Hotel California: Envy, Sloth & Greed
Jun. 16th, 2013 03:41 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-legion.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsAmanda, Haller and Wanda.
Thick carpet muted her footsteps save for the the occasional creak of old hardwood. Cream walls interspersed with dark wooden paneling stretched before her, occasionally interrupted by a mirror or unremarkable painting. The sconces cast odd shadows.
The birdsong could be heard even through the window glass. The courtyard's tiny fountain served as a popular bathing spot for a number of urban species, no doubt encouraged by the presence of small fruiting trees and flowering bushes. The tiny glass and steel conservatory still stood even though her mother no longer lived to grow her orchids, and she had often thought that it might still be put to good use. With the right specialist a great many specimens available only by importation might have been grown there. For now, however, it remained a simple garden, well-tended despite the fact the gardener who maintained it was now its sole visitor.
She turned from the window. It was pleasant to look on, at least.
Where was this? She swayed a little as she faced the long hall again, vision blurring a little. Something wasn't right, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to worry overmuch. Was she looking for something? Perhaps - but when she tried the handle of the nearest door and found it immobile, she shrugged and moved on. Maybe there would be something around the corner...
She was greeted by a full-length mirror with an extravagantly wrought bronze frame. The placement was awkward, almost confrontational: no one could turn the corner without coming face-to-face with their own reflection. It seemed an odd quirk of the decorating.
Then, as if someone had flicked on the light behind a two-way mirror, the image changed.
On the other side of the glass stood Nathan, gazing from the boathouse window. His hair was darker, and he was missing the lines of stress the last few years had drawn on his face. He gave no sign he was aware of Amanda's presence.
Something behind him caught his attention. Nathan turned, and the shift in his body revealed a tired Moira had entered the room cradling the infant Rachel. There was no sound, but it was clear the child was fussing.
Nathan took the child with surprising tenderness. He raised her to his chest, bouncing her gently as his lips moved in unheard soothing sounds. Slowly the baby calmed for him. Moira, still tired but smiling now, came up next to him and looked down at the baby in his arms. Whatever she said made Nathan smile. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and together they watched Rachel as her eyes began to close.
Father, mother and daughter. A happy family.
The image winked out, leaving only Amanda's reflection.
The face in the mirror was pale, metal winking from nose and eyebrows and ears, framed by dark hair. The face of the young girl she had been, lost and afraid and looking for a family. The family she'd just seen, which had been hers, until Rachel was born. The stab of pain in her chest was as sharp as if no time had passed at all.
Amanda blinked and shook her head and the reflection shifted back to as she was now. A trick of the light, that was all. She pushed her way past the mirror, trying to ignore the sense of grief and guilt that the image had stirred.
Another corner, another mirror. And again, the glass clouded and swirled, until she saw a familiar city scape. Familiar shapes.
Angelo paced the dark-haired woman as they walked through the Bronx. It was late, and his grey skin faded in and out of the dark as the couple passed beneath the streetlights.
Alejandra put one hand on Angelo's shoulder for support while laughing at some dry comment, and the young man grinned and trapped her against him with an arm around her waist. The ensuing scuffle was playful, and, on Alejandra's part, clearly half-hearted. In one final act of defiance Alejandra plucked the cigarette from his mouth and put it in her own. The end flared as she inhaled deeply, far too deeply for casual enjoyment. With a wicked grin, she popped the significantly shorter stub back into Angelo's mouth.
Amanda turned away from the glass, but not before the traitor thought came to the fore. He didn't exactly wait long before replacing you with his old flame, did he?
"Shut up," she replied out loud, fists clenching. "We'd agreed it wasn't working. Why shouldn't he move on and be happy?"
There was no reply, just the image fading and the mirror reflecting only herself. Amanda looked at her image for a long, long moment and then shouldered her way past it.
_____
At first glance Jim thought he was standing in the ruined convenience store that had burned itself into the center of his mind. Buried deep in the black and his final point of fall-back after attack or trauma, it represented both the site of his manifestation and the seat of his consciousness. The crystalline matrix of his memories were strung through the rubble, sometimes above it, sometimes embedded within. The memories, translated by his mind into shards of glass, provided the primary illumination. Here and there one was distorted by the seam indicating an ancient repair.
Jim put a hand on the wall to steady himself. There was wallpaper under his hand, and that wasn't right -- the walls had been a dingy yellow-beige. A sputtering florescent light dangled from its cord, but beside it was a brass light fixture far too high class to be inside a convenience store. Victorian furniture was mixed -- and sometimes fused with-- the displays. He looked down and discovered the floor was covered in cheap tile and plush carpet in equal degree. It reminded him of Adrienne's mind in the aftermath of its over-saturation.
"Hello?" he called uncertainly. This looked like a mindscape, but not quite -- his. What was going on? The last thing he remembered was the hotel, and he hadn't even gotten through the front door. Frowning, he started to pick his way through the rubble. If he had ended up in his own mind he at least knew the way out.
"Thank god, I found you."
The telepath whipped around but saw no one. The voice was familiar. "Who's there?" he asked, unable to place it speaker.
There was a sigh. "We need to work up to that. Let's just start. I'll fill you in on the way."
"What--" Jim began, but was interrupted by a gleam from the center of the room. One of the fragments had pivoted. Rather than catching the light, what it reflected was, instead, a memory.
"I've turned it over in my mind a hundred times, and I don't know what else we could have done," Gabrielle said. The older woman stood with arms crossed in front of Moira's bookshelf, studying the titles with unseeing eyes. "Charles and I . . . we had discussed it, but once he made contact it was obvious David was simply too traumatized to burden with the truth. He lost the people he thought were his parents, then his guardian. To have us come to him after all that, especially with Charles acting as his doctor . . ." She shook her head. "And now this. Charles was right. There was no good option, only the best among bad."
Across the room, Moira was seated at her desk - clearly using it to put more distance between herself and the other woman. "Perhaps, at the time, it was the better choice," she said stiffly. "'e was one o' the most traumatized little boys I'd ever seen. Between the trauma and the power ..." She shook his head. "Cannae agree wit' continuin' the lie, though."
Gaby's mouth thinned. "I don't claim to deserve any good parenting awards. There is a reason I asked my brother to raise him."
The ambassador exhaled, then turned to face Moira. "I never thought I would have a child," she said, not quite meeting the other woman's eyes. "And when I realized Charles was the father . . . I know it's unfair to lay expectations on a child, but one daydreams. What job they might pursue, what interests you might share. I thought that if he were a mutant he would be more like his father. More like" she smiled ruefully, "well, your daughter."
"But tha's nay fair!" Moira shoved herself to her feet, going from exhausted to Momma Bear mode in less than a second - for both of 'her' children? Or just one? It was hard to tell. "Rachel's mutation is beneficial an' will never cause her the heartbreak that David's caused him. Or th' rest o' us. Th' lads mutation has tortured him since day one. Ye cannae compare the two, more like ..." Her mouth clamped shut, refusing her to say what was on the tip of her tongue.
She didn't need to say it. Gaby knew precisely the name Moira had been about to say.
Rachel had not been her first child.
Gaby sighed. "Charles has accused me of being jealous of you. Rightly so. As always," she added, her tone slightly bitter. "At first it was because of how much you meant to David, and now . . . now because you have this beautiful, brilliant daughter. I love my son, but his illness -- by the time I could finally have been his mother, the admission would have shattered him. As it has now."
She shook her head. "I know what you've lost, and that it's petty to be jealous of something you had no control over. But you have a second chance in Rachel, and David is the only child I will ever have."
Moira had folded her arms over her chest, both a protective and aggressive action. "Yer right. I had no control over any o' it and ye hated me despite o' it." She knew she wasn't innocent in their mutual dislike but she didn't feel like pointing it out at the moment. "What does that mean, then, for what ye feel towards David? Because God only knows that he's had nay control over any o' this from day one."
Shaking her head, she headed towards the door - there was an emergency to clear up. But she wasn't quite finished as she gave a parting shot over her shoulder. "Because, love, there's sometimes nay much difference between love an' 'ate."
The memory ended. Jim's throat felt tight. He'd known his mother and Moira didn't get along, but he'd never seen them fight like that. Not in front of him. Not about him.
"They're two of Charles' oldest friends, and they've been at each other's throats from the moment you entered their lives. The resentment's only gotten worse. Gaby's given up hoping you'll ever make anything of yourself, and Moira . . . at best, you're just a reminder of the son she couldn't help. At worst, you're a flawed substitute for-"
"Stop it. What was that?" If he concentrated on what it was maybe he wouldn't have to think about what it had contained. "I thought that if he were a mutant he would be more like his father. More like, well, your daughter."
"A memory. You telepathy is stronger than you let it be -- you just won't see what it gives you. I have more to show you."
"Hey, wait--"
There was another flash.
_____
The hour was late, the curtains drawn. The only light in Wanda's office was her desklamp. Tomes and artifacts were half-hidden by the intimate shadows. The collection seemed to have increased since last she'd seen it.
She was not alone. Movement caught her eye, and she registered Strange just as he lay the silk-wrapped parcel on her desk.
"Be careful with it," he warned as he took a step back. "I've done what I can, but it was only meant for one wielder."
Wanda felt disoriented. The last thing she remembered ... it was like trying to peel back not just a fog but a wall of fog. As she shifted in the seat, it clicked. The hotel, trying to find Jean but there was no memory of finding or leaving the hotel so how did she get back in her office, with Stephen?
She meant to ask, to demand an answer, but was shocked when the body moved without her command and the words that followed were not her own. "Thank you, Doctor," her mouth said, as her mind reeled back. She watched as one of her hands reached out and ghosted over the silk without touching it. "It remains a shame that the one who was meant to wield it remains missing but we shall see what we can do with it." Her mouth twisted into a small smile. "Won't we?"
Strange looked at the parcel with muted misgivings. "Under the circumstances we may not have a choice," he said. He glanced up at her. "I can't stay. But . . ."
