X-men: World of Gray

Chapter 38

Chapter 38…

The workers at Castlebrook had been busy cleaning up the mess Erik and the other mutants had made during their conflict nights before. The scrap metal had been dragged to the neighboring dumpsters; wall panels had been bolted back into place across the warehouse's structure. But the place stood empty now—closed down for the night—no one was there to notice Erik as he roamed the parking lot.

He wasn't that noticeable, in all truth. All of his attire remained back on the yacht; his helmet laid on the base's floor with Riptide's corpse. He wore the same simple clothing he had on when he was teleported off the Cassandra—the same when he sat in the hospital waiting to see if Charles would live or die.

His friend had survived.

As for Magneto…Erik wasn't so sure.

His brotherhood of mutants was scattered across the California coast; Azazel would try to kill him for what happened to Riptide, Erik was certain. Erik had spared his life in hopes of piecing together the brotherhood, but it might have been too late. Emma would most likely follow the teleporter, and Angel…who knew which side she'd choose. Mystique was the only one he was certain would remain with him, and she was currently in the hands of Hank and the others who were also against him but for completely different reasons.

How did things become so backwards?

Despite all the rambling thoughts, Erik kept his focus to the ground. His eyes scanned the pavement. He searched. Erik knew Hank and the others would never kill Mystique and Angel; he also knew he needed to get them back. Mystique might not betray him for Azazel, but for Charles? She was already guilt-ridden; given enough pressure, she could cave and divulge the location of the island base and the Cassandra.

And the last thing Erik wanted was for her and the others to wind up out there with an angered Azazel and Emma. Mystique could end up in a cross-fire.

So Erik continued his search. He didn't really know what he was searching for; that's how 'clues' worked, he supposed. All he had to go on was knowing Hank, Alex and Sean had taken the girls somewhere outside the city. Emma had pictured winding roads—a cabin.

Across the pebbles of busted pavement and debris of metal, there was a tinge of green. Erik crouched down. Between his fingers, he pinched the single blade of grass and lifted it to his face. It was dark, much darker than the lime green he'd spotted around Los Angeles.

Straightening up, Erik curled his fingers around the blade and then turned away from the warehouse.

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It was close to three o'clock in the morning, and across from Moira on the other bed, Charles slept. His thick chestnut hair was wavy from bathing—his face clear of scruff. Moira didn't think he had been listening to her, but as she peered as his shaven skin, she realized it only made it worse. The baby fat was gone, emphasizing his sunken cheeks.

A lump swelled in Moira's throat. She tried to swallow it—tried bringing in some soothing breaths—and in her head, she repeated the same words she had spoken to Charles just hours before. It would get better. It'd just take time. Just a little more time.

Nonetheless, the more she repeated them, the less meaning the words possessed. The knot in her throat tightened; her eyes began burning.

She had to take a breather.

Moira slid the covers off her legs. Her pajama shirt almost went to her knees, but it had slid up from hours of tossing and turning. Goosebumps textured her legs. Eyeing Charles, she got out of bed, grabbed the white hotel robe on the chair by the sink, and wrapped herself. The fabric was stiff and overpowered by the smell of detergent. She slipped on her sneakers and pocketed her car keys.