Uncanny X-Men #1: Chapter 1
Blackbird
Swollen, ebon clouds cloaked the Blackbird. Its sleek wings hid in the darkened sky, indistinguishable in the misty rain.
Hank Mccoy shuffled in his seat. One furry, apish hand held the pilot controls. The other, his chin.
Something had to be said.
Hank's lips parted. The musk of his teammates' dried blood and nervous sweat filled his blue nostrils.
Something had to be said right now.
But…
Hank clenched his teeth. His jaw snapped shut like a prison door.
…Was Hank the one to say it?
The dull glow of the Blackbird's cabin bathed his majestic blue fur in a muted red tint.
And even if he was, even if it fell on him, how would he say it?
Betsy stared vacantly out the window. Sumerian poetry was easier to read than her. Hank knew. He tried.
Warren was the lone X-Man standing. He paced angrily back and forth. His metallic wings dragged behind him, scratching the Blackbird's steel floor. His face balled up like a catcher's mitt.
Maybe "angry" wasn't the word. Hank knew when Warren Worthington was angry. Which was always.
No. The way he kept stomping around, going in circles, Beast had seen Warren do that all too many times when they were part of X-Factor. Warren was mad at himself. Only for the millionth time.
Hank loved Warren, but he didn't always agree with him. Or ever really. But this time, Hank couldn't help but agree.
They should be mad at themselves. At least a little.
Bobby sat quietly in the back, amusing himself with miniature ice sculptures of a bear and a bull in his hands.
Wait.
Bobby?
Quiet?
Yep. Things were pretty damn tense. Mr. Robert Drake was about as good a litmus test as there was for how well a mission went. Hank's best friend did one of two things on rides home. And unless Beast suddenly switched powers with Sunfire, there wasn't a streak of ice under his seat.
Then there was Emma. His copilot. Or more aptly, she was in the copilot seat next to him. A smug grin froze on her face so coldly it was like she co-opted Iceman's powers again. She looked like she was psychically a million miles away. Dreaming. Scheming. His kingdom to know what she would deem interesting enough to occupy her time.
Actually, on second thought, he took that back. If a box says Pandora on it, put the proverbial crowbar down.
Hank really didn't have anything bad to say about her, or anyone for that matter. Life was too short to throw shade on anyone or anything. Life was a test and people were a Rorschach. It was all how you looked at it.
But…but, but, but, but…
If there was one thing Beast hated. No. He didn't like that word. Hated it. If there was one thing Hank disliked. Er, no, still no good. Um, if there was one thing Beast would maybe change if he had his way, which he didn't so it was a moot point, but if he could change one thing it would be how easily telepaths could learn how to master things.
Hank loved science. Loved it like it would hug and kiss him back. But just because he was passionate about it, people always assumed, wrongly, his mastery of it simply came to him. As if one day he decided he would be a geneticist and boom, a lifetime of research magically popped into his head. Like he was born knowing everything.
Everyone just assumed it was so easy to be him. Well Hank knew something no one else knew or cared about. He worked hard for everything he accomplished. No one handed him anything in his life. He fought for his education and respect, a fight he went through on a daily basis. He spent decades studying and researching while everyone else was out partying and joking to achieve everything he has.
But Emma, well she's a telepath. She's entitled to everything. Don't agree? Just ask her. She can just plop down in the cockpit, telepathically glean how to fly a plane, jet, helicopter, space shuttle, whatever, and she's an expert just like that.
Hank rubbed his eyes. He didn't mean any of that. Emma was cool. She was his friend. She'd always help him style his hair whenever he would go out on the town. Ok, that one time. But she was still cool about it. God, he really needed to get out more.
He was stressed. They all were. Not one word had been uttered since they boarded. During the protests? Not so much. A lot of things came out that he was sure they all would like a mulligan on.
It wasn't their fault though. They were X-Men. It was the nature of the beast. Sometimes bad things happened. Came with the territory. He just wasn't sure they all accepted it.
Beast sat up in his chair. The mansion was only another thirty minutes away. The worst thing he could do was let this linger. Hard feelings festered in the mansion like cockroaches. Spreading through the walls, hidden in the shadows. Growing. Multiplying.
