xp_logs | Nathan and Cain, Monday evening

A few hours after watching the memorial, Nathan heads down to the boathouse to visit Cain. Talking about the events of the day and the problems Nathan's been having in training leads to... well, a screaming match on Cain's mindscape. Yeah. But it's a productive screaming match! Complete with semi-affectionate death threats, a 'my angry God beats your 2.5 million pissy ghosts' discussion, and a surprising amount of resolution. Oh, and Cain decides he can walk. Lots of fun.

No one but Cain in the boathouse - his telepathy might be all over the place this afternoon, but he could tell that much. It had been a good thought to come out here, Nathan thought feebly, knocking on the door and waiting to hear what might have been 'Come in' before he opened it.

"Please tell me you don't have that damned memorial on," he said hoarsely, stepping in. His hands were still shaking, so he shoved them into his pockets as soon as he had the door closed.

Cain sat up, glancing over at the tv. "Nope," he grumbled, words still slurred by the partial paralysis. "'s depress'n. Seen... too much o' that shit. 'manda's on TV, though. Kid... cleans up... nice." With a grunt, Cain managed to force himself to turn, draping his legs off the edge of the bed and sitting up to face Nathan. "Hey," he said with what passed for a grin with only half his mouth moving. "sitt'n' up. S'new."

Nathan managed a wan smile. "Verticality - what a concept, huh?" His eyes flickered nervously over the living room before they came back to rest on Cain. "Need anything? Something to drink?" Distraction, happy distraction... don't think about Amanda's speech.

"Way 'head ..." Cain reached over to his nightstand. A large can of beer was opened, and amusingly enough, a fluorescent green curly straw was inserted in the top. Cain raised it and took a long draw through the straw. "Don' laugh," he said when he saw Nate's look. "'s Remy's fault."

"I could come to appreciate Remy's sense of humor, I think." Nathan reminded himself that he was sort of standing in the middle of the room, probably looking something of an idiot. Swallowing, he came over and sat down in the chair next to the bed, trying to make the smile a little more convincing. "Sorry I didn't stop by this weekend. Stuff piled up. Did I mention I'm insane for teaching six classes this term? We won't even talk about the damned training..."

"Trainin' f'r what?" Cain replied, "Bein' a tacklin' dummy? Y' look like shit." He nodded his head at Nate. "Doc Bartlet's been bitchin'. Y'ask me, y'r bein' a dumbass. Siddown 'n' have a beer."

"I don't think I should be drinking today." Nathan shifted uneasily, wondering just how many other people Madelyn had been bitching to about his misadventures in the Danger Room. He couldn't get particularly exercised about it, though. Not today. "But yeah. Dumbass is a good word, I think. I need a button. Or a t-shirt. 'Hello, I'm a dumbass'." He clamped his jaw shut. Babbling was bad.

Cain waggled a finger. "Self-pity don' suit y'. Need to get y'r head in th' game. Relax. Just 'cause Doc Mo'ra ain' here t' fix y' up, it don' mean y' need t' beat y'rself up more t' ov'rcomp'nsate." He squinted, seeing the bruises still evident on Nathan's arm. The way the guy was moving, he had to be in some serious pain.

"Y' wanna be an X-Man, huh? 'S what y'r made for? Quit try'n so hard, then."

"I don't know any other way to try," Nathan said, some of the exhaustion creeping into his voice. "As for what I'm made for, that's the problem, isn't it?" He stared bleakly at the television, not seeing the innocuous sports news show that Cain had on there right now, but Amanda giving her speech at the memorial.

Yes, the people who did this terrible thing six months ago today, they were mutants. But that wasn't why they did what they did. They did it 'cause they were full of hate, because they enjoyed hurtin' an' killin' an' destroyin'...

She couldn't have told the truth, he knew that, but to have gotten up there and said that? When she knew... Nathan closed his eyes. He was going to have to let this go, he knew, so that he could tell her when she got back what a wonderful speech she'd given. And she had, it was just...

"Hey!" Cain barked, "you done beat'n y'rself up? B'cause there's a whole 'spensive gym for that if y'r lookin' t' punish y'rself. Sure Hari would love gettin' s'more shots in." He rolled his eyes and reached over for the crutches that leaned against the bed. Positioning them under his arms, Cain rolled his upper body forward, balancing like a tripod against the crutches. Painstakingly dragging his legs awkwardly forward, he managed to turn around and slump down into one of the padded chairs to face Nathan more directly.

"If y'ain't figg'red it out yet," he chided, "y'r a profesh'nal. Them? Amateurs. Problem with that is, y' tend t' overthink. Y' dwell on shit. Like college thing." He indicated the TV. "Fuckers came f'r y', y' killed 'em. Bad day, fuck it. Few weeks 'go? Y' saved my life. Good day. Quit thinkin' 'bout it."

