Feedback: Please, this is my first serious fic!
Summary: Cyclops is imprisoned and tortured by an anti-mutant group.
Rating: PG-13 for violence

 Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Brian Singer and Marvel Comics and I am not making any money off this fic.

 Author's Note: According to what I have learned secondhand about the comic canon, Cyclops' optic bursts are caused by energy from the sun, and apparently, if he's out of the sun long enough, his eyes return to normal human condition. This story draws from that theory, but places it in the movieverse.
 

 Jean Grey was leaning against the other wall. Logan could see her hands trembling. She kept swallowing hard as though she were about to cry. Her face was so white that it made her hair look neon red. She jerked to attention as the door opened, and Charles Xavier came back out. "Well?" she demanded in a desperate voice.

 "I've found him."

 Storm fell against the corridor wall, her face in her hands. "Thank God. Where is he?"

 Xavier closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Looking directly at Jean, he said quietly, "He's being held prisoner. The facility is located in the mountains in Ontario. I believe the people who took him are a violent anti-mutant society." The Professor didn't say anything mentally, but Logan knew he'd left something out. Charles reached out and took Jean's hand, "He is alive, Jean. For the moment, at least, and I don't believe they plan on killing him yet."

 Jean straightened and crossed her arms. "Then we have to go after him. Now, we should leave--"

 Xavier cut her off. "You're exhausted, you're frightened, and you'd be in danger of making a mistake. I want you to sleep tonight, and leave twenty-four hours from now. Take a day to prepare yourself, Jean, and the rest of you. Missions like this are the most dangerous when your emotions are so deeply involved. Also," he paused significantly, "take Rogue with you."

 "What?" Storm said in surprise. "She's only been training with us for a few months. I don't know if she's ready for something as serious as this."

 "Rogue has learned to strengthen herself for a dangerous situation. She's faced mortal danger before, and she can now defend herself. Also, you'll need an extra member on the team. Someone has to make good your escape."

 Slowly, Storm nodded, relenting. Xavier looked pointedly at Jean, who slowly turned and walked back down the hall. Logan didn't move, and as the elevator door closed, he turned to Xavier. "They're torturing him, aren't they?"

 "Yes. He's only alive because they're taking great pleasure in keeping him alive." The Professor's jaw worked angrily.

 Logan was no less incensed. "What do they want from him?"

 "My guess would be that their ultimate motive is for him to confess to conspiring to destroy normal humans, or some other similar admission. But their immediate motive is that they simply enjoy torturing mutants," Charles replied, his normally pleasant face taking on a scowl darker than Logan had ever seen.

 Logan's mind filled with images of dark chambers, torture devices, sadistic scientists...and experiments. "Bastards," he muttered.

 "My thoughts exactly." Charles stared down the hall, wordlessly explaining to Logan why he hadn't mentioned this factor in Jean's presence. She would have refused to listen to reason if she knew the extent of what was happening. "First thing tomorrow, begin preparing Rogue. Considering the circumstances, she may have the coolest head of all of you. For now, get some rest yourself. This mission is not going to be pleasant."

 Logan nodded to the Professor, and headed off to bed. It took him a long time to fall asleep. And when he finally did, the nightmares of the operating room came again with new intensity. Only this time was different; this time it wasn't Logan himself strapped on the table. He was a helpless observer. This time, the experiments' subject was Scott Summers.

 They had run outside as the kids came screaming out of the woods that someone had attacked Mr. Summers. They led the three X-Men back to the scene, and Logan had followed Scott's scent through the woods until they reached a road, then the trail cut off. "Whoever it was stuck him in the trunk of a car and drove off," Logan had told them grimly. "That way." He pointed north.

 "Could you track the car?" Jean had asked desperately.

 Logan shook his head. "Once they hit heavy traffic, I'll lose it. You'd better get the Professor back here to find him with Cerebro."

 Professor Xavier had, most likely by unpleasant coincidence, been halfway around the world at a summit in Japan about creating international mutant laws. Jean had called him telepathically immediately, but travel was restricted for the duration of the conference -- eight more days. It had taken the Professor another day to arrange passage back to America, and still another of traveling. So much precious time was spent waiting, while Jean died a little bit for every second she spent wondering whether Scott was alive or dead. The fact that his mind was cut off from hers had made her fear the worst.

 She turned over again, feeling silent tears streaking her face the same way they had every night. Scott, what's happening to you? Why can't I feel you? What the hell are they doing to you? She knew she had to sleep; she would need to be rested and clear-headed for tomorrow's mission. At the moment, achieving any semblance of calm seemed an impossible feat. Jean was easily as skilled as Scott at projecting calm in public, but during the night, fears had a way of growing larger, stronger. And without him, she was facing her fear alone.

