Puppets

The lab reminded her of something ancient, cold, and foreign—and comical, in an odd sort of way. Copper helixes and ceramic crucibles bubbled over plasma-hot meshes and white flame. But they were so old, like something from B-grade cinema, and one couldn't help but scream, "She's alive!" inside the mind. But she wouldn't say that aloud.  Nothing was dared voiced here, apart from the burning experiments which, every so often, punctuated the silence with the noise of snapping twigs. Strips of burning neon and million-dollar scientific equipment highlighted the walls of the dimly-lit laboratory. A genetic re-sequencer stood side-by-side with glass tubes and Bunsen burners. Electron microscopes shared space with antique Jack-the-Ripper scalpels. Books made of human skin held court with computer disks. It was Frankenstein turned sideways, with old world experimentation meeting technological genius. And as much as she traveled between shadows, she did not like this dark, fathomless tomb. It reminded her too much of the man behind the mechanisms. She used the word "man" lightly, though. Essex wasn't much man anymore. Wasn't much human.

"How soon?" The voice purred like a hungry tiger: Deep, rumbling, deadly.

"Soon," she said, not willing to give him a definite time. He nearly killed her last time she delivered a late shipment.  "They left an hour ago. "

"I see."

The face remained hidden somewhere here, in the half-darkness--Essex didn't show himself if he didn't have to. She waited a full minute for his response. When she continued hearing nothing but the sighs in the lab, she clung to the slick metal banister and began the trek up the stairs, wanting to get to real daylight as quickly as possible.

"One more thing."

She cursed herself for waiting too long. "Yes, Dr. Essex."

"What of the hindrance?"

Her forehead puckered as she ran the words through her mind. Which hindrance did he mean? If she didn’t answer correctly, he would become impatient, and when Essex became impatient, someone died.

Her face softened when she finally understood. "We dealt with him."

"Permanently?"

She shrugged. "Probably not, from what you told us of him. The move would have killed a normal human--not a mutant with enhanced healing capabilities. We were lucky to circumvent his acute senses. I suspect next time we won't have the element of surprise."

"I agree," Essex said. His laughter came out in halted, hissing gasps, merging with the sounds of the experiments. "We could use another with such skills."

"Would he come willingly?"

"Did you?"

Her fingers tightened on the banister. "No. I suppose I didn't."

"But you're a willing participant now."

Damn you, Essex. "Yes. Of course I am."

"Good. That's very good to hear." Another bass sigh. "Bring Gambit to me after you meet him and the other woman at the airport. Take the woman into your confidence, explain the plan. Most likely, she is still hesitant. Make her less so. Gain her trust."

"Very well."

"I can't stress it enough. I will deal with you, if this doesn't go smoothly."

She swallowed, knowing exactly what that meant. "I won't fail you."

"Please don't. I have precious little recumbent DNA as it is. You may go now."

"Thank you," she said, hating the weak words on her lips. She was little more than a plaything to him. They all were. Essex's puppets, one of them had said, before Essex heard him. Before Essex resequenced him for his insolence.

This is the worst part of it, she thought, merging from the tomb into the brightly lit study. The violence she understood. The fighting, the theft, the money, the thrills--well, she liked all of that. She could even tolerate the murder. But not the deception. Not the warping of minds. To turn an innocent into someone like them…But that's what he wanted. He wanted mindless, ravenous, killing servants. And whatever Nathaniel Essex wanted, he got.

*     *     *

Plastic bandages and syringes, hospital metal and antiseptic…dark, cold. Leather. Low voices…Dammit, no!

Logan…Logan, come on, wake up. Logan--!

He jerked up growling, claws unsheathed, and Jean stumbled back.

"Calm down," Scott murmured, putting a strong hand on his shoulder. "It's just us. Easy does it."

The touch helped bring him back to his senses, and the past visions of torture faded uncomfortably to the back of his mind. He sheathed his claws and glanced at his surroundings, seeing the interior of the X-Jet, and white-hot pain suddenly stabbed him between his eyes. "Dammit," he muttered, cradling his head. The mother of all headaches pounded in his temples, but fortunately his healing factor kicked into overdrive to compensate.  Must be what a hangover feels like, he thought.

