Collective Soul: Quentin, Offering
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xp_logsQuentin is faced with obstacles of his own – and they demand a price.
The wave delivered Quentin directly into a row of lockers, spine-first.
The hallway had just enough personal touches to identify it as something more than a boilerplate set for a high school drama as depicted by thirty year old actors. A familiar school mascot had been painted on the walls, and professionally printed club posters adorned a bulletin board. Geography muddled with dream-logic, the door of a particular classroom stood out of place.
The tide receded with a sound like half-heard jeers.
The custom-made and tailored suit Quentin had been wearing was gone, replaced with the sample and unflattering black slacks and sport coat of the Van Wyck Prep School uniform, adorned with epaulets and assorted gold chains and jewels. He groaned as he stood up, then again when he noticed his outfit.
"Ugh, Jimothy, stop fucking around," he censured the invisible ghosts of Haller's system. "I'm 26. We're not doing the high school thing again. Unless this is a fetish of yours, but then I'm missing the skirt."
"Thought you'd like the chance to reexamine the life choices . . ."
". . . that led you to simp a cult-leader. Of course . . ."
". . . why would you start learning from your mistakes now?"
The prep school facade peeled away to reveal the familiar paradise of Haven, but -- off. The golden fruits that hung from the trees were bruised and overripe, the crystal-clear waters of Radha's springs choked with algae. The climate, always perfect, was flat and stale. Even the trill of birdsong held a discordant note.
Three figures ringed him, none of them familiar. One was a young man with dark hair and a collar around his throat, another a blue-skinned woman with a wild white mohawk, and the third a pale, hairless creature, gaunt and sexless.
All three were wounded. The injuries appeared random, as if pieces of their bodies had been gouged away at random, but they held themselves with purpose – and hostility.
The woman raised her hands in a sarcastic clap.
"Gotta hand it to you," she said, "Not many people can fuck up a whole paradise, but you pulled it off. You--"
"--don't just lack the vision to build that mutant promised land you talk about," continued the collared man, "you're so desperate to prove how much smarter you are than Xavier you go all-in for the first person to flatter your ego. And now that it's blown up in your face all you have to show for it--"
"--is this sad souvenir of a greater woman's aspirations, rotting in your spoiled heart," rasped the creature.
****
But tell me more about how we'll create the mutant Promised Land.
The Haven in Radha Dastoor’s heart would be what saved mutantkind from its annihilation at the hands of the humans. Or it could be, if Quentin could anchor it to the limitless potential of the astral plane.
It was a complicated project fraught with danger, not something that most telepaths could do. He’d go so far as to say that there were fewer than half a dozen psychics with that talent, and he was the only one with the resolve to do it and face the risk of his mind being torn apart by the energies he sought to harness. Only he had been called to build the ark.
He had no doubt that what Radha was building was imperative to mutantkind’s survival. The humans would come for them some day. And when that day came, mutants could fight and die or they could be raptured and live in peace. Let the flatscans destroy their world while mutants flourished in paradise.
But what would it mean to give one mutant dominion over the rest of mutantkind, even if it were for the sake of their survival? So many mutants had already ceded control of their destinies to Xavier or Magneto. Would Radha be any better? Sure, she had shown that she could build a microcosm of a world of shared responsibility. But when Mahapralaya came, would the altruism survive? Would her heart be forever open to all mutants?
Of course it would. Right?
Maybe, for the sake of mutantkind, he would hide a little insurance. He would grant Radha the apotheosis only he could bestow, but that also meant he could take it away.
****
Quentin's heart nearly leaped out of his chest. Had he been pulled into the actual spiritual Haven? He frantically looked around for a vengeful Radha, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was all an illusion, just him and these three strangers. Pink energy coalesced around Quentin's tightly clenched fist, resolving into the shape of a Browning semi-automatic. "I appreciate the change of scenery," he growled, raising the gun and staring down the barrel at the inhuman, the last one to speak. "I'd hate to be an angry radicalized loner school shooter cliche."
"Please, you're not even an interesting cliche." The punk had transitioned to an outcrop of stone without appearing to have moved, as if the illusion had taken a tiny slice of time with it. She raised her hands, fingers framed in an L-shape, isolating Quentin in a makeshift picture frame. "Poor little rich boy whose parents never gave him enough hugs, filling the void with shit-talking and blowjobs. So edgy, so original."
"But not enough." The creature was crouched behind him, half-hidden in a stand of wilting blossoms. Its voice was dry as paper. "Not enough to drag yourself down. You wanted to be a leader."
"A team leader, even," pointed out the collared man from where he lounged against a tree. "And why not? You're the most qualified, with your even temper and famously good judgment. Nobody else has ever paid for a call you made, right?"
"You're going to have to do better than this, Jim." Quentin lowered the shotgun, but then eight more sprouted from the ground like semiautomatic sunflowers and encircled him, aiming at and between the cardinal directions. "I've done plenty of dumb shit that's fucked over other people. You think I'm losing sleep about it? Do you forget I just don't care?"
****
Only years of practice that left Quentin with a liver that was mostly ethanol, anyway, kept him from stumbling back from Madin’s guest suite to his own room. He hadn’t stayed for much longer after the new arrival insisted they just wanted to get plastered, but there was a lot of gin in that short time.
He made it to his bed before he collapsed, letting out a little sound as his face hit the pillow.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He really should tell someone they had a Magneto acolyte in their midst.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He’d be hailed a hero if he uncovered an infiltration, stopped Xavier’s archenemy from undermining him.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He’d be vilified for invading the sanctity of someone’s mind without their consent, uncovered their secrets, put them on blast. Chuckles drew a line between freedom and security, and he was adamant an intrusion like this crossed it, so he and everyone else would make sure Quentin would suffer for the violation.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He’d stay on this side of the line, then, and keep Madin’s secret. It’s what Professor X would want.
