The Game of Empires - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 02/13/2010 03:54:13 PM

Chapter 23

Sighing, Jean laid her head against Scott’s arm. "I think the shock is beginning to wear off," she commented. It had been almost two days since Charles’ confession.

He gave a sour snort. "Really? I keep hoping I’ll wake up and find out this isn’t real."

Jean smiled at his sarcastic rejoinder, recognizing that there was little behind it. "I did say ‘starting to’."

Scott uncrossed his arms with a sigh and drew Jean into a hug, tucking his chin against her shoulder.

"Are you ready to talk to the Professor?" she asked after a moment.

His hands tightened around her. "To be honest, I think I’d rather talk to Remy." He paused and Jean felt a wash of regret from him that was keen but also somehow almost wistful. "I owe him an apology for helping to talk him into this... this madness."

"You didn’t know," Jean told him, wishing she could offer a better reassurance. Guilt was something that Scott did not handle well and his own small contribution to Remi’s choice, she knew, was eating at him.

He shook his head, his chin grinding painfully against her shoulder. "No, I didn’t. But I just can’t fathom how the Professor could even have asked him to--" He bit off the rest of his sentence as his simmering anger swelled.

Jean pulled back until she could look into her husband’s face. "Scott, you were there and so was I. We were so new to our powers." She shook her head sadly. "Remi could have killed any of us-- except for Charles-- without batting an eye. I mean, he went head-to-head with the Shadow King in that other timeline." She paused, trying to organize her thoughts. "I honestly think Charles was terrified by the prospect of what could happen if that much power went out of control. Remember what happened in the Danger Room? He had real reason to believe it might happen."

Scott released her abruptly and turned back to the window. "That doesn’t excuse him." His darting glance dared her to contradict him. "It wasn’t the Professor’s choice to make. Do you realize that he has single-handedly choreographed the course of history for the last decade plus?" He turned toward her, his voice rising. "Are you ready to dismiss the fact that he let you die, Jean? That he did nothing to prevent the Dark Phoenix, or the development of the Sentinels, or Genosha, or the Morlock Massacre, or the Legacy Virus?"

Jean sucked in a sharp breath. "What about the fact that his intervention-- or manipulation or whatever you want to call it-- prevented the Shadow King from defeating us at Muir Island, Scott?" she shot back. "You would have been the one to die there." She pointed an accusing finger at his chest. "Which world would you rather have? Ours? Or the other one?"

"Neither!" he snapped. "What makes you think we could have possibly ended up in that exact situation?" He gestured in frustration. "The moment Remi jumped into our time, everything changed! The Professor had no right to arbitrarily choose how our future would go."

Jean shifted back a step beneath the intensity of his stare. "What if Charles was right, and Remi would have lost his mind?" she asked quietly. "What if we ended up with another Legion on our hands? What then?"

Scott pressed his lips together in a thin line. "You can’t guarantee that would have happened."

Jean shook her head. "But it could have. Look, Scott--" she held up a hand to forestall him. "I don’t believe that what he did was right." She waited a moment, watching to be certain that he’d absorbed her words. "I do agree that it was probably the path of least risk."

Scott stared at her and she shrugged diffidently. "I don’t know the answer, Scott. Maybe there was a better choice. Maybe not."

Scott’s brow dipped. "Would you be willing to tell Gambit that?" he challenged.

Jean paused. Would she? Would she be willing to walk up to Remy and tell him that his pain was justified because of the results? The answer came back surprisingly fast. After all, she, too, had once sacrificed her life for the good of others.

"Yes, I would." Then she cocked her head. "You know, this is the first time you’ve ever defended Gambit to me. Usually it’s the other way around."

Scott gave her a sour look, his evaporating anger leaving only a mild bitter aftertaste. "Go ahead, rub it in."

