Possibility
By Jake Williams
-Prelude-
He had never been to the spot before, but the cars spilling all over the driveway and curbside alerted him a block away, even in the darkness of the late-night June humidity. The gurgling bass lines, thrumming their subterranean welcomes, alerted him two blocks away.
D-Wayne approached the house intently, though he always got a little bit jumpy around unfamiliar digs. He took inventory all the way up the block; about 15 rides strewn outside, dirty red mid-size one-story, dull orange glow illuminating the greasy clouds of cig and ganja smoke, and probably at least a hundred people inside. But only one he needed to hit up. Nervously returning the aggressive greetings shot his way as he came up the entrance, he opened the screen door with a cocktail of sweat, chronic, gangsta rap and strained voices filling his headspace.
Once he got inside, the sheer density of bodies threw him a little off-guard. A high school sophomore, he had really just begun to get his cool up socially speaking, and this night could be a pivotal step up. Like any young, black Far Rockaway social entrepreneur, he had seen his share of parties, but didn't have the experience to completely shrug off the onslaught of noise and humanity. Hood rats all, though differing a little bit in personal wealth and neighborhood standing. He soon recognized another kid from Rockaway High, casually propped against a cracked archway in a white tank and black head wrap. His thick, inked-up arms betrayed the fact that he was really quite tolerant of new blood.
"Yo, you seen Par up in this piece recently?"
K-ton gave a tilted squint, visibly annoyed that his talk with some hot little thing was being detoured. "Word, he back up by the firepit."
D-Wayne gave an unsteady nod and trudged his way through the dense jungle of kids, mostly Rockaways, and got out to the more spacious backyard gathering. Loose beers and coolers populated the steps and gravel layout, the general flux of the people gravitating toward a skinny, grinning hustler reclining in aviator shades. Giving a quick acknowledgement to the girl perched on the grinner's right leg, D-Wayne stated his purpose.
"What up. Uh… I'm here about the, uh…"
"Say no more, my brother. Say no more. Accompany me this way, if y'all wouldn't mind."
D-Wayne followed Par around to the junk-filled alley sidelining the house. He could feel things working out right. After foraging through a convoluted network of associates, he had eventually got the tip that Par was the one who could hook him up with "more than the usual amount" of dank, and was about to exploit this knowledge to its full use.
"So you lookin' for what, two, three ounce?"
"Word."
"I'm surprised, don't see too many young players around here mackin' that kinda change. You understand this is not gonna be cheap."
D-Wayne had gotten himself into one of the most exclusive gatherings of the entire year. All the major players were going to be there, and all he had to do to get in was come through with his end of the bargain: bring the weed. He had run off his mouth about having enough to take a bath in, and someone within earshot quickly took him aside to negotiate the terms of his being accepted to the party.
D-Wayne saw three well-built homeboys on their way down the alley, definitely leaning toward his current transaction, announced by the sudden influx of light and bass that accompanied the open door. "Yo, uh… maybe we oughta get a little more clandestine on this shit, you know what I'm sayin'…" He tilted his head in the direction of the oncomers.
"You know what, I do not think that is necessary, my man. See, I'm a little concerned with some shit I been hearin' from those very gentlemen right there. Seems to me that you came by this miraculous stack o' dollars in a somewhat less than honorable fashion, my nigga."
Par's voice tilted upwards in a sharp and accusatory tone. D-Wayne felt his heart quicken immediately, until it almost seemed that his entire world had tunnel-visioned into a direct line between Par and himself, with no sound but Par's voice, his skinny face against the backdrop of tagged-up brick and trash, all other elements of vision and sound confined to the blackness outside the tunnel.
"Look, I don't know what you heard…"
"What I heard, mothafucka, is that you done straight ripped this shit offa some o' my personal fuckin' acquaintances. Now see I don't take kindly to that sort o' fucked-up treatment."
"You shittin' me? I been workin' late for weeks and weeks, scrapin' cash all year long for this shit, and I never ripped no…"
It was true, he hadn't stolen any of it from Par's boys. He would never do anything that stupid. This was an excuse, an excuse for Par and his three snarling enforcers to take all that money right then and there. The events in motion were beyond his control, and D-Wayne needed a way to get the hell out of this situation right now.
I
Five years laterJubilation Lee hung haphazardly from the leather sofa, glancing occasionally at the giant television screen in a less-than-half-hearted attempt at keeping up with the news. The hiss of an espresso machine operated by Hank McCoy rattled in the background, as Japheth and Emma Frost argued cyclically over curfew details. "Hey, check this action out."