****
From her position on the outcropping the woman snorted. "Oh, that's right. You don't care. Good thing, too. because now you've got yourself in a position where you're causing entire fuck-up cascades."
The collared man shrugged. "Inez? That was a normal job, you get a pass on that. But Alex, April, Madin -- hell, flooding NYC, a whole riot in District X -- that was all after you were begging Radha to choke you with her apron strings. That's on you."
"They still use that footage as proof mutants shouldn't be allowed to exist alongside normal humans," hissed the creature. "Too violent. Too dangerous. And you dare not say a word, because it was perpetrated by mutants. The truth is fuel for the bigots, and a knife in the back of the people you pretend to champion."
The punk leapt down from her perch and sauntered over to crouch near one of the shotguns ringing Quentin. "But it's all good, because you don't care. Not about yourself, or about anybody else. Right?"
"That's exactly right." Quentin's tone was performatively flat and he fought back a sneer as he raised the shotgun in his quivering hands again. "Mutantkind is safe for now. If I'd done nothing, if I'd let Radha and her Haven continue their plot to bring the Mahapralaya, you wouldn't even be here anymore. Xavier, Jr would be another smear on the wall, there wouldn't be enough left of him even to bury. So yeah, sure, my plans hurt a few assholes, but omelets, cracking eggs, that cliche. I planted a knife in the back of mutantkind? But only after pulling them out of the guillotine, the firing squad, and the gallows."
The pump of the shotgun echoed loudly across the empty psi-scape. "So you're welcome."
****
“I hope you understand why I’m doing this.” Quentin withdrew the psychic hypodermic needle from Abhay’s neck, which faded into pink smoke. The psychic sedative was already taking effect, and Abhay was fast asleep a few seconds later. Cruel and ghoulish, but it was the best way to ensure he could bypass his lover’s mental shields and take him out of play without harming him. He might have a hell of a headache when he woke up, but his mind would be intact.
Quentin searched for his discarded shirt and pants as he continued to monologue. “I don’t want to do this. But practically speaking, you’re an impediment, and I can’t have you calling down a hurricane or whatever when I expose your sister for the monster she is.”
He glanced at Abhay, naked and unconscious on his bed, but quickly turned away, as if he could not bear the sight. “And more importantly, I don’t want you to witness what I might have to do. Think me a monster, hear about it from everyone else, but please don’t actually see me.”
It was quiet outside, the calm before the storm. Quentin checked his hair in the mirror, sighed, and forced himself to look at Abhay one last time. “Please know that just like Radha, everything I do, I do for mutantkind.”
****
The entities regarded him with disdain, unharmed and unimpressed.
"Something something sound and fury, signifying nothing," said the girl, shaking her head. "Sad. Too desperate to be loved to go it alone, too scared to trust anyone who tries to get close. No wonder you'd rather throw a hand grenade into a relationship than let anybody see the real you. Why wouldn't they hate you just as much as you hate yourself?"
The collared man raised a patronizing hand. "But he's right. We should thank him. Without that introduction Haller would never have met Radha. He'd still be living his own small, pathetic existence, wasting his power cleaning up after people like you get done making your omelets. Trying to put minds back together like building and rebuilding the same sandcastles every time the tide rolls out. He was happy with that, fuck knows why. At least that's over now."
Fingers that were nothing more than exposed phalanges prickled Quentin's sternum. The humanoid was suddenly directly in front of him, staring into his eyes with empty sockets. It grinned at him with blood-smeared teeth.
"You, Quentin Quire," it rasped, "who admits to nothing, apologizes for nothing. You, who despise Xavier's teachings, yet crawled to one of his disciples when the weight of your mistakes became too much to deny. You came to him for help and he agreed, both of you pretending it wasn't just your own mess you were going to clean up. He followed you, no questions asked. He followed you, and was destroyed."
The creature laughed, wet and mocking.
"You say without you there wouldn't even have been enough of him left to bury? It's because of you that he's been ground to dust."
The ring of firearms retreated back into the ground, and the one in Quentin's hands vanished in a puff of pink mist that grew and spread through the psi-scape like the London fog. "I've had enough of this. You're all angry because you're all nothing. Like, literally nothing. Who even are you? Do you have names? Personalities? Any influence on Haller whatsoever? And look at you, you're a goddamn mess. You all look like you've been dating Jonathan Majors. And you're going to judge me? Nah, fuck you. Show me where the real Hallers are, not you also-rans. Where's goddamn Cyndi?"
He snapped his fingers and the mist cleared, revealing them to be at the edge of the mansion pool.
A muscle in the collared man's jaw twitched while the punk's face paled. For the first time it seemed as if something had struck a chord.
"She's--" the collared man began.
The punk whispered, "--in piece--"
The humanoid made a noise as harsh as a cracking whip. "That's not how this works," it hissed. "Demanding everything, paying for nothing. Taking, always taking." Tips of naked bone scraped his chest. "Frost and Haller burned their own memories for you. Love for people long gone from this world. What could you, hollow little man that you are, have to equal that?"
Quentin slapped the thing's hands away. "Don't kid yourself, they sacrificed part of themselves to imprison the Shadow King, an existential threat to all sapient life. They didn't do shit for me. So why should I give anything of my own to Haller?"
Because, regardless of his dismissal of these shades' taunts, they were right. Quentin had launched his plot against Radha without consulting anyone else, and when he belatedly realized he was in over his head, he'd urged Haller to help him fix things. Because he knew that goodie two-shoes would leap at the chance to intervene, save Quentin, and prove himself correct all along. Haven's rise and fall—and the fates of everyone trapped in the rubble of that fall—were the sole fault of Quentin.
But what did he even have to give? Though the details were still hidden from him, he knew Haller and Emma had transformed their deepest loves into the chains that shackled the Shadow King. But he didn't have that. Quentin's heart wasn't built to hold love.
