Note: All Marvel characters are sole property of Marvel. I make no profit and hold no claim.
WARNING: This story contains adult and disturbing content. If you’re familiar with my stories, you probably know most of my work is for more mature readers. This story is no exception; it deals with some ugly things which could disturb some readers. Please take note. This is not related to any of my other stories.
He’d found her.
Oh shit he’d found her.
Her hair—what was left of it—was matted and twisted, twigs and dirt and god-only-knows what else in it.
Blood seeped from her scalp to stain those once glorious silver locks a muddy brown-red.
Her parched lips were parted, her eyes blood-shot. Her body lay crumpled, bent at odd angles which no human body should be at. Her ebony skin was streaked with blood and feces—that was what almost made him lose control, the thought of those sick fuckers desecrating her like that.
His body was shock-still for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds. His vision faltered, his throat roiling. He wanted to scream, to wail, to say anything—but nothing came out.
His hands trembled, and he snapped from his stupor. He darted to his knees, his long duster sweeping the ground.
His hands shook, wanting to snatch her up into his embrace, while his mind rationally told him that she could have broken bones and such rough treatment could only hurt her.
Then she moved.
Her chin tipped back, some glimmer of life seeped back into her still open eyes. Her lips moved, not quite coming together, as if silently calling his name.
He wondered how many times she had screamed his name before she was unable.
Her hand flexed, desperately trying to grab him, and her belly jumped slightly, trying to draw in breath.
This could not be real. This could not be his Ororo, his best friend, his ‘little sister.’
It couldn’t be. No no no no no....
He scooped her up, clutching her to his chest, not even noticing the tears dripping from his demon eyes. He picked up her broken, bloody form, cradling her to him as if he could reassure her nothing was wrong.
He ran.
He didn’t so much run as fly; his feet never seemed to touch the ground as he raced against time and fear itself.
He could feel her body through his shirt; her skin was cold and unnaturally numb. Her hands flexed around the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto him, but lacking the strength to do even that.
Her eyes seemed to have some spark still in them; a dull glow that strained to recognize him even through the blinding pain.
Tears streaked down his face, falling onto her eyelids like raindrops. Her lips moved again and he felt her chest rise.
He burst into the cabin, flinging doors, furniture, everything out of his way. For the first time, he registered the weight in his arms, and he felt frenzy overtake him.
Soft, mumbling grunts escaped her throat, not so much words as more primal sounds, tinged with unbelievable pain and fear. Harsh, rasping sobs ripped from her, as though there was some poor, wretched creature deep down in her throat who was suffering horribly, and wasn’t it awful, just awful, that no-one could do anything about it?
He moaned himself, laying her down upon a bed, wincing at the scraping of her ragged fingernails on his shirt. He whipped around in a panic, snatching up blankets and towels, wrapping her in them like a caterpiller in a cocoon.
A low, groaning squeal shook her body, and he felt his skin crawl.
Wrenching away from her, he snatched up his comm-link and began screaming into it, demanding a doctor, Hank, a Blackbird, ANYTHING! in a long, desperate stream of French.
By now, she was wailing, strangled cries that resembles broken versions of his name and Jean’s, and moaning in the ancient language of Africa, crying out to her Bright Lady in warped, pained tones.
He knelt beside her, pulling her into his embrace, as tight as he dared too, tears falling freely, washing away at the filth and dirt on her face. She got enough strength to clutch his shirt, sobs wracking her violated body.
They’d taken her, those FoH bastards had; they’d taken her, and violated her, and no-one had known because of the collars and they had ripped at her, and entered her, and probed her soft places and made a twisted mockery of sex and pleasure.
And he matched her, sob for sob, until she was so exhausted that her consciousness disappeared into blessed oblivion, and her body became still, but was no longer so cold.
Hank got there, as he put it, “Just in time.”
Ororo had lost a lot of blood, he’d said. They’d torn her up, from the inside, hurt her so badly Hank still feared for her life.
And they’d airlifted her home, Remy holding one hand, Jean clasping Ro’s other, while she cried and babbled in fear and fever.
And Jean had added her tears to theirs.
Hank left the operating room, pulling off his gloves.
“She’s stable. We got her just in time.”
And tears had fallen, stinging, from Remy’s eyes, and he whispered, “No, we didn’t.”
End.