X-men: World of Gray

Chapter 30

Chapter 30…

By the docks, Moira sat on the busted marina bench. A beer was clamped around her fingers. The drink tasted bitter and that's how she wanted it. Nonetheless, the alcohol could do little to relieve the sense of helplessness chewing at her insides.

She had been a fool. What did she expect when she set off on this little adventure? She couldn't stay in contact with Hank; getting a hold of her CIA contacts from California was nearly impossible. Perhaps she wanted to play hero. Perhaps she wanted to be the one to find Charles, to prove that humans could still do something productive inside the mutant world.

As her butt remained pasted to the crooked bench, however, Moira instantly knew that excuse was baloney. It wasn't about proving anything. She just wanted to save Charles. After all that had happened…to make sure he was okay. To see him again.

The truth was, even before Hank called her, she'd been searching. That was why she had stolen all the CIA files. That was why she had risked her job—her life. The telepath really had gotten inside her head.

Shutting her eyes, Moira brought the beer to her mouth and guzzled the thing. When she re-opened them, she froze. Above her, the cloudless spring night didn't look quite right. The sky was brighter than it should have, the navy blue losing its color. Was it…graying?

It hit her so fast, she almost slid off the bench. Images flashed through her mind, thousands of them and all random. A bright fall afternoon. Cloudless day. Sand—palm trees. An ocean.

Panting, Moira dropped her beer. It shattered on the pavement.

Then, she was walking in a home. It was large like a castle. Octagon windows were built at the ends of the hallways. There was a fireplace in almost every bedroom. Outside, the emerald lawn stretched out and seemed almost as endless as the sky.

Hands shaking, Moira gripped her head. Everything was rushing at her too quickly. But within the images was something else—a feeling. It warmed her, soothing her like the forgotten smell of cologne from an old lover's collar.

Charles.

Eyes blurry, Moira raised her head. In front of her, the parking lot fazed in and out of her vision, mixing with the memories. Things she'd lost and were suddenly sparking back to her mind. And with it, she felt Charles. He was there—somehow controlling the memories—but no words were spoken. It was like his mind was sleepwalking and didn't even realize what it was doing.

Then, just as it had started, the images vanished. His presence was gone.

Gingerly, Moira lowered her hands from her head. She was still sitting on the bench, the broken beer by her side. The acrid smell of alcohol whiffed through her nostrils.

In her mind, however, something that had been lost was suddenly found. The memories she'd forgotten after Moscow to the time she returned back to the CIA had been restored like someone gluing together a broken vase. She remembered travelling to New York to Charles' home. Hanks' transformation—the events at Cuba...

The moment she raised her gun, watching as the bullets jumped away from Erik like he was swatting at flies. Behind him, Charles was staggering to get up; a bullet was flung from Erik's palm—

Charles jerked upwards, his back arched, his feet almost leaving the ground. A scream erupted from his lips like nothing Moira had ever heard. And then he fell, his face hitting sand.

As Moira sat on the bench, a tear ran down her cheek. God, she remembered now.

She remembered all of it.