****
It was 5:30 AM and the only sounds were the distant crashing of the waves and the mutters of the resort staff setting up the pool for another day. There had been noise on the balcony where Quentin and Gabriel were now lounging up until a few minutes ago, but they were quiet now. It was their final night in Sicily, after all, and they needed to get a little rest before they parted, Quentin back to New York and Gabriel to parts unknown.
Leaning into Gabriel's one-armed embrace, Quentin took a puff from the half-smoked joint then passed it over. A content sigh escaped his lips, not from the drugs or the post-coital clarity, but just . . . because.
Gabriel made a light noise to indicate gratitude. He shifted, as he took the joint, using one hand to bring it to his lips. His other hand was idly stroking the back of Quentin's neck, brushing his fingers against the nape. The waves, the weed, the wind. Their clothes strewn about. Quentin's leg draped over his. That particular kind of clamminess of their skin.
He had not been this calm in a long time, a feeling he knew he was probably projecting on some level. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said without really meaning to.
"I'm still raw that fucking Harry Styles won the Grammy for Album of the Year over literally every other nominee," Quentin replied after a moment of consideration. "Like, I'm used to the Academy snubbing Beyoncé all the time, but also Bad Bunny, Adele, or Brandi Carlisle? It's criminal." He paused, feeling something hidden inside him reveal itself, just a bit. "And also, you know, basic bitch as it is to come here because they filmed a silly television show here, I'm glad I did. With you. We should do it again, I've always wanted to go to Monaco."
"Yeah," Gabriel said without hesitating. "Or Capri." He handed the joint back, shifting slightly so his hand could trace Quentin's arm. "Or I'll take you to Mexico. Not Tulum or Cancun, but some sleepier beach town. I know a few."
Quentin ran his fingers over Gabriel's thigh, not realizing he was exactly mimicking the other man's movements, then smiled and leaned over to gently kiss the valley between Gabriel's pectorals. "Yeah, I'd like that. Always wanted to live an Alfonso Cuarón fantasy." The hidden inference of the suggestion was not lost on Quentin—not just the privacy and seclusion of the middle of nowhere, but in Mexico of all places, that sacred land to Gabriel that held an exclusive place in his heart.
"The way I know you're thinking of that threesome more than anything else." Gabriel chuckled. It was a gentle tease. He was quiet, letting himself be lulled into silence by the waves for a bit. "This is a pretty good fantasy," he said. Then he gently put two fingers under Quentin's chin, tilting him to a better angle, and kissed him softly.
A fantasy that a decade ago, Quentin could never have indulged. A night like this, a week like this, was never an option until he met Gabriel. So here they were now, student and dropout, detective and spy, psychic and speedster. Mutants. Resisters. Survivors. Companions. Another word danced on Quentin's tongue, but he held it back, terrified saying it out loud would make it real, which meant it could be razed and wiped out with finality. He had beaten death once before, but he could never endure this loss.
Yet even without traipsing through Gabriel's mind to confirm, he still knew in his heart that the feeling was mutual.
****
Which is why he'd had to forge himself a new heart.
"But once again, you, like everyone else, underestimate me. Your boy isn't the only one who is legion. I need to give up something precious to save him? Fine, I have plenty."
The creature watched him in silence. Whatever worked behind its hollow eyes seemed to gather him up, turning Quentin this way and that as if it sought to take his measure. Studying him. Judging him.
It took one step back, then another.
"No,” it said, “you don't."
The collared man shook his head. "We won't steal the few you do."
"You got us," said the punk with a wry smile. In the expression was a hint of something familiar – and an offering.
"You win, Quentin Quire."
****
He returned his phone to his pocket with a sigh. That had been a painful email, but he'd had to tell someone. Jean had more than enough on her plate, and he wasn't sure Emma was even in the country at the moment, but this could go too wrong without making sure at least one other psi knew what was happening. If their plan didn't pan out or something happened on the astral plane there would be someone out there who knew what to look for. So, Charles it was.
Frankly Haller didn't have the bandwidth to sort out who else, if anyone, he should tell about Quentin's involvement with Radha. The younger man had ceased to be a student long ago, and it wasn't as if Quentin were an X-Man. Whose permission did he need to use his powers, and who actually had the authority to tell him otherwise? Haller didn't know, and right now he didn't care. Something about a mutant terrorist in control of her own personal sub-dimension was narrowing his focus.
"Oof, you look absolutely buried in your thoughts," a cheerful, familiar voice cut helpfully through Haller's internal rationalizing. The older, blonde man who had appeared in the hallway outside of the X-Factor office didn't seem burdened by the same vibes. Same typical smile, same upbeat energy. Same Arthur energy. Then again, good masks were a lot like lies — the best ones contained a bit of truth and were refined with practice. "Can I help with any of that load?"
The other man gave him a tired smile. "I just had to give my father a head's up that if anything weird happens on the astral plane in the next few days it's probably because one of our ex-students decided to make his own addition, then gave the spare key to the leader of an apocalyptic cult. So."
"Was that something covered in the Xavier syllabus? Or was it an independent study?" It was a joke meant to disarm, and the softness of Arthur's smile added some kindness to the jab. "Quentin is always more considerate than we give him credit for or he pretends."
"Quentin likes to set people's expectations of him as low as possible. Making everyone think he’s terrible means they never have the chance to reach that conclusion on their own. He’s a good person. Better than he believes he is, I think.” Haller dragged a hand through his hair. "All he wants is to build something good. I believe that. But his frustration with the mansion, the situation with Madin . . . he jumped at the first viable alternative. I guess I can't blame him. At least some of what Radha offers is real. I ignored the red flags, too. If I'd followed my instincts maybe District X would still be in one piece and Alex and April wouldn't be dealing with the consequences."
"We can't know for sure," Arthur replied hesitantly. He shifted on his feet a little, underscoring the elephant in the room nicely. "You didn't mention what we saw to the group. Do you think you chose wrong?"
