Playing with Fire

And here it is, chapter 22. Hope it was worth the wait! Huge thanks again to Sue Penkivech, super-beta extraordinaire. Equally huge thanks to all you amazingly wonderful people who take the time to review. You haveideaidea (okay, maybe you do) what kind of warm fuzzies reviews give me.

Just in case anyone is getting any weird ideas, I still do not own any of the X-Men. The few characters I *do* own in this little fiasco are not people to whom I am particularly attached - let's face it, they're all irredeemable assholes thus far - and not likely to show much improvement.


SPIRITED AWAY


Newcombe nearly shit himself when their target took one staggering step and then disappeared in a burst of thick, purple smoke. He could feel the blood drain from his face as raw fear seized him. The sedative hadn't worked. The damn thing was loose. The only one they *had* to bring in, and it was loose.

"Oh, holy fuck!" he cursed as his eyes widened in panic. Not again. The damn thing _couldn't_ fuckin' get away again. Hell, the Brass wouldn't even bat an eyelash if the other three didn't come throughve, ve, so long as the fucking teleporter was in one piece - and it had just disappeared.

_Oh fuck!_

His panic had barely had time to coalesce into a ragged knot in his gut before the thing reappeared not ten feet from where it had started, wove awkwardly on its feet for no more than a second, then collapsed in an inelegant heap in the roadside dirt. Newcombe mumbled a swift thanks to whatever god or saint watched over soldiers and darted over to check his charge, Williams hard on his heels.

Some fuckin' _reward_ for figurin' out the freak's secret - the _honor_ of being responsible for its capture. He could've fuckin' done without _that_ kind of honor, thanks. Williams, on the other hand - little butt-kisser - was so fuckin' honored that Newcombe thought he just might burst. Damn idiot.

He reached the thing's side just steps ahead of the boy and paused, grimacin dis distaste, before crouching down to check its vital signs. Hell, at least it was in its 'human' form. He wasn't sure if he could do this if he'd been looking at a furry blue demon.

They were on a tight schedule, so he pushed his hesitation aside at the thought of touching one of _t and and put his hand to the creature's throat, checking for its pulse - and nearly jumped right out of his skin.

"Shit!" he yelped in surprise as his fingers brushed against what was unmistakably a pelt.

"What you so fuckin' jumpy 'bout, Jason?" Williams asked. "Not like the damn thing's gonna bite you, it's out cold."

He didn't answer as he forced his breathing back to normal and his hand back to the creature's pulse point. Its heartbeat was slow and steady, just as it should be under the sedative's influence. He pulled his hand back with a jerk the moment he'd confirmed that fact, then shifted his attention to verifying that the thing was, indeed, breathing normally. With this particular tranq there was _some_ danger of shutting down autonomic functions with an overdose, and he had an epi-pen with the antidote to administer if necessary. No need though, its chest was rising and falling in a slow but regular rhythm.

A quick glance at his watch showed they were pushing the edge of their schedule - it had been four minutes since McComd shd shot out the muties' tire on the corner and a full 68 seconds since they'd pulled up to the scene. Time to get a move-on and bloody well hope that the drug they'd hit the teep with had taken her down before she'd 'called' for help.

"Get its legs," he barked at Williams as he shifted around to grab the limp creature by its arm-pits. The kid obliged quickly and Newcombe crushed a smirk as the boy made the same discovery he'd made moments before. He might be picking up something that _looked_ human, but it was still that misshapen mutie freak underneath. With a startled yelp, Williams almost dropped the thing's legs as he actually _felt_ how thoroughly misshapen they actually were.

To his credit, though, the kid collected himself quickly. Firming his grip, he hoisted the mutie's legs up as Newcombe heaved up its top half. It was, he reflected, very unnerving to look down and _see_ a rather non-descript teenage boy in khakis and a button down, but _feel_ some oddly proportioned monster in a slick, form-fitting bodysuit of some kind.

Newcombe met his partner's wide-eyed stare across the body and jerked his head toward the waiting Suburban. They were the last team left - the mutie bitches were already loaded up and the freak with the glasses and the destructive eye-beams was just being heaved into the back as they headed that way.

A quick glance around confirmed that the clean-up crew was also almost finished with their work. They'd pulled up in a large, white semi about thirty seconds after the tranquilizers had been deployed and already almost all evidence of their presence, as well as that of the mutie freaks, had been eliminated. As Newcombe watched, a crew pushed the freaks' car up a ramp into the back of the waiting semi. As per plan, by the time the muties figured out they were missin' some of their own, there shouldn't even a bad smell left for the Wolverine to pick up on.

By the time the two of them got the creature to the SUV, Dr. Meier, a fussy little man with thick glasses and a voice as wispy as he was, was staring their way and wringing his hands nervously.

