PREVIOUS PAGE – NEXT PAGE
TEASER | ACT I | ACT II | ACT III | ACT IV | TAG
1X11 – Pinnacle – Act IV
Logan was running across rooftops, pausing to sniff the air like the bloodhound he was.
Taking off again he jumped across an alley and kept going, he could smell it now, that whiff of Brimstone.
Pausing at the edge of a building, Logan scanned the windows of the next one over. It was a rather ornate looking building with small wrought iron balconies from a time when this would have been the tallest building in the area at six stories high.
Pulling out his phone, he dialed his friend.
“Danvers,” she said as she answered.
“Found him,” Logan said, “well, his hotel room at least.”
“Has he gone for good?” she asked him.
“No, his stuff is still there,” he could spy through the window a luggage bag still sitting on the rack.
“It’s getting late,” Carol pointed out, “maybe he’s gone to dinner?”
“Or maybe he’s in another country right now,” Logan grimaced.
“Let’s be optimistic,” she replied wryly, “I know it’s a stretch.”
All Logan did was lightly growl at that prospect.
…
A van drove down a dark road and pulled up to an abandoned warehouse, flashing its lights twice.
One of the metal doors creaked open and the van drove through carefully.
Standing off to the side, a man waved the van through to stop just shy of a makeshift sitting area where a card table was set up and two men were sitting. There was also two hospital gurneys with a man and woman laid out on them, strapped down, unconscious.
“Where’s Frank?” the man asked as soon as he saw it wasn’t the usual driver but instead the large frame of Avalanche.
“Had a thing,” Dom replied easily, “said he’d give me thirty percent if I did this for him.”
“Out of the van,” the guy said, pulling a gun from behind his back as the others stood, also going for their weapons.
“Frankie said you might freak,” he tried to act completely disinterested as he popped the door and stepped out.
“Check the back,” the leader said to the guys but kept his eyes on Dom, “why didn’t he call ahead?”
“Said he didn’t have your number,” Dom shrugged, “said that’s how these things work.”
The man grimaced slightly as Dom called his bluff.
“It’s clean,” one of the men said after opening the back of the van and finding nothing there.
“How much did Frank tell you?” the leader asked him.
“Just that I was to pick up some cargo and take it to some placed I’m not supposed to tell you,” Dom remembered everything Rogue had told him about the set up, “and not to ask questions if I knew what was good for me.”
After considering this, the man kept his gun raised, “I don’t think I trust you.”
“I get that a lot,” he replied dryly.
There was a whip of silver light and suddenly the guns were taken from the men’s hands.
“Muties!” the leader shouted and back peddled.
Dom stomped the ground letting out a small localized earthquake which sent them off balance. Then they were all knocked to the floor by the same streak of light that disarmed them.
Rogue came running in at a dead sprint, “Which one’s the leader?”
“That one,” Dom pointed to the one who was furthest away.
Her gloves were already off and she quickly closed the distance between them. She leaned down to grab him to absorb the man but he pulled out a knife and slashed at Rogue.
“Sugah, you done pissed me off by existing,” she said as he stood and brandished the knife at her, “don’t make this worse.”
“Unholy mutant scum,” he snarled.
“He made it worse,” Pyro said as he came up next to Dom who was grabbing one of the men who wasn’t as quick to recover.
The leader slashed at Rogue twice but she dodged them easily by leaning back. He over extended and she ducked in, batting his arm away and using the rotation to throw an elbow across his chest. With a gasp of air he stumbled back but Rogue grabbed him by the throat with her bare hand. Within seconds her mutation kicked in and his body went slack as he passed out.
“Get what we needed?” Quicksilver asked as his sister went to check on the two captured mutants while Dom and Pyro took care of the other men.
“Yeah,” she blinked a few times, not focusing on anything, “and none of its good.”
…
Carol and Ororo dropped down into an alley behind a fancy resturant, both checking to make sure they hadn’t been seen flying.
“Logan,” Carol said as she spotted him detach from the shadows.
“You were right,” he gave a little grimace, “he’s in there, private dining room in the back.”
“See, a little optimism works,” she smirked at him.
Logan refused to dignify that, “How do you want to do this?”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I have a plan.”
…
“I’m sorry it’s so late,” Hank fixed his glasses on his nose, “but I’ve finally had time to look over your scans.”
Jean was standing off to the side in the lab as Hank spoke to Scott, showing him the scans up on the light board.
“As you suspected,” Hank continued, “there doesn’t seem to be any changes in how your brain processes light.”
