Sinking Stars

Note from Alicia: This is not X-Project canon, but (the beginnings of) a fanfic adaptation of Nathan's arrival and the Mistra plotline. There are some substantial differences from game canon (hence the inspired by comment in my disclaimers) but a lot that will hopefully give those familiar with the game reason to smile as well.

Thanks to miss_porcupine for her betaing job and noble efforts to slay the Horde of Extraneous Commas.

The prologue can be found here. This story begins nine months after the events of X2.

---

JFK International Airport,

Now

She had booked the first flight available to Zurich. A midmorning departure meant that she would almost certainly have to stay the night before driving to Vaduz. But she would get an early start, Moira consoled herself, and it wasn't far, an hour or two depending on how the roads were.

Trust him to hide out in the Alps in February. But it made sense for him to have gone to ground somewhere relatively remote. Like most telepaths, Nathan was rarely at ease in cities. Moira sighed and sipped at her coffee. She felt restless, unsettled and worried, and it was taking some considerable self-control not to get up and start prowling the confines of the first-class lounge.

She hadn't slept, and doubted she would do so on the plane. Nathan's vagueness on the phone had worried her; he had sounded exhausted and had grown more confused as the conversation went on, as if he hadn't had the energy to focus on what she was saying. Moira's expression tightened, and she wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, feeling like she needed the warmth.

She was terribly afraid, she admitted to herself in a moment of bleak honesty. Nathan had refused to let her contact any of her colleagues in Switzerland to get him some more immediate help, even when she'd sworn to him that their discretion was complete and she had trusted them in the past with delicate matters. Briefly, she'd toyed with the idea of doing it anyway, but sending a stranger to his door would be foolish. For a long, long list of reasons.

The lounge lounge doors slid open silently, and Moira's eyes went wide as Pete Wisdom walked in. He paused, scanning the lounge for a moment, and then smiled faintly as he spotted her.

"Fancy meeting you here, MacTaggart," he said as he flopped down into the chair next to hers. The leather upholstery made a protesting noise. "Off to go skiing in the Alps, are we?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but Moira sipped at her coffee again, not answering for a moment. "Did Charles send you to keep an eye on me?" she finally asked, pointedly. She wouldn't have put it past him. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, something else occurred to her, and the suspicious tension eased. "Or did you get a phone call as well?"

"Phone call, no. Message, yes. Although I doubt ours came from the same person. Especially since you're flying to Zurich and until I found that out, I really had no idea where to start looking."

Well, that answered that question. "One of the others called you, then," she said, wondering what had happened, why Nathan was alone - that much, he'd admitted to her. "Let me guess. Lovely purple eyes, can swear in sixteen languages, exceptionally poor taste in older men..."

"Yes, yes, we all know you're a bloody puritan at heart, MacTaggart," was Wisdom's casual response, although he left it at that. Moira wasn't surprised. The young woman in question was a delicate topic between them, and this wasn't the time to be revisiting that particular argument.

They were not precisely close, she and Wisdom, although they shared certain mutual friends and had for a number of years. He had even been to Muir a time or two. His arrival at the school had come less than a week after hers, and after some initial banter about the coincidence of them winding up under the same roof on the other side of the ocean, they hadn't spoken much. She was busy in the labs and with the students, and he was busy doing... whatever it was he did.

"He's not well," Moira said, after the silence dragged on for a few moments too long. "Did the lass tell you that?"

"May have hinted that there was something wrong, yes." Moira saw Wisdom's fingers twitch. She smiled blandly, tilting her head in the direction of the no-smoking sign. He just scowled at her. "Not the usual complaint, I hope?" His tone was gruff enough, but she could hear the real concern beneath the surface.

"I hope not." Her heart gave an odd little jump in her chest at the thought. "Have you talked to them since you found out where I was going?" she asked, forcing her mind back to the issue at hand.

Wisdom shook his head. "Didn't want to miss the flight."

"I don't recall inviting you along," Moira retorted, more sharply than she'd really intended. But she was tired and worried, and Wisdom's personal 'charm' had always been lost on her.

"I don't recall asking for an invitation."

"You'll follow me one way or the other, won't you? Bloody interfering arse," Moira said without any heat. "And if he senses you with me and runs in the other direction?" she asked, not quite in jest. She knew Nathan considered Wisdom a friend, and a close one, but he had sounded so unnerved. She knew him well enough to know that in a mood like that, his reactions were unpredictable.