 Jean closed her eyes, and just as she had for the past ten nights, quietly cried herself to sleep.

 Jean Grey's fiancé wasn't sleeping very well that night either. Then again, it's hard to sleep well when you're chained to the ceiling by your wrists so you're forced to stand up all night.

 Scott Summers was in hell. His wrists were bruised and scraped raw from the iron cuffs of the chains. The cell that he'd been in for the past eternity was bitterly cold, and shivering seemed to have become a natural condition. His body was covered with a variety of injuries, from cuts to bruises to burns. His captors had been hideously imaginative in their cruelty.

 Scott had no idea how long it had been since he awakened to this nightmare in the cramped, stuffy trunk of a car. Whoever had jumped him in the woods had taken his visor, but had the foresight to duct-tape his eyes shut. The car had finally stopped after a lifetime, and he heard the trunk open before a heavy blow to his face sent him reeling back into unconsciousness. He had awakened again in this cell.

 This time, the sunglasses he kept as a back-up in his pocket were duct-taped to his face, and he could see again. He was chained to a table in a bare, chilly gray room. He had no idea how long he lay there, until finally the door opened and a woman in a business suit walked in, flanked by four armed guards. She nodded to one of them, and the man punched Scott in the mouth. As he shook his head after the blow, she said calmly. "Ah good, you're awake, mutant."

 When she called him "mutant," everything made sense; Scott knew why he was there, and what they wanted. Rumors about places like this, dedicated to torturing mutants for fun and to create false fear in the public, had dogged him and the other X-Men ever since their mutations first appeared. It was all he could do not to shudder, knowing full well what was about to happen to him.

 Brisk and businesslike, the woman said. "I'm Doctor Elaine Hull. I'm in charge of your case." She paused. Scott said nothing and she smiled warmly, an extremely out-of-place gesture for this environment. "I assume you have a name." When Scott still didn't respond, she sighed as though full of regret. "You know, you're really starting off on the wrong foot here. I don't know what you think you're proving by allowing your situation to become so...unpleasant so fast. There's nothing dangerous in telling me your name."

 Get on with it! Scott thought bitterly. He wouldn't tell her anything, especially not since he didn't know what had happened to the kids he'd been supervising. Please, God, let me have been the only one they wanted. An almost overwhelming swell of terror filled him at that thought, imagining that Bobby, Kitty, Jubilee, and Sam might be in neighboring cells, facing this. Scott didn't know if he would be able to stand it if they dragged one of the kids in here in front of him. He pushed that thought away; it was too terrifying to imagine.

 Elaine Hull (if that was really her name) asked his name again. He gritted his teeth. She asked again. With a sigh, she shook her head. "Really, son, you're just going to make this difficult for all of us, aren't you? Well, if that's the way you want it."

 Her act was classic; it reminded Scott of a character from some spy movie where the hero gets tortured by the bad guys. It was so transparent that it would have been laughable, if at the moment the guards weren't chaining Scott to the ceiling by his hands while the good doctor took out a large, heavy whip.

 "Leave his shirt on," she told one of them as he was about to rip it off. "It'll come off after about fifty lashes or so." She unrolled the whip with a loud snap, and Scott let himself flinch. There was no point in trying not to show any pain; she'd get him past that really fast. Behind him, her voice was absurdly cheerful. "Whipping may seem a little primitive, but I like to start with the tried and true methods. Why waste the best techniques available breaking a subject fast when you can work your way up the technological ladder and take their soul apart at the seams? Oh well, enough chatter; you'll get a full demonstration very shortly."

 He heard her take a few steps back. It's coming, he thought grimly. It's coming now. "Would you state your name, please?" He didn't answer, only clenched his teeth. She didn't bother speaking again.

 CRACK! If Scott's hands had been free, the noise of the whiplash would have been enough to make him clap his hands over his ears. The first lash caught him squarely in the back, and he gasped aloud; it was as though he'd been burned with a hot brand. They'll get to that soon enough, he told himself through the searing pain, and felt an insane, delirious desire to laugh. CRACK! He grunted; the second one had struck him in the opposite direction of the first, leaving an X-shaped mark across the back of his shoulders. How appropriate. CRACK! My God, I thought they left my shirt on. It sure isn't putting up much resistance! CRACK! You've got strong arms, bitch! Whoops! Language, Scott! CRACK! A cry escaped him. There was a long pause.

