Any man who has once proclaimed violence as his method is inevitably forced to take the lie as his principle.
--Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Three years earlier
Sometimes. Just sometimes, Scott would wake and the camp would surround him again with the thick odors of unwashed bodies and unburied waste. The filthy-dirt floor of the temporary shack inside the main complex shifted beneath his body, darkness all around him, the bandage he'd made from the ragged remainder of someone's shirt wrapped securely around the unhealed wounds from the last rounds of experiments.
Just from the last. There'd be more, when they figured out something new from the Summers genetic code or from the brain tissue they'd extracted that'd stolen some of his memory. They hadn't cut deep enough yet to disrupt cognitive ability--but then, they had time. As long as he lived.
And sometimes, just sometimes, he'd wake from the touch of a hand and attack without thought, because it was the one thing, the only thing, he knew. They never took him willingly, no matter how stupid it was to fight four, six, ten guards, all fit and healthy and far more ready for combat than he was. He'd never go on his own feet, never let them have that much, never let them believe that he would ever resign himself to this. It was the one thing, the only thing, that he kept, when they'd taken everything else. Scott Summers didn't break. Ever.
Amsterdam was hot and sticky with summer, the humidity high even in the expensive, air-conditioned hotel suite with black-market liquor prominently displayed on the sideboard. Pulling at the collar of his shirt, he glanced out the window, watching the quiet residents pass their day in almost normal pursuits, things he could remember once doing so long ago that maybe those memories were simply faded, not removed. Or maybe they'd never existed to begin with--Scott couldn't imagine ever being comfortable walking down the street, exposed to any gaze, any attack, any betrayal.
Leaning back against the wall by the window, the door fixed in his peripheral vision, he watched Logan perform his self-imposed search duties--no matter that the room had been examined down to the floor beneath the carpet at least twice before they'd set foot in Amsterdam. Both Erik and Logan had sent hand-picked teams to study the suite, the hotel, and the landing area inch by inch. Of course, Logan trusted no one and nothing to be as thorough as he was himself. That was a given. Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men, was too valuable to risk even in the little things.
Scott was almost used to Logan's almost habitual paranoia, barely blinked as the bed was unmade, the chair cushions disassembled, and the rugs removed and left outside for Remy to deal with. He'd seen it before--in every compromised area, this ritual would be performed with painfully meticulous attention. In a way Scott would never, ever admit, it gave life a certain amount of predictability. Remy would always hit on a woman within five minutes in any given location, Logan would always be paranoid, and Scott would be quiet and enjoy the show.
"You and my mother would get along well," Scott told him, shifting against the wall. He got a half-hearted grunt in response, before Logan straightened, shaking his head sharply as he took one last view of the room. Well, maybe Logan was gaining faith in his own security team--this search was at least three minutes shorter than normal. "Would you like to walk me to the bathroom, too? In case of a hostile toilet?"
"You bitch a lot, you know that, Summers?" Logan gave the room another glance, then nodded to himself. "All clear. How long?"
Scott checked his watch and pushed himself away from the wall. Inactivity made him twitchy, always had.
"Ten minutes."
Logan nodded slowly and pulled out a reassembled desk chair, dropping into it and taking a breath.
"He doesn't trust the cities we have under our control," Logan observed. "Rhode Island would have been just as secure and a hell of a lot more convenient."
"Amsterdam was reclassified as a mutant safe zone well before we took over Rhode Island."
Logan gave him a sardonic glance that gave his opinion of that entire situation. Which was, to wit, Erik Lensherr didn't trust them any more than they trusted him, despite the aid and the sanctuary to survivors. Some scars were slow in healing.
"Neutral ground, you mean. Human and mutant." Logan had problems with that, in terms of basic security. Amsterdam was literally a neutral zone--mutant-friendly human families had settled here as well as mutants and neutrals alike, but there was too high a price on Scott's head for Logan to feel comfortable even with supposed sympathizers and neutrals. Rhode Island had two things going for it--it was relatively isolated from the mainland, and it was under total mutant control. Bobby and Remy had cleared it of all humans, moving them into the first of the east coast internment camps in Georgia. A temporary measure which both Scott and Logan had reluctantly agreed with, but if Scott had anything to say about it, the internment camps would be burned and the ground salted as soon as the war ended. Just thinking about them gave Scott a headache, and he rubbed his temples lightly before turning to glance at the door. Logan caught the look.