He needed to speak up. Lord, how many times had he said that to himself over the years? Imagine if it was a drinking game…his poor liver.
What to say?
A joke maybe?
Bobby could diffuse the tension just like that. If he wanted. Clearly that was not the case. Besides, there was a time for jokes and a time for real talk.
Maybe something from the heart?
Ororo would whip up something inspirational to uplift everyone's spirits. The gentlest winds can shake the deepest roots. He'd seen it. That woman could say the most innocuous cliché with enough conviction to make them all want to run head first through a brick wall. Now that's a mutant power.
If Beast said something like that, he could just imagine snarky Emma rolling her eyes at him. She'd give him that, don't be dramatic, glance, then tussle her platinum hair.
"I…" Hank began, then awkwardly cleared his throat, "…ahem, pardon me…just a little parched. Remind me to give the stewardess a raise."
Hank held his breath ever so slightly. Waiting for a reply. A chuckle. A heckle. Anything. The drone of the engine spoke for the other four X-Men instead.
Never change, dear, Emma telepathically said.
Thanks…Hank subtly exhaled and slumped back into his chair.
Anytime.
"His name was Mark Ferguson," Warren blurted out, "It's always the same, everywhere we go… it's like just the sight of us is enough for everyone to lose their minds and want to kill each other."
"I think you mean this time at that specific place," Betsy said. Her strict tone was as much to make her point as it was to reign Warren in.
Warren glanced at her, his blue steel eyes lancing across the jet. "You don't get it. And judging by the silence for the past hour I'd say no one here does."
Hank could feel Warren's eyes cut into his back. It was like his pilot's chair was made out of paper Mache.
"God…a kid died today," Warren's voice lowered, "I know, I know, you all feel just terrible and no one wants to talk about it. But does anyone for a second care why it happened? Why it keeps happening?"
"Warren, we did everything we could," Beast said, his subdued tone smothered by the hum of the engine.
"Say again, Hank," Warren said.
"…We did everything we could," Beast spoke up.
Warren stopped pacing.
"Henry's right. It's part of the job. You do your best but sometimes you come up short. That's life," Betsy said.
"Our lives at least," Bobby mumbled from the back of the jet.
"I understand how you must feel…" Hank turned in his seat to face Warren, "We've all been there. For better or worse. An X-Men merit badge as Betsy alluded. But it wasn't your fault," Hank said.
"I know," Warren said.
"And I believe that's Mr. Worthington the third's point, isn't it dear? That this is all symptomatic of a much larger issue?" Emma jumped into the conversation.
"I honestly forgot you were here," Betsy said.
"Symphony ended early. You now have my undivided attention," Emma said.
"Halleluiah," Bobby sarcastically said.
"…Kid was only fifteen," Warren said and leaned his elbows on the back of Hank's chair, "doing an unarmed protest in front of some stupid restaurant in the middle of the day. We show up and now his Mom and Dad have to put their son in the ground."
"What should we have done then?" Betsy said, "Just rush in and start attacking everyone?"
"Sadly that seems precisely what each side wanted us to do," Hank said.
"I still don't even really know what happened, and I was there," Bobby said.
"It's quite simple. Or should have been. The moment the protestors started getting too…spirited, we should have neutralized them," Emma said.
"Do you have any idea how insane that sounds? Those kids had a right to protest those bigots," Betsy said.
"We might not like it, but businesses reserve the right to refuse anyone. You've heard of no shoes no service? It's for health concerns. The same if you're a mutant with the power to release spore toxins. Frankly fungus is bad for business. It doesn't mean the owner is a bigot," Emma said.
"In all due fairness," Hank said, "As the boy himself told us, that wasn't a particular concern for the owner with his previous pizza store."
"Yeah, wasn't the kid like his best customer for years? Probably his money that paid for most of the owner's swanky new Italian bistro in boushie Alexandria," Bobby said.
"And suddenly he's too good to serve mutants now that he's moved on up to an affluent human neighborhood," Warren said.
"Happening a lot these days," Betsy said.
"Oh please. Listen to yourselves. Everything always happens to be a personal attack with you people." Emma stood up. "It's business. Cold. Hard. Dollars and cents. How many of those children that ate at that dingy old pizza place do you think would sue if they found some mