Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: 18+ violence. language.
Fandom: X-Men Comics Character: Domino, others.
Set: er, sometime in current continuity.
Notes: Started at work, as I came across a Nathaniel.

Mid Evening Crisis
by ALC Punk!

Next time, she's going to refuse a contract this stupid.

They caught her in forty seconds flat, a new record, on her part.

Still, it could be worse.

Her shoulders ache with strain, and Domino shoves the toe of one boot into the pile carpeting, attempting to remove some of her weight. It works slightly. Just enough so that the pain isn't overwhelming.

The last time she was hung by her wrists, there was a wall, and her ankles had also been enmeshed. Most of her swings free, here. Her wrists attached to a scaffolding bolted securely to the ceiling. The scent of stale sweat and fear permeates the air. She refuses to contemplate how many others have been in this position.

It must have a detrimental effect on the carpeting, though. She wonders briefly how many times it's had to be replaced.

Her captor is making notations on a data-pad. She doesn't know if he's going to torture her or study her--she doesn't care, either way, her outcome is the same: escape.

"Interesting." Essex thoughtfully looks at her, then begins strolling around, taking his time as he studies her. "You got so close, my dear."

Dom ignores him, instead focusing on the wall. The wall contains a switch.

A switch it would be impossible to hit, from this distance. The switch controls the cuffs on her wrists. Pushing the button releases them. She paid careful attention when one of the faceless guards had shackled her up. He'd been more interested in copping a feel.

He'll pay for that.

Domino listens to the sound of Sinister's boots moving on the carpeting, waiting. Her toes are beginning to cramp, but she ignores it.


Close enough to touch.

Her hands close on the chains and she swings up, then down, momentum giving the kick enough oomph to send the geneticist flying backwards. Swinging back, she kicks off her left boot.

It unerringly flies and smacks into the button.

She drops to the floor in a crouch, then comes up with the stylus Sinister dropped.

"Very interesting. The laws of probability alone--"

Domino throws herself forward, stylus unerringly slamming through one of his eyes. It looks strange; dead-white face, with blood and fluid welling from the now-destroyed eye.

"You should not have been able to do that." Sinister informs her before he grabs her by the back of the neck and tosses her sideways.

Slamming into the desk and getting the phone up her ass isn't what she was planning to do. But it does mean that she has something to throw at him. The envelope-opener gives her another weapon, and she springs off the desk, tackling him as she drives it home through his other eye. "Four inches into the brain-pan."

"Instant brain-death." He agrees, still talking despite the viscous fluids streaming down his temples.

"Just fucking die already."

"In a human."

His hands grab at her, toss her again. Domino contorts herself and takes the brunt on her left side, slamming into the wall with several sounds that tell her she's going to be very sore for a few days. She lands on the glass side table, bringing it down with her. Ironically, her gear was stacked on it.

The rifle is a better weapon than the letter opener.

Four rounds into the chest, three into his head, and then she stops and watches him twitch a moment. "Still not enough." Four more rounds pulverize the skull, and bits actually fly off. She stomps them with her one, booted, foot.

Still not enough.

A glance around, and she spots the cognac. "Pity."

Pouring it liberally over the still-twitching soon-to-be-corpse, Domino laments the wreckage of the alcohol, but understands the necessity. She swallows the last two drops herself.

She produces a cigarette lighter (nicked from Wisdom) from one pocket and flicks it on.

The flames smolder a bit before catching. It burns bright, then, as though enjoying what it consumes. She watches as the fire turns the body into so much charred ash and bone. Not that it burns hot enough for her tastes. Thick, oily smoke fills the room and she briefly turns from the fire to open the windows.

Fresh air swirls into the smoke, a silent battle all on its own. She ignores it in favor of retrieving her recalcitrant footwear.

Picking up her second boot, she steps into it, considering.

Overkill is always a good plan, when it comes to Sinister.

Domino returns to her equipment and begins belting it on, and shoving it in pockets. All save the C4 and gelignite. She attaches both to the blackened remains, then considers her options.

As if it has gotten tired of waiting, an alarm begins to blare. Her window of time is up.

She grabs a timer and shoves it in, then grabs a remote activator as well.

Ten seconds later she's out the door. Five seconds after that, she presses the button. The room behind her blows itself to hell.

Five guards appear at the top of the corridor, and she smirks at them before diving for the nearest doorway, firing. Two of them fall while the other three take up positions behind what cover they can find.

More shots, and she nails one between the eyes.

From the distance, she can hear more coming. Even with Sinister dead, the well-trained psychopaths will capture her. And without him, she's fairly sure she won't enjoy what they'll do to her.

Decision made, she fires wildly, running back across the hall and bursting through the door into the half-destroyed study. Four steps and she flips over the gaping hole, landing neatly on the other side. The desk is gone, but the window is still there, mostly open.

Outside is grass and tree-line. Two storeys to fall.

A glance back and she drops to the floor as several shots are fired at her. Five of them stream in, and she can see at least three more in the hallway.

Well, she always wanted to see if she could fly.

Unclipping the three grenades, she pulls the pins and stands, throwing them rather accurately at the mass of men.

Domino turns and dives through the window.

Two storeys.

Explosions rock the night air again, giving her flight added boost. She flips, like a cat, landing on her feet and immediately tumbling to dispel the momentum.

Muscles down her left side protest, and the hitch in her breathing warns she might have a fractured rib.

Keep moving.

After an hour of steady walking, she's fairly certain they're not following her.

The pick-up point is another two miles, though, so she continues on, left arm clapped over her ribs. At least one cracked rib. Maybe two.

Fifteen minutes, a steady stream of curses, and one pause to catch her breath later, she comes upon a jeep.

The man on the hood looks up at her, eyes hidden behind rose-tinted glasses. "Well?"

"If he isn't dead, Kafka might have something to say about it."

Scott Summers' lips twitch slightly, "Nuclear strike, then?"

"Yeah." She sucks in a breath, "Buy me a beer?"

"You're injured." Hopping off the hood, he leaves behind the lazy exterior for something more professional. "Where does it hurt?"

"Left side, cracked ribs," she winces as he wraps an arm around her waist. Normally, she'd kill a man for getting this close. But there are people who would be sad if Summers turned up dead. Besides, he really is trying to help. "Possible concussion."

"Sit." Ungently, he shoves her into the seat and slams the door closed.

"Ow. Fuck."

The jeep starts quickly, and Summers takes off, driving with only the moonlight for guide. Then he flips on the headlights, illuminating dark forest and eventually a road. Dom loses her train of thought. Later, she figures she blacked out.


She wakes in a hospital bed feeling like she's gone ten rounds with the Juggernaut. "Son of a bitch!"

"Don't move."

Damn. She knows that voice. Dom cracks an eye, "Becca?"

"I said don't move," the doctor bustles around, irritation crackling off of her in waves.

"'K. Hurts."

"You have two broken ribs, a fractured wrist and three cracked ribs. Not to mention a concussion, shrapnel wounds, and thirty stitches in your back."


"Yes." Becca slams something down, "And you will stay in that bed until I tell you otherwise, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. And don't think, for one instant, that I won't tie you down if I have to."

"Oooh, kinky," Dom mumbles. The drugs in her system are already clamoring and dragging her back into sleep.

But she's safe. Sinister is dead.

"Did I get paid?"

She doesn't hear Becca's answer before she falls asleep again.