Haller folded his arms, staring at the tiles. Then he shook his head. "No," he said at last. "Not with the options available at the time. One of me was wearing leathers, the other wasn't. Deploy with the team or not, right? I thought it was because I would do something in the field, it's happened before, but now I think maybe it was so I'd be here for this." He shifted his gaze back to Arthur and gave him a crooked smile. "Of course, even if I'm interpreting this correctly 'a better outcome' doesn't necessarily mean 'we win'. If that was precognition then it's notoriously unreliable. There's no reason to put it on Quentin. Ultimately it doesn't affect our strategy either way."
"You're right." Arthur didn't elaborate on what, exactly, but he visibly slumped. It could have been relief or exhaustion. "My powers in the past have always worked better the less I consider them, so it makes sense that this might be the same. The plan forward sounds extremely impressive. Like a solid summer thriller."
"After this maybe you can teach me how to get into that headspace. If there's one thing I've never been accused of, it's spending too little time thinking about my powers." Haller smiled at the blond again, now more genuinely. "This'll be a good test case, though. If Hope and I pull this off we'll have as close to empirical evidence as we're likely to get that you can read forward as well as back. It'll give us another data point."
This got a chuckle. "At this point, me trying to help you into any sort of headspace will likely unlock a third, secret power."
Haller snorted. "Good point. We should leave well enough alone before you somehow become the world-mind." He hesitated for a moment.
"I do have a favor to ask."
"Anything I can do." Arthur's suddenly serious look underscored this was an offer, not a follow-up question.
"Could you . . . watch my back, I guess?" Subconsciously, the psi massaged the old scars that distorted the back of one hand. "I don't know what kind of price that reading was implying, but the first time I used my powers in a unified way I took out half my own team. Things can happen. I'd feel better if there was someone keeping an eye on me." Haller gave Arthur another tired smile. "As long as you don't mind being on lucky charm duty, anyway."
"David." Arthur crossed the remaining distance between the two of them to ensure that the other man could see his face straight on. "That's what I do. My power is a shield for everyone I want to protect, and you're part of that group. You'll have luck on your side."
Haller met his gaze. There was a calm there, just as there had been when Arthur had done his read. It was a sensation the man seemed to bring with him. Maybe it came from the certainty of knowing your place in the universe, or maybe it was simply Arthur. Either way, Haller felt just a little of his anxiety ease. He smiled.
"I'm still a little scrambled," Haller said, "so I'm caught between a bro hug or an awkward fist bump. I'll just say I appreciate it." He thought back to Radha's cold, fathomless eyes.
"We're going to need it."
****
The three figures were gone, replaced by two.
One was a young boy with blue eyes and dark hair, round-faced and pale with pain. There was some similarity, but he was very clearly distinct from David Haller. He was crouched next to the other figure: a girl in her mid-teens, face studded with metal and barely clinging to life.
Davey was injured, missing patches of dermis and even flesh, but Cyndi had been nearly torn apart. A massive rent had been opened down her torso to expose muscle and bone; one leg was nearly hanging off. Psychic trauma writ in physical injury.
Though there was no need to breathe in the astral plane, Quentin still found himself releasing a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding in. The three little demons were gone, and his scrupulously cultivated and safeguarded heart remained intact and his own. He could have sobbed in relief, and he would have if not for the new visitors. Instead, he steeled himself and slowly approached them, only stopping once he recognized one of them.
"You must be Cyndi. Wow. You look . . . fucked."
"It's because she was strong. She used to be a lot of other people." The child alter looked up at Quentin with red-rimmed eyes. "Are you here to help us?"
"I'm here to find you and bring you back," Quentin answered hesitantly, unsure if he was speaking to an actual child or Haller's variant of the children of the corn. Help them, though? That was Jean's and Xavier's job, not his. He knew his standing in the scheme of telepaths, and he was bottom of the healer list. But he couldn't leave them like this. Any delay and surely they would be lost. "Um, maybe I can . . ."
He knelt next to Cyndi and tenderly reached out with his mind. The three phantoms had read him severely, and nearly guilted him into giving up something precious for Haller. But what if he didn't have to give it up? What if he could take his heart in his hands and harness it to heal, and still keep it for himself in the end?
"If you tell anyone about this, I'm gonna do this to you IRL," he said softly as he conjured the memories again and offered them freely to Cyndi.
The memories reshaped themselves of their own accord as they settled across the alter, but not as restraints. Rather than chains they became field dressings: a tourniquet for the leg, sponges and gauze for the chest. A far cry from psychic surgery, perhaps, but structures sufficient to staunch the bleeding. As the bandages took shape what remained of the pyrokinetic stirred. Green eyes opened.
"Who . . . " Her unfocused gaze skittered across Quentin's face. Any recognition was dulled by pain, but nor did she move to repel him.
"Oh," she mumbled, "my prince finally came, huh?"
"No, you're gonna have to wait until after dark for me to come." Quentin turned to Davey, hoping the blue remark went over his head, and offered a hand. Less physically affectionate, this part of his heart, but no less meaningful. "This is all I got to give. I'm just supposed to find you and lure you out. Jean and Daddy are the actual doctors."
The hand went un-taken. Instead, two skinny arms flung themselves around Quentin's waist as the child collapsed into him.
"I'm sorry," Davey choked as he buried his face in Quentin's chest. "We were scared and -- I-I couldn't stop them. I'm sorry."
The child's impact nearly bowled Quentin over, and for a good minute, he did not know how to react. His first instinct was to shove the urchin off him, but that seemed ill-advised. Was the kid expecting a hug in return? A reassuring pat on the head? A puppy? Ultimately, Quentin decided on the first option, the equivalent of a middle school dance: gentle touches, leaving room between them for Jesus.
