Chapter 24: The Darkness
Emma heard whimpering. Her head hurt, her neck ached, her legs cramped, and her stomach lurched. Through it all, she heard a pathetic, annoying, continuous whimpering. Her immediate response was to silence the offender with her telepathy, but she couldn’t. Worry set in, and that was before an all too familiar voice made itself known.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens.”
The whimpering grew more pathetic.
Emma gingerly sat up. The room? Nondescript, large, straight cement, big air vent in the ceiling, and lit by a single light bulb. The occupants? One was large, blue, muscular, and grinning. The other?
“Isa Hayes,” the blonde sneered.
The man shrieked and curled into an even tighter ball. His whimpering quickened.
“Ho ho ho, season’s greetings from the head of Frost to her employees! Don’t worry, my good man, she only bites the ones she love!”
Hayes she could deal with later. “McCoy,” she glowered as she clambered to her feet, “How come I’m not surprised to see you?”
They shared the same name, even the same DNA, but this McCoy differed greatly for the real McCoy. Dark Beast the people called him, some kind of insane alternate dimension displacee who made his refuge here. And what a refuge he made.
Emma knew: she helped him.
McCoy’s grin broadened. “I so love that exquisite tongue of yours, Madame Frost. Perhaps I could keep it for my own collection when we’re done tonight?”
Insane, and whole bunch sadistic this version of Hank. Something on his own world made him this way--brilliant and cutthroat. Years ago, when he first showed up here and before Emma got too involved with the Hellfire Club, they met by happenstance. Frost Enterprises was nothing more than a fledgling investment firm with high hopes; he, while retaining his genius, had no memories of himself.
They struck a deal: McCoy would work for Emma’s diversifying company, and after three years, she would telepathically restore his memories.
His many patents, all submitted by other less-than-savory researchers under Emma’s thumb, propelled Frost Enterprises into the mainstream. Almost overnight, billions fell into her lap. The little company no one had heard of became one of the Fortune 500. McCoy earned his keep. The two shared a respectful, business relationship in their three years, and Emma almost considered the hulking mass of muscle her friend.
The day came for her to fulfill her bargain. She expected a continued partnership, maybe even continued friendship.
She got something else entirely. McCoy gradually snapped, or maybe he immediately snapped but required Emma’s resources so didn’t show it, but whatever the case, he used her to plot moves against the X-Men. Given her then gross dislike of said X-Men, she didn’t mind... until he absconded with millions of dollars, blueprints, and plenty of sensitive corporate materials. That touched off an ugly war between them still yet to be resolved.
He accused her of using him.
She considered him an ungrateful bastard.
The whole thing sounded like a lover’s spat.
Emma fingered the sore area on her neck and found an unpleasant surprise: the collar. Not a collar, but the collar, the mutant power dampening collar loathed by everyone not fully human. Sheila... she remembered Sheila shooting her, calling out for Betsy, then whimpers.
Sheila, “That bitch,” Emma quietly hissed to herself.
“By ‘that bitch’ would you happen to be referring to your soon to be erstwhile assistant, the lovely and talented Sheila? Probably. You’ll be overjoyed to know there was no Sheila, only my friend Mystique.”
If looks could kill, the Dark Beast would be a pile of smoking flesh.
As it was, he put his furry palm over his chest and swooned. “Such a beautiful face marred by the embodied of hate! Oh, how can a man like me withstand such an assault? I can’t, I can only wither away...”
Emma advanced on her nemesis, but he raised a finger and lost his boyish tones. “Temper, temper, my dear snow cone. That collar of my own design can not only nullify your tremendous psychic powers, but it can also send twenty amps of electricity through your heart on my command.” His grin widened to show plenty of pointy teeth. “That’s about one thousand times the electricity needed to kill an incredibly healthy adult male. If you so much as breathe wrong, I’m going to burst your little ticker and sell your remains to Wendy’s. I hear their chili is finger licking good.”
Betsy... where the hell was Betsy? The blonde remembered calling out over their bond, but did she hear it? With the collar on, Emma couldn’t project or receive thoughts, much less reach for someone who could be thousands of miles away. Betsy could be banging down the door and sending positive vibes over their rapport, but Emma had no way of knowing, just like a freakin’ psi-mute, just like talking on the phone without the speaker working.
No telepathy. No diamond form.
Checkmate.
“What do you want from me, McCoy?”
He clapped like a giddy schoolgirl. “Joy oh joy! About time you realize the hopelessness of your circumstances. Was almost afraid I had to tell you and spoil the surprise!”
Gloating, mocking, laughing--the Dark Beast relished this final victory. The White Queen seethed but could do nothing, and the best part? Doctor Isa Hayes, a living witness to Emma Grace Frost’s destruction.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Everything,” he chuckled. “You’re ruined, my dear, dear Emma. With the political landscape the United States is in, with near global anti-mutant sentiments, you are done for. You can’t hide behind your façade anymore. Your enemies--of which you have many I have no doubt--will look to strike at you, maybe make a quick buck while they’re at it.
