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A rough start; Acolytes and Brotherhood
Topic Started: Dec 5 2010, 08:25 PM (1,594 Views)
Magneto (old)
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Magnokinesis / Flight
Moments after the events of Trick or Treat


“What the hell happened,” Magneto bellowed, striding forward as violet particles from his recent trip from Murderworld began to dissipate. Dark crimson covered most of his uniform, almost matching the color of his boots and gloves; half his helmet seemed to be covered in blood spatters, flecks of it on his nose and chin. His eyes were as round as quarters, nostrils flaring with rage as he looked around the infirmary waiting room that had been designated as the landing zone for all mutants that had been injured from the attack on Murderworld. Teleporters would bring them back to transportation chamber one, and with the help of Jesse, who could sense distress and pain almost immediately, would send to the hospital the ones that required treatment. Doctors were already carrying maimed mutants out on stretchers or invisible supports of telekinetic energy, while some of the more severe cases lay on the white, sterile floors seizing as they tried to stem the blood flowing out of their wounds. Magneto had insisted that he, his Acolytes, and his own Brotherhood cell should be transported directly to the hospital to get an idea of casualties and help in any way possible. He'd ordered Absolom to meet him there.

Erik paid them no mind; they were in the most capable hands imaginable, and fretting over them would not help. He closed the distance on Absolom, stopping inches from the old man and appearing as if he were ready to lash out and remove his head from his slender neck. Many of the Brotherhood mutants with more minor injuries were already leaving the large waiting room – some to give the doctors more room and to make way for newcomers... some to leave the presence of an angry Magneto. The doctors merely acted as if Erik wasn't even there... shouting at each other for utensils and supplies or certain staff members with certain healing abilities.

“Magneto, I'm not sure –”

“They knew,” Erik shouted, cutting the man off. “At some point at least some of them found out what we were trying to do. Mystique had to blow her cover... she told me that someone had tipped Havok off. Havok knew and managed to pull back his people and a significant SHIELD contingency!”

He grabbed the man by his shirt collar and violently pulled him close, “We have a leak in the Brotherhood or among Sanctuary staff, Absolom!” He roughly let the man go, turning away from him... turning his back to everyone as he leaned against a counter, palms pressed to its surface. His eyes darted about as his mind was spinning.

Sanctuary was supposed to be a place completely safe from SHIELD and the humans... he was not naive to think that it would be a paradise with nothing to be concerned about, but the thought of an actual spy in the Brotherhood... in Sanctuary... turned his stomach. Only the Acolytes knew the exact coordinates of Sanctuary. Them and Absolom and a handful of highly-trusted mutants. It wasn't Absolom... Magneto was sure of that. Could it be one of his most trusted? Primal? Amelia?

The attack hadn't been a failure – a majority of SHIELD's ground forces had died in the single blast – but it hadn't been the complete success that Erik had expected. He had hoped to take out all of SHIELD's main force as well as X-Factor. Taking out Havok's team of beloved super cops would have been a blow to moral for not only mutants who felt that they could get along with humans, but to the X-Men as well. It hadn't happened that way.

Erik suddenly raked his hands across the countertop, sending the debris flying off of it accompanied by the sound of lots of things hitting walls and floors.

Magneto's biggest security concern was the teleporters, Amelia, and Quicksilver. The teleporters had to know the geographic location for obvious reasons, but there were too many of them for Magneto to know properly. Quicksilver and Amelia were the most likely to betray him, but he could not believe it of either... Magneto looked over his shoulder at his son, eyes narrowed as pupils and irises shown brightly with silver magnetic energy. Not him... not after he had made Erik so proud...

He prayed that his most guarded secret was still safe.
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Quicksilver
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Superspeed/ Superstrength
The world reassembled itself, and though it was a moment for all else, for Quicksilver, the briefness of discorporeality stretched a millenia, and he begged a God he felt suddenly so far from to take him home, call him home and maybe he could just not reassemble, not return from this state of nothingness. But the world bloomed like a fire thought extinguished that finds new fuel and blazes again. There was a coldness to the air here, though none of the expected dampness. There was a sway to the ground unfelt by most, there was a falseness and an impossibleness that he only recognized from his experience with the impossible.

But as his feet became solid, and rested on solidness, as his body became whole and rested on wholeness, Quicksilver, who would never ever again be Pietro Maximoff, stood motionless, and strangely strangely numb, hardly feeling the blood that dried on his face, the gore and the smoke, soot, dirt... Doctors rushed about and shouted things. His father stalked about and shouted louder things.

But Quicksilver stood motionless in the middle of the room, and tried to make sense of the world. He felt as he had when he was a child, and his hypersped mind was trapped in his human slow body and locked in confusion. There was weight in his hand, and he dropped it, the gun clattering to the deck, his hand and sleeve peppered with the residue of powder, pinprick burns already healing, healing, healed, before the blood had even dried.

