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FIC: Asylum 2: Family Reunion

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  • rimmette@earthlink.net
    Title: Asylum 2: Family Reunion Series: Sequel to Lateo s Asylum (Go to: http://www.100megspop3.com/scottororo/fiction/Asylum.htm It *must* be read FIRST.)
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 28, 2001
      Title: Asylum 2: Family Reunion
      Series: Sequel to Lateo's Asylum (Go to:
      http://www.100megspop3.com/scottororo/fiction/Asylum.htm It *must*
      be read FIRST.)
      Author: Khaki
      Email: rimmette@...
      Rating: PG13
      Category: Drama with a touch of Halloween fun.
      Disclaimer: These characters are very relieved that I don't actually
      own them.
      Archive Rights: If you have Lateo's Asylum, you can have mine.
      Author's Notes: This is what I get for popping in and flinging
      bunnies with reckless abandon. To paraphrase a line from the
      Godfather movies, "Every time I think I'm out, those plot bunnies
      pull me back in."
      Author's Warning: Nice!Scott and Nice!Jean alert. For those of you
      who only like Wimpy!Scott and Mean!Jean, be warned.
      Summary: Logan and his daughter meet again under less controlled


      I'm twenty years old. Old enough to drive. Old enough to vote. Old
      enough to live away from home. I'm an adult. Right now, though, all
      I want is to be held by my mommy and daddy and told everything's
      going to be ok.

      It's not.

      I was sleeping in my old room, home for summer vacation, when I woke
      to the sensations of latex-gloved hands stroking my face, and a
      gravelly voice whispering, "Marie."

      When my eyes met hollow sockets in the dim light of my bedroom, I
      knew who it was. How did he escape? I only saw him for the first
      time with Dad this afternoon, and now he's here, in my room. He's
      blind for heaven's sake. How the hell did he get here?

      "Marie," he whispered again, and his hands moved lower, gliding down
      my neck and massaging my shoulders. "I found you."

      I couldn't move, frozen in terror. He's insane. He thinks I'm his
      dead wife. What's he going to do to me?

      He leaned down and... did he just sniff my hair? That's right, mom
      and dad told me all about him. I got my heightened senses from him,
      my senses and my claws.

      When his hands roamed down past my shoulders, pushing back the
      bedcovers to caress my breasts, I used the gifts he gave me, and
      released my claws into his chest.

      "No!" I yelled, pushing him away, the momentum throwing him off of my
      claws as he fell.

      "Mom! Dad!" I screamed for help, hoping they would arrive before he
      could recover.

      It was a futile hope. Even before I finished calling for my parents,
      he was up and attacking. He grabbed each of my hands in turn and
      sliced through my claws with his own metal ones before I could pull

      The pain, ripping bone-deep agony, raced up from my arms and spread
      throughout my body. I wanted to scream, but all that came out was
      hoarse gasping in my shock. I could feel tingling pinpricks
      encompass my arms as my body tried to repair what had been done to
      them, but the throbbing ache didn't go away.

      I was so focused on my injuries, that I didn't even realize we'd left
      my room until he almost tripped the first time on the uneven ground
      leading to the woods. I was draped over his shoulder, and he was
      carrying me away, away from the safety of the mansion and my family.

      I yelled at him and pounded on his back with my fists, trying to make
      him stop. All I succeeded in doing was making the pain in my arms
      flash white hot again. He wasn't going to stop, and there was
      nothing I could do about it.

      It was only after twenty or thirty minutes of running and stumbling
      that he finally set me down against a tree. He's pacing around me
      now, sniffing at the air and cocking his head every once in a while,
      listening to the sounds of the forest.

      Sitting here, watching him, I can see the truth. This really is my
      birth father. I can see myself in his coloring and the way he holds

      A month ago, if you'd asked me who I was, I could've answered without
      hesitation. My name is Maryann Summers. I was born in the Med Lab
      at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters to Scott and Dr. Jean
      Summers. I'm the oldest of three kids. Now everything I know is a
      lie, or if not that, at least not the entire truth.

      There'd always been hints of my true origins, but they were easily
      explained away. Nate and Rachel, my little brother and sister, have
      a mix of Mom and Dad's mutations, but mine are different. I heal and
      have claws, which is just weird, but Dad told me that not all
      mutations breed true. I am also a touch telepath, kinda like mom
      only I have to touch someone skin to skin to see into their minds and
      reveal my own. Everyone always told me it was a weaker form of my
      mom's mutation. It's only now that I realize they were referring to
      my birth mom's mutation and not my mom's.

      Mom and Dad have red and light brown hair and light complexions as do
      Nate and Rachel. My hair and skin are darker, making me stick out in
      family pictures. Dad told me my great grandpa Summers had dark hair
      and that's where I got my coloring. It was just another lie.

      When I was younger, some of Mom and Dad's old friends would visit the
      mansion and say I looked exactly like my mom. That always confused
      me since Mom and I look nothing alike. That is, until I saw the

      Professor Xavier died after his long struggle with brain cancer
      during my Spring Quarter at college. I came home for the funeral,
      but it was only when I got home for summer vacation that Mom and Dad
      felt like they could start gathering up his things and packing them
      away. I helped them sort through his office, and that's where I
      found the picture. A picture of a brightly smiling man with wild,
      dark hair, and a pregnant women with white streaks who looked exactly
      like me.