Jean smiled thinly. It was all a matter of perspective, and the X-Men’s opinions of Remy had shifted radically in the last couple of days. Jean was forced to admit that she felt her own portion of shame. It was hard to justify condemning Remy for his part in the Massacre once she understood what he had also done to protect them. It was... ungrateful. The part of her that was trained in psychology shook its head at her thoughts, however. After all, Remy was still the same person who had helped murder the Morlocks. The knowledge they now possessed did not make the man who had done those things any less cold or hard or thoughtless of the consequences. And though it was obvious that Remy had changed in the years since then, the damage those actions had done to the X-Men, and the fundamental issues of trust and responsibility, had not.

Jean shook her head. She could argue with herself as much as she liked. The truth was that her heart was intent on simply forgetting the Massacre, forgetting the hurts and the lies, and seeing only the young prince she had met so many years ago.

Scott seemed to sense her turning thoughts and drew her close again. His fingers tangled in the hair that covered the back of her neck and Jean closed her eyes with a sigh.

"Is Remy still on the roof?" Scott asked after a moment.

Jean reached out with her mind, searching. Gambit hadn’t gone there immediately after Charles finished his explanation, but no one was surprised that he’d eventually migrated to that spot. The weather was poor in reflection of Storm’s distress over both Remy her own fate as the Shadow Queen in that other timeline, but neither rain nor snow had ever kept Gambit from brooding in his favorite spot.

She registered a second presence on the roof with a touch of surprise. "Yes, and with company." She chewed briefly on her lip as she listened to the conversation. She was just barely skimming the surfaces of their minds and likened it to eavesdropping more than a telepathic intrusion, but after a moment she was satisfied and let her awareness fade. "It’s all right, I think."

Scott’s expression lightened minutely. "It’s a good sign anyway. I’m almost tempted to call a team training session just to get him into the house, at least."

Jean looked up at him, surprised by a sudden thought. "Actually, a little bit of normal X-Men routine might be good for everyone. Lilandra promised us equipment and techs, now that a ship has arrived from Chandilar. We could probably get the Danger Room back into some semblance of working order."

"And maybe find an excuse to get Lilandra to come back down here and deal with her son?" he asked archly.

Jean grinned. "You make me sound so conniving." Her smile faded. "It would be good for them both. And Charles."

Scott sighed, his good humor dissolving. "Right."

Remy didn’t move as a presence impinged on his spatial awareness. Rogue hovered a good ways above him, watching, as she had several times during the past days. He ignored her now as he had before, feeling as if he simply did not possess the energy to deal with whatever she might want.

To his dismay, she began to descend until she lit on the roof a few feet from him. She stood there, unmoving, until Remy’s curiosity forced him to sneak a glance in her direction. Rogue met his gaze without reaction, her expression a mixture of interest and concern. Her hair was beginning to soak through from the cold drizzle, but she paid the rain no attention. Her uniform was the green-and-white one she seemed to have adopted in his absence, and she held a tattered blanket folded across one arm.

After a moment, Remy looked away. It wasn’t really that he minded her presence. Antarctica had become somewhat... insignificant in the last few days. Mostly, he just didn’t want to risk digging into anything that had to do with their relationship right now. He was certain there was a big can of worms there that would take time, effort and commitment to unravel-- things he didn’t feel he could offer at the moment.

Interpreting his silence as acceptance, Rogue came forward and knelt beside him on the shingles. Remy stared resolutely ahead, unconsciously steeling himself. He was surprised when she said nothing, but instead shook out the blanket she was carrying and draped it across his shoulders.

Remy couldn’t resist a puzzled glance. His armor-- the Shi’ar armor that Lilandra had coincidentally given him and which filled him with too many conflicting emotions to name-- was both warm and waterproof. He was surprisingly comfortable despite the weather.

Rogue gave him a flickering smile as her arms encircled his shoulders. "A long time ago, seems like, ya came up here ta give me some comfort... as a friend. Ah was hopin’ ah could return the favor."

Remy continued to stare as memory drew him back to that day. It did seem like it was a long time ago, and yet he recalled with perfect clarity what it had felt like to hold her that afternoon, and the fiercely tender affection that had filled his heart as she cried in his arms.

He surprised himself by reaching over to lay his hand on her forearm and squeezing it lightly. "T’ank y’."