"Sir?" someone took his arm, and he pulled away, not knowing the face of the nurse who stood there to make sure that the acolyte, the son of their savior was uninjured. He was prince to a kingdom under the sea, and he was numb to it all. "Quicksilver, are you injured?" the nurse said, softly, recognizing the vacant look on the young man's face, "Don't worry, you're safe. It's over."

He looked at her, and she gently began to wipe the blood from his face with a cool cloth and he caught her wrist. "It is not mine," he said, the only words he would say on this matter. Then he turned to see his father watching him, his eyes ablaze with fury, and more, but oddly, not at him. Even in this emptiness, Quicksilver knew it. "I am uninjured," he said, not knowing if he spoke to the nurse or to Magneto...

...hoping that none of them realized he was lying.

How could he tell them he was dead? How could he explain that he had died in the fire?

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Primal
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And everything pitched and fell, lines of himself reintegrating into infinitesimal pinpricks of intense pain that grew into clusters and clumps and raw knots of severed nerve endings, and Primal imagined that he felt every fragment of his body reforming atom by excrutiating atom-- until there was some semblance of light and sound and the stench of blood and vomit and the wet screams of the wounded and dying, all muffled and indistinct and weird. He must have passed out. Somewhere between Coney Island and the infirmary he must have lost consciousness. There was frantic yelling and several sharp syllables that might have been commands, and the icy sensation of pins and needles scrabbling along his feet and hands and across his lips. Fucking blood loss. He struggled to come round, thoughts sluggish.

Gambit.

Primal's hooded eyes snapped wide, drunken vision swaying, everything made up of bifurcated blobs and deformed blurs. Some misshapen chick who stunk of horror and concern crouched over him, the shape of her mouth hanging open as a hot chasm in the middle of her blank thermal features. She was shouting something to someone behind her, hands flapping around above his head. He was on the floor. It was too damn cold.

Primal snarled, "...Where's the Cajun...?" and was vaguely surprised and not a little pissed off when he attempted to sit up and she shoved him down, limpid twig-arms ridiculously strong.

"He's fine," she babbled, still looking elsewhere, scanning the infirmary as casualties were transported into the medical on stretchers and hammocks of telekinetic energy; "We're working on him, sir, just-"

Primal's hand shot out and closed around the healer's neck. His fingers were still damp with blood; they were sticky against her throat. "Where the fuck is he?!"

The healer squeaked, an awkward kind of noise somewhere between a choke and a sob. Primal staggered to his feet still holding onto her, favouring his good leg, a string of expletives cascading from between his teeth. He was covered in sweat. He could barely stand up straight.

There were too many scents, all different gradients of anger and relief and that sweet, ugly death stink. He smelled bile, someone's burnt skin --maybe his own--, and plastic and detergent and the soap-clean linen of new blankets and cotton and the stinging chemical stench of bleach. He smelled gunpowder and ash and dirt and somewhere he smelled Jesse and Magneto's empty rage and the speedster (who stunk of nothing and everything all at once), and leather, charred leather and Gambit and Gambit's blood but fuck, damned if he could locate him in amongst all the damp shock and sweat.

"Someone find the fucking Cajun and get a goddamn null cuff!" Primal yelled. It came out hoarse. His throat still burned. Most of the occupants who could stared at him slack-jawed and stupid.
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Spitfire
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Superspeed with Pyrotechnic Effects
Jac sat, blinking on the ground as she tried to gather herself. She had dropped to that spot on arrival in Sanctuary from Murderworld, the booming roar that had engulfed the place still reverberating through her head and chest. She was coated in a layer of soot and dirt and blood – not all her own. The little speedster had pulled herself over to a wall, keeping out of the way as those more seriously injured were rushed around on stretchers and the arms of comrades. It was all slow motion to her, flickering images that would not be out of place in some sort of war archive.

As she sat there, half sprawled on her spot as her senses returned, the offer of the X-Factor member kept returning to haunt her. If she had gone with him…Her hands shook slightly. God. She was really in Sanctuary now, for keeps. How was she going to see…No. No time to think about that. Pushing herself unsteadily to her feet, Spitfire began to dash around the area to offer help where it was needed. Many members of the Brotherhood had been hurt in the fight and although she herself was aching (and starving like never before), she was able to put one foot in front of the other and use both hands (mostly) and that was good enough for her.

Stepping back as she helped to support a furred mutant who smelt unpleasantly singed on their way to healing the girl started to sway unsteadily and suddenly there were hands behind her.

“You should really rest,” a stern voice pointed out above her, to which Jac made a rapid gesture and tried to push away, without success. Her limbs were rubbery and her head heavy.

“No, I think I’m too…” she trailed off frowning up at the two medics who were trying to support her and examine her before she ran off, which they both knew she would do, given the smallest chance.

