The Prisoner Trilogy

Prisoner is an alternate universe fan fiction trilogy about the New X-men characters Hellion and X-23.

What if Charles Xavier and his X-men had never existed? What if humanity decided to take care of the
mutant menace for once and for all? Prisoner is told in three parts as a work of speculative fiction by a
mutant anthropologist of the Hope era, imagining what life may have been like for the three pivotal historical
figures that prevented a mutant apocalypse.

~NOTE~

This fiction series is rated NC-17. The website for this series is at h t t p : / / prisoner . forever . as (remove spaces).

This is the sequel to Prisoner:Y and is second in the trilogy. Hope you enjoy it! ~onelildustbunni

Prisoner: X

-prologue-

She looked out the window, into the hardy landscape, her eyes distant.

Genetically engineered to perfection as a clone of one of the world's deadliest assassins, provided with years of billion-dollar tactical training, tortured
emotionally and physically, an assassin herself, and a nightwalker who provided services to men for money—and now she was a housewife. Pregnant.
Standing in a kitchen, rolling out dough with a rolling pin and waiting for Y to come home.

Or Julian, she should think of him as. It was hard. She had spent almost a year in the internment camp, thinking of him by his designation, and not his
real name. But now she must use it, or she would risk the suspicion of their sparse, simple-minded, small-town neighbors.

And the bigotry.

She and Y had relocated, all the way to England, to the moors. To a small farm, rented with money she had hidden before her capture.

She wasn't sure how she felt about this new life of hers. The camp, to her, was a different experience than whatever it was to Y. Before the camp, she had
lived her life in a state of trauma, in a state of abuse; the camp was just another form.

But this, this is new, to her—life without constant trauma. Day in, day out, no pain. At times, she almost wondered how she could continue to tolerate it.

She needed the pain to exist, to make sure she was real, because it was so easy to slip and believe she wasn't.

How did it come to this?

-1-

She wakes, suddenly, to the feeling of dampness against her neck, and a hand on her slightly swollen stomach. Her companion is sweating; the sheets are twisted around
his legs, and his heart rate has increased along with his breathing. She wonders if fever is setting in; perhaps there was an unobserved complication in the procedure earlier.

She's never performed brain surgery before, so she's not sure.

"Is something wrong?" she murmurs, turning her head.

"No," Y responds in a thick voice. He's lying, she knows that right away. She can smell it. He presses his face into her shoulder, making the skin even wetter.

"You are crying," she comments, rolling over to face him.

"I am not," Y says. He looks slightly insulted. She doesn't know why. It was a simple observation.

"My neck is wet," she says, matter-of-factly. She hesitates. Perhaps it is not his head; perhaps it is their past experiences. His friends. She knows that he is different
from her—he forms deep attachments, and he is unused to situations like the camp. He was innocent.

"Y—Julian—you must let it go. It is not necessary to regret the casualties at the camp…it was not your mission to protect them." She understands missions. She needs
something she understands when she speaks to him; it's not a purposeful conversation if she does not know what they are talking about.

"I still feel like shit!" he says forcefully. "They are—were good people—who—didn't have to die." His voice cracks on the last part, rising a half note to her trained
ear. She can calculate the frequencies, if she pauses a moment. "I just stood there and watched."

"There is nothing you could have done. You must put your regret aside." Her voice is absolute, he must let this go. She is afraid he will not do what needs to be
done if they are cornered. She is afraid he will allow himself to be captured, to help others. To be a martyr. He would sacrifice himself for his friends; and she
knows there is no place for martyrs in this world, knows it very well.

Although there are things she does not know. Such as depths of emotions as the boy demonstrates, at times. She doesn't know what it is to be a martyr,
having nothing she would die for.

To her, it's all about survival. And the mission. The mission is survival, at the moment.

She thinks. How to motivate him, to focus? She has a thought, then reaches down and presses his hand to her stomach. "You must focus. The…infant will
require your attention. You cannot allow yourself to be distracted."

Y blinks.

"Okay," he says. His fingers tighten slightly on her stomach, and he pulls her closer, burying his face in her neck. She feels his breath on her skin.

"I love you," he says.

She pauses.

"I love you, too," She says. It's what he needs to hear.

What does that word really mean?

-x-

The next morning, she checks the wound on Y's head, for signs of infection. This would be a very bad time for him to obtain one. However, they are fortunate, and the
stitches are a healthy pink, with minimal fluid visible. She disinfects it (Y winces) and then puts a new bandage on.