“Your underworld ties. Your unkosher business practices. Your mutations. Your alliance with the X-Men. Everything will burst from your diamond mountain like Mount St. Helen’s blowing off its cap. Your clients, your government, your own employees will take you for all you’re worth and you’ll be left with nothing. Hate groups will swarm you. The Hellfire Club will try to eliminate you, cover up its tracks. And your precious X-Men? Well, if all goes according to my employer’s plans, they’ll be dead too.”
Every word coming from those damnable lips resonated arrogant truth, but he still didn’t answer the question. “If I’m ruined, what the hell do you want?”
“Everything,” he repeated as he circled her, “Your body. Your mind. Your soul. Your business. Your fortune. Your life. Your submission. I want everything Emma Grace Frost.”
“You said I’m ruined, genius. Where are you getting my fortune from?”
His burst of movement jolted her. The man went from ten feet away to ten centimeters away. Suddenly, she knew he had a tuna for dinner. “While I may be a genius, I do have my limits. For example, I’m no telepath. The only way I can find out information about you--well, at least the easiest way--is through interrogation. I know nothing of your daily routines, nor do I know the full extent of your contacts. How many bank accounts do you have? What under the table deals are going on? All this stuff, blank, no idea.”
“I’m getting annoyed, McCoy. Do you have a point or are you just boring me to death?”
A sharp nail ran the length of Emma’s chin, but she refused to react. “I’m a genius, my pretty thing. I can engineer a body to look like you and take your place. Then, all the genetic tests in the world will prove you to be human. You’ll be a mutant loving human, but human nonetheless. Your fortune will survive. Your business will survive. Your legacy, however, will be mine.”
A massive paw savagely groped one of her breasts. No response, not even a shiver. “I just need your consent,” he purred as he nuzzled her golden mane. “And I can be very, very persuasive.”
Disgusting saliva coated her neck. She felt him smile on her skin. “Ain't I a little stinker?”
At the very mention of “stinker,” he let go of her. Ideas of freedom degenerated into excruciating pain when the collar sparked and seized her muscles in a burning hold. Emma lost control of her body; she convulsed and screamed, futilely thrashing to stop the suffering. Her heart raced and her lungs wouldn’t expand, producing a singular sensation of drowning without water. Her vision fuzzed out, the cement room deteriorating into a mass of sidewalk gray and light bulb yellow.
Through it all, Emma heard whimpering.
The electrocution simmered down, leaving the blonde to twitch on the ground. A horrible smell overwhelmed her, bringing back memories of the sick games the Hellfire Club played with their prisoners. When she coughed, a plum of white smoke exited.
Well, that might’ve been an exaggeration--she couldn’t see too good at the moment.
Dark Beast drove his knee into the small of her back, grabbed her hair, and pulled. His reward: Emma’s strangled cry.
“That was a small sample of my cute device, just to get the blood flowing. From this moment on, I own you. You’re my voluptuous toy who’s going to make my dreams come true one bit at a time. Got it?”
He beat her, but Emma Grace Frost NEVER, EVER broke for anybody. “Do your worst, McCoy. You can’t kill me.”
“You’re right, snow cone,” he permitted while rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “That would defeat the purpose of kidnapping and collaring you. I can’t kill you, but I can sure make your life worse than Dante’s Inferno.”
Flipping her around, he snared both her wrists and gazed at her with lust in his eyes. “I haven’t had a good fuck in ages, snow cone, and while you’re a little burnt, any pussy is going to do just fine.”
Emma’s false bravado flagged.
As he salivated at a fevered pitch, his crotch bulged and his breaths became pants. His forceful grip grew downright crushing, her wrists aching like his need. A knee prowled up the inside of her thigh, a portent of things to come. Primal growls loaded the oppressive room. The scent of his arousal almost made her throw up. His weight bore down on her--no escape, no hope, only violation.
The air vent’s grating collapsed and took out the room’s only light source. A bunch of other crashes followed, culminating in McCoy’s roar of anger. The unbearable weight left her sore body.
“The fuck is going on?!”
Betsy’s psychic knife flared to life, illuminating the surroundings in a pinkish hue. Crouched atop the demolished vent, she appeared to be an avenging angel come to carve a swath of destruction through existence itself. Gore covered her sleeves and murder gleamed in her eyes.
She didn’t talk. She didn’t smile. She didn’t show off.
One second she was there, the next she was here, her trademark weapon plunging into the Dark Beast’s skull. He roared again, this time in pain. His mind unhinged and his body languished, fluid, agile movements replaced by jerky, nonsensical motions. Damage done, the psychic knife shrunk away, shadows reclaiming their lost territory.