"Of course you cannot," Wanda heard her mouth say, "because you are simply far too busy. As am I. We discussed this - us?" There was a faint note of disdain there but it was mostly hidden and she only heard it because it was her voice, dammit! She tried to scream but her throat didn't bend to her will and then, suddenly ...
Many years ago there had been a time when she'd been banished from her body, trapped in a hellish no man's land while someone else walked the world in her body. Wanda's mental self screamed in frustration, utterly panicked, at the thought that Chthon had managed to slip by all of their defenses ...
Was it her imagination or did she 'hear' a soft, mocking laughter in response to her struggle that had no impact on her actual body?
"I know," Strange replied, oblivious to her internal struggle. "That doesn't mean I care about you any less."
He touched her arm, and there was a hesitance there: an expectation of rejection, and acceptance of the fact. Nonetheless, whatever fears he might have harbored weren't enough to overcome the emotion she could see written on his face.
"Please, be careful."
_____
She rounded a corner, and there it was, another mirror. Of course.
Marie-Ange and Wade stood in the brownstone's tiny laundry room, engrossed in domesticity. Dirty clothing had been meticulously sorted by fabric and color while clean items were either exiled to multiple laundry baskets or already assigned their own hangers. As often seemed the case with joint laundry, ninety percent of the items appeared to belong to the female while seven percent of the male's remaining ten were things beyond the salvation even of color guard.
While Marie-Ange checked labels for the next load Wade began to evince a suspicious interest in the laundry he was folding. He seemed to find what he was looking for in one of the precog's least expensive bras. A man on a mission, he draped the cups over his head and tied the straps beneath his chin. A quick raid of neatly-stacked towels supplied him with a handsome makeshift cape. Moving with all his mercenary-honed stealth, the man swept the towel over one arm, raised it to his nose, and crept up behind the redhead.
Then all he had to do was wait until Marie-Ange turned around.
Marie-Ange managed to maintain an absolutely frozen expression for two seconds before bursting into silent laughter. Still laughing, she threw a wadded-up undershirt at his head and thereby ruined the most epic flourish ever to be performed with a bath towel.
Her eyes were stinging and as she raised her hand to her cheek, she found it wet. Regret, regret and envy, rose in her. Everyone was happy. Everyone had someone. Who did she have?
No-one.
Almost angrily Amanda wiped the tears from her cheek and moved past the mirror, continuing down the hall.
Wanda leaned back at her desk, one hand pressed to the back of her neck. Her expression indicated exhaustion, frustration, and a deep desire for alcohol and companionship.
Through the open door there was a glimpse of blonde hair: Amanda passing by. The older woman watched her go without uttering a word, apparently content to let the opportunity pass. Instead she pushed her chair back and stretched her hands above her head with a soundless sigh. A quick gathering of the day's items, a tired shrug into her riding jacket, and Wanda headed downstairs to the garage and her waiting motorcycle.
There was an impression of distance, but Wanda seemed to arrive at her destination in no time at all. It was a private residence somewhere outside the city, and someone was already waiting for her on the steps.
Strange's concern for her was obvious; he rose even before she'd removed her helmet, mouthing a question as he did. Wanda smiled and shook her head. She took his hands in hers as they exchanged words, a small gesture somehow more intimate than a kiss.
Together, the lovers went inside.
Amanda swallowed hard, the lump of emotion rising in her throat until it threatened to choke her. All of her friends, even her mentor and her teacher, had a life outside of the work. What did she have? Would she ever have anything else but the job?
And then the mirror shifted again.
_____
"There," said Charles. The older man wheeled away from the couch so his student could rise. "Fortunately it was only the connections which were severed. Your underlying memories are still intact. You should now be able to access the memories and associations as you did before the tampering."
Scott sat up on the couch stretching and clicked his head from side to side, no matter how often he let people into his head it was always a mildly uncomfortable experience having someone mess with your head. "I still can't believe he'd do that to me. I'm sorry, I know he's your son Charles but he went into my head without my permission."
"David has never excelled at confrontation. Nor, I'm afraid to say, has he ever felt particularly secure in our relationship. He found our relationship intimidating even before he discovered I was his father. By you as well, I suspect. Once he learned the truth . . ." The telepath sighed. "He felt he owed you the truth, but his subconscious feared the consequences. Erasing the knowledge was easier than placing the two of you in direct competition."
"So instead he breaks the first rule of telepaths, the rule that you ingrain in them on day one. You don't enter or affect someone else's mind without permission." Scott sighed and leaned back, "I still can't quite wrap my head around that, I mean even Maddie knows not to do that, and David broke the taboo so easily. I have to admit that it worries me a little."
"As I said, the act was subconscious. Nonetheless, I had hoped I taught him better than that." The professor shook his head. "I am sorry that this happened to you, son. David's problems should not be yours."
"It's not your fault Charles," Scott moved forward in his chair and laid a comforting hand on his mentor's arm, "You did everything humanly possibly to teach him, it's his choice if he takes the lesson to heart or not."
"Indeed. Some are better students than others. And, perhaps, better equipped to absorb and apply the lessons towards something more." Charles laid his hand over Scott's and squeezed once. The brief, simple gesture communicated fondness -- and pride.
"Now," Charles said, releasing his grip, "if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I have some business I would like your assistance with."
"Of course Charles," Scott replied with a smile, "anything I can do to help."
For a few moments Jim was too stung to find words, and not just by the reminder of what he'd done to Scott.
"I am sorry that this happened to you, son."
Son.
Jim swallowed the lump in his throat. "What was the point of showing me that?" he managed finally.
"It was your bad act. You need to see the consequences." The unseen voice became sympathetic. "I know it's painful to admit, but this isn't news -- even if Charles is too kind to say it. He's known Scott since before he found out about you. He trained him, raised him. Scott is the son he chose. You're just the unintended result of a fling he never even knew about."
"Who are you?" Jim snapped, the attempt more to make the voice stop than in anticipation of an answer.
"Unfortunately, not done yet."
_____
The doors creaked open, and before shadows gave way, the clack-clack of hard boot heels on marble could be heard. Then, the form of a woman in a hooded coat, which she dropped to reveal tightly braided red hair. "Apologies. I came as soon as I could. My time is scattered lately. Too many people drawing on my skills." Marie-Ange said, with a frown that twisted her lips more than the slight scarring did. "You understand, of course."
'Wanda' smiled while she screamed in her own head, as if hoping that Marie-Ange would suddenly develop telepathy or notice that something was amiss. But ... if she had been like this for a while, would anyone notice by now? The very idea sent a bolt of terror through her even as another part of her enjoyed the pain. "Perhaps a calendar for Christmas is in order. Assassination by appointment only?"
The words, she realized, were hers. Wanda could see her saying them to Marie-Ange, surrounded by her books and the familiar hum of the office. She could imagine saying them but warmer, infused with the friendship they had cultivated over the years.
One mis-step, one change in tone and inflection ... was that really all it took?
"I do enjoy your taste in calendars." Marie-Ange said - and apparently meant it, because her face lit up. "If you can get one of those hand painted kind, I can probably get you a discount. I have some leeway in contract pricing." She sat down a chair, with a swing of her coat that was almost entirely theatrical and not at all necessary. "Do we need to negotiate terms? I don't think we need to, do we? Not after all this time?"
"Mm, I think not. I believe our standard terms will prove adequate, plus ..." Leaning forward, Wanda felt her hands clasp in front of her and could feel the malevolent energy from the covered item as she hovered over it. "Plus an extra fee. This is personal for me, my dear. You know of ... Illyana's disappearance? I have turned over every rock and it all points to ..."
Standing, Wanda swept aside the silk to reveal the Soulsword gleaming dully in the dim office lights. Inside of her body, Wanda reeled back - struck not only by the implications but also by the pull of the power in the item below. Turned off and yet drawn to it. And again, she didn't know if that was Chthon's influence or would she be drawn to the power regardless?
"Strange left this on my desk as a calling card. He was been playing me," Wanda hissed. "Playing all of us. He appears to be the man I once loved but there is a darkness growing in him and he will be unstoppable soon unless he is taken care of before he harms another one of us."
And her heart shattered at the logic and the coldness; at the fact that she was almost buying it herself.
"You know you don't have to justify yourself..." Marie-Ange reached out, and for a moment her hand hovered over the sword as if to caress it, and then she patted Wanda's hand. "I could call a disposal team if you need that dealt with as well. Or an expendable one if you need it lost with no traces." She smiled as she pulled a tablet out of the depths of her coat, and pushed it across the desk to Wanda. "Usual terms then, plus the fee for contracting a sorcière? I can take him from a distance, but not if he senses me coming or has protective wards up."
Holding up the tablet, Wanda could see in great Excel glory all the hits that "she" had paid Marie-Ange to do. It had started off slowly and within mission perimeters; kills that made sense to her. But then the pattern started to shift and slowly expand and she recognized name after name of friends who held power that would oppose Chthon. That would ...
Towards the bottom a name suddenly made Wanda's eyes burn - if she had been in charge of her eyes. And she heard the voice in her head saying "You're welcome, my dear; it was the loose end that you'd been chasing for years."
As she screamed and thrashed, trying to break the hold, trying to unsee the name 'Harkness, Agatha' and a large sum of money in the next box, "she" talked.
"I am adding an extra on top of that." She lowered the pad and looked at Marie-Ange over top of it. "Strange is the key to this and he is becoming more of a danger. From a distance will not do for this hit. It needs to be personal and he needs to know that he has failed."
Marie-Ange nodded sharply, and smiled almost covetously. "I will make sure I hire someone exceptionally powerful then. I do not particularly want to have my complexion ruined with boils, or my nose hexed off." She took the tablet back, tapped it with a stylus that she made disappear once she was done, and then handed it back to Wanda. "The usual terms. A third now, and I have already setup the transfer, a third pending, in case the Guild refuses the contract, and a third on completion."
Wanda, the real one, stared out of eyes that used to belong to her and into the eyes of the woman she had watched grow up. And no longer recognized either of them.