They must move on. They can't afford to stay still for a long period of time.

They need more money.

"Stay here," she says to him, sticking her foot out of the window and ducking her head to avoid the top sill. They are on the third floor of an abandoned apartment
building that has a lower likelihood of inspection.

"Wha—wait! You can't just leave me!" Y says, jumping to his feet and running after her like a canine that has lost its owner, his eyes wide. They look enormous in his
hollow face, too large. She can see the pale blue irises in the dark as if it were daylight inside the room, since she has excellent night vision.

"Remain calm," she says, somewhat scornfully. "I will return."

Y puts his hands on the window sill. "I don't want you going out alone."

"You will be safe here," she says. "If you are found, simply fly away." Y has bragged to her that he is able to levitate himself with his mind.

"Not me. You, X…I don't want you getting in trouble." He reaches up and threads a hand through her hair as she narrows one eye at him in slight irritation. He is a burden,
a hindrance…she is only doing what needs to be done. Still, she finds that she does not want to speak sharply to him; he is not trying to be difficult. She can smell
him. He is genuinely concerned.

"I will be fine." Her voice is soft but firm.

"They got you before," he points out.

"It will not happen again." She withdraws her other leg.

"I'm coming," he says, starting to follow.

"No." Her voice is sharp now. She does not want him to see what she is going to do to obtain money. He will allow jealousy to cloud his judgment, even though it
is the only way to obtain money without drawing attention to her mutant powers.

Y is too emotionally impulsive.

"I do not want you to come. I will be back, by sunrise. Do not follow me. Promise me you will not."

Y looks surprised; she has never asked him to promise her anything before.

"…okay," he says reluctantly.

"Good." She pops her claws—snkkt!—and jabs them into the side of the building. She descends quickly, then hurries into the blackness.

-x-

"I thought you wouldn't come back," Y murmurs into her hair, the next day. She has returned with money—plenty of it—after a hard night of work.

"…" she does not know what to say to this.

"You smell funny," he adds, sniffing. She pulls away—she tried, to the best of her abilities, to wash the scent off—the scent of booze, drugs, smoke and
various bodily fluids—but she is aware that she did not do a complete job. She has misjudged the strength of a normal olfactory organ.

She tilts her head. "It was a long night. Get the bags, we must leave now."

"What were you doing?" he asks.

She pauses. Why does she not want to tell him? Is it really only the fact that he will react negatively, and cause resistance? Is there something else to
this instinct to avoid the subject?

"What I had to do," she answers, making it clear she will not discuss it further. "Y, it is not safe for us here anymore."

"I know that. I thought we're leaving."

"I mean in this country," she says.

He stops. "You mean…Canada?"

"No. That is too close. We will need to immigrate to another country that has a history of more liberal views. England is a logical choice, having abolished
slavery and promoted homosexual rights long before the United States."

Y's forehead wrinkles. "…England?" he asks.

"Yes." She picks up her bag, from the chair, and zips it shut, then slings it around her shoulder, sliding it over her slightly round waist with a shrrk shrrk sound.

"Why not somewhere tropical?"

She pauses. "I do not wish to be too isolated. There are still cities in England, such as London." Cities are all she knows.

"No plane's going to let two muties on. We can't even get passports," Y argues next. Logically. But she has thought it through.

"We will hide on board a water vessel," she says. "It will not be difficult. Between our abilities, we will certainly be able to avoid detection."

"Laura—" he says, something he has taken to doing at times. When he wants to be human with her. He doesn't understand that names mean nothing to
her—not even X—and that she's not human. "How are we going to eat?"

"I will arrange it."

Her expression tells him to cease asking questions, and he does. When has she ever been wrong? Y trusts her, for some inexplicable reason. Maybe
he is just overly trusting; maybe that is why he was captured in the first place.

But he is right; she does not wish him harm. She teeters on the edge of admitting she would put herself at risk to spare him harm, although her
definition of 'pain' and 'suffering' is somewhat unclear.

Y moves to the table, picks up the two bags that contain all their worldly belongings. A blanket, a rolled pillow, some dried rations. One change
of clothes for each. Money. Toiletries: a hairbrush, two toothbrushes and some paste, a shaving razor they share (he has begun to develop facial hair),
and some deodorant, also shared. A small towel, for when there is a shower. A bar of soap, and a tiny bottle of shampoo. Fake I.D. cards that will
fall through the moment they are scanned electronically.

That is all.

Y follows her to the window, glancing back one last time to make sure they haven't left anything, but everything is in their bag.