“Spitfire…”

Oh…Actually…She felt a little sick. Swallowing, she kept the bile down, closing her eyes for a moment, but not too long, least the images of the battle replay before her eyes too much, as now just wasn’t the time.

“Oh I’m dandy, just need something to eat, you know?” she swayed again and this time used a burst of speed to get away. “Look, I’m standing…Some people aren’t, help them,” Jac reached out and took a damp cloth that was handed to her, rubbing at her face and yelping as she caught grazes she had forgotten about in her daze. Tossing it back, she saw a familiar white head across the way and rushed over to her friend.

“Pietro…Are you alright?” Jac asked, a little hesitantly as she looked at the older speedster. If she looked anything like that…Well, not that she felt like he looked. Not really. It was all starting to catch up on her. “No offence mate, but you look terrible,” the blonde quipped, trying to be cavalier to stop herself from falling over and having a fit. In truth, she knew she probably looked little better than Pietro, but for the moment she was still standing, so she smoothed her stained, battered jacket and stood a little taller at the elbow of the Acolyte.
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Toxin
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There was a commotion as he was carried to the infirmary on an invisible stretcher. His attention wasn't on the heated words among his superiors. He'd had to be restrained, even though his legs couldn't seem to hold him. He needed to make sure it was understood that girl needed, wanted to come to Sanctuary. And he needed to make sure Roger was being seen to. And that he knew that the guy... who had shot him... was dead moments after the shot was fired. Dustin wasn't being coherent, though he tried to explain. Even if the words he managed to string together made sense, they were too focused on trying to stop the blood.

How many times had he been shot that day? Mostly it was minor grazes, but there was the one to his shoulder, and there was another one below the ribs, that he had been unable to avoid. There was a lot of blood, and more of it was his now.

Toxin reached up and wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand, smearing the dark, drying liquid. The metallic taste coated his mouth. It clogged his nose. He wanted it gone. It was making him feel ill suddenly. It was too easy to remember the way the flesh had given way so easily. It made his stomach recoil. It had been different with the knives, he could handle that fine, but he'd lost it and... he wanted that taste gone from his mouth. They would've died anyway. He didn't have to do that, he could have returned without getting these injuries, but he'd lost it. His own fucking fault.

Even with the blood loss was making him dizzy and the room move around him... they still had to restrain him as they removed the bullets and sealed the wounds. Will alone kept him conscious when he should have passed out already, from the pain if not from the blood loss. He had to make sure they were going to be alright. Too bad things were going gray. He heard one of them explaining that they'd given him something to make him rest so he could heal. He struggled to stay awake even so, clinging to the harsh scent of disinfectant, though he stopped moving in case they tried to give him more. Just needed to know. Then he'd rest all they wanted.
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Quicksilver
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Superspeed/ Superstrength
Primal arrived, screaming for Gambit, clearly knowing now that the Cajun was the traitor. The fact that he called for him suggested he had been captured. Quicksilver, in this nothingness he felt, this foggy less- than- grief- more- than- mourning, knew that meant he should do something that he should figure out what to do to save him. There was no way, not right now, maybe not ever. He closed his eyes, not knowing what he was supposed to do, not knowing anything.

A soft breeze, and suddenly, a voice at his elbow, “Pietro…Are you alright?” Spitfire, looking up at him worriedly, looking as exhausted and worn out as he felt. “No offence mate, but you look terrible,”

He looked to her, and felt his hand reach out to rest on her shoulder, "I live," he lied. He felt her sway beneath his hand, and he realized it was not because of the ocean currents that were now their sky. "You need to rest," he told her, "You are in need of food as well." Taking the cloth from the nurse, Quicksilver passed it over her face. It helped, perhaps, to have someone to take care of, helped him to remember that he was able to take care of someone, that he was not shattered no matter how shattered he felt. Glancing to the nurse, he said, "Take care of her, make her sit even if she defies you."

Leaving his father to deal with the ranting Primal, leaving Gambit to a fate that he could not change at this moment, Quicksilver ran, every muscle aching, every fiber in his being protesting at the action, but quickly healing, quickly restoring itself. Everything about him was so rapid, everything about him so quickly repairing but his mind, his heart, his soul...

Sanctuary was amazing, everything he knew his father could create, but all he saw was apartment/dorm of the man he knew Spitfire would need to care for her at this moment. He could not do it himself, and the man (boy) she wanted, he would not be bringing to her.

Knocking on the door, he called out, "Union Jack, I have news of your sister. She returns from the field, and needs her family. Will you come?"