"Yeah, don't uh . . . don't worry about it. We should go find Hope and get you guys put back together."
The wave delivered Quentin directly into a row of lockers, spine-first.
The hallway had just enough personal touches to identify it as something more than a boilerplate set for a high school drama as depicted by thirty year old actors. A familiar school mascot had been painted on the walls, and professionally printed club posters adorned a bulletin board. Geography muddled with dream-logic, the door of a particular classroom stood out of place.
The tide receded with a sound like half-heard jeers.
The custom-made and tailored suit Quentin had been wearing was gone, replaced with the sample and unflattering black slacks and sport coat of the Van Wyck Prep School uniform, adorned with epaulets and assorted gold chains and jewels. He groaned as he stood up, then again when he noticed his outfit.
"Ugh, Jimothy, stop fucking around," he censured the invisible ghosts of Haller's system. "I'm 26. We're not doing the high school thing again. Unless this is a fetish of yours, but then I'm missing the skirt."
"Thought you'd like the chance to reexamine the life choices . . ."
". . . that led you to simp a cult-leader. Of course . . ."
". . . why would you start learning from your mistakes now?"
The prep school facade peeled away to reveal the familiar paradise of Haven, but -- off. The golden fruits that hung from the trees were bruised and overripe, the crystal-clear waters of Radha's springs choked with algae. The climate, always perfect, was flat and stale. Even the trill of birdsong held a discordant note.
Three figures ringed him, none of them familiar. One was a young man with dark hair and a collar around his throat, another a blue-skinned woman with a wild white mohawk, and the third a pale, hairless creature, gaunt and sexless.
All three were wounded. The injuries appeared random, as if pieces of their bodies had been gouged away at random, but they held themselves with purpose – and hostility.
The woman raised her hands in a sarcastic clap.
"Gotta hand it to you," she said, "Not many people can fuck up a whole paradise, but you pulled it off. You--"
"--don't just lack the vision to build that mutant promised land you talk about," continued the collared man, "you're so desperate to prove how much smarter you are than Xavier you go all-in for the first person to flatter your ego. And now that it's blown up in your face all you have to show for it--"
"--is this sad souvenir of a greater woman's aspirations, rotting in your spoiled heart," rasped the creature.
But tell me more about how we'll create the mutant Promised Land.
The Haven in Radha Dastoor’s heart would be what saved mutantkind from its annihilation at the hands of the humans. Or it could be, if Quentin could anchor it to the limitless potential of the astral plane.
It was a complicated project fraught with danger, not something that most telepaths could do. He’d go so far as to say that there were fewer than half a dozen psychics with that talent, and he was the only one with the resolve to do it and face the risk of his mind being torn apart by the energies he sought to harness. Only he had been called to build the ark.
He had no doubt that what Radha was building was imperative to mutantkind’s survival. The humans would come for them some day. And when that day came, mutants could fight and die or they could be raptured and live in peace. Let the flatscans destroy their world while mutants flourished in paradise.
But what would it mean to give one mutant dominion over the rest of mutantkind, even if it were for the sake of their survival? So many mutants had already ceded control of their destinies to Xavier or Magneto. Would Radha be any better? Sure, she had shown that she could build a microcosm of a world of shared responsibility. But when Mahapralaya came, would the altruism survive? Would her heart be forever open to all mutants?
Of course it would. Right?
Maybe, for the sake of mutantkind, he would hide a little insurance. He would grant Radha the apotheosis only he could bestow, but that also meant he could take it away.
Quentin's heart nearly leaped out of his chest. Had he been pulled into the actual spiritual Haven? He frantically looked around for a vengeful Radha, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was all an illusion, just him and these three strangers. Pink energy coalesced around Quentin's tightly clenched fist, resolving into the shape of a Browning semi-automatic. "I appreciate the change of scenery," he growled, raising the gun and staring down the barrel at the inhuman, the last one to speak. "I'd hate to be an angry radicalized loner school shooter cliche."
"Please, you're not even an interesting cliche." The punk had transitioned to an outcrop of stone without appearing to have moved, as if the illusion had taken a tiny slice of time with it. She raised her hands, fingers framed in an L-shape, isolating Quentin in a makeshift picture frame. "Poor little rich boy whose parents never gave him enough hugs, filling the void with shit-talking and blowjobs. So edgy, so original."
"But not enough." The creature was crouched behind him, half-hidden in a stand of wilting blossoms. Its voice was dry as paper. "Not enough to drag yourself down. You wanted to be a leader."
"A team leader, even," pointed out the collared man from where he lounged against a tree. "And why not? You're the most qualified, with your even temper and famously good judgment. Nobody else has ever paid for a call you made, right?"
"You're going to have to do better than this, Jim." Quentin lowered the shotgun, but then eight more sprouted from the ground like semiautomatic sunflowers and encircled him, aiming at and between the cardinal directions. "I've done plenty of dumb shit that's fucked over other people. You think I'm losing sleep about it? Do you forget I just don't care?"
Only years of practice that left Quentin with a liver that was mostly ethanol, anyway, kept him from stumbling back from Madin’s guest suite to his own room. He hadn’t stayed for much longer after the new arrival insisted they just wanted to get plastered, but there was a lot of gin in that short time.
He made it to his bed before he collapsed, letting out a little sound as his face hit the pillow.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He really should tell someone they had a Magneto acolyte in their midst.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He’d be hailed a hero if he uncovered an infiltration, stopped Xavier’s archenemy from undermining him.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He’d be vilified for invading the sanctity of someone’s mind without their consent, uncovered their secrets, put them on blast. Chuckles drew a line between freedom and security, and he was adamant an intrusion like this crossed it, so he and everyone else would make sure Quentin would suffer for the violation.
The Brotherhood taught me shit.
He’d stay on this side of the line, then, and keep Madin’s secret. It’s what Professor X would want.