"A true professional," she smiled, "to the end. Do not worry about the sword - I need to show this to Amanda, I believe."
_____
She checked her materials once more before she began her work. Salt to purify and consecrate. Water to act as the scribing medium. A hank of unspun silk for a brush. A knife, for the final requirement.
The servants had long since acclimated to her eccentricities. Requests such as a bag of salt or vials of blessed water were on the more mundane side of her particular requests. There were whispers, true, but if the method she had chosen worked as she hoped these "wards" would be invisible to the naked eye.
Strangely, it was she herself that felt uncomfortable. It seemed like sacrilege to request holy water for such a ritual, but she did not believe in the earth spirits of the Orientals and Red Indians. This was to be a spell of protection, and there was no power she trusted but that granted by God.
With care she pressed the knife into her finger until it bled. She put down the knife, placed her bleeding finger into the silver bowl, and began to add the salt.
With a jolt, Amanda came back to herself. It was a warding spell, that was for sure, but the ritual was subtly wrong. Calling on the Christian God for a spell as old as warding... it didn't make sense. Unless the person working the spell wasn't formally trained...
She pushed on, trying to bury her own feelings under the need to solve the mystery of this place. She couldn't shake the growing feeling that none of it mattered, not in the long run. Not for her.
Another mirror stood beyond the previous one, and with sinking heart, Amanda waited for the images to appear.
It was dark outside the window of Remy's office as he and Ororo worked late to collate information They moved around one another like dancers, so familiar with each other they barely needed to look to ensure they never occupied the same space. Sometimes one passed a file or document to the other without any prompting whatsoever. They worked in a silence borne of unified purpose, not distance.
The thief settled into his chair with a look of intense concentration and began to pore through what they'd collected. His wife moved up behind him and set her hands on his shoulders; a light touch, just enough to tell him that she was there. Remy never lifted his eyes from the information, but he briefly touched her hand with his.
And then Remy looked up.
_____
This time of day sunlight flooded Charles' study. Light fell across the neatly-laid table to lend a glow to the old china. It was a ritual familiar to them both that provided the comfort of rote protocol and other automatic niceties to occasionally disrupt the tension.
Finally, there was a clink as the elder telepath set the cup back in its saucer.
"Amelia tells me you went to see David," said Charles.
"And what of it?" A tired voice responded.
Betsy leaned forward, a stray of light catching her amethyst eyes and hair, painting it in stark contrast to her pale, bruised face. She kept her gaze on Charles a beat and looked away, irritated. "Is it a crime to check on a friend?"
Charles made a small gesture of negation. "No, of course not. But your relationship is a bit more . . ." The man paused, as if uncharacteristically uncertain how to voice the assessment. He settled on, "Complicated."
"Complicated?" Betsy parroted. The telepath caught sight of her bandaged hands and sat back, careful to rest her hands off the arms of the chair. She kept from grimacing at the quick movement, yes, her body still ached from the encounter with Jim but that didn't matter. Her full attention remained on Charles, she stared at him with piqued interest. "You mean since we're shagging?"
If her bluntness was shocking Charles did an admirable job of concealing it. "I'm referring to your emotional intimacy, not physical," he said. He sighed and leaned forward, hands clasped before him. A hint of weariness entered his posture; Magneto's assault on San Diego had taken its toll on many, including himself.
"David is in the midst of a serious regression. All the progress he has made over the years - it has all been wiped away. The break itself resulted in the injury of several colleagues. He is ashamed of himself, and more ashamed to be seen by others." The older man met Betsy's steady gaze with his own. "Particularly by those he cares deeply for."
"Then there's no reason for me to be here. Jim has made his feelings for me quite clear." Betsy rose, wincing slightly. "Thank you for tea and biscuits, Professor."
"Elisabeth." The word was not sharp, not loud. It was simply her name, said calmly and with a trace of worry.
She stilled.
"It is not my policy to involve myself in my staff's personal lives. I would not have asked you here if I did not have serious concerns." The professor paused, studying the tall woman's back. "Your presence did agitate him," Charles continued, "but he also injured you when you offered comfort. I do not want to see you hurt. Either of you."
A soft sigh. She returned to the seat opposite Charles and waited.
"Your own life has not been easy, Elisabeth. Have a care for your own happiness. It is possible that the two of you present more risk for one another than reward." The telepath closed his eyes, as if the next admission pained him. "Remember: no matter how much he may care for you, or you for him, David is unwell. No amount of friendship will change that. This is a pattern of dissolution and pain has persisted his whole life; this incident shall not be the last." He opened his eyes to meet hers once more. "And please forgive the rudeness of this observation, but when you first arrived I could smell the drink on your breath."
"You know, I still hear her. Most days, I think it's my own imagination but sometimes, she sounds so real..." Betsy shuddered. "So I drink to blot it out and Kwannon goes away for a while. Then I wake up with a headache, stone sober, and her voice in my ear again." A flash of pain. Betsy looked down to see her clenched hands. She opens her palms, surrendering to her feelings. "With him, I was happy. I felt normal and I think he felt the same way. So excuse me for this observation, Professor but take this from someone who knows, sometimes friendship is all that keeps us from the brink." She squared her gaze at him. "And if you were his friend, you'd know he prefers Jim."
The professor smiled, but it was a small, sad one. "If he has shared that with you, your relationship is well beyond 'shagging'," he said, and reached across the table to offer her a cloth napkin for her oozing palms.
"In some ways you are very similar, more than perhaps you realize," Charles said, "but therein lies the danger. Should two wounded people rely on one another for support, where will you be left when one pillar falls?"
She took the napkins and pressed it to palms.
"So it wouldn't matter if I loved him?" Betsy asked with utter calm. "I'm broken so I'm no good for him." Her voice cracked on the last. She blinked a few times, a dark, grim smile on her lips.
Betsy shook as she spoke. "I didn't do this to myself. I didn't trust a man, bring him into my house, and let him play doctor. I wasn't the one who trapped this cunt in my head and because of it...." Refusing to continue down that line of thought, Betsy stood, eyes wet, face trembling. "Don't worry, what I had with David is already quite dead. Good day, Professor."
"Elisabeth, please wait." Charles could not rise to follow her, but he stretched out a hand. "I am sorry for what Nathaniel did to you, and I am sorry that you still bear the scars of it. I take my share of responsibility for that. However, the bell cannot be unrung. All I can offer you now is this advice."
He sighed, and his voice gentled. "You aren't broken beyond repair, child," said Charles, "you only need a opportunity to heal. I have no desire to see you hurt by something that once offered temporary relief, nor dragged down by another's madness. Those are crosses you have already borne far too long. Give yourself a chance. That is all I ask."
Betsy hesitated, a thoughtful look on her face. She bowed her head, catching sight of her singed hair and burnt hands. After a moment, she gave the Professor a curt nod and left the room.
"She took that advice, you know," said the voice as Jim's gut twisted. "Even your own father knew all you'd do was hurt her. She'd given you up. You were just too selfish to let her go."
The telepath's hands curled into fists. "Why are you showing me this?" he demanded, voice cracking. "Give yourself a chance," his father's voice whispered. "Give yourself a chance."
"So you understand. So you can make an informed decision."
Finally, a figure emerged from behind the lattice of memories.
It was him, but not him. Height a few inches less, hair several degrees tamer. And his face was different. It was the weight, Jim realized. The apparition's weight was the same, but his frame was smaller. Those few lost inches were the difference between a normal weight and his own painful gauntness. Jim took a step back.
"Who are you?"
"You know." The doppelganger smiled sympathetically. "I'm what you should have been."
The other man wandered over to a wall to lean a shoulder against a lintel. He seemed tired, and a little sad.
"You know what this is," said the figure. "We've had integrations before. It's time we had this discussion."
"I didn't initiate any integration." The crushing pressure in his chest didn't make Jim's reply any less sharp. "And I've never seen you before."
"What makes you think you would have?" The man gestured to him. "Our mind is fractured. You haven't had direct contact with Davey for years. You're dominant, but you're not David. You're just a fragment fused with a ghost. "
"I'm--" His mind throbbed with the old pain of psychic scars. Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "For god's sake, I am not getting into this again. The fusion doesn't make me not me. I'm just David and Jemail."
"And weaker than both." His double sighed. "Look. When we were looking for Jean something happened. Your mind broke again. I was created to deal with the experience."
"What? What happened?" Jim demanded, suddenly panicked. "Is someone dead? Did I-" He tried, but he couldn't finish the question: kill someone?
"I can't tell you," the double replied patiently. "I exist because you can't deal with it. That's why we need to have this conversation."
The double ran a hand through his hair and began to pace the room. "Here's the problem. You're not working out. How many excuses have people had to make for you? To everyone?" His mouth took on a wry twist as he stepped over a ruined display stand. "The first time you ever put on leathers you attacked Jean and Nathan, set Marie on fire, and dislocated Lorna's shoulder. When Betsy tried to help you attacked her, too."
Jim looked away. "I haven't endangered anyone since then," he said, unable to find a sufficient excuse.
"You mean other than being a fatal distraction for Scott in Genosha and unraveling all memory of your relation to the professor?" the other responded flatly. "If that's what you do when you're sane, what's going to happen the next time you backslide? You're playing Russian roulette and you know it."
Feebly, Jim tried to rally. "The professor wouldn't let me into the field if he thought that was true," he said. It was all he could think to say.
"He lets you into the field because he knows you need to feel like you're making a difference. What else can he do, advance your career? You're a mediocre student still limping through getting his professional certification. He employs you because the school's the only place that would take you." The double paused in his pacing to pin Jim with his blue eyes. "And that's not even getting into what you're doing to Betsy. Or, to spell it out for you . . ."
The other man pointed to the wall. Instinctively, the telepath followed his gaze.
_____
There was an unnatural quiet to the office. They had never been a huge operation and at any time several members might have been out in the field, leaving only a few to walk the corridors. That was a different silence than the one Wanda strode through. This one was ... haunted.