Her answering smile was brilliant. With a soft sigh, she settled herself, but instead of sitting beside him, she kept her arms around him, leaning her weight on his shoulders. He was acutely aware of her body pressed against his back, and the fact that the last time she had done that had been just after they’d made love in Antarctica. But despite those things, he found her presence comforting.

Remy’s fingers tightened on her forearm as emotion overwhelmed him. She was like a small piece of sanity in the flood. Everything in his life had been turned upside down, torn apart and revealed for the lie it was. But Rogue’s presence, her love and the familiar warmth that emanated from her was something real from that life that he could hold on to.

"I’ve missed y’," he whispered.

Rogue made a sound that was half laughter, half sob and hugged him. "Ah’ve missed ya, too, sugah."

They sat in silence then as the rain continued to fall, unabated. Eventually, their reverie was interrupted by an electric thrill that indicated that some kind of energy field had just swept over them. Alarmed, they both looked up as two Shi’ar abruptly appeared on the front lawn, a large metal box on the ground between them. Rogue relaxed with a soft sigh, but Remy stiffened, his momentary peace slipping away as the two aliens picked up the unwieldy box and carried it into the mansion. Then he snorted at himself. Look who I’m callin’ alien.

"Ah wonder what that’s about," Rogue said curiously.

Remy only shrugged. His thoughts shied away from wondering too much about anything having to do with the Shi’ar. The knowledge was still too new and too overwhelming. Objectively, he was a little disappointed in himself for his reaction. Considering some of the strange things he’d seen in his life, discovering that he was only half-human shouldn’t have disturbed him so much. Still, it was different when it was happening to you, and there was an awful lot more to it than just a matter of mixed blood.

"Ah’ll bet we could ask Lil o’ the Professor," Rogue continued obliquely. She cocked her head to look at him.

Remy eyed her sidelong. "No t’anks."

"They’re ya parents, sugah. Ya gonna have ta face them sometime."

Remy couldn’t suppress a groan. "Please don’ call dem dat, chere."

"Why not?" Her gaze was openly questioning.

Remy opened his mouth for a response, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth again and tried to gather his thoughts. How could he explain to her the things that had been chasing around inside him for the last two days? That if he accepted what Xavier had told them, embraced those things as truth, he would then be forced to step up to filling the role that the Professor was obviously expecting of him. The labels swam around in his head. Heir to the Shi’ar Empire. Omega telepath. Time traveler. Son. The prospect terrified him.

Slowly he shook his head. "I’m not him-- I’m not Rem’aillon Neramani." He stumbled a bit over the name. It felt foreign on his tongue, as much for the odd combination of sounds as for the fact that it was supposed to belong to him and didn’t.

Unconsciously, his hands closed into fists. "I am jus’ a t’ief dat grew up on de streets o’ New Orleans." He was still struggling with the idea that so many of his memories were false. They didn’t seem fake. In fact, they were strong and clear-- sometimes painfully so-- the accumulation of people and events that made him who he was. Jean had jumped in to help the Professor explain that his particular set of implanted memories were especially seamless because they had once been real memories, generated by his brain. It was just a different version of him that had lived them. His brain couldn’t differentiate between versions, and without outside witnesses, there was no way to prove that what he remembered wasn’t true. For the most part, Xavier hadn’t had to do any tampering to make the memories fit him.

Perhaps because of those things, he was perversely pleased that Xavier claimed it was completely impossible to undo what he had done. Too much power, he’d said. Kill any telepath that tried it. Remy couldn’t dispute that. He’d been probed by an Interpol telepath once, and she’d died. He’d never had any idea what had happened to her until now.

Rogue was watching him, her green eyes solemn. "Even without all this other stuff, sugah, y’all are a lot more than just a thief from New Orleans."

Remy looked away. "Like what, chere?"

Her voice colored with frustration. "Like an X-Man, foh starters."

A cold hand clenched around Remy’s heart. In two days, she was the only person who had come looking for him. "Are y’ so sure ‘bout dat?" he asked bitterly.

To his surprise, she chuckled. "Sugah, we’ve been talkin’ about ya foh two days straight downstairs. Ah’m sure."