Nathan watched Cain move himself from the bed to the chair, waiting until the impromptu lecture was done before he said anything. "That simple, huh? Quit thinking about it..." His eyes went back to the TV, absently rubbing at the wrist that had been broken on that day six months ago. It still tended to stiffen up faster than it should. "I'm just tired," he muttered finally, when Cain didn't say anything. "Haven't been sleeping properly, on top of getting the crap beaten out of me on a regular basis... I just can't get it out of my head." Just tired. Sure, that was it. And the moon was made of green cheese.

Cain sighed. "Look. Y'r beatin' y'rself up here. R'memb'r what I said 'bout bein' useful? Y'got a woman what loves y', kids who look up t' y' -- hell, 'manda thinks of y' like a damn father. An' y' do damn good by 'em. An' y'r torturin' y'rself b'cause y' can't be a p'rfect soldier?" Cain shook his head. "Nate, y' never were a soldier. Stuff you did? Remy did? Ain' soldierin'. 's just killin'. An' y'r past that. O' course y'r havin' trouble. 's a diffr'nt ballgame."

Nathan stared at him for a moment. "I think I'll take that beer after all," he muttered and got up, unable to suppress the wince, or stop the hand from going automatically to his ribs as he moved stiffly in the direction of the kitchen.

It gave him a minute to think, a little bit of space to try and sort out why he was stewing over half a dozen things at once today, and how interconnected they really all were. Columbia and Mistra, the training... old ways and new ways and being stubborn and trying to break things with his head... trying to think outside the box, outside the old patterns...

He retrieved a can of beer from the fridge and came back out, not quite meeting Cain's eyes, though he could feel the weight of the other man's gaze on him. "I wanted to tell her she was wrong," he said, lowering himself back into the chair, sensing Cain's question before he could speak it. "Amanda's speech? When she talked about how the Mistra operatives at Columbia back in the summer enjoyed what they did... I wanted to say that wasn't true, but I know it was. They did, or they didn't care one way or the other. Not really. I remember what that was like." His hands were unsteady again as he opened the can.

"When y went t' V'rmont, y' killed folks," Cain didn't phrase it as a question, he'd read the mission report. "Same folks, right? You like it?"

"I killed a conditioning team in Vermont. I walked in there and found them standing over a fourteen year-old boy strapped to a table and I killed every single one of them. Even the one who dropped his gun. And I'd do it again, regardless of what Jack and Charles had to say about it." Nathan took a deep, shaky breath, and a sip of his beer. It struck him then that he hadn't actually answered Cain's question. "I don't know. If I liked it. I wasn't really thinking very clearly at the time. They were there, I knew what they were doing, and they needed to be dead."

"'s what sep'rates y' from folks like Logan," Cain screwed up his face at even the name of the psychotic Canadian, "'r Sarah. Y' do what y' gotta. An' y' know it ain't right - 's just what's gotta be done. But up here?" he reached out to tap Nate gently on the forehead, "y'r still thinkin' like a kill'r. Square peg, round hole."

Something nagged at him about the image. Square pegs, round holes, and those damned Danger Room scenarios... "It's not just thinking like a killer," he said after a moment. "It's not thinking like a human being. Not knowing how to set your own limits." He stopped, shaking his head. "But I do," he said, and it sounded unconvincing even to himself. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have lived this long. You told me that once, remember? That I had to have some sense of self-preservation to have made it this far..."

Cain snorted. "Self-pres'vation wouldn' have you in th' leathers. An' y' gotta learn limits. Was easier when..." he made a circling motion around his head, "breakers, right? Doc said fixin' me... broke 'em?"

Nathan blinked, surprised that Cain would know about that. "Uhh... 'broke' would be an understatement, actually," he said, drawn out of the downward spiral of his own thoughts by the change of subject.
"Blew up would be more accurate..." He noticed the change in Cain's expression and smiled faintly. "Believe it or not, it was a good thing. Burned out all the psychic scarring in my mind from all the times people have gone in fucking around with my head. The TK's more stable, the telepathy's a lot stronger... I unintentionally did myself a favor, you might say."

"Lemme tell y' story," Cain drawled, leaning forward in the chair, then having to catch himself with his hands before he faceplanted on the floor. With a snort of laughter he continued. "Back when I woke up after, y'know, coma. Busted out, went trompin' all over crea'shun. Took 'bout... two y'rs? Get used t' it. I mean, I 's all'ys a strong guy. But y'know? Change." He pointed to Nathan's head. "Big change. Gotta grow into it. Y'r tryin' too much, too fast."

It made sense. It made plenty of sense, but... "I should be able to do this," Nathan muttered unhappily. "I feel like I'm being stupid, Cain, like I'm missing the most obvious damned thing in the world. And they're waiting, they're all waiting like they expect me to wake up and just get it, all at once."