Hank McCoy peered over his expensive, feather-light spectacles at the screen, genuinely intrigued as to what might grasp the attention of a child that virtually defined Attention Deficit Disorder.
A grainy image of a scorched storefront was centered on screen, as the sensationalist caption read "Massive Explosion At Drug-Dealer's Hideout Kills 12!" A panning overhead shot surveyed the devastation. Loose timber, crumpled garbage and smoke crowded the sidewalk as various emergency personnel scrambled to get the area in order. The Hispanic female newscaster's voice wrapped up the scene for the viewers.
"A massive explosion last night at this Queens storefront claimed 12 lives and left another seven injured. Police discovered various drug-related paraphernalia along with large amounts of marijuana and cocaine, leading them to believe that the storefront was a façade concealing the headquarters of a feared Queens drug dealer known as 'Lil' C'. Lil' C, real name Christopher Brown, was among the slain found inside the disaster area, and was known to have been involved in an ongoing rivalry with another drug dealer by the street name 'K-ton', real name Kenton Cox. However, police do not believe that Cox was responsible for the attack, as they, quote, "do not feel he has the resources necessary to pull off such a bold and violent assault". Forensic workers at the site have yet to uncover any evidence of explosives or flammable materials of any kind, and are also investigating bizarre injuries inflicted on both the living and deceased victims."
McCoy braved the huge screen's relentless glare, furrowing his massive, sapphire blue brow. The violence was disturbing on a base level, yet also showed the familiar signs of a super-powered attack, not the least telling of which was the knot developing in his gut.
"The attack bears stunning similarities to an incident five years ago in an alley in Far Rockaway, where four suspected drug dealers and an innocent bystander were badly injured by explosions. Forensic scientists noticed similar patterns of blast damage around the area, along with baffling injuries to the victims and, once again, a total lack of evidence of explosives or flammable materials. Interestingly, Kenton Cox was among partygoers questioned at a house less than a block away. More on this as details develop."
Displaying a grace and efficiency of movement that even the most dedicated of gymnasts would envy, Hank McCoy vaulted over the kitchen island, barely touching down on the carpet before perching delicately on the sofa headrest. Jubilee barely had time to react to her guest before he snatched the remote from her dangling, heavily-accessorized arm.
"I deem this worthy of at least a cursory investigation by one of our psychometrically-endowed counterparts, Jubilation. But for the time present, do endeavor to entertain yourself in a slightly more… uplifting manner? An overabundance of mass-media input frequently leads to entropic effects on the soul."
Jean Grey and Japheth made their way down the block parallel to the disaster area. By the time the Blackbird had gotten them to the disaster area, it was still rife with panic-stricken business owners, thrillseeking onlookers, and the exacerbating media. Laundry whipped in the air, strung stories overhead across thin white lines and battered by the blades of the "News 8" chopper.
"Okay, Japheth, now it should be a little harder than usual for you to see what happened here. There are more people than usual crowding around the area, a lot of psychic noise. Concentrate, block them out and clear your head. There's no one else here, just me and you. There's no one here."
"Ja, ja, jus gimme some qviet."
Maggot concentrated on the area, attempting to replay the events that had happened cohesively in his mind's eye. Jean kept a protective watch on him, and was glad she had decided to take him out for a little field work. As a new addition to Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning, he needed much guidance, but also a chance to flex his skills, to show off for the team. She was non-intrusive, polite in asking to share the images he was receiving, and mentally linked with him to experience the information he was getting.
Jean saw distorted and barely decipherable images of explosions, a cloud of bodies brawling, people hurled through the air, making hushed exchanges, fleeing from the building. Once or twice, she caught murmurs of the men the newscaster mentioned; K-ton and Lil' C. But one name was heard clearly, several times in rapid succession.
II
Jean walked the street alone. As one of the world's most powerful psychokinetics, she had no reason whatsoever to drag along a kid who could potentially get caught in the middle of something dangerous or, at the very least, botch any chance at using a stealthy approach. By scanning the minds of all the nearby residents, it wasn't long before she was set upon a series of deductive stepping stones. This woman knew that aspiring rapper, who bought liquor from this vendor, who also had served that 30-year-old stoner who bought pot from her target, who seemed to be something of a small celebrity in his neighborhood.
Jean Grey stopped at a complex of fairly attractive apartments painted in earth tones. She ascended the stairs and went directly to the apartment that she knew contained her objective. Jean rapped on the door. A brassy voice shouted nonchalantly from within.
