older kids, could've been. Herself included. She'll never, ever again wish that she'd got different powers, "better" powers. She's never realised just how damned lucky she is.
She wonders if Jessie even made it out of his isolation chamber.
Lorna is watching her from the corner, the most amazing trust in her eyes. Like she's some sort of superhero. Like she's one of the X-Men. She wants to tell Lorna that she doesn't deserve it. That she's just done what anyone else would do. Less than she could have done.
A strangled, breathless noise catches her attention - Warren's awake again. She shifts carefully to grab his glass of water from next to the bed, but obviously not carefully enough; he cries out, and she freezes in position, hand poised over the glass.
'Don't. Just... don't move.'
She painstakingly lowers her hand back down. 'Look, why don't you just put your head back on the pillow? I'm going to have to get up eventually, and I don't want to risk your being disturbed.'
'Too late for that.'
'Very funny.' She holds onto the weak humour, treasures it; it could be the last good memory she'll have.
It seems to break the tension a little, though - reassures the kids that Warren is still Warren. That jokes - however bad - are still possible, along with being warm, and not being on the verge of passing out. There are a few snickers from around the room, and a couple of the kids move a little closer to the bed, as close to Warren as they dare.
She gets the impression that, for some of them, they finally feel like they share common ground with him. This is something they are familiar with, that they can deal with; midnight raids with helicopters and soldiers and guns are the stuff of movies, but the pain and fear of manifestation is something that many of them know all too well. It cuts without prejudice through race, religion, wealth. And the loneliness is the worst part.
The kids start talking to him, voices kept low more for his sake than fear of attracting attention. Stupid jokes, anecdotes, sports chat; anything and everything, except for the obvious. And maybe it helps. She thinks it does.
Sometimes she joins in, adding her own jokes when he's doing relatively okay. And when he's not, she strokes his hair, and lets him hold on for dear life.
She's never felt so helpless in her life.
*
'You tell him that if he doesn't go to sleep - and somewhere where I can see it - I'll start yelling out that we're a bunch of wanted mutants hiding in a stranger's house.'
Doug runs off to the front living room, carrying the latest salvo in Kitty and Piotr's small battle of wills. He's back after only a minute; unsurprisingly, the message he brings is essentially the same as all those that've come before.
'Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin, do not make me hurt you!'
Her voice isn't all that loud - she doesn't actually want to endanger everyone, after all, and Warren is still dozing - but it's the loudest thing any of them have said since last night, and it sounds deafening by comparison.
Heavy footsteps come pounding down the corridor only a second later, and Piotr almost crashes into the doorframe in his haste. She smiles triumphantly. 'You should know better than to do battle with me, Petey.'
'Don't remind me.' He scrubs at his eyes. 'At least let me get someone else to watch the front.'
'Sure.' She's certain that they're out of danger, but having a guard out front still lets her feel a little safer. Besides, whoever lives here could come back at any moment.
Watery late afternoon sunlight spills through the windows. She tries to quell the urge to get up and stretch. On the occasions when Warren has woken up, he's refused to move - and she can't say she blames him - which means that she's been in the same position for at least ten hours, now. Really should've gone to the bathroom before she sat down. She glares at the glass of water, which the children insist on topping up every time she takes a sip. Damn it.
Still, if having her bladder explode is the price of keeping Warren as comfortable as possible, she's willing to pay it.
Piotr stumbles back into the room, and practically collapses onto a chair one of the kids dragged up next to the bed a few hours back. Kitty is certain that if he didn't have the back of the chair to lean against, he'd slide right onto the floor in a giant puddle.
'Hey. Why don't you take one of the other rooms? There are plenty of places to sleep.'
He smiles ruefully, leaning his head back against the wall. 'Nah. The beds are all too short.' His eyes dart about, from door to window to children and back again; his position gives him an excellent view of all entry points to the room. Of course he's here simply because he can't fit into the beds. Of course it's more comfortable to sleep in a chair. She decides that it’s best not to comment, and Piotr changes the subject for her.
'How's he doing?'
She sighs. 'Worse, if that's even possible. I honestly don't know what else I can do.'
She doesn't say that she thinks he's going to die; some of the children are awake, and she doesn't want to make things any more difficult for them. Piotr has eyes. She knows he can see how bad the situation is.
Piotr shuffles a little closer and tries to catch her gaze, but she refuses to meet his eyes. 'Hey, come on. You've done all that could be asked of anyone. I don’t think that even a doctor would know what to do right now.'
She can't help it - she starts to sniffle, and it's all she can do to keep it from turning into full-blown sobbing. Her nose is running everywhere. Great, that's typical, that's just typical, oh God, Warren's going to die -
Her vision is so blurred that she doesn't notice the fistful of Kleenex in front of her face, hovering there a little uncertainly for a moment before it starts wiping tears from her cheeks. After a moment, she takes the tissues and dries her eyes, bringing a concerned Piotr-face into focus. She smiles shakily, and quickly starts trying to clean herself up.
'Thanks.' It's little more than an embarrassing croak, but it seems to be enough to convince Piotr that she's not in imminent danger of complete meltdown. Pity she can't be so sure of that, herself; if she starts crying again, she'll probably never stop, and she simply can't afford that right now. She silently repeats her mantra: don't freak out the children don't freak out the children don't freak out the children....
Piotr shifts back to his original position, conveniently out of her direct line of sight. Kitty sniffs, takes a few shuddery breaths, and tries to shift her weight ever so slightly. She can't help it, she has to - her butt went numb hours ago. But even that small movement is enough to make Warren cry out, and she immediately settles back to where she was, whispering apologies to Warren all the while. It seems to be about all she can say to him, anymore; even "it's okay" has worn thin, a trite and blatantly false statement if ever there were one. Never has anything been this far from okay.
Silence settles over them, apart from her occasional hiccups and Warren's moans. A glance at Piotr reveals that he is making no attempt to sleep. Or maybe he is, but is just too scared of what appears whenever he closes his eyes. Kitty knows the feeling. Whenever she starts to doze off, she sees things. Soldiers. Guns. Helicopters. Unconscious children. Warren, utterly still.
She sees herself. Running. Over and over and over again. Just her and her silent footsteps.
'You know, I really haven't.'
Piotr's head jerks up. Maybe he was closer to sleep than she thought. 'Wuh?'
'I haven't. Done all that could be asked of anyone.' She laughs, only a little hysterical, and shakes her head.
He sits up a little straighter, waking up properly. 'What do you mean?'