It helped to have this to focus on. It was a duty. Yes, a duty. One must always do what one was required to do.
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Brian F.
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Bioelectric Manipulation
The shower after a work out seemed to wash away all troubles, all stresses, and any worries. The water smoothly ran down the man's face as he stared at the wall of the shower. Brian's arm was propped against the wall as he stood motionless in the small shower. Luckily the Englishman got his own flat, and didn't have to share with one of those god awful members who looked like they'd tear his head off. Not that they'd get the chance. Brian would be monitoring the mutants neural activity so close that at the first irregularity the terrorist would be writhing on the floor with his synapses being overloaded with electrical stimuli. Brian luckily hadn't been put in a position to use his abilities against another Brotherhood member. 

Brian wondered to himself if he would ever get out of this hell. He would be able to keep the front up for as long as needed, but what would it cost? His sanity seemed to be the first and most vulnerable to being affected by this entire trial by fire. Brian knew that the minute he lost faith in what he was doing he would loose himself in the chaos surrounding the Brotherhood. There was to much on the line to lose what little he had. His sister was all that matter. Jacqueline was his only reason for staying with the ranks of the Brotherhood, and without her he would find a way out dead or alive. When his sister spoke, he knew she was not evil and that she was simply misguided and lost in this current destination. Brian held every word she spoke in high regard in case it would be their last. The man had spent too long without his sister to go back to the way things were. 

Brian got out of the shower and clothed himself effortlessly. That was one of the routines every person picked up while growing up. After a shower Brian brushed his teeth and combed his hair; it was robotic like he had been programed to do it. The clothing came after with a casual outfit. 

Brian worried, he had been sent to Sanctuary early. His sister was still in Murderworld, doing something he still did not understand. Whatever it was, it was a cause for worry with Brian because she sent him away in case things got messy. The young Englishman sat on his bed thinking about what could be happening to his sister. Unfortunately, it was far to late to take anything back. He was under the water and the only way out was policed by the Brotherhood. Brian didn't feel like he could leave even if he wanted to. It was then that he heard a knock on his door. Almost running over to the door, he threw it open as if it weighed nothing. Quicksilver. Magneto's son was standing in front of him. It must have meant that the last remaining Brotherhood members were back. Brian worked to keep his mouth from falling open and the words he wanted to speak never escaped the trap of his teeth. Managing to let off a meek, "wha-", Brian continued to stare hoping to hear something. Anything. 

 "Union Jack, I have news of your sister. She returns from the field, and needs her family. Will you come?"

Brian was overjoyed to hear of his sister's return and slammed the door to his flat. "Yes!" Brian's yell was loud as he started barreling down the street. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs he yelled back to Quicksilver, "where?" Magneto's son simply pointed down the street that mostly led only to the infirmary. Yelling back a thank you, he ran down the street Quicksilver had pointed him down. He wished he could move faster, see her faster, see her safe. The infirmary wasn't horribly far from his flat; the run lasted a little more than four minutes. The man that followed him was known for his speed but did not seem to be performing his best. Was he hurt? 

Brian ran down the halls of the infirmary which led him to a large gathering of what appeared to be battered members of the Brotherhood. Sifting through the crowd of mutants he looked for one person. There seemed to be endless hurt and even more worse than hurt. It was then that Brian saw his sister standing near a wall. Moving as a quickly as he could through the insanity, Brian slowly made his way to his sister.  When he finally reached the young girl he spoke with restrained calmness, "can I have a hug? You're not hurt are you?" 
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Raven Darkholme
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The world formed around her again, and Raven found herself in a type of staging area within the Sanctuary. There were wounded from the battle all about, being tended to by medical personnel. Mystique continued past them all, holding up a blue hand to a female who asked if she was okay. “I am fine,” she said, looking around until she spotted familiar faces.

It had been several months since she had set foot in the Sanctuary and she could tell already that there was so much that had been completed in that time. Walking towards Magneto, Mystique felt an out of body moment sink in, where she did not feel normal now that she was in her regular form. She had played the part of Dugan for so long that she had grown accustomed to looking down to see the suit and stubby white fingers. It was a type of hangover from being another person for so long... she had felt it before. It would pass.

As she approached Magneto, she paused, simply because she knew when not to come near him. In all her years with him, she could count on her fingers when she had seen him as irate at he was now. But, she couldn't blame him. She felt it too. SHIELD and X-factor had walked right into their trap. It was set. But because of one person, the entire plan went wrong. Havok and X-factor was supposed to follow her closer to the blast before she disappeared, never truly giving away her identity as they perished in the blast.

Mystique stood silently for a few moments as tension filled the air until she turned her head to look in the direction of where Primal was laying, screaming out loudly for Gambit. The Cajun. Her eyes narrowed as she looked back towards Erik and she tilted her head slightly in an attempt to catch her leader's eye.

She then turned and walked past several gurneys to reach the reptilian Acolyte. He appeared to be at his wit's end, calling for a null cuff to be brought apparently for Remy. She approached him from the front and looked towards the nurse that was attempting to tend his wounds. The nurse was holding her throat, backing away from the man. “Well, do as he says,” Mystique said to the woman, causing her to nod and walk quickly away, even though she was unsure of where to go to fetch what he had called for.

