First Team

by Robbie MacNiven

  In that time, Vic had achieved nothing. He had tried to follow up on a few of the leads Gray had unearthed, infiltrating various warehouses and office spaces, but he’d come up with nothing useful, and on each occasion he’d nearly blundered into disaster. He welcomed Ci and Gray’s arrival, was reassured that they were there for him, but their presence had thrown him all the same. Perhaps he was relying on them too much? He cared about them, and that added an extra layer of concern. All this was happening because of him, after all. Mainly though, he couldn’t get used to working with just one arm.

  At least that wouldn’t be the case forever. It turned out Gray was correct – his arm really was growing back. Not only that, it was doing so at a fearsome rate. The translucent gloop that had initially covered the wound was developing into an entire limb. The flesh was slowly growing scales, but much of it was partially see-through, so Vic was treated to the sight of knots of vein and muscle developing over a steadily increasing length of bone. It ached like crazy, but he swore that if he sat and looked hard enough, he could actually see the growth.

  It was also giving him a fearsome appetite. He was perpetually hungry, and ate four or five times a day. He swore Gray and Ci spent about a third of their time outside the container getting food for him, everything from hotdog stands to half an aisle of Walmart nutri-bars. He’d almost eaten Gabriello’s out of business. He supposed it was a natural side-effect of his regeneration, but between that and growing aches so bad he could barely sleep, it was maddening.

  He stepped away from the door and flexed the fingers of his left fist, cracking the knuckles. He had to stay in control, for Dad’s sake. The weeks were ticking by and he felt as though he was getting further away from him, not closer. Every time any of them went out looking for answers they seemed to find more questions. What was the real purpose behind Sublime Corp’s existence? Most of their money appeared to be earned off the books, but where was it coming from? What was behind Lobe’s desire to persecute mutants? To capture him in particular? He felt as though he was caught in a web that he was only just becoming aware existed.

  The news about Rockslide had only worsened that. Cipher had admitted to him that his old roommate had failed to report in after hitting a Purifier church in Newark before Cyclops had allowed them to leave the Institute. There’d been no news either from or of him since. Vic had paid a covert visit to the church in question, but he’d found it boarded up. There were signs of battle damage, but no further evidence. It only added to the sense of guilt he felt. Who was going to have to suffer next for his failings? Was he going to lose Ci and Gray too? Would he eventually find himself completely alone, fighting to rescue – or worse, avenge – all the people he cared about?

  He stepped over a small mountain of greasy, empty pizza boxes and slumped down on his bed. Despite Cipher’s level-headed advice about taking shifts to work, none of them were getting much sleep. Vic found himself gazing down at his right arm. The hand had only just started to form, vestigial fingers detaching from a gelatinous lump that he assumed would become his fist. There appeared to be five of them, so that was good news. He wasn’t able to move any of them yet, but when he squeezed one, he could feel a pain beyond the deep, hideous ache. He guessed that was good too.

  He heard the scrape of the lock, and looked up as the crate door eased open and darkness bled in. Graymalkin, back from the hunt. The dawn was faintly visible behind him as he stepped inside. He looked as tired as Vic felt – his gaunt face was even more drawn than usual, his eyes ringed with darkness. He’d had a few night terrors while trying to sleep. It seemed he hadn’t yet settled into the claustrophobia of the shipping crate. Ci and Vic had calmed him as best they could.

  “I did not expect to find you awake,” he said as he turned to close the door.

  “I’m just back too,” Vic said, trying to keep the weariness from his voice. “The Zeng Foundation warehouses. No luck.”

  “I have been a little more fortunate,” Graymalkin began to say, then hesitated when he noticed the dent in the door caused by Vic’s one good fist. There were two others like it further along, an ongoing reminder of his repeated failures.

  “Sometimes I worry for your hand, my friend,” Gray said, going to sit down on his mattress. Vic grunted, laying back on his own bed.