Scott glanced over at her as if to say ‘I told you so’ but he was polite enough not to say it out loud.
“You remember a few years back there was movement here,” he pointed to a colored area over a dark area at the back of his brain, “where your occipital lobe had a flare of activity.”
“That was a growth in my mutation,” he pointed out, “when I gained better control of the intensity of the beam, but still can’t dial it down to zero.”
“Yes,” Hank nodded, “but there is no reason to believe that there won’t be another flare which could result in this part of the lobe taking over the job of the area which died.”
“I’m twenty-five years old,” Scott frowned, “I’m well past my growth spurts.”
“Under normal circumstances I might agree,” the doctor rubbed his chin, “but mutations have been known to crop up as late as the thirties.”
“Secondary mutations,” Scott argued, “not primary. So at best I might suddenly be able to compress both the red and blue spectrum.”
“More likely the yellow,” Jean added and then realized that wasn’t helping.
“With brain injury,” Hank was not to be deterred, “one might never know how or when changes might occur. Are you still doing those visual exercises?”
“Yeah,” the man replied, “when I can.”
“Well then,” Hank smiled, “just have faith my boy, I’m sure this will work itself out in its own time.”
“Maybe it will, thanks, Hank,” Scott said cordially and took his leave, heading out of the lab.
“Excuse me,” Jean told the doctor then caught up with Scott out in the entry hall of the medical ward.
“You lied to him,” she flat out accused him when she stopped him.
“I what?” he played off.
“When you said you were doing the exercises,” she tried not to raise her voice, “you lied to him.”
“I thought you didn’t peak,” he shot back, more as deflection than anger.
“I know you well enough Scott I don’t have to,” she confessed, “so why aren’t you doing the exercises?”
His jaw tightened and he seemed like was going to argue with her but gave in, “What’s the point? There have been no changes for years. This,” he pointed to his glasses, “this is how it’s gonna be.”
“How can you say that?” she didn’t stop the look of disbelief on her face. “How can you say that and look at these kids and tell them that they will be okay, that they’ll get control and things will work out when you’ve given up yourself?”
“They don’t have brain damage,” he bit back. “There is something wrong with me.”
“I refuse to believe that,” she shook her head, “there is nothing wrong with you, with everyone at this school , with anyone who has a disability, just, anyone.”
“And that belief is a beautiful thing,” he told her sadly, “and I won’t try to tell you differently. But I’ve accepted that this is who I am, this is how it’s going to be, and I’m not going to spend my life chasing after false hope when I should be helping others who truly have a chance, and protecting them from a world that doesn’t understand like we do.”
Jean shook her head lightly, “That’s no way to live.”
“It’s my life,” he shrugged, then turned and walked away. This time she didn’t stop him though she very much felt the desire to grab him by the collar and scream at him.
…
“I’m getting a highly probably chance of a physical recovery,” Wanda was looking over the two mutants who were out cold.
“That’s something at least,” Quicksilver said as he stood to the side.
“They used heavy tranqs on them,” Rogue walked up to the twins.
Quicksilver looked back to where all three of the kidnappers were passed out thanks to Rogue’s touch, “Find out who they’re working for?”
“No,” she shook her head, “they’re your basic human trafficking scum of the Earth types, but when they run across mutants they know they can get top dollar for them,” she involuntarily shivered, “they call a number, burner probably but I gave it to Pyro, and they get a drop off location.”
“And you said O’Reilly gets a call, a pick up and drop off,” Quicksilver continued the chain of thought, “which keeps the traffickers away from Worthington Enterprises and since O’Reilly doesn’t know who he’s working for either, everyone is in the dark.”
“Compartmentalize,” Wanda said, “that’s how they’re keeping this quiet. For all we know using the Worthington Enterprises distribution centers could be another red herring.”
“It’s possible,” Rogue chewed her lip as she thought it over, “but someone there has to know that something illegal is being moved.”
“There could be a hundred rungs in this ladder,” the woman frowned, “and we’re at the ground floor.”
“This likely isn’t the only team as well,” Quicksilver looked back at the unconscious men, “we know O’Reilly isn’t the only driver. Stopping these men won’t even slow down the chain of supply.”
“No, it won’t,” Wanda said thoughtfully.
…
Ororo used her considerable skills of the not-quite-legal kind to get through the back entrance of the restaurant and make her way through the service areas towards the dining hall. Set off to the side was a hallway to the private areas.
Without a sound she opened one of the doors and slipped inside a private dining room, ending up in the small entry hall where guests could put their coats and a small buffet held utensils and the like. The dividing wall was made of honeycombed slats that offered a somewhat obstructed view and the woman kept to the shadows.