“Primal,” Raven said, standing a few feet in front of him. She crossed her arms over her stomach and shifted her weight to one side, narrowed yellow eyes peering at him with purpose. He was injured and infuriated at Gambit to the point of wanting to nullify the cajun's powers. There was something more to it. “There is a traitor among us,” she continued, saying it rhetorically as if to herself, before finally turning her head to look around the bodies of the injured that were around them. There were quite a few. Mystique looked back to the Acolyte. She knew that her calm demeanor would not be enough to rub off on both Magneto and Primal. If her gut was right, and it was telling her that Gambit was the turncoat judging by Primal's words and what she knew of the thief, then she may witness two of her superiors murder a man.

With a tired sigh, Mystique raised her hand up and pointed to a body that was laying among many others that were injured, pointing out his location to Primal. It was Remy Lebeau.
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Magneto (old)
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Magnokinesis / Flight
His first priority... his only priority... was to find the leak, and he would interrogate every single Acolyte and member of his own Brotherhood cell until the culprit was found. Once the betrayer was identified, Magneto would make an example of the mutant... breaking every single bone one at a time in front of an entire room full of witnesses. Then... he would have the transgressor healed just so he could do it over again.

No... he needed to focus on finding the individual first. He needed to call a meeting... get everyone involved in a single room; none of them would leave that room until a name have been given.

"Someone find the fucking Cajun and get a goddamn null cuff!"

Primal's raspy voice finally broke through Erik's reverie; the magnokinetic tore his gaze away from the spare bit of floor he'd been staring so intently at to finally once more look over his shoulder. There were so many in the room... so much blood. Spitfire... Toxin...

Erik stood up straight, pushing himself off the counter top he'd been leaning against; an eye twitched as his intense silver gaze swept around the room. The yelling... the shouts... the cries for help... it was as if they were indistinguishable sounds he heard through ears full of water. Everything seemed to be moving so slowly. How many had died in the desperate attempt to rid the world of SHIELD in one fell swoop?

Yellow eyes cast a glance in his direction, and it was as if they took several seconds to focus on him... Raven... she'd made it back in one piece. Raven was still alive. That was good.

And Primal... he looked horrid. How was he still standing? What was he saying? What were any of them saying?

And then Magneto blinked, and all was normal once more.

“You two,” Magneto said as he closed the distance between him and the pair as if nothing had happened, “I want a report now. What the hell happened out there? Why did Havok back down?” The use of swear words was an indicator of how irate the Master of Magnetism was.

A doctor appeared almost an instant later, tentatively holding a null cuff between two fingers, “You... wanted me to... put this on him?” He pointed in the same direction Mystique had indicated, though his question had been for Primal. On a cot lay a bloodied mound of torn brown leather; a nurse was bent over the prone figure, raking her fingers through Gambit's medium-length hair matted with blood and dirt as if looking for cuts or gashes.

“Just do as Acolyte Primal says,” Magneto snapped, his eyes fixed on the saurian. “What happened out there?”
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Primal
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His shoulders shivered, aftershocks travelling along his spine. Could've been pain or all the blood he'd lost or maybe it was the dull residue of all that rage he'd used up. Tail twitching, pupils dilated, he looked a little less than manic. Mystique's cool voice broke his snarling rant; the saurian snapped his head round and boggled at her, disbelieving.

Mystique. Shit on a stick. He released the medic, who backed away gasping and groping at her neck. Primal wasn't sure if he was pleased to see the shapeshifter standing there well and truly alive or if he was infuriated at her sudden, insouciant presence in the middle of all the wailing, bleeding, dying Brothers laid up on tables and sprawled convulsing on the floor. Her timing was either impeccable or insulting.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

“You two,” Magneto interrupted their happy little reunion. He sounded impassive to the point that it went beyond cool. It was breakpoint rationale. “I want a report now. What the hell happened out there? Why did Havok back down?”

"Fuck!" Primal spat, grinding his fingers into his eyes, stars blistering across the back of his eyelids. He'd hoped that just maybe, just fucking maybe they'd have pulled it off, that he'd taken out the Cajun before his message had registered with its intended recipient... that his split second hesitation hadn't cost them the mission. Guilt hammered down onto his shoulders-- if he hadn't waited... He felt like his bones were made of lead.

"Sir, I..." Primal chewed air. Ohh shit. "This cunt..." Christ, lizard; spit it out. He was nervous. That was new. "Gambit" (he spat the name like a curse) "took a detour out the wrong end of Murderworld. I tracked him. He called someone. Got them on the line and told them the whole story. I waited too damn long. Few seconds. Kinda took a moment to sink in. Shouldn't have. Jesus."

