Disclaimer: Owner: Marvel. Money: None. Suing: useless.
Summary: The X-Men are forced to take action against one of their own, the menace of Bastion grows clearer and closer, and an old nemesis prepares to turn the situation to his advantage. Gambit may hold the key to their survival, but is he willing to pay the price?
Rating: T to M. If you can read the comics, you can read this.
Setting: Comicverse. The story takes place after XM #58 and UXM #340, so Gambit and Joseph had their catfight, Iceman is on leave and Xavier in the slammer, Bastion is preparing his move and Graydon Creed is being a dick. Although this piece was intended to fit as snug as possible into existing continuity, I took a few liberties with minor characters and situations.
English is not my first language and I'm not using a beta reader; I write in English to reach a wider audience. Please forgive, and feel free to point out, blatant errors.
Also, I probably made a dog's meal of the accents, but so does Marvel, I'm told.
Foreword: This fic was born in the remote 2001 from a desire to make sense of a few botchered storylines from the 90's. Yet it took me a while to gather ideas and even longer to put them down on paper - and in the meanwhile, better writers had their say. Hence this story isn't going to be by any means original. Having said that, dim the lights, put on some background music, and let's begin.

The Apologist
- Prelude -
Tease

I rode a tank held a general's rank
When the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank
Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name.
Ah what's puzzling you is the nature of my game.
THE ROLLING STONES, Sympathy for the Devil

Seen from the catwalk, they were as tiny as ants. Workers clad in white, watched over by huge soldiers, traipsed up and down the corridors. The human race had been forced to resort to the strategies of insects. But it didn't matter, as long as this ensured its survival.

Bastion acknowledged the futility of that line of thought, and returned to the task at hand.
Like an avalanche rolling downhill, Operation: Zero Tolerance had gained magnitude and momentum. It was close to reaching a critical point, beyond which, first strike was not just appropriate but compulsory. To maintain and conceal such a vast amount of resources was only possible for a limited time, all the more when your enemies were able to see through walls and inside minds.

He needed to pinpoint the moment, and to do that he needed to know the enemy position.

The X-Men had been idle for some time, but that meant little. Their actions of late had been... inconsistent, either because they lacked a strategy or because they were deliberately blindsiding observers. On the whole they still operated in their usual offhand fashion - open-faced, with flashy costumes and codenames. On the other hand, they had infiltrated one of them among Graydon Creed's staff. It had been a sloppy operation, but it opened a number of possibilities. Bastion did not have memories of the X-Men acting like this... sensibly.

He rather expected them to go hide, sackclothed, into a hole in the ground, after the example set by their mentor. The snake was still dangerous even with its head cut off... and buried.

With the last thought, Bastion threw a quick glance at the block of cells down the corridor. He pressed the intercom badge on his uniform, dialing Prospero's department.
"Rebirth and Derangement, speaking," a bored voice replied. There was laughter in the background.
Bastion's hard expression tightened into a frown. This was not supposed to be funny! He ran the vocal signature against his database, found a match.

"Send Dr. Harper to my office within five minutes, Noonan," he said and heard the laughter choke when his voice was recognized. "And then report yourself to your direct superior for misconduct."

Ten minutes later, Harper was standing in front of Bastion's desk, with a folder in his hand and bloodstains on his labcoat.
"You're late, Prospero. I trust you have an explanation?" Bastion enquired, curtly. Prospero's lateness did not really disappoint him: it was just... human. Something he knew could not be helped, although he did not have to appreciate it.

Prospero kept his head down, as if mesmerized by his own feet. "An emergency requiring my immediate at-tention," he duly explained, lisping slightly. "One of the subjects rejected the n-nanotechnologic implants."

"The problem has been resolved, I reckon?"

"S-sort of. The subject died." Prospero finally dared to make eye contact. "We're b-bound to lose some hosts, from time to time, given the s-state the patients are in."

Bastion stood up and seized the folder from Prospero's hands, scanning it quickly. Olga Bassett (born Rudel), aged 55 and looking even older in the digital picture taken upon her arrival. Type I diabetes, stage IIb ductal carcinoma, no medical insurance. A representative specimen of the people enlisted in the Prime Sentinel project.

Bastion's office oversaw the surgery ward and he glanced down at the rows of beds. Only a handful of the people lying in there were volunteers and even they only had an inkling of the procedure they were undergoing. They thought it was reversible; they had not been told anything that would challenge that belief.
But the mass of the Prime Sentinels had been chosen among the homeless, the sickly, the unfit.

Of course, they'd had no voice in the matter. But then, who had?

