Pulse, Part Fourteen

by Tangerine

 Colin McKay, the mutant Kylun, bowed his head in memorial of his long dead wife, Sat'neen, praying to his gods that they continue to protect and treasure her soul.  He had escaped from the Braddock Manor, leaving Micromax and Nightcrawler to battle wits with Meggan and Brian over the multitudinous number of reasons why they should rejoin Excalibur.  Meggan was heavy with child, a happy discovery that little miracles could still happen.  A conception between a human and a faery was unlikely, but she had mastered control over her body enough that it became possible.

 He laid flowers on his wife's grave, kissing the dirt and saying one final goodbye.  Kylun put flowers on the graves of the Braddocks, honouring them for bringing into the world two of the most courageous people he had ever had the grace to meet.

 "I didn't know you, my friend, but if you made Elisabeth happy then I respect you as well."  He put the flowers against the tombstone, regarding the name.  He had never met Warren Worthington, heard of him certainly but the high-flying Angel had been somewhat of an enigma by the time he emerged from Ee'rath.  "And I honour you, my friend."

 He opened his mouth to recite a prayer for all the fallen, but he was hit with a blast from behind, falling limply forward as the Horsemen of Apocalypse set down on British soil.  Pestilence dragged Kylun from atop the grave as War set his horse to digging up the dirt so they could remove the body.  Famine sat next to the flowers, touching them so they withered and die.

 "Everything dies," she whispered, making a beautiful bouquet of dry, brown flowers, and she sniffed them, the gleam of madness in her eyes.

 "Impossible!"  War opened the coffin, thrusting the heavy oak lid aside and picking up the lone sheet of paper that lay where a blue body should have been.  He read the words carefully before crushing the paper between his fingers in frustration.

 ~You are stupid to think I did not anticipate this.  You will never find him.  I have made sure of that.  If you should try to find him, rest assured you will die for your attempts.  His life is mine and mine alone.  It will never be yours.~

 "She knows where he is," Famine whispered, "his woman.  We must find him."

 With that, they mounted their beasts and rode to find Psylocke.

****

 "You're bleeding," Remy said stupidly, watching the dark maroon liquid pool around Sinister's body, the smell of ammonia and metal ripe in the air.  It moved with the viscosity of mercury, slowly spreading into a larger and larger area.  "Apocalypse?"

 "Do you think any mortal could do this to me?" Sinister grunted, remembering for the first time in a hundred years what pain was, how it burned and made him sick, weak, human.  "Yes, yes, my lord and master has been spurred into action.  Fine work, Elisabeth."

 "You blame this on me?"  She could not keep the incredulity from her voice.  "If nothing else, at least I had the courage to openly stand in opposition of him instead of cowering underground for the last century!"

 "Do not fault me for being intelligent," Sinister replied, willing his skin to move over the hole in his stomach, to hold his insides against his spine where they belonged.  It would not move.  The pain was ruining his concentration.  "He will hunt you like he hunts me."

 Betsy smiled.  "Is that fear I hear in your voice?"

 Sinister raised his eyes, his fingers curling into his gut.  "If that is what you choose to call it.  You X-Men have very little sense when it comes to Apocalypse.  In a way, it is a pity Angel died.  He was your only hope in defeating that madman."  Sinister felt his skin finally shift, covering an inch of the hole yet leaving nearly a foot open and gaping.  "And I was merely stating fact, Psylocke."

 "You expect us to have pity for you?" Remy asked, hate etched in every note of his voice.

 "I expect nothing from you!"  Sinister said, too loud to be calm, too quiet to be angry, but it was sharply spoken, ripe with bleakness and condemnation.  "Just as you are wrong to expect something from me.  You came to me for a reason.  What is it?"

 "My child ..."

 "And what did you expect?  I told you stay far from the shadows.  I told you not to cause undue stress.  I told you to be careful.  You heeded none of my warnings."  Sinister grunted, though he tried hard to keep quiet, as his flesh moved again, grappling at the edges of the tear to bring itself together.  "Your child is dead.  Is that what you need to hear?"

 "I am not that far removed to know that you are lying to me," Betsy said carefully.

 "Then you know more than I.  I cannot help you any longer.  He has destroyed my lab ..."

 "Surely there was not just the one."

 "Of course not.  I am no idiot, but if you would be so kind as to notice that I am wounded horribly, you will see that I am in no position to travel thousands of miles to where they lay hidden."

 Betsy frowned.  "But your Marauders ..."