      That's when the truth came out. Mom and Dad weren't my real... well,
      my biological... mom and dad. I was supposed to be named Anna
      Logan. When my birth mom died and my birth dad went nuts, Mom and
      Dad adopted me. They named me Maryann Summers because they wanted to
      keep the name my original parents had decided on, but they also
      wanted to honor my birth mom.

      They decided to keep what had happened a secret to protect me. They
      thought it'd be too confusing and painful to know that my mom was
      dead and my dad had gone crazy. At the time, I thought they were
      wrong to keep it from me, but now I don't know.

      I insisted on seeing her grave that day. Dad was hesitant, but Mom
      just stood up and took me.

      Marie Logan, the mother I never knew. Her grave was in the same
      small graveyard as Professor Xavier's. There were fresh flowers on
      the grave, and it was well tended even after 20 years. Mom told me
      that she and Dad kept it nice. She confessed that she came out and
      talked to Marie all the time, telling her about me and asking for
      advice. She told me that my birth mom had loved me so much, even
      though she never got to see me, and Mom wanted to make sure that I
      got all the love Marie wanted so much to give me but couldn't.

      When we got back, I asked to meet my birth father. It took a month
      of persuasion, of begging and cajoling, of promises and compromise
      before I got to meet him for a minute, locked behind a thick panel of
      armored glass. He looked so angry, frustrated, and confused. Kind
      of how he looks now.

      "Marie," he said, stopping his pacing to kneel down in front of
      me. "I'm sorry I hurt you. Why did you attack me? Where did you
      get claws?"

      "I'm not..." I started, before he interrupted.

      "Oh yeah. The last time I touched you. Guess they must be a part of
      me, too. Bone covered with metal. Uh huh. That explains it."

      "My name is..."

      "Shh... I'm sorry it took me so long to find you. They kept drugging
      me. Damned Summers. I'm gonna rip him apart for sending me there."

      "No, don't, not my..."

      "It's ok, now, Marie," he soothed, stroking my face with his gloved
      hands. "We're together. It was a hard year being away from you, but
      I'm here now and we're never gonna be separated again."

      "A year? It's been twenty."

      "I gotcha now, babe. We're..." he paused, taking in what I'd
      said. "What?"

      "Twenty years, not one."

      He shook his head forcefully. "No, that's not true. I would know if
      it'd been that long. You... you smell the same, feel the same."

      "I'm not Marie. I'm Maryann Summers."

      "Summers? Marie, what are you sayin'? Did you marry..."

      "I'm your daughter. I was born twenty years ago when Marie died.
      You saved my life. You cut..."

      "NO!!!" he shrieked, his voice echoing through the woods. "Nothing
      happened! You're alive. Marie, I can feel you, smell you, hear
      you. I've heard you talking to me, even when I was back there."

      "I'm not Marie, I'm..."

      "I'll prove it to you!" he shouted, ripping off his latex gloves and
      gripping my cheeks with his bare hands.

      Mom's been trying to teach me mental shielding. Telepaths can't lock
      onto my thoughts, but when I touch someone, they get my thoughts,
      feelings, and emotions, and I get theirs. If I'm prepared and I
      concentrate, I can control the flow, but now, touching the raw,
      tormented mind of a delusional man, I had no protection.

      The scents came first. The heady aroma of a fresh kill mixed with
      pain, fear, and the sickly sweet smell of blood. Next came the feel
      of silky smooth hair in my loose grasp sticky and wet from fresh
      blood. Sounds followed. Dad screaming, "Sabretooth!" and then the
      sound of one of his blasts. Mom crying, and saying there was nothing
      she could do. A rougher voice, crying, "I'm so sorry, baby. I
      couldn't protect you. I promised, but I failed you."

      I heard Dad's voice again, saying, "Look!" and then I could see.
      That was the worst. Metal claws cutting into milky, perfect flesh.
      Strong hands reaching into the massive wound and pulling out an
      infant. A flash of metal as the umbilical cord is cut. Then, sight,
      sound, touch, and smell combine into a wild frenzy of sensations, one
      mixing with the other. Emotions flooding the physical, tainting
      every moment with grief and guilt.

      Distantly, I felt the hands fall away from my face and heard someone
      running away, deeper into the forest. I didn't react. My mind was
      consumed by the visceral memories I'd been given.

      I spent minutes, hours, or perhaps even days writhing on the ground,
      battered by wave after wave of twisted memory and overpowering
      emotion before I felt the strong arms of my father pull me to him,
      and the gentle mind of my mother kissing my own as she urged me to

      When next I awoke, I was in my room, lying in my own bed. For a
      moment, I could almost convince myself that it had all been a dream,
      then I rolled over.

      Laid out next to me was the surreal image of a pale corpse who,
      except for her chesnut hair color, white streaks, and grievous
      wounds, could be my twin. Her throat was slashed so far open that
      she was almost decapitated, and her belly was ripped open and covered
      with what looked like liters of blood.

      I was frozen in place, my mouth opening and closing in silent horror.

      Then, the body opened her eyes and gasped in a voice mixed with pain
      and biting accusation, "Logan."

      I screamed.


      The End.
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