Wisdom eyed her. "Then I chase him down and sit on him while you find out what's wrong with the daft bastard," he said with perfect logic. "You may be glad you have me along, in the end."

She snorted, and he went on. "And no fear, I'll walk softly. We can sort out why he ditched Bridge and the others once you've figured out what's wrong with him." His fingers twitched again, and he shifted irritably in his chair. "I suppose it's a non-smoking flight."

"Indeed it is. I did bring my bag, if you wanted me to sedate you?"

"You'd enjoy that just a little too much."

~*~

Salem Center

Ororo Munroe did not like the newly christened 'Danger Room'. More and more of the team's training was being done here, even though the new system was still more delicate than it ought to be and broke down on a distressingly regular basis. An expensive and fragile toy, she'd called it when airing her doubts with Scott; more than that, it was dangerous, in that it mimicked reality but couldn't replicate the stresses of the real situations the team would face out in the field. He had conceded the point, but argued that it was still invaluable for testing responses to specific stimuli and for exploring new applications of their mutant powers. Then, he'd offered to do all the scenario programming.

She was still slightly ashamed of herself for agreeing to that. So, more often than not, she made sure that she was the one sitting in the control booth monitoring the scenarios Scott devised. Fair was fair, and Ororo had no intention of seeing him backslide into old, bad habits of overworking, even if she disapproved of how he spent his leisure time these days.

The modular landscape of the Danger Room shifted again, cutting off yet another escape route from the maze, and the two X-Men within stopped to reassess. Ororo tapped a finger against her lips as she watched, her eyes flickering occasionally to the timer on the console. Most of the X-Men could have smashed through this maze with ease, and the two young women below were no exception. But this was a powers-application test for one of them, experimenting with a new idea of Scott's, and an exercise in subtlety for the other, who still tended to the brute force approach more often than not.

Ororo frowned, the finger stilling as they didn't begin moving back the way they'd come. The scenario's pace was slow, deliberately so - it was a puzzle, not a race - and they shouldn't need to catch their breath. A sudden suspicion made her eyes narrow and she leaned forward, thumbing the control for the exterior pick-ups.

"-about ready to start ripping these walls off their moorings," the green-haired one of the pair complained. "I can't focus on the shape of the passages when they keep shifting like this."

"That's the point, isn't it?" her blonde companion asked. "Testing your concentration."

"Yeah, yeah. Did you know he wanted to blindfold me? So that I couldn't focus on anything but the metal in the walls?"

"Well, that would have been damned funny to see."

"Oh, be quiet."

Ororo made a disapproving noise, but she wasn't terribly surprised at the conversation. These two tended towards the witty banter more often than not, even out in the field. It was one of the reasons she had been ambivalent about moving them to full team status this soon, whatever Scott said about the need to "project power". Were they that desperate for warm bodies, she'd asked Scott, that they needed to fast-track these two into their leathers before they fully appreciated what a deadly serious business this was?

"Try the other way?"

"Do we have much choice?"

As they started to move back down the passage, the wall folded outwards to block their way. The blonde waved a hand, a solid-light projection interposing itself, and the mechanism inside the wall gave a shriek of protest.

"Go," she urged her companion, then followed her through the gap. "Are you getting the impression that this scenario's going to end with us in a very small box cursing Scott's name?"

"Isn't that usually the way they end? Okay, not so much the box bit, but you know what I mean..."

Ororo was seriously considering having the gun turrets start firing on them just to get them to stop chattering when the door of the control booth slid open behind her. "How are they doing?" Scott asked, joining her at the console but not sitting down.

Ororo looked up at him, hearing the preoccupied tone in his voice that was at odds with the intensity of his expression as he stared down into the Danger Room. It was an odd contradiction she'd been noticing in him more and more lately, the ability to be absolutely focused on the matter at hand while another part of his mind worked furiously on a different issue altogether. It sometimes made her wonder if he had really shaken the old bad habits, or if he had simply internalized them.

"They're about forty-five percent of the way through," she reported, keeping her irritation at the girls out of her voice. Scott, oddly enough, was far more tolerant of the personal quirks of all of their new teammates than she was. "Considerably slower than the optimum time. And Lorna is getting frustrated."