"Bring it here, quickly," he commanded - or tried to anyway. The effect was pretty much ruined by his voice, though his imperious manner almost made up for it. "You didn't damage it, did you?'

"No...sir," Newcombe responded grudgingly. It irked him to have to give this strange little man that much respect. "Vitals are within tolerance."

The scientist's eyes slid over him briefly as he spoke, then immediately dismissed him as of no importance. His blood burned at the snub. As they slid the limp form into the back of the Suburban, next to its equally limp companions, the little man shouldered his way in, intent on checking his prize for himself.

"Doctor! That will have to wait!" Newcombe looked up at the owner of the voice and saluted smartly, Williams following suit just a heartbeat later. Captain Greene halted beside them, his imperturbable gaze fixed on the doctor who paused, hand hovering uncertainly over the thing.

"You two! Load up and prepare to move out!"

"Yes SIR!" Their voices were in almost perfect unison as they turned and trotted off to their assigned positions - another _honor_ - in the vehicle which was taking their...acquisitions...to the airstrip. The semi was already pulling away and, glancing at his watgaingain, Newcombe noted that the traffic diversions that the other teams had set up down the road in either diron son should be breaking up at any moment.

_Right on schedule._

"In the vehicle NOW, Doctor." The Captain snapped in a tone that brooked no argument. "You can examine it at your leisure once it's loaded for the flight, and I'm sure you’ll be able to poke and prod it to your heart's content once it's safely delivered. For now, however, we have to get the hell out of here."

A moment later the irritating little man was forcibly propelled through the rear door and into the seat next to him, followed quickly by the Captain sliding into shotgun position. Sergeant Masters had already covered the bodies with a tarpaulin, and he now closed the hatch and sprinted around to take his position in the driver's seat. The other six men who had originally arrived in the SUV had already left in the semi with the clean up team, Masters, Meier and the Captain taking their places in the Suburban for the trip to the airstrip.

As they pulled out onto the road, Newcombe glanced back at the now empty section of shoulder then down at his watch one last time. A grand total of eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds had elapsed since the tire had blown and they were leaving the scene with four unconscious mutants, no witnesses, and no evidence save a fresh set of skid marks on a section of road that was already layered with them. Not too damn bad.

The thirty minute drive to a decommissioned military air field passed in tense silence, broken only by radio updates from the other teams confirming the success of all phases of the operation. The 'accidents' that had cleared Graymalkin Lane of all traffic during the pick-up had been cleared with no sign of suspicion by the authorities, the semi carrying the muties' car had crossed state lines with no difficulty and would be dropping the vehicle at the side of a little-used rural road in less than two hours. It wasn't likely to be found for days. The only thing left to ensure complete success was to get their prizes loaded on the C-130 Hercules idling on the tarmac ahead of them. After that, it would be the flight crew's problem to see their cargo safely delivered to the mutant holding and training facility that was their ultimate destination.

There were already crews waiting for them, stretchers ready, and the second that the Suburban pulled to a halt it was surrounded by a flurry of activity. Captain Greene supervised from a distance while Sergeant Masters oversaw the actual transfer of the unconscious muties. He and Williams were again given the dubious honor of dealing with their 'prize' and Newcombe struggled not to let his discomfort show under the watchful eyes of his superior as he helped shift the limp body.

With a grunt of effort they hoisted awkward weight of the stretcher and began to move across the uneven tarmac, towards the ramp leading up into the belly of the waiting plane. Masters had almost had to forcibly restrain Dr. Meier through the entire process, but once they were safely moving the obsessed little man shouldered his way forward, mumbling excitedly to himself all the while.

Newcombe watched with interest as Meier reached for the creature's wrist, pleasantly anticipating the irritating little runt's discomfiture when his fingers met fur rather than flesh. To his disappointment and disgust, Meier's face broke out in a wide grin.

"Well I'll be," the little man murmured happily. "It must be possessed of some ability to project illusion. Not a shape-shifter at all. How terribly fascinating...."

His hands had never stopped moving as he e: pe: pushing up an invisible sleeve, running eagerly across the thing's face, chest and arms as he apparently tried to discern the creature's true form by touch.

"Amazing how it can maintain the illusion despite being unconscious. It will be _so_ interesting to study."

They were moving up the ramp now, and Sergeant Masters tugged Meier away so that they could maneuver the stretcher safely up into the back of the Hercules' cavernous cargo bay. Six metal exam ts ans and a small medical supply cabinet were securely anchored in place there, with a green canvas curtain separating them from the forward portion of the transport's belly. Newcombe could still hear Meier close behind, mumbling distractedly to himself about the difficulties of running tests on a subject when he couldn't _see_ its veins.