From her position on the outcropping the woman snorted. "Oh, that's right. You don't care. Good thing, too. because now you've got yourself in a position where you're causing entire fuck-up cascades."
The collared man shrugged. "Inez? That was a normal job, you get a pass on that. But Alex, April, Madin -- hell, flooding NYC, a whole riot in District X -- that was all after you were begging Radha to choke you with her apron strings. That's on you."
"They still use that footage as proof mutants shouldn't be allowed to exist alongside normal humans," hissed the creature. "Too violent. Too dangerous. And you dare not say a word, because it was perpetrated by mutants. The truth is fuel for the bigots, and a knife in the back of the people you pretend to champion."
The punk leapt down from her perch and sauntered over to crouch near one of the shotguns ringing Quentin. "But it's all good, because you don't care. Not about yourself, or about anybody else. Right?"
"That's exactly right." Quentin's tone was performatively flat and he fought back a sneer as he raised the shotgun in his quivering hands again. "Mutantkind is safe for now. If I'd done nothing, if I'd let Radha and her Haven continue their plot to bring the Mahapralaya, you wouldn't even be here anymore. Xavier, Jr would be another smear on the wall, there wouldn't be enough left of him even to bury. So yeah, sure, my plans hurt a few assholes, but omelets, cracking eggs, that cliche. I planted a knife in the back of mutantkind? But only after pulling them out of the guillotine, the firing squad, and the gallows."
The pump of the shotgun echoed loudly across the empty psi-scape. "So you're welcome."
“I hope you understand why I’m doing this.” Quentin withdrew the psychic hypodermic needle from Abhay’s neck, which faded into pink smoke. The psychic sedative was already taking effect, and Abhay was fast asleep a few seconds later. Cruel and ghoulish, but it was the best way to ensure he could bypass his lover’s mental shields and take him out of play without harming him. He might have a hell of a headache when he woke up, but his mind would be intact.
Quentin searched for his discarded shirt and pants as he continued to monologue. “I don’t want to do this. But practically speaking, you’re an impediment, and I can’t have you calling down a hurricane or whatever when I expose your sister for the monster she is.”
He glanced at Abhay, naked and unconscious on his bed, but quickly turned away, as if he could not bear the sight. “And more importantly, I don’t want you to witness what I might have to do. Think me a monster, hear about it from everyone else, but please don’t actually see me.”
It was quiet outside, the calm before the storm. Quentin checked his hair in the mirror, sighed, and forced himself to look at Abhay one last time. “Please know that just like Radha, everything I do, I do for mutantkind.”
The entities regarded him with disdain, unharmed and unimpressed.
"Something something sound and fury, signifying nothing," said the girl, shaking her head. "Sad. Too desperate to be loved to go it alone, too scared to trust anyone who tries to get close. No wonder you'd rather throw a hand grenade into a relationship than let anybody see the real you. Why wouldn't they hate you just as much as you hate yourself?"
The collared man raised a patronizing hand. "But he's right. We should thank him. Without that introduction Haller would never have met Radha. He'd still be living his own small, pathetic existence, wasting his power cleaning up after people like you get done making your omelets. Trying to put minds back together like building and rebuilding the same sandcastles every time the tide rolls out. He was happy with that, fuck knows why. At least that's over now."
Fingers that were nothing more than exposed phalanges prickled Quentin's sternum. The humanoid was suddenly directly in front of him, staring into his eyes with empty sockets. It grinned at him with blood-smeared teeth.
"You, Quentin Quire," it rasped, "who admits to nothing, apologizes for nothing. You, who despise Xavier's teachings, yet crawled to one of his disciples when the weight of your mistakes became too much to deny. You came to him for help and he agreed, both of you pretending it wasn't just your own mess you were going to clean up. He followed you, no questions asked. He followed you, and was destroyed."
The creature laughed, wet and mocking.
"You say without you there wouldn't even have been enough of him left to bury? It's because of you that he's been ground to dust."
The ring of firearms retreated back into the ground, and the one in Quentin's hands vanished in a puff of pink mist that grew and spread through the psi-scape like the London fog. "I've had enough of this. You're all angry because you're all nothing. Like, literally nothing. Who even are you? Do you have names? Personalities? Any influence on Haller whatsoever? And look at you, you're a goddamn mess. You all look like you've been dating Jonathan Majors. And you're going to judge me? Nah, fuck you. Show me where the real Hallers are, not you also-rans. Where's goddamn Cyndi?"
He snapped his fingers and the mist cleared, revealing them to be at the edge of the mansion pool.
A muscle in the collared man's jaw twitched while the punk's face paled. For the first time it seemed as if something had struck a chord.
"She's--" the collared man began.
The punk whispered, "--in piece--"
The humanoid made a noise as harsh as a cracking whip. "That's not how this works," it hissed. "Demanding everything, paying for nothing. Taking, always taking." Tips of naked bone scraped his chest. "Frost and Haller burned their own memories for you. Love for people long gone from this world. What could you, hollow little man that you are, have to equal that?"
Quentin slapped the thing's hands away. "Don't kid yourself, they sacrificed part of themselves to imprison the Shadow King, an existential threat to all sapient life. They didn't do shit for me. So why should I give anything of my own to Haller?"
Because, regardless of his dismissal of these shades' taunts, they were right. Quentin had launched his plot against Radha without consulting anyone else, and when he belatedly realized he was in over his head, he'd urged Haller to help him fix things. Because he knew that goodie two-shoes would leap at the chance to intervene, save Quentin, and prove himself correct all along. Haven's rise and fall—and the fates of everyone trapped in the rubble of that fall—were the sole fault of Quentin.
But what did he even have to give? Though the details were still hidden from him, he knew Haller and Emma had transformed their deepest loves into the chains that shackled the Shadow King. But he didn't have that. Quentin's heart wasn't built to hold love.