'I didn't help them. Anyone. I was one of the first to wake up, and do you think I did anything to wake anyone else? To help any of the other kids?'
Piotr has this look of pure sympathy and understanding on his face. It's driving her nuts.
'Kitty, we all ran. It's called self-preservation. Everyone does it - '
'For crying out loud, Petey - self-preservation is irrelevant, when you're me! They couldn't touch me. Their darts couldn't touch me. I could've woken everyone. I could've phased other kids to safer parts of the mansion. I could've disabled their freakin' helicopters!' It's all she can do to keep her voice down, to stay still. She wants to scream. She wants to get up off this damn bed and punch stupid compassionate Piotr in his stupid compassionate face. And she really wants him to get his stupid compassionate hand off her shoulder.
But all she can do is cry - it suddenly seems like the only thing she can do, anymore - great racking sobs and gasps, and Piotr carefully slides his arm around her. She thinks he says things like "it's not your fault", and God, she wants to believe him so much, so much, oh God, she just wants her mom and dad, she just wants to go home....
*
Piotr is hauling rocks - huge, impossible rocks. Organic steel weeps red, red blood, and he stutters, stumbles, falls....
~Ghddghkhy!~
Miss Munroe is shackled, bruised. Locked away from the heavens. The guards are coming....
~Kghhkfdy!~
Mister Summers stares unseeingly at her with empty eyes. Still red.
~Kgtddy!~
A man raises a scalpel; her eyes track it down, down, through the air, through Warren. He pokes around in the bright gory mess, pulling absently at stuff that should be in. She tries to tackle the man, but she slips right through; tries to scream, and makes not even a whisper.
The man cuts again. Again. He seems quite fascinated, in a bored sort of way -
~Kitty!~
She jerks awake, taking a good long while to blink away the afterimages. When she eventually works out the what and how and why of her situation, she wishes she'd never woken up in the first place. At least the dreams weren't real.
Yet.
It's dark outside, leaves hissing in the breeze; dim light leaks in from the hallway. The ever-present tang of old sweat is stronger, now, with an undertone of blood.
Piotr still has a protective arm around her, even in sleep. One of Warren's hands is clasped tightly within one of her own; she relaxes her grip, and Warren's hand is limp. Frantically, she checks for a pulse. A faint beat registers under her fingertips after the longest couple of seconds of her life, and she starts breathing again.
~KITTY!~
She almost jumps out of her skin, having completely forgotten about the voice that woke her up in the first place. Piotr grumbles, and shifts a little in his sleep.
Warren doesn't move at all.
~Kitty! Come on, please let me know you're okay....~
~Betsy! I'm... I'm.... Where are you?~
~Just a block or so away. We're on our way over right now.~
~'We'? Who else is there? Oh, you don't know how glad I am to hear your voice....~
~Me, Sam, and Jean-Paul. I got through to Emma - that girl really doesn't go anywhere without her cell - and she says that the mansion's deserted, no mental signatures to be found. She's there right now with some of the other kids - has been since this morning. Apparently, it all checks out, safe to return. We're busy trying to round up all the students we can find, let them know what's going on.~
Kitty tunes out a little after Betsy rattles off a list of students confirmed safe. She doesn't bother saying much, other than that most of the kids are okay, and that Warren is "unwell" - Betsy and the others will be here any minute, and showing is easier than telling. How on earth could she even begin to explain?
She turns her head slightly, trying to get a look at Piotr. She should wake him, give him the good news. But he looks so peaceful, happily drooling away on her shoulder, and she can't bear to be the one to shatter that peace. He'll wake up soon enough.
The kids asleep on the floor now are different from the kids who were there earlier. Apparently, they're better at organising workshifts than she would normally give them credit for. She calls out softly, until one of them wakes up.
'Paige, could you go tell whoever's guarding the front that Betsy, Sam, and Jean-Paul will be here any minute?'
Her eyes light up, and she hurries off to spread the good news, picking her way carefully amongst the sleeping bodies on the floor.
Kitty looks back down at Warren again, just to make sure he hasn't died in the past minute. He's so motionless, the rise and fall of his ribcage so slight that he could pass away and she probably wouldn't even notice. The bleeding has become far worse since she fell asleep, and her pyjamas and the mattress are soaked through. Her legs are cold and sticky, and she doesn't think she'll ever be able to wash off the sensation completely.
There's something sticking through the skin on his back. It looks almost like bone, but not quite. Twenty-four hours ago, she would've been scared out of her wits. Now, she just sees it as another impediment to bandaging. Not that it'll make much difference.
Betsy's still there, practically sobbing in her relief. Kitty can feel the emotional release over the connection, the slow dissipation of pent-up terror.
~We're safe, Kitty. It’s okay. We're safe.~
Kitty repeats it to herself - ostensibly for Warren's benefit, although he's a little past comprehension right now - and runs her fingers gently over his forehead, over his matted hair.
'You hear that, Warren? We're safe. We're going home.'
They're going home. Back to all her friends, and Mister Summers and Doctor Grey and the Professor and everyone else. Back to new plaster and the smell of fresh paint, to a house that'll soon look exactly the same as it did before.
Strange. She thought she'd feel relieved.
end
Title: Flight
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All your X are belong to Marvel and Fox. No profit.
Summary: Things change.
Written for: newredshoes (pinch-hit)
Pairing/scenario requested: Gen: the conversations among the students that Piotr lead into the forest. Condition: at least one doesn't know what their mutation is yet.
Warnings (if any): A bit of gore/medical grossness, implied violence. Nothing particularly mentally scarring.
Acknowledgements: Big love to innle and c_elisa for the beta, and to penknife for playing research monkey. All stuff-ups are, of course, my own.
Story notes: Draws from various universes (mostly movie and Ultimate), with a healthy dose of Making Stuff Up. Since Kitty's age appears to vary wildly between the two films, I've gone with her X1 age, i.e. sixteen-ish.
Note to Newredshoes: This is ridiculously, inexcusably late. (Obviously.) I am really, really sorry. *headhang*
It was a dark and stormy night....
Some might say that now is a bad time for her to be mentally composing her creative writing piece for next Tuesday's English class. She disagrees. Not only is she keeping her mind off what just happened, but she's also getting a head start on her homework. Nobody has ever accused her of being impractical.
The thunder rolled in seemingly from nowhere, a sudden thump-thump-thump bass rumble that rattled the very windows, as floodlight lightning cut crazily along the walls....
So much for distraction. She turns her mind to practicing future tense conjugations for Wednesday's Italian test. Future tense is good. Forward-thinking. Optimistic.