Newcombe and Williams carried the stretcher across the floor and lowered it next to the table indicated by Meier's assistant, who had been ing ing at the ramp. Steeling himself to touch the freak one last time, he helped Williams heave the creature, none too gently, onto the table - an action that was quickly repeated with the other muties by the men who had carried them.

They stepped back quickly as Meier and his flunky made a bee-line for the freak, ignoring the rest of their charges for the time-being. Williams quickly bent and folded the litter, tucking it beneath an arm before turning to leave. Newcombe took the opportunity to pause, stealing a quick glance at their acquisitions - and blushed red to the roots of his hair when he caught sight of the little dark-haired one. He remembered vividly what he'd seen her doing with the deformed freak last night. She was a pretty little piece, despite being a mutant bitch, and he felt the bile rise in his throat again as he thought of her - of anyone - willingly touching that...thing...intimately.

He was suddenly very eager to get away from the mutie scum, and began to slip quickly between the exam tables, both empty and occupied, follg thg the men heading past the curtain to the line of seats on either side of the transport's front 'wall'.

"Newcombe!" The captain's sharp voice stopped him just two strides from the canvas wall that separated Meier's little domain from the rest of the cargo bay. He watched longingly as Williams retreated through the curtain and into the shadows of the Hercules' interior.

"Sir?" he responded, snapping to attention.

"You will provide security for the first watch." Meier's mousy little head shot up at the words and he added, in an uncharacteristically placating tone. "Just in case. I'm sure that doctors Meier and Arensen have everything under control, but it can never hurt to be too careful when dealing with these animals."

Meier returned his attention to his 'toy', satisfied with this response, and Captain Greene continued, resuming his normal tone of command. "You will also provide Dr. Meier with whatever assistance he may require of you."

Silently Newcombe agreed wholeheartedly the muties should be under tight security, though he couldn't help wishing that it was someone *else* who was going to provide that extra measure of security. "Yes, Sir!" however, was his only verbal response - it was,er aer all, the only response available to him.

He turned back and accepted the small tranquilizer gun the captain offered to him and tried, yet again, to keep his discomfort with his assignment concealed. He was really starting to think that all this fucking _honor_ was just a disguised way of continuing the punishment for his failure at Winzeldorf.


Kurt blinked his eyes blearily, then squinted them shut against the painful glare of light. He felt light-headed and dizzy and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep - a leisure that was denied him by some obnoxious, thrumming noise jack-hammering through his brain.

_Gott, was in der Holle is that noise?_

He wanted to yell at someone to turn off whatever the hell it was, but he couldn't force out anything louder than a feeble, croaking moan. His mouth was dry and cottony and he had a repulsively rank taste lingering at the back of his throat. He tried to bring a hand up to rub at his aching head and dry lips, but stopped, startled, as he realizhat hat the hand in question was securely strapped to the bed...table?...next to him - as, he discovered when he tried to move it, was the other hand. Tentative efforts to move his legs confirmed that they were similarly restrained.

_Verfluckt, what the hell have I done that they needed to do this?_ The pounding in his head seemed to increase exponentially at the possibility that he might actually have done something to cause the Professor to order him strapped down. And that damn _noise_ hadn't stopped, its rhythmic pounding just adding to the pain in his head. It was like some kind of huge engine, and he was beginning to feel like he was trapped _inside_ the verdammt thing.

His tail thrashed in agitation as he tried to wet his lips enough to call for help, and for some explanation of just what the hell had happened - and stopped, frozen, as he felt his tail smack painfully against the metal side of the table he lay on. That wasn't right...it couldn't be right. If the Professor had ordered him restrained, for whatever reason, he would have restrained _all_ of him. The Professor know better than to leave his tail free if he wanted Kurt under control - a lesson he had, unfortunately, learned the hard way.

And that noise...it wasn't right either. There was nothing near the medbay that could produce such a sound. Even the table was wrong - hard and flat and cold against his...bare?...body. Definitely wrong. No padding, no bedding, no indecent and uncomfortable hospital gown. Nothing but cold metal.

He lay perfectly still and forced his disoriented and aching brain to focus.... What did he remember last? The car...Scott's driving...the crash...strangers...GAS...Jean and Kitty and...

_ Durch die Eier des Teufels! Bitte nein..._

Kurt's heart beat a frantic tattoo in his chest as he remembered watching their limp bodies disappear into that verdammt SUV before blackness took him. That still didn't tell him where he was or what was going on though. He pushed his panic down and tried again to open his eyes the merest slit against the glare of the lights above - just as the world took a strange, jerky step down, then up and to the left.