Mentally exhausted after trying to exert control, Wanda had retreated to whatever dark corner was "hers" in the shell that spoke with her voice, trying to be content with watching and waiting for the time to regain control. The creature controlling her was ignoring her but she felt the heavy mantel of Chthon's influence weighing down on whatever consciousness she still had. And the heavy, dark weight of the silk-wrapped item in her hand made her feel even sicker.
Within minutes, Wanda had pushed her way through a door and then up some darkly lit stairs and it was not long before she found herself on the roof of the building.
"Hello, Amanda," 'she' called, heading to a figure at the far end of rooftop.
The blonde turned at the sound of her voice, her eyes filled for a moment with the neon of the city. When she blinked, it was like a shutter had fallen over her face and she regarded Wanda guardedly. "Hi, Boss Lady. You got something for me?"
How insidious was Chthon that not even Amanda recognized the changes? Or, Wanda thought with despair, was she so much like Chthon that there was almost no difference?
Bringing her arms up, Wanda shook the silk off the item in her hand to show it to Amanda. "The missing Soulsword has found its way back home," she said softly, face thrown into shadows despite the light reflecting off the sharp edges of the blade. "Sadly, the same cannot yet be said for the original wielder."
"Illyana's missing?" Amanda stepped nearer, drawn by the sight of the Soulsword. Unconsciously, she scratched at the palm of her left hand, where a straight white scar crossed the skin. "Who brought the sword?"
"Someone who will probably regret doing so," came the vague answer. The internal, the real, Wanda screamed out in sudden pain as the silk drifted away in the wind and the sword was grasped in her naked palm. It was her primary hand, the one adorned with a parting gift from a dying and guilt ridden woman. Outwardly, Wanda simply grunted slightly. "Someone who will realize that things are no longer what they seem very soon."
Amanda stopped in mid-step, hand still lifted to touch the sword. "How do you mean, things aren't what they seem?" she asked, a flicker of alarm crossing her features, despite her efforts to school her expression.
The sword should have felt awkward in her hand but it felt far too much at home - if she got past the blazing pain spreading up from her wrist to her elbow. Chthon seemed oblivious to it as her body shifted slightly and smiled sharply. "I hope, Amanda, that you might be able to answer one tiny question for me before I answer yours?"
"How on earth did it escape your notice that I devoured your beloved 'boss lady' years ago?" Chthon snarled as it lunged. They were so close that it did not take much of a lunge to turn the blade, which was so hungry, towards Amanda's stomach ...
The witch had started to teleport as soon as the sword drove towards her, but the Soulsword's ability to disrupt magic meant as the metal touched her, the teleport failed, with her sunk shin-deep into the rooftop. She screamed once, the sound cut off as the sword sank deep into her abdomen, cutting off the sound with a gurgle.
_____
For just an instant Remy's eyes fixed on Amanda, and when they did it was if he was aware of her. As if he knew she was there -- and that she was watching.
Her hands almost shook with eagerness as she tore through the parcel's wrappings. Though she trusted the dealer this moment always held a sense of anxiety. Had it been damaged on the journey? Was it the correct text, or had another been sent in error? Did it hold the knowledge she hoped? So many things were beyond her control.
Finally the butcher paper revealed the title of the text, and her heart began to beat once more. A hurried flip through the velum pages confirmed what she had hoped to be true. Yes. This was it. She sagged with relief, feeling for just a moment as the Commission des Sciences et des Arts must have upon discovering the Rosetta Stone.
The glass went dark.
Amanda staggered back. The abrupt shift in the scenes had been jarring, the equivalent of psychic whiplash and she needed a moment to regain her bearings. It was so hard to focus with her mind full of dark thoughts, the turmoil of her emotions. The book, the book had to be important.
Then, as if responding to where her thoughts were going, the mirror shifted again.
Jubilee and Kurt sat on a checked blanket over which drinks and a light meal had been laid. Their disheveled appearances and close-fitted clothing indicated this particular "date" had begun with a free running session just as their surroundings and the sun overhead indicated it had ended on a rooftop. The couple were ensconced in a tangle of vents and heating and cooling equipment, simultaneously shielding them from prying eyes and offering a pleasant view of the city. Jubilee's phone was out beside them, apparently scrolling through a playlist.
Jubilee seemed involved in showing Kurt her aptitude at catching grapes with her mouth, which Kurt was observing with an amused expression and flicking his tail in a way that indicated he was tempted to change the projectiles' trajectory. It became a non-issue an instant later when Jubilee's phone cycled over to a new song; the girl's attention span abruptly switched gears, and the last grape bounced off her forehead as she excitedly pointed to the phone.
She sprang to her feet and offered Kurt her hand. The teleporter rose to accept with a gracious bow. He took her hand, and they began to dance.
"Wait a minute." Amanda stepped back from the mirror as the image faded. "Wait a fucking minute. This is supposed to be your ace in the hole? The straw that breaks the camel's back and makes me... what? Sit in a corner uselessly and moan about how nobody loves me? My brother and Jubilee?" She laughed out loud. "Sorry, pal, been there, done that, got the bloody t-shirt. So what if there's just me right now? I have friends and I have family and I have the job and I have my students. And that's a pretty full life."
The mirror wavered, flexing and stretching under her words, before bursting into a thousand shards. Amanda ducked and turned her back so her jacket took the brunt, covering her face with her leather-clad arms.
_____
A gilt-framed mirror inexplicably embedded in a refrigerated cabinet reflected image of himself on the astral plane, stripped of the mask he used to disguise the extent of his artificial fusion with Jemail Karami. The scars of the psychic surgery were now faded, but no amount of time would correct the asymmetrical features and mismatched anatomy. Coming on the tail of the rest of the conversation, he could only look at it for a few seconds before his head began to throb from the paradox of conflicting identity.
"I didn't show you these things to hurt you," said the double as Jim tore his gaze away before he could vomit. "I'm giving you the truth. No matter how hard you try, there will always be a limit to what you can accomplish. You're just a pile of broken pieces the professor reassembled the best he could."
For a long moment Jim could only stand there, trying to get his stomach to settle. He tried to think of a retort. None came.
"So now what?" he asked instead.
"Now you make a choice. What happened when we looked for Jean wasn't all bad. It created something that could be better than the sum of its parts." The double extended a hand. "Integrate with me, and you can let go. I'll take care of everything."
Surrender. There was an ache in that thought. To not have to . . . be. Not judged or humiliated or pitied, a disappointment that only hurt the people he loved and lived in constant fear of the Sword of Damocles that was his own defective mind. He'd tried for nearly two thirds of his life, but no matter how hard he worked his defects ran too deep. He would never be anything but what he was: broken.
He was so tired of trying.
The telepath began to raise his hand. Integration had always been his ultimate goal. He'd done it before to other personalities that had no longer been required. The only block was the natural fear of losing one's self, and he had never liked that self. The procedure was painless for the dominant personality. He wondered what it would be like from the other side.
Then he hesitated.
"This isn't my head." The comment was abrupt, like a man suddenly remembering the answer to a question. Jim dropped his hand and took a sharp step back. His expression hardened on the apparition. "You don't conquer negative feelings by destroying them. You accept them and deal with the consequences. Integration is taking responsibility, not relinquishing it. You aren't a part of me. What are you?"
The doppelganger vanished, and with him the aspects of his surroundings that resembled Jim's mindscape. All that remained was the hotel.
Jim's eyes narrowed.
He could still recall the things he'd been shown, but now he could feel their thinness. The underlying thoughts and emotions a real telepathic viewing would have conveyed were absent. Perhaps conversations like them had happened at some point, the settings were plausible enough, but now when he looked at them the only texture they held was the echo of his own insecurity. And it had almost worked.
With an audible growl, Jim rubbed his temples and tried to reassert control over his blood pressure.
Christ. If that's what talking to me is like it's no wonder Jack wants to punch me in the face.
_____
Amanda looked down at the sword sticking out of her, hands reaching uselessly towards the hilt. The she looked up again at the thing wearing Wanda's form. "I knew," she whispered, blood dribbling from her lips. "But I stayed. To help Wanda, maybe..." She gasped in a breath, coughed up more blood, then spoke again. "Fight, Boss Lady. Use this... to get free."
The pain had already been close to unbearable but something sparked in her lower back as Amanda's hot blood flowed over her fingers. Wanda's wrist was almost vibrating with the pain and her body, finally, started to scream along with her mental self. She tried to let go of the sword but was, somehow, bound to it and she and the creature riding her body found themselves driven to their knees by the pain as it scored her back as well.
There was pain in her wrist and on her back but also ... a great pressure from all around. Pushing down and in, almost desperate. And as the blood pooled on Wanda and on the rooftop, she saw the familiar glint of a different shade of red. Faint but there and as another wave of pain shook her it hit her that not once had Chthon used her powers.
And with that realization, Wanda somehow reached out to that one, pathetic line of chaos energy and wrapped it around her, burying it within her. She wrapped it within the physical pain and the emotional grief that was screaming to get out (Amanda's dead eyes remind her of Marie-Ange down in the office below. Both of them dead in different ways. And Stephen ... what had she been forced to do?) and hooked it to what she knew now had to be something other than the Elder God. A creature that would never have passed up any chance to use the well of power that was Wanda's ability to call upon.
Then she deliberately made that tenuous little chord shatter within.
The world pulsed red. For a grotesque instant Amanda's corpse and the Soulsword in her hand contorted and stretched like a badly tuned television image, and the scene began to dissolve. The rooftop and dark city around them began to disintegrate in patches, edges devoured by ruby light like a theater backdrop charring in a fire.
Then the scene was gone. All that remained was Wanda, standing alone in an empty hall.
For one brief, glorious moment everything was numb. Her brain, her body - nothing registered.
Until everything did and, like a rubber band snapping back, everything clicked back on and Wanda screamed as the pain slammed into her again. Driven to her knees, she retched onto the carpet between her hands, unaware of where she was or of the blood dripping from the small of her back.