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Quicksilver
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Superspeed/ Superstrength
Following Union Jack, Quicksilver rejoined the scene in the infirmary, everything still bearing this weight to it, as if this was a dream and he was wading though a pressure great enough to be the weight of the ocean above them, though he knew that the genius of his father had taken steps to prevent that. The momentary distraction of fetching Spitfire's kin had brought some life back to his eyes, but if he was aware enough of his own mental state, he would recognize that there was something wrong with him. He had never been that conscious of his own mind, only knowing it was too fast for the world.

The world moved too fast at the moment, and he was not entirely sure why.

By the time he got back to the infirmary, Gambit's deceit was being revealed to his father, and Quicksilver, leaving the two Falsworths to their tenderness, joined the group that was gathering around the unconscious Gambit. He did not want to be here, had no interest in watching the destruction of one who had so bravely suffered to do what he felt was right. Gambit was a better man than anyone knew, and if Quicksilver had not felt so empty and confused by what was happening all around them, he might have been able to express it.

Primal was giving a play by play of Gambit's actions during the attack, and Quicksilver, slowly, became aware that he would soon be required to speak, to give some word on what he knew about this. They had been on the same team, they had fought side by side. How had he not known that Gambit was a traitor? How had he not known that Havok had thought so well in advance? Who could have known there was a tactician in the midst of all of Summers's foolishness?

He looked up and said simply, "Havok is a Summers. It is not beyond him to put this plan in motion I reluctantly admit. Could he really have thought so long ahead of time though? With all that has happened to him, I did not think he was capable of such... strategy. I assumed he was simply blessed with a strong system of support, and blundered through his leadership, a lucky but stupid man."

His voice sounded odd in his ears, as if someone else was speaking, and it was disconcerting.
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Manslaughter
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Slamming into the floor from a cloud of particles and skidding backwards across the white linoleum, Manslaughter's spine seized into a bow, gasping for air that had already been forced from his lungs. White flooded his vision, dread pooling in his stomach faster than his blood pooling onto the floor. His katanas clattered loudly from his fingers, fumbling with the straps across his chest, forcefully jerking the leather from the buckles to release him from their bind. The assassin's chest heaved, shuddered, and then hitched back, his vision disintegrating into black spots before it cleared again.

He could feel it, the broken skin, the torn muscle, his shattered rib, and it was like falling from godliness, as though the killer's own mind had turned against him, reducing him to but one of the mortals he tortured. It wasn't as if Manslaughter hadn't known he was perishable, yet he had never expected to be reminded so abruptly just how fragile a body he inhabited.

A healer in medical garb descended in a rush to his side, already coated with the blood of his comrades, puffing from the adrenaline and at the rate he was needed. "Gunshot wound on this one! Damn polymer bull--" he was cut off by lapsing into a choking fit, his patient wheezing with defensive exertion as he strangled the healer's neural synapses. It could have been mistaken for instinct, but the wide-eyed gaze of Manslaughter told otherwise, his descended cowl revealing a tight, quivering jaw. He could not see the help they wanted to give him, only twisted faces that wanted to destroy him from the inside out.

With a mind to share his pains, Roger scrambled backwards weakly, his legs twisting out from underneath him as he made an attempt to stand. Shocked from his unwilling body, his focus was interrupted, crying out as his body throbbed anew.

"Jesus Christ!" Coughing, the healer looked at the terrorist incredulously, flagging down a nurse. "Let's get a sedative over here!" At his word the nurse emerged from the chaos, brandishing a needle among a myriad of other medical aids.

"No!" was Roger's choked, juvenile reply ground between grinding teeth, his voice remarkably forceful when he could barely fill his lungs, curling back into himself as he clutched at the wound on his chest when he tried. He blinked back the shadows at the edges of his vision, unable to make heads or tails of all the shrieking synapses anymore, all beating fast and slow and wounded.
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Koen Taylor
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Taylor acted immediately. He didn't even wait for the teleporter's light show to finish; the moment he felt a floor under his feet, he pushed Issac back for some breathing room. The next few minutes would be much less stressful if Issac didn't speak or fight back, so the cyberpath used the kinetic gauntlet on his right arm to deliver a fierce punch to Issac's head while he was still off balance. Just strong enough to knock him out, but not so powerful as to cause the Agent any permanent damage. The motion send off a sharp stabbing in Taylor's chest; his ribs were reminding him that they were cracked. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, enduring the pain silently before returning to the situation.

Taylor's eyes locked with the nearest doctor, who looked absolutely mystified. "I need null cuffs on him. Now. That man is a SHIELD Agent."

Standing over him, in case Issac proved a bit more hardy than Taylor had pegged him for, the cyberpath spoke into the comm he hadn't gotten around to taking off.

"Magneto, I have one of SHIELD's mutant agents. Issac Bradford hitched a ride." The files Taylor had read on the mutant mentioned that he'd been given little in the way of choice when he signed up. He might be able to use this to keep the agent alive. Perhaps imprisoned, but alive. Maybe. "Please advise."