"So? Take a break." Cain growled out. "Fuck th' team f'r now. Y'r an asset, Nate. Not ind'spens'ble. Take time out. Teach. Be w' Mo'ra. L'rn t' not be a soldier. Then?" he smiled. "Then y'll get it."

Nathan opened his mouth to respond to that, probably with something that would have him and Cain grumbling at each other... and stopped, struck again by that sense of interconnectedness, like there was a pattern of an entirely different sort taking shape in his mind and he just couldn't quite see it. "Damn it," he mumbled finally, taking another sip of his beer. "I shouldn't be driving myself crazy over this today, anyway. This is what Jack would call the wrong kind of distraction."

Cain shrugged, leaning on his crutches again and lumbering over to the bed. "Got... bett'r day?" he joked. "Alw'ys good day t' get... knocked off high horse."

"You suppose that's what they're doing?" Nathan asked a bit drearily. "This is an extended lesson in 'No, Nathan, you don't actually know what you're doing?'" It made a certain amount of sense.

"Think 'bout it," Cain replied, sitting roughly down on the bed. "Would you put th' worl's best football play'r on y'r bas'ball team? Damn, y'r good, Nate. But y'r used t' somethin' differ'nt. 's new game. Differ'nt rules, gotta learn. Push it too hard, burn out."

"I can't mess this up," Nathan muttered almost desperately, without really thinking about what he was saying. His hands were shaking again, and he folded them around the can of beer. "I keep thinking about how you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I'm tired of being the dog, Cain." He laughed shakily. "There's part of me that's been wanting to march up there to that control booth after these damned sessions and tell Alison or Scott or Ororo, whoever got housetraining-Nate duty for the day, to just take these fucking nonsensical insane scenarios and..." He trailed off, his expression going dim and troubled as he wondered if that was what they were waiting for. Was this a test of his frustration threshold, too? That could be it. They had to be worried about whether or not he could control his emotions, after losing his conditioning...

"Rough?" Cain's voice took on a tougher tone, all the teasing gone. "Y' can' expect them..." he broke down coughing at that point, then looked up with the closest thing Nathan had seen to anger in his eyes since the accident. Eyes narrowed, Cain tapped his head. "Get in. Show you."

Cain had just invited him into his mind. Okay. He'd just stepped sideways into bizarro-world. Nathan stared at him, eyes overly wide for a moment, and then reached out tentatively, fumbling the link at first until he took a deep breath and forced himself to establish it more smoothly.

The first thing that was obvious once the link was established was fire. Napalm and cordite smells. Screaming and the sounds of machine gun fire in the air. The oppressive humidity in the air and the taste of blood on the hot jungle wind.

Vietnam.

"You want to talk about insanity?" Cain was standing in the middle of a field littered with bodies, dead and burned. He walked intently at Nathan, stepping on ribs, skulls, anything in his way that would pulp under his feet. "Fucking hell, Nathan - you've SEEN insanity. You've seen things, done things that pricks like Summers won't ever understand. You want to know why al-Rashid pushes himself to do more? Because he's seen it too. Bastards like Wisdom and LeBeau saw too much, don't have the stomach for it."

A series of explosions rocked the nearby foliage with bursts of flame. B-52s dropping napthene palmitate on the jungle, burning a swath through. Cain pointed to the fire, to the immolated forms of screaming bodies within. "THAT is insanity. Playing hero in that fancy gym? That's a goddamn GAME. Of all people, you ought to know the difference, and not to treat one like the other. For fuck's sake - you've SEEN the worst it can get. You've BEEN the worst it can get." Cain's tone wasn't accusatory, just speaking facts. "And you want to push yourself BACK to that? Think about it."

Nathan stared down at his hands, watched red-gold fire that didn't have anything to do with the burning jungle start to pool around him, take shape. "There are things you keep and things you throw away," he said, in a voice far calmer than what it had been a moment ago in the 'real' world, edged noticeably with the Askani lilt. "I don't know which is which. And don't tell me what I see or don't see," he said, anger creeping back into his voice as the flames grew hotter, flaring around him in a familiar form. "You have no idea what I see." The blue and gold precognitive patterns exploded outwards from his astral form, stabbing into the mindscape... changing it. "Do you want to see for yourself?"

"Oh, you want to compare scars, Nate?" Cain blustered. He watched as the lines of blue and gold energy refracted around him. "You want to go there? Come on, son, let's do this thing."

#Poor insane Nathan with the voices in his head. Is he cracked? Are they real?# Nathan snarled at Cain silently, images blazing to life out of the patterns. #You want to know why I push, Cain? THIS is why I push!#

And he flung it at him - not as hard as he could have, but with a combination of exhausted fury and agonizing frustration that might have been his, or the Askani's, or shared. Sixty years of war. Sixty years of slow, inexorable extermination of a people, a whole way of life. Every victory followed by a defeat, one step forward, two steps back, until there was nowhere to hide and all that was left to do was run, run and hoped you escaped, trying not to think about those dying to hold the way out. Atrocities like an endless string of black pearls, reaching out into eternity.