Scott didn't look at her, but Ororo spotted the tight smile that briefly crossed his features. "Of course she is. She prefers the direct approach. You should have heard her arguing with me when I suggested that she could do this sort of mapping with her power. Almost makes you wish that a certain someone was on the side of the angels so that he could introduce her to all the subtleties possible with magnetokinesis..."

"I believe Lorna would run shrieking at the idea."

"Because he's a fanatic with a taste for genocide, or because she's got an inferiority complex?" Scott asked, the humor in his voice sharp and bitter, but then changed the subject smoothly. "By the way, our intelligence briefing is cancelled tonight," he said, finally turning away from the reinforced-glass window and glancing down at her. "Wisdom's off-campus. He left me a note saying that he'd be back in a couple of days and there wasn't anything that wouldn't keep until then."

Ororo merely nodded. Wisdom vanished periodically, but was never gone for long. "Moira's gone as well," she said idly, and saw the flash of interest cross Scott's features. "I'm not sure where. I saw her getting into a taxi this morning with a suitcase."

"Do you suppose they've run off together? Joke, 'Ro," Scott said immediately when she raised an eyebrow at him. "I find the mental image as horrific as you do."

She refrained from commenting that Scott had the market on strange and inexplicable liaisons cornered these days. Broaching that subject rarely led anywhere good. She opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps something had happened on Muir to require Moira's presence, but was forestalled by a shout of frustration coming from the Danger Room, followed by the sound of tearing metal and a crash that made the entire control booth vibrate.

Scott made an aggravated noise, reaching out to thumb the exterior speakers on. "Polaris! Stop breaking the Danger Room, damn it!"

"It was Dazzler's idea!"

"Was not!"

"I don't care whose idea it was! Did we forget what we were supposed to be doing? Debriefing, now!" Scott flipped the speakers back off, glaring down at them for a moment before he turned away from the console. "This is why I'm going gray," he told Ororo.

~*~

"YOSHIDA! Watch where you're going!"

From his vantage point on the flyer's platform atop the mansion's roof, Sean Cassidy winced as he watched the near-collision, one student having strayed into another's flight path. Disaster was avoided by inches. Samuel Guthrie immediately blasted up to where young Shiro was hovering and looking rebellious. Sam proceeded to blister his ears with a lecture - or so Sean assumed. All he could hear was the roar of Sam's blast field, but the body language was hard to misinterpret.

Sean stayed right where he was, his posture relaxed despite the keen interest in his eyes as he watched. For now, he was just an observer, though the plan was for him to be an instructor as of next week. He had reviewed the material for the classroom portions of the flight class, lectures on aerodynamics and the like, and studied the files of each of the students. Once he was satisfied that he had a good handle on how the practical component of the class was conducted, then he could make it official. Until then, he needed to keep his nose out.

Three afternoons of observing and this was far from the only near-accident he'd witnessed. None of them had been Sam's fault, in Sean's opinion. The young man was very careful with his students, giving them specific instructions and very clear flight plans. His teaching methods were solid. He just didn't have eyes in the back of his head, Sean thought with a sympathetic chuckle.

"Yet again," came a voice from behind and slightly above him, "I am so very thankful that I don't have to teach the little darlings blessed with powered flight." Warren Worthington landed lightly on the platform, folding immense white feathery wings behind him and giving Sean a faint smile. "Too much potential for carnage."

"Now, I'm sure that those of you who glide are equally likely to land yourselves in difficult spots when you're just learning," Sean said, his tone lightly chiding. Although Warren had a point. This was certainly not a class you wanted to be teaching if you had shaky nerves.

"Yes, but at least we're not breaking the sound barrier when we hit those difficult spots." Warren's smile took on a slightly supercilious edge. "It'll be good to have you aboard, Sean. You can restrain some of Sam's... overexuberance as an instructor. There's something to be said for having age and experience on your side."

Sean smiled back blandly. "I think the lad's doing a fine job, just as you are." Warren's smile thinned a little as Sean ignored the backhanded compliment. But Sean wasn't one for verbal dancing, and he rather liked Sam, who was a fine representative of the younger X-Men.

"To be fair, he's got rather more students than you do as well," he pointed out. Twelve powered fliers, versus the two winged youngsters Warren was teaching. It was one of the reasons Sean had agreed to add the flight class to his responsibilities when he'd accepted Charles's job offer.