A small part of Taylor's brain complained at him for making things more complicated than they really had to be, but it was too late for second guesses and doubts. The agitated voice told him that he'd just taken Issac out of one deadly situation to another. Taylor saw it as saving the agent from certain doom in favor of... probable doom. A huge improvement of odds, far as the cyberpath was concerned. Even if he couldn't save Issac, at least he'd tried. He could live with himself knowing he'd done at least that.
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Raven Darkholme
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Mystique listened to Primal's explanation of Gambit's actions, piecing it together in her head. The moment that everything had changed on the battlefield must have been when Gambit had placed that call. She stole a glance at Magneto as Primal gave his report and then looked to Quicksilver, who had arrived on scene. Her past bitterness towards him did not show on her face as she listened to what he had to say and she actually nodded in agreement.

She moved her hands behind her back and walked a few steps towards Primal, stopping just in front of him, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly in a mysterious smile. “I have been around, whether you knew it or not, my Acolyte,” Raven said to him alone, looking into his wild eyes defiantly for a moment before turning to stand by his side in order to look at Magneto.

“I think what Quicksilver said makes the most sense, Magneto. I do not think that Gambit decided to turn when the hammer began to fall. Alex Summers was hesitant at getting his people involved throughout the entire briefing process, despite my best efforts. I provided Hodge with more than enough intelligence on Murderworld for the attack to appear successful. Hodge was overjoyed and he truly believed that your helmet would be on his mantle this evening,” Raven explained, turning her head and looking at Primal and Quicksilver.

“I believe that Havok brought his people with SHIELD because he was bound to, more than he believed that the attack was successful. Primal, Quicksilver... I led Beta team and X-factor into the back entrances of Murderworld as Dugan. I have been with SHIELD for the past several months, feeding them information on Murderworld,” Mystique looked to Magneto again. “While we were moving into a flanking position, something drastically changed in Havok's demeanor. He abruptly pulled X-factor into a retreat and told SHIELD that they should do the same. He knew that it was a trap. It was at this time that I was forced to reveal my identity by attempting to silence Havok's orders... but he is a powerful mutant, as I'm sure you are all aware.”

“With my identity revealed and Beta team was retreating, I contacted you, Magneto. I had nothing to gain in involving myself further, so I moved to a safe location and teleported here,” Mystique finished. "I was as confused as some of you may have been, since Havok seemed to know more than he should. But if Primal says that Gambit made a call... then that would fill in a lot of gaps."
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Magneto (old)
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Magnokinesis / Flight
"Fuck!"

As always, Primal's typical first response was to let an expletive spew from his mouth... it was his crutch... the one thing he did that Erik tolerated. Normally, he found that most people who liberally peppered their language with such color to be nothing more than people limited in intellect and vocabulary. While the young man wasn't exactly booksmart, however, he possessed a very keen mind... coupled with his animal instincts made that mind a very dangerous weapon, more perilous than his claws.

After a moment's hesitation, the saurian seemed to gather himself enough to continue, telling the bare bones of his story incriminating Gambit. Erik noticed for the first time how badly his Acolyte was injured... the burns on his face... the wound in his leg... covered in blood and breathing the way he was, it was a wonder the boy was still standing. Finally, Erik's eyes tore from Primal's to lay on the unconscious form of Gambit.

"Havok is a Summers. It is not beyond him to put this plan in motion I reluctantly admit. Could he really have thought so long ahead of time though? With all that has happened to him, I did not think he was capable of such... strategy. I assumed he was simply blessed with a strong system of support, and blundered through his leadership, a lucky but stupid man."

Magneto did not bother to look at his son but still kept his gaze locked on the Cajun, taking in how the nurse seemed to be gently combing through his hair and dabbing the bloodied scalp with something. Quicksilver... who had served with Gambit on X-Factor before this race traitor left to become Havok's mole. Could he really have been completely ignorant of Summers' plans? How it possible that he had not suspected something?

Mystique chimed in immediately, filling in Primal's uncertainties with her own, describing the scene she witnessed as she inhabited the form of Dugan. It didn't take a rocket scientist to put it together... Gambit had informed Havok of what Magneto was trying to do. His Acolyte – who had always been suspicious of the man – had managed to follow and subdue him... the fact that it was not in time to stop Remy from getting out his warning was irrelevant. The culprit had been captured before he could get away. It was not Absolom. It was not an Acolyte... it was Gambit. Sanctuary was safe.

Magneto should have been able to breath easier...

He wasn't.

A voice crackled over the head set in his helmet; Erik wasn't even sure who it was, "Magneto, I have one of SHIELD's mutant agents. Issac Bradford hitched a ride... please advise."

“Cuff him,” Magneto said absentmindedly, “And take him to the holding area.”

