Chapter 2

He slunk around the corner, boot shifting a fraction as sand moved beneath it. He stopped, waiting, making sure there was no other noise. He breathed through his mouth, as silent as possible. His heart was thundering so loudly it seemed a miracle he hadn't been spotted by that alone. Ahead, he heard a voice murmur into a headset. Over his own, Rogue whispered that she had spotted Vertigo, then made a comment about hoping everyone had remembered their Dramamine.

Mad crept forward another step, eyes casting about as he left the concealing shadows. He walked lightly, balanced on his toes, as he darted over open space. He paused to creep into a darkened corner, checking to be sure the hall that opened up on the other side was free of anyone else.

It wasn't.

He ducked back behind the wall, crouched low and silent, waiting to see if they had noticed him. Apparently not. Voices low, Blockbuster and Arclight held a furious conversation. Mad breathed softly, not moving, staying as still as possible in order to hear what was said. He could barely make out the voices, much less the specific words. Still, he listened intently, glaring fixedly at a speck on the opposite wall as if it would tell him the secret to hearing the Marauders.

"Boo."

He jumped, rolling back, onto his feet in the occupied hall before scrabbling to keep his balance, head whipping up so quickly it nearly dislodged his headset. The same leather boots he'd been faced with earlier were beside him, and Scalphunter looked down at him with a feral grin.

"Isn't that supposed to be Casper's line?" Mad said, the words popping out of his mouth before he'd even thought them through. "And are you sure you want to make people think of a friendly ghost when they meet you? It can't be good for the image." He stood with his back to the wall--both Arclight and Blockbuster on one side, Scalphunter on the other. Mad could see where the man had hidden in the wooden beams across the ceiling, dropping down to surprise him. Silently, he consoled himself with the thought that no matter what they tried to do, it would almost certainly create a dupe, who would help fight back.

It was a nice thought.

***

"Wolverine?"

"Shh."

Cyclops silenced, though it ate at him to do so. Only Logan could hear both what Mad and his aggressor said through the headsets.

There was a thump/crunch over the line, like it had been crushed as Mad rolled, then, "Isn't that supposed to be Casper's line? And are you sure you want to make people think of a friendly ghost when they meet you? It can't be good for the image." After that was only silence.

"Wol--"

"Shhh."

Cyclops went quiet, frowning and listening himself. He could hear murmuring, softly, as someone else spoke. Then Mad piped up again, a wordless yelp, followed by coughing.

"Gas," Wolverine said into the headset. "They've gassed him. No dupes."

"Rogue--"

"Ah'm on mah way," she said.

"Hello?"

Cyclops went silent, listening to the new voice.

"You should all just stand still. We have this one. We'll have the rest shortly."

Rogue screamed suddenly, piercingly, over the line, and Cyclops heard Wolverine swear. There was static, as if the set had just been ripped off his head and out of its housing. "Wolverine!"

As expected, there was no answer.

Cyclops cursed roundly, under his breath. He darted quietly down the hall, starting with Russian swear words when he'd run out of English ones, then adding French and Chinese once he'd used all his Russian. He was just getting to the German curses when he stopped moving, crouching low against half a wall and listening for voices.

This was not good.

***

He woke slowly, his brain groggy and mouth fuzzy. It occurred to him that this was not a normal state of affairs even as he realized he was cold. Which was a normal state of affairs, but normally he either didn‘t notice it, or was in a nice warm bed. Now he felt like he was lying on tile.

Bobby cracked one eye and confirmed that he was, indeed, lying on tile. Briefly, he considered the possibility that he'd fallen asleep in Hank's lab again. But Hank usually put him on an examining table and tucked a snuggly warm blanket under his shoulders, and never ever put what felt like a heavy collar around his neck. And in any case the tiles in the lab were large and white with little gray specks, and these tiles were small and black with white grout in between.

Okay. So the lab was out.

Now, the easy way to figure out where he was would be to roll over and look. But that would require moving, and he had the distinct feeling that if he moved right then, he would regret it for the rest of the week. Bobby decided not to move, and to instead play twenty questions with himself.