“Is that the Oncoming Storm,” a deep baritone of a voice called almost mockingly from the dining area.
Refusing to frown, Ororo stepped into the room proper. There was a large table for six in the middle but only one individual sat with his back to the wall, perfect view of the door.
“Azazel,” she spoke the man’s name aloud, taking in his devil like appearance of red skin, jet black hair, pointed features, and yellowed eyes, “don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“I’m sure you’d remember,” he grinned which showed off his stark white yet pointy teeth, “I’d surely remember you. Ororo Munroe, the Weather Witch,” he chuckled likely, “Nairobi 1998, Sudan 2003, and now you’re a… a school teacher?”
“Headmistress actually,” she said dryly and walked part way around the table to set down in one of the chairs, grabbing the wine bottle sitting next to his plate of ultra rare steak smothered in a burgundy mushroom sauce.
“My mistake,” his grin and posture was that of a predator’s and did nothing to instill fear in the woman as she poured herself a drink, “now, tell me, what could bring a Goddess to keep company with the Devil?”
“You have information I need,” she offered up her glass in a casual toast.
“Would this have anything to do with your blond friend of yours?” he picked up his glass and Ororo tried to keep her face neutral, “Quite too pretty to be a waitress, but with a gait that speaks of military training,” he twirled the glass of red wine in his hand, “whatever she put in the wine, I assure you, I haven’t touched it.”
“Good,” Ororo smiled and took a fairly large sip out of her own glass, “because she put in the sauce.”
Azazel’s grin went instantly into a thin line and he looked down at the nearly finished meal in front of him.
“There’s enough belladonna in there to put a normal person down,” Ororo continued easily, “but I’ve been told your metabolism burns so fast I’m sure you’ll be free of any ill effects in, oh, thirty minutes or so.”
“I can recover well away from here,” he pointed out with a non-to-happy grin.
“You could, but you won’t,” she sat her glass down, “because belladonna can cause disorientation, and while the effects for you may be slight, for a teleporter, slight can be very unseemly.”
“I could walk out of here,” Azazel countered, “straight through you if I have to.”
Ororo let out a little laugh, “Do you really want to go there, a battle of Angels and Demons?”
“I see no Angels here,” Azazel replied evenly, then picked up his wine glass again, “but I see no reason why to let a good Pinot Noir go to waste,” he took a sip, “you want to talk, let’s talk.”
…
Scott was in his room, working on the last of the semester finale exams, when there was a knock on the door.
“Coming,” he called out and when he opened the door Jean was standing there.
“We need to talk,” she told him simply.
“If this is about the exercises,” he started to say but she shook her head.
“No, it’s…” she faltered, then her eyes flitted around and it was like she suddenly had an idea.
Without a word she stepped through the threshold and grabbed the wrist of his free hand. Not breaking stride she hauled him towards the door of his bathroom which opened before she even got there.
“Jean?” he did nothing to stop her but he really wasn’t sure what was going on.
She pushed him inside the bathroom and shut the door behind them, flicking the switches that changed the lights from normal to red. Turning towards him, Jean pointed to his glasses, “Take them off.”
“Jean,” he shook his head, confused.
“Take them off,” she said more forcefully, “and look at me.”
Deciding it was better not to argue, he took of his red shades, looking down and to the left first just in case this time the light didn’t work the way it was designed to. When he was sure everything was okay, he looked back up at Jean who seemed to be somewhere between sad and angry at him.
“Listen, I get it,” she said, “you have this thing that you can’t control, for now, and you blame yourself for what happened on that plane.”
“I know it wasn’t my fault,” Scott resisted the urge to add ‘not entirely’.
“Don’t lie to me, Scott,” the woman was definitely angry, “lie to the Professor, Bobby, hell everyone, I don’t care, but don’t lie to me.”
Scott tightened his jaw, “You think I want to believe I caused the death of my family, you think I’d willingly accept that?”
“I think grief is a powerful thing,” her words were melancholy, “makes us capable of so much, not all of it healthy.”
“You think I’m still grieving?” he asked her, still unsure what this as all about and trying to focus on anything but the truth.
“No,” the woman stepped forward, reaching out for him, “I think you’ve grieved enough for a lifetime and you don’t ever want to do it again.”
As she touched his face he could see the sadness in her eyes, reflections of his own. She was awash in red, he’d never see the blue in her eyes, but he had faith that they were the most beautiful color he could ever imagine and he hated to see them like this, so terribly heartbreaking.