The air is oddly still as she runs, the noise from the mansion having long faded into a night silence one can only find in the middle of nowhere. Here, it's just her and the trees, and the skitterings of a few nocturnal creatures. She passes through it all without so much as a whisper of bare feet on fallen leaves, forsaking the obviousness of the paths for the anonymity of the shadows. If they come for her, she could hide within the most solid of trees, and they would never know. Sure, there's the possibility that she's horribly lost - scratch that, it's pretty much a fact - but being lost means that the soldiers are probably less likely to find her.
She takes comfort from the dubious logic, and starts running just a bit faster, in order to get herself lost just a bit quicker. She doesn't know how long she's been out here, where she's going, or why she hasn't passed out yet. And she's been cycling through the conjugations for morire for at least five minutes. Time to think about yesterday's math class, instead. Surely numbers won't betray her -
The unexpected crunch of dead leaves from just up ahead almost echoes through the trees, and she trips over her own feet in shock, letting out a decidedly undignified squeak as she rematerialises just in time to hit the ground face-first. She peers into the impenetrable gloom, wishing that her stupid noisy breathing would stop until the threat passes by, and feeling the sudden urge to fall asleep right where she is and deal with it all in the morning.
She remains stock-still, cheek pressed into the cold dirt, and re-phases. If they find her, there's nothing they can do to her as long as she stays like this.
Probably.
Silence returns, but this time it hums with tension. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a weak glimmer of metal.
She recognises it. Knows it by heart.
Still, she waits a few eternal moments longer, just to make sure. Checking time and time again, not allowing herself to trust her eyes in the slightest.
She's right. She knows it. And there are no soldiers to be seen.
With an effort of willpower that’s almost physically painful, she makes herself solid again. Raising herself into a crouch, she clears her throat quietly, licking parched lips.
'Petey?'
His head whips around; against all instincts, she stands up and moves a little closer. She gives a pathetic little wave, feeling rather stupid.
'Uh. Over here. Hi.'
His eyes settle in her general direction; she takes a few steps towards him, slow, careful. He's much more distinctive than she in this near-black, and she doesn't want to spook him. When she's near enough to be recognised, she swipes her hand through a nearby tree. Proof.
The metal disappears, and then there's just Piotr. Three huge strides, and he's crushing her to him in a bear hug of epic proportions.
He pulls away a little, and checks her over. His voice is barely loud enough to be heard. 'Are you okay?'
'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. What about you? What about the others? Did you all make it out?'
It's at this point that she notices a bunch of kids huddled not far behind Piotr - only about ten feet away, but in this light, they're practically invisible. The older ones stand protectively in front of the younger, and she's not sure, but it looks like there are… bodies? She thinks she might throw up.
'Are they... they....'
'No, no, they're okay. They got hit by those darts, but they should be fine.' She can hear the unsaid I hope. 'We have to move again. Can you carry Theresa?'
'Sure, sure.' She nods almost frantically and bends down to pick up the girl, who is awake, but out of it. God, she doesn't know how long she can carry Theresa, but it's not like there's much choice. She does a quick headcount while she's at it, and searches the faces. Definitely all fairly young, although she knows most of them to some extent. No sign of any of her close friends.
'Do you know what happened to the others?'
'It was crazy - I couldn't really tell. But Wolverine stuck around. Anything those soldiers manage to get won't come easy.' He lifts Daniel carefully, making it look effortless. The boy's glasses are bent. 'Most of these paths join up - if any of the others came out this side of the mansion, we might run into them.'
It's not really the best news she could hear, but she shoves her worry to one side, to be dealt with at a later date if necessary.
She realises for the first time that her feet are numb with the cold. And that there's absolutely nothing she can do about it.
They set off. The kids are absolutely silent, none of them showing even the slightest desire to talk. Bobby's often joked that having them all shut up at once would be a sign of the Apocalypse. The thought hits a little too close to home for comfort.
Eyes on the path ahead, every one of them. Their footsteps are almost silent. It's far more eerie than her solo flight through the trees was.
It hits her for the first time just how much trouble they're really in.
*
Time passes. It must - her whole body progressively feels more and more like lead. Lead that's been doused in gasoline, and set on fire. Repeatedly. Under and around the cold, she burns.
The trees all look the same, though - spectral outlines in the dark - and the stars aren't visible through the branches. Could've been hours, or maybe they've only just started walking. She can't tell.
It's hard to believe that these are the same woods she's often explored over the years. Even when she went on camping trips with the other students, the trees still felt familiar and comforting. The difference that a few flashlights can make. Oh, and not being chased by a bunch of gun-wielding commandos. She's heard that can help.
The line of children in front of her comes to a sudden halt, and she peers around them, trying to see what's going on. There are some pale blurs on the path up ahead, and she tries to find that comforting. If they were soldiers, they surely wouldn't be that obvious. She's only ushering the children into the shadows as a precaution. And she only feels like she's going to throw up because she's hungry and thirsty and tired.
Kitty bites her tongue to keep from screaming - funny, she never thought anyone actually did that - and makes ready to run. She'll give it another five seconds, and then she and the kids are out of here. Uses her jackhammer heartbeat as a stopwatch - onetwothreefour -
There's a faint call from up ahead that nonetheless carries perfectly well, and it's Piotr saying that it's okay, and he doesn't sound like he has a gun to his head. Surely he would die rather than betray the rest of them, anyhow.
She keeps telling herself this as she creeps forward, with a whispered instruction to the kids that they should be ready to run. She phases again - they can't touch her, no reason for fear, no reason at all - and prays with every step for the strength to take the next. Welcomes the déjà vu; after all, it worked out last time.
And apparently this time, too. Definitely students, and it's easier to approach this time around. Slightly.
She goes back for the others, coaxing them out from the trees and towards the newcomers. They approach the other group a little warily, as if their friends might have turned on them in the past few hours; but then it's as if a switch is flicked, and there are wordless hugs and silent tears. Maybe a few whispered conversations, but she can't make anything out.
Piotr takes a couple of minutes to get everyone up to speed and organised, swapping information with Warren, who leads the other group. Kitty counts only an extra six students, which leaves them still seventeen short. Her usual optimism seems to be in short supply at the moment; the figure sounds like a failure, no matter how she looks at it. Less than fifty percent. She can only hope that the others made it out in another direction.
They start off yet again, and she passes Theresa off to one of the new kids for a spell - thankfully, most of them are older than her group, and seem to be handling the situation slightly better. At the very least, they don't look near-catatonic.