He suppressed a yelp of surprise with difficulty and heard, for the first time, voices that he couldn't quite make out, but definitely didn't recognize. They were slightly behind him and to his left, not close, and not nearly far enough away for his comfort. It took a moment for his stomach to settle and his head to stop pounding after the unexpected jostling.

At least he knew where he was now...sort of. A plane. The noise had to be the sound of engines and propellers, judging by its quality. They must have just hit a pocket of turbulence.

This definitely was not good. He should have been _aware_ of the motion. He should have _known_. He realized, with a growing sense of alarm, that he had absolutely no sense of where he was, what direction he was moving in, the size of the space he was in or even whatever or whoever else might occupy it. Nothing. Forcing his mind to stillness he tried to consciously stretch his sense out to the world around him - and gasped in pain as he got a ten-fold increase of the pounding in his head for his trouble.

Now that he'd noticed them, Kurt was aware, even through his pain and nausea, of the almost constant murmur of voices off to one side, though he couldn't make out any words over the overpowering thrum of the plane's engines. He was, however, certain that the voices were _not_ familiar.

He swallowed convulsively, grateful that, whoever they belonged to, they didn't seem to have noticed that he was awake. He just hoped he could keep it that way until he figured out what, if anything, he could do about his situation.

He lay immobile, even his tail still, as the awful truth sank in past the throbbing in his skull. He had been drugged and abducted. He was naked and strapped to an exam table on a plane going God only knows where, and he had no idea if his friends were there as well, or even if they were alive for that matter. He stifled a moan at the last thought, thankful that the sound was lost in the noise of the engines. Throw in the fact that whatever drug they'd used had left him with a skull-shattering headache and a churning stomach, as well as having completely trashed his usually infallible spatial awareness. Yep, things looked just peachy. Just fucking peachy.

Newcombe sat on one of the few seats in this section of the C-130's , hi, his tranq gun in his lap as he looked anywhere but at the unconscious mutants strapped to four of the six metal examining tables crammed into the space. Meier and his flunky - Arensen, he thought, though he'd been paying as little attention to the two men as he could - were still huddled at one of the empty tables, exclaiming over the huge, clunky watch they'd taken off the freak when they were strapping it down.

_That_ had been quite the revelation, finding out that the creature wasn't a shape-shifter or an illusionist at all, that it just had some fancy-ass technology to hide its freakish appearance. Newcombe wasn't sure whether he was more or lessturbturbed by that development. On the handhand, the idea that one of _them_ could have the natural ability to conceal itself from humans was pretty sickening, but the thought that those freaks could actually get their hands on such advanced technology was positively frightening. The two scientists had been fiddling with the damn thing, trying to figure out how the hell they'd managed to make the device so compact, ever since they'd stopped poking and prodding at the bluered red freak himself.

Newcombe was just _very_ grateful that he hadn't been expected to deal with it in any way. Meier and...whats-his-name...had reserved that _privilege_ for themselves. While they had strapped it down, and discovered its secret in the process, he had been told to make sure the other three were securely restrained and then to prep them each for an injection. Meier himself had stripped the freak - thank God they'd only required him to push up the other ones' sleeves - and shaved a patch into its arm before injecting it with a sedative that should keep it out cold for at least the next four hours, then quickly administered the same drug to the other three captives.

Once he'd carried out his instructions, Newcombe had seated himself in his chair and tried very hard to ignore the fact that the other two men were displaying a truly repulsive fascination with the freak's twisted anatomy. They'd spent an inordinate amount of time examining its three-fingered hands and strange, animal-like legs as well as manipulating its tail through all manner of contortions and exclaiming over its flexibility and musculature. All the while they'd eagerly discussed x-rays and MRIs and assorted other tests they planned to put it through at the first opportunity.

At least, now that they had shifted their attention to the enigma of the watch and those weird glasses they'd taken off the other male, Newcombe could mostly ignore the freak's presence. Almost two hours into the flight and he was beginning to think that 'first watch' was code for 'the whole damn trip, loser'. He took a quick look at his charges, confirming that they were still out cold, and wondered yet again just what the hell he was really doing here. The docs had the damn things drugged to the gills, it wasn't like 'security' was really necessary. He heaved a sigh and shifted his attention back to the truly fascinating metal floor between his feet. It could be worse, of course. He wasn't quite sure _how_ at the moment, but he was certain that somehow it could definitely be worse.


Kurt lay for wfeltfelt like hours, but was actually only moments, heart racing as he fought down the debilitating panic that was trying to overwhelm him. He was naked, on an exam table, bound and drugged...it was any number of nightmares come to life...but every moment he wasted on panic increased the chance that one of his captors would notice that he was awake and take steps to remedy that fact - or something worse. He had to assess his situation and act *now*, while he had a chance.

