X-men: World of Gray

Chapter 19

Chapter 19…

Time had run out. Charles saw it in Erik's eyes; it was the same look that had possessed the man right before he commanded dozens of missiles to fly back to their ships. And Charles knew what it meant. Any hopes of reasoning with his old friend were gone.

Rolling into the kitchen, Charles yanked out the silverware drawer. He ran his hand across its back, groping for anything stuck there. He moved to the next one. He rummaged through all the lower cabinets. He pulled out a frying pan; turning it around, he spent several minutes clumsily trying to wedge the handle underneath the higher cabinet knobs he couldn't reach on his own. When he finally managed to get the doors unlatched, nothing but canned goods stared back.

Bloody hell.

Charles tossed the pan to the dining room table; it struck with a thunderous clatter.

He had to calm down. He had to think. If escaping was a riddle to solve, then he knew the base well enough now to know what prospects it granted.

The fence was the only obstacle barricading him from Cerebro—eight feet high and weighing more than the flimsy structure would lead him to believe, it was still just a fence. But he couldn't climb over it; he couldn't rip it apart. That left only one choice.

He had get under it.

Wheeling away from the kitchen, he reached his bed and shoved the mattress back. He examined the frame. Even if he could unscrew it, the metal was thin; it would never survive the fence's weight.

He surveyed the room. The sofas were made of wood and fabric. With any strain, the coffee table would break like a cheap umbrella. Even the dining room furniture wouldn't stand up to solid steel.

The base quieted again—that horrid quiet that had plagued it since Charles woke there almost a week before. Across the living room, the crystal lights swayed lightly, the electricity giving off a mild droning. Through the kitchen's tall ceiling, there was a deeper hum; the piping rattled as water flowed through their crevices.

Slowly, Charles drew his gaze upwards.

The pipes.

Strong, sturdy—impossible to tear down.

Charles glanced at his bed—at the new linens Erik had brought him—and adrenaline shot down his back. He didn't need to lift the fence with a random tool. What he needed was leverage.

Charles ripped his new sheets off the mattress. He grabbed the ends, tying each to one another. He snatched up the quilt and throw blanket. He bound it all together until he was left with a long, knotted rope.

Piling the fabric into his lap, he rolled into the kitchen. He grabbed the frying pan and tied it to one end of the sheet-rope. He peered up.

With a single move, Charles pitched the pan into the air. Clashing into one of the pipes with a thunderous clap, it bounced away, almost falling back on his head. Charles tried again. Again, he missed. Licking his lips, he eyed his target. He swayed the frying pan back and forth.

He tossed it again. Barely missing the lowest pipe, the pan soared over it—

Gripping the sheet-rope, Charles took up the slack; the pan lowered to the dining room table. He studied the image before him. The rope was draped over the piping like he was trying to make a tire swing.

Holding the free end of the knotted sheets, Charles rolled himself backwards until he reached the center of the archway leading to Cerebro. He rotated himself around, and then weaved the rope through the bottom of the fence, tying it to the diamond-shaped wires. He returned to the table. He snatched up the pan, put it in his lap, and wrapped the rope around his right hand.