He would have the Flight class, English literature, and the job that involved alarming amounts of black leather and him pretending he was twenty years younger than he was. He'd be busy. But then, if he'd wanted a quiet life he would have actually retired, rather than leaving Interpol on the pretense of retirement. He'd spent several lovely, quiet weeks at Cassidy Keep and then packed his bags. The chance to get to know his daughter, perhaps mend things between them, had made the offer one he couldn't refuse.

"Yes, every energy-projector and their uncle thinks they can fly these days, I've noticed. I'm surprised we haven't had more serious injuries." Warren's wings ruffled and shifted, but he kept smiling and didn't break eye contact with Sean. "Theresa must be looking forward to having an 'in' with her new instructor."

Did the lad truly believe that he was going to get under his skin? "If by 'looking forward' to it, you mean she's cursing my name on a daily basis and glaring murderously at me in the halls, aye, you'd be accurate in that assumption."

"Pity," was Warren's murmured response.

Far more amused than ruffled, Sean turned his attention back to the aerobatic displays above them. Warren wasn't the only one of the younger X-Men to have taken the occasional poke at him in the week and a half he'd been here, although he'd been the most blatant about it. The older team members had taken his measure in ways both more subtle and more straightforward. Of course, they saw his presence as a good thing, something that lent additional strength to the unit.

It was some of the youngsters who were bridling, just a bit, as it dawned on them that Charles had essentially imported a sergeant. Or "elder statesman", as Charles preferred to call it. Semantics aside, Sean knew what he was here to do. And it was perhaps a measure of just how wearisome his work at Interpol had become that he was rather looking forward to it.

"Where are your two?" he asked Warren curiously, not seeing the two winged students.

"Circling the lake. I wanted them to get a feel of the difference in the wind over water," was Warren's calm reply, and Sean nodded thoughtfully. He hadn't devoted as much attention to those two students, given that he'd be taking on some of Sam's, but Warren seemed to have tailored his approach nicely to those who depended on wind and muscle for flight.

Sam finished with Shiro, who returned to his exercise flying with a noticeable increase in caution. "I swear, if that boy doesn't learn to watch where he's going, we're going to be picking bits and pieces out of him out of a tree at some point," Sam sighed as he joined Sean and Warren on the platform. He ran a hand through windblown blond hair, exasperation still boiling in his blue eyes. "He doesn't think he needs to be here, that's the problem."

"Aye, I've noted the attitude," Sean said thoughtfully. "Sadly, they rarely learn better until something happens, and we can't be staging an accident for the lad." He bit his lip, then smiled abruptly as a thought occurred to him. "What about running him through one of the team's flight programs? Prove to him that while he's a better flier than most of his classmates, he's still got a lot of learning to do."

Sam blinked at him and then grinned hugely, his eyes sparkling with delight now. An open book, Sean reflected. Such a contrast to the other young man standing on the platform with them. "That's brilliant, sir! Make him put his money where his mouth is so that he has to be the one to admit that he's still a few dollars short."

There was a skeptical noise from Warren's direction. "And encourage him to want to train for the team in the process. I'm not sure the immediate goal's worth the potential long-term aggravation."

~*~

Just outside

Vaduz, Liechtenstein

"Impressive scenery," Pete observed as he got out of the car, closing the driver's door behind him. He let his gaze roam over the snow-covered mountains for a moment before focusing on the old farmhouse. "You know, I've never been to Liechtenstein? I suppose it's because it's one of those 'blink-and-you-miss-it' countries."

He hadn't even known that this safehouse existed, although its existence didn't surprise him. There were certainly a number of others that he didn't know about, just as there were boltholes of his that Nathan and GW knew nothing about. It wasn't a lack of trust, merely prudence. They were friends, but all of them knew perfectly well that they could be forced into situations where keeping each other's secrets wasn't a luxury they could afford.

Moira made a noise that might have been agreement or mockery. Pulling her medical bag out of the trunk, she almost slammed it shut. Before Pete could comment on the unnecessary vehemence with the rental car, she was striding briskly towards the front door of the house. Pete blinked, then sighed and followed.

"You realize, he's more likely to run away from you than me if he opens the door to see you looking at him like that, MacTaggart."

"Be quiet," she growled at him in a tone that wouldn't have sounded out of place coming from Logan.

