He searched the desk and found a wire leading to a partially closed drawer. Bingo. If he could contact the Mansion and only convince someone to listen to him ...
He dialed one first, which was a mistake because even as he began punching the rest of the number he heard a voice on the other end say, "Hello, this is the nursing station. Hello, who is this? Is this—wait—is there someone in—"
Scott hung up the phone, cursing himself. "We better get out of here. Right now."
"I've got his address," Kurt said, tearing off a page from the top file. He patted the folders back into a presentable pile, and then the two of them left the office at a fast walk. Moments later, Scott heard voices. There was no place to hide.
Scott grabbed Kurt's arm and pulled him back down the hall to the office next to Maguire's. His fingers slipped on the lock pick, but then the wire went in and the door clicked open. He shoved Kurt into the room and followed close behind, shutting the door just as he heard men round the bend at the end of the hall. Quiet, holding his breath, he locked the door.
"Sheila said the call came from Maguire's office." A deep voice, loud and irritated. Kurt sat on the floor behind the desk. Scott joined him. They listened to wood rattle.
"The door's locked."
"Open it up, anyway. Sheila usually doesn't make mistakes."
Scott listened to keys jangle, the harsh sound of heavy breathing. The insulation was so poor he could hear the men shuffling around through the walls.
'There's no one here."
"Yeah, I can see that. Bonnie said she talked to two of his patients on her way upstairs. They came down here to wait on him."
"Heh. How long did you say the doctor was going to be gone?"
"Don't know. Maybe a couple weeks. I can't remember if he really said. He left yesterday, though."
"That's a long wait Those sad asses must have gotten tired or something. Hey, you think he would miss that lamp?"
"Right, you're funny."
The men left and did not stop to check the other offices. Scott sighed. His stomach hurt and he had sweat rolling from the creases beneath his breasts. Every movement acted as a reminder of what he was missing.
They crept back into the hall, listening for anyone else who might have the inclination or power to lock them up for trespassing. Everything was quiet, except for some distant screams that seemed more like pleas to God than angry statements of defiance.
As they left the office corridor, Scott heard the soft hiss of rubbing cloth, the crinkle of paper. It was too late to hide. They rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a short slim man wearing a white lab coat He had black thinning hair and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He gave Scott and Kurt the once-over and smiled coldly.
"Can't get enough of your resident genius, huh?"
Scott, quite certain that the man was a doctor and that Mindy should not talk in front of him, stayed silent. Kurt, after a moment of confusion, adopted a pathetic whine and said, "We were just waiting for him to come back."
The doctor, astonishingly enough, mimicked him and sneered. "I can't imagine what he saw in you five, spending all his time trying to make you better. Like some god requiring sacrifice, and the hospital let him get away with it. Can you imagine? All it did was increase the workload on the rest of us while miserable discontents like yourself pandered to him like little virgin sacrifices." He stopped to catch his breath and looked at Scott. "I heard from the nurses that you talked today. Congratulations."
And then he pushed passed them and disappeared around the bend in the hall.
"Did any of that make sense to you?" Scott wiped stray MD spittle from his cheeks.
"Only the last. I sense much anger in his heart."
"I sense the need for some of that medication he's prescribing."
Kurt smiled. "We learned something, though. Or at least, he affirmed what has been implied. The five of us— or rather, our bodies—were Maguire's pets."
"And pets," Scott mused out loud, "are sometimes trained for a specific purpose."
"What is ours?" Kurt asked.
"I don't know," Scott said, "but I hope it's a good one."
They put Rogue in the quiet room with Patty, which would have been a luckier break than it was, had her cellmate actually been awake and not drooling. Rogue did not know why they would risk putting someone potentially unstable—a woman who had just killed a man with her fists—inside the same room as another unconscious patient, but apparently Patty was a sacrifice they were willing to make in the interests of not giving Crazy Jane access to weapon-making materials such as dresser drawers and bed frames and sheets. Oh, the danger.
They put her in a straitjacket, though, which was bad enough. Then again, they probably would have left her in a straitjacket in her own room, which made her wonder if Jane had very talented feet, the way they'd gone on about her making things to terrorize them with.
"We'd knock you out, but the administrator is going to want a word with you. We need you lucid enough for that conversation. After that? Lights out, baby." The security guard seemed especially cheerful. Rogue thought about giving in to the temptation to bite his ankles, but decided that was one more mark against her that she really did not need. She thought his socks looked dirty, too.
Which was all a fine distraction, because when they finally left her and closed the door, she did not have any excuse but to think about the man she had just killed. Rogue had taken lives before, but it never got easier and this time was worse because it was so useless, such an accident, with no real purpose. Yes, she had been trying to save a man's life, but the man who had been doing the killing was sick, insane. He might not have had true control over his actions. And she . . . she had slammed his head into the floor under the misguided and arrogant belief that as a human woman she would not be strong enough to kill him with a blow.