 "Now that I've got your attention, let's try it one more time. I assure you, that was just a preview. Why make it so hard on yourself? All I want is to hear your name." She walked around him so she was standing where he could see her, and stood expectantly.

 Scott was disgusted with himself at how quickly the temptation to give up his name had arisen. He jammed his teeth into his lip. With a shrug, she said. "Then let's begin." She took off her suit jacket and walked back behind him.

 The blow that struck him this time was so much harder than the first five that he screamed immediately. And realized bitterly that she really had been only toying with him with those first few. Then came the next strike, and the next, and the next, until the pain built up to a roaring maelstrom in his ears, along with the sound of his own cries. There was no longer any time to think, to catch his breath, or even to gather his voice between lashes. He couldn't have told her his name now if he wanted to. From behind him, blow after searing blow left raw gouges in his skin, and from within him, Scott's entire existence revolved around one reaction...scream, gasp for breath, scream again.

 At last, the blows stopped, leaving him gasping and moaning in pain. From behind him, he heard. "I'll give you some time to think about your answer to my next question, Scott Summers." The door opened and closed, and he was alone.

 I didn't tell her -- did I? Scott searched through the confused blur of pain and screams and knew he hadn't said a single word. So she knew all along. She's just playing mind games. God help me, who is this woman? WHAT is she? Why is she doing this to me when she already knows who I am?

 The only answer he could think of stemmed from what she'd said about taking a subject apart by the soul. If she can get me answering the little questions, she thinks she can groom me into answering the important ones to her until I do whatever she wants. Guess I'd better not answer the little ones then, so I don't go down that road.

 He groaned at the thought and let his head hang limp. Still hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, he had to admit that the path of most resistance was going to be a hell of a lot worse than anything he had ever imagined.

 Scott had no idea whether it was twenty minutes or twelve hours that passed, but Elaine Hull returned to his room, and the routine began again. This time, she wanted to know where he lived. You kidnapped me there, so you obviously know that already, Scott thought. Nevertheless, he still said nothing, and this time, she brought in two guards who looked like professional wrestlers. She rarely let them hit Scott in the face, since there was too much danger of them knocking him unconscious, and she obviously wanted him awake and aware to the fullest extent possible. So they hit him in the chest, stomach, arms, legs, back...everywhere, until he couldn't breathe.

 Suddenly, during one pause where they let him catch his breath enough to stay conscious, she said thoughtfully, "You know, this might be just a little worse if you couldn't see anything." Then she nodded to one of the thugs, and the last thing Scott saw was a fist aimed straight for his jaw.

 "Let's try something a little different. Are you thirsty?" He had unconsciously licked his lips as the water dripped down his face. Suddenly, he could smell fresh water. She was holding a glass right under his nose. "It is true, you know, that a terribly thirsty person can smell the scent of water. I'll gladly give you a drink...all I want is to hear you say your name."

 Back to the name thing again. I can't give in to her. Have to fight her. Whatever it takes. She might kill me, but hell, dying seems like a great prospect right now.

 Before he could talk himself out of it, Scott jerked his head and knocked the glass from her hand, listening to it fall to the floor with a clatter and a splash. Then it turned out that he had been right in one of his own predictions; this time she used a brand.

 As Elaine Hull worked her way through every torture method imaginable, and then some, Scott was pushed below conscious memory. Eventually (he had absolutely no way of judging time) being hung by his hands put too much of a strain on him, and he started passing out too often for her liking. So she had him taken down, as painfully as possible, and strapped to the rough table on his bare, raw back. Then she waited until he was just starting to drift into sleep and came back in and chained him upright again, this time with his back against the wall. Several times he woke up from fitful dozes with needles stuck in him, and he figured she was either giving him intravenous nutrition to keep him alive, drugging him, or just sticking needles in his arms for the hell of it. None of the possibilities could be ruled out. It was probably a combination of all three.

 He had stopped thinking during her little games and just concentrated on making his mind as blank as possible, so he wouldn't think about the advantages of giving in to a single one of her demands. But when she came at him with some state-of-the-art nerve-activating technology, his mind woke up again. Even as he screamed so hard that his voice broke, his mind was screaming too, a single word: Jean! JEAN!! He was certain he could feel his mind starting to let go of reality, and he clung to her beautiful memory like an anchor for his sanity.

 She'll find me. She'll find me somehow.

 Logan, Jean, and Storm quietly slipped towards the single building, taking in its heavy technological defenses. Logan nodded to the power station adjoining the building. "No backup generator," he whispered.