"Aight. Whoever it is, jus' come on in. Unless of course it's you, Craig. Get the fuck outta here, Craig!"
Jean opened the door to the comfortable front room, finding D-Wayne leaning assuredly in a corner of the black leather couch. His skin was incredibly dark, almost purely black, and a baseball cap accessorized his large features. Most unique were his lips, very wide and angular, almost reptilian.
"So whatchu want?"
He flicked the question at her as peaked eyebrows exaggerated his air of total disinterest. Eyelids hovering lazily, he didn't move an inch when she entered the room.
"I'm here to talk about the incident at Lil' C's. I'm not sure how or even if you are really involved, but I've questioned many eyewitnesses who mark you as being present at the time of the incident."
Jean lied. There was no way for her to let him know how she became aware of his involvement, not without telling him that she possessed incredible mutant abilities, and was far different than anything observable on the surface.
"Aiight now, who the hell you think you are comin' up in my hood, in my own damn house, and accusing me o' shit?" He frowned at her, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. Jean could tell he was skittish, and that she was scaring him away. Time to get to the point.
"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm coming to you as a friend… I think you may be involved in something bigger than you know. Something you don't understand."
"Lady, you the one who wrapped up in some shit you don't understand. You got no idea in the slightest what's goin' down up in here. Now I don't have time for this shit, I got thangs to do, people to see." He hunched forward and leaned on his knees, looking her straight in the eye with a hard-ass glare.
"Hear me out, D-Wayne. I'm from Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning, a school for special people. People with abilities… different from most. Like I said, I think you may be involved in something big here, and I think I can help you."
"Aiight listen: I don't need no special school, no help, none o' this bullshit…"
She gently, barely peered into his mind as he was distracted with his own small outburst, hoping to get one last clue as to the attacks on the dealers. He immediately clenched his dark, reptilian mouth and rose agitated from the couch. He stood about five foot ten, flashes of taut musculature visible around his neck and forearms.
"I'm over it. We're done. Movin' on." He gestured toward the door.
"At least let me leave my card. I'm sorry if I intruded in any way." Jean placed her contact info on the sleek designer coffee table between them.
"You have intruded 'in any way', feel free to get outta my house. Come up in here accusin' me o' some crazy shit…" he followed closely behind as she approached the door.
She stepped outside into the brisk New York day, surveying the stairwell leading away from D-Wayne's chic apartment. She stopped abruptly as he leaned against the railing in front of her, blocking her way. "Oh yeah, and one more thing…"
He propped a steel-cable forearm against the rail, faking interest in the pedestrians on the other side of the volatile street with a faraway grimace. It could have been Jean's imagination, but he seemed… larger.
"Don't you ever try to pull that silly-ass mind reading shit on me again."
III
"You believe he was fully aware of your psychic probe?"
"Yeah. I got nothing, absolutely nothing from him. And he definitely knew I was there."
Charles Xavier's wizened oak eyes closed for a moment. There hadn't been any real need to verbally communicate with Jean in years, but he honored the formality for the sake of the other parties in the room; Hank McCoy and Warren Worthington.
Warren spoke first. "Okay, look… assuming he's behind the two incidents in Queens, and that he was working alone, which I admit is a little bit of a stretch…"
McCoy was quick to cut in. "My boy, it requires more than a small suspension of disbelief to deduce from Jean's findings that this youth is responsible for the deaths of twelve people and the injury of another twelve!"
"I know that, but just, just roll with me for a second. If that is in fact the case, then we've got a 21 year old kid who has at least low-level telepathic abilities, high-level energy projection abilities, and if Jean's hunch is correct, the ability to alter his own mass at will. And… those 'weird injuries' we keep hearing about on the news would be easily explained by superhuman strength."
"As well-acquainted with the wonders of the 'Occam's Razor' method of deduction as I am, Warren, I'm not quite ready to brand this young man as some kind of super-powered herald of the apocalypse simply for his as-yet-unknown participation in these events."
The bristling of Worthington's metallic feathers betrayed his stoic gaze. Jean interjected. "Of course, Hank, of course… though coincidentally enough, Apocalypse himself does in fact share all of the abilities Warren just mentioned."
Charles directed his chair toward a computer station on the opposite side of the room. "Friends and colleagues, I fear we may be running out of time. Regardless of the specifics, the psychic imprints Japheth and Jean picked up at the site confirm that we are indeed dealing with a superpowered individual. What's more, he is still rather young, has likely been at odds with the law since the first incident five years ago, and is clearly wrapped up in something dangerous. He is a perfect candidate for our institute's outreach."
