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Rating/Warning: R for language, violent imagery. Adult themes, no explicity.

Bones, Part XII, by Ratmist

She walked into her basement, and paced for a moment, unable to stop the stream of vicious mumblings from her throat. Her anger, tightly controlled lest she give herself completely away, simply added fuel to her body's uncontrollable mutancy. She could not remember a time when she felt so keenly angry and hurt, and the pain of the situation became hot wires upon her.

'Gotta get outta here,' she felt, her thoughts too scrambled to think much else. Too many emotions clouded her. She needed a plan, but first she needed to stop sprouting bones all over the goddamned place like a fucking chia pet.

She wanted so desperately to allow the anger to wash away the pain, but fat tears welled behind her eyes instead, and she pressed sharpened bony knuckles to her mouth to still the scream building behind. Her nails pressed into the palm of her now-armoured hand, and the sickening sound of creaking bone tore into the silence of the room, as the smooth bone of her palm ached against the razor sharp tips of her nails. Her eyes sought the skeleton near the shadows, hidden from those other than ones who knew where to look.

She stared at the bones, the accusations carved upon them. The Morlocks upon the bones mocked her, and she could hear a thousand whispers, rasping voices torturing her.

She reached into the shadows briefly, then turned and left the room and all its possessions behind.

--

The dark woman stood amongst her small greenhouse perched in the attic of the mansion, and tried to draw peace from every part of life in the plants. Still, she could not keep the bile from her stomach completely down, and her right hand itched quietly. As she stood wringing her left hand over her right, she ducked under a huge leafy potted plant and stood under its protection, letting the cool moldly smells comfort her. She reached down almost unconsciously with her still-itching hand, and gently touched the soil to check for dampness.

A moment later, she was on her knees with her arm halfway buried in the slightly damp soil, its darkness contrasting heavily with her own. It felt good to bury that arm in the soil, and as she balanced herself against the plant, she felt the weight of Sarah's cryptic words upon her.

'On your heart,' she thought gloomily, as a few of her fingers wriggled slowly in the dirt. Fingers which had once held Sarah's beating heart stilled in a cool patch in the dirt, before surfacing and spilling the dirt into the pot again. She absently cleaned the dirt from her nails, although her eyes had long since covered in a milky film.

In her mind, a scene played itself over and over. The moments after her victory in combat against Callisto. The chanting of the nearly ecstatic phrase over and over, to a fevered pitch, from the Morlocks as she was proclaimed their new leader and protector, mother to the orphaned all, and greatest warrior against any who would hurt them. The pain of yet another disappointment in Marrow's accusing eyes, and the woman known as Storm gently touched the tree's bark with her clean hand.

"On my heart," she said quietly to the tree, and not for the first time wished she could have somehow made more decisions in favor of the Morlocks. But even in her continuing sorrow, her conscience was damnably clear. Her responsibility as second in command to the X-Men would always come first, leaving the Morlocks without a true, focused leader. In the shelter of the comforting heavy greenery, she suddenly felt the now-unbearable weight of her divided loyalties, and Ororo Munroe found herself leaning against a young tree for support as angry, bitter tears were masked in a foggy rain.

--

Two men circled each other warily, their narrowed eyes constantly blinking away a film of sweat. Dodge, dodge, circle. Again and again, until a quick jab or roundhouse kick would fly between them.

"You're distracted," the man code-named Wolverine murmured, before he executed a hard upper-cut into Sam's jaw. The lanky blonde took the blow remarkably well, considering the man behind the punch had adamantium-laced bones. He swayed in his spot for a moment, seeing stars pop in front of his eyes, giving plenty of time for Wolverine to consider how to finish him off.

In the end, though, Logan just shook his head and roughly pushed the younger man away with a glove-covered fist. Fighting wasn't fun unless there was an element of challenge, and in his current state, Sam was just too easy.