Startled, he turned to look at her and found her smiling. Then her smile faded as her gaze locked with his. "The X-Men don’t hold grudges."

The double meaning of her words struck Remy through the heart and left him reeling. "Is dat a promise?" he asked, unable to break away from the flickering hope that shone in her eyes.

She nodded jerkily, then ducked her head. Her wet hair tumbled forward to paint a dark streak across the chest plates of his armor as she dug into an inner pocket of her uniform, obviously searching for something. When she found it, she abruptly released him and sat back on her heels. Curious and apprehensive, Remy turned.

Rogue stared at him, her expression one of hopeful terror. In one hand she held a singed playing card, which she held out to him. Remy didn’t need to look to know what it was.

"De Queen o’ Hearts." Wanting to double over, he pressed the heel of one hand against his gut as if the pressure could relieve the ache there. Just the sight of the card brought back a dozen memories, all of them either so sweet or so bitter that they hurt.

Rogue licked her lips, a wan smile escaping. "She’s a lil’ beat up."

Remy’s gaze dropped to the card in her hand, its face creased and water stained, its edges burnt and crumbling. Like their relationship, it was so badly damaged that it was almost worthless, and yet that one piece of battered cardboard still held tremendous power over them both because of what it symbolized.

Hesitantly, Remy reached up and took the card from her hand. He ran his thumb across its face, brushing away the raindrops, as he studied it. Slowly, he shook his head. With so many other things crowding his mind and tearing at his heart, he wasn’t certain he could handle this as well, but everything inside him demanded that he try.

He took a deep, steadying breath and looked up. "So now what?"

Sheepishly, Rogue brushed limp tendrils of hair away from her face. "Ah was hopin’ ya’d tell me, sugah."

They stared at each other for several moments as the rain splashed down around them. Remy still didn’t have any idea how he was going to live with the things he had learned about himself, but somehow, having Rogue with him made it seem more possible. He found himself smiling, if somewhat crookedly, and was rewarded by a similar expression from Rogue. The shadows in her eyes weren’t gone, he noted, but they had retreated far enough for a spark of hope to show through. His heart lurched. It was that same tiny fire that had made him fall in love with her in the first place-- that unquenchable faith that refused to die, no matter how harshly life treated her.

Remy felt a sudden desire to laugh. In the last few months, he had been exposed as a murderer, left to die by people he counted as family and discovered that his entire life was built on a lie... but despite that, he was beginning to think that he still had something to live for.

Renee blinked in owlish disbelief as she stared at Ozymandias. "You want me to what?"

He returned her stare mildly, completely unaffected by the sudden terror Renee was certain was visible on her face. "Simply talk to him." His voice held the tiniest note of entreaty. "Bring the problem to his attention and the High Lord will act on it."

Around them, the laboratory machinery beeped and whined in soft cacophony, but Renee ignored it. "Isn’t that your job?" she asked him. It felt very strange to challenge the timeless servant of Apocalypse, but Renee’s instincts were telling her that he was trying to cajole her into something.

Ozymandias’ expression firmed in annoyance and Renee resisted the desire to back away. "Of course, child." He sounded thoroughly exasperated. "I have. But the truth of the matter is that the High Lord is preoccupied with his work and will ignore me until it suits his pleasure to listen." He tapped the tablet in his hands meaningfully. "The tribesmen who supply us have decided to test their god’s will and have not brought the required offering for the last two weeks, and they are unlikely to bring anything until Lord Apocalypse reminds them who it is they serve." He shrugged lightly. "It was bound to happen. Like their fathers before them, they have served the High Lord, but the fear fades with each succeeding generation."

Renee listened with interest. Ozymandias had only asked her to tell Apocalypse there was a problem with their supplies. She was pleased that he was willing to give her additional details, especially since it had something, however slight, to do with the world outside of the mountain. On the negative side, though, she didn’t like the images her imagination conjured for how Apocalypse might go about frightening these tribesmen into submission.