She falls in next to Warren at the back, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder every five seconds, and failing miserably. She can almost feel Warren's smirk.
'Shut up.' She whaps him lightly on the arm, and he grunts. 'Oh, come on, you big baby. Like that hurt.'
No response, beyond too-laboured breathing. Concerned, she turns her head to face him.
He's hunched over ever-so-slightly, cradling his right arm protectively. Kitty squints; it's near-on impossible to see anything at this time of night, but his arm looks wrong, somehow. For one thing, it should be the same colour as his other arm.
'God, Warren. What happened?'
'What, my arm? Oh, nothing. Just a scratch.'
Dried blood. Lots of it. Fresher blood still coils sluggishly down his arm and drips off his fingertips; she grabs the limb and yanks it closer for inspection, barely registering Warren's rather unmanly whimper.
'The truth, now?'
'Bullet came from nowhere, got me right in the - gah! - arm. Lucky that's all they hit.'
She examines him critically, noting the slight limp, the scratches, the darkening bruises that are noticeable when she looks hard enough. 'What about the rest of it?'
'Huh? Oh, that. Hit a dead end - one of the second-storey windows. Soldiers coming up behind me - didn't have much choice. Landed in the bushes.'
She clamps her hand down over the wound, wincing in apology as he yelps. The two of them stumble along in a clumsy sideways hobble.
'We need to bandage this straight away. Take off your top.'
He shakes his head vehemently, face schooled into an expression that doesn't reveal too much pain. 'Look, Kitty, I'm fine. There's no need - '
'Warren, this is no time to suddenly discover dignity! You parade around half-naked all the time like you're Travis freaking Fimmell, for crying out loud! Stopping the bleeding is your top priority. Take the damned thing off, now!' It's all she can do to keep her voice down to a harsh whisper, and even that's too much. A couple of the other kids stop and stare at her, eyes wide. She shoos them forward with an annoyed hand-wave.
'No.'
'Alright, then.' She releases his arm, and starts to tear at the hem of her pyjama top as she walks. Stupid macho idiot -
'Christ! Alright, alright! Fine.' He starts to tear a strip from the bottom of his own shirt, and she quickly takes over the task. He still refuses to let her remove the remnants of the shirt, for some boneheaded reason, but at least he doesn't seem to have a problem with tearing the thing to shreds.
After a few attempts - deliberately tearing clothes is more difficult than she thought - she has a couple of serviceable pieces of cloth, and sets to work bandaging his arm, relying on him to tell her of any obstacles in the path as she walks along backwards. They debate for awhile over the merits of a sling, and Kitty eventually gives up, realising that she's finally met her match in terms of sheer pigheaded stubbornness.
As if to make up for his behaviour, Warren starts up some awkward, hushed conversation. 'Do any of your kids have mutations that'd be useful?'
She sighs. 'Not as far as I can tell. Apart from Petey, we don't have anyone with enhanced strength. No-one with heightened senses. No offensive mutations. No super speed. No psis. A couple of the kids here haven't even manifested yet, and out of those that have, most of them don't know how to control their powers very well. We could really use someone like Mister Summers or that Wolverine guy, right now.' A nervous pause - it doesn't get any easier with each time she asks. 'You didn't happen to see Jubes or Rogue or Bobby or John, did you?'
'Saw Bobby and John not long after the soldiers came in. Don't know anything about anyone else.' He shrugs helplessly. 'I'm sorry.'
She bends down to pick up one of the younger kids who's struggling. The boy - he's new, only been here a week or so, she can't remember his name - doesn't say a word, but clings onto her like his very life depends on it.
She doesn't want to think about how true that might be.
The boy buries his head against her neck, the quickness of his breathing and pounding of his heart belying the brave face he's been putting on. She never would've thought that she could carry so much weight for so long. She'll probably just keep walking until her body eventually realises that it's not supposed to be able to do this, and gives out.
Next to her, Warren swings Paige onto his shoulders, and he stumbles. Kitty hisses.
'Warren!'
'Hey, I'm not using my arm. And it's just for five minutes.' He gives her the puppy-dog eyes, charm almost covering the fact that he can't quite stand straight. 'Come on, she's exhausted.'
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue the point any further. It's not worth the energy.
*
'... They wanted to send me somewhere exclusive, you see; but they also wanted to keep me out of the public spotlight, in case I ended up with some sort of obvious mutation that they wouldn't be able to keep hidden. So, by sending me to Xavier's, they were killing two birds with one stone. I mean, hey - what's more exclusive than a mutants-only school, right?' His tone is light, jovial; only the slightest hint of tension gives away his bitterness.
They've exhausted most sane topics of discussion - and some of the less sane, too - rekindling old conversations in hushed tones just to have something to talk about. Never mind that she's learnt very little that she didn't already know; she finds it all somewhat comforting. Safe. It helps keep Warren distracted from his arm... and it keeps her from dwelling on just how pale Warren looks. His face blurs through the dark like a ghost.
'Of course, I still haven't manifested. I could've spent all these years at Fairburn, and no-one would've ever known.'
She needs to rest her arms. She's dying. It's she's being stabbed by a phalanx of midgets armed with rusty spoons.
She shifts the kid a little, and continues on. Tries not to think about it. Thinking means realising that she simply isn't capable of carrying him any further. If it weren't for the rigorous Phys Ed classes at the school, she would've dropped long ago.
'Yeah, but you would've been paranoid all the time. Surely it's worth it, knowing that you're somewhere where you're welcome?'
'I don't know if I'd go that far. I'm a freak among freaks - until I manifest, I might as well be a regular human, in the eyes of a few mutants I could think of. Either way, I'm never going to be all that popular.'
This is one conversation they've had too many times over the years, and even at the best of times, it never ends well. She steers the topic away as far as she can without rousing suspicion. She hopes.
'I can't believe you haven't manifested yet. I mean, you're sixteen! Surely something should've triggered it by now....'
'Well, it's not as if I've ever had a moment of hardship in my life. My family does have money, after all.' The humour is so dry that for a moment, she's not entirely sure he's kidding... but then the edges of a wry smile escape, a gleam of teeth, and she can't help but grin back.
'Or maybe you just haven't hit puberty yet.'
'Oh, now that's harsh.'
They trail off into companionable silence. The kids in front of her are still barely talking, beyond an occasional whispered 'mind that branch' or 'look out for the ditch'. She wants to think that they're just being sensible, and keeping as quiet as possible.