 "My Marauders were left to hold back Apocalypse, to die so that I could run like a child from his father.  He has invariably slaughtered them, of course, and if he is smart, and he is far smarter than any of you give him credit, he will erase and destroy my copies of their genes."  Sinister exhaled as the last piece of flesh touched and welded his wound shut, doing nothing to recover the amount of blood lost.  If he would not die, he most certainly would be crippled for some time.  "He came out of nowhere, knowing exactly where I was, knowing the exact moment I reached for a vial and left myself open.  He made one mistake and that was doubting the loyalty of my Marauders and the power that they possessed.  He is my example.  I made them strong."

 "Yet you sacrificed them like lambs!"

 "They understood the importance of my continued survival!  Listen to yourself, Elisabeth, listen!  You know, as I do, that there are times when certain people must be given up so that the one can go on to conquer.   Worthington knew that."  Sinister felt the urge to be cruel descend upon him.  "Of course, you firmly believed he would be resurrected, did you not?"

 "I believed no such thing."  They caught each other in a silent stare, saying nothing but understanding too much, too many truths, too many lies, and Sinister smiled at her, watching the anger come to her eyes.  "And you promised you would not attempt to bring him back"

 "Yet you hid him anyway," Sinister responded, a harsh smile on his silver lips.

 Psylocke's head snapped up, her eyes targeting him with rage, and for a minute, she could not speak at all for words failed her completely, leaving her grasping at half-formed syllables.  Sinister resisted the urge to laugh at her and all her presumptions.  "You went after him?  You gave me your word!"

 "His word don't mean anything," Remy muttered.

 "You would have thanked me, Elisabeth, for returning him to you," Sinister said, a truth to his voice he knew she heard.  She stared at him, her eyes wet, but she did not say anything more.  He knew she couldn't without confessing the truth.  "I had no need of him beyond a month of tests.  I would have returned him.  Does it alarm you to know you so easily lost him a second time?"

 "Shut the fuck up!" Bobby said suddenly, reeling back when he realised what he had just said to Sinister, his face twisted in an odd expression of grief and horror.  "Oh god, if that isn't asking to be killed, I'm not sure what is."

 "If I was to kill you, Iceman, it would not be now."

 "And why not?"

 Remy snorted, shaking his head at the one man able to take offense at such a thing.

 Sinister stood up, leaning against the slimy, wet wall of the sewer as he struggled to remain upright.  "Because you are both conscious and angry.  In the far future, Iceman, you will rise to the day and realise your true potential.  Until then, however, you are a waste of good genes."

 "Whatever," Bobby muttered, his head darting to the side and into the dark where it was easier to hide.  Shatterstar, quietly learning everything as the conversation progressed, gave him one, small, millisecond look, his face reading neither pity or sympathy.  Sinister saw it and laughed at them, too.

 "Sinister, I am desperate.  I will admit that to you now.  I am *desperate*.  I need your help.  Please, tell me where you need to go, and I will take you there through the shadows.  I have done so much damage already, this venture will not affect the outcome."  Psylocke looked at him, noting his lack of agreement and added, "and it will save your life."

 "My life is already saved," Sinister replied.

 "But you are weak, so if he was to kill you instead of merely frightening you, he would do it now, while your life blood is pooled around your feet and your heart struggles to replace the fluid lost."

 "And will you make me if I say no, little Betsy?"

 Psylocke grinned, walking to him as she dragged her finger along the cold wall, pulling strings of the blackest shadows on her fingertips.  Sinister watched quietly as the darkness wrapped around her wrist, fighting to touch her, and she stopped in front of him, urging the shadows to slid onto his skin.  "You cannot say no."

 Sinister looked at the shadows on his skin, feeling the bitter chill and sleek slipperiness of its texture as it stroked his face.  It wasn't long before the metallic lips stretched in a smile, the eyes dark and angry beneath half-closed lids.    "Then I will not say it."

****

 Allowing her to touch the shallow surface of his mind, Sinister led Betsy to one of his many hideaways, built deep under the surface of the Colorado Rockies.  They were shielded far better here than under New York, but Apocalypse would still find them if he chose to search.

 "I will be fine," Betsy murmured, brushing her hand against Bobby's rough cheek, seeing how he watched her with worry.  A year ago, she had dismissed him, but a year later, she loved him as her dearest friend.  How quickly things could change, how quickly she had grown to love him as brother, how quickly he had loved her in return.  "Do not worry."

 "If he hurts you ..."

