I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but: I feel sorry for Jean Grey.

There. It's verbalized. That doesn't mean I like the bitch any better, mind. I just feel sorry for her. She got hit today with that big bad reality called "compromised ethics." There's nothing black and white in this world unless you live in an ivory tower, which she has, up till now. In some people, innocence is charming. In others, it's goddamn annoying. But it's always painful when the ivory tower comes thundering down.

And what precious irony, the news we returned to, herded in to watch on the big screen in the Weapon-X headquarters auditorium? Looping repeat footage of attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon ... one hundred and ten story skyscrapers thundering down into dust, like our ideals, like our sense of invulnerability. Even Scott sat there with his mouth hanging open. It happened a week ago exactly, but they just now bothered to tell us about it. Timing is all. Blow on blow. "See what we're fighting, boys and girls?" Wraith had said. As if that justified what they've done to us. Slavery to preserve freedom. The freakin' dots don't connect there, Colonel.

And now Jean's next door crying, for the man she killed, and for people she knew who might have died in the rubble. She's a rich kid, raised in Annandale on Hudson. Some of her neighbors worked on Wall Street, and some guy she dated in high school was doing a college internship with a business on the hundred and first floor of one of those towers. Apparently, she still kept in touch with him.

And the look she gave me ...

But all of them looked at me funny tonight when we were told about the attacks, and who was suspect: Muslim terrorists of Osama ben Laden. Fanatics, but still Muslim. Shame tastes metallic-sharp. And when the soldiers tossed me into a cell - alone - they called me "Arab bitch." Previously, it's been "mutie slut" and "freak whore," whether they were knocking me around, experimenting on me, or fucking me.

"She's our girlfriend now."

Oh, yeah, everybody's favorite cunt, shuffled off to a new soldier's bed every night. If I don't open wide, legs or mouth, they promise to make Bobby do it instead.

Bastards. I hope every last one of them gets his balls shot off.

In any case, here I am, the Arab Bitch, feeling sorry for Little Miss Perky Daughter of Privilege. But maybe she's on the way to becoming human. I've never seen an expression on her face like the one etched there as she stared down at that scientist's body. You'd think I'd have been focused on Scott, but I wasn't. He'd be okay, physically anyway. It was Jean who had my attention for once. I'd have snapped her fool neck if she'd let Scott die, but that doesn't mean I think her choice was easy, or that her guilt isn't real.

Like I said, life's never black and white, and heroes can be a bitch to live with at home. That's why I've never pretended to be one. Scott tries so hard, though he doesn't believe he qualifies. But Jean ... Jean thought she was a hero. Until today, when she made the human choice. She chose her friend, and then we arrived back here to the news of all those people dead, many of them police and firefighters. "Norms." Heroes without an X in the title, just your regular blokes who chose strangers. But it was their own lives they'd put at risk. If those same men and women had been forced to choose - in only fifteen seconds - between a stranger and their own families, they might have made the same decision she did.

I want to begrudge her having Scott in her cell tonight, but I can't. If there's anyone who can help her right now, it's him. He knows all about ugly compromises, and I think that, just maybe, it's finally hit her how much he's worth. Almost losing someone does that to you. She's clung to him ever since we left that installation in the Punjab. Some of it's shock, some of it's relief, and some is horror at herself, but I think a little of it might be plain affection.

And Scott ... he's freaked, and feeling as guilty as hell. He'd told her - no, he'd ordered her - to let him die. But she didn't, and a stranger died in his place. Yet how do you resent someone for choosing you, especially someone you were in love with for almost three years? He's still in love with her, at least a little. Maybe more than a little. Our choices in love aren't any clearer than our choices of life and death, are they? Part of me should hate the little prissy tramp for the fact that he still loves her, but what kind of hypocrisy would that be? I had my chance at him and I blew it, and now my own sense of right and wrong keeps me from following my heart. I'm no hero, but I try not to be cruel. And if I lose him to her, well, life's a bitch sometimes.

So what do I feel? I don't know. Numb, mostly. Cold. I watched it all, but I couldn't do a damn thing. I had no control over any of it. I'm relieved that Scott's alive, incredibly relieved, but even that seems a bit distant, as if I feel it through filmy gauze. But then, it's been easier to look at everything that way, lately. I stand outside my own skin. They can rape my body but they can't touch me. It's easier if you just don't feel too much. Maybe I should share that little secret with Jean. If you don't feel, you can't cry. Don't let it get personal, honey. So what if you "eliminated" one scientist with a collection of dinky cars, an artist wife, and four brats? The death of one to save another who has a wacky addiction to chocolate milk, a sarcastic sense of humor to hide a heart of gold, and a belief that he needs to save the world? Mad geneticist versus wannabe-hero. Pretty easy choice.

Except it isn't. When it comes down to it, and you're looking at the face of a guy who's counting his life in seconds - and he knew, there at the end; he knew how she'd choose - the obvious isn't so obvious. The terror in a dying man's face ... it cuts you. It rips your guts out. There's no way in hell to insulate yourself against that. This wasn't a fucking video game, and whatever the bastard had done in his life, there are four little kids out there who'll be missing a daddy tonight because Jean chose Scott. And my God, I'd have killed her with my own hands if she hadn't, but I didn't have to make the choice. And that's what's so hard. I've got all the relief and none of the guilt. Just like I don't know anybody who worked in the World Trade Center, so I can stand back and say, "Isn't it awful?" but there's no fear and no personal grief behind it. And I'm not the one who has to tell some kid whose daddy dropped him off at preschool that morning, "Sorry, Johnny, he's not coming to get you. Not ever again." All because some fanatics who worship the same God I do decided that their ideals were more important than daddies and mommies, sisters and brothers, lovers and friends. Fuck.

People die in war. And every single one of them has a face. And sometimes, we have to choose between them, like we were little gods. But when we do, we chose like human beings. We chose the people we love. We do what it takes to keep them safe.

I curl up on the hard bed and lean back against the wall that separates my cell from Scott and Jean's. I can hear them on the other side, hear Jean crying in great, huge sobs and the murmur of Scott's voice, can't make out his words, just the light baritone of it. It goes on for a long time. Somewhere in the middle, a pair of guards show up at my door to grin at me through the energy field. "It's time, mutie bitch."

Standing, I smooth my skirt in some weird futile gesture as I wait for them to lower the field. Behind the guards, in the cell across the way, I can see Peter and Bobby talking. Poor Bobby; he's so young and frightened. Peter glances over at me. Our eyes meet; his are sad, but free of judgement. As I'm stepping out of the cage, I hear a voice from the cell to my right. "Ororo?" It's not Scott's voice. It's Jean's.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just time for more tests."

Everyone - except maybe Bobby - knows I'm lying. Tests don't run from sunset to sunrise, every goddamn evening. But she doesn't contradict me. I don't look at her as they march me away up the hall.

We all make our choices between shades of grey.

Notes: This short little piece was yelling at me to be written. We saw Scott and Jean after the Indian mission, and Peter and Bobby. We didn't see Ororo or Henry. What's Ororo's reaction to witnessing Jean kill a man in cold blood in order to save Scott's life?