Warren huffs a little, trying to catch his breath, and readjusts Paige's position slightly. The girl is obviously beyond exhaustion, her head bobbing about limply. Even in sleep, she shivers. Kitty wonders how long it'll be before the well-being of the children will outweigh her own pride and warmth, how long before she'll sacrifice her own pyjamas to keep one of the younger ones slightly warmer in the frosty night air.
She has a feeling she doesn't really want to know the answer.
She coughs a little, working her throat until she's reasonably sure that she'll sound like a normal person once she starts talking again.
'What do you think your mutation's gonna be? I mean, whenever it manifests.'
There's the slightest pause; when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly curt. 'No idea.'
It hangs in the air between them, and she wonders what she said wrong. She clears her throat in embarrassment, and tries for a change of subject.
'Hey, you remember that time when Bobby turned the pool into an ice-skating rink...?'
*
Piotr calls for a brief rest break, and Kitty and Warren lower their respective burdens gently to the ground; she goes around to check up on the other kids, while Warren collapses in relief. Theresa is conscious, but ill and feverish; Daniel is starting to come round. Other than that, it's mostly cuts, bruises, coldness, dehydration, exhaustion, and shock. Although it makes her feel horrible, she agrees with Piotr that they shouldn't rest long; even after only a minute or two, some of the kids look like they're about ready to curl up and go to sleep. They can't afford it.
They head off again, Kitty with Theresa back in her arms, and Warren with no burden, at Kitty's insistence. He looks terrible, worse even than he was when they stopped for the break. He's not just hunched over his injured arm, anymore - he's hunched over, period. Every step seems to be agonising, his movements jerky and awkward, feet catching on the most minor of obstacles. Sweat runs down over white, white skin, and the harshness of his breathing is stark in the quiet. She thinks that surely this is far too much for a minor gunshot wound... and then she thinks that maybe this is what it's like, that this is reality.
Worst of all, though, he looks terrified, although he's obviously trying not to show it. It's something she's never seen on him before, and she doesn't like it one bit.
She waits a moment for him to catch his breath, and he avoids eye contact.
'Warren....'
'I'm fine, all right?'
He starts off again, that horrible, dragging step, and as he pulls ahead, she sees what she's been missing. A slow, spreading bloodstain across the back of his shirt.
'What the hell is that?' Probably not the most reassuring thing she could've said, but she thinks that she's got a pretty good excuse for being a tad frazzled. She passes Theresa off to Doug, and tells him to make sure everyone goes on ahead.
'You sure?'
'Yeah, yeah. We'll just be a few minutes.' He gives her a dubious look, and she huffs impatiently, trying not to lose her temper. 'Look, we're pretty much out of the woods now - so to speak - and this is important. I don't want to worry the little kids, okay?'
'What about the rest of us?' he mutters, but he dutifully jogs off to catch up with the rest of the group, Theresa in his arms.
She turns back to Warren, who's still studying the ground in front of him.
'Now. You. What's going on?'
His head snaps up, and he glares at her. 'How the hell should I know?'
'Well, will you at least let me take a look?'
He sighs. 'Do I have a choice?'
'Of course not. Now, turn around.'
She lifts the back of his shirt up gingerly, and can't stifle a gasp at what she sees. Most of his upper back is grotesquely swollen and bruised, like something out of a bad sci-fi film; thin rivulets of blood seep from cracks in the purpled skin. Even in the dark, it's bad enough that she can't quite force the horror down.
She replaces the shirt with exaggerated care, and moves around to face him. Lowers her voice to something a little kinder.
'Why didn't you want me to see?'
He tries to brush her off and walk ahead, but she blocks his path.
'I'm fine. We've got bigger things to worry about.'
'You stupid - goddamned - argh!' She stifles the urge to start screaming at the top of her lungs and poking him in the chest; in their current situation, either would probably be highly counterproductive. 'What we're worried about here, mister, is making sure that everyone gets back alive and healthy. And you're going to be neither of these things if you don't just let someone look after you for a moment, you stupid jackass!'
A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, winning the brief battle against his sour expression. 'You know, I hate it when you make sense.'
'Well, get used to it.' She smiles back, and indicates that he should lean on her with his good arm. 'But I'm not carrying you.'
'Damn.'
By the time they catch up to the others, the sky is starting to show the first vague promise of morning, and the woods have thinned out into semi-suburbia. Piotr and the kids are resting at the edge of the forest, a little way back from the houses. Piotr comes up to meet them. He looks about ten years older than he did yesterday.
'I was starting to worry.'
'Sorry.' Kitty eases Warren down onto the ground, where he slumps over onto his stomach. She gives the kids a few brief reassurances - Warren's fine, he's just a little injured, they'll all be safe soon - and moves off to one side for a whispered conversation with Piotr, who eyes Warren with some worry.
'We have to find somewhere to stay. The kids are exhausted and thirsty, and we risk being spotted.' He runs a hand through his dirty hair in frustration. 'I wish the Professor had a safehouse of some kind set up.'
For once, her mutation might come in handy for people other than herself in a real-life situation. About time. 'I think I can handle this. What say I call in on our friendly neighbours here in Salem Center?'
'You know, that's the best idea I've heard all day.'
She looks over to Warren, who looks dead to the world. She doesn't want to leave him. She wants to know that he'll still be here when she gets back. She wants to wake up from this.
Piotr has an annoying knack for mind-reading; sometimes, she wonders if he's got an extra power that he hasn't told anyone about. 'The sooner you leave, the sooner you get back.'
She nods, and fidgets nervously, swallowing hard. She can do this. Compared to escaping from an entire freaking team of military mutant-hunters, this should be a piece of cake. All she has to do is leave Warren behind. That's all.
Easy.
She looks at him one last time - gaunt, bloody, and horrific in the morning light - and tells herself that he's the reason she has to leave. Staying just means that she'll be making it worse.
When she finally manages to look away, she runs as fast as she can, and doesn't look back.
*
She trots down the deserted street, trying to look inconspicuous and natural in her pyjamas. If not for her bare feet, she could almost pass herself off for an early-morning jogger. That, and the dirt and dried blood smeared over her skin.
The sky is rapidly lightening, predawn pale, and she steps up her pace. Checks the garages for cars, sticks her head into bedrooms. Tries to decide which lame cover story is least likely to get her arrested, should she be caught.
She gives a wide berth to houses where known mutant-haters live. Anyone who's been at Xavier's for more than a month knows where the worst of them are, and there are some sidestreets she avoids altogether.