Ozymandias went on, oblivious to her thoughts. "In the past, Apocalypse has not been inclined to act in these situations until all of the servants have starved to death." Renee blanched and he gave her a hard smile. "I am immortal, so it is of little consequence to me, but there are few pleasures left to this existence. I would prefer not to forego them." He tipped his head with an evaluating expression. "And though there is sufficient technology to provide sustenance for yourself, I doubt you would find it a pleasant repast."

Renee immediately thought of the slushy organic paste that fed Apocalypse’s creations and suppressed a shudder. Nutritious it might be, but she wouldn’t want to make a regular diet of it. And even if she did, that would do nothing for the slaves. Apocalypse would never condone using his lab facilities to provide food for them. She sometimes wondered if he even realized that they existed, or if he saw them as some kind of extension of the palace itself. She had yet to understand exactly how the men and women came to live inside the mountain. Shala had made reference to a childhood in what sounded like a small town or village, but Renee had not been able to get more detail from her than that.

Renee thought of Shala and bit her lip. "What makes you think he’ll listen to me?" Apocalypse was still less than thrilled with her performance as his student, but as her grasp of the language and concepts grew, so did his approval. She was frightened of what he might do if she interfered in something that rightfully was none of her business.

Ozymandias smiled again, this time secretively. "I have no idea if he will, Healer. However, Angel... provides for himself and would not care if the servants starved, so you are my only recourse."

Renee stared at him. Did this ancient, bitter man really care about the slaves that served them? Or was he purely interested in his personal comfort level? She looked into his face, searching for some sign that would confirm her suspicion, but found nothing conclusive. Finally, she ducked her head. No matter what Ozymandias thought, she knew she would have to face Apocalypse for the sake of her own conscience.

She nodded abruptly. "I’ll talk to him."

Renee waited more than a day before approaching Apocalypse. One brief conversation with Shala had been enough to convince her that Ozymandias was not exaggerating the situation, and she was appalled to discover that the servants were no longer eating in order to continue providing food for Ozymandias, herself and Angel, on the rare occasions that he appeared. Even more disturbing to Renee was the fact that Shala seemed completely content to starve if that was the will of her Lord. But it still took her some time to work up the nerve to broach the subject with Apocalypse.

She waited until it was very late and even Apocalypse had abandoned his laboratory in favor of the sitting room. She had long since been dismissed for the night, but now she crept through the darkened corridors, her heart pounding. She reached the arched entrance to Apocalypse’s favored spot and paused there to watch. Apocalypse was seated in his chair, staring at the flames as he often did in the evenings. A data pad lay in his lap, ignored save for the light grip that kept it from sliding onto the floor. In the flickering light, he almost looked healthy, she thought. He was beginning to fill out and the pale light made the gaunt hollows of his cheeks seem like nothing more than an effect of the changing shadows. His hair still fell limply in a tangled mess from his topknot, but Renee was beginning to suspect that that was a matter of apathy rather than illness.

Gathering her courage, Renee slipped into the room. She ghosted barefoot across the floor and settled on her cushion next to his chair, carefully tucking the edges of her skirt around her toes. She had no idea how to make a request of Apocalypse. He had no tolerance for anyone who spoke to him out of turn, and just the thought of doing so made the scars on her back itch with the memory of the lash. So she decided that the best thing would simply be to wait until he acknowledged her.

Apocalypse turned his head to watch her as she sat, his expression vaguely curious. Renee took that as a good sign and returned his gaze hopefully. She remained like that for several minutes until his flat stare became completely unnerving, then ducked her head and turned her attention to the fire. Frightened and unable to sit completely still under his gaze, she fiddled with the rings on her hands which clinked together musically in the stillness.

Her breath caught in a gasp of dismay as Apocalypse leaned over to grab her wrist, his fingers grinding the bones together painfully. The data pad slid off his lap to clatter on the stone floor as he stripped the rings sharply from her hands, finger by finger, and threw them away. His expression was darkened with anger, and his wide lips pressed together in a thin line. When he was done, he thrust her hands back into her lap and then straightened in his chair. Then he stared resolutely at the fire, face cold and hard.