On the plus side, abject terror and the associated adrenalin rush were doing wonders for his physical condition. He'd managed to almost completely forget his pounding head and churning gut and he was feeling more alert by the second as he burned off the last remnants of whatever they'd drugged him with. On the down side, he was also fighting the completely irrational urge to just slip his restraints and *run* - anywhere - and to hell with the fact that he was on a plane and had nowhere to run to.

With great effort, he managed to kick his rational thought processes banto nto gear and stretched out with senses other than his spatial awareness. He might not be a match for the Wolverine, but his other senses were still head and shoulders above a base-line human's. He quickly gave up hope of learning much by listening however. The drone of the plane's engines drowned out everything more than a few feet away. He was fairly certain that the two voices he could still hear were no more than six to ten feet away, but, even bending all his concentration their way, he still couldn't make out a word.

Scent, however, was a different matter. Once he'd mentally filtered out the astringent odor of antiseptic lingering in the air around him, as well as the acrid scent of fuel and the tang of metal, what was left was both reassuring and infuriating. The others were here as well, probably restrained just as he was and no doubt still unconscious, as none of them had the benefit - or curse - of his ridiculously accelerated metabolism. Their captors obviously had no idea how rapidly his body would burn through anything they gave him - in fact, he was probably lucky that they hadn't accidentally over-dosed him.

At the thought of Kitty strapped to a table, naked and unconscious, he had to clamp down ruthlessly on the growl that wanted to thunder through his chest. Someone was going to pay for this, and pay dearly.

He forced himself to concentrate again. The other scents that he could catch were muddled and indistinct in the wash of chemicals saturating the plane. He knew there were at least two others, but his ears had already told him that. He had a nagging feeling, though, that there _might_ be a third stranger present, he just couldn't be sure. Trying to isolate a strange scent in this mix was virtually impossible - really, the only reason he'd been able to identify Kitty, Jean and Scott was because he knew the three of them so well.

Finally, with a silent prayer that no one was looking, he risked slitting his eyes open against the glare of artificial light. It was probably quite dim here, but the light still lanced through his head and made his eyes water with the pain. Still, he forced them to remain open as he took in his surroundings. He was, conveniently enough, facing to his left, the direction that the strange voices and scents were coming from. He would have hated to risk turning his head to try and locate them. Between him and them was a stainless steel gurney on which Jean's limp body lay - fully clothed, thank Gott, but strapped down just as he was, with leather buckles at wrist and ankle (or, in his case, hock).

He'd think about exactly why they'd stripped him naked and left her clothed later, for now he looked past her and was rewarded with the sight of two - no three - men, no more than six feet away. Two of them, in lab coats, were standing with their backs to him, huddled over something on a table that appeared to be bolted to the aircraft's curving side. One was small, gray-haired and thin, almost to the point of being wispy, while the other was only somewhat taller, perhaps a bit younger, and more than a little on the hefty side. Obviously, neither of them was a _physical_ threat. It was their voices that he'd heard.

The third man, the one he'd almost over-looked, sat to their left, in a jump-seat that was bolted to the wall next to the table. He was young and rather burly, dressed in non-descript street-clothes, and appeared to be examining the floor between his feet with singular concentration. Kurt thought he looked vaguely familiar, but discarded the idea and breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that none of them were paying the slightest attention to their captives.

Just past the seated man, he could make out the edge of what appeared to be a canvas partition of some kind, separating this area from the rest of the plane. The obvious - and demoralizing - conclusion was that there was more space - and more people - beyond it. Without moving his head, he looked as far in the other direction as he could see, just far enough to make out the leading edge of another steel gurney about two feet past the foot of Jean's 'bed', on which was something that could only be the top of Scott's head.

Taking a deep breath and suppressing a fresh surge of panic, he risked turning his head quickly to the other side, praying fervently as he did so that there were no other watchers on that side of the 'room'. It was fortunate that there weren't, because once his eyes fell on Kitty's slight form strapped to the table next to him he didn't think he could have pulled them away to save his life - at least they'd left her clothes on as well. He could feel his face twist into a snarl of rage, and his tail lash angrily where it hung down beside the table, but he couldn't seem to stop either response. Not for the moment anyway.

_If they've hurt her...if *anyone* has harmed her...._

He forced his breathing back to normal and his eyes to scan the rest of that side of the 'room'. Nothing but another exam table - empty - past the foot of Kitty's and some more jumpseats bolted to the plane's curving metal wall. He turned his attention warily back to his captors, relieved to find them still ignoring him and his companions. Hopefully he'd get the opportunity to make them regret that oversight.