"Remy and Sam are out there." Probably bored out of their minds or flirting with the staff. They'd been at the hotel for almost two hours with nothing to do but stand in the hall and look vaguely threatening. Which, admittedly, both were very good at, but still.
Scott nodded and pulled his jacket off, dropping it on the edge of the ornate, four-poster bed. Trust Erik to pick out the gaudiest hotel in the damn city. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he winced. Still too thin, almost emaciated, but the face that looked back at him was more familiar. Hank and Jean had done wonders with the scars. Scott kept his hair cropped short in war conditions--practical, in the life they led right now--but the scar on the back of his head was a vivid reminder to everyone that saw it. Almost unconsciously, he reached up to rub the thickened tissue, jerking away at the first touch.
"He should have arrived by now."
"He doesn't trust us."
"And that's a pretty obvious statement even for you, Scooter."
Scott began to answer, but the touch deep in his mind took the words. His wife slipped into his mind, sliding through on cool fingers of thought. She was awake, and apparently in Cerebro. Catching Logan's gaze, he saw the other man shudder, almost imperceptibly, then Logan shook his head quickly, hazel eyes meeting his with the lightest trace of embarrassment.
"Still getting used to it."
Scott grinned. "She'll get better at it."
Scott heard Jean's silent laugh echo gently in his mind.
"At least I'm conscious," Logan answered easily, and Scott couldn't help the grin, remembering Logan's shock the first time Jean had initiated the link. He was saving that memory back for a day when his sense of humor returned for more than brief appearances. "Much longer, we leave."
Scott didn't want to have this argument again, and especially not today. Logan thought he was irreplaceable. He could very well be right, but it wasn't a comfortable knowledge.
Jean silently reinforced Logan's statement. Scott sometimes wondered if Logan had agreed to the link simply to have back-up from Jean whenever possible, not just for the benefit of being able to finally start splitting up their forces. Shaking his head, he pulled out a reassembled chair and Logan went to the door, knocking once. Remy opened it, and they carried on a short conversation before he closed it again, a ghost of a smile turning up his lips. Scott knew that smile very well, almost didn't need to ask.
"Remy said Erik's plane just landed. Ten minutes or less."
Scott tilted his head, seeing something flare briefly in Logan's eyes.
"Who's with him?"
"Mystique and Toad, couple others."
That explained it. Scott leaned back, taking a breath. He could guess the direction of Logan's thoughts already and almost smiled himself. Familiarity, routine, security, loyalty, vengeance, synonyms for Logan. Some things never changed.
"Toad?"
"Yeah."
"Here?"
Logan shrugged, staring at the far wall.
"No place better."
"Be careful."
Logan grinned, a baring of his teeth that had nothing to do with humor.
"Always."
Scott nodded, satisfied. Vaguely, he felt he should say something, maybe tell him not to do it, except it really wouldn't stop Logan, and Scott really didn't care enough to make the effort.
"I sent Lensherr a message about Victor's death," Scott said slowly, watching Logan's face. "He didn't seem suspicious."
"We all have our hobbies, Summers. I'm better at mine than most." Scott half-turned at the sound of the desk drawer open to watch Logan going methodically through it--this time not looking for threat. After a few minutes, he shut the drawers, leaning back without any change of expression, but Scott knew what he'd been looking for, and sighed to himself. Her face was one Scott knew as well as his own by now--dark eyes and the beginnings of a smile curving soft childish lips. With the link active, Scott's fingers twitched a little, rubbing absently over his jeans to remove the nonexistent traces of charcoal and lead.
Jean had called it coping.
God, Jean... Jean had changed too, and Scott found himself reaching out through the link, needing to feel her again, even this very different woman than the one he'd married--God, three years before? That was all? Instantly, she was with him, so different, but still his Jean. God, so different than the link had ever been before, the rich flow of her power and personality over him. From flatline catatonia to this.
--Shh. Don't worry so much.--
He let out a breath at the feel of her, soothing, grounding, reminding him what he was doing here in the first place.