Failure. Absolute, heartrending failure and the awareness that it never could have been any other way. That it had been too late from the first shot fired, nothing but a last gasp...

#In my head, every moment of every day... in all my dreams, and I know you don't trust telepaths, Cain, that you don't understand them, but it's not seeing it, it's LIVING it, over and over and over again... so you tell me that I'm pushing too hard, Cain. You look at that, and you tell me!#

"I'll tell you it again and again, until you goddamn LISTEN, Nathan!" Cain screamed back at him, the strange amalgam of past and future carnage swirling around the two men. "You want to talk to me about living with baggage that ain't yours? Get in fucking LINE! I have had forty YEARS of a cage match with an angry pissed off GOD in my head, for fuck's sake! You want to know what every day for me was like? Every day was THIS-" he swept his arms wide, "over and over, the anger and the rage and the hate! So don't give me a song and dance about holding the line like some fucking martyr, because it just ain't happening."

Cain took two large steps, standing chest-to-chest with Nathan. "You want to carry around some war in your head that ain't even yours and let it run your life, knock yourself out. But you go nuts, or crack, or push yourself into a fucking fireball like Starsmore - then you're going to fail yourself, your team, Moira, your baby, and every single one of those goddamn dead ghosts in your head. And so help me god," Cain reached out to grab Nathan's shoulder with one hamhanded paw, "you may be about the only friend I've got here, but I'll kill you myself if it comes down to that."

The seething incandescence around Nathan softened, faded to white-gold, and then just to white. Whiteness that blotted out the mindscape around them, pressing inward, oppressive. "Only way out is forward. No going back..." There was never any going back. Cold blasted through the whiteness, a cold that might have been the Alaskan wind, or something else entirely. "I don't want to fail. I'm so terrified of failing..." I don't want to be left alone again...

Cain lifted Nathan off what passed for the ground. "Then don't set yourself up for it. Use that head of yours. You've got this great second chance - and take it from me, they don't come all that often. Don't waste it." He looked right into Nathan's face and grinned at him through the cold. "Now get out of my head."

With a shove, Cain pushed Nathan away-

-and blinked his eyes open, seeing Nathan calmly seated in a meditative position in the chair. "Get th' point now, Nate?" he asked quietly.

It was a long moment before Nathan opened his eyes and answered. "Starting to," he said with some difficulty. He felt oddly numb, as if he'd been out in the cold for too long. The whiteness was still in his mind, freezing, crushing. "I'm beating myself, here..."

"Damn right," Cain growled. He felt something strange on his face, then raised a hand awkwardly to his nose, confused at it coming back red. "Aw hell..." he moaned before rolling his eyes back in his head and falling backwards onto the bed.

Nathan swore and used the flash of panic to push his aching body up out of the chair, bending over Cain even as he reached out and hit the button for medlab. "Cain?"

Cain's eyes fluttered as he tried to wipe the weak trickle of blood from his nose. "Knew there's re'son y' tel'paths 'r haz'rdous. Ow." He winced at the sound of his own voice. "Headache. Big one."

"Shit. I'm sorry." Nathan grabbed some kleenex from the nighttable and wiped the blood away careful, relieved that the nosebleed didn't seem too bad but still feeling wretchedly guilty. Askani grumbled in the back of his mind and poked at him pointedly. He let her move forward and borrow his telepathy, and felt her reach out and make contact briefly with Cain's mind, doing something that reminded him of what he'd done for Moira a few times when the link had gotten overly intense - much more deftly than he'd ever managed to do it, of course. "Any better?"

"'m fine, jus' ... ow." Cain batted Nathan's hand away and pushed himself up to a standing position. Walking over to the sink, he dipped his hand under the faucet and ran it over his face. Slowly, he paused, then leaned heavily on the counter. "Holy shit," he managed to get out before his knees buckled under him. "Walked."

Nathan gaped at him for a moment, before a smile, his first real smile probably in days, broke over his face. "Yeah," he said, coming over, "I think they call that walking. Holy shit indeed."

Cain gasped, trying to get his legs to move in concert again before finally slipping and landing hard in a sitting position, back against the refrigerator. "Oooops..." he breathed, before doubling over in wheezing laughter. "Didn' 'spect that. But..." he looked down at his feet twitching back and forth, "hey, moving. 's new. Wond'r what Doc'll say..."

At that moment, the sound of feet on the deck stairs rang through the boathouse, along with a concerned cry of "Cain! Shit, get the door, if he's collapsed..."

Cain looked up at Nathan, glee in his eyes. "Think we're in tr'ble."