  “Hitting stuff takes my mind off things,” he lied, trying to mask the constant strain he’d been under now for weeks. “Kinda.”

  “I doubt that,” Gray replied.

  “I feel like I’m failing at everything right now,” Vic carried on, raising his new right arm with a little difficulty and looking it at. He was convinced it was going to end up larger and thicker than his other arm.

  “I often feel as though I am failing,” Gray confided, almost conspiratorially. Vic scoffed.

  “You’ve got some of the highest grades in our year and some of the most impressive powers, when the circumstances are right. Have you ever failed anything in your life?”

  “Failure has different meanings for different people,” Gray pointed out. “There is more to either of our existences than examination results or our peculiar abilities. I fail at a great many other things.”

  “Like what?” Vic asked, genuinely curious now, lowering his aching arm and looking over at his friend.

  “Being a good companion,” Gray said, not returning his eye contact. “Being a… normal member of society. Being accepted in the company of my peers. I worry that my intonation is abnormal. Despite having lived in the current period for several years, there are still many mannerisms and turns of phrase that I do not comprehend. I rarely admit to this discomfort, yet I feel it on an almost daily basis. I do not fit in.”

  “That’s crazy,” Vic said, before checking the instinctive impulse to dismiss his friend’s worries out of hand. He sat up again, moving to sit on the edge of the bed facing Graymalkin. “I mean, none of that in itself is abnormal. In fact, I think pretty much everyone feels the way you do from time to time.”

  “I believe that may be easy for you to say,” Gray said, now meeting his gaze. “You have always been comfortable around others. You are popular in the Institute. You have no reason to feel ostracized.”

  “But sometimes that feeling doesn’t need a reason, right?” Vic asked. Gray seemed to consider his words before offering a nod.

  “I suppose that is so,” he said. “Each of us has their own struggles.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t understand each other’s,” Vic pointed out. “It might surprise you how much you have in common with other people. How much they’re not admitting. Do you remember the time we spent in California, not long after we both joined the Institute?”

  “The night I… admitted who I am to you?” Gray wondered hesitantly.

  “You came out to me,” Vic said. “The only person you’d ever done that to before was your father, and that was only because he’d caught you with someone else. We sat beneath the stars in San Francisco Bay, looking out towards the Golden Gate Bridge, and you told me you were gay.”

  “I knew you were as well,” Gray said. “Just seeing you living a life without struggling against it, by accepting it, being at peace with it. It helped me to talk about it.”

  “I’m glad I was the one who could help you,” Vic said. “It’s one of the greatest privileges of my entire life. I was lucky enough to have parents who loved and supported me every day. If I can pay that forward somehow, then I will. Being at the Institute has made me realize how few of us have a family to fall back on.”

  “It’s what Cyclops has always been telling us,” said Cipher’s voice from the ether. “The Institute is the family now.”

  “How long have you been listening in?” Vic demanded, though without venom. Cipher appeared just inside the door, brushing a dreadlock from her face.

  “Not long,” she admitted. “Sorry, don’t let me interrupt your boy chats.�
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  “Family chats, apparently,” Vic corrected. “The principal would be proud of us.”

  “In all honesty, without the Institute I’m not sure I’d understand how much getting your dad back means to you, Vic,” Cipher said. “But I think I’m starting to get it, thanks to both of you.”

  “Glad I could be of assistance,” Vic said, lying back down again. “But don’t you ever stop and think that maybe all this is a bit dangerous for a bonding session?”

  “You’re just feeling guilty about us helping you,” Ci surmised. “Don’t. Only an idiot would think that way. We’re not leaving.”

  “Consider our perspective,” Gray added before Vic could respond. “Do you think we would have been content to stay at the Institute for any length of time while knowing you were beyond its walls, risking your life?”

  “So, what you’re saying is that we’re all unbearably stubborn and self-centered,” Vic said with a sarcastic smile, “and we can’t help but dive into danger for one another as it gives us all peace of mind?”