The only thing that registered was that her mind was blissfully her own.
Thick carpet muted her footsteps save for the the occasional creak of old hardwood. Cream walls interspersed with dark wooden paneling stretched before her, occasionally interrupted by a mirror or unremarkable painting. The sconces cast odd shadows.
The birdsong could be heard even through the window glass. The courtyard's tiny fountain served as a popular bathing spot for a number of urban species, no doubt encouraged by the presence of small fruiting trees and flowering bushes. The tiny glass and steel conservatory still stood even though her mother no longer lived to grow her orchids, and she had often thought that it might still be put to good use. With the right specialist a great many specimens available only by importation might have been grown there. For now, however, it remained a simple garden, well-tended despite the fact the gardener who maintained it was now its sole visitor.
She turned from the window. It was pleasant to look on, at least.
Where was this? She swayed a little as she faced the long hall again, vision blurring a little. Something wasn't right, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to worry overmuch. Was she looking for something? Perhaps - but when she tried the handle of the nearest door and found it immobile, she shrugged and moved on. Maybe there would be something around the corner...
She was greeted by a full-length mirror with an extravagantly wrought bronze frame. The placement was awkward, almost confrontational: no one could turn the corner without coming face-to-face with their own reflection. It seemed an odd quirk of the decorating.
Then, as if someone had flicked on the light behind a two-way mirror, the image changed.
On the other side of the glass stood Nathan, gazing from the boathouse window. His hair was darker, and he was missing the lines of stress the last few years had drawn on his face. He gave no sign he was aware of Amanda's presence.
Something behind him caught his attention. Nathan turned, and the shift in his body revealed a tired Moira had entered the room cradling the infant Rachel. There was no sound, but it was clear the child was fussing.
Nathan took the child with surprising tenderness. He raised her to his chest, bouncing her gently as his lips moved in unheard soothing sounds. Slowly the baby calmed for him. Moira, still tired but smiling now, came up next to him and looked down at the baby in his arms. Whatever she said made Nathan smile. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and together they watched Rachel as her eyes began to close.
Father, mother and daughter. A happy family.
The image winked out, leaving only Amanda's reflection.
The face in the mirror was pale, metal winking from nose and eyebrows and ears, framed by dark hair. The face of the young girl she had been, lost and afraid and looking for a family. The family she'd just seen, which had been hers, until Rachel was born. The stab of pain in her chest was as sharp as if no time had passed at all.
Amanda blinked and shook her head and the reflection shifted back to as she was now. A trick of the light, that was all. She pushed her way past the mirror, trying to ignore the sense of grief and guilt that the image had stirred.
Another corner, another mirror. And again, the glass clouded and swirled, until she saw a familiar city scape. Familiar shapes.
Angelo paced the dark-haired woman as they walked through the Bronx. It was late, and his grey skin faded in and out of the dark as the couple passed beneath the streetlights.
Alejandra put one hand on Angelo's shoulder for support while laughing at some dry comment, and the young man grinned and trapped her against him with an arm around her waist. The ensuing scuffle was playful, and, on Alejandra's part, clearly half-hearted. In one final act of defiance Alejandra plucked the cigarette from his mouth and put it in her own. The end flared as she inhaled deeply, far too deeply for casual enjoyment. With a wicked grin, she popped the significantly shorter stub back into Angelo's mouth.
Amanda turned away from the glass, but not before the traitor thought came to the fore. He didn't exactly wait long before replacing you with his old flame, did he?
"Shut up," she replied out loud, fists clenching. "We'd agreed it wasn't working. Why shouldn't he move on and be happy?"
There was no reply, just the image fading and the mirror reflecting only herself. Amanda looked at her image for a long, long moment and then shouldered her way past it.
At first glance Jim thought he was standing in the ruined convenience store that had burned itself into the center of his mind. Buried deep in the black and his final point of fall-back after attack or trauma, it represented both the site of his manifestation and the seat of his consciousness. The crystalline matrix of his memories were strung through the rubble, sometimes above it, sometimes embedded within. The memories, translated by his mind into shards of glass, provided the primary illumination. Here and there one was distorted by the seam indicating an ancient repair.
Jim put a hand on the wall to steady himself. There was wallpaper under his hand, and that wasn't right -- the walls had been a dingy yellow-beige. A sputtering florescent light dangled from its cord, but beside it was a brass light fixture far too high class to be inside a convenience store. Victorian furniture was mixed -- and sometimes fused with-- the displays. He looked down and discovered the floor was covered in cheap tile and plush carpet in equal degree. It reminded him of Adrienne's mind in the aftermath of its over-saturation.
"Hello?" he called uncertainly. This looked like a mindscape, but not quite -- his. What was going on? The last thing he remembered was the hotel, and he hadn't even gotten through the front door. Frowning, he started to pick his way through the rubble. If he had ended up in his own mind he at least knew the way out.
"Thank god, I found you."
The telepath whipped around but saw no one. The voice was familiar. "Who's there?" he asked, unable to place it speaker.
There was a sigh. "We need to work up to that. Let's just start. I'll fill you in on the way."
"What--" Jim began, but was interrupted by a gleam from the center of the room. One of the fragments had pivoted. Rather than catching the light, what it reflected was, instead, a memory.
"I've turned it over in my mind a hundred times, and I don't know what else we could have done," Gabrielle said. The older woman stood with arms crossed in front of Moira's bookshelf, studying the titles with unseeing eyes. "Charles and I . . . we had discussed it, but once he made contact it was obvious David was simply too traumatized to burden with the truth. He lost the people he thought were his parents, then his guardian. To have us come to him after all that, especially with Charles acting as his doctor . . ." She shook her head. "And now this. Charles was right. There was no good option, only the best among bad."
Across the room, Moira was seated at her desk - clearly using it to put more distance between herself and the other woman. "Perhaps, at the time, it was the better choice," she said stiffly. "'e was one o' the most traumatized little boys I'd ever seen. Between the trauma and the power ..." She shook his head. "Cannae agree wit' continuin' the lie, though."
Gaby's mouth thinned. "I don't claim to deserve any good parenting awards. There is a reason I asked my brother to raise him."
The ambassador exhaled, then turned to face Moira. "I never thought I would have a child," she said, not quite meeting the other woman's eyes. "And when I realized Charles was the father . . . I know it's unfair to lay expectations on a child, but one daydreams. What job they might pursue, what interests you might share. I thought that if he were a mutant he would be more like his father. More like" she smiled ruefully, "well, your daughter."
"But tha's nay fair!" Moira shoved herself to her feet, going from exhausted to Momma Bear mode in less than a second - for both of 'her' children? Or just one? It was hard to tell. "Rachel's mutation is beneficial an' will never cause her the heartbreak that David's caused him. Or th' rest o' us. Th' lads mutation has tortured him since day one. Ye cannae compare the two, more like ..." Her mouth clamped shut, refusing her to say what was on the tip of her tongue.
She didn't need to say it. Gaby knew precisely the name Moira had been about to say.
Rachel had not been her first child.
Gaby sighed. "Charles has accused me of being jealous of you. Rightly so. As always," she added, her tone slightly bitter. "At first it was because of how much you meant to David, and now . . . now because you have this beautiful, brilliant daughter. I love my son, but his illness -- by the time I could finally have been his mother, the admission would have shattered him. As it has now."
She shook her head. "I know what you've lost, and that it's petty to be jealous of something you had no control over. But you have a second chance in Rachel, and David is the only child I will ever have."
Moira had folded her arms over her chest, both a protective and aggressive action. "Yer right. I had no control over any o' it and ye hated me despite o' it." She knew she wasn't innocent in their mutual dislike but she didn't feel like pointing it out at the moment. "What does that mean, then, for what ye feel towards David? Because God only knows that he's had nay control over any o' this from day one."
Shaking her head, she headed towards the door - there was an emergency to clear up. But she wasn't quite finished as she gave a parting shot over her shoulder. "Because, love, there's sometimes nay much difference between love an' 'ate."
The memory ended. Jim's throat felt tight. He'd known his mother and Moira didn't get along, but he'd never seen them fight like that. Not in front of him. Not about him.
"They're two of Charles' oldest friends, and they've been at each other's throats from the moment you entered their lives. The resentment's only gotten worse. Gaby's given up hoping you'll ever make anything of yourself, and Moira . . . at best, you're just a reminder of the son she couldn't help. At worst, you're a flawed substitute for-"
"Stop it. What was that?" If he concentrated on what it was maybe he wouldn't have to think about what it had contained. "I thought that if he were a mutant he would be more like his father. More like, well, your daughter."
"A memory. You telepathy is stronger than you let it be -- you just won't see what it gives you. I have more to show you."
"Hey, wait--"
There was another flash.
The hour was late, the curtains drawn. The only light in Wanda's office was her desklamp. Tomes and artifacts were half-hidden by the intimate shadows. The collection seemed to have increased since last she'd seen it.
She was not alone. Movement caught her eye, and she registered Strange just as he lay the silk-wrapped parcel on her desk.
"Be careful with it," he warned as he took a step back. "I've done what I can, but it was only meant for one wielder."
Wanda felt disoriented. The last thing she remembered ... it was like trying to peel back not just a fog but a wall of fog. As she shifted in the seat, it clicked. The hotel, trying to find Jean but there was no memory of finding or leaving the hotel so how did she get back in her office, with Stephen?
She meant to ask, to demand an answer, but was shocked when the body moved without her command and the words that followed were not her own. "Thank you, Doctor," her mouth said, as her mind reeled back. She watched as one of her hands reached out and ghosted over the silk without touching it. "It remains a shame that the one who was meant to wield it remains missing but we shall see what we can do with it." Her mouth twisted into a small smile. "Won't we?"
Strange looked at the parcel with muted misgivings. "Under the circumstances we may not have a choice," he said. He glanced up at her. "I can't stay. But . . ."
