Ashes Of Chaos: Break Of Dawn - Part Three

by Persephone, Mel, and Jaya Mitai

Day Three

Jean's eyes flickered beneath her closed eyelids, eyebrows bunched together in concentration as her fingers moved in slow, circular patterns, one on her own temple, and one on her son's. She didn't know if it really helped the work, but even in the beginning of her training, Charles had confided that many telepaths often found touch greatly eased any very strenuous telepathic activity.

And she suspected her fingers were rubbing because her head was killing her.

It was a good sort of pain, though, an honest ache she wouldn't have traded with the sweetest pleasure as her eyes opened slowly, like a morning glory finally sensing the first rays of sunlight after the seemingly endless shadow of night.

He was sleeping. Not in a coma, not in some sort of terrible, eternal nightmare. He was sleeping.

Smiling a little, surprised at her shaking hand, she reached out and stroked his cheek, swollen and bruised, traced the cut spanning his forehead, requiring stitches in three or four places. She half wished he'd wake with the gentle touch, but he didn't, instead if anything settling into a more comfortable, deeper restful state, as if he knew the worst was over, as if he thought he could afford to treat himself to the luxury of carefree, abandoned sleep.

She'd watched him sleep as a child, so many hours. She had kept expecting each night to be their last, kept expecting never again to have the opportunity to watch his little mouth work soundlessly as he talked in his dreams, or his little fingers curl into fists as he snuggled deeper into his father's warm side. He had the cutest nose as a little boy, and it really hadn't changed much over the years, only now his face had grown into it, and it looked like it had been broken a few times, but skillfully set.

It wasn't any different watching him now from how it had been those less than restful nights, fighting the T-O even in his sleep, struggling against the virus and the pain it was causing him and crying tears that broke her heart, kept her up exhausting long hours before dawn, blocking the pain away to give him a few hours' relief from it.

Never, even as a child, could he ever, truly sleep the sleep of one.

He could now. The damage had been repaired, the loop of torture successfully broken, the threads of thoughts woven back together, bit by bit. He was starting to stabilize the T-O all on his own, the now automatic defense kicking in as his strength flowed back as surely as the blood his father had given to save his life. His body wasn't whole, but at least now his mind was, and not undamaged, but unbroken. It had taken everything she possessed, it had taken all her skill and energy and determination and being, but she'd done it.

And now he was going to just lie there and sleep! Some thanks, son, she thought fondly, not sure he'd heard her till she saw the faintest quirk on those slightly bruised lips. Oh, Nate... he was such a mess. So many torn muscles and tendons, so much damage. Even with the organs working on their own, even with the virus halted, if not beaten back, he was still dancing precariously, the moonlight reflecting in his clean but limp silvering hair. They wouldn't know if he would walk again, not with that knee like it was. Joint fluid simply can't be replaced, and a knee replacement in this condition was out of the question, at least for now. He had developed pneumonia on top of everything else, a raging fever that was more troubling than any other symptom, requiring a draining tube, a clear plastic lead that constantly carried the pus-like ooze from him. His chest was the most frightening part to look at, covered in one, impossibly colored bruise, broken ribs mending so slowly.

His age was interfering, that she knew. He was on calcium supplements among other things, but Moira warned that he simply couldn't keep breaking bones like he was, even after giving the T-O almost a day to take over the ribs on his left side, repairing them. Nathan wasn't a child anymore, no matter how he looked when asleep, and he was getting too old to take injuries like this and bounce back. He almost hadn't--

A quick mindbrush revealed he was still sleeping, dreamlessly, and she allowed the temporary mindlink to slowly fade, drifting away rather than cutting, or anything so abrupt or destructive. Once it was gone, she leaned back, taking a deep breath, surprised at the stiffness in her back and neck.

"Ye finished? A was beginning tae think A'd have tae wake ye and drag ye off."

Jean opened her eyes and glanced blearily around for a clock, wondering how much time had passed. Not finding one, she blinked, then tried to focus surprisingly strained eyes on her small watch.

"Ye were in a trance fur th' better part of nine hours," Moira said softly, coming into the patient section of the labs, proferring an insulated mug of cold water. "Beginning tae think maybe ye needed some help."

"He's... sleeping, I think," she finally said, after she'd downed the entire mug and found herself wishing for more. "I've done all I can -- it's up to him, now. I felt him take control of the virus from me; I think he's aware enough to keep it in check himself." She really was too tired to sound that deliriously happy, but her heart was beating fast, and her stomach felt surprisingly light. Despite his condition, he'd made such improvements. He was halfway out of the woods. Organs working, T-O under control, and out of that blasted coma...

"Aye, that A can see," Moira murmured, with no small satisfaction herself, as she analyzed the activity of his brain. "Pretty close tae what it used t'look like. Ye've done a fine job."