-x-

"Do as I do. Remain quiet. Do you understand?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, his expression serious, his blue eyes wide, believing. Believing that she is right, without fault. She pauses for a moment to wonder
over this, that he'll readily believe anything she tells him, not even doubting. Files it away in her mind. She's not used to this, being worshiped
as she is beginning to view it.

It's very different from the kind of treatment she's used to. She's not sure what to think about it, so she doesn't.

They are at the docks, amongst sea gulls and salty sea air, holding hands as they walk. Y likes to hold her hand, and she finds that it is not as
unpleasant as she first assumed it would be. She enjoys his touch, even though he is not experienced. He is eager to please, which is different
than what she is used to; therefore they are both inexperienced about this sort of touching.

He will learn if she teaches him, she reasons.

To the side she sees a man pulling a cart of shiny, silvery shapes; fish. Another cart—this one full of minute pink-and-white shapes. Shrimp.
She pauses, examining the cart for a moment longer. She is momentarily reminded of the contents of her stomach; as a youth, she was trained
in anatomy and physiology, and shown cadavers, their skin drawn with dotted lines. Instructions where to cut them, like one might see on a
bovine in a cookbook. Except these lines merely referred to critical, vulnerable areas, to use in attacks. Amongst these cadavers was a pregnant
woman; it had contained a tiny curl that looked akin to the shellfish in the cart, wheeling away.

Pink and delicate.

She tears her eyes away, trying not to think of it. She can't feel anything yet—it has only been four months in development—but she is acutely
aware of it, every time she glances down. It is frightening. She is used to pain—to torture—to horrors no one should ever have to face—but this,
this scares her. This little intrusion. Because she is supposed to protect it.

So far, she does not feel different. She has heard women speak of pregnancies—a 'glow', a maternal instinct. She feels none of this. Only invaded
and afraid when she thinks of it, which she tries not to.

She has other concerns at the moment, mainly keeping the other child safe. Or whatever Y is; he hovers between childhood and adulthood, still
somewhat shrouded in naivety and youthful assumptions (compared to herself); yet he is too old and witness to too much to really be classified
as a child again. She supposes, as they pass a vendor selling fruit, that she will consider him a boy, and this will define what he is. She is all
about definitions.

"Those look really good," Y whispers, pulling on her hand. He has stopped to examine a barrel of shiny red apples; Macintosh, 99 cents a
pound, the sign reads.

She sets her lips in a firm line. They should move on. Y looks longingly at the apples. She finds herself reaching for a plastic bag at the side of
the cart, despite her irritation at the delay.

After scouting out the ships sailing that day, they sit on the edge of the dyke, their bare feet dangling over the edge as they eat apples. Their
shoes are resting on the side. It is a hot, sunny June day, and the sky is blue.

"What time is it?" Y asks, munching.

She checks her watch, the face of which is on the underside of her wrist. "Eleven hundred hours, sixteen minutes, fifty-three seconds. We have
approximately one hour and twenty-four minutes before we should return to the ship."

"Good to know," Y says, not sounding surprised at the level of detail to her response, as he might have before.

He throws his apple-core into the sea, and smiles briefly as a seagull catches it before it hits the water. "That was awesome!" he exclaims, all
boyish enthusiasm.

She says nothing, but smiles slightly and enjoys the feeling of sun on her skin. Y puts his arm around her shoulder, somewhat nervously. She returns
to the thought of his inexperience but says nothing, allowing him to tentatively hold her like she is made of glass and will shatter if he does the wrong thing.

"What are we going to do?" he asks, his voice cracking. "In Ireland."

"Move on," she answers, her eyes closed. She may not get to feel the sun for a while, however long the passage will take. They must hide, and hiding
does not include sitting in broad daylight.

"Okay," he says. Hesitates. "And then?"

"We will find a suitable area," she says. "I must ascertain the situation first."

"Okay," he says again, his fingers spreading on her shoulder. He runs his hand down, slightly, to her elbow, then back up, and he kisses her. She responds,
but winces as he leans into her slightly, pressing on the top of her slightly-swollen stomach unintentionally. She can feel this acutely. It makes her have to
urinate. "That is uncomfortable," she says, pulling away.

"I'm sorry." He withdraws his hand from her arm, looking…she doesn't know the word for it. Hurt? Angry? No, not quite either of those, but he is not
encouraged by her response. She smiles slightly, takes his hand and puts it on her knee instead, safe and away from all the uncomfortable organs
in the middle.

They sit for a while longer, than she announces that it is time to go.