  “What are families for?” Cipher said. “The more I learn about them, the crazier they seem. Speaking of, Vic, stop punching the container door.”

  “I’ll stop if you go and get me more pizza?” he asked hopefully, poking a discarded box with a leg draped over the end of the bed.

  “This’ll literally be your third one since yesterday afternoon,” Ci said with faux disapproval. “Where are you putting it all?”

  “His arm,” Gray said, then caught himself as he realized it was a joke.

  “I’ll get you one more,” Cipher said. “But you’re going to have to wait until the afternoon. I need to sleep. In fact, I suspect we all do.”

  “Woe my aching stomach,” Vic said. “Did you manage to find anything at the depot?”

  “No,” Cipher said, passing between Vic and Gray to reach the laptop table. “But I did manage to hitch a ride with a Purifier trailer leaving it. They took me up to Clinton Hill.”

  “Lucky lady,” Vic said. “Hope you tipped them.”

  “They tipped me, actually,” she said. “Tipped me off about activity in an old church up near the expressway. There’s Purifiers gathering there from all over.”

  “What’re they up to?” Vic wondered. “Is it another recruitment sermon like the one Rocky busted?”

  “Don’t know, but they don’t look like they’ll be leaving anytime soon. I’ll swing by again tomorrow. I’m guessing they’ll be more active during the day. The church is rundown, looks like it was abandoned before they arrived.”

  “They’re probably setting up a new base of operations this side of the river,” Vic said. “They’re closing the net. I almost got caught earlier.”

  “You need to be careful,” Cipher admonished. “For all our sakes.”

  “I know,” Vic answered, trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. “It just… feels like Dad’s slipping away. Day by day, and we’re no closer. Sometimes it feels like he’s further away than ever. What have they been doing with him? Does he know he’s being used to lure me out? What… what if I never see him again?”

  “Don’t think like that,” Cipher advised. “We spoke to your mom before we left the Institute. She told us to tell you she loves you and that she knows you’ll get your father back. I’ve never seen anyone more confident. Plus, I know she’s right.”

  Vic smiled. He could very well imagine his mother’s conviction.

  “I’ll be back at that church as soon as I’ve caught a few hours’ sleep.” Cipher continued. “Gray, didn’t you have a new lead to check tomorrow as well?”

  “Rikers Island,” Graymalkin said with a nod. “I’ve identified several transports with Sublime Corp subsidiary markings travelling to and from it in the past forty-eight hours.”

  “I think we’re closer than you imagine,” Ci told Vic. “Get some rest, and try to ignore your stomach. At this rate your new arm will be twice the length of the other.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Careful with that, ingrates,” Prophet Xodus barked, gesturing at the dozen masked men struggling to erect a twelve-foot timber pole near the center of the cleared nave. “If you can’t manage that, how will we be able to raise the metal one?”

  There were mumbled, cringing apologies as several more Purifiers hurried over from the front doors of the church to help their brethren with the pole. Xodus glared at them until they had it upright and stable.

  He’d been in a dark mood since the incident on the Brooklyn Bridge, and no amount of self-flagellation or snapping at novitiates seemed able to improve it. Even being in the echoing, lofty space of the Church of the Seven Virtues, newly consecrated to the Purifier faith, offered him no respite.

  The crusade had reached a crossroads. Such a truth had become undeniable. The faithful in his charge had reached a fever-pitch of devotion, while the man – or devil, Xodus was coming to believe – who had made all the Purifiers’ victories possible was almost beyond appeasement.

  Despite their best efforts, none of Xodus’s devoted followers had been able to locate the lizard creature. He had excommunicated five of his most senior deacons and several Choristers for their repeated failures. Others had been flogged. Only the prospect of the coming confrontation eased the prophet’s wrath.

