Frostbitten

*BA…*

The world reappeared in a swirl of violet smoke that lasted
a quick breath before it disappeared once more.

*…MF*

The universe was suddenly upside down. He was only vaguely
aware of his perceptions adjusting as he raced along the ceiling on all fours,
darting around long broken light fixtures and exposed pipes. It stank in
there…of age, damp, squalor and decades of squatters. Moldering refuse decayed
in every room, rendering the air thick and nearly unbreathable.
He didn’t have time to be appalled…to feel for those forced to dwell in such
destitution. Someone was about to die.

“Nightcrawler.” Cyclop’s
voice was faint and muddled by static …the reception was poor in there. class=GramE>Strange. The abandoned building lacked anything that would
interfere with a signal. “Where are—“ The team
leader’s message dissolved into white noise.

“I’m in.” Kurt whispered. Maybe it would be heard, maybe
not. The team would catch up. Wolverine was most likely just meters behind him.
Logan had his
remarkable senses to guide him. He was probably ahead of him and Kurt would
discover his friend enjoying a victory cigar with the fight over and done with.
He’d left him scouting the perimeter, but Logan
had a way of showing up in the thick of the action…usually personally
responsible for its cause.

Kurt darted to the shadowy refuge of the high ceiling’s
corner. He was in a---surgery theater? A balcony overlooked the center of the
room, long benches stacked in a semi circle behind iron railing that had rusted
into little more than reddish dust that blended with the ever constant
condensation to drip in ruddy rivulets from the masonry to pool on the cracked
tile below.

He suddenly regretted ever watching Katzchen play Silent
Hill.

<Kurt?> Jean’s mental voice echoed in his thoughts.

<I’m fine. I’ve reached the surgical theater.> He sent
back, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the hastily
sketched blueprint of the asylum, squinting in the dim light as he scanned the
crude drawing. <The therapy room should be down the corridor.>

<Ok, since the comlinks seem to
be being temperamental, I’ll keep you linked to me this way.>  Jean’s
thoughts were so much louder than his own, as if someone turned the volume up.
He could feel her presence in his mind like an
persistent itch. It was both unsettling and comfortingly familiar at once.
<God, how awful is it? A creepy condemned asylum.
Watch out for zombies.> Jean added helpfully, <If you see anything
shambling, ‘port first, ask questions later.>

<I’m the romantic lead.> Kurt replied, tucking the
sketch back into his pocket, <I’m guaranteed to live.>

<You sure you aren’t the plucky comic relief? And you’re
seriously lacking in damsels to rescue. Unless you’re going
to be rescuing Bobby in drag…and then I really don’t want to know about it.>

<If I find Bobby tied up and wearing a pinafore I promise
to keep it hidden from you.> Kurt tried to force flippancy. class=SpellE>Gott, this place was awful…and despite the almost stifling
humidity, he’d caught a bone chill that set his seat soaked fur bristling
inside his uniform. <Anyway, I see anything that even so much as hints at Dawn
of the Dead and I’ll be testing my theory on the possibility of teleporting
all the way to Thailand.>

<Belay that. I want photographic evidence for
blackmailing purposes later. Mean Jean out.>

With that, Kurt released his hold on the vaulted ceiling and
flipped to a crouch on the ground. The floor splashed unpleasantly. I’m too
old for this. Kurt winced and tried to ignore the smell of the stagnant
water and Gott-Knows-What-Else. Wait. How old *am*
I?

<32.> A voice in his head
chirped merrily before he could work out the mental math. <So, you’re not
‘too old’…Logan
is way older than you.> She paused, her tone turning serious…and
tinged with genuine worry. <Be careful, Kurt. They managed to get their
hands on Bobby…don’t underestimate them.>

<I won’t. I promise. If he’s here, we’ll get him home,
Jean.> He smiled and tried to tint his mental communication with the
confidence he didn’t quite feel. Something was ‘off’ in all of this. He dragged
his tri-digit hand through his hair and jogged lightly toward the door, peeking
through the tiny screened window into the hallway. Looked
clear. He pressed his cheek to the scratched glass…ja,
both directions were empty. He eased the door open and slipped into the
passageway, catching the door with his tail to gently shut it before he
ventured forth.

Kurt stepped lightly, walking on the balls of his unusual
feet, making his way silently down the hall. There. The
therapy room. The vagrant had said he had seen an ‘ice man’ there. class=GramE>That ‘they’ had him. Who ‘they’ were was still open to
debate.