“Jean,” he tried to warn her but the words wouldn’t come, he wanted to push her away but his body wouldn’t move.
“You could never hurt me, Scott,” she told him softly as her other hand reached up to hold him firm so he had to keep looking at her.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathed.
“And you never will,” she reiterated firmly, “never, not now, not ever.”
“I can’t make that promise,” she was so close to him he nearly wanted to cry and could feel the tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
“The truth doesn’t need to be a promise,” Jean spoke then tipped up on her toes and pressed her lips softly to his.
Scott closed his eyes and kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, wondering if maybe this was nothing but another empathy induced dream, it was all he could have hoped for in the woman he had desired for so long.
“This is real,” she told against his lips, “believe in this,” she laid her head into the crook of his neck, “you can never hurt me.”
As he continued to hold her tightly, he caught his reflection in the mirror, his face almost foreign without his usual glasses perched on his nose. But even without them… all he saw was red.
…
Azazel poured himself another glass of red wine as Carol and Logan joined Ororo in the private dining room.
“The Wolverine,” the demon looking man was quite congenial, “another tamed creature of the wild. Honestly, what is this world coming to?”
“I’m still more than happy to gut you,” the man growled as he chose to stand as Carol took a seat opposite Azazel.
“Charming as always,” Azazel laughed then turned his attention, “and who is this, my lovely poisoner.”
“I’m the person who can rip your head from its socket,” Carol said evenly, “and the only thing stopping me is him,” she gestured with her head towards Logan, “let that sink in for a second.”
“You must be Air Force,” Azazel sat back with his drink, “I take it that pilot was a friend of yours, he did make such a satisfying little squeal when I stabbed him.”
Carol let her anger bleed through and Logan said, “You can always rip an arm off.”
“I like that idea,” she pushed the table with her strength and caught the man whose chair slid back, his body now trapped between the wall and table.
“Now, now,” Azazel wiped some spilt wine from his lapel, “this is no way to get information.”
“You weren’t going to tell us anything anyway,” Carol pointed out, “just bide time till you could port out of here.”
“Was I that obvious?” he gave her that toothy smile, sipping at his wine.
“Your only loyalties are to yourself,” Ororo said, still sitting casually in her chair even though the table had moved, “so, how much do you want?”
“You think you can pay me to betray my last contract?” the man almost looked offended.
All three of them said ‘Yes’ at the same time.
“Fair enough,” he shrugged, “but I don’t think you’ll like my price.”
“Try us,” Logan growled.
“What I want is simple, really,” Azazel smiled and looked to the feral man, “a favor, from you, at some point in the future, no questions asked, you do whatever I say.”
“Logan,” Ororo said warningly.
“You tell us who hired you,” the man pointedly ignored her, “where they are now and what they plan on doing with the nukes, no half-assed cryptic answers, and you have a deal.”
“You can’t be indebted to this man,” Carol turned to her friend.
“Oh, he can and he will,” Azazel wouldn’t stop looking so smug, “I accept the terms.”
“Want me to sign in blood,” Logan said mockingly.
“Everyone knows the Wolverine is a man of his word,” the devilish man smiled, “when he remembers, that is.”
“The deal’s made,” Logan gruffly moved forward, “now tell us what we want to know.”
“Of course,” pushed lightly at the table so he could straighten up, “but for starters, I don’t know who hired me, I know they employed a rather boring man with no sense of humor to contract my services, Mr. Bell, he said his name was, but that is all I know.”
“Let me guess,” Ororo frowned, “you never asked.”
“Such details are boring,” the man waved off, “but as for their plans with the warheads, I did find that to be interesting, they want to set them off.”
“They’re going to detonate them,” Carol did not hide what she thought of that, “where, when?”
“I believe the overall plan,” Azazel ignored her, “was to both cripple the economy while striking a severe blow to the already precarious moral of this country.”
“So what, D.C.?” Carol asked, “New York?”
“Kansas City,” he corrected her.
Carol blinked, “Kansas City, Missouri?”
“By the Goddess,” Ororo breathed, “the nuclear fallout would result in the loss of millions of acres of farmland, disrupt the interstate travel and transport of goods, cripple our interior military bases…”
“And one of those going off in the middle of the country,” Logan shook his head, “the only thing worse than losing the government is the people losing faith in the government to protect them.”
Azazel laughed, “Delicious, isn’t it.”
PREVIOUS PAGE – NEXT PAGE
TEASER | ACT I | ACT II | ACT III | ACT IV | TAG
X-Men: The (fan fic) Series 
Leave a Reply