Keeping a wary eye on the three men at all times, he brought his tail up to fiddle with the leather straps wrapped awkwardly around his hocks. They were simply buckled, not locked, and it had obviously never occurred to these men that one of their captives might try to escape. Even without looking, it was only a moment's work for him to unfasten the straps and free his legs - it was no different than undoing a belt, really. He didn't even bother with undoing the straps on his wrists. His fingers might be large, but his hand was remarkably flexible and it was no problem to simply contort his hands and slide them out of their bindings.

It had taken him less than a minute, during which time the two...scientists... doctors...whatever they were...had remained fixed on the object they were studying and the other man had continued to simply stare at the floor. It took only a moment's thought to identify the seated man as the greatest threat. He had no apparent purpose here other than to provide security - Kurt almost snorted at that thought - and he was considerably larger and more fit than the other two. He'd have to take him first, then move quickly before the other men could sound an alert.

He briefly considered teleporting - that would give him the greatest possible element of surprise - but reconsidered when his head throbbed painfully at just the thought. Surprise wouldn't do him any good if his only method of attack was to puke on his target and collapse in his lap. He only had six feet to cover, after all, he should be on the man before he had any clue what was happening.

He pulled his knees carefully up, planting his feet on the table as he turned slightly to get a grip on its edge. A quick, deep breath and then he was rolling to his feet and launching himself silently across Jean's still form at the seated man. He'd been right, the guy didn't have a clue what hit him.

He didn't even look up until one-hundred and forty pounds of pissed off, naked teenager landed in his lap, and by then it was too late. Kurt's fist connected solidly with his wind-pipe just as he began to raise something he'd held on his knee. The man's eyes went wide in surprise and pain, and then closed as Kurt belted him hard across the jaw, reflexively seizing the weapon that fell from the man's limp fingers.

He was on auto-pilot now, months of hard training with the Wolverine taking over as he turned on the other two men, who were only just shifting to face him. He bared his fangs in silent a snarl and watched the color drain from both their faces as they looked at him, and knew he was a terrifying sight. For possibly the first time in his life that knowledge brought him satisfaction, rather than pain.

Without a sound he lashed out with the gun in his hand, slamming the butt first into the side of the closer man's face. There was a sickening crunch of breakinge ane and the tall, paunchy scientist dropped like a limp rag, blood leaking from the wound.

The smaller man reached for a console on the table next to him, a radio perhaps, but he never even got close to it as Kurt's tail snaked out and wrapped around his throat, jerking him roughly forward. Between panic and rage it took almost more effort than he could manage to resist the urge to snap the man's scrawny little neck but his determination not to kill, ever, won out and he simply pistol-whipped this man much as he had the first, letting his tail's grip loose and dropping him to the floor in a heap.

He stood over the fallen men, panting and fighting vertigo, for perhaps the space of ten heartbeats before turning back to where the first man slumped, unconscious, in his seat. He was burbling loudly through his damaged windpipe, but didn't appear to be in immediate danger of suffocating. Kurt doubted there was any chance he'd be any further trouble. The other two, however, could conceivably wake, and he couldn't risk having enemies at his back as he dealt with whatever might be beyond that partition.

Working quickly, in constant fear that someone would come to check on them, he heaved the two scientists onto exam tables and strapped them securely in place with the leather restraints. That done, he quickly checked his team-mates, both for signs of life and for any chance that they might be jostled into consciousness - any help would be welcome at this point. They all seemed unharmed, but showed no signs of rousing despite the rather rough shaking he treated them to after he unbuckled their restraints.

He'd come to Kitty last and now, as he gave up on waking her, he pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, letting his fingers trail lightly down her cheek for the briefest moment. He didn't even feel the tear that slid down his cheek as he bent and brushed a light kiss across her pale cheek before turning away, running the fingers of his right hand absently across a small, shaved patch on the back of his left hand.


A quick search of the curtained area revealed nothing of any particular use. The pistol he'd taken from the first man - a single shot tranquilizer - was the only weapon, and even finding his uniform did him no good as they'd obviously cut it off him.

He discarded the idea of using his watch, as there was no image programmed into it that was likely to be halfshocshocking as the sight of a naked blue-furred demon charging out of the darkness, and he expected he'd need every advantage he could get. Hefting the pistol, he turned resolutely toward the canvas partition. It was time to see just what was on the other side.

A quick look was all he needed to know he was *so* screwed. He let the canvas drop back and leaned against the curving side-wall of the plane, head tilted back and eyes closed as he shoved down yet another panic attack.

"Fick mich!" he muttered vehemently under his breath. There were at least a dozen men out there, probably more like fifteen. They were all in street clothes, but something about them, to a man, fairly screamed 'soldier'. He hadn't dared take the time for a detailed examination, but he was certain that at least _some_ of them were armed - hopefully with tranquilizer guns, but he couldn't afford to bet his life and his friends' freedom on that assumption.