So. Self. Why are you hurting?

Because you let me get attacked, you dumb shit! Why didn't you DUCK when I told you to duck?!

Well, because I didn't realize you meant I should get down. I thought you meant duck, like, you know, the fowl.

The fowl? The fowl?! You did not think that. I know, because I’m you.

Oh. Damn.

Deciding that continuing playing twenty questions with himself was neither a good nor a healthy thing--what was the point if he couldn't even get out of trouble by lying to himself?--Bobby stopped questioning. Instead, he laid on the cold tile and wondered how long it would take for his body to go numb. Because surely it would.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

And what a funny word that was. "Mississippi." But now he had lost count.

Bobby sighed and realized that he was going to have to get up.

Slowly, he rolled over onto his back, clambered all the way up to his elbows, and moaned piteously. Maybe this was all a fever-induced dream, and Jean would come running with hot chocolate and nice words. But no, Jean didn't do that. She tended to peer at him from the safety of the doorway and ask if he wanted her to get Scott. Scott was good with sick people. Jean wasn't.

Scott didn't come running, though, and Jean didn't ask Bobby if he wanted her to get him. In fact, this looked like a cell with two bunks (and yet he was on the FLOOR. Didn't people have any decency?) and three walls of iron bars. Unless this was a cruel joke and someone had dropped him off in the basement holding block, which had only happened twice before, he thought he might be in just a tad bit of trouble. Just a tad.

Slowly, he raised a hand and felt at his neck. Something fat and probably ugly laid there, and he had the disturbing mental image of an iron collar. They’d seen the schematics for them the last time Kitty had hacked into Sinister’s files: ugly gray things meant to repress the neurons that triggered mutant powers.

The guys didn’t usually get that elaborate when they put him in the basement holding block.

Bobby turned his head to the right and stopped, closing one eye and waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Just had to be a superhero, didn't you? Couldn't be something sane, like a fireman.

A fireman is sane?!

Saner than a superhero!

'Saner' isn't a word.

Oh, shut up. You're the one who got me into this mess.

Huh?! I'm your brain! And you're talking to yourself, you know.

Shhh.

Don't 'shhh' me--

SHHHHH. Or my head will hurt WORSE.

Bobby opened both eyes and peered into the cell next to his. Warren lay in a tangle of feathered wings and golden hair, his suit torn and blood spattered.

"Hey." The word was barely a croak, and Bobby licked his lips before trying again. "Hey." That was better. "Angel."

Angel didn't move. Beyond his cell was another, and then still another, and many more after that. It was a warehouse, cells down opposite walls with large scary instruments that looked like they belonged in a bad sci fi movie in the middle of the room.

Carefully, Bobby moved his head to the other side and saw Ororo laying on a cot (now why would they put her on a cot, and dump him and Warren on the floor?! Damn sexist people!), her hair spilling down the side. This confirmed Bobby's suspicions. They were, indeed, in deep doodoo.

I wonder if I could make a tent with those cot blankets.

Um. Self? You're captive. You should be screaming. Or fearful. Or trying to get out. Or something like that.

Yeah. But cot blanket tents would be fun. Forts! Oooh, I could use the pillows as barrier walls!

Bobby blinked slowly, clearing his head, then tried to see into the cell past Ororo's. Red hair--Jean's. Had to be. Remy's wasn't that red. Beyond that, someone was groaning and cursing in French. Bobby smirked. He could curse in Norwegian. Jean had taught the original five back in the days when it was only them. Norwegian was way cooler than French.

Slowly, Bobby faced forward once more. Then he realized that there were people in the cells across from them.

He sat forward, his elbows across his knees, and squinted. That looked like Jamie. So did that one. And that one. Bobby's eyebrows rose and he rubbed his eyes, then looked up again.

They still looked like Jamie. In that ugly green and yellow costume, with his green trench coat. Bobby was sure of it. Well, almost sure.

"Jamie?"

None of the forms moved. Bobby's eyes drifted, looking at the other cells.