"Be quiet? I have to say, I don't think we're going to manage to sneak up on a telepath-"

The front door of the farmhouse was flung open suddenly. "Both of you be quiet," said the man standing there, peevishly. He was very clearly having to hold onto the doorframe to keep himself upright. Moira stopped, her eyes going wide as she got a good look at him. "I could hear you thinking insults at each other as you were driving up the road. How did you survive the flight?"

"Lots of alcohol on my part," Pete said, more cheerfully than he really felt. "You look like warmed-over shit, mate."

Nathan Dayspring blinked at him in a way that made Pete think he was having trouble focusing, then gave him a tight smile. "What a coincidence. I feel like warmed-over shit." He looked down at Moira, the smile softening a little. He didn't let go of the doorframe. "You should have ratted him out at Swiss customs and made a run for it."

"Don't think I didn't consider it." Moira moved towards Nathan almost in slow motion. Giving him plenty of time to acknowledge that she was coming, Pete knew. Nathan flinched as Moira laid a hand on his arm, but she didn't draw back. After all these years as his doctor, she would be used to his issues with physical contact. "You look feverish, Nathan," she said more softly. "This isn't-"

"No." Nathan raised a hand to his temple. "I'm just so tired, Moira," he said, and seemed almost to look through her for a moment. "Not focusing well."

"Let's get you inside, then. Too bloody cold out here for the hale and healthy. Which you're clearly not, love." Moira shot a look back at Pete over her shoulder. "Bring the rest of the bags, Wisdom."

"... right," Pete murmured softly as the door swung shut behind the two of them. "All the way to Liechtenstein to serve as her bloody valet." There was no heat to his words, however. Not in the face of that little verbal slip of Moira's.

By the time he had gathered the other two bags - they both packed light - and joined them inside, Moira had gotten Nathan lying down on the couch in the farmhouse's living room. She'd pulled a chair over so that she could sit beside him to check his vitals, and Pete paused in the doorway of the room, feeling oddly like an interloper.

"You haven't been skipping your meds?" Her voice was gentle, but Pete could hear a barely repressed fierceness there as well.

"Not once." Nathan laid there on the couch almost bonelessly, as if getting to the door had sapped all of his strength.

"Then they're not working as they should. Your temperature's high, your heartrate's up..."

"In other words, you have good reason to look and feel like warmed-over shit," Pete said, picking a chair that was close enough so that Nathan could see him, but not close enough to crowd Moira. She didn't even look at him. Nathan's eyes slid to him for a moment, a faint, tired smile flickering across his features.

Pete watched him closely, keeping his expression neutral, and more importantly, the surface of his thoughts composed and quiet. He'd seen his friend ill before, injured before, but there was a difference this time that troubled him. Like most strong psis, Nathan's presence usually filled a room. Pete was headblind to a fault, but he'd always noticed it.

The sense of his presence wasn't entirely absent today, but it was faded, oddly fragile. Pete absently slid his package of cigarettes out of the pocket of his coat, removing one.

"Don't light that," Moira snapped at him, then laid a hand against the side of Nathan's face. He twitched violently, but looked up at her, weary gray eyes to steady blue. "Nathan, this looks like the virus to me," she said, her voice faltering. "Why do you think it's not?"

"I'm breathing fine. No coughing," Nathan said after a moment, but his features were suddenly more drawn. "I've been taking the antivirals faithfully. Not about to mess around with that. It's something else. What I see."

Comprehension dawned on Moira's face. "Oh, lord..."

"Not supposed to be getting telepathic impressions from that," Nathan said, his voice shaking a little. Moira reached out for his hands, then winced as he gripped them hard. "I see through their eyes, and then I black out. Apparently I've stopped breathing a couple of times."

"Bloody hell," Pete murmured, understanding now as well. "It's your precognition."

~*~

"Hello, Moira."

Moira suppressed a noise that wouldn't have been much of a laugh, even had it escaped. "Should I ask how you knew it was me, Charles?" She kept her voice low. Nathan had drifted into a restless doze on the couch and she didn't want to wake him. Pete was in the kitchen fixing them something to eat. "I doubt your call display gave you this number."

"A string of rather alarming gibberish, actually. I presume the line is rather carefully secured." Her old friend's voice was calm, something soothing to hear, even over such a distance. "How is he?"