The pre-speech crackle of the intercom interrupted the flow of the conversation. Jubilee's voice, distorted by it's too-close proximity to the microphone spiked through. "Uh… sorry peeps… but um, there's like, some dude here to see Jean. He's like… he looks like a rapper or something. Dwayne."
Jean took the fast way from Xavier's office to the foyer near the front entrance. Dwayne was seated upright on a couch, his nearly obsidian skin and black denim outfit a stark contrast to the mostly white furniture and paint of the foyer. She sat down at the opposite end of the couch and he immediately rose, pacing a very short section of the hardwood floor.
"Look, yo, I'm a be straight with you right now. I ain't no murderer. I wasn't lookin' to cap on any o' those dope-slingin' little bitches, I was just doin' a favor for my boy K-ton and shit got way, way outta hand."
"Go on."
"Aight, look. My main man's a dealer, that's just the hard fact. But he been real cool to me, never did an unkind thing to nobody in Queens, ever. But this Lil' C was way too competitive about this drug dealin' shit. He was pullin' some real fucked up, violent shit all over the hood, sucked everybody around into his power trip. K-ton hadda do somethin'… peoples was dyin', for real!"
"Just tell me who you are, and what your part is in this whole thing"
Dwayne was obviously under some serious stress. He looked at the baseball cap in his hands, and wiped a thin line of perspiration with his dark forearm. "So one day my man K-ton say 'Look, cuz, I know you real tough n' shit, why don't you get down there and talk some sense into these maniacs before some serious shit goes down!' So I'm down there, went there just to try to negotiate a little bit, wasn't too scared cuz yeah, I'm pretty tough, myself. But shit just started escalatin', more and more of 'em started showin' up, maybe about twenny, with gats, knives, whatever, and niggas was just wildin' out all over the place!"
"What happened, Dwayne? What did you do?"
"It was the same story as that alley at the party in high school. I've had a couple other run-ins that the news ain't never got ahold of, but this time was different. I just felt this, I dunno, this freaky-ass shit all up in my chest, like I was getting' bigger, stronger, even smarter for a second or something, almost like some crazy evolution or some shit. Then I started getting' pissed, shootin' this crazy energy shit all over the place, burnin' up the spot. Look, I spent all day researchin' what you got goin' on over here at this freak school or whatever, on the internet you know, and I think I could use a little help."
Jean took a deep breath. This was some heavy information to process. "Dwayne come with me, there's someone you need to meet."
IV
Jean sat alone with the Professor at the patio overseeing the Memorial Gardens. A lantern swung lazily, casting brief silhouettes over the patterned stones and the familiar insects of summer.
"I think we can help him, Jean. As I said before, he is a perfect candidate for our outreach. I would like to test his abilities as soon as possible, because it appears that he possesses some gifts which could possibly be very dangerous. And his control over these gifts… is very tentative. He's on his way here, right now."
Dwayne approached from the sliding door, taking a quick glance back toward the house. "Yo, this Jubilee chick… fuckin' crazy. Tried to tell me that hip-hop came from punk music."
"Jubilee can be a little overzealous at times," the Professor responded patiently, "but that is a trait that has endeared her to all of us here at that mansion, and in time it will endear her to you as well."
"So I take it you ain't gonna just toss my ass back to Queens? You gonna help me out a little bit with my situation?"
Jean glanced to the Professor for a moment, and replied "Yes, Dwayne. We believe that we can help you with whatever it is that you're going through. We've helped many others discover their mutant abilities…"
"What's that? Mutant abilities?"
Xavier took the helm. "You said you've had isolated incidents of unusual power display for as long as you can remember. You were probably born with them, which makes you, like us, a mutant. It's unknown if either of your parents exhibited mutant powers…"
"My dad. Musta been. My moms ain't never done no crazy energy blasts or nothin' like that, and I ain't never even met my daddy, so who knows… he probably off somewhere blowin' shit up with his mind or whatever."
"Young man, Jean and I can find your father for you. We can discover the true source of your abilities and solve all the mysteries that have plagued you for years. You can achieve these things with our help, which we gladly offer to any mutant who asks for it."
Jean added "There is no need to hide from what you are. Here, you can truly be yourself."
Dwayne looked around at the beautiful Memorial Gardens and took it all in. The risk, the air, the lighting. "So I can be myself here, huh?" He stopped a few moments, entrenched in hard thought, before exhaling a rough-bitten chuckle.