 Storm smiled grimly; it was nothing a good bolt of lightning wouldn't handle. Jean put her hand on Storm's shoulder and looked directly at her, concentrating hard so she could speak telepathically. Try not to be too obvious. If they realize they're being attacked by mutants, they might just kill him.

 Storm nodded, and her eyes turned white. More slowly than usual, she let dark clouds boil over the mountains like a sudden thunderstorm. Fortunately, severe weather like that was normal in these mountains.

 Jean searched mentally inside the building, and nearly gasped aloud as, at last, she sensed Scott inside. Hang on, she thought, on the off chance he might hear her. Hang on, Scott, we're here. We're coming. She jumped as Storm brought down a huge bolt of lightning directly into the power station, sending sparks in every direction. The X-Men could hear the loud buzzing of the transformers as the complex went dark.

 "Let's go," Storm whispered, and they headed inside.

 So this means they'll either have to lighten up on me, or they'll just kill me when they get bored after I don't have the strength to scream anymore, he thought numbly. He was starting to prefer the latter.

 Strange sounds outside the door reached his ears, and he moaned. Here it comes again. But somehow this was different, and before his weakened mind could make sense of it there was a huge crash, and he felt a blast of cooler air as the door was blown in. From somewhere in the darkness, he heard a voice, one that had haunted his every conscious (and unconscious) thought since he'd been there.

 "Scott? Scott!"

 It seemed too impossible to be real. No! he thought miserably. It's another mind game. He tried to speak, but only a moan came out. He saw the light increase through his eyelids, and heard several gasps.

 "Jesus!" he heard another familiar voice say. It was Logan.

 Someone's hand touched his chin and lifted his face. He heard a choked sound, "Get this stuff off his eyes!" Jean's voice said. The tape came off. "Dammit, Logan, get him down from there!"

 Scott knew that if they cut his arms loose, he'd pass out. He frantically tried to warn them, but couldn't make his voice to work. Then he heard the sound -- snikt! -- and thought, That's Logan, all right. Oh shit... Somehow, he got his mouth to whisper hoarsely, "No!"

 "Scott?" Jean held up a hand to forestall Logan cutting the chains. "It's us; we're getting you out of here." She could sense that he was almost delirious with pain and exhaustion, and suddenly realized that taking the tape off his eyes might have been a mistake. Before she could stop him, Scott's eyes opened.

 "Look out!" Storm and Logan hit the floor, and Jean threw herself to one side. Nothing happened. Jean looked up. Scott was blinking weakly against the light of the lantern Logan had set on the table. His eyes appeared...normal.

 Storm and Logan slowly got up. "How?" Storm whispered, stunned.

 "Sunlight," Jean murmured, equally dumbfounded. "He's been in here for nearly two weeks. Without the sun's energy..." She shook her head furiously and said, "I'll figure it out later." She put her arms around him and heard him gasp; her hands came away from his back covered with dried blood. "Those bastards. Hold on, Scott." She motioned to Logan to cut through the chains holding him.

 Scott shut his eyes tightly again. There was the sound of metal cutting through weaker metal, and suddenly his arms were free. His weight was immediately on his legs again, and he fell to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. For a minute, blackness swirled around his vision, and he awoke to the best pain he had ever felt. The position he was lying in was hurting his strained shoulders, but his head was cradled in Jean's arms. "Scott, can you walk at all?"

 If it meant walking out of here, he most certainly could. Scott tried to push himself upright but couldn't, and accepted Logan's help getting to his feet. Jean slung one arm over her shoulders, Storm took his other arm, and they moved out of the cell with Wolverine in the lead, claws fully extended.

 It was infinitely slow going. Scott fell to his knees several times, and had to rely on Jean and Storm to direct him, because he was too dizzy with pain to think or see. They could hear shouts and running feet as they moved down the short corridor, heading for a door. Out of the confusion, Scott's ears picked out one voice, and he recoiled so fast that he nearly knocked the three of them into the wall. It was her voice. Elaine Hull's.

 "Just hang on, we're almost there," Storm whispered.

 There was a thunderstorm raging outside -- Jean telekinetically pushed the doors open, then they were out. The storm died swiftly, and suddenly Scott could see a car racing into the compound, smashing right through the fence. The doors flew open and there was Rogue in the driver's seat, her mouth open in shock as she saw what had happened to him.

 "Let's go!" Logan shouted, taking Scott's arm so Storm could climb into the back seat of the car. Jean was about to jump in when a bullet struck the ground inches from Scott's foot.