"Not well. Not well at all." Moira swallowed past the tightness in her throat as her gaze went back to the man on the couch. "Thank God he called me. I doubt he'd have made it to Muir in this shape. The medics at the airport would have been all over him, and he can't afford to be scrutinized too closely when he's traveling." The thought of him detained somewhere, in this condition, made her shudder.

"I can have Scott there with the Blackbird tonight." The offer was immediate, made without hesitation. "That would solve the problem of getting him to Muir."

"I don't... want to take him back to the clinic," Moira said, hesitating. She hadn't yet shared with Nathan what she wanted to do because she knew what his reaction would be. Pete had looked appalled enough. "If you're agreeable, Charles, I'd like to bring him back to the school." She paused, listening to what she fancied was a startled silence on the other end of the phone. "I know there are complications..."

"The complications," Charles answered, his voice absolutely steady and without a trace of doubt or hesitation, "are manageable. If you believe this is the best course of action, you may leave them to me." There was nothing casual about the statement, or its implications. Moira felt humbled by his trust in her. "But what's happening?" he asked her, deep concern beneath the calm surface of his voice. "You wouldn't propose this lightly. Not given the danger to him of returning Stateside."

"There's more danger to him if he doesn't get the help he needs. It's not the virus," she said, slumping wearily in the chair. "Well, it's not the virus now. If we can't stabilize him, the strain on his system will have repercussions, and I wouldn't be terribly surprised if it triggered an attack. But the root of the problem is mutation-related. His precognition."

"A psionic problem, then. Hence why you need my help." Moira made an affirmative noise, and Charles sighed. "Have you spoken to him about this, Moira? He's spent seven years avoiding me. God knows I would have helped him gladly long before this." There was something close to sorrow in his voice.

"He's afraid, Charles," Moira said as she rose, going over to the couch and crouching down beside it. "Of himself, as much as you." Nathan twitched in his sleep, as if he sensed her approach, but then relaxed. She wished she dared touch him. That her touch could be reassuring, rather than something that would have him waking up in a panic and blasting her through the nearest wall.

"I need your help," she went on, more softly. "There's too much I don't know about precognition, Charles. It's a borderline psionic mutation, difficult to chart, and his is unique. Idiosyncratic. I'm not even certain how much of that is natural, and how much is due to what was done to him. I just can't-"

"Moira," Charles interrupted her gently. "We can talk about this once you've returned. Put Peter on the phone. I'll transfer the call to the Situation Room so that he can give Scott your coordinates."

Moira closed her eyes. "Thank you, Charles."

~*~

Muir Island, Scotland

Seven years ago

"-is he restrained like this?"

The voice was sharp, tightly controlled but angry. Not like the muffled voices he had been hearing for... however long it had been, speaking unintelligible words above him. Droning cold voices, cold minds behind them. Looking at him like a piece of meat, a broken thing marginally too valuable to be thrown away.

There had been other noise. An aircraft of some kind, he thought. But it was quieter now. Too quiet. The world was like glass around him, fine and fragile, and he was shivering constantly.

Cold. So cold.

"He was delirious, Doctor. Attacking our medical personnel. The restraints are for everyone's safety, including yours."

Nathan forced his eyes open and looked up through hazy plastic at the shape leaning over him. Couldn't make out features. Red hair. A woman? A mind he didn't know, clear and concerned and... disgusted? Not at him.

Warmth. Her mind was warm.

"I'll be the judge of what's best for my own safety. He doesn't seem to be putting up much of a fight at the moment," was her equally sharp reply. She leaned back, and Nathan heard something that his fever-clouded mind thought might be the rustle of paper. "And the sedatives? With respiratory issues this severe? Are you daft, man?"

"Doctor MacTaggart," the other voice said, too evenly. Too reasonable. Reasonable cold voice, Nathan thought fearfully. "This man is an alpha-class telekinetic. He was lashing out with his mind, not just physically. I think perhaps you don't understand just how dangerous-"

"Nonsense. I've been working with mutants for years, Mr...?"

"Smith, Doctor."

"Oh, aye." The amusement was edged in fine, heated scorn. "Mr. Smith, then. I think I'll be investigating other ways to keep my patient calm and comfortable. Doctor Campbell will show your men the isolation room, but my people will handle things from there. You and I," she said, her voice moving away, "need to discuss the details that were left out of your organization's initial request."

"Some of the material is classified, Doctor."