Time starts to regain some sort of meaning as the sun peeks over the edge of the horizon, and she knows she must've been doing this for at least twenty minutes. Far too long... but it seems like all of Salem Centre has decided to stay in for the night.
She's starting to get truly worried - only the fact that it's the weekend is keeping her undiscovered - when she finally stumbles across a possible prospect. One car in the garage, curtains closed tight, and a small, precarious mountain of unopened mail inside the front door. She rings the doorbell several times; no response. Stepping fully inside the house, she takes the grand tour, phased-out, ready to bolt at any moment.
Nothing. Probably on vacation.
She discovers the alarm system before the alarm system discovers her, and kills it. Permanently. She hates damaging property, but they really don't have a choice.
She hurries back to the others with only a perfunctory attempt at nonchalance, muttering the address under her breath over and over and over again. She knows the area, would normally be able to find her way back in her sleep, but she's not taking any chances.
Pete greets her with as much relief as she's ever seen on anyone. 'Kitty! Did you find anything?'
'791 Keller Road. 791 Keller Road.'
'What?'
'791 Keller Road.'
He smiles. 'Okay, got it. You can stop saying it now.'
She forces her mind to stop replaying that damned address, and kneels down to check on Warren.
Not good. Not good at all.
She can't quite keep the worry from her face, and she knows he sees. The fact that he doesn't say anything to reassure her only deepens her fears.
Piotr bends down, and, with infinite care, lifts Warren up into his arms. Warren cries out, and Kitty does her best to distract and organise the other kids. She's not all that successful; certainly, she fails utterly in her attempt to distract herself.
She bites down on her lip. Hard.
*
The house is still empty when they get there - she'd been convinced that the owners would return in the short time she was gone - and, if anyone spotted them on their short trek from the woods, they don't seem to have deemed them dangerous enough to warrant any kind of intervention.
She steps inside, and then pulls the others through, praying and keeping fingers crossed that no-one's looking. The house is explored quickly, but more thoroughly than before.
The older kids seem to find their voices again - quiet, hesitant, but they're talking. A whispered debate rages over where, exactly, they should hide. Most of them want either the basement or the attic, their desperate fear of being found overriding the need for multiple escape routes. In the end, Piotr simply pulls rank, telling them that they're staying in the main part of the house... and then softens the blow by saying that the house has beds and bathrooms and couches, which seems to placate them.
Kitty tries to glare at him, but can't quite muster it up. She wants to leave as little evidence of their presence here as possible; she knows that Professor Xavier is going to have his work cut out for him as it is. Everyone here is filthy, caked in sweat, dirt, and blood. They all reek. She doesn't want the kids climbing all over the furniture.
But really, what choice is there? Everyone's exhausted, and they've got to sleep somewhere.
She turns on the heater - just for awhile, just until they've warmed up a little - and searches the cupboards for towels and sheets that she can sacrifice. As much as she wants to grab the old ones, she goes for the newest. There's more of a chance that they can be replaced without the owners noticing.
She wanders through the house in search of Piotr, a gaggle of kids trailing after her. She locates him in the master bedroom, where he's just about to ease a more-or-less unconscious Warren onto the bed; she ducks in and spreads the towels out over the base sheet first, in an attempt to spare the mattress.
She shoos the kids out, telling them to drink a small amount of water and go to the bathroom, and instructing the older children to check everyone for frostbite and injuries. Once they’re gone, Piotr quickly shreds a new sheet, and the two of them clean and re-bandage Warren's arm as best they can. Thank God for Mister Summers' insistence on first aid training.
There’s only so much they can do before they have to face the inevitable. They share an apprehensive look, and then, with painful slowness, try to peel the shirt back.
'God.'
It's... bad. The bleeding, however, is actually quite minimal; they decide not to bandage the wound, as it would probably do more harm than good, and settle for just washing off the worst of the dried blood and pus. She's not sure, but it looks like he's actually gained some muscle in his upper body; certainly, the rest of him looks like it's wasting away.
Piotr looks twitchy and nervous, and it takes her a few moments to work out that he wants to organise some defences for the house. At the moment, they're completely vulnerable.
He's also in desperate need of sleep, but she knows he'll never admit it.
Her voice is gentle. 'Hey. Why don't you go guard the front?'
'Are you sure...?'
'I've got it covered here. I can get some of the older kids to keep watch out the back and keep an eye on the kids, and I can look after Warren.'
He nods, looking almost pathetically grateful. 'Thanks.'
She wishes she knew what it is that drives him, his devotion, his protectiveness. Every time she's ever asked about his life before Xavier's, he's always changed the subject so smoothly that she never even realises he's done it until hours later. All she knows is that he has a sister. Had. Maybe. She can't tell.
She grabs his hand for a moment. 'Take care, okay?'
'I will.'
His leaving the room must act as a signal for the other kids to come back in, because they pile onto the floor next to her. Ali informs her that they all seem to be more or less okay, health-wise. Kitty makes sure that the worst of Warren's... injuries... are covered, and sits carefully on the bed.
'Hey, guys - there are at least two other bedrooms. You don't have to sleep on the floor.'
But they're not going anywhere, it seems, and she can't really blame them.
'At least go grab some blankets off the other beds, okay?' She sends Ali off to get blankets and pillows, and when she gets back, asks her if she could take one of the other kids, and keep watch for a little while. The girl agrees without hesitation.
The kids pile up on the floor, the younger ones huddled around the older - next to them, on top of them, over them, arms around waists, legs, anything they can touch. Ali tries to drape the blankets over all of them without running the risk of smothering anyone. The end result looks like a tired, lumpy marshmallow.
They're all asleep within two minutes.
Doug spreads another blanket as best he can over Warren, and one over Kitty's legs, before leaving with Ali. Kitty wonders if it's even worth it - she can barely feel the blanket's texture through her frozen feet, and the rest of her is shivering like mad, ice-boned. She'd almost forgotten that she was cold, but she's certainly noticing it now. The thin quilt seems feeble at best, and she curses the house's owner for being the only person in Salem Center who doesn't own an electric blanket. She curls and uncurls her toes, trying to work some feeling back into them, and considers the options. Maybe she could sneak out for just a minute, go grab a bucket of warm water to stick her feet in -
Warren wakes a little and shifts position, slowly, painfully, until his body is more comfortably arranged, and his head rests against her leg.
'Warren... are you sure you don't want your head on the pillow? It'd be more comfortable.'
He grunts, and falls back asleep. She sighs.