It was 5:30 AM and the only sounds were the distant crashing of the waves and the mutters of the resort staff setting up the pool for another day. There had been noise on the balcony where Quentin and Gabriel were now lounging up until a few minutes ago, but they were quiet now. It was their final night in Sicily, after all, and they needed to get a little rest before they parted, Quentin back to New York and Gabriel to parts unknown.
Leaning into Gabriel's one-armed embrace, Quentin took a puff from the half-smoked joint then passed it over. A content sigh escaped his lips, not from the drugs or the post-coital clarity, but just . . . because.
Gabriel made a light noise to indicate gratitude. He shifted, as he took the joint, using one hand to bring it to his lips. His other hand was idly stroking the back of Quentin's neck, brushing his fingers against the nape. The waves, the weed, the wind. Their clothes strewn about. Quentin's leg draped over his. That particular kind of clamminess of their skin.
He had not been this calm in a long time, a feeling he knew he was probably projecting on some level. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said without really meaning to.
"I'm still raw that fucking Harry Styles won the Grammy for Album of the Year over literally every other nominee," Quentin replied after a moment of consideration. "Like, I'm used to the Academy snubbing Beyoncé all the time, but also Bad Bunny, Adele, or Brandi Carlisle? It's criminal." He paused, feeling something hidden inside him reveal itself, just a bit. "And also, you know, basic bitch as it is to come here because they filmed a silly television show here, I'm glad I did. With you. We should do it again, I've always wanted to go to Monaco."
"Yeah," Gabriel said without hesitating. "Or Capri." He handed the joint back, shifting slightly so his hand could trace Quentin's arm. "Or I'll take you to Mexico. Not Tulum or Cancun, but some sleepier beach town. I know a few."
Quentin ran his fingers over Gabriel's thigh, not realizing he was exactly mimicking the other man's movements, then smiled and leaned over to gently kiss the valley between Gabriel's pectorals. "Yeah, I'd like that. Always wanted to live an Alfonso Cuarón fantasy." The hidden inference of the suggestion was not lost on Quentin—not just the privacy and seclusion of the middle of nowhere, but in Mexico of all places, that sacred land to Gabriel that held an exclusive place in his heart.
"The way I know you're thinking of that threesome more than anything else." Gabriel chuckled. It was a gentle tease. He was quiet, letting himself be lulled into silence by the waves for a bit. "This is a pretty good fantasy," he said. Then he gently put two fingers under Quentin's chin, tilting him to a better angle, and kissed him softly.
A fantasy that a decade ago, Quentin could never have indulged. A night like this, a week like this, was never an option until he met Gabriel. So here they were now, student and dropout, detective and spy, psychic and speedster. Mutants. Resisters. Survivors. Companions. Another word danced on Quentin's tongue, but he held it back, terrified saying it out loud would make it real, which meant it could be razed and wiped out with finality. He had beaten death once before, but he could never endure this loss.
Yet even without traipsing through Gabriel's mind to confirm, he still knew in his heart that the feeling was mutual.
Which is why he'd had to forge himself a new heart.
"But once again, you, like everyone else, underestimate me. Your boy isn't the only one who is legion. I need to give up something precious to save him? Fine, I have plenty."
The creature watched him in silence. Whatever worked behind its hollow eyes seemed to gather him up, turning Quentin this way and that as if it sought to take his measure. Studying him. Judging him.
It took one step back, then another.
"No,” it said, “you don't."
The collared man shook his head. "We won't steal the few you do."
"You got us," said the punk with a wry smile. In the expression was a hint of something familiar – and an offering.
"You win, Quentin Quire."
He returned his phone to his pocket with a sigh. That had been a painful email, but he'd had to tell someone. Jean had more than enough on her plate, and he wasn't sure Emma was even in the country at the moment, but this could go too wrong without making sure at least one other psi knew what was happening. If their plan didn't pan out or something happened on the astral plane there would be someone out there who knew what to look for. So, Charles it was.
Frankly Haller didn't have the bandwidth to sort out who else, if anyone, he should tell about Quentin's involvement with Radha. The younger man had ceased to be a student long ago, and it wasn't as if Quentin were an X-Man. Whose permission did he need to use his powers, and who actually had the authority to tell him otherwise? Haller didn't know, and right now he didn't care. Something about a mutant terrorist in control of her own personal sub-dimension was narrowing his focus.
"Oof, you look absolutely buried in your thoughts," a cheerful, familiar voice cut helpfully through Haller's internal rationalizing. The older, blonde man who had appeared in the hallway outside of the X-Factor office didn't seem burdened by the same vibes. Same typical smile, same upbeat energy. Same Arthur energy. Then again, good masks were a lot like lies — the best ones contained a bit of truth and were refined with practice. "Can I help with any of that load?"
The other man gave him a tired smile. "I just had to give my father a head's up that if anything weird happens on the astral plane in the next few days it's probably because one of our ex-students decided to make his own addition, then gave the spare key to the leader of an apocalyptic cult. So."
"Was that something covered in the Xavier syllabus? Or was it an independent study?" It was a joke meant to disarm, and the softness of Arthur's smile added some kindness to the jab. "Quentin is always more considerate than we give him credit for or he pretends."
"Quentin likes to set people's expectations of him as low as possible. Making everyone think he’s terrible means they never have the chance to reach that conclusion on their own. He’s a good person. Better than he believes he is, I think.” Haller dragged a hand through his hair. "All he wants is to build something good. I believe that. But his frustration with the mansion, the situation with Madin . . . he jumped at the first viable alternative. I guess I can't blame him. At least some of what Radha offers is real. I ignored the red flags, too. If I'd followed my instincts maybe District X would still be in one piece and Alex and April wouldn't be dealing with the consequences."
"We can't know for sure," Arthur replied hesitantly. He shifted on his feet a little, underscoring the elephant in the room nicely. "You didn't mention what we saw to the group. Do you think you chose wrong?"