Most of them were in jumpseats on the left side of the plane, he'd only seen three men - probably the officers - seated on the other side. The way the seats lined the sides of the plane, with the occupants facing each other across the center, severely limited his chances of actually taking them by surprise. In fact, he was damned lucky that no one had seen him peering out at them - there was only about six feet between the end of the partition and the first occupied seat.

_Verdammt noch mal. Being scared shitless is already getting old!_

He tried to imagine what strategy Cyclops or Wolverine might employ under the circumstances, but kept drawing a blank. He didn't think he was up to teleporting yet, so it would be all up to speed and the tactical advantage of surprise. Right about now, he'd would pay good money for any kind of obstacles to clutter up all that empty space in the center of the plane's cargo bay. With nothing to dodge or hide behind the odds of being overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers was daunting - assuming someone didn't just end the whole thing with a lucky shot.

Kurt shifted the tranq pistol to his tail - his fingers were much too thick to fit past the trigger guard, but the spade of his tail was slender and flexible enough to serve. Then, after murmuring a quick, heartfelt prayer to St. Jude, theron ron Saint of desperate situations, he twitched the canvas aside, just in time to stare into the shocked brown eyes of a man not much older than himself. Relief for the man whose windpipe he'd crushed, some rational, detached portion of his brain supplied, while the part in charge of keeping body and soul together reached out and grabbed the startled man by the throat before he could make a sound. With a convulsive heave, Kurt lifted him right off his feet then turned and, with a sharp jerk, slammed him into the metal wall.

His head connected first with a meaty thud and, as his eyes rolled back in his head, Kurt released him to slide limply to the floor, grabbing another tranq pistol from him as he fell. He may not be able to fire the damn thing, but it still made a better weapon than his bare fists.

The whole sequence had taken no more than ten seconds, but he knew it was too much to hope that it had gone unnoticed and, looking up, he saw that he was right. Everyone was scrambling out of their seat, all eyes on him, and one of men men on the right was shouting orders that he could barely make out over the drone of the props. 'Bring it down alive' and 'don't kill it' seemed to figure prominently. That, at least, was a relief.

The closest man was up already, and no more than five feet away. Without hesitation Kurt brought up his tail and, using the spaded tip like a third hand, fired the tranq pistol point-blank into the man's face. He didn't even pause to register the agonized scream as his target collapsed to his knees, a dart blooming in his right eye. There was no time, as his next two adversaries were closing fast.

He sidestepped to the outside of the first, heedful of Wolverine's admonition to never get caught between two enemies, and then almost stumbled as a dart whistled through the space he'd just vacated. He recovered quickly, kicking himself for being distracted, and lashed out with a cupped palm directly to his target's ear. He was rewarded by a howl of anguish as the man dropped, his equilibrium shattered and blood pouring from his ruptured eardas has his comrade awkwardly dodged his body to come at Kurt. A quick kick to the side of the knee had him buckling and a vicious backhand with the pistol butt put one more enemy down for the count.

From there, though, things degenerated quickly into screaming chaos as Kurt dodged, ducked, leapt and wove, trying always to keep from being cornered or surrounded as the remaining dozen plus men came at him from all sides. He couldn't get enough breathing room to switch the loaded gun for the spent one in his tail, and so was reduced to using both weapons to simply pistol whip anyone who came within range. The sheer surprise of dealing with an opponent who moved as easily on the ceiling as on the floor and who could attack with a tail gave him a certain advantage in the beginning, but that rapidly dissipated as his adversaries adapted to his unique fighting style.

It was only his constant motion and his ability to use his enemies as human shields which kept him from going down under a hail of tranquilizer darts. Despite the lack of barriers, he managed to never provide a clear shot for long enough to be a target. After four darts missed - and one of them ended up in his current opponent's chest - the officer screamed at them to stop shooting and to use their weapons as bludgeons instead.

In the end, he realized that the only reason he had lasted so long was his enemies' unwilnessness to risk causing him serious injury - a fact that was almost as frightening as it was useful. He was running out of energy and had taken down no more than seven of his opponents. Not counting the three from earlier that left at least eight more facing him. It was only a matter of time - and how many he could take with him - before he was overwhelmed. If he'd been able to bring himself to actually kill any of them, he might have done better, but despite his desperation, he couldn't willingly take a life.

He was tiring rapidly and he knew it was hopeless to fight any more - he couldn't win - but, hopeless or not, he wouldn't, couldn't, stop fighting. As he and St. Jude both knew only too well, sometimes the lost causes were the ones most worth fighting for.

