Kaiten: The Preservers

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Five days after the bombings, a claim of responsibility is finally made.


Theo had referred to this room as his "den", in a manner that suggested he'd made the joke a number of times and still found it funny, except maybe not as funny as usual this week. Nathan wasn't sure what he'd expected, but the built-for-Theo furniture and the lovingly assembled entertainment center hadn't been that much of a surprise, really. Theo was always breaking chairs that weren't built especially for him, and he'd always been a hell of a movie buff.

Nathan was sitting in the gigantic armchair, listening to Rahne tell him about the funeral she'd been to the previous day with Joel. "I'm glad there weren't any press there," he said quietly. "Better for the family, that way. And it makes me think a little better of the press than I have been, this week."

"I think technically one of the cousins might be a reporter," Rahne told him, "but... not there in a professional capacity. Obviously."

"Family feeling wins out. Chalk one more up for the press." Nathan sank back into the thick cushions, sighing. "Please tell me things are slowing down over there. We've almost got it all under control here. Just a few more phone calls to make in the morning when the time zones align properly..."

"Getting closer to sane, aye. We're all right. I was just venting a bit last night."

"You've done an amazing job over there," Nathan said, quietly but warmly. "You and Bobby and Juliette... and you didn't even have Attilani clerks to help out." He smiled a little, almost involuntarily. "Although... don't tell Medusa, but as efficient and multi-talented as they are, Juliette could still wipe the floor with them." A pause. "And don't tell Juliette that, either."

Rahne actually laughed. "She's something, isn't she."

"Yes, but we don't want her getting insufferable about it, do we?" He missed Rahne, he realized suddenly. She and Bobby were needed back in Westchester - they'd never have swung these last few days on their own - but that didn't change the fact that he wished she was here. "Rahne, you'll let me know if-" He stopped, blinking as he became aware of what could only be described as 'commotion', on the telepathic level. "Just a second," he said worriedly, struggling to get out of the gigantic armchair.

Medusa entered the room just as Nathan managed to get to his feet. Her face was impassive, but her hair was flailing slightly chaotically. "Turn on the television. Quickly."

Nathan did so, with a flicker of telekinesis. Unsurprisingly, the channel was already set to the BBC - too many of the TVs in the house had been tuned to news lately, for obvious reasons. Nathan watched, his jaw dropping.

"... may ask why have chosen this means to grab the attention of the world," the hooded figure in the video footage being played was saying in a voice that was obviously being deliberately distorted. "Why we have chosen the targets that we did. The answer is simple."

"... Rahne. Turn on the television in the office," Nathan said, remembering that he was holding the phone.

"Those who refuse to accept reality must be removed. They weaken the mutant race by trafficking with flatscans, pretending that the unevolved are our equals."

Medusa's attention had immediately focused on the program she'd already been aware was on. They finally knew the answer, vague though it was, to the question they'd all been wondering - who. And, unexpectedly, a little more information on the why, which hadn't been what she'd expected. She forced her hair to settle, one hand shifting to rest on the back of the couch.

At Nathan's words, Rahne had stuck her pencil in her mouth and reached for the remote.

At the speaker's words, the pencil splintered.

"You may call us the Preservers. We will keep the mutant race pure, by striking at those who would pollute our blood and our new society with the unevolved. Integration is not the answer, it is an attempt to destroy us. And we will respond in kind." The hooded speaker raised a hand, clenching a fist that lit up suddenly with blue energy - and the picture went dark, before it switched back to the shocked-looking anchor.

"Well. As you can see, we appear to have finally heard from those behind the bombings..."

"How...interesting," Medusa said, turning to lean against the couch. "Nathan?" she said, surprised to find the name coming out as a question. It was surreal almost, to hear a terrorist group state some of her own beliefs in defense of their actions.

Nathan twitched, as if she'd poked him. His expression stayed level, however. "Rahne, just a second," he said, putting the phone back down in its cradle and hitting the speaker button. "You're going to get calls about this almost immediately, I think," he said, "you and the others at the office. I'll call Joel for advice but for now stick to 'no comment'. That's probably the safest response."

"I've got a lot of comments," Rahne growled, then got control of her voice. "But aye, I can see it might be."

Only then did Nathan look over at Medusa. "Well," he said, "this sort of thing was one of the possibilities, I suppose." His hands were shaking. He'd really hoped it would turn out to be some new anti-mutant group.

"Not quite the one I had expected," Medusa said softly. "There will be a wave of responses from a variety of organizations now. Are you certain no comment is the correct response we should offer?

The BBC was working with a split-screen now; on one side, the footage was replaying, and apparently they'd just caught the end of it, because there was considerably more to it than they'd seen. Details about why they'd bombed where they had, what each of the targets had done 'wrong', why they'd made the list. It was Smichov, for us, I knew it... Nathan thought, then winced as the hooded spokesperson started to calmly elaborate on why Hungary's integrated society was an obscenity and remained a priority target. There was more of the more-than-slightly-frightening rhetoric afterwards, enough that Nathan suspected there would be profilers all over the world busy at work analyzing it. No details on how exactly they'd carried out the bombings, though, and Nathan noted that and filed it away.

"No," he said as, on the other side of the screen, a man in a suit was hastily ushered to a seat beside the anchorwoman. Probably one of the BBC's terrorism 'experts'. "I'm not sure. But it's better than saying something we wished we hadn't... Rahne, I'm not sure that it wouldn't be best to just take the phone off the hook, come to think of it..."

Through the phone line, he could hear one ringing already. Rahne reached over and shut it off. "Ye don't say."

Nathan glanced at the remote and the television started to cycle through various news channels. They had all picked it up, at this point. "Pete's at the hospital, isn't he?" he said distractedly, not really meaning it as a question. "I wonder if he's-" He stopped, as the CNN anchorman started to talk excitedly about going to their correspondent in Budapest. "Yes, let's do that before anyone gets five minutes to process this, you morons..."

"I am quite certain Pete has been made aware of this broadcast by now," Medusa said. "And they are just trying to make people feel unable to turn away from the broadcast."

"Of course they are, but that does not make the gabbling any more palatable," Rahne sighed. "Do ye need to go, then?"

"We should, probably." He could sense the increasingly unsettled minds of the others in the villa who'd seen the newscast. There would need to be some settling down done. "Rahne, I'll call you in a few hours. On the boathouse phone, not the office phone."

"I'll be here," Rahne said. "Take care."

There was the click of the phone being hung up at the other end. Nathan stared fixedly at the television screen, and the channel changed back to the BBC. "Mutant militants," he muttered. "Just another bunch of homicidal supremacists..." There was a bitter taste in his mouth, but he forced it back. "We can do more damage to ourselves than any number of bigots can do to us."

"Has it not always been the case?" Medusa asked, though she was not looking for an answer. A strand of hair extended to click the off button on the remote. "We can be our own champions...or our own enemies." Unfortunately, in Medusa's mind the line between the two was thin indeed.