Chapter Twenty: Ororo
Someone told me
Love would all save us
But, how can that be
Look what love gave us
A world full of killing
And blood spilling
That world never came
~Nickelback (ft. Josey Scott)
“It was a shock to the country when just forty-eight hours ago, imprisoned mutant hero known as Storm was taken forcibly from her cell. While awaiting trial, the pregnant woman was kept at an undisclosed location fifty miles west of her home, Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.”
Patricia was in rare form. Her eyes bore into the camera, her stare designed to shame the viewer into action. She knew the public as well as she could, knew that they had to be poked, prodded before coming to the aid of someone they did not know.
She was playing at the sympathetic angle, with outrage tossed in for flavor. Fear for Ororo spurred her on, even as she buried it under the urgency of her work. Giving in to the gnawing terror wouldn’t help. Trish might have been born a normal human, but she wasn’t without her gifts.
If that gift could help bring her friend home, deliver her safely of a son, then she would do it.
Trish focused on the camera and the trembling man holding it. The proverbial gloves were off as she continued in her report.
“To add further speculation, Secretary Trask ‘s body was reportedly found just forty miles away from the prison where Storm was being held. We just received confirmation that the cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head: execution style.”
Pressing on, feeling the weight of everything around her, the heady thrill of revealing truth, Trish imperceptibly cleared her throat.
“Storm is not, at present, a suspect in the murder of Secretary Trask. In fact, a massive search is underway for the pregnant mutant. Colonel Goldstein, the officer in charge of Storm’s prison, has organized thousands of volunteer Special Forces soldiers to search the surrounding areas.”
The panic licked inside of her, tamped down quickly by the headstrong reporter instinct she trusted. Everyone was doing their jobs. She had to believe their faith and hard work would bring Ororo home safe and sound.
Trish didn’t know that her worry, her fear, her determination shone from bright eyes.
With a gentle toss of her head, to whip troublesome bangs from her eyes, she gripped the microphone a little tighter.
“Dozens of civilians have offered their help as well, beginning a phone call campaign and taking calls for tips or sightings. The number is on the screen now. If you have any information regarding Storm or her captors, I urge you to call. You can make this important phone call anonymously. Any help in returning Storm and her unborn child is appreciated. Patricia Tilby, NCBC News, reporting from New York.”
She waited breathlessly for the feed to reach the anchors, paused to let them respond.
“Thank you, Trish,” Mitch said with cultured polish. “Have there been any leads?”
“Several, though information given to the press is limited due to safety measures. I do know that they are homing in on an area roughly twenty miles wide.”
“We certainly hope Storm is located quickly. Have you been able to speak with her family?”
“Yes, I just got off the phone with her partner “ and the father of her child “ in upstate New York. While he did not want to give an official statement, I can say that this kidnapping has shaken her family to the core, especially after she was taken from them several weeks ago.”
Mitch paused before speaking again. She knew him well and could hear the barely restrained malice in his urbane tone.
“I’m sure an investigation into this entire affair, including Storm’s arrest, will be underway shortly.”
“I’m inclined to agree.”
“Thank you, Trish.” She heard a rustle of clothing, kept her stoic expression in place while cameras swung from her to the anchor. “We’ll bring you continuing reports of Storm’s kidnapping as the story develops. Next we have Tony Mills with the weekend forecast.”
“And you’re clear, Trish,” her young cameraman said, taking the hefty equipment from his shoulder. “Good one. You almost had me pissing myself, so I’m thinking Capitol Hill isn’t too dry at the moment.”
Letting out the nervous, strained chuckle bubbling in her chest, she wound the microphone cord around her wrist and elbow to keep it from tangling as Oscar stowed their things away. She took a glance around, shaking her head at the other two-dozen vans dotting the United Nations parking lot.
Several reports were wrapping up as the evening news came to a close. It was a breaking story, one that might even cut into Primetime dramas as statements were released and the story developed. Trish, for her part, had a direct connection to the family so affected by this tragedy and got nothing second hand.
Though she knew she was doing what she did best, part of Trish’s heart yearned to be in the mansion with the others, worrying and planning. She was, by extension, part of that enormous, tight-knit group. She didn’t want to be out here alone, facing the questions and cameras.
What she really needed, she thought wryly, was a big, furry hug from a certain indigo mutant. Not that she was likely to get either.