A strong, comforting arm wrapped around her hips while another cradled her head. In the privacy of darkness, Emma allowed her tears to run free.
“Do you trust me?”
Even the whimpering stopped at that question.
Not trusting her voice, Emma nodded. Somehow Betsy got the message and the comforting arms left her. Unreasonable regret and fear clutched Emma, and by the skin of her teeth did she stop from calling out to her savior.
Shuffling. McCoy’s labored breathing closed in. Emma flinched but calmed herself--she trusted Betsy. A too familiar finger reached up around her neck, pressed against a certain spot on the collar, then retreated. A rush of air brushed against her skin before a smack of flesh on cement reached her ears. Strong arms cradled her again, and this time, a set of slender digits ripped away the damnable collar.
*The collar needed his fingerprint to disengage.”
Telepathy. The warm buzz of other minds. She buried her face in Betsy’s chest, unable to choke back the sobs.
*Easy, Emma. It’s ok now, luv.*
Words couldn’t describe the emotions. Anger, despair, sadness, betrayal, desperation, hopelessness, hurt, nothing encapsulated the stimulus overload of the past few hours. Her dreams torn asunder, her empire waiting to crumble, her vulnerability exposed--one night deconstructed Emma Grace Frost, and she couldn’t handle it. Curling up and dying sounded like a good plan.
The comforting arms held her closer. *You’re stronger than that. I know you are. Get up. We’ve got to go.*
No, no. Couldn’t get up. Couldn’t face the world. Nothing to look forward to. No friends, no family, no company, no life. Way things went, she wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without being pelted by bigots. What did she have? Her students? Students no one in the X-Men truly trusted her with?
*Let me die, Betsy... just let me die...*
She didn’t listen to reason, so Betsy resorted to calming her over their rapport. *You’re being selfish. You can’t give up on life like this. Too many people depend on you--your employees, the X-Men, mutants everywhere.*
*Bullshit! McCoy was right when he said he ruined me! I’m weak! I’m pathetic! I’m nothing now, even to myself! Do you realize how powerless I was? Do you realize how powerless I am? Everything I’ve worked for... gone... I can’t go on. Not like this, not when I’m nothing.*
*You’re something, Emma.*
*You weren’t almost raped by a monstrosity! You didn’t have your life ripped apart! You didn’t have your mutant identity exposed! You weren’t electrocuted within an inch of your life!*
The burst of righteous indignation escaped her, leaving behind resignation.
*It’s pointless to keep fighting. Everything I touch becomes nothing. I tried to fool myself, but the writing is on the wall. The Hellions, Generation X, now Frost Enterprises--nothing. None of it lasts; all of it turns to dust. My existence is cursed, and I can’t stand it anymore. I have nothing to live for...*
*If you won’t live for yourself, then at least live for me.*
Not the time nor the place to say something like that. Hysteria overtook Emma, and you never say two things to hysterical people: “You’re hysterical” and “Surprise! I’ve got an emotional revelation for ya.” Hysterical people couldn’t deal with the thoughts on their own plate and didn’t need more headaches or judgment.
And no matter what Emma would insist years down the line, at this very moment, she was out of her mind hysterical, off her rocker hysterical, heart on the verge of exploding hysterical. Every terrible grief the blonde pushed away came back in full force, first jarred loose by the encounter with the Shadow King and now realized by this very real, very bleak kidnapping by the Dark Beast. She let her pent up emotions go, and the waves of negativity threw themselves against her defenseless self.
*Live for me,* Betsy repeated.
Emma didn’t want to face the world. She wanted to stay here in the darkness. She wanted to stay here in those strong, comforting arms and cry. Now, with those words, those arms didn’t feel as comforting anymore; they became demanding.
A normal person would’ve freaked. A normal person would’ve lashed out. A normal person would’ve been whimpering in a corner of the dark room.
Luckily, Emma wasn’t a normal person. Luckily, she had a strong psychic bond. Just lucky, lucky, lucky, because instead of freaking, Emma got curious.
Hysterical still, but curious. *Why should I live for you?*
*Because I’m your friend and there’s no way I’m going to let Hank’s evil twin break you. Use me, Emma. Everything you can’t handle, give it to me.*
The invitation tempted Emma to no ends, but a bunch of concern made itself known in the form of a simple question: What about Betsy? Here she was, on the verge of suicide and not really caring, but yet she considered one Elisabeth Braddock’s welfare. The old Emma Frost would’ve dumped her despair without a moment’s hesitation, much less permission from the other party. The new Emma Frost would’ve done the same thing; after all, desperate times, desperate measures.
Emma Frost, old or new, didn’t want to use Betsy like this. *No.*
Betsy’s turn for questions, namely, *Why not?*
*What about you?*
Good, that was a good sign: showed Emma’s sanity returning.
*I’ll be fine,* Betsy affirmed.