"Good, cuz it really does take some effort to hold this shit in all day long, twenty-four seven… heh heh…"
His mouth relaxed. His lips began to widen, even wider than usual, extending down almost to his jawline, before steadily crawling up in parallel lines to his ears. Jean sat transfixed by the change that was so subtle, yet so visually jarring.
He flexed his jaw as the robust color in his lips faded to the dull blue pallor of a corpse's. The angular blue trails had marked his face in a wraithlike mask of mourning, razor-sharp in their efficiency of line, and yet incredibly touching. He removed his cap, revealing ears that did not protrude from his head, but were melded seamlessly with his dark temples. The finely trimmed layer of stiff black hair Jean had seen on him hours earlier was gone, replaced by a sleek, dark, and hairless cranium, with sharp, midnight-blue shapes resembling tribal tattoos covering the majority of his scalp. He stood, clad in his white tank top and dark denim, five foot ten of steel-cord sinew, the lantern reflecting off of his skull as he ran his hand over the markings.
The Professor had watched the entire scene with a stiff, serious engagement. His face betrayed no emotion, but his voice…
"Incredible. He is the spitting image of Apocalypse himself."
-Postlude-
Logan was not a large man, but possessed a sort of blocky, animal muscularity and a primal, graceful style of movement. If a jaguar had two legs instead of four, it would walk like Logan.
Hank McCoy intercepted him on his way out to the Memorial Gardens, a place he tended to frequent at night, to clear his head of the day's trivialities. Logan saw figures on the patio, fuzzily bathed in lantern light. A tall woman with billowing hair, a bald man in a wheelchair, and someone wearing baggy clothing who Logan recognized neither by shape or scent.
"Logan, I don't mean to rile you into a state of undue alarm… well, actually, I am temporarily delaying you in such a fashion to, in fact, allay any possible alarm…"
"Fer chrissake, just spit it out, Cookie Monster."
"Ah… yes, of course, friend. You see, that young man outside is, as of a couple hours ago, our latest valued addition to the Institute. Yes, we will be supervising his mutational development, as it were."
"Whoop dee friggin' doo."
"But the thing is… you see… really quite fascinating and, if I may stoop to such abrasive levels of linguistic deployment, shocking… we are currently cogitating the plausibility that he may in fact be the illegitimate offspring of the mutant Apocalypse."
"You don't say." By this time, Logan had made a side trip to the fridge, and had completed a half-circle around the room, which left him between the patio and Hank McCoy. The best thing about conversations with the fuzzball, Logan thought to himself, is that you can finish just about anything under the sun by the time he completes a sentence.
Logan opened the door and stepped out to the patio, completely without caution. Dwayne looked back at him, surprised by the sound. Logan's eyes held his attention in place.
"That's quite a look you got there, kid. Look just like your daddy." He took a swig from his beer.
"As Hank so eloquently stated inside the house, it is 'plausible' that he is the son of Apocalypse, yes."
"Come on, Chuck. 'Plausible'. Yeah, it's 'plausible' like the way the sun coming up tomorrow is plausible. Whatever. I just came out here to catch a little air. What's your name, kid? Armageddon?" Logan extended a blocky arm, kept brick-solid by the vibrant adamantium lying within.
"I'm Dwayne, dogg. Dwayne. Sometimes my boys call me D-Wayne, just D, whatever."
"Come on, Jean, we've bothered the young man long enough." Xavier beckoned Jean to join him inside the mansion.
"So, 'just D'…" Logan joined Dwayne in leaning against the rail, glancing into the forest that concealed Xavier's boathouse. Logan could hear two small animals digging into the ground 600 yards away.
"…these freaks startin' to creep you out yet?"
"Hell naw. I seen worse. And I've already studied up on a buncha this shit anyways, newspaper articles and whatnot… I already know a bunch about ya. Was kinda lookin' forward to meetin' y'all, to tell the whole truth. Heard a lot about yo ass in particular."
"Heh. Well, you can't believe everything you hear, you know? People got some wild imaginations."
"I heard that. You gotta be strong to take some o' the shit people dish out on you just because they don't know a damn thing about yo' ass. Gotta be strong anyway, all the time. 'Specially out here in the NY."
Logan took a hefty swig from his beer. The two leaned on the rail, each one squinting into the glimmering night sky as if it were high noon in the middle of a desert town.
"You got that right, bub. Only the strong survive."
-Fin-