"Of course you cannot," Wanda heard her mouth say, "because you are simply far too busy. As am I. We discussed this - us?" There was a faint note of disdain there but it was mostly hidden and she only heard it because it was her voice, dammit! She tried to scream but her throat didn't bend to her will and then, suddenly ...
Many years ago there had been a time when she'd been banished from her body, trapped in a hellish no man's land while someone else walked the world in her body. Wanda's mental self screamed in frustration, utterly panicked, at the thought that Chthon had managed to slip by all of their defenses ...
Was it her imagination or did she 'hear' a soft, mocking laughter in response to her struggle that had no impact on her actual body?
"I know," Strange replied, oblivious to her internal struggle. "That doesn't mean I care about you any less."
He touched her arm, and there was a hesitance there: an expectation of rejection, and acceptance of the fact. Nonetheless, whatever fears he might have harbored weren't enough to overcome the emotion she could see written on his face.
"Please, be careful."
She rounded a corner, and there it was, another mirror. Of course.
Marie-Ange and Wade stood in the brownstone's tiny laundry room, engrossed in domesticity. Dirty clothing had been meticulously sorted by fabric and color while clean items were either exiled to multiple laundry baskets or already assigned their own hangers. As often seemed the case with joint laundry, ninety percent of the items appeared to belong to the female while seven percent of the male's remaining ten were things beyond the salvation even of color guard.
While Marie-Ange checked labels for the next load Wade began to evince a suspicious interest in the laundry he was folding. He seemed to find what he was looking for in one of the precog's least expensive bras. A man on a mission, he draped the cups over his head and tied the straps beneath his chin. A quick raid of neatly-stacked towels supplied him with a handsome makeshift cape. Moving with all his mercenary-honed stealth, the man swept the towel over one arm, raised it to his nose, and crept up behind the redhead.
Then all he had to do was wait until Marie-Ange turned around.
Marie-Ange managed to maintain an absolutely frozen expression for two seconds before bursting into silent laughter. Still laughing, she threw a wadded-up undershirt at his head and thereby ruined the most epic flourish ever to be performed with a bath towel.
Her eyes were stinging and as she raised her hand to her cheek, she found it wet. Regret, regret and envy, rose in her. Everyone was happy. Everyone had someone. Who did she have?
No-one.
Almost angrily Amanda wiped the tears from her cheek and moved past the mirror, continuing down the hall.
Wanda leaned back at her desk, one hand pressed to the back of her neck. Her expression indicated exhaustion, frustration, and a deep desire for alcohol and companionship.
Through the open door there was a glimpse of blonde hair: Amanda passing by. The older woman watched her go without uttering a word, apparently content to let the opportunity pass. Instead she pushed her chair back and stretched her hands above her head with a soundless sigh. A quick gathering of the day's items, a tired shrug into her riding jacket, and Wanda headed downstairs to the garage and her waiting motorcycle.
There was an impression of distance, but Wanda seemed to arrive at her destination in no time at all. It was a private residence somewhere outside the city, and someone was already waiting for her on the steps.
Strange's concern for her was obvious; he rose even before she'd removed her helmet, mouthing a question as he did. Wanda smiled and shook her head. She took his hands in hers as they exchanged words, a small gesture somehow more intimate than a kiss.
Together, the lovers went inside.
Amanda swallowed hard, the lump of emotion rising in her throat until it threatened to choke her. All of her friends, even her mentor and her teacher, had a life outside of the work. What did she have? Would she ever have anything else but the job?
And then the mirror shifted again.
"There," said Charles. The older man wheeled away from the couch so his student could rise. "Fortunately it was only the connections which were severed. Your underlying memories are still intact. You should now be able to access the memories and associations as you did before the tampering."
Scott sat up on the couch stretching and clicked his head from side to side, no matter how often he let people into his head it was always a mildly uncomfortable experience having someone mess with your head. "I still can't believe he'd do that to me. I'm sorry, I know he's your son Charles but he went into my head without my permission."
"David has never excelled at confrontation. Nor, I'm afraid to say, has he ever felt particularly secure in our relationship. He found our relationship intimidating even before he discovered I was his father. By you as well, I suspect. Once he learned the truth . . ." The telepath sighed. "He felt he owed you the truth, but his subconscious feared the consequences. Erasing the knowledge was easier than placing the two of you in direct competition."
"So instead he breaks the first rule of telepaths, the rule that you ingrain in them on day one. You don't enter or affect someone else's mind without permission." Scott sighed and leaned back, "I still can't quite wrap my head around that, I mean even Maddie knows not to do that, and David broke the taboo so easily. I have to admit that it worries me a little."
"As I said, the act was subconscious. Nonetheless, I had hoped I taught him better than that." The professor shook his head. "I am sorry that this happened to you, son. David's problems should not be yours."
"It's not your fault Charles," Scott moved forward in his chair and laid a comforting hand on his mentor's arm, "You did everything humanly possibly to teach him, it's his choice if he takes the lesson to heart or not."
"Indeed. Some are better students than others. And, perhaps, better equipped to absorb and apply the lessons towards something more." Charles laid his hand over Scott's and squeezed once. The brief, simple gesture communicated fondness -- and pride.
"Now," Charles said, releasing his grip, "if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I have some business I would like your assistance with."
"Of course Charles," Scott replied with a smile, "anything I can do to help."
For a few moments Jim was too stung to find words, and not just by the reminder of what he'd done to Scott.
"I am sorry that this happened to you, son."
Son.
Jim swallowed the lump in his throat. "What was the point of showing me that?" he managed finally.
"It was your bad act. You need to see the consequences." The unseen voice became sympathetic. "I know it's painful to admit, but this isn't news -- even if Charles is too kind to say it. He's known Scott since before he found out about you. He trained him, raised him. Scott is the son he chose. You're just the unintended result of a fling he never even knew about."
"Who are you?" Jim snapped, the attempt more to make the voice stop than in anticipation of an answer.
"Unfortunately, not done yet."
The doors creaked open, and before shadows gave way, the clack-clack of hard boot heels on marble could be heard. Then, the form of a woman in a hooded coat, which she dropped to reveal tightly braided red hair. "Apologies. I came as soon as I could. My time is scattered lately. Too many people drawing on my skills." Marie-Ange said, with a frown that twisted her lips more than the slight scarring did. "You understand, of course."
'Wanda' smiled while she screamed in her own head, as if hoping that Marie-Ange would suddenly develop telepathy or notice that something was amiss. But ... if she had been like this for a while, would anyone notice by now? The very idea sent a bolt of terror through her even as another part of her enjoyed the pain. "Perhaps a calendar for Christmas is in order. Assassination by appointment only?"
The words, she realized, were hers. Wanda could see her saying them to Marie-Ange, surrounded by her books and the familiar hum of the office. She could imagine saying them but warmer, infused with the friendship they had cultivated over the years.
One mis-step, one change in tone and inflection ... was that really all it took?
"I do enjoy your taste in calendars." Marie-Ange said - and apparently meant it, because her face lit up. "If you can get one of those hand painted kind, I can probably get you a discount. I have some leeway in contract pricing." She sat down a chair, with a swing of her coat that was almost entirely theatrical and not at all necessary. "Do we need to negotiate terms? I don't think we need to, do we? Not after all this time?"
"Mm, I think not. I believe our standard terms will prove adequate, plus ..." Leaning forward, Wanda felt her hands clasp in front of her and could feel the malevolent energy from the covered item as she hovered over it. "Plus an extra fee. This is personal for me, my dear. You know of ... Illyana's disappearance? I have turned over every rock and it all points to ..."
Standing, Wanda swept aside the silk to reveal the Soulsword gleaming dully in the dim office lights. Inside of her body, Wanda reeled back - struck not only by the implications but also by the pull of the power in the item below. Turned off and yet drawn to it. And again, she didn't know if that was Chthon's influence or would she be drawn to the power regardless?
"Strange left this on my desk as a calling card. He was been playing me," Wanda hissed. "Playing all of us. He appears to be the man I once loved but there is a darkness growing in him and he will be unstoppable soon unless he is taken care of before he harms another one of us."
And her heart shattered at the logic and the coldness; at the fact that she was almost buying it herself.
"You know you don't have to justify yourself..." Marie-Ange reached out, and for a moment her hand hovered over the sword as if to caress it, and then she patted Wanda's hand. "I could call a disposal team if you need that dealt with as well. Or an expendable one if you need it lost with no traces." She smiled as she pulled a tablet out of the depths of her coat, and pushed it across the desk to Wanda. "Usual terms then, plus the fee for contracting a sorcière? I can take him from a distance, but not if he senses me coming or has protective wards up."
Holding up the tablet, Wanda could see in great Excel glory all the hits that "she" had paid Marie-Ange to do. It had started off slowly and within mission perimeters; kills that made sense to her. But then the pattern started to shift and slowly expand and she recognized name after name of friends who held power that would oppose Chthon. That would ...
Towards the bottom a name suddenly made Wanda's eyes burn - if she had been in charge of her eyes. And she heard the voice in her head saying "You're welcome, my dear; it was the loose end that you'd been chasing for years."
As she screamed and thrashed, trying to break the hold, trying to unsee the name 'Harkness, Agatha' and a large sum of money in the next box, "she" talked.
"I am adding an extra on top of that." She lowered the pad and looked at Marie-Ange over top of it. "Strange is the key to this and he is becoming more of a danger. From a distance will not do for this hit. It needs to be personal and he needs to know that he has failed."
Marie-Ange nodded sharply, and smiled almost covetously. "I will make sure I hire someone exceptionally powerful then. I do not particularly want to have my complexion ruined with boils, or my nose hexed off." She took the tablet back, tapped it with a stylus that she made disappear once she was done, and then handed it back to Wanda. "The usual terms. A third now, and I have already setup the transfer, a third pending, in case the Guild refuses the contract, and a third on completion."
Wanda, the real one, stared out of eyes that used to belong to her and into the eyes of the woman she had watched grow up. And no longer recognized either of them.