That was definitely Rogue. Unless some other person with red and white hair liked wearing green and had been caught and put in a cell, but it was unlikely.

Yup. This doodoo was getting deeper and deeper.

Someone next to him groaned, and Bobby turned to look at Warren. "Why, is that an Angel I see?" he quipped. He was feeling better, if a little woozy still. He had to wonder if his good spirits weren’t maybe concussion-induced. Still, they were at least good spirits, instead of bad spirits. Or drunken spirits. Those often put him in a good mood, but later made him vomit. Oftentimes in Scott’s car. Bobby grinned to himself.

"Fuck off, Drake," Warren said. At least, Bobby was pretty sure that was what the other man said. It was often what he said in situations like this, and the mutter had that tone. Besides, 'Ducks mock drapes' didn't make sense. Or did, but only to Bobby.

"Is that Jamie and Rogue over there?" Bobby asked conversationally.

Warren managed to heave himself off the ground and turned around enough to look. "Yes," he mumbled, squinting his eagle eyes. "What are they doing here?"

"Looks like they're laying on the floor," Bobby answered. He ignored the glare that Warren leveled at him. "What should we do?"

Warren seemed to consider the question seriously for a time, then sighed and pushed his hair out of his face with one hand, supporting himself on his other elbow, wings tucked tightly to his back. "Wait."

Bobby nodded. That seemed like a sound idea.

***

As near as he could figure, it had been two days. That last afternoon, Jamie, Scott, Rogue and Logan had all woken up and they'd conducted a shouted conversation until gas had filtered through the vents near the ceiling, and knocked them all out.

Everything seemed the same for both teams, though. They'd gone out, been ambushed, and woken up here. Every "night" gas came through the vents. Every "morning" there was food in each cell, and the trays from the day before had been removed. There had been no sign of their captors, and Bobby was beginning to think that this waiting stuff was going to give him an ulcer.

"Knock knock!"

"Who's there?"

"Madam!"

"Madam who?"

"M'damn foot is stuck in the door!"

Bobby snickered as the two Jamies cracked up. Forty different Jamies were locked in forty different cells. Warren was about to go nuts with all the bad jokes flying around.

"What I can't figure out," Warren said, leaning against the bars, "is why we--well, those of you with dangerous powers--“ and he smiled wryly over his shoulder, glancing at his wings before looking back up, “have power inhibitors and he doesn't."

Bobby shrugged. They had tested his theory out earlier and found that, sure enough, those people with energy-based powers and the iron collars suddenly couldn’t do a single mutant-related thing. "Because his power is maxed out, so he doesn't need one?"

"One, two, three, because we're not a mutant!" four Jamies shouted from the other side of the room.

Bobby looked up. "You're not?"

Jamie--the one Bobby thought was the original--shook his head. "Nah. Moira said I didn't have the gene. My genes are mutated through radiation. Both my parents worked with the stuff."

"Oooh," Bobby said, nodding solemnly. "You're one of those other kinds of mutants." He sniffed mock-disdainfully as Jamie laughed. "I don't associate with those."

"No more sex for you," Warren commented mildly, and Jamie blushed while Jamie hooted, and Jamie covered his ears and sang loudly. Bobby scowled. "Okay," he said, "Maybe I will associate with those kinds of mutants."

"I'm sure Jamie's grateful," Warren said, still rather mildly. There was a quirk to his mouth, though, and Bobby knew him well enough to know he was just trying to get a reaction.

Jamie reacted wonderfully. "Oh, thanks!" one said, while another blushed hotly, and a third tried to throw his shoe at Warren. It bounced off the cell door and landed harmlessly on the floor.

Warren looked at it, looked up at Jamie, and smiled dryly.

"You know, when we were with X-Factor this didn't happen," a Jamie off to the right said loudly. "I don't think we ever got captured, first off, and when we did the bad guys had the decency to come get us quick! Then, you know, tell us their plans so we could escape . . ."