What did I do? Renee bit her lip against the fear that clambered up her throat, seeking release, and forced herself to breath in silent, shallow gasps. Her bare hands were knotted into fists in her lap as she fought the urge to curl up in a fetal ball on the broad cushion.

"The strong do not cower," Apocalypse said abruptly, his gaze never leaving the dancing flames. The anger etched in his tone matched that in his face. "Do you understand me?"

Renee raised both eyebrows, confused by both his words and his reaction. She wasn’t even certain if the question was rhetorical as she answered with blunt honesty, "No."

Apocalypse’s gray eyes snapped to her, his stare intent. Renee tried not to cringe as her heart began to pound in terror. "I don’t understand." As far as she could tell, Apocalypse had always been pleased that she was afraid of him. Now, he seemed to have done a complete reversal and she didn’t have the faintest idea why or how she was supposed to respond.

The expression of disbelief that flitted across Apocalypse’s face was so completely incongruous that Renee was temporarily startled. He looked as if it had never occurred to him that someone might not understand him. Then the slightly baffled expression disappeared as if it had never existed.

"The weak cower in terror, Nightengale," Apocalypse explained in the most reasonable tone Renee had ever heard from him. She stared at him wide-eyed as he added, "Those worthy of survival have nothing to fear from me."

Renee blinked slowly as she tried to digest his statement. The idea that he really believed that she should not be afraid of him was mind-boggling. "Does that mean I am ‘worthy of survival’?" she finally asked.

His expression thinned with disapproval. "That is a foolish question."

Renee’s frustration with Apocalypse’s shifting attitudes toward her suddenly crystallized. "Not if I don’t understand your standard, it isn’t." Apocalypse terrified her. But if he were going to suddenly begin talking to her like a human being, she would do well to respond like one.

Apocalypse’s eyebrows rose sharply and Renee sucked in her breath, afraid she had been too bold. But then his expression shifted toward curiosity. "What is it that you do not understand?"

Renee had to pause to gather her thoughts. Apocalypse had never offered to explain anything. Even the instruction he gave her regarding his work in genetics and cloning was thrown at her as if it were so basic she should already know it, leaving her scrambling to understand.

Finally, she raised her gaze to Apocalypse’s. "Why me?" she asked. "There are much more powerful mutants in the world."

Apocalypse didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to think about it for a moment, and then, to her surprise, he leaned on the arm of his chair and watched her with an evaluating expression.

"Strength and power are not the same thing," he told her sagely. "The strong survive."

Renee tried to stifle the small voice of hysteria that clamored in the back of her mind. I’m having a philosophical discussion with Apocalypse. The history that she knew did not record any details of Apocalypse’s belief system, beyond the blatantly obvious. Given what she had seen in her time with him, Renee was fairly well convinced that the reason was simply that Apocalypse had never seen fit to explain himself to anyone.

Despite the pounding of her heart, Renee’s found her curiosity growing. In her mind, she could hear Aunt Ororo’s voice, telling her of the advantage that such knowledge could give her-- and the X-Men-- against Apocalypse. But Renee knew she wasn’t looking for an advantage. What she wanted was to understand, because then she would know what caused his radical shifts in behavior and might be able to avoid his wrath.

Gathering her courage, she decided to plunge in. She might never get another chance. "How do you define strength, then, if it’s not about mutant powers?"

Apocalypse’s brow dipped thoughtfully. "They are not unrelated," he answered as he shifted in his seat. "Strength is the ability to exert your will--" he pointed one finger at Renee, "against the forces of your environment and prevail. It is the ability to survive."

Renee stared at him, bemused. That almost sounds rational, she thought. But it didn’t bear any resemblance to the racial elitism and violent Darwinism that was consistently ascribed to him. She turned his definition over in her mind, trying to make the connection.

"So mutants are generally stronger because their powers give them more influence over their environment?" she hazarded after a moment. It was the only thing that made any sense to her at all, and she was rewarded by a rare expression of approval from Apocalypse.

"Yes. You understand."