 "He will not," Betsy said quickly, quietly, to stop him from uttering the nuance.  Of all the people she had met, he was the only one undoubtably pure of that taint left by death.  "You are not a killer, Bobby.  You won't do that to yourself."

 One day, Bobby knew, he would snap and prove them all wrong, but he nodded meekly, watching her follow Sinister, albeit slowly and painfully, fighting to stand upright, into a dark room and the door close behind them.

 "Aw, fuck it all to hell," Bobby muttered, wrestling the light on in Sinister's sitting room.  Yes, Mr Sinister, evil personified, shopped at Ikea, or so it seemed to Bobby, whose eyes first widened then shut in hopes that this was a hallucination.  Sinister.  Ikea.  It didn't mesh in Bobby's mind.  It was like a dream and a really bad one at that.

 "You as creeped out as I am, homme?"  Remy asked, eyeing the futon with an odd grin before slumping in it, his arms stretched out so they touched the fantastically coloured carpet.  "Seems the devil has taste, no?"

 Bobby sat down on the edge of the nearest couch, a trendy black of course, and propped his head up with his hands, exhaling deeply.

 "I am going to train," Shatterstar said abruptly, blades in hand, having decided that the least exposure possible to these X-Men, the safer his soul would be in the long run.  How he got into this mess he would never be truly sure, but he blamed Domino.  "And you are not a waste genes."

 Bobby crocked an eyebrow, barely hearing the whisper, and his eyes, beyond his control, met the silver ones.  Shatterstar blinked and turned on heel, quiet and contemplative as always.

 Bobby watched as the long, muscular mutant strode past him, the wild hair flying behind ... stop it!  Bobby went back to looking at the carpet, deciding Sinister had hideous taste, despite what Remy might say, and he didn't move his eyes until Remy's infuriating grin became too much.

 "A bit obvious, Robert," Remy said, stretching his arms over his head and yawning.

 A momentary pause.  "What are you talking about?"

 Remy chuckled, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly, placing it on the ground by his feet.  He removed a cigarette and put it between his lips, lighting it with his fingers before reclining again, stretching his elegant legs out before him.  "You, Robert, you are obvious.  So is he for that matter."

 "Shut up," Bobby replied with a snap, knowing full well what he meant and was too tired, too stressed and too angry to be polite about it.  Stupid Cajun, stupid everyone!  But most of all, stupid Bobby for forgetting his place in this world.  "Just don't talk to me, all right?"

 "He's cute, non?"  Remy pushed, puffing on the smoke, looking straight at Bobby, who looked anywhere but at him.  "I'm going to tell you a story, homme, listen up: once upon a time, a little Cajun named Remy woke up and realised that he was different.  Not a bad different, Robert, but different.  This was years before he realised he could blow things up."

 "Remind yourself never to write a book," Bobby replied quietly.

 "Shush.  The big question, Robert, what are you going to do about him?"

 "Fuck off."

 "Some other time, cher, I'm tired."  Remy grinned wildly, watching Bobby's face, hoping to see a glimmer of amusement from someone who had always appreciated his jokes before, but Bobby stared blankly ahead, his fingers twisted in his pants.  His smile vanished.  "Don't tell me you have a problem with this?"

 "Fuck off."

 "You know Bobby, I always suspected ..."

 Bobby growled deep in his throat, slowly turning his head, millimetre by millimetre, until he was facing the Cajun, those devillish, red-on-black eyes watching him quietly.  "Do you honestly want me to hit you?  Because I will.  Hard even.  I might break something."

 "You're serious."

 Was that surprise in the X-Man's voice or pity?  Bobby couldn't tell, but it hurt him, cut him deep inside, deep enough to remind himself that he promised he wasn't going to do this anymore.  He had told Betsy, so why did he feel the need to threaten Remy with death?  Women take stuff like that easier, he thought drearily, Remy will think I want him.

 "Damn, Bobby, that story missed you all together, didn't it?"  Remy leaned forward, cigarette between his lips, unruly hair brushed over his eyes, and Bobby looked at the floor, an odd look of hopelessness on his young face.  "This is your daddy's doing, isn't it?  Telling you that it is ... that *you* are wrong."

 Bobby glanced sidelong at him, his hands clasped tightly together.  "My dad told me a lot of things.  It doesn't mean I listened to all of them, but some things, Remy, are harder to forget than others.  Not that I need to forget.  And trying to bond with me isn't going to help.  There's nothing wrong with me."