As though he heard her, the cellular she kept in her pocket chirped shrilly. Trish’s hand dove into her coat pocket, the other tossing the microphone into the van. Oscar grunted irritably at her, reaching in to set the equipment where it belonged while she crammed the phone to her ear.
“Tilby.”
“Go around the vans, to the southern edge of the building.”
“Hank?” Trish glanced around quickly, calling over her shoulder to Oscar that she would be heading to the bathroom. “What’s going on?”
“Come around the building,” he repeated in a near whisper.
Trish was careful to keep her pace measured, her face blank. In a den infested with rats, it was best not to trigger their sense of smell. If Hank wanted to speak with her alone, and in person, she didn’t need an audience to bounce it all over the airways.
A reporter, yes. A bitch? No.
Slipping past the trimmed hedges along the southern corner of the United Nations building, Trish peered into twilight. Her heart thudded in her chest when she spied Hank standing with a cellular to his ear, leaning against the building with causal grace.
She still loved him. The thought came unbidden and with a punch to the gut. Nothing in the world seemed right without Hank by her side, as friend and lover. He looked up, blue eyes filled with concern and resolve.
They had something.
“Hank?”
He motioned her closer with a single crooked finger. She slammed her phone shut, rushing around the building until they were mere inches apart. Part of her nearly threw her arms around his neck. Remembering a second soon enough, she stopped, keeping her hands in fists at her side.
Hank, she noted, tensed a fraction as well. Had he been ready to accept her embrace?
“We have something,” he said, saving her from the uncomfortable silence.
“What?” Trish looked around, not surprised to find the others were nowhere in sight. “What’s happening?”
“A massive storm cell fifty miles north,” Hank answered somewhat clinically. “It grows and ebbs regularly. I believe Ororo is in distress.”
Trish paused, mentally calculating the weeks. “Hank, she could be in labor. How regular?”
“Ten minutes,” he shifted away from the wall. “But I must agree with your theory. If Ororo is in labor, it is likely her emotions are in turmoil.”
“Reflecting in the weather.” Trish worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “She’s probably right in the eye of it.”
Hank’s eyes warmed for a moment, as though pleased she was catching on. “That is our assessment.”
Her strength returned almost immediately. Hank had a plan, a location, and the wherewithal to get their Storm back.
“What do you need me to do?”
Her friend reached over, as though to take her hand, but stopped before he could grasp her. Disappointed in his restraint, the blow to her heart nearly physical, Trish inhaled deeply. She made her choice, Trish reminded herself stubbornly. There was nothing she could do to change things now.
It was selfish to think of such things when Ororo was in mortal peril.
“Keep in contact with Kitty,” he said, indicating to her cellular. “And report to your superiors that a location is being investigated. I want the public frothing at the mouth when everything comes to a head.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Trish said with a smile. “Tell Kitty she can reach me on the cell and I’ll get the American people into a blood frenzy.”
Hank nodded, turning as though he would leave her. Trish steeled her bruised heart against it, knowing the symbolism of the act was something they both understood. He was leaving to fight, she remained to work. Whatever they had together was cast in the shadow of the “greater good”.
Right then, Trish wanted to tell the greater good to go fuck itself.
“Blue?”
Hank stopped, but did not turn at the soft call of his nickname.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
With that, he darted into the hedge line and vanished. Trish felt her jaw tremble, the tears caught in her eyes spill over. Wiping the wetness away impatiently, she squared her shoulders and tucked the cellular back into her pocket.
No matter what, she was going to fight the good fight. Rushing back to the camera crew, Trish ordered them to prepare as she grabbed her laptop and typed up copy. Stryker and his little peons were about to get hell rained down on them.
~**~
The pain was immeasurable. Swelling and ebbing, she felt it wrack her already weakened body as though it would shake her bones broken. Tossing her head on the pillow, her longer restraints pulled taut, Ororo tried desperately to breathe.
Tests were finished, conclusions reached, and Stryker announced that today would be her son’s birthday. Terrified at what he could mean by that, helpless to stop it, Ororo watched as they prepared an IV. Masked medical personnel injected her with something several times and almost at once, the contractions began.
Hours later, she teetered on the edge of madness. The elements screamed for her, feeling every clench of her body as it was forced to deliver her unborn child. Another contraction faded and she fell back against the flat pillow beneath her head.
Probing fingers found her again and though the pain increased, she refused to scream. Veins in her throat protruded from her flesh with the restraint. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Her hands clenched into fists, the restraints allowing her to shift more easily, to assist with the birth.