Self-important, conceited, overconfident . . . maybe that was the real Rogue, the woman who could fly and bench press two tons, whose invulnerable skin could steal the powers and memories of any living thing on the planet. Yeah, that might be her.
It's not so easy being normal.
What a joke.
She looked at Patty, who lay on her side, facing Rogue. She appeared short and was definitely soft, with a round face, freckles, and fine golden hair that fell around her chin. Young, cute as a button, and wrapped up so tight in her straitjacket, Rogue thought she resembled an overstuffed marshmallow.
Jean, Rogue thought. Jean has to be in there.
Awkward in her straitjacket, she scooted closer to Patty, studying the slack face for anything familiar, some ghost of her friend. With Scott and Kurt it had been easy; their mannerisms and odd little idiosyncrasies were just as clearly identifiable as the faces they had been born with.
But there was nothing special about Patty. Unconsciousness could be blamed, perhaps, but what if it was more than that? Perhaps not all of them had been transferred to new bodies. If their team had been attacked— and it certainly seemed that way, with a clearly definable loser—was it possible that Jean and Logan had escaped?
If anyone could, it would be those two. Rogue hoped so. She leaned a little closer for a better look.
Without warning. Patty transformed from a marsh- mallow to a viper, flinging herself at Rogue with teeth flashing: a little doll gone rabid. Rogue gasped, rolling backward, barely snatching her foot away before Patty latched on to it with her mouth.
Right. Not Jean.
"Logan!" Rogue hissed, clipping the side of Pattys face with her heel. It had to be him. No matter what he looked like, no one else in the world could pull off that combination of animal crazy, hateful rage. Logan was one of a kind.
Patty went very still. She lay on her stomach, chin pressed against the floor, blue eyes keen and sharp on Rogue's face.
"Who are you?" she asked, and the voice was low, rough. Not the kind of voice a woman like Patty would have. No.
"Two guesses, sugah," Rogu
e said.
Patty blinked, and in that moment Rogue stopped thinking of her as a "she." It was Logan, breasts and all.
"Rogue?" he said, and when she smiled, he closed his eyes. "What the hell is going on?"
"Jean got tired of your PMS jokes."
"Rogue"
"I don't know. Really, Logan. I found Scott and Kurt, but Jean is still missing. Although, now that I know who you're supposed to be, I have a good idea where ... or, um, who ... she's in. Our bodies are gone. I don't know where or why."
"We're in that mental hospital, right? Jesus Christ. I can't smell anything."
"We're human now," Rogue said quietly, remembering the feel of that man's head in her hands.
"Try not act so happy about it, darlin'. And why are you in here with me?"
"Oh, Logan. I... I killed a man."
"Great," he said. "You're screwed."
5
The next time Jean opened her eyes, she found that nothing had changed. She was still restrained, still in the white room, and still mind-dead. She was almost glad for everything but the latter.
She tried to move and pain soared through her head. Just more of the same. She was right back where she had started, with nothing to show but an even worse headache and the certain knowledge that breaking people's kneecaps in this place was not going to get her anywhere. Time to gather information and strategize.
Her first instinct—basic, like breathing—was to reach out with her mind and simply steal the information she needed. She suffered a quick reminder of how impossible that was, and had to bite down on her tongue to keep from swearing. She was not going to rest here helpless. She refused. There were other ways to use her mind and not all of them relied on being a mutant. It was something Jean was beginning to realize she had forgotten.
She pressed her face into the floor to give herself better leverage as she rolled to her knees. Dreadlocks fell around her face, and she remembered she was a man. Which might have been more distressing if she was free, but at the moment, she did not have time to indulge herself in thinking about it. Much.
Fighting the urge to vomit, Jean carefully stood. She had to lean against the wall for several minutes; she desperately wanted to lie down again, but was afraid if she did, there would be no getting up. Despair and fatigue were a dangerous combination, and she teetered close to suffering from both.
She heard someone out in the hall and steeled herself for another bad encounter. The lock turned, the door opened, and an unfamiliar man in a white nursing uniform peered into the room. He had brown eyes, brown hair, and an unmemorable chin.
"Hey, Jeff. How you feeling?'
"Fine," Jean said, still amazed at her new voice. "I'm very sorry about last night. I don't know what came over me. I woke up frightened. Is that man . . . will he be all right?"
"Just peachy." The nurse gave her a strange look. "Has Maguire been doing a Henry Higgins on you?"
"Excuse me?" Her head hurt so badly she wanted to scream.
"Your voice. You're talking different."
"Oh," she said. "Well . . . Maguire tries to do a lot of things to ... help."
"I guess so." The young man entered the room, glancing over his shoulder at the hall behind him. "Just between you and me, Jeff, this time you really fucked up. Maguire had the administrator all convinced that you shouldn't be transferred—and boy, was the doc pissed when they suggested it—but after last night . . ." He moved a little closer, smiling. "Well, you know. Easy come, easy go. I think they're going to do it fast, in the next couple of days before Maguire comes back. Easier on him if he's not here to see it."