  He stalked along the floor of the nave towards the stairwell that led to the bell tower, scattering underlings in his wake. This was what it had come to, a final gamble. At least the setting was agreeable – he had coveted the Church of the Seven Virtues for some time. It lay in the dense urban sprawl between Brooklyn and Queens, a neo-Romanesque structure of thick sandstone walls and rounded arches and towers, its curving barrel-vault nave supported by vast pillars of stone. Anywhere else it might have acquired the status of cathedral, but its former overseers had squandered their money and their influence, and its parish had dwindled into insignificance. When the Purifiers had arrived, its windows had been boarded up and its great oaken doors firmly locked. But now, praise be, the children of the prophet were to bring light and salvation back to its draughty, echoing stone spaces once more.

  Xodus stepped from the bell tower stairs onto the balcony cloisters that ran the full length of the church interior. Like much of the derelict structure, the upper reaches were in dire need of repair. Masonry had fallen away, lying in scattered heaps across cracked flagstones whose crevices had been invaded by weeds. Xodus reached out and brushed a hand against one of the pillars, seeing how the sandstone gave way beneath his fingers.

  This church needed to be revitalized, and Xodus knew just the sort of sermon it required. He paused halfway along the western wing of the cloisters, looking down at where the nave broadened out before the apse and the new altar his devoted children had erected.

  Almost a hundred Purifiers worked below him. Some were collecting the smaller shards of dislodged masonry scattered across the nave and stuffing them into hessian sacking before beating them with hammers, turning them to powder within the cloth. That done, the bags were being stacked close to the apse, creating a heap of sacking that Xodus anticipated would prove vital when the time came. Most of the faithful, however, were hauling bundles of sticks along the shattered flagstones, collecting and binding them into two great clusters at the heart of the church. The first of the two poles that accompanied them had now been raised, while the second was still being lifted up. Unlike the first, this one was made from metal, and included heavy steel bolts. Such precautions were necessary, if their mutant guest was to be kept docile. Xodus was particularly looking forward to seeing how much heat its body could endure before it split and cracked. The thought almost brought back his good mood.

  He let his gaze wander up from the industrious work of the faithful, to where the church’s dome had once arched away overhead. Now it was a jagged hole, early evening sunlight streaming through to illuminate the efforts
of the faithful. The sight of the ceiling’s ruination brought a pang of sorrow to the prophet, but it would be put to good use, and soon. They would need the ventilation.

  He watched the construction efforts of the faithful for a while longer, occasionally barking orders down at those battling to erect the second, larger metal pole. Everything had to be perfect. This was the reckoning they had been working towards, the moment of divine inspiration that would accelerate the faith into a new, bright future. The crusade thus far had only been a beginning. The Church of the Seven Virtues, worn with age and bowed and stooped in neglect, would bear witness to the dawn of true purity.

  His mind somewhat eased, Xodus took the bell tower stairs back down to the nave. As he went, he experienced a sudden, slight shock that checked his descent. He shivered, wondering if some angelic deity had just passed through him. Further divine inspiration.

  Murmuring a catechism, he went to oversee the final preparation of the pyres personally.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Hurry up,” Melissa urged, tearing a fresh strip of tape from the roll she held and using it to seal up the top of another heavy box. “He wanted us done by this evening. I don’t want to end up on one of these racks, and neither should you.”

  Her lab partner, Michael, didn’t answer – he was too busy trying not to slash his fingers on the surgical blades he was attempting to pack away into their leather cases. This kind of work didn’t go well with being told to hurry, but he understood Melissa’s need for urgency. He didn’t want to be left in the lab after dark either.

  None of them had been told anything other than the fact that the boss wanted the facility cleared. By “cleared” he apparently meant “completely stripped out and abandoned” – everything was going, from test samples and research records to bulky scanning kits and life monitors. The tiled floors, the burnished metal gurneys, and the operating slabs had all been hosed down and thoroughly disinfected. The clear-out should have been finished by late afternoon, but completely evacuating a high-end medical research facility at such short notice was easier said than done.