Shades of Red and Grey (X-Men Fic)

Part 3

Entering his pass code to the Danger Room, Scott waited for the doors to open. It wasn’t as if he needed the workout – the brisk five mile run around the school grounds had given him a great cardio and the endless crunches until his abdomen burned had made sure he’d retain his washboard stomach no matter how many burgers he ate at lunch.

He had inner demons to put down. That was the real purpose. They had cost him too much earlier and he couldn’t afford to let the emotions slip from him again. The giant room was a holographic matter projector, thankfully immune to his optic blasts. It was quite impossible to do serious harm to oneself unless the safeties were turned off, and that was his exact plan.

Scott entered his secondary code in the small panel beside the door. It asked him for confirmation of the safety overrides, which he gave eagerly. “Alpha lima oscar x-ray zero one. Scott Summers.”

“Cyclops override confirmed.” The computer stated in it’s husky feminine voice. “Shall I monitor life signs and halt program on pre-established stress levels?”

“Negative.”

“Very well. Enjoy your workout, Cyclops.”

Scott chuckled. It always sounded like the computer was trying to flirt with him. “Load Cyclops program ‘endgame,’ time index, zero.”

The lights in the large room dimmed to nothingness as the program loaded. Due to the Professor’s influence on the programming, it often “sensed” a member’s state of mind, knowing what buttons to push, what rules to break, and when wills had been broken. It congratulated well-played advances, and severely punished hasty retreats. Scott’s version was the worst – a leader pushing to be the best if only to spark determination in his team. ‘Endgame’ did this to him. Not by forcing him to make tough decisions when it came to his battle strategies, but by forcing him to face what ate at him – mutant haters.

When the lights rose to not much more than complete darkness, he found himself in a dirty, garbage strewn alley. A broken bottle crunched beneath his booted feet as he paced down the narrow alley, lined on either side by several storey worth of building. A shirt flapped on a wrought iron fire escape over his head.

He heard the scrape coming from behind and spun on a heel, giving himself enough time to aim at the garbage can spiraling at his head. With a quick flick of the iris of his visor, the narrowed optic blast caught the metal in mid air before shoving it back in the direction it came from. The first ‘kill’ in the program was always the easiest.

The computer must have thought he was being too cocky. An empty liquor bottle came from the opposite direction, this time much quicker. He barely had a chance to get a fix on it in the dim light. As it shattered around the blast, it sprayed him with glass shards. They tore at his face and hands, but he barely noticed.

“Is that all you got for me, babe? A bottle and a trash can?” He smirked, continuing down the alley.

“Well, lookee what we got here. A real live mutie.” It was a man. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Heavy set, balding, and tapping an aluminum bat on his right palm. Scott smiled happily.

“You know what I’m going to do to you,boy?”

“No, but why do I have a feeling you’re going to tell me?” Readying himself for the charge, Scott crouched, his right hand fingering the controls to his visor. He could easily direct a blast at the man’s midriff, but what would be the fun in that? Reading the other man’s movements easy, Scott crouched further as the bat was swung back. A tight beam splintered it in half and drove it from the man’s grasp. Driving forward with a fore-fist punch, Scott connected with the solar plexus before dropping a knife-hand strike to the side of the neck. The man went down in an agonized heap.

The attackers became increasingly skilled. Street fighters and berserkers to trained martial artists with a wide variety of different weapons. Each was a little taller, a little meaner, a little crueler. His body stung with bruises. Cuts and gashes littered his hands and face, and occasionally tore through the leather he wore.

“Come ‘ere you little cocksucker. I want a piece of that tight ass.” The words were half spoken, half growled. Backing up, Scott caught his breath as he tried to track the voice. It came from everywhere yet nowhere. Not from the fire escape, or the open dumpster, but as if it existed in the shadows.

“I’ve seen you. Begging for scraps. Begging for money. Poor little blind boy.”

The voice startled him. ‘Endgame’ wasn’t supposed to go like this, wasn’t supposed to intimately talk to him. It was only to make generic taunts and leers, nothing else. Scott had programmed the sayings himself.

“Begging to be left alone yet begging for it. And I’m going to be the man to give it to you.”

“No. This isn’t supposed to happen.” Scott’s pulse spiked, blood pounding hard in his ears. “What the hell’s wrong with the program?”

“Program?” The voice laughed. It was hollow, unfeeling. “You think this is a game, little blind boy? I’ll show you a game if you want to play a game.”

“Show yourself!” Scott yelled at the shadows. The hollow laugh only answered him back.

“You afraid little blind boy? Hmm, you afraid? Good. Makes me hard just to hear you whimper.”

Scott’s breath caught in his throat. He knew those words -- had tried for years to forget them. Long brutal years to forget the words and the nightmares associated with them. “No, this isn’t going to happen. Not again.”

“Oh, I think it will.”

The movement was so fast Scott didn’t even hear the rush of feet. Two arms enclosed him from behind, lifting him from the ground, driving him face first into the brick wall. In a sickening way, it made sense to Scott – he had never seen the man’s face so how could it be given shape now. All he remembered was the feel of the rough hands holding him still, and the cloying stench that rose from the man. In a matter of seconds he felt thirteen again, defenseless, helpless, and wholly overwhelmed.

“Please, no.” Screwing his eyes shut, Scott tensed every muscle in his body and tried to breathe as the arms continued to constrict around him, hands roaming over his body, touching, groping, dominating. “Oh God.”

“There is no God for little blind boys like you.” The breath was hot against his face and stunk so bad Scott felt the urge to vomit. Choking it down, he struggled. The roaming hands increased their rage, gripping at his flesh beneath the leather.

A scream welled up from inside him, from somewhere primal, and he released it against the brick wall. It did him no good. The man was too tall, too strong for Scott to get any leverage against him. Parts of him resigned, gave up, much as they had all those years ago. He was too weak; a useless piece of flesh destined to be a tool.

“Whimper for me, boy.” The man’s movements flattened Scott against the wall. Head turned so his cheek was pressed to the bricks, it shifted his visor against his face, shifted the visor he didn’t remember wearing. A glimmer of hope came in a gleam of ruby red.

“Fuck you and all the assholes like you.” The curse came from between clenched teeth. With a small jerk of his head, Scott stripped the visor from his face and opened his eyes wide. The optical blast impacted with the wall at his face, shredding the brick and pelting him with the debris, but it did as intended. The force shoved him away from the wall into his captor, throwing them both across the alley, and Scott heard the loud crack of the man’s skull splitting against the opposite wall. Throwing off the bulky arms, he scrambled away, scrambled blindly into the furthest corner. It stunk of puke and piss and God only knew what, but Scott didn’t care. Curling himself up into a small ball, he rocked himself, listening intently for any signs the man was still alive.

“Angel, where are you?” The little blind boy pleaded to the darkness. “I need you, angel.”