Chapter 13…
Morning. Stepping into the island base, Erik spotted Charles at the dining room table and instantly furrowed his brow. The other man had his head on the table's surface, a washcloth cradling the left side of his face.
Erik passed through the fencing. As he reached his friend, he pulled back the damp cloth. From Charles' left temple down to his jaw line, there was a streak of pink mixed with small, half centimeter scrapes.
"What the hell happened here?" Erik asked.
Greeting Erik with a glare, Charles said, "Your diamond friend paid me a visit last night."
Trying to hide his surprise, Erik examined the injury. It was slightly inflamed and some scrapes had clearly bled a little, but it wasn't much worse than a bad rug burn. He grabbed the washcloth from Charles' care, walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. The icebox was too high for Charles to reach; Erik started packing ice cubes onto the cloth.
"So she smacked you?" he asked.
"She was trying to convince me to use Cerebro, and didn't particularly like it when I refused her advances." Charles angled his gaze downwards. "I might have also—indirectly—called her a whore." Despite his injury, a smile toyed with his lips.
With that, Erik snorted a breath of laughter and returned to the table. "Oh, that's smart, Charles." He pressed the washcloth to his friend's face. Charles groaned, cupping his hands over the cloth. Sitting, Erik continued, "Yes, a woman who's capable of transforming into a complete crystalline entity…and you call her a prostitute."
"Well, I realize that in hindsight." Charles dropped the washcloth from his cheek. He released a small laugh. "Really, Erik—how much longer are we going to be doing this?"
"I don't know, Charles. How much longer are you going to be doing this?"
"Don't give me that nonsense. You know damn well why I can't help you."
Erik sighed. "I actually didn't come here to argue with you today."
"That would be original."
"I think I've come up with a solution to our little problem here."
At those words, Charles raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? And what is that, Erik?"
Producing a piece of paper from his jacket's pocket, Erik handed it to Charles. Charles studied it, curiosity etched on his face. "Are these what I think they are?"
Erik nodded. "A dozen coordinates for mutants across the west coast. They're the ones Emma obtained during her short interactions with Cerebro."
"It was my understanding she couldn't use the machine."
"It causes her pain, Charles. Personally, I don't think its her telepathy that's the issue here. I think it's her own apprehension."
"Give her a sedative, then."
Erik smirked. "Yes, because that's exactly what we need. A mentally compromised telepath linking her mind with the entire planet."
Charles pursed his lips; he lifted the paper. "You said you have a solution. What is it?"
"I have no desire to bring children here to fight for our cause," Erik continued. "But you—you can help the younger generation far better than I could. I know you've already considered that. I saw the boxes at your house."
Charles gave him a once-over, but said nothing.
"Most mutants are children," Erik went on. "Finding adults is more difficult, it seems."
"What are you proposing?"
"Use Cerebro. Give us the coordinates we need, and any that are children, we give those to you."
Charles' expression had darkened as if Erik's idea was offensive to his ears. But in his eyes, a trace of interest shimmered.
"I know Hank will eventually rebuild the machine," Erik went on, "but it'll take time. Do you really think those wasted months are necessary?"
Charles seemed ready to protest, but stopped himself. He turned back to the paper, his fingers twitching on its edges. Erik could practically see the wheels of thought turning in his friend's mind. But then, a long sigh escaped Charles' lips.
"No." Charles set the paper on the table. "Your price is too high."
Tapping his fingers on the table, Erik groaned. "Dammit, Charles—what would you have me do? You're the only option we have."
"That's not my problem. You have no right to do what you've done, no matter the circumstances."
It was sudden; even Erik didn't expect it. But inside him, a surge of anger surfaced and with it, he slammed his palm into the tabletop. Charles flinched. Jerking away from his seat, Erik stood, eyeing his old friend.
"I don't have the right?" Erik asked. "What gives you the right, Charles? These people are our kind. They're our brothers, and we have a right to let them know we exist!"
Charles expanded his chest like he was preparing for an assault.
Erik pointed a finger at him. "What I'm asking of you is an inconvenience at worst. Help us find our brothers and sisters. And your self-righteous delusions don't give you authority to deny us—and them—the right to join our cause."
Erik watched as the other man digested the words and waited for him to hit back with his own. But no anger stirred. Instead, Charles frowned, sadness cloaking his expression like he was looking at something he regretted.
After a moment, Charles finally said, "I'm curious to know something, Erik. When you create this mutant army, what do you intend to do with it?"
The fury coursing through Erik's body weakened some.
"What is the ultimate goal here?" Charles continued. "Will you try to control all of mankind? Eliminate them? Or simply continue to isolate yourself from humanity as you've been doing for the last six months?"
"I will do what is necessary to protect my kind, Charles."
"That's not good enough. I've seen what you do to protect our kind."
Erik instantly knew what Charles was referring to—Cuba. The missiles. As the images of that day resurfaced in Erik's mind, all the anger inside him vanished like a raindrop under a desert sun. He sank back down into his seat.
Charles continued, "Don't you see, my friend? You've isolated yourself so far away from mankind with your 'brotherhood of mutants'…you don't even know what humanity is anymore. How can you possibly judge it?"