Gambit had supplied him with all that information... had lead Magneto to his children when they were de-aged. He had helped with the slaughter of innocents in the name of the Brotherhood, and had performed countless tasks for them. He had been there and seen the hate in the eyes of X-Factor as they looked on the Cajun. It wasn't possible for that many people to be such good actors...

And performing so many invaluable services... Gambit was a horrible excuse for a spy.

Magneto's eyes narrowed as he eyed Remy... he was a horrible excuse for a spy that had robbed Erik of his carefully sought-after victory.

“Sir?” Maneto looked down to see a woman in scrubs holding a null cuff. Something in his mind snapped.

Erik suddenly lunged forward, brushing the nurse out of the way as soon as he cleared the few steps needed to converge on the Cajun. He reached down and snapped the cuff on a limp arm, an indicator light burning to life as soon as the clasp snapped shut. In a flash, he'd grabbed the man by the leather trenchcoat and in one fluid motion, tore him off his cot and swung the limp body through the air, slamming him down on a stainless steel table located on Magneto's other side. The crash echoed throughout the triage room, causing half those occupying it to look his way, many shrinking back in fear.

Erik looked around at the medical staff peppering the room, his jaw set as his eyes flashed ominously from beneath his helmet. “I need the best healer in the room,” he called out. “Now,” he bellowed when no one responded. Cautiously, a man in scrubs fifteen feet away rose to his feet, “Sir?”

“Wake him,” Erik barked. There was no arguing that tone.

As the doctor followed his orders, Erik's burning gaze flickered across Mystique, Quicksilver, and Primal, taking his soldiers in. The look in his eyes was murderous.

“Primal, you've done well. Have a physician see to you immediately. That is an order. Report to me when you are fit enough,” he glanced over at Remy's unconscious body, “I have a job for you.”

“You two,” he addressed Mystique and Quicksilver, “Stay right where you are.”

That last statement was punctuated by a series of coughs and gasps as Gambit seized under Magneto's grasp. His head swung wildly from side to side, his face a mask of dirt streaked with copious amounts of blood; his hair hung in matted ropes that clung to his face and coat and the tabletop.

“Wha –”

Magneto raised the fist that had been on his chest and grabbed him by the throat instead, looking directly into the Cajun's eyes, teeth clenched and showing slightly as lips were pulled tight across in a snarl. He slammed Gambit back down on the stainless metal.

The doctor glanced at Magneto nervously, “Sir, he should be –”

“You accomplished nothing, Gambit,” Erik said in a suddenly calm, sinister voice. “Primal found you in time. Mystique managed to intercept your call. The plan could have not gone more perfect despite your attempt to sabotage it.”

Gambit coughed, blood and spittle flying before he managed to wheeze a gasp past Magneto's tightening grasp on his throat and thrashed weakly against Erik with a single arm... the other hung limp off the side of the table.

Erik leaned closer, making sure he had Gambit's full attention, “SHIELD is in ruins, and X-Factor with them. They are dead.”

Remy's good arm shot up, his palm slapping against Magneto's helmet and stayed there... Erik looked up at it, then back down at the man in his grasp. He cocked his head to the side as realization of what the Cajun had intended dawned on him. The look of confusion and and dread on the Cajun's coloring face made it clear that he hadn't expected nothing to happen.

“Not today,” Magneto said as he grasped Gambit's arm in his free hand and tore it away from his helmet, bending it back at an awkward angle at the elbow until the bone snapped in two. A strangled cry rasped from Gambit's bruised and cracked lips as tears leaked out the corners of his eyes.

Erik released the pressure, yanking the Cajun off the table and holding his limp body up by the trenchcoat once more. He raised a fist and drove it into the side of Gambit's face, driving it in the same direction, “This is what...”

He raised the fist again, and repeated the blow driving Gambit's lolling head to the side again, “We do to...”

Once more... this time Gambit didn't look stir, the little strength he had displayed leaving his body as he hung limply in the Master of Magnetism's grasp, “Traitors!”

Erik stood there, a little more blood on his already blood-stained uniform and finally took in the rest of the room for the first time. All those not screaming in pain or tending to the mortally wounded were staring at him dumbstruck. He let loose his grip on the Cajun, allowing the body to collapse to the floor, and paying it no mind as he finally looked at Mystique.

“Mystique, take him to a holding cell. You,” he said looking at the physician who had revived Remy moments ago, “Go with her. I want him well. Fit. If he dies, I will be displeased.”

As he awaited for his orders to be followed, Magneto thought about the damage that Gambit had done to Primal and reflected on the fight he had orchestrated between the two the day Gambit had arrived on Coney Island. Looking back, Erik wished that he had allowed the saurian to extinguish the Cajun's life.

Breathing heavy, he watched Mystique for a few moments before his eyes settled on his son; his face was a mask of calm, but the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes said it all – Magneto was furious.
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