:::When are you returning from Genosha?:::
:::As soon as Piotr and Kitty are certain they can rebuild Cerebro, my love. They've been working on the blueprints for several days. It should be soon. Perhaps a week.:::
Scott nodded, letting the link fade a little before building up his personal shields again, giving him the space he needed in his mind. She'd returned to America twice since he'd sent her to Genosha for post-camp care--unable to accompany her himself, he'd almost driven himself crazy, unable to feel her mind, and communications so spotty that it'd been weeks between contact. With Betsy, she'd returned once Cerebro was almost complete at Genosha, and he'd been--
--stunned when he felt her, when she reactivated the link between them and everything flared to painful life before she could control it, he knew everything, *everything*.
He didn't remember much of that week after. But he remembered how they touched her body and shattered her mind and bruised her soul.
Shutting his eyes, Scott controlled the memories, not wanting her or Logan to feel it, knowing the other man would read it in his face. Taking a breath, he forced the memories back, the things done to her and forced into her and ripped through her. Things that hurt to think about, that he hadn't been in time, made him want to watch Atlanta burn again. And enjoy it just a little more.
One with Logan, he supposed idly, in the need for revenge. He couldn't pretend to himself any longer that he just wanted his freedom and the freedom of his people. It was more, and he'd gone beyond the restrictions of a just war more times than his conscience could easily handle.
But consciences were expensive things, and he'd found over time, he simply could no longer afford one.
A soft, precise knock alerted them both and Scott straightened, readying himself for this first meeting since Daytona. The door opened quietly and he turned, watching Erik Lensherr and Raven come in--Raven in her promotional form of Senator Kelley, as usual, though she discarded it as soon as the door was shut and arranged herself like a cat in an armchair by the door, eyes flickering to Logan briefly for possible threat.
And maybe Scott was the only one that saw the almost invisible flicker in the hazel eyes that stared back at her, the way they took the measure of the other woman in a quick, barely-visible glance before the lashes hid whatever went within and Logan let his chair down, turning his full attention on Scott. He'd had seen that look before once, knew what it meant even if Erik didn't, if Raven didn't. Of course, they didn't know how Sabretooth had died either.
Strangely, it was Logan that had been the one to push this interview.
"Summers." Erik's nod was almost formal, and Scott forced himself to respond, leaning back into the desk, Logan's presence strangely comforting--but it had been that way for so long, he didn't even bother to wonder about it anymore. Quiet strength, overwhelming presence, and a distinct ability to give the impression only boredom was keeping him from killing everyone in the room. The quick, almost invisible glance from Erik showed how well it was working. Good. They were already on unequal terms--let him wonder if Logan carried a grudge still, even if Logan was the reason this meeting was happening at all.
"You wanted to see me."
Warren and Jean had pushed for this too, the necessity. He didn't have to like Erik's politics or his beliefs--he needed him anyway. Scott accepted the practicality of it--that winning this war needed Erik and his resources, his followers, and his influence. And it needed Mystique to take her position as the mutated Senator Kelley for all to see.
Needed one more thing, one that Scott had agreed with when he watched Atlanta burn from the seat of the Blackbird, surrounded by frightened and injured fellow mutants, holding the unresponsive body of his wife. It was a lie, but somehow, that just didn't matter as much as it once had.
"You've done well." Erik's voice was soft, edged with something else, and for the first time, Scott looked into the eyes and noted the changes that three years could make--the weight gained, the thin face slightly filled out from starvation conditions, the luxuriant white hair that Erik had kept until their guards had shaved it off, the elegant body, dressed in the finest silk suit, that moved with a slow, careful grace.
Remembered with a burning pain that spread through his chest, the last time he'd seen this man, remembered watching Erik's struggles to get to Xavier's body after a bullet silenced that brilliant mind forever.
Remembered Xavier telling him to believe before everything ended in a haze of red and pain and terrible loss. Erik's hoarse voice somewhere far away from Scott's own utter shock, as the other man stumbled through the rank-smelling mud and cradled the lifeless bloody body in his arms, the first time Scott knew for certain that he would never be able to believe again. Not in that dream, not in the innate goodness of humankind, not in anything he couldn't personally control.
"What do you want?" It was more blunt than he wanted it to be, but seeing the raw grief and anger and hate in Erik was just too much--reminded him how much of it was in himself, how often he unleashed it and with so little regard to who got in its way.