She had thought her child would be brought into the world in joy, in expectation. Daydreams were filled with smiling faces, happy cheers, and cooing over the tiny being she fought so hard to birth. Logan would be there, obviously. He would hold her hand, whisper endearments, fret as only her beloved feral could.
Instead of that warm, happy dream, she was faced with stark terror and unimaginable evil.
Another contraction. Ororo grit her teeth through it, wishing they had thought to keep her tractable by giving her pain medication. Though she believed in letting nature take its course, she in no way pined for a “natural” birth.
”Ten centimeters and fully effaced,” reported one of the masked monsters. “All right, lets start pushing.”
“No,” Ororo fruitlessly shook her head. “You can’t…have him.”
They paid her no heed as several attendants came to the bed. She was shifted, turned, and lifted as the bed was converted into something more fitting for birth. Ororo tried to fight, but the pain whipping through her un-medicated body was having none of that. Pliable and utterly without options, she had no choice but to listen as the “doctor” instructed her.
Beside the bed, in a corner of the room, a small table was being prepared for the baby. Warming lights were readied, blankets retrieved. Oh, by the Goddess. Logan. Logan, don’t let this happen.
Ororo screamed silently for her mate, even as she felt their child struggle to be born. Their first child was lost to Fate, and now she faced losing the second to evil.
With the mobility granted by her extended restraints, Ororo grasped at her thighs and leaned forward over the swell of her belly. The action reduced the pain, but brought the realization of what was happening to the forefront. She was having this baby, weeks too early, and delivering him into hands that would harm him.
She vowed, with every breath, every push, that she wouldn’t let Stryker win. No matter what she had to do, she would save her child from this fate. Once they got through this, once he was born, she could find a way…develop a plan.
Logan wouldn’t lose them. Her mate was nothing if not loyal and God knew, likely on the way to her now.
Just get through this, my little darling, she said silently to her child as another contraction rolled through the first. Daddy is coming.
Her weakened body strained and pushed and finally, what seemed an age later, there was a shriek of triumph from the doctors surrounding her.
Relief swept through Ororo’s body as the baby came from the sanctuary of her womb. He let loose an ear-splitting scream the moment his mouth was clear. Ororo smiled in a hazy satisfaction, her body worn out from the rigors of birthing him. Vision blurred, with tears and exhaustion, she watched as they clipped the umbilical cord and whisked the angry newborn off into the readied bed.
“Got lungs on him.”
Though she could scarcely move, the echo of her child’s cries still on the air, Ororo turned her head almost lazily to face Stryker. He was smiling softly, his malevolence apparent even through the veil of good humor.
Weak, afraid, Ororo hissed at him. “He’s mine. God damn you, he’s mine.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said as he reached for the IV tubing snaking into her arm. “You’re so very wrong there.”
She turned her head again, panic kicking to life inside her chest. “Give me my baby. Give him to me, damn you!”
Her weak command was ignored. Tears slipped down her cheeks and the winds screamed their displeasure at the order of their mistress. A sob caught in her throat and she weakly reached for her son. When she could speak again, it was with desperation. “Give me my baby. I want my baby.”
Something was injected into the IV and Ororo winced when the hot liquid entered her already battered body.
“My baby…” she whispered as darkness overtook her. “Logan, our baby…”
Infantile cries drowned out and she tumbled into medicated sleep still calling for her son.
~**~
“Can’t this motherfuckin’ thing go any fuckin’ faster?”
Logan wanted to prowl the length of the Blackbird, but stayed strapped into his seat. Since Rogue took a trip into nothing but air while mid-flight several years ago, Logan never unbuckled the belt any time the Blackbird flew. Call him crazy, but he wasn’t looking forward to his own stint in dead air.
Especially since Nightcrawler wasn’t with them.
With Hank’s information that an unusual storm cell appeared “ and vanished “ close to where Ororo’s prison was, the X-Men tore off into the fray. Armed with determination, mutations, and something along the lines of “Don’t fuck with my family”, they left the children in Braddock’s hands along with the irate Kitty.
Piotr was uncommonly firm on that score. He took his fiancée by the biceps, dragged her several inches from the ground until they were eye to eye, and informed her that she was sitting this mission out. Kitten fought and swore, but Pete was adamant.
Her reasons for going were rebutted by a simple: “You will stay here, Katya, or I will duct tape you to Jimmy and the both of you to the wall.”