He spun desperately away from another attack but couldn't avoid the hand that lashed out and seized him by the wrist. With a quick twist of his arm he broke free and then grabbed the offending appendage in both hands _tearing_ brutally in opposite directions. He was already flipping up to the curved ceiling, nine feet above, as his victim collapsed to the floor, cradling the mangled remains of his hand. Only seven more to go... _Ich werde stark kaputt!_




"God fucking damn it!"

Captain Edward Thomas Greene was thoroughly and completely pissed off. Everything had been going according to plan. Not a single hitch or setback. After _months_ of fruitless watching and waiting, they had finally captured the freak, plus grabbed three more of the mutant scum as pure gravy. All without incident and it had happened under _his_ command.

And now...his face twisted in rage as he watched the god-damned mutant freak leaping and twisting among his men almost as though it were some kind of dance - a very macabre dance that left a trail of twisted and bleeding bodies in his wake. Fifteen grown men, trained _soldiers_ for Christ's sake, and this scrawny teenager had incapacitated - maybe even killed - at least five of them in less than two minutes.

He knew it was only a matter of time before they took the thing down. They had it vastly outnumbered and it was obviously tiring. But the casualties it was inflicting were un-fucking-acceptable. Hell, it was unacceptable that it was even _awake_, forget the fact that it was eating his supposedly 'crack' troops alive.

_Fuck!_

Where the hell did that mousy little shit get off calling himself a mutant 'expert' when he couldn't even manage to keep this one unconscious for fourteen fucking hours? If the freak hadn't killed the arrogant little bastard already, Greene just might take care of the oversight when this mess had been cleaned up.

Greene bit off another colorful curse as the thing leapt and...twisted...in mid-air, coming to rest with obscene ease on the...ceiling? He was going to have Meier's ass as a sling for this. He was supposed to have collared the fucking thing! It shouldn't be able to use _any_ of its powers. Shit! What if it started teleporting, they'd be completely screwed.

He narrowed his eyes at the thing, taking a good look at it for the first timeit sit scuttled across the ceiliike ike some obscene, hairy blue spider. What the hell? It _was_ collared! He was _sure_ he caught the glint of brushed steal at its throat before it flipped down and flattened another one of his men.

_Wait a fucking minute. The collar!_

"Sergeant! Here! Now!" he bellowed to be heard over both the noise of conflict and the drone of the turbo-props.

"Sir!" Masters materialized at his side, leaving, for the moment, his efforts toanguangue his charges into capturing the blue freak.

"Get your ass in there," he jerked his head at the canvas partition, "and find the control console for that freak's collar, then take it *down*. NOW!"

"Sir!" was the man's only response as he turned sharply and headed past the combatants at a run.

He disappeared behind the curtain in a matter of moments and Greene turned back to the hash his men were making of trapping the animal. He'd caught the faint hint of surprise and shock in Masters' eyes before he'd turned, though. The look that clearly said his officer should have remembered this vital detail _before_ half the men under his command were bleeding wrecks on the cargo bay floor. Greene snarled silently as another of his men went down at the freak's misshapen hands, screaming and clutching at the bleeding wreckage where the thing had ripped his hand nearly in half, right down the middle. Masters better find that console and take the fucking animal down _fast_.

It had flipped back up to the ceiling after its last close call, and was maneuvering its way into position for another attack when it stopped, its hideous glowing eyes going wide in shock before clutching spasmodically at its throat and dropping to the floor in a twitching heap - all without ever making a sound.

Greene chuckled in grim satisfaction at the sight then watched, irritated, as the seven men left standing cautiously approached the thing, obviously worried that it was a trap of some sort. With a snort of annoyance he strode over to where the thing lay, pushing his way past winded, dazed men, to stand next to the creature. Its eyes were open and it was still twitching slightly as he pulled back one booted foot and landed a kick squarely in its ribs. There was no response other than a faint, pained, widening of its freakish eyes.

He took a step back and cast his gaze around the circle of men. "Just don't do it any...permanent...damage," he informed them, his voice cold and his face twisting in a sneer as he looked back down at the thing. After what they'd just been put through, they needed a little stress relief. What better way to release tension than to exact revenge for the comrades the thing had injured, maybe maimed?

He turned away as the first man stepped forward and delivered a swift kick to the animal's thigh. He wasn't worried that they'd break it; adrenalin rush or no, every man here knew all too well that the creature was infinitely more valuable to their commanding officers alive than they were. Just a little harmless venting, that's all they'd indulge in. A few moments, no more, then he'd have Masters organize them to care for the wounded. Just a few minutes to give the freak good reason to remember just why it _never_ wanted to fuck with them again.


*************************


h dih die Eier des Teufels! - By the devil's balls! Lit. By the balls of the devil!
Fich mich - fuck me
Verdammt noch mal - damn it all
"Ich werde stark kaputt - I'm so fucked. Lit. I will be [imminently; about to be] strongly fucked up.