A shrug of elegant shoulders, before the older man lowered himself gracefully into a chair--the grace cultivated to hide the scarring on his shoulders, back, and thighs, the reason he'd never run again, the reason his walk was always so precise.
It was a reminder of children in Canada and Genosha still in pain, of Johnny trapped within his own mind in Hank's Canadian sanctuary, Kurt's amputated tail and the scars criss-crossing his chest and hips, and the way Kitty flinched when someone came too close....
He shivered and turned his gaze down.
"To assist you."
In more than sheltering the mutants they'd freed, sending money and supplies and weaponry, more than taking Jean in and caring for her until she'd regained her control and her mind, returning her to him as a stranger who had ripped apart the minds of men in their custody as she searched for the information they needed so desperately. More than had already been done--and Mystique's presence was here for that reason.
"You think she can pull it off?" He jerked his head at Mystique, knew she was stiffening at the implied doubt.
Magneto never hesitated.
"A telepath will remain with her, to assure that--accidents do not occur." A pause, the gaze fixing on him. "It will help you, Scott. To win."
A slow nod, and Scott felt Logan's assent, Jean's silent assurance that this was the way of it. That it had to be.
"All right. What about Senator Kelley's family--"
An unpleasant smile curved the other man's face, cutting off the words and the thought. He should have guessed, of course.
"They won't be any trouble, Scott, so don't fret yourself."
He could have asked, but he didn't. And on some level, he didn't even care.
"All right." With an oblique glance at Logan, Scott took out the sheet of paper, folded and refolded so many times that the edges were frayed, the folds fragile. Taking a step, he dropped it on the table beside Erik's chair. "You started this."
The grey eyebrows jumped, and slowly, Erik lifted it, unfolding it, running his fingers absently over the edges, then looked up in surprise.
"I wasn't aware these were present in America."
Scott shrugged, resting his weight on his other foot, feeling Logan's intense interest. Erik's gaze slid to Logan briefly.
"The latest of your recruits was circulating them on the West Coast. Where did you get the original?"
Another slight shrug, but Scott detected the stiffness in the man's body.
"When I decamped from Daytona, I needed supplies. It was in the Canadian sanctuary." An oblique smile that hid far too much for Scott's liking, his glance sliding to Logan. "He did it, didn't he?"
The growl was mental only, but Scott found himself having to choke it back in his own throat. Scott hesitated, then nodded as Erik spread the photocopied sketch out, looking at the dark eyes that hadn't seen the world in four years, the print beneath that told who she was and why she had died. He wondered what it said about his mental stability, that he knew the face of a dead girl more perfectly than that of his wife.
"Yes." A pause. "How many of those do you have?"
Erik smoothed the paper again, a slightly bitter smile turning his mouth.
"Printed?"
"The originals. How many did you take?"
Erik blinked, the grey blue eyes lighting up.
"There are more?"
Scott hesitated, then took a breath, turning and picking up the briefcase from the floor beneath the desk. With another glance at Logan's blank face, he opened it and removed the stack. Turning, he crossed the two steps separating him from Erik and placed them on the small table.
For a moment, silence, and Erik's fingers slid through the sheets, almost caressing.
"You support this?" It was more than asking about something as simple as using Rogue to further the cause and they both knew it. Scott didn't want to--but somewhere in his mind he was still kneeling in the cold mud while Erik cradled Xavier's unmoving body, dirty-grey head bent, whispering words Scott couldn't hear in a voice choked with hate and grief and promises of revenge.
Sometimes, in the shower, Scott thought he'd never be clean of that dirt again, of the blood and splattered bone and pieces of flesh that clung to his memory if not his body. And sometimes, just sometimes, he stopped wanting to be.
"Yes. We want these everywhere. People read that, they see--" He broke off, trying to think through what he was saying. The reason Logan had argued with exhausting, implacable patience. "They'll know why we're fighting. They'll know--"
"They'll know what to die for."
Logan certainly did. He wanted to--with Jubilee gone, there was nothing left to ground him. This was it--one picture, one dead girl, one inescapable goal. Scott wondered if Logan thought he was hiding that from anyone.
"Yes."
Erik picked up the first sketch, slowly nodding.
"I can have them everywhere in a matter of days."
Scott nodded slowly and pulled up a chair. It was time.
"Let's talk about direct Genoshan intervention in the war, Erik. We want to win."
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