"I've had my entire life to judge it."
Charles slouched his shoulders. "Oh, yes. At the mercy of Nazis. Hunting down and killing Nazis."
"What's the point, Charles?"
"Can't you even see the hypocrisy in your convictions? Erik, I'm not about to defend the Nazi regime by any stretch of the imagination, but your personal tormenter was a mutant."
Erik averted his gaze to the table.
"The person who directly killed your mother was a mutant," Charles continued. "The man who has hurt you the most in your life was a mutant." He paused. There was hesitation as if he didn't know if he wished to say more, but then he added, "And the person who has hurt me the most…is you."
Erik brought his eyes back to Charles.
"A mutant," the other man finished, and then shook his head. "For a superior race, we appear to be quite primitive, my friend."
Erik tried to keep his face as strong as steel, but he felt the skin flush. All this time, he knew Charles blamed him for what happened that day on the beach. That was no secret and Erik made no defense to prove otherwise. But to hear the words…it was amazing how the other man could shoot daggers in a voice just above a whisper.
After a minute, Erik summoned the strength to reply. "I have to ask you something, Charles. During our time together before Cuba, did you ever heed any of the warnings I offered?"
Charles held his chin high, but the strength in his eyes waned some.
"You didn't, did you?" Erik continued. "I told you exactly what the humans would do. The moment we were no longer necessary, they turned into our enemies. But you didn't want to believe that. And you still don't."
When Charles didn't respond, Erik nodded. "You want to believe they're something they're not. Despite all the evidence proving otherwise."
At that, Charles closed his eyes. When he returned them to Erik, the sadness gave way to exhaustion as if he had just aged a hundred years in five seconds.
"So that is your reasoning, Erik?" Charles whispered. "Billions of lives deserve your judgment? You will be the final say?"
"We are the future, Charles. The CIA can only hide the truth about our existence for so long. When the public realizes we exist—when news of mutants reaches the entire world—there will be war. So who do you intend to side with? Us…or them?"
Charles held still as if trapped in place. After a moment, he replied softly, "And you wonder why I refuse to help you."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Slamming the phone down, Hank McCoy brushed a hand through his head of fur. He sat at Charles' desk, papers sprawled across its surface. He had removed all of Charles' books and files; all the paperwork was Hank's, all of it data he'd collected the last couple days.
He'd called pharmaceutical distributors and pharmacies across the United States. He asked about the particular brands of supplies, hoping to catch a pattern. It was like an encryption; Hank was good at those, but not when he didn't have all the data to unlock the code.
Half the companies refused to offer him the information. It was a nuisance for the distributors to crunch the numbers, and they certainly didn't want to do that without a good reason. Even with the places that cooperated, there were millions of people that used the same brands and supplies Charles did. Hospitals did. Nursing homes did.
Things were not as simple as Hank would have hoped.
And now, he was hitting dead ends.
"Hank," Sean said as he knocked on the door. Beside him, Alex stood, holding a mound of folded papers in his grasp.
Hank pushed back on the office chair. "Any luck?"
"That would be a 'no,' Hank," Alex said as he reached him and handed over the paperwork. "Half the places I called told me to buzz off."
"Same here," Sean said as he sat at one of the chairs in front of the desk. "I pretended to be a doctor, a pharmacist and even a dad. I think word is spreading that some creepy guys are calling about all this stuff."
Hank snarled to himself. He placed a hand over his glasses, his vision becoming as unfocused as his thoughts. "All right. We need to think of a new strategy here."
The three men grew silent. A minute lugged by. Hank peeked up from the desk. Alex was gawking at the ceiling. Sean had his gaze pasted to the floor.
Watching them, Hank sagged a little. "This is counter-productive."
"There is one thing," Sean said.
"Anything," Hank replied. "Please, Sean."
"Well," Sean grimaced like the words hurt his throat, "we could always call Moira."
Alex dropped his gaze back down.
"She could pull some heavy, CIA talk and get us all the information we'd need," Sean went on. He tapped his fingers nervously on his lap.
Hank's stomach tightened. Moira. That was a name he had barely heard in months. Other than his confrontation with Charles, he hadn't spoken about her since she left their lives four months before. Because Charles wanted to protect them—and her.
"No," Hank said. "Charles sent her away for a reason."
"That was before he was, you know, kidnapped by a pile of angry mutants," Alex said.
"If we bring her into this," Hank went on, "we could endanger her life. And maybe our own."
"What else are we supposed to do?" Alex asked. "Continue calling random pharmacies?"
"This isn't working, Hank," Sean said. "It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack the size of Texas."
Rotating back and forth in his chair, Hank intertwined his fingers in front of his face, thinking. Charles had pushed Moira away to protect them from the CIA. But Erik was just as great a threat now, it seemed.
With that, Hank focused on the other men. Sean sat at the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, his gaze hooked to Hank. Alex stood, arms folded to his chest and face etched in the same intensity as Sean's.
Turning back to the pile of papers thrown across Charles' desk, Hank McCoy sighed. They really were desperate.
End of Chapter