"Nine hours? I certainly hope so." She got off the stool carefully, the light feeling leaving her suddenly weak in the knees. Nine hours. She should be in a coma herself. Then again, when Scott had had the nanobomb, she'd kept him together for nearly as long ­

She had made it all the way to the door before she realized her knees simply weren't going to make the journey to bed unless she gave them a few minutes to think about it.

* * * * * *

He had the distinct impression that he'd just been teased.

It wasn't so much that, that woke him, but the remnants of a headache and the terror he still remembered, in wisps. The kids, all lying dead in the rubble, Clansmen beside them, and high above on his carrier, Stryfe dangled Domino over air, so triumphant as he released her and she fell - but that was just a nightmare. A simple dream. A sharp intake of breath somewhere to his right attracted his attention, bringing him more awake.

"Jean, are ye all right? We'd better sit ye down for a wee bit, A'll get ye some more water..."

He knew that accent. It was familiar in the way that Jean's mannerisms had been, before he'd known she was Redd. Familiar in that 'You should know who that person is, you idiot!' sort of way. Of course. Moira MacTaggart, the first person he'd spent any time with after coming to this century.

Which meant that he'd survived the landslide. And if he was here, instead of back in New York ­

Then he probably had extensive injuries, and wouldn't have survived the trip home. He tried twitching his arms and legs, and they did twitch, each complaining bitterly of the movement. The virus, oh, the flonqing virus had spread everywhere, it was going to take weeks to get it back under control ­

Was his telekinesis working? He thought so; experimentally, Nathan shoved the virus, feeling the weakness of the motion but also the familiar ache of the virus refusing to move. And telepathy...

He reached around, feeling the limitation of his scan. Instead of going for Jean, he tried to find Moira. He'd heard her, off to his left, and thought that way­

And gasped at the mind he found there.

Without thinking, he let his eyes fly open, not bothering to worry about his surroundings and the frightening amount of medical equipment around him as his head fell to the side, and took in the man in a bed beside him, eyes closed, and completely uncollared.

Quick as thought Nate gathered as much telepathy as he had, in a single attack against Stryfe.

* * * * * * *

Jean looked up sharply as Nathan's head turned, and she sensed the attack even as Stryfe's throat tensed, a whimper coming from somewhere deep in his chest as the sudden wave of pain brought him to semi-consciousness. She stumbled off the stool even as Moira whirled from the sink, and staggered over to Nathan's bed, curbing his attack with effort.

"Nathan, no!"

Cable was only half-awake, already exhausted from that very gentle attack. "Get a... collar on him... oath, he's -"

Her hands found his face, turned it towards her. "He isn't going to hurt anyone, Nathan. He's burned out. It's all right, Nate, calm down..."

Nathan had slipped back into a light sleep before half the words had left her lips, and she trailed off as the tight muscles of his cheeks and jaw relaxed, slowly. Moira had come back over, and was trying to hold Stryfe still as he weakly tossed his head back and forth, as if to shake off the pain.

"Jean, A dunnae approve o' his blood pressure, can ye nae do something?" The smaller woman leaned over Stryfe to her supply of painkillers as Jean gathered her resolve and managed to keep her feet as she headed towards Stryfe.

* * * * * *

He shuddered, hoping the moan wasn't audible as pain exploded in his head, telepathically induced, a flavor he recognized even as he tried desperately to raise some sort of defense. He didn't have the feeling of being still buried, though he clearly remembered the panic of not being able to breathe. So he must have been freed, or at least managed to crawl out on his own ­

Another moan crawled from him as he attempted to shield, shards of pain like hot sand on his mind, grating and grinding with a fine, precise agony so unbearable he stopped, surrendering to whatever Cable had in store for him, what tortures his brother had come up with in their time apart.

Surprisingly, after the first wave of pain, the attack seemed to hesitate, not strong and sure and actually very disorganized, not attempting to put him in a memory loop, not attempting communication, merely... painful, and not unbearably so. Not as painful as trying to use his own telepathy to combat it.

Why wouldn't his telepathy work? Why couldn't he gather his thoughts, focus them? Terror built as he tried again and again, pain his only reward. He felt like shaking as the attack broke off abruptly, leaving him in limbo, unable to sense anyone, anything. Fear was not a feeling he was accustomed to, clenching his stomach most uncomfortably and making it hard to breathe, and he tried again to shield, with the same effect.

And then he heard her. "He isn't going to hurt anyone, Nathan." The voice was echoing, cold, without pity or remorse, a taunt so chilling it would have done Apocalypse proud. He couldn't open his eyes, but he had the impression of light beyond his eyelids. Not just any light. A yellow light, yet not sunlight. Firelight?

Phoenix-light? Completely powerless to stop her, he stared as she approached him, eyes pools of fire, narrowed to slits as she gazed on him with a disgust and hatred so palpable he half fancied it was choking him. The Phoenix-fire surrounded her, licking hungrily at him as she sneered down on him from some unimaginable height.