Mutants had not chosen to be born the way they were born. Bastion's creators had surely never asked for his opinion. And they, in turn, were driven by internal forces they couldn't understand, they couldn't master: survival instincts encoded in their genes, fears denned in the wiring of their brains. Deep inside every living creature there was a source code to be executed. No one was ever really free; all the so-called choices lay within the range of their inborn programming: jump, forgive, breathe fire, calculate, bamf. To believe otherwise was fooling oneself.

"I already explained my reasons for the choice of subjects. A victory that deprives us of the better part of a generation is a hollow one. The question is not debatable. Destroy this record," he added, handing the folder to Prospero, who accepted it hesitantly.

"Prime Sentinels," he blurted. "I want figures. How many units are operational?"

"As ready as- we will ever be. But we need another two weeks before the last ones become combat-ready. Shortening the time between interventions affects s-stamina."

Bastion frowned. "We need to move earlier than that, Harper... two weeks at the latest. Public sentiment has never been so strongly against mutants and we have to make the most of it, before some harmless freak is lynched and the liberals get on their high horses again. This Onslaught event was totally unexpected, but it is playing out to our favor."

"It got us rid of th-those heroes, to boot," Prospero said, matter-of-factly. "Otherwise they m-might…"

Bastion did not let him finish. He grabbed the scientist by the collar, lifting him until his feet were a good ten inches from the ground.
"You are never to discuss this matter again, with me or with anyone else. You find this amusing?" Bastion growled when an almost smile appeared on Prospero's face. He swung his arm and Prospero hit the hard edge of a file drawer. "Would you still smirk if we implanted Prime circuitry in you, Harper? Would you cry, would you feel?"

Prospero's answer came out with bell-like clarity, and surprisingly lisp-less, despite the tight grip on his neck. "No. I daresay I would not."

Bastion dropped him, and the scientist tripped and nearly fell when his feet found the ground again.
"Then show proper respect for the heroes who sacrificed their lives to stop the mutant menace, and for the subjects in your care. Your assistants are making jokes. This is unacceptable."

"It's a co, a co-oping mechanism. They need to d-distance themselves... from what they see... what they do," Prospero gargled.

"The volunteers down there would not be here if it wasn't for the heroes' sacrifice. Imagine what would they think in hearing this coming from the lead scientist. From now on... keep your thoughts to yourself."

"Trust me on that," Dr. Harper rebuked, adjusting the crumpled collar of his labcoat. "Anyway, you w-wanted figures. We can activate three thousand units for the first week as a crack contingent and another ten within the first month, soon as the l-last subjects exit the acquaintance period."

"I need five thousand and I need them in two weeks. With the standard weapon configuration."

"Not all subjects are able to with- withstand that. Maybe..." Prospero explained, but Bastion raised a hand and silenced him.

"There is only one mutant who could prevail single-handedly upon Prime Sentinels. And he has become irrelevant. Xavier's pupils are taming him well, teaching him manners and trimming his talons. I don't see what you're worrying about, Prospero," Bastion said. "Prime Sentinels are less powerful than the androids. We know that, we've discussed that. You're doing fine. Just keep it up, and have five thousand units ready by the end of next week."

An abrupt wave of the hand was the hint for Prospero that he was being dismissed. He turned on hi9s heels, military-style, and left.
On his way back to the surgery ward, he cast a look inside the third cell in the row.
The sign on the door only read, "M-13 - Maximum security". The man inside, dressed in orange overalls, his bald head shining under the livid neon lights, was sleeping or meditating, in a lotus-like position with his back against the wall. Alerted by the opening of the spy-hole, he raised his head, apprehensive at first, then relaxed.

"Oh. You," he said.

There was a ring to his hollow voice that could have been taken as dismissive, but Prospero knew better than to take offence. Xavier's crippled body was being spared, but his spirit was a different matter. Bastion would question, threaten, taunt, even hit him on a bad day; every empty hour was spent in steeling himself for the next interrogation. No surprise that Prospero, a pawn who just stared at him from the eye spy from time to time, did not arise his suspicion.
And neither Bastion's.

Prospero smiled, a grin that would've scared his creator, if he had been there to see it.

"Am I not entitled to the usual speech you give to Bastion, M-13? About how humans and mutants are all brothers and just need to hug each other more? I stand offended."

Xavier raised a hand and for an instant Prospero thought he would've gone so far as to shoot him the bird, but the hand stopped and fell limp again over a limp thigh.
Broken.
Prospero's smile never faded as he closed the eye spy and walked on.

Next: Breakfast at Xavier's.

Right people, this one was a little tantalizer. Feel free to tell me what you think of it.