"I aint one to judge," Logan said, as he helped himself out of the kickboxing ring, "but I don't think brawlin's gonna clear anything up for you, Sam." The shorter man, powerfully built with his innumerable years of physical training, reached down and poured water out of his squeeze bottle all over his sweaty head. He showed no signs of the hour-long sparring match, much to Sam's resignation.

"Well, what would you do?" Sam panted as he pulled a glove up to his mouth to unlace. His jaw was already bruising heavily and his left eye threatened to swell into a spectacular black circle.

Logan shook his head, spraying water and sweat on both of them, and grinned. Sam scowled under his dark brows, his teeth still trying to work the elusive strings out from the boxing glove. Logan looked up for a moment, thinking about his past, or at least the past that he could remember.

"I'd brawl and try to get drunk."

Sam rolled his eyes and glared openly at Logan, and gave up on the gloves. "I hate living in some kind of cheap soap opera. We got work to do, and we don't have time for this mess." Sam pulled the ropes apart to let himself out of the boxing ring, and then sat down heavily on the edge.

Logan shrugged, and said, "You keep dropping your left. Fix it." Then he turned and headed towards the mens showers, clearly finished with Sam. Surprised, the man code-named Cannonball waited until Logan nearly reached the entrance to the showers before calling out.

"What happened out there? On your mission with Sarah?" Sam's voice was strained, and Logan turned around briefly. Sam was pretty sure only the Professor knew what had happened on their mission, and neither Sarah or Logan had given away any details. The only certain thing was how they acted towards each other afterwards, a major relief to some of the tension in the team.

"You jealous?"

"Nope. I just wanna know why you would trust her to be part of this mission."

Logan regarded the younger man before him, and something close to pity touched his crinkled old eyes. Then irritation.

"I aint telling you shit. Make your decision and stick with it, and stop fucking around. If you trust her, you trust her. If not, then hell with it and leave her be."

Indignant, Sam backtracked into a feeble defense.

"I aint asking because of second-guessing. I'm asking because I want to know." 'And I want to know why you trust her and I can't,' he thought to himself.

"Then ask her your damned self, and stop acting like a pussy with this girl talk shit." With that, Logan stalked out of the room, his temper clearly radiating off his every move. Sam sighed.

'I can't seem to do anything right these days,' he thought gloomily, and felt his sore jawline gingerly.

--

She paced the hall, her mind messy and fear in her throat. She had never dealt with rejection very well, and she did not know if another rejection would break her resolve completely.

'Maybe they're right,' she thought for a moment, panic gripping her, and she nearly turned away from the door. She looked down and played with her sharp nails for a moment, clearing the dirt from underneath. 'Maybe I really can't be trusted on this mission.' Indecision, an emotion she really was starting to hate, froze her at the doorway.

The heavy redwood door flung open, and the decision was made for her.

"Been waitin for you, petite," he said.

--

Sarah could not remember the first few months after she was thrust back into the world in which she had originally lived, finally released from the hellish world of the Hill. So thoroughly immersed in her powers and all emotion reduced to a simple code of survival, any humanity she ever had was buried, or expressed only through a hatred of anyone outside her tiny Gene Nation family.

As she snuck out of the mansion, Gambit following just as quietly, she felt the familiar case of bony armour cover her body. It hurt, but pain had become addicting a long time ago. Her anger, protecting her from dealing with any real anguish, triggered responses throughout her body. Her bones sprouted crazily, and the pain of the mutation was buried under a rush of endorphines and adrenaline. The smell of blood filled her nostrils and her eyes filmed over in anticipation. She licked copper from her lips.

'He will pay for what he has done,' she inwardly seethed. 'I will drown myself in his blood and suck upon his spinal cord.'

By the time they reached the entrance to the Morlock Tunnels, she was Marrow again, and any humanity the X-Men had pulled out of her was safely buried underneath a confusing mass of anger and razor sharp bone.

--


TBC. Last updated 12 August 2001.

Run that by me again?