"He's burned out..."

She said more, but he turned away with another cry, too frightened to look, too frightened to do more than curl into a tiny ball, only then aware that he was naked, without armor or weapons, absolutely helpless as she advanced.

And then he felt her in his mind.

* * * * * *

Jean paled so swiftly that Moira took her arm with concern, steadying her as she swayed briefly before her own hand moved to anchor her to the bed.

"Did he hurt Stryfe?"

Jean seemed distant, and gradually the terrible, low, pained sounds from the man on the bed ceased, and after a moment the tosses of that snowy head below them became less frantic, less emphatic, and soon had stilled altogether.

Moira looked briefly annoyed as Jean didn't answer her, but the expression faded quickly as his blood pressure settled to a more normal level. "Well, ye did soomthing." She reached over to Jean's wrist, curiously, and Jean seemed to snap out of it, glancing at her as thought she'd never seen the doctor before.

"He was terrified of me," she almost whispered, disbelievingly. "He was absolutely terrified."

* * * * * *

Day Four

"Hey, Nate."

He stirred slightly, trying to place that voice. Definitely someone he knew, a very familiar voice.

Someone took his hand. He felt them squeeze it, barely, and he tried to answer back, but after a moment the hand was patted and simply held, so he assumed it hadn't worked. He was so tired, needed sleep so desperately he could taste it, but he wasn't going to give in until he figured out who that was.

"Hey, sir," another voice, softer, with an accent that he hadn't heard in a long time. Also very familiar. Wasn't the same person, he could tell that, and it wasn't Redd, or Moira, so who...?

"When they told you you'd move mountains, Nate, I don't think they meant literally," the first voice said a bit teasingly, but there was a catch in it, something that almost choked the voice, and he had the urge to reach out and hug this female, her name was on the tip of his tongue -

Besides, he hadn't moved the mountain. His shadow had. He wondered where the mountain was now. Where do mountains go when they die? He'd never seen one on the astral plane before...

"We got in last night," the voice continued. "Hit some rough weather and delayed in Scotland. Came the rest of the way by boat. I know how much you love boats."

Oath, he hated boats. The ocean was a very beautiful thing, but not when you were floating on it. Or, even flonqing worse, in it.

"Nate, you could wake up and at least look at me." There was more behind that teasing, now, a real plea, and a surprising reluctance, like she didn't want to show that kind of emotion.

Dom had always had a hard time with that. Then again, so had he - Dom.

That was Dom!

He did try to crack an eye open, and he managed it, just barely, not squinting or blinking at the lights, knowing that if he did, he'd never get the eye openagain. His sight was still blurry; he made out the smooth pale of her face, the black blur that made up the spot around her eye, the sparkle of a diamond, on the lowest edge.

She had a gem inlaid into her cheek? No, that wasn't Dom's style, but... neither was crying.

A mop of towheaded boy behind her caught his attention. That was... Sam, yes, that's who that was. For a second, it could have been Tyler...

His eye reached up hands of its own and pulled down his eyelid like one would a windowshade, but he wasn't ready, flonq it! Dimly, he reached out on instinct, not really remembering the link but knowing it was there, knowing that Dom needed some sort of reassurance.

It seemed fitting she'd cry in front of Sam, but why was she crying at all? He felt better than he had in a long time, it was just this flonqing exhaustion. He tried to send reassurance to her, but his irritation at his inability to stay awake tainted it, and he sighed mentally as he tried to unravel it, falling asleep midway.

* * * * * *

Domino found her steps to be irritatingly rhythmic as they marched away under the close glare of MacTaggart. Another ten minutes with him wouldn't have hurt a thing; it wasn't like he even knew she was there, perhaps on the most basic level ­

Her steps faltered as soon as the doctor ducked back into the main lab, and she found herself suddenly leaning against the cool plaster walls, hair tickling the back of her neck. Oh, Nate... She was glad she hadn't seen him on the respirator, but even having sneaked a glimpse at that chart...

"Ma'am?" Sam's voice cut through her thoughts, very gentle, hesitant. He probably didn't know what to do, she thought with a grim smile. She'd lost it and almost bawled like a kid, and he was close enough to it himself. Trying to be strong for her. Utterly cute, actually, but she couldn't appreciate it now.

"I'll be up in a second, Sam. Go on up, give the team a call."

He left her very reluctantly, soft-soled hiking boots not making a sound as the inseams of his jeans scraped softly, the sound gradually fading to the elevator at the end of the hall. It hissed open and closed, and here there was silence, absolute quiet.

She was almost afraid she'd open her eyes and see the never-ending, mono-colored hallway, and hear the echo of that scream.