"A true professional," she smiled, "to the end. Do not worry about the sword - I need to show this to Amanda, I believe."
She checked her materials once more before she began her work. Salt to purify and consecrate. Water to act as the scribing medium. A hank of unspun silk for a brush. A knife, for the final requirement.
The servants had long since acclimated to her eccentricities. Requests such as a bag of salt or vials of blessed water were on the more mundane side of her particular requests. There were whispers, true, but if the method she had chosen worked as she hoped these "wards" would be invisible to the naked eye.
Strangely, it was she herself that felt uncomfortable. It seemed like sacrilege to request holy water for such a ritual, but she did not believe in the earth spirits of the Orientals and Red Indians. This was to be a spell of protection, and there was no power she trusted but that granted by God.
With care she pressed the knife into her finger until it bled. She put down the knife, placed her bleeding finger into the silver bowl, and began to add the salt.
With a jolt, Amanda came back to herself. It was a warding spell, that was for sure, but the ritual was subtly wrong. Calling on the Christian God for a spell as old as warding... it didn't make sense. Unless the person working the spell wasn't formally trained...
She pushed on, trying to bury her own feelings under the need to solve the mystery of this place. She couldn't shake the growing feeling that none of it mattered, not in the long run. Not for her.
Another mirror stood beyond the previous one, and with sinking heart, Amanda waited for the images to appear.
It was dark outside the window of Remy's office as he and Ororo worked late to collate information They moved around one another like dancers, so familiar with each other they barely needed to look to ensure they never occupied the same space. Sometimes one passed a file or document to the other without any prompting whatsoever. They worked in a silence borne of unified purpose, not distance.
The thief settled into his chair with a look of intense concentration and began to pore through what they'd collected. His wife moved up behind him and set her hands on his shoulders; a light touch, just enough to tell him that she was there. Remy never lifted his eyes from the information, but he briefly touched her hand with his.
And then Remy looked up.
This time of day sunlight flooded Charles' study. Light fell across the neatly-laid table to lend a glow to the old china. It was a ritual familiar to them both that provided the comfort of rote protocol and other automatic niceties to occasionally disrupt the tension.
Finally, there was a clink as the elder telepath set the cup back in its saucer.
"Amelia tells me you went to see David," said Charles.
"And what of it?" A tired voice responded.
Betsy leaned forward, a stray of light catching her amethyst eyes and hair, painting it in stark contrast to her pale, bruised face. She kept her gaze on Charles a beat and looked away, irritated. "Is it a crime to check on a friend?"
Charles made a small gesture of negation. "No, of course not. But your relationship is a bit more . . ." The man paused, as if uncharacteristically uncertain how to voice the assessment. He settled on, "Complicated."
"Complicated?" Betsy parroted. The telepath caught sight of her bandaged hands and sat back, careful to rest her hands off the arms of the chair. She kept from grimacing at the quick movement, yes, her body still ached from the encounter with Jim but that didn't matter. Her full attention remained on Charles, she stared at him with piqued interest. "You mean since we're shagging?"
If her bluntness was shocking Charles did an admirable job of concealing it. "I'm referring to your emotional intimacy, not physical," he said. He sighed and leaned forward, hands clasped before him. A hint of weariness entered his posture; Magneto's assault on San Diego had taken its toll on many, including himself.
"David is in the midst of a serious regression. All the progress he has made over the years - it has all been wiped away. The break itself resulted in the injury of several colleagues. He is ashamed of himself, and more ashamed to be seen by others." The older man met Betsy's steady gaze with his own. "Particularly by those he cares deeply for."
"Then there's no reason for me to be here. Jim has made his feelings for me quite clear." Betsy rose, wincing slightly. "Thank you for tea and biscuits, Professor."
"Elisabeth." The word was not sharp, not loud. It was simply her name, said calmly and with a trace of worry.
She stilled.
"It is not my policy to involve myself in my staff's personal lives. I would not have asked you here if I did not have serious concerns." The professor paused, studying the tall woman's back. "Your presence did agitate him," Charles continued, "but he also injured you when you offered comfort. I do not want to see you hurt. Either of you."
A soft sigh. She returned to the seat opposite Charles and waited.
"Your own life has not been easy, Elisabeth. Have a care for your own happiness. It is possible that the two of you present more risk for one another than reward." The telepath closed his eyes, as if the next admission pained him. "Remember: no matter how much he may care for you, or you for him, David is unwell. No amount of friendship will change that. This is a pattern of dissolution and pain has persisted his whole life; this incident shall not be the last." He opened his eyes to meet hers once more. "And please forgive the rudeness of this observation, but when you first arrived I could smell the drink on your breath."
"You know, I still hear her. Most days, I think it's my own imagination but sometimes, she sounds so real..." Betsy shuddered. "So I drink to blot it out and Kwannon goes away for a while. Then I wake up with a headache, stone sober, and her voice in my ear again." A flash of pain. Betsy looked down to see her clenched hands. She opens her palms, surrendering to her feelings. "With him, I was happy. I felt normal and I think he felt the same way. So excuse me for this observation, Professor but take this from someone who knows, sometimes friendship is all that keeps us from the brink." She squared her gaze at him. "And if you were his friend, you'd know he prefers Jim."
The professor smiled, but it was a small, sad one. "If he has shared that with you, your relationship is well beyond 'shagging'," he said, and reached across the table to offer her a cloth napkin for her oozing palms.
"In some ways you are very similar, more than perhaps you realize," Charles said, "but therein lies the danger. Should two wounded people rely on one another for support, where will you be left when one pillar falls?"
She took the napkins and pressed it to palms.
"So it wouldn't matter if I loved him?" Betsy asked with utter calm. "I'm broken so I'm no good for him." Her voice cracked on the last. She blinked a few times, a dark, grim smile on her lips.
Betsy shook as she spoke. "I didn't do this to myself. I didn't trust a man, bring him into my house, and let him play doctor. I wasn't the one who trapped this cunt in my head and because of it...." Refusing to continue down that line of thought, Betsy stood, eyes wet, face trembling. "Don't worry, what I had with David is already quite dead. Good day, Professor."
"Elisabeth, please wait." Charles could not rise to follow her, but he stretched out a hand. "I am sorry for what Nathaniel did to you, and I am sorry that you still bear the scars of it. I take my share of responsibility for that. However, the bell cannot be unrung. All I can offer you now is this advice."
He sighed, and his voice gentled. "You aren't broken beyond repair, child," said Charles, "you only need a opportunity to heal. I have no desire to see you hurt by something that once offered temporary relief, nor dragged down by another's madness. Those are crosses you have already borne far too long. Give yourself a chance. That is all I ask."
Betsy hesitated, a thoughtful look on her face. She bowed her head, catching sight of her singed hair and burnt hands. After a moment, she gave the Professor a curt nod and left the room.
"She took that advice, you know," said the voice as Jim's gut twisted. "Even your own father knew all you'd do was hurt her. She'd given you up. You were just too selfish to let her go."
The telepath's hands curled into fists. "Why are you showing me this?" he demanded, voice cracking. "Give yourself a chance," his father's voice whispered. "Give yourself a chance."
"So you understand. So you can make an informed decision."
Finally, a figure emerged from behind the lattice of memories.
It was him, but not him. Height a few inches less, hair several degrees tamer. And his face was different. It was the weight, Jim realized. The apparition's weight was the same, but his frame was smaller. Those few lost inches were the difference between a normal weight and his own painful gauntness. Jim took a step back.
"Who are you?"
"You know." The doppelganger smiled sympathetically. "I'm what you should have been."
The other man wandered over to a wall to lean a shoulder against a lintel. He seemed tired, and a little sad.
"You know what this is," said the figure. "We've had integrations before. It's time we had this discussion."
"I didn't initiate any integration." The crushing pressure in his chest didn't make Jim's reply any less sharp. "And I've never seen you before."
"What makes you think you would have?" The man gestured to him. "Our mind is fractured. You haven't had direct contact with Davey for years. You're dominant, but you're not David. You're just a fragment fused with a ghost. "
"I'm--" His mind throbbed with the old pain of psychic scars. Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "For god's sake, I am not getting into this again. The fusion doesn't make me not me. I'm just David and Jemail."
"And weaker than both." His double sighed. "Look. When we were looking for Jean something happened. Your mind broke again. I was created to deal with the experience."
"What? What happened?" Jim demanded, suddenly panicked. "Is someone dead? Did I-" He tried, but he couldn't finish the question: kill someone?
"I can't tell you," the double replied patiently. "I exist because you can't deal with it. That's why we need to have this conversation."
The double ran a hand through his hair and began to pace the room. "Here's the problem. You're not working out. How many excuses have people had to make for you? To everyone?" His mouth took on a wry twist as he stepped over a ruined display stand. "The first time you ever put on leathers you attacked Jean and Nathan, set Marie on fire, and dislocated Lorna's shoulder. When Betsy tried to help you attacked her, too."
Jim looked away. "I haven't endangered anyone since then," he said, unable to find a sufficient excuse.
"You mean other than being a fatal distraction for Scott in Genosha and unraveling all memory of your relation to the professor?" the other responded flatly. "If that's what you do when you're sane, what's going to happen the next time you backslide? You're playing Russian roulette and you know it."
Feebly, Jim tried to rally. "The professor wouldn't let me into the field if he thought that was true," he said. It was all he could think to say.
"He lets you into the field because he knows you need to feel like you're making a difference. What else can he do, advance your career? You're a mediocre student still limping through getting his professional certification. He employs you because the school's the only place that would take you." The double paused in his pacing to pin Jim with his blue eyes. "And that's not even getting into what you're doing to Betsy. Or, to spell it out for you . . ."
The other man pointed to the wall. Instinctively, the telepath followed his gaze.
There was an unnatural quiet to the office. They had never been a huge operation and at any time several members might have been out in the field, leaving only a few to walk the corridors. That was a different silence than the one Wanda strode through. This one was ... haunted.