Easier on the administrator, who would not have to deal with any immediate protests. Jean studied the young man's uniform, recalling her previous night's encounter. She most certainly was inside the mental hospital. Why was another matter entirely—but if she was here then the others might be, too. The problem was finding them.
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked, not liking the smile on his face.
"Because I want to see you squirm." His smile widened.
The long hall felt like an extension of her room, a prison nightmare of doors and barred windows. The air smelled like disinfectant: stale, chemical.
The nurse did not turn his back on her. He kept his distance, walking several steps behind with a rolling gait that felt like he was winding up to hit something. She glanced over her shoulder.
"I'm having trouble this morning," she said. "I keep forgetting things. How long have I been here? Why was I seeing the doctor?"
He laughed. "They must have cracked your shit up last night. Damn. What do I tell you, Jeff? That you're a junkie? That you almost beat a man to death for not giving you the time of day, because that's how much you needed to know if you were late for meeting your dealer? Yeah, you're a real angel. I don't know why Maguire wasted his time on trying to iron you out, but he had his favorites, and man, when he latched on, there was no changing his mind."
"Who else were his favorites?" Jean asked.
He gave her a strange look and said, "Here's the bathroom."
The bathroom was a large space, with stalls on one side, a row of urinals on the other, and an open cattle shower between them.
"You need to crap?" he asked.
"No." She wondered if that was a mistake. Perhaps he would take his guard down if she sat on the toilet. She could try to subdue him—
Too late. He pushed her to the urinals.
"I'll try to be gentle." He grinned and unzipped her pants. It was a horrible sensation, feeling his hands down there, and even though this was not her body she felt indignant for herself, for the man she was, and stared at the wall as he shook her loose.
"Well, come on." He looked down, and then up at her face. "We don't have all day, Jeff."
Her bladder ached but this did not feel natural. She had trouble relaxing that part of her body.
"Don't mess with me," said the nurse. "I'll take you back to your room."
"Wait," Jean said. "Please. Just. . . turn your back. I need a minute. I need some privacy."
"Right," said the nurse. "You just want to kick my ass. Oh, but wait—your hands are tied. Tough, man. Real tough."
Jean grit her teeth. "Fine, don't turn around. But step back a little. I can't go with you watching me."
"Aw, you're shy like a little girl. Okay, Jeffy. If it makes you feel better, I'll ease back a little. Just so." He moved. She turned back to the urinal and stared at herself, trying to overcome the desire to scream in frustration. There was also just the simple need to scream—for no good reason, other than the fact she had a penis attached to her body and there was currently no way to escape from it.
She did finally manage to urinate, but it took time and she could hear the nurse grow more and more impatient. She was actually surprised he lasted as long as he did, until finally he stalked over and slipped her back inside those hospital pants. He went to the sink and washed his hands.
Another man entered the bathroom. Slender and dark, with a narrow face and bright eyes. He wore the loose garb of a hospital patient.
"Well, now," said the nurse. "Fancy this. Jeff, meet one of those people you so conveniently forgot. Renny, can you believe it? She doesn't remember you."
"Ah," said the man, with an odd smile. "You do not remember me, mein freund? Truly? If it helps, my favorite color is blue."
Jean's breath caught. After a moment, she said, "Mine is red."
"What a lovely color, too," said Renny. Jean thought, Kurt, that is Kurt, and he said, "We have all been wondering how you are. I cannot believe you forgot us."
"Hey," said the nurse. "What's with the German accent? The hell is Maguire giving you guys?"
Jean ignored him. "How are the others?"
"Fine," Kurt said, and then the nurse grabbed Jean's shoulder and shoved her to the door.
"Playtime is over. Renny? Don't hang out here too long, man."
"Bye," Jean said, and then, fast, "This mi
ght be the last time you see me. I'm being transferred."
"What?" Kurt looked startled. Jean tried to say more, but the nurse pushed her out of the bathroom and Kurt did not follow. She did not blame him. Best not to attract attention in this place. It was enough that the others were here. Selfish, yes—but better than wondering if her friends and husband were alive or dead.
She and the nurse passed a slender Chinese woman, leaning against the wall beside a poorly lit stairwell. She seemed very pretty, though it was hard to tell with her gaze so shy on the floor. She sneaked a peek at Jean and winked.
Jean stumbled. The nurse pushed her. "All your little friends are here, huh? You got a girlfriend, Jeff?" And then, to the woman, "You better get moving, Mindy. You make eyes at Jeff, I might just ask you to do the same for me."
Something hard flashed through the woman's gaze— for a moment, Jean thought there would be a fight—but then she looked away and shuffled down the stairs. The nurse laughed.
Jean glanced over her shoulder. Behind the nurse's back, the woman—Mindy—peered around the stairwell.
She met Jean's gaze and pointed at her eyes. Mouthed, "Scott."
Jean took a deep breath and looked away. If she stared any longer she would say or do something stupid. Scott. Thank God. He was okay. Kind of. Her husband was a woman.
X-Men: Dark Mirror Page 5