 "I know.  Just wanted to tell you that you weren't alone."  Remy grinned, the smoke hanging from his dry lips.  Should he push it or let it go?  Push, he decided, and break down the doors.  "Of course, I still like the filles, but the hommes are nice too, non?"

 "Just what are you trying to imply, Gambit?  What is it you're trying to say to me?  What is it you think I am?"  Bobby's voice did not stray from its monotone.  He kept it clear, calm, cold.  It wasn't his voice.  "What do you want me to say to you?"

 Remy raised his glance, his cigarette clutched tightly in his fingers, and he said very carefully, "I want you to tell me the truth, mon ami, so that maybe you can actually make a grab at happiness.  I had it, homme, and I let it go.  I don't want to see it happen to you."

 Bobby put his head in his hands.  "Why is everyone so concerned with my happiness?  Have I ever implied that I wasn't happy?  I'm not like you, I don't brood and angst and drive myself crazy with the melodrama."

 "Is this the time to tell you I'm empathic?"  Remy asked with a crooked grin.

 Bobby shrugged.  "Yeah, I guess this is a good time for that."  Bobby looked at his shoes, admiring the stylish intricacies of the leather.  It was his hope his footwear was interesting enough to block out Remy speaking.  "It's not a big deal, Remy."

 "The kid likes you," Gambit said quietly, "and you like him.  What's the problem?"

 "I'm not going to be the token Northstar of the X-Men, all right?  I don't want people to look at me and comment on my sense of style or the flamboyancy of my personality or my taste in impressionable young warriors.  I can be straight."

 "But you're not."

 "No, I'm not," Bobby said, "but I wish that I was.  I wish to *God* that I was, Remy!  I could handle being a mutant.  I could handle being gay.  Both of them?  Seems sort of cruel to me, Remy, that I get to be hated twice.  Fuck it, Remy, I'm not talking about this anymore."

 And he left the room.

****

 Betsy breathed deeply, and slowly as were the orders.  She could feel Sinister's hands on her, in her, testing, checking, verifying the truth.  If she was right, and she suspected she was, this child would not be with her much longer.

 "Premature labour," Sinister said without inflection in his voice, but she could sense the disappointment, the anger, the sense of loss.  "She will not last a day if she is born now.  The lungs have not developed properly, Psylocke.  She cannot breathe."

 My daughter.  Then he senses it, too.  Betsy felt the happiness pool in her chest.

 "She will not die," Betsy replied, sitting up as he sat back, prodding his stomach for any sign of his injury.  There was none, but Betsy could see the fatigue, the complete drain of energy from his body.  He was not well.  "I will not let her.  She was a miracle from the very beginning and this will be no different."

 "The only reason she has not been born already is that my gift to you has kept her in there, but it is deteriorating at a rate that alarms me.  Can you possibly understand what this child will suffer because of you?"

 "She will not suffer," Betsy said, standing up and cradling her belly in her hands.  It hung low and heavy, and the baby was pushing to be free.  It would be very soon, too soon, but there were always solutions, always miracles.  "You forget who I am."

 "Ah," Sinister said with a cold grin, "but do you dare use the Dawn?"

 "If I have to use it, I will not hesitate," she muttered, walking to the door and putting her hand on the stop to steady herself.  Sinister made no move to help her, to aid her in the long walk to her friends, and she was grateful for it.  "And when she is born, I will make sure I'm far away from you."

 "There are no shadows here," Sinister replied, "I have made sure of that, Psylocke.  You cannot escape.  You have walked straight into your jail, and I will keep you here until you give me what I want."

 "You underestimate me, Sinister."

 "And you, me.  Let us see who suffers the most for their ignorance."

 "Yes.  I will."

 She walked out of the room slowly, her feet shuffling quietly against the metal floor.  A brief, two minute visit to the mansion had let them gather their uniforms, but she had been forced to dismiss the thong and settle on her old uniform, the purple body armour she wore in Australia.  The unstable molecules had expanded to fit her new physique and though she had faith the armour was strong, she had no desire to test it.

 Yet, he seemed to be goading her into confrontation, wanting her to fight.  Was he that desperate for her baby?  And if he was, did he realise she would call upon the powers of both heaven and hell to make sure he never touched her child?

 Who did he think he was playing with here?

 Psylocke smiled a wiry grin and knew that where there was light, dark was always there, waiting in the wings, ready to attack.  If she only called to it, it would move mountains to obey her.  In that fact, she had faith.

 And madness would only convince her of it.

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