Mentally exhausted after trying to exert control, Wanda had retreated to whatever dark corner was "hers" in the shell that spoke with her voice, trying to be content with watching and waiting for the time to regain control. The creature controlling her was ignoring her but she felt the heavy mantel of Chthon's influence weighing down on whatever consciousness she still had. And the heavy, dark weight of the silk-wrapped item in her hand made her feel even sicker.
Within minutes, Wanda had pushed her way through a door and then up some darkly lit stairs and it was not long before she found herself on the roof of the building.
"Hello, Amanda," 'she' called, heading to a figure at the far end of rooftop.
The blonde turned at the sound of her voice, her eyes filled for a moment with the neon of the city. When she blinked, it was like a shutter had fallen over her face and she regarded Wanda guardedly. "Hi, Boss Lady. You got something for me?"
How insidious was Chthon that not even Amanda recognized the changes? Or, Wanda thought with despair, was she so much like Chthon that there was almost no difference?
Bringing her arms up, Wanda shook the silk off the item in her hand to show it to Amanda. "The missing Soulsword has found its way back home," she said softly, face thrown into shadows despite the light reflecting off the sharp edges of the blade. "Sadly, the same cannot yet be said for the original wielder."
"Illyana's missing?" Amanda stepped nearer, drawn by the sight of the Soulsword. Unconsciously, she scratched at the palm of her left hand, where a straight white scar crossed the skin. "Who brought the sword?"
"Someone who will probably regret doing so," came the vague answer. The internal, the real, Wanda screamed out in sudden pain as the silk drifted away in the wind and the sword was grasped in her naked palm. It was her primary hand, the one adorned with a parting gift from a dying and guilt ridden woman. Outwardly, Wanda simply grunted slightly. "Someone who will realize that things are no longer what they seem very soon."
Amanda stopped in mid-step, hand still lifted to touch the sword. "How do you mean, things aren't what they seem?" she asked, a flicker of alarm crossing her features, despite her efforts to school her expression.
The sword should have felt awkward in her hand but it felt far too much at home - if she got past the blazing pain spreading up from her wrist to her elbow. Chthon seemed oblivious to it as her body shifted slightly and smiled sharply. "I hope, Amanda, that you might be able to answer one tiny question for me before I answer yours?"
"How on earth did it escape your notice that I devoured your beloved 'boss lady' years ago?" Chthon snarled as it lunged. They were so close that it did not take much of a lunge to turn the blade, which was so hungry, towards Amanda's stomach ...
The witch had started to teleport as soon as the sword drove towards her, but the Soulsword's ability to disrupt magic meant as the metal touched her, the teleport failed, with her sunk shin-deep into the rooftop. She screamed once, the sound cut off as the sword sank deep into her abdomen, cutting off the sound with a gurgle.
For just an instant Remy's eyes fixed on Amanda, and when they did it was if he was aware of her. As if he knew she was there -- and that she was watching.
Her hands almost shook with eagerness as she tore through the parcel's wrappings. Though she trusted the dealer this moment always held a sense of anxiety. Had it been damaged on the journey? Was it the correct text, or had another been sent in error? Did it hold the knowledge she hoped? So many things were beyond her control.
Finally the butcher paper revealed the title of the text, and her heart began to beat once more. A hurried flip through the velum pages confirmed what she had hoped to be true. Yes. This was it. She sagged with relief, feeling for just a moment as the Commission des Sciences et des Arts must have upon discovering the Rosetta Stone.
The glass went dark.
Amanda staggered back. The abrupt shift in the scenes had been jarring, the equivalent of psychic whiplash and she needed a moment to regain her bearings. It was so hard to focus with her mind full of dark thoughts, the turmoil of her emotions. The book, the book had to be important.
Then, as if responding to where her thoughts were going, the mirror shifted again.
Jubilee and Kurt sat on a checked blanket over which drinks and a light meal had been laid. Their disheveled appearances and close-fitted clothing indicated this particular "date" had begun with a free running session just as their surroundings and the sun overhead indicated it had ended on a rooftop. The couple were ensconced in a tangle of vents and heating and cooling equipment, simultaneously shielding them from prying eyes and offering a pleasant view of the city. Jubilee's phone was out beside them, apparently scrolling through a playlist.
Jubilee seemed involved in showing Kurt her aptitude at catching grapes with her mouth, which Kurt was observing with an amused expression and flicking his tail in a way that indicated he was tempted to change the projectiles' trajectory. It became a non-issue an instant later when Jubilee's phone cycled over to a new song; the girl's attention span abruptly switched gears, and the last grape bounced off her forehead as she excitedly pointed to the phone.
She sprang to her feet and offered Kurt her hand. The teleporter rose to accept with a gracious bow. He took her hand, and they began to dance.
"Wait a minute." Amanda stepped back from the mirror as the image faded. "Wait a fucking minute. This is supposed to be your ace in the hole? The straw that breaks the camel's back and makes me... what? Sit in a corner uselessly and moan about how nobody loves me? My brother and Jubilee?" She laughed out loud. "Sorry, pal, been there, done that, got the bloody t-shirt. So what if there's just me right now? I have friends and I have family and I have the job and I have my students. And that's a pretty full life."
The mirror wavered, flexing and stretching under her words, before bursting into a thousand shards. Amanda ducked and turned her back so her jacket took the brunt, covering her face with her leather-clad arms.
A gilt-framed mirror inexplicably embedded in a refrigerated cabinet reflected image of himself on the astral plane, stripped of the mask he used to disguise the extent of his artificial fusion with Jemail Karami. The scars of the psychic surgery were now faded, but no amount of time would correct the asymmetrical features and mismatched anatomy. Coming on the tail of the rest of the conversation, he could only look at it for a few seconds before his head began to throb from the paradox of conflicting identity.
"I didn't show you these things to hurt you," said the double as Jim tore his gaze away before he could vomit. "I'm giving you the truth. No matter how hard you try, there will always be a limit to what you can accomplish. You're just a pile of broken pieces the professor reassembled the best he could."
For a long moment Jim could only stand there, trying to get his stomach to settle. He tried to think of a retort. None came.
"So now what?" he asked instead.
"Now you make a choice. What happened when we looked for Jean wasn't all bad. It created something that could be better than the sum of its parts." The double extended a hand. "Integrate with me, and you can let go. I'll take care of everything."
Surrender. There was an ache in that thought. To not have to . . . be. Not judged or humiliated or pitied, a disappointment that only hurt the people he loved and lived in constant fear of the Sword of Damocles that was his own defective mind. He'd tried for nearly two thirds of his life, but no matter how hard he worked his defects ran too deep. He would never be anything but what he was: broken.
He was so tired of trying.
The telepath began to raise his hand. Integration had always been his ultimate goal. He'd done it before to other personalities that had no longer been required. The only block was the natural fear of losing one's self, and he had never liked that self. The procedure was painless for the dominant personality. He wondered what it would be like from the other side.
Then he hesitated.
"This isn't my head." The comment was abrupt, like a man suddenly remembering the answer to a question. Jim dropped his hand and took a sharp step back. His expression hardened on the apparition. "You don't conquer negative feelings by destroying them. You accept them and deal with the consequences. Integration is taking responsibility, not relinquishing it. You aren't a part of me. What are you?"
The doppelganger vanished, and with him the aspects of his surroundings that resembled Jim's mindscape. All that remained was the hotel.
Jim's eyes narrowed.
He could still recall the things he'd been shown, but now he could feel their thinness. The underlying thoughts and emotions a real telepathic viewing would have conveyed were absent. Perhaps conversations like them had happened at some point, the settings were plausible enough, but now when he looked at them the only texture they held was the echo of his own insecurity. And it had almost worked.
With an audible growl, Jim rubbed his temples and tried to reassert control over his blood pressure.
Christ. If that's what talking to me is like it's no wonder Jack wants to punch me in the face.
Amanda looked down at the sword sticking out of her, hands reaching uselessly towards the hilt. The she looked up again at the thing wearing Wanda's form. "I knew," she whispered, blood dribbling from her lips. "But I stayed. To help Wanda, maybe..." She gasped in a breath, coughed up more blood, then spoke again. "Fight, Boss Lady. Use this... to get free."
The pain had already been close to unbearable but something sparked in her lower back as Amanda's hot blood flowed over her fingers. Wanda's wrist was almost vibrating with the pain and her body, finally, started to scream along with her mental self. She tried to let go of the sword but was, somehow, bound to it and she and the creature riding her body found themselves driven to their knees by the pain as it scored her back as well.
There was pain in her wrist and on her back but also ... a great pressure from all around. Pushing down and in, almost desperate. And as the blood pooled on Wanda and on the rooftop, she saw the familiar glint of a different shade of red. Faint but there and as another wave of pain shook her it hit her that not once had Chthon used her powers.
And with that realization, Wanda somehow reached out to that one, pathetic line of chaos energy and wrapped it around her, burying it within her. She wrapped it within the physical pain and the emotional grief that was screaming to get out (Amanda's dead eyes remind her of Marie-Ange down in the office below. Both of them dead in different ways. And Stephen ... what had she been forced to do?) and hooked it to what she knew now had to be something other than the Elder God. A creature that would never have passed up any chance to use the well of power that was Wanda's ability to call upon.
Then she deliberately made that tenuous little chord shatter within.
The world pulsed red. For a grotesque instant Amanda's corpse and the Soulsword in her hand contorted and stretched like a badly tuned television image, and the scene began to dissolve. The rooftop and dark city around them began to disintegrate in patches, edges devoured by ruby light like a theater backdrop charring in a fire.
Then the scene was gone. All that remained was Wanda, standing alone in an empty hall.
For one brief, glorious moment everything was numb. Her brain, her body - nothing registered.
Until everything did and, like a rubber band snapping back, everything clicked back on and Wanda screamed as the pain slammed into her again. Driven to her knees, she retched onto the carpet between her hands, unaware of where she was or of the blood dripping from the small of her back.
The only thing that registered was that her mind was blissfully her own.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}