Haller folded his arms, staring at the tiles. Then he shook his head. "No," he said at last. "Not with the options available at the time. One of me was wearing leathers, the other wasn't. Deploy with the team or not, right? I thought it was because I would do something in the field, it's happened before, but now I think maybe it was so I'd be here for this." He shifted his gaze back to Arthur and gave him a crooked smile. "Of course, even if I'm interpreting this correctly 'a better outcome' doesn't necessarily mean 'we win'. If that was precognition then it's notoriously unreliable. There's no reason to put it on Quentin. Ultimately it doesn't affect our strategy either way."
"You're right." Arthur didn't elaborate on what, exactly, but he visibly slumped. It could have been relief or exhaustion. "My powers in the past have always worked better the less I consider them, so it makes sense that this might be the same. The plan forward sounds extremely impressive. Like a solid summer thriller."
"After this maybe you can teach me how to get into that headspace. If there's one thing I've never been accused of, it's spending too little time thinking about my powers." Haller smiled at the blond again, now more genuinely. "This'll be a good test case, though. If Hope and I pull this off we'll have as close to empirical evidence as we're likely to get that you can read forward as well as back. It'll give us another data point."
This got a chuckle. "At this point, me trying to help you into any sort of headspace will likely unlock a third, secret power."
Haller snorted. "Good point. We should leave well enough alone before you somehow become the world-mind." He hesitated for a moment.
"I do have a favor to ask."
"Anything I can do." Arthur's suddenly serious look underscored this was an offer, not a follow-up question.
"Could you . . . watch my back, I guess?" Subconsciously, the psi massaged the old scars that distorted the back of one hand. "I don't know what kind of price that reading was implying, but the first time I used my powers in a unified way I took out half my own team. Things can happen. I'd feel better if there was someone keeping an eye on me." Haller gave Arthur another tired smile. "As long as you don't mind being on lucky charm duty, anyway."
"David." Arthur crossed the remaining distance between the two of them to ensure that the other man could see his face straight on. "That's what I do. My power is a shield for everyone I want to protect, and you're part of that group. You'll have luck on your side."
Haller met his gaze. There was a calm there, just as there had been when Arthur had done his read. It was a sensation the man seemed to bring with him. Maybe it came from the certainty of knowing your place in the universe, or maybe it was simply Arthur. Either way, Haller felt just a little of his anxiety ease. He smiled.
"I'm still a little scrambled," Haller said, "so I'm caught between a bro hug or an awkward fist bump. I'll just say I appreciate it." He thought back to Radha's cold, fathomless eyes.
"We're going to need it."
The three figures were gone, replaced by two.
One was a young boy with blue eyes and dark hair, round-faced and pale with pain. There was some similarity, but he was very clearly distinct from David Haller. He was crouched next to the other figure: a girl in her mid-teens, face studded with metal and barely clinging to life.
Davey was injured, missing patches of dermis and even flesh, but Cyndi had been nearly torn apart. A massive rent had been opened down her torso to expose muscle and bone; one leg was nearly hanging off. Psychic trauma writ in physical injury.
Though there was no need to breathe in the astral plane, Quentin still found himself releasing a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding in. The three little demons were gone, and his scrupulously cultivated and safeguarded heart remained intact and his own. He could have sobbed in relief, and he would have if not for the new visitors. Instead, he steeled himself and slowly approached them, only stopping once he recognized one of them.
"You must be Cyndi. Wow. You look . . . fucked."
"It's because she was strong. She used to be a lot of other people." The child alter looked up at Quentin with red-rimmed eyes. "Are you here to help us?"
"I'm here to find you and bring you back," Quentin answered hesitantly, unsure if he was speaking to an actual child or Haller's variant of the children of the corn. Help them, though? That was Jean's and Xavier's job, not his. He knew his standing in the scheme of telepaths, and he was bottom of the healer list. But he couldn't leave them like this. Any delay and surely they would be lost. "Um, maybe I can . . ."
He knelt next to Cyndi and tenderly reached out with his mind. The three phantoms had read him severely, and nearly guilted him into giving up something precious for Haller. But what if he didn't have to give it up? What if he could take his heart in his hands and harness it to heal, and still keep it for himself in the end?
"If you tell anyone about this, I'm gonna do this to you IRL," he said softly as he conjured the memories again and offered them freely to Cyndi.
The memories reshaped themselves of their own accord as they settled across the alter, but not as restraints. Rather than chains they became field dressings: a tourniquet for the leg, sponges and gauze for the chest. A far cry from psychic surgery, perhaps, but structures sufficient to staunch the bleeding. As the bandages took shape what remained of the pyrokinetic stirred. Green eyes opened.
"Who . . . " Her unfocused gaze skittered across Quentin's face. Any recognition was dulled by pain, but nor did she move to repel him.
"Oh," she mumbled, "my prince finally came, huh?"
"No, you're gonna have to wait until after dark for me to come." Quentin turned to Davey, hoping the blue remark went over his head, and offered a hand. Less physically affectionate, this part of his heart, but no less meaningful. "This is all I got to give. I'm just supposed to find you and lure you out. Jean and Daddy are the actual doctors."
The hand went un-taken. Instead, two skinny arms flung themselves around Quentin's waist as the child collapsed into him.
"I'm sorry," Davey choked as he buried his face in Quentin's chest. "We were scared and -- I-I couldn't stop them. I'm sorry."
The child's impact nearly bowled Quentin over, and for a good minute, he did not know how to react. His first instinct was to shove the urchin off him, but that seemed ill-advised. Was the kid expecting a hug in return? A reassuring pat on the head? A puppy? Ultimately, Quentin decided on the first option, the equivalent of a middle school dance: gentle touches, leaving room between them for Jesus.
"Yeah, don't uh . . . don't worry about it. We should go find Hope and get you guys put back together."