Uncomfortable, Renee looked away. She had the sneaking suspicion that understanding was equivalent, in Apocalypse’s eyes, to agreeing. And she still didn’t have an explanation for the genocide he would perpetrate in future millennia.

"Then you don’t hate humans?"

Apocalypse’s eyes narrowed and Renee held her breath. "Humans are inferior," he told her bluntly. "Mutants are the next step of evolution." He paused as if gathering his thoughts. "It is inevitable that traditional humanity will give way to mutants-- inevitable and appropriate." He tapped the arm of his chair with his fist in emphasis, as his expression grew intense. "The strong breed strength. If the mutant race is to become what it holds the potential to be... what it is meant to be, it must be refined. The humans can only dilute and weaken us."

Us? Renee repeated silently. It was the first time she had ever heard Apocalypse identify himself as a part of any group and she was stunned by the passion that burned in his gray eyes. This was no clinical, scientific curiosity but a deep conviction about the destiny of the mutant race. The realization changed her view of him in a very fundamental way. Apocalypse, she realized, wasn’t the power-mad mutant blindly in pursuit of world domination, as he was often portrayed. Instead, she saw in him a consuming desire to make the mutant race great. He wasn’t insane, she understood then. Wrong, but not insane.

"Humans created us," she reminded him obliquely. "In the genetic sense, we came from them." She shook her head lightly. "Their genetic code is a lot more stable than ours." That was one problem that Apocalypse was constantly battling in his cloning work. The mutant genes just didn’t behave predictably. Renee held a growing suspicion that the mutant genetic code was a lot less viable than the human because of its tendency to mutate radically with each generation. And though the products of those mutations might sometimes be extremely powerful, most simply couldn’t survive. Something close to fifty percent of human conceptions were spontaneously aborted within the first few hours by the body’s normal process, and she suspected that the mutant rate was much, much higher than that.

Apocalypse’s expression darkened, but he didn’t look like he was about to strike out at her, so Renee continued, "I don’t think it’s correct to categorize humans as ‘inferior’. In the long run, they may prove to be the true survivors."

Apocalypse actually recoiled at her statement, his eyes widening in outrage. "Mutants are destined to be the dominant force on this planet!"

Renee’s heart was pounding in her ears, and the adrenaline that poured through her made it seem as if she could feel every single pore of her skin prickling with sudden heat. For a moment, she debated simply closing her mouth and saying nothing more in the hopes that that would appease his anger, but she found that she couldn’t. In this one short conversation she had probably spoken as many words as in all of the rest of her time in the palace, and she was stunned to realize that she wanted to continue, despite the risk. Her hunger for any kind of interaction was so strong that even her fear of Apocalypse couldn’t overrule it.

"Genetically, the chances are high that the mutant race will burn itself out," she answered as reasonably as she could. She kept her attention glued to him, searching for any sign of an attack. "Mutate so radically that it is no longer viable." Her Uncle Hanks’s theories on that were fascinating, if a little scary.

Apocalypse stared at her for a moment longer, then launched himself out of his chair and paced to the fireplace before turning to face her. His agitation was clear in his every movement. "That is not acceptable," he told her flatly. "I will not allow it."

Renee stared at him curiously. Not acceptable? It seemed like a tremendously narrow viewpoint coming from one who knew so much about genetics, and she wondered what had originally caused Apocalypse to adopt his philosophies. He almost seemed to be stating that he intended to make mutants into the superior race he claimed they were destined to be. But, she argued silently, if mutants were destined for greatness, why would they need help achieving it?

She opened her mouth to respond when he cut her off. "Out of my sight, Healer!" He pointed toward the doorway, his stance imperious, his voice angry. "You are a disgrace to your kind."

Startled and frightened, Renee scrambled to her feet and backed away. Apocalypse glared at her until she turned and walked as quickly as she could from the room. The spot between her shoulder blades itched in expectation, but no bolt of power struck her and she paused just beyond the threshold to look back.

Apocalypse remained standing beside the fireplace, his chin sunk to his chest in contemplation and his expression deeply troubled. Renee bit her lip and, after a moment, turned away.