The back of her head cooled against the wall, bringing her attention to the tension in her scalp, neck and shoulders. He'd nearly bought it, this time. An hour, maybe two more and that would have been the last chapter in an exceedingly thick and violent volume. The glassy look in those eyes that hadn't really seen her, that tentative thought that didn't quite make sense before he slipped off into unconsciousness once more. The condition of his body that she could see. The equipment, the ten minute time limit with him. The blood still oozing from some of the worst of his gashes and the bag of blood, the second pint Scott had given him in almost twice as many days.

He'd almost died before, but he'd never taken injuries like that. He'd never been so far gone that she'd lost him, completely lost him, had only the structure of their link with no mind on the other end, she'd never heard that agony in his mental voice, she'd never ­

She'd never told him so many things, and that link, to which he clung so precariously, wasn't a substitute for some of the words that needed to be said.

The minutes dragged by, her body not moving though she was telling it it really needed to carry her someplace soft and flat. When it finally did start, her movements were surprisingly catlike, footsteps nigh silent on the accusing tiles, and the door they carried her through opened without a sound.

She added belatedly to her body that the soft and flat something had to be unoccupied, but it ignored her still, and carried her past the machinery, past the metal stand and to the side of the bed, and made her look down.

In the dim, with an oxygen line fed into his nose and his eyes closed in sleep or deeper, they looked exactly alike. Even down to the hand, with the plastic pulse-finger thingie attached to his index finger.

They looked just alike.

But they aren't, she thought simply, surprised at the numbness of the thought. Here was the man that looked just like Nate. It was like another version of him.

Of what he could have been.

It was her mind that told her body to move, and before she really had any concept of the consequences she'd already pulled her small, nine millimeter semi-automatic and leveled it at the nearly comatose Chaos-Bringer, finger tightening with a surety on the trigger normally reserved for missions ­

And just as suddenly it relaxed, but she couldn't bring herself to lower the weapon.

He's helpless, this is murder ­

He wouldn't do the same to you in a heartbeat?

They look so much alike ­

This is STRYFE, woman! He's the reason Nate is almost dead three doors down!

He's not a threat to anyone, he's burned out ­

And that's going to stop him? Being limited to the primitive weapons of the times?

Maybe he can be contained, imprisoned...?

Maybe he can finish Nate off when Moira isn't babysitting him?

It didn't occur to her that she could quite possibly get kicked out of the facility or worse for murdering one of MacTaggart's patients. It didn't occur to her that killing Stryfe would destroy any chance of his revealing the cure to Legacy. Nothing occurred to her but the precise movement of the gun and how strong her wrist would have to be to compensate, and that there was no wind in the room, she was at point blank range, and there was no silencer, so Moira would hear it instantly.

The damage would be far too great for even her to repair.

"Just what do ye think yuir doin'?" a soft, Scottish lilt asked, very gently, from the silent doorway.

And Domino closed her eyes. It doesn't matter, you can get the shot off before she gets to you, her mind urged. She can't stop you unless you hesitate, you have to take the shot ­

"He's better off this way."

"Tha's nae yuir decision tae make, Domino."

"You said yourself he was crippled!" Her eyes remained closed, an effective barrier to the tears that appeared from nowhere, and the sudden thickening of her throat. "Do you think that will stop him? Do you _know_ what he is, what he's done?"

"It doesnae matter," the other answered, still very softly. "Ye don't want tae murder him, or ye wouldnae have hesitated as ye did. There's a chance A can help him­"

"He's a lunatic," Domino spat, eyes flashing open, looking once again on that impeccably perfect face, oblivious to the death waiting for him, only a heartbeat away. "He's a monster, Moira. He doesn't want your help."

"That isnae yuir decision," Moira repeated firmly, surprisingly much closer without audible movement. "A cannae allow ye tae do this, Domino. Put yuir weapon away and get some rest."

Domino found herself completely unable to lower the gun.

"Domino," Moira said, steel in her quiet voice. "Put down yuir weapon."

Domino didn't move. She could still get the shot off, she could end this entire debate once and for all, she could ­

She could protect Nathan. She could help him, just a little bit, maybe enough to get her a foothold into the mind that was shoving her further and further away as his Battle approached. Would he survive it, now? Would he be ready for the fight with Apocalypse? Or had Stryfe killed Nathan as surely as the External would, given the opportunity?

And then Moira, with surprising skill, simply took the gun from her rigid hands.

"A ken ye be worried for Cable's safety," she murmured, flicking the safety on the gun without looking at it and tucking it into her lab coat pocket.

"Jean's already made arrangements fur Nathan tae be taken tae Xavier's mansion as soon as it's safe tae move him. Stryfe will be kept here until A ken the extent of his injuries and an informed decision can be made aboot what tae do with him." She patted Domino's shoulder, not surprised at the tension there.

"Ye need some sleep an' a meal. Coom with me."

[next part]

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