She stares at the Van Gogh reproduction on the wall. Her mind whirls at a hundred miles an hour, and yet processes nothing at all.
*
Some of the children are awake, and they keep a respectful distance, trying to simultaneously be supportive, understanding, unobtrusive, and fearless.
It's the last one that's giving them the most trouble, she can tell. Manifestations rarely run smoothly, and this one has them good and scared. For Warren. For themselves.
Kitty can remember when she first arrived at Xavier's. At that time, the most terrifying story was that of Mister Summers, who had disintegrated a wall with his force blasts and injured several people, before being forced into two years of blindness.
That had been it. The worst, most horrific possibility.
Then Rogue had come along. Boyfriend in a coma, death to those she touches.
Just after that - Jessie, who had accidentally killed half his town, and only avoided capture by the military through a combination of Doctor McCoy's scientific know-how and a whole lot of psychic interference from the Professor. Hundreds dead, and while the papers said it was due to a chemical leak, the students here know the truth. They don't judge Jessie for it, but they still fear what he represents, especially those who haven't yet come into their powers. It's made it to the point where the younger kids are absolutely petrified of what harm they could do.
And she sees that now, looking around the room. Most of the kids here know Warren pretty well - he's been at the Mansion forever, it seems. But friendship can't completely override instinctual reactions, and some of the little kids stare at him with big, round eyes, their thoughts clear as day on their faces.
That could be me.
Or, in the case of the older kids, could've been. Herself included. She'll never, ever again wish that she'd got different powers, "better" powers. She's never realised just how damned lucky she is.
She wonders if Jessie even made it out of his isolation chamber.
Lorna is watching her from the corner, the most amazing trust in her eyes. Like she's some sort of superhero. Like she's one of the X-Men. She wants to tell Lorna that she doesn't deserve it. That she's just done what anyone else would do. Less than she could have done.
A strangled, breathless noise catches her attention - Warren's awake again. She shifts carefully to grab his glass of water from next to the bed, but obviously not carefully enough; he cries out, and she freezes in position, hand poised over the glass.
'Don't. Just... don't move.'
She painstakingly lowers her hand back down. 'Look, why don't you just put your head back on the pillow? I'm going to have to get up eventually, and I don't want to risk your being disturbed.'
'Too late for that.'
'Very funny.' She holds onto the weak humour, treasures it; it could be the last good memory she'll have.
It seems to break the tension a little, though - reassures the kids that Warren is still Warren. That jokes - however bad - are still possible, along with being warm, and not being on the verge of passing out. There are a few snickers from around the room, and a couple of the kids move a little closer to the bed, as close to Warren as they dare.
She gets the impression that, for some of them, they finally feel like they share common ground with him. This is something they are familiar with, that they can deal with; midnight raids with helicopters and soldiers and guns are the stuff of movies, but the pain and fear of manifestation is something that many of them know all too well. It cuts without prejudice through race, religion, wealth. And the loneliness is the worst part.
The kids start talking to him, voices kept low more for his sake than fear of attracting attention. Stupid jokes, anecdotes, sports chat; anything and everything, except for the obvious. And maybe it helps. She thinks it does.
Sometimes she joins in, adding her own jokes when he's doing relatively okay. And when he's not, she strokes his hair, and lets him hold on for dear life.
She's never felt so helpless in her life.
*
'You tell him that if he doesn't go to sleep - and somewhere where I can see it - I'll start yelling out that we're a bunch of wanted mutants hiding in a stranger's house.'
Doug runs off to the front living room, carrying the latest salvo in Kitty and Piotr's small battle of wills. He's back after only a minute; unsurprisingly, the message he brings is essentially the same as all those that've come before.
'Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin, do not make me hurt you!'
Her voice isn't all that loud - she doesn't actually want to endanger everyone, after all, and Warren is still dozing - but it's the loudest thing any of them have said since last night, and it sounds deafening by comparison.
Heavy footsteps come pounding down the corridor only a second later, and Piotr almost crashes into the doorframe in his haste. She smiles triumphantly. 'You should know better than to do battle with me, Petey.'
'Don't remind me.' He scrubs at his eyes. 'At least let me get someone else to watch the front.'
'Sure.' She's certain that they're out of danger, but having a guard out front still lets her feel a little safer. Besides, whoever lives here could come back at any moment.
Watery late afternoon sunlight spills through the windows. She tries to quell the urge to get up and stretch. On the occasions when Warren has woken up, he's refused to move - and she can't say she blames him - which means that she's been in the same position for at least ten hours, now. Really should've gone to the bathroom before she sat down. She glares at the glass of water, which the children insist on topping up every time she takes a sip. Damn it.
Still, if having her bladder explode is the price of keeping Warren as comfortable as possible, she's willing to pay it.
Piotr stumbles back into the room, and practically collapses onto a chair one of the kids dragged up next to the bed a few hours back. Kitty is certain that if he didn't have the back of the chair to lean against, he'd slide right onto the floor in a giant puddle.
'Hey. Why don't you take one of the other rooms? There are plenty of places to sleep.'
He smiles ruefully, leaning his head back against the wall. 'Nah. The beds are all too short.' His eyes dart about, from door to window to children and back again; his position gives him an excellent view of all entry points to the room. Of course he's here simply because he can't fit into the beds. Of course it's more comfortable to sleep in a chair. She decides that it’s best not to comment, and Piotr changes the subject for her.
'How's he doing?'
She sighs. 'Worse, if that's even possible. I honestly don't know what else I can do.'
She doesn't say that she thinks he's going to die; some of the children are awake, and she doesn't want to make things any more difficult for them. Piotr has eyes. She knows he can see how bad the situation is.
Piotr shuffles a little closer and tries to catch her gaze, but she refuses to meet his eyes. 'Hey, come on. You've done all that could be asked of anyone. I don’t think that even a doctor would know what to do right now.'
She can't help it - she starts to sniffle, and it's all she can do to keep it from turning into full-blown sobbing. Her nose is running everywhere. Great, that's typical, that's just typical, oh God, Warren's going to die -
Her vision is so blurred that she doesn't notice the fistful of Kleenex in front of her face, hovering there a little uncertainly for a moment before it starts wiping tears from her cheeks. After a moment, she takes the tissues and dries her eyes, bringing a concerned Piotr-face into focus. She smiles shakily, and quickly starts trying to clean herself up.
'Thanks.' It's little more than an embarrassing croak, but it seems to be enough to convince Piotr that she's not in imminent danger of complete meltdown. Pity she can't be so sure of that, herself; if she starts crying again, she'll probably never stop, and she simply can't afford that right now. She silently repeats her mantra: don't freak out the children don't freak out the children don't freak out the children....