 She felt Scott panic and looked back. There were several guards coming out the door, led by a woman. Scott's reaction told her all too clearly that the woman was the one responsible for his abduction.

 Jean's rage erupted -- she threw out her fist, throwing the guards off their feet and flinging their sadistic leader backwards into the building's wall. Logan grabbed her shoulder. "Come on!" He could smell more people coming toward the building's entrance, so he pushed Scott into the middle and shoved Jean in next to him. Then he jumped into the front next to Rogue. "Go!"

 Rogue turned the car back the way she'd come and stomped on the accelerator, speeding back towards the States. If there were any pursuers, they were left far behind once she activated the car's turbo engine. Logan turned around and looked into the back seat. Scott had slumped into Jean's lap the minute they were moving, and he was shivering violently. Storm reached under the seat and pulled out a blanket, carefully wrapping it around him. Jean was holding him tightly and stroking his hair. Logan could see tears streaking her face, but when she looked up at him, there was murder in her eyes. Logan agreed with her; whoever was responsible for this deserved to rot in hell.

 Scott seemed half-conscious. He hadn't said a word, just clutched Jean's hand and stared at nothing. They're blue, Logan thought, feeling sick. Without his sunglasses, Cyclops seemed young enough to be Rogue's age. He really looks like a kid now. And the people who did this say mutants are monsters, he thought, rage boiling up inside him again. In the past six months since Logan had returned to Xavier's school, he and Scott hadn't exactly been best pals, but they could work together without fighting regularly (well, not big fights anyway.) Logan wasn't embarrassed to admit that he'd been just as upset by Cyke's kidnapping as Jean and Storm. The nightmares about his own past still woke Logan up at night, and Scott had done nothing to deserve this.

 In the back seat, Scott tried to swallow and winced; the action obviously hurt. "Do you need some water?" Logan asked him.

 Scott's gaze focused on Logan for a second, then he nodded. Logan pulled a canteen out and handed it back. Scott couldn't get his hands around it, so Jean propped him up and held the bottle to his lips like he was a child. He drank slowly, but drained the whole thing. Then, finally, his head sank back into Jean's lap and his eyes closed. The trembling finally stopped.

 Rogue watched through the mirror, and exchanged glances with Logan. He knew she was thinking the same thing they were all thinking. Why?

 They had driven all night, stopping only once so Wolverine could take over driving for Rogue. Scott opened his eyes as the door opened, and Logan said, "Everything's okay." Scott nodded once and closed his eyes again.

 As he continued driving, Logan had looked through the mirror into the back. Storm had fallen asleep, Rogue was asleep next to him, but Jean was still awake, holding her unconscious fiancé's hand. Quietly, he said, "Why don't you try get a little sleep too, Jean. It's been rough on you."

 "I know," she murmured, looking down at Scott. "I'm just too angry."

 "I know what you mean," Logan told her. "But he's safe, Jean. He'll recover." She sighed, knowing Logan was right. After a few seconds, she bent down and kissed Scott's forehead, then finally, leaned back in her seat and fell asleep herself.

 The Professor moved his chair up next to the car door as Scott stirred and opened his eyes. Charles was startled when he saw no glasses, no red rays, only normal blue eyes. That is, extremely exhausted, pain-filled blue eyes. "Welcome home," Charles said quietly.

 Scott winced as Jean helped him sit up and get out of the car; he nearly collapsed when he stood up again. "Let's get you to the infirmary," Jean said, and they helped him to the elevator. Logan offered to carry him, but Scott mustered some of his old attitude and shot Logan a look that said, Don't even think about it.

 Jean examined Scott in the infirmary, bandaged and medicated his many injuries. Then she covered him with a blanket and stayed by his side until he fell asleep. Quietly, she joined the others on the opposite side of the room to talk. "How is he?" Charles asked in a low voice.

 Jean's jaw clenched. "He's been tortured, starved, dehydrated, and drugged. Fortunately, none of the injuries are life-threatening." She scowled harder still. "That's only because his captors made an effort to keep him alive so they could stretch their fun out for as long as possible."

 "But he will recover," Charles said pointedly.

 "Physically, yes," Jean replied. "Emotionally, it's another story."

 "Does he know what they wanted with him?" Storm asked.

 "I didn't ask," Jean admitted. "He may not want to talk about it right away." Then, she suddenly turned and glared at Xavier, folding her arms, "Don't tell me you found him with Cerebro but didn't know what they were doing to him."

 Charles had expected this. "You're right. I knew."