Charles could feel himself regaining consciousness. But it was a struggle, for in times like this, one always seemed to feel this invisible force pulling one back down into the darkness. Much like quicksand in the jungles. Charles had come across more than one of them during his travels in his younger days.
He fought to clear his vision, which, so used to the darkness, refused to recognise light once more.
He opened his eyes, slowly able to remember the events that had taken place prior to this moment, and felt the cool hard metal against his side. He sat up and looked around him, surveying his surroundings.
From the metallic surroundings and the incessant throbbing, he judged that he was in an aircraft cabin. Most probably the one that had been hovering above the debate hall. There was no one else in the cabin he occupied. A doorway was the only means of entrance or exit.
He did not consider escape. The door was most certainly locked. At any rate, he could hardly reach it, even by dragging himself along the cabin deck. He did not have the strength for it.
He had been taken, and he mused over that fact. And he had been helpless to prevent it.
It was obvious, that even a man physically in his prime would not have been able to do much, not while unconscious. But it was especially in times of crisis, that Charles Xavier was able to fully appreciate the loss he had suffered, with the crippling of his legs. A man with legs might have run, in the very least. But he, with his body twisted from the battle with the Shadow King, could not.
A man, unable to walk, was a very easy target.
And now, I am being taken into the unknown.
He smiled at the way he was thinking. It sounded melodramatic, childish. But the situation was too dangerous to allow for such luxury as childishness.
As yet, he knew nothing about where he was being taken. Nor did he know who was taking him. The men had given no indication as to either. Now, he had to make the choice. Would he learn the answer on his own, or would he wait to be told?
The aircraft lurched...
It was during such times, when he wished that he did not have such a choice. ' Normal' men did not face this question; but as a mutant, or rather, as a telepath, he did have such a choice. And what he was considering now, he usually ruled out of the question. But he knew that, sometimes, there was no other way.
It was a question of ethics. Morally, the mental rape he was considering would be wrong. His dilemma was: does this situation warrant the use of my powers in such a manner?
It seemed that way. His safety, after all, was a major concern.
Even so, I cannot do this. It would be wrong.
The craft lurched again...
Such an act would bring him down to the level of baseness.
Therein, lay the difference between him and the ' evil' mutants. He had morals he kept to; they did not. They were not past using their powers to benefit themselves, while he, used his powers to benefit the world.
High and mighty though it sounded...
' I do not yearn for an easy life... only a just one'...
There could be other ways. Such as trying to contact his X-men.
He had to try.
But before he could, the sudden stillness of the craft signalled a landing; and a man entered the cabin and roughly pulled him up by the arms.