So why was Emma so worried? Why did she want to protect Betsy at a cost to herself? Where did she find the strength to pull herself out of her mania?
She forced the tears back and stopped the sobs. She needed herself to be honest, and suicidal tendencies, tumultuous thoughts, and escapist’s tactics wouldn’t do. Borrowing from her experiences with Betsy, Emma faced up to herself and scoured for the deep seated reason behind her protectiveness.
Be easy to blame it on their bond.
Be easy to plop it on friendship forged through the aforementioned bond.
Be easy to say camaraderie arisen from this rescue.
All of it fact, but none of it true. Why were Betsy’s arms so comforting? Why did laying here in the darkness feel so right? Why did she cry like no one was around? This went beyond reading each other’s minds, beyond a close friendship, beyond respect garnered from battles.
A smidgen of fear crept into Emma. She’d never felt it before so she couldn’t be sure, but this mutual self-sacrifice, this incredible reassurance, this potent fortitude...
... it sounded a lot like love, or at least, love as it should be.
T.S. Elliot wrote, “Love is most nearly itself when here and now cease to matter.” Here in the nondescript room of an unknown place where sight played no factor, now lost all significance, melted away by an odd serenity from being so close to another.
Emma’s shaky hand fumbled for Betsy’s face. She touched the thin lips, brushed to the side, and slowly went up the cheek. Wetness rolled over her fingers.
“You were crying.”
No condescension. No malice. Just a statement of fact.
“You scared me.”
No falsity. No exaggeration. Just Betsy.
Finally regaining consciousness, the Dark Beast groaned. Along with the groans, whimpering returned. Betsy kissed the back of Emma’s hand.
“I have something to finish,” she said, gently laying the blonde down, “Close your eyes and plug your ears.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not going to be pretty.”
The psychic knife bathed the darkened room in light again. If possible, Isa Hayes shrank even further into himself and quickened his whimpering. McCoy slumped his back against the wall, the area above him showing cracks thanks to Betsy’s vicious throw earlier. He tried to shake the cobwebs loose, but Betsy didn’t let him.
With her free hand, she grasped him by his chest hairs and hoisted him two feet into the air. Tracing the knife around his jaw, Betsy grinned like a feral beast
“Do you know what a flayer is, McCoy?”
Between getting an ass whipping, just regaining his barring, the destruction of his psyche, and the pulling of his chest hairs, Hank’s evil twin couldn’t formulate a valid answer.
Didn’t matter to Betsy though. “Flayers are demons,” she said dispassionately, “They have inky extensions coming out of their bodies and shadows to rip the hide off uncooperative brethren.”
The darkness came to life, tendrils shooting out of Betsy and the surrounding nothingness, all hovering within an inch of McCoy’s face.
“You plotted against the X-Men.”
Some of the demonic appendages wrapped around his neck and wrists.
“You hurt Emma.”
The rest positioned themselves around his eyes.
“You die now.”
She punched the psychic knife into him again, but instead of silence following the blow, sick tearing sounds did. Fluid pitter pattering on cement punctuated howls. A few substantial objects hit the ground, but the howling continued. Crunch went overstressed bone; snap went fragile joints. After an unidentifiable though no less gruesome noise, the howls turned into gurgling. A hit, and something fleshy impacted on the other end of the room. The gurgling stopped. A loud stomp--foot on skull--signaled a finality to the torture.
The whimpering persisted.
Strong arms helped Emma stand. “I thought X-Men didn’t kill,” the blonde whispered.
“Only when Scott and Charles are around.”
The dark humor coaxed a peal of uncomfortable laughter from Emma.
“What are we going to do about Hayes?” asked Betsy.
“No!” the frightened man yelled, “I didn’t... didn’t do anything to any of you! Don... don’t... don’t kill me!”
Betsy sighed. *Don’t judge him too harshly, Emma. I went through the Dark Beast’s mind when I hit him with my psychic knife and Hayes wasn’t involved. McCoy hired Mystique to do the CNN interview. Hayes got captured because McCoy didn’t want the real deal screwing things up--that and he needed a fall guy. Look at him. He can’t even talk right, much less plan anything meaningful.*
“I... I... don’t know why I’m even here!” he desperately insisted. “I don’t wa... wanna die! Please! Don’t do anything to me!”
*Another pawn,* the blonde muttered, *I’m going to have to mind wipe him, maybe do some other things.*
*Whatever you need. Let’s just get out of here before McCoy’s entrails start smelling.*
Betsy briefly left Emma’s side. When she came back, she had the whimpering in tow.
“Both of you, close your eyes and hold my hand.”
“W... w.... why?” asked Isa.
“So you won’t see the remains when we step outside. That and you’re standing on some large intestine. Try not to slip and break your neck.”
*****************
- To be continued...
Deviant Hearts Archive | Back to main index