"Are you all right?"

"No," he grunted. "But I will be."

Logan could smell Cyclops' rage just beneath the calm surface. "What the hell happened?"

He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember. It all came back in a rush and a low growl escaped his throat. "Sabretooth."

"Sabretooth--? Sabretooth was here?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?" He jumped up from his prone position and leaned against the window, fighting a wave of vertigo.

"He's dead. He has to be."

"Well, he sure was doin' a helluva lotta talkin' for a dead man." Logan stumbled again, and Jean moved towards him.

"Take it slow," she said softly, touching his arm. "You're still not up to moving around."

"Like hell I ain't." He headed for the door. "That asshole's going down this time."

"Whoa, wait. Slow down." Scott grabbed his shoulder. Wolverine shook him off,  but paused at the door, listening to what Scott had to say. "Let's start at square one. Jean and I found you at the rendezvous point, curled up in the bushes. There wasn't a mark on you. How the hell did Sabretooth take you down without throwing a punch?"

"Because he had a stinkin' partner," Wolverine growled. Jean pressed a glass of water in his hands and he downed it in one gulp. "Some chick got me from behind. Didn't see her until it was too late."

"Mystique?"

"No. Not Mystique. I know the difference. This one…I dunno. It was strange. There wasn't anything, then her scent just started getting stronger and stronger until – bang – she was all over the place."

"What, you're saying her smell increased?"

"No—hell, I can't explain it. Forget it. I didn't see what happened, but it happened. Okay? I don't know what she did, but it worked."

"And worked well, apparently," Jean said. "When we found you, you were unresponsive, yet awake. Almost as if you were catatonic." She chewed her lip. "I think you were the victim of a telepathic attack."

Both the men glanced up, surprised.

"Could a telepath do that?" Logan asked.

"They could…if they didn't care about ethics."

Wolverine glared at the ground. His features hardened. "All I know is, if 'Ro's in the middle of it, she's in deep shit. Or we are."

Scott's frown matched Logan's. "She's not here now. I searched every inch of that house, and couldn't get any of the locals to say much. According to them, she left of her own free will with someone called, 'The Devil King.' Could that be Sabretooth?"

"No way in hell. This 'Devil King' is some kinda crime boss around here. Overgrown Cat Box ain't got the smarts."

"Fine." Scott sighed heavily, leaned one hand against the side of the plane, and slapped the side of it with his other hand. "Dammit. I knew we should've followed her sooner. Shit."

"We'll find her," Jean said. She squeezed Scott's shoulder before folding her arms, sighing. "If nothing else, we can go back to the mansion and get the professor to search for Sabretooth's mental signature, via Cerebro.  From then on, hopefully, the rest will fall into place."

Scott's lips thinned. Cerebro was hit and miss, sometimes. Truth was, if they couldn't find Sabretooth through it, 'Ro was as good as lost.

*     *     *

Ororo. I know you can hear me. You must come back, now. You're in grave danger—

How is Logan?

…Ah, you answered! Child—

Is Logan all right?

Yes, however—

Good. Thank you.

The words had roused her, so she listened and answered them until she received the information she needed. Then, after a pause, she gently strengthened her mental shields and pushed the voice away. She could hear him trying to contact her, sometimes, in that time between sleeping and awake, when her shields weren't as strong as they could be. The act of shutting them out of her life was becoming less painful. Every day her conscience seared a little more. The idea should have alarmed her, but it didn't, strangely enough. Besides, if they had truly cared, they would have made time for her long ago. Not now, when it suited them.

Her eyes remained closed, but her lips twisted sadly. Was that not the real reason for her running? The absolute truth was remorselessly childish. She was the stable one, the one on which life depended. The rock on whom the children relied. The ear upon which they could lay their secrets, without needing to listen in return. They had taken advantage of her kindness and had given nothing in return. No one expected this of her and, in some small sense, that pleased her. She was not as predictable as they assumed.