"That's all well and good. But if you want me to save his life, I need all of the details pertinent to his medical care. I don't propose to work in the dark."

Nathan wanted to call out, tell her not to go, but he'd lost his voice days ago. Other shapes moved in, dark and faceless shapes with familiar minds. Cold and flat and uncaring, and Nathan's eyes fluttered shut as that void dragged him back under.

She must have been a fever-dream, he thought faintly. Too much concern for him to be real.

But she was sitting beside his bed when he woke up.

"Good morning," she said softly, her voice clear and calm. Nathan, blinking up at her, realized that there was no plastic separating them. There was a window... somewhere, and she was sitting there in the sunlight. Just gazing at him. The red hair he remembered from before framed a pale, fine-featured face, and her blue eyes were locked on his face, serious and yet not cold. Not like he was used to medical personnel looking at him.

And she had to be a doctor, in her white coat, but she looked at him as if he were a person, not a thing to be fixed. He opened his mouth to answer her, to say something - and started to cough. Pain tore through his chest as he tried to draw breath into his abused lungs, tried and failed until there were stars exploding on the insides of his eyelids. The coughing spasm eased then, as if it had a mind of its own and had been perfectly content to only bring him to the point of flirting with unconsciousness.

She was talking to him. Soothing words in a soft voice, telling him to breathe, but Nathan panicked abruptly as a mask was placed over his face.

Mask, white walls, white room... The bed rattled violently beneath him and he heard glass break somewhere on the other side of the room as his telekinesis slipped out of his control.

The mask was withdrawn immediately. "Now," she said briskly, "I have no doubt that you can tear the bloody room apart around me. Your Mr. 'Smith' was very keen to ensure I understood what a dangerous man you were. I know there's nothing I can do to stop you," she went on, sinking back into the chair beside the bed, "but honestly? I'd rather spend my time helping you. Not picking up after you."

The conversational tone left Nathan blinking up at her, startled out of the instinctive panic-reaction by her words. She smiled slightly, a glimmer of humor in those blue eyes. "That's better," she said, sounding pleased. Pleased that he was focusing on her? "Now," she went on, raising the mask so that he could see it. "This, my dear man, is an oxygen mask. Nothing more. I want you to take a few deep breaths, please."

She lowered the mask very slowly. He tensed, but managed not to lash out. "Just a few deep breaths," she murmured more softly. "It will help. I promise."

It did. The pain in his chest didn't diminish, but his head was very slightly clearer. Smiling, she removed the mask and sat back down, but not before pulling the chair closer to the bed.

"Do you know where you are?"

Nathan turned his head very slightly on the pillow. No.

"Scotland. Muir Island. You're at my clinic, here at the end of the world." She chuckled. It was a joke, Nathan told himself. "I'm Moira MacTaggart. And you, according to that flimsy excuse for a file that came with you, are Nathan Dayspring."

End of the world. Muir Island. Her name was familiar, though, twigged something... Moira MacTaggart. Nathan stared up at her, focusing on breathing shallowly so that he didn't start coughing again. He was still so cold.

"Your people brought you here for treatment. I've determined that you're not contagious, so we could dispense with the extraordinary precautions. This bioweapon you were infected with is a nasty thing, mind, but its designers were too clever for their own good." Cool fingers touched his wrist, checking his pulse. "It's tailoring itself to your immune system, mutating as it goes. I've not seen anything quite like it before, and three days has not been nearly enough time to figure the cursed thing out."

Three days? He'd been out for three days?

Moira sighed, adjusting the blankets that covered him. "I won't lie to you," she said. "You're a very ill man. But you're putting up a good fight and I want you to keep fighting. The longer you can hold your own, the more time I'll have to solve this puzzle and find a cure."

Nathan blinked again, his eyes stinging. No tears. Whoever she was, wherever this kindness was coming from, he would keep it together. Even if the idea of a cure made him remember that it was too late for his team.

He wondered in a sudden moment of agony if the bodies had been recovered. Probably not. Dead was dead, and it wasn't as if a funeral would have been allowed in any case...

She - Moira - laid a cool hand against the side of his face, and he shuddered. The compassion in her eyes hurt. Strange. What did it mean? A trick, it had to be a trick.

"I don't know what brought you to my door," she said softly. "Perhaps when you're feeling a little better, you'll tell me."