Scott chuckled, sitting on a cot with his forehead braced on one hand. "Welcome to the big leagues," he muttered. "These are people who've been doing these . . . types of things for years. They don't tell us their plans until they've made us wait a few days."

Several Jamies laughed. "Good to know they don't deviate TOO much," a Jamie shouted from down the row.

"Does he do this when you guys are sleeping together?" Warren asked, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Bobby snickered.

“Hey! Me! Know what kind of pick up lines spiders use?” one Jamie shouted to another.

“What?”

“I only have flies for you!”

Both Jamies burst into fits of laughter.

“What did the girl butterfly say to the boy butterfly?”

“Hey, baby! Want to drink my nectar?” another Jamie cackled.

“Good lord, it’s worse than having you around,” Warren muttered to Bobby, letting his head fall back against the iron bars.

Bobby grinned.

“And then there are bee pick ups--’You’re awfully sweet. How about I take you home and see which tastes better--you or my honey.’”

“Dragonfly pick up lines,” Bobby suggested, eyes gleaming wickedly. “Your wings sure must be tired; you’ve been flying through my dreams all night.”

The Jamies started howling with laughter, even as Warren groaned and hit his head against the bars once more.

“Oh! Oh! From a praying mantis--’You’re awfully cute. How ‘bout I take you home and eat you?’”

“That’s just wrong,” Bobby said, cringing.

“Or maybe--” a Jamie started, only to fall silent. Bobby’s head twisted as he heard footsteps echoing down the cavernous room, and he saw Sinister and Scalphunter walking silently between the rows of cages, Sinister looking from one side to the other. He saw Cyclops and his gaze lingered, only to turn away as he stopped before a cage with a Jamie clone inside. He nodded once, then turned on his heel and walked out. Scalphunter waited, silently, ignoring the X-Men. After a moment he put on a gas mask, and the vents near the ceiling hissed open.

Scalphunter was still standing there when Bobby passed out.

***

He came to slowly, aware that something was wrong. Not just slightly wrong, but definitely wrong. Like a buzzing in the back of his mind that simply wouldn’t go away, or a telepathic sledgehammer. It took a moment to realize it was the link with his dupe, just one of the thirty-nine, but one that had something wrong with it. He rubbed the back of his neck, itching the base of his skull as if it would help, and sat up.

“I think something’s wrong.” It was his voice, but not his words. Jamie looked to one side and saw a dupe looking at him intently, also just having woken up. All through the room his dupes were waking up, throwing off the effects of the gas.

“I think so, too,” Jamie said, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. He looked across the room and saw Bobby lying on the floor, limp but laying like he‘d sat down before he‘d fallen. That was a good thing.

The feeling at the back of his neck vanished, and Jamie relaxed. Whatever had been wrong was over.

Silently, he glanced down the rows of cages and saw that his dupe--the one that Scalphunter had been staring at--was gone.

It wasn’t long before Scalphunter and Sinister walked back through the doors. Something dragged behind them, wearing green and--

Jamie swallowed hard. That looked like him. “What did you do?” he found himself whispering. It was just enough to allow the two men to zero in on him, and they marched to the front of his cell, ignoring the shouting around them.

Scalphunter hefted his gun--now that just had to be some sort of compensation--and shot.

Jamie felt the blow crash into his chest, and the world exploded in pain. Darkness surrounded him, broken by little lights that danced and bounced about. Then he opened his eyes, and realized he wasn’t dead. In fact, he was sitting right next to himself--though that version was very unconscious.

“Interesting,” Sinister said.

Jamie gasped painfully, some part of his mind noting absently that he wasn’t bleeding. There was a bruise probably forming on his chest--maybe even a bone bruise--but nothing was broken. It hurt to breathe, and there was a thrumming in his mind. After a moment he became aware that it was only people shouting.

The door crashed open as Scalphunter stormed into the cell, grabbing Jamie’s arm and hauling him to his feet. Jamie stumbled, focused on breathing through angry lungs, and barely noticed as he was hauled out the door. It slammed closed on his unconscious dupe as they left.

**

Back to the living room
Back to Water Lines

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