Ahh, Ororo, she thought to herself. You let your childish anger take root and you have found a convenient outlet in Remy. That is all.

 She knew this. But she could still not give up her freedom and return to the mansion. It was too late; she would have to see this through to the end. May the goddess forgive her.

"Hey, padnat."

Remy nudged her gently, forcing her to open her eyes. He was the second reason for staying apart from her teammates: Beauty.  Strength. Excitement. Passion. Appreciation and honor. Erotic darkness. Someone who did not take advantage, even when he had ample opportunity. Someone who accepted her for her, not a worshipped icon of perfection and love. Her smile broadened. Now, if only he would stop seeing her as his little sister.

"Remy," Ororo sighed. She stretched in the airplane seat, unaware that they had already landed. She usually hated flying. The overcrowding, the fetid stink of recycled air and the unnatural hum of metal made her cringe and set off her insecurities and claustrophobia. But this trip had been short, and she had a Prince by her side. His presence helped her sleep.

"C'mon, time t'meet our contact."

He was in no-nonsense business mode, and Ororo respected that. It thrilled her, actually. He stretched above her, grabbing their luggage from the overhead bin in one hand and reaching for her with the other.

"Ma'amselle--?"

"Why, thank you," Ororo said, taking his hand.

"Anyt'ing for a lady."

"Flatterer."

"Always, chere."

As they exited the plane, her superior X-Men training placed her senses on high alert. She did not know who would meet them, and neither did Remy. "Don't be too alarmed, chere," he'd told her. "It's just business." She hadn't known what his cryptic words meant, but his face was strained when he said it. He had been visibly tense and pale the entire trip from Louisiana to D.C., and Ororo watched as he slipped two blue pills in his mouth. She didn't ask him about the drugs, but hoped it was nothing serious. At least he relaxed after taking them.

And now, as she traveled the catwalk, she observed her surroundings with a predator's eye. Someone here made Remy uncomfortable, and the situation could be deadly. Electricity hummed through her and she enjoyed the sensual crackle throughout her body. It tickled her, aching for release, but she would control it until the proper time. Or, she thought with a small smirk, if this person gets on my nerves.

"Dere," Remy whispered over her shoulder. "To your left. Leggy femme in the purple duster an' ivory jeans."

The woman would have stood out in a dimly lit nightclub. Ororo raised her eyebrow--apparently tact wasn't in her repertoire. The Asian woman was slightly taller than Ororo, with a bigger, more athletic build, but her hair. It was violet. And an eye tattoo--? Honestly. Some of the teens she taught didn't have such blatant adornments. At least I wouldn't have to worry about losing her in a crowd.

The woman cautiously caught Remy's eye and waited until they passed before falling in step with them. To Ororo's surprise, she linked her elbow in hers and quickened their pace to the baggage claim area.

"I'm Elizabeth Braddock--Betsy," she said in a surprising British alto. "Good to meet you, Ororo."

"Likewise," Ororo said, although it was a bald-faced lie. She glanced at Remy but he had fallen silent. "You will have to enlighten me on our situation, Elizabeth."

Betsy smiled, suddenly. It was both sad and raptorial. "Please call me Betsy. 'Elizabeth' is so formal, and I hate it. But not here, Ororo. Soon."

"I understand."

"Tell me about your flight. Did Remy give you any trouble?"

Remy snorted at this, ignoring Betsy's gentle barb, and the cold look on his face told Ororo that he and Betsy didn't much get along. 

"Uneventful, which is fortunate. I'm not fond of commercial flying."

"Indeed," Betsy said. She turned her face to Remy, and her eyes sparkled darkly. "As long as it was uneventful."

Ororo heard a stifled growl in the back of Remy's throat, but didn't push the issue. She would uncover their history later. But right now she needed to know more about her friend's enemies. She would discover this Betsy's weakness, and use it to her advantage. Soon, Betsy would tell her all she needed to know about Nathaniel Essex, and this game of cat and mouse would end.

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