Piotr shifts back to his original position, conveniently out of her direct line of sight. Kitty sniffs, takes a few shuddery breaths, and tries to shift her weight ever so slightly. She can't help it, she has to - her butt went numb hours ago. But even that small movement is enough to make Warren cry out, and she immediately settles back to where she was, whispering apologies to Warren all the while. It seems to be about all she can say to him, anymore; even "it's okay" has worn thin, a trite and blatantly false statement if ever there were one. Never has anything been this far from okay.
Silence settles over them, apart from her occasional hiccups and Warren's moans. A glance at Piotr reveals that he is making no attempt to sleep. Or maybe he is, but is just too scared of what appears whenever he closes his eyes. Kitty knows the feeling. Whenever she starts to doze off, she sees things. Soldiers. Guns. Helicopters. Unconscious children. Warren, utterly still.
She sees herself. Running. Over and over and over again. Just her and her silent footsteps.
'You know, I really haven't.'
Piotr's head jerks up. Maybe he was closer to sleep than she thought. 'Wuh?'
'I haven't. Done all that could be asked of anyone.' She laughs, only a little hysterical, and shakes her head.
He sits up a little straighter, waking up properly. 'What do you mean?'
'I didn't help them. Anyone. I was one of the first to wake up, and do you think I did anything to wake anyone else? To help any of the other kids?'
Piotr has this look of pure sympathy and understanding on his face. It's driving her nuts.
'Kitty, we all ran. It's called self-preservation. Everyone does it - '
'For crying out loud, Petey - self-preservation is irrelevant, when you're me! They couldn't touch me. Their darts couldn't touch me. I could've woken everyone. I could've phased other kids to safer parts of the mansion. I could've disabled their freakin' helicopters!' It's all she can do to keep her voice down, to stay still. She wants to scream. She wants to get up off this damn bed and punch stupid compassionate Piotr in his stupid compassionate face. And she really wants him to get his stupid compassionate hand off her shoulder.
But all she can do is cry - it suddenly seems like the only thing she can do, anymore - great racking sobs and gasps, and Piotr carefully slides his arm around her. She thinks he says things like "it's not your fault", and God, she wants to believe him so much, so much, oh God, she just wants her mom and dad, she just wants to go home....
*
Piotr is hauling rocks - huge, impossible rocks. Organic steel weeps red, red blood, and he stutters, stumbles, falls....
~Ghddghkhy!~
Miss Munroe is shackled, bruised. Locked away from the heavens. The guards are coming....
~Kghhkfdy!~
Mister Summers stares unseeingly at her with empty eyes. Still red.
~Kgtddy!~
A man raises a scalpel; her eyes track it down, down, through the air, through Warren. He pokes around in the bright gory mess, pulling absently at stuff that should be in. She tries to tackle the man, but she slips right through; tries to scream, and makes not even a whisper.
The man cuts again. Again. He seems quite fascinated, in a bored sort of way -
~Kitty!~
She jerks awake, taking a good long while to blink away the afterimages. When she eventually works out the what and how and why of her situation, she wishes she'd never woken up in the first place. At least the dreams weren't real.
Yet.
It's dark outside, leaves hissing in the breeze; dim light leaks in from the hallway. The ever-present tang of old sweat is stronger, now, with an undertone of blood.
Piotr still has a protective arm around her, even in sleep. One of Warren's hands is clasped tightly within one of her own; she relaxes her grip, and Warren's hand is limp. Frantically, she checks for a pulse. A faint beat registers under her fingertips after the longest couple of seconds of her life, and she starts breathing again.
~KITTY!~
She almost jumps out of her skin, having completely forgotten about the voice that woke her up in the first place. Piotr grumbles, and shifts a little in his sleep.
Warren doesn't move at all.
~Kitty! Come on, please let me know you're okay....~
~Betsy! I'm... I'm.... Where are you?~
~Just a block or so away. We're on our way over right now.~
~'We'? Who else is there? Oh, you don't know how glad I am to hear your voice....~
~Me, Sam, and Jean-Paul. I got through to Emma - that girl really doesn't go anywhere without her cell - and she says that the mansion's deserted, no mental signatures to be found. She's there right now with some of the other kids - has been since this morning. Apparently, it all checks out, safe to return. We're busy trying to round up all the students we can find, let them know what's going on.~
Kitty tunes out a little after Betsy rattles off a list of students confirmed safe. She doesn't bother saying much, other than that most of the kids are okay, and that Warren is "unwell" - Betsy and the others will be here any minute, and showing is easier than telling. How on earth could she even begin to explain?
She turns her head slightly, trying to get a look at Piotr. She should wake him, give him the good news. But he looks so peaceful, happily drooling away on her shoulder, and she can't bear to be the one to shatter that peace. He'll wake up soon enough.
The kids asleep on the floor now are different from the kids who were there earlier. Apparently, they're better at organising workshifts than she would normally give them credit for. She calls out softly, until one of them wakes up.
'Paige, could you go tell whoever's guarding the front that Betsy, Sam, and Jean-Paul will be here any minute?'
Her eyes light up, and she hurries off to spread the good news, picking her way carefully amongst the sleeping bodies on the floor.
Kitty looks back down at Warren again, just to make sure he hasn't died in the past minute. He's so motionless, the rise and fall of his ribcage so slight that he could pass away and she probably wouldn't even notice. The bleeding has become far worse since she fell asleep, and her pyjamas and the mattress are soaked through. Her legs are cold and sticky, and she doesn't think she'll ever be able to wash off the sensation completely.
There's something sticking through the skin on his back. It looks almost like bone, but not quite. Twenty-four hours ago, she would've been scared out of her wits. Now, she just sees it as another impediment to bandaging. Not that it'll make much difference.
Betsy's still there, practically sobbing in her relief. Kitty can feel the emotional release over the connection, the slow dissipation of pent-up terror.
~We're safe, Kitty. It’s okay. We're safe.~
Kitty repeats it to herself - ostensibly for Warren's benefit, although he's a little past comprehension right now - and runs her fingers gently over his forehead, over his matted hair.
'You hear that, Warren? We're safe. We're going home.'
They're going home. Back to all her friends, and Mister Summers and Doctor Grey and the Professor and everyone else. Back to new plaster and the smell of fresh paint, to a house that'll soon look exactly the same as it did before.
Strange. She thought she'd feel relieved.
end