That, more or less, ended the argument. She was pissed off and Logan had no doubt that Pete was crashing on the sofa for a few weeks. At least, he thought now, she was safe from Stryker’s insanity. Back at home, with mutants aplenty flanking her, there was little danger.
Glancing at Rasputin beside him, Logan’s heart clenched. He would give anything to have what the kid did at this moment. Piece of mind. If Ororo were back at home, his family wouldn’t be in such danger. Had he done something “ anything “ to keep ‘Ro out of prison, Stryker might not have his hands on the woman he loved. Guilt swept through him again, forcing the Wolverine to scowl at the window.
He knew what Hank was thinking. The storm cell over upstate New York was strange. It grew and vanished with startling regularity. Recalling what he read of ‘Ro’s baby books, factoring in what Stryker wanted with his son, Logan came to the same uneasy conclusion. ‘Ro might be in labor, forced to give birth while some wacko looked on.
Growling, Logan felt his fist clench, adamantium nipping at the underside of his flesh. History wasn’t going to repeat itself, no matter how Stryker tried to replicate it. Logan would not lose his child or his mate. Not an option. It wasn’t happening.
Jubilee, Iceman, and Angel accompanied Colossus, Beast, and Wolverine. Marie tried to prevent Warren from going, to which the young mutant merely shook his head. In that quiet tone, he told the girl falling for him that Storm saved him once, it was time he repay the favor.
They were trained and even ready for the mission, but Logan feared he might lose one of them to this insanity. Stryker, an admirable opponent when family wasn’t involved, could easily decide that one of them was worth killing while trying to tempt Logan back to his experiments. He couldn’t let that happen. There was so much to lose…
“We’re here.”
At Hank’s flat statement, Logan startled. His friend said next to nothing since meeting with Tilby in New York City. If something passed between the former lovers, Hank didn’t seem keen on sharing it with the class. Someday, Logan mused, he’d have to remove Furball’s head from ass and get him to make up with Trish.
Watching a blue man in depression was an exercise in lunacy.
The Blackbird landed much more smoothly than when Cyclops manned the helm, but Logan suddenly missed Scooter’s inexpert flying. Cyclops would have headed this mission without pause, leaping into the unknown in search of their missing weather goddess. Wolverine closed his eyes, trying to fight off the grief and memory that lived inside him as though waiting for the wrong moment to pounce.
He felt the sense of someone watching him, of a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder and whipped around quickly. God, he could smell the hint of ozone that betrayed Scott in life, though Logan knew it was impossible.
Maybe, just maybe, Scooter was here for this mission. Something about that thought was immensely comforting.
Unbuckling his seat belt, his determination heightened by memories of their lost leader, Logan stood and strode toward the ramp Hank had already opened. The others waited for him to move first, leading them down the ramp and into the thick darkness.
It was, Logan thought, a typical military compound. Like Alkali Lake, this one long since passed into disuse, which made it perfect for Stryker’s headquarters. The fence was down in places, gaping holes made by man or beast leaving walkways into the compound.
But Stryker was no fool. Sniffing, Wolverine dropped into a crouch, searching for any hint of security in the vicinity. Scents of men and machinery flitted into his sensitive nostrils. Sharp eyes darted about, taking in more of their surroundings.
Working pushed the fear aside, let the instinct kick in. Logan did so gratefully, having worried that his love for Ororo might inhibit him from performing up to his usual standard. He thanked his mutation for giving him the ability to tuck the man aside and make room for the animal.
The building just ahead looked abandoned, but Logan heard a slight cough, the click of someone readying a rifle.
“Get down.” Logan whispered as he slowly released his claws.
When his teammates hit the deck, Wolverine darted forward, screaming in rage. He leapt through the broken window of the security post, startling the two men laying in wait. One was dead before he could gasp in shock; the second never got a shot off.
“Messy, but it works,” Bobby said with some distaste as they came closer.
Breathing hard, ready for more of a rumble than these assholes could provide, Wolverine grunted.
Colossus and Beast both made a beeline for the monitoring systems, flicking through images of the perimeter as they stood over still-warm bodies. Jubilee might have a slight green cast to her cheeks, but she positioned herself resolutely beside Bobby as they watched for anyone else coming to break up the party.
“There,” Pete said, pointing to a screen.
Logan leaned forward, peering at the screen and taking in every detail of it. Medical monitoring equipment was stacked in plain view, but the bed to the side was cut off from the static camera. Obviously, something was going on in there that Stryker didn’t want his lackeys to see.
“Is that…” Pete whispered with a hitch in his tone. “Blood?”
The black and white camera only betrayed a smatter of darkness on the floor, as though someone had stepped in the sticky fluid and tracked it through the room.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, ready to rage once more. “That’s blood.”
“We must move,” Hank cut in. “Ororo may be injured.”
The mutants turned as one, leaving the decimated security station. Hank, having found a map of the compound, directed them to the northern section. Most of the other buildings were completely destroyed, unoccupied for some time. Logan ignored them, his eyes and nose trained for any sign of Ororo.
Rain pelted the assembled X-men, winds whipping hair and clothing around them with fury. Ororo was close by, Logan thought, and mighty pissed off.
Beast called for Wolverine to alter course, the six mutants charging toward a large building in the center of the compound. Dark and dank, the looming steel doors seemed to mock Logan as he jogged toward them. He sniffed experimentally, then let loose a stream of curses that paled several faces.
“Its adamantium,” he snarled in explanation.
Rushing to the doors, which were shiny and new in comparison to the rest of the compound, he tried one of the handles. Not surprised to find it locked “ there was a keypad with a card slot and numerals for some kind of code “ he unsheathed claws and swiped at it.
The adamantium was scarcely scratched.
“Hrmm,” Hank murmured thoughtfully. “That metal is denser than yours.”
“Someone expected you,” Colossus added as the scraping of metal on metal betrayed his converted body.
The young man shouldered Wolverine out of the way, raised both hands in a mighty fist and swung at the door with all his genetically enhanced power. Wolverine clapped both hands over his ears, whining in pain as the reverberation of superhuman strike damaged his eardrums.
Colossus raised his fists and hit it again. And again. And again.
Though he swung with all his strength, not even their resident Superman could so much as dent the dense, unbreakable metal.
“Uh, guys?” Bobby said as he moved forward cautiously. “Sometimes knocking on the door just get it open.”
Wolverine watched curiously as Iceman slid up to the door beside him. He had a cellular phone to his ear, nodding at something someone was saying on the other line. The young mutant took the cell from his ear, lining it up against the keypad and snapped a photograph.
“Got it, Kitten?”
Logan’s preternatural ears picked up the response. “Yep. Give me an inside view, too.”
Snikt! Claws unsheathed again and Logan reached around Bobby to pop the panel from the wall. A mess of wires and electronic chips winked playfully at the assembled mutants, even as Bobby snapped another photo and sent it to their resident hacker.
“Ok,” Kitty said a moment later. “Wolvie, snap the blue and white wire and the yellow wire.”
“You sure about this, Kitty?”
“Uh, duh.” He could almost hear her eyes roll toward heaven. “Just do it.”
Trusting her, a razor-sharp claw swiped at the wires. He held them cautiously, glancing at Bobby for further instruction.
“Ok,” the boy relayed faithfully. “The colored shielding…work it down until some of the wire is exposed. Don’t touch the actual wire unless you want a jolt.”
Sweating, Logan did as requested, looking at the exposed wire with something like trepidation. This wasn’t his forte, damn Kitty for being all pregnant, he needed her, wanted her expertise here with them.
He shoved that thought aside. Kitty was where she belonged and she was helping them.
“Touch the wires together.”
“Oh, Jesus. Take cover,” Bobby quipped, though he did take several steps back.
Logan, without hesitation, pressed the wires together.
With a clang and the hum of electricity, the doors slid open. Wolverine breathed a deep sigh of relief, turning to Bobby and snatching the phone from him.
“You’re a flamin’ genius, Kitten.”
“I do what I can,” she said quickly. “Go kick ass, Wolf-man.”
“You got it, darlin’.”
Voices. Shouting, alarmed voices were coming through the wide open door. Footsteps, combat boots on tile. Clicking of weaponry.
Someone knew they had guests.
Claws, lethal and itching for a fight, slid quickly from their home within Logan’s hands. He snarled, tucking the phone into his pocket and stepping into the doorway. In the center, rage coloring his vision a deep, brutal crimson, he crouched low and ready to meet the attackers.
They flooded the hall, dressed in dark uniforms and bringing him the scent of fear.
On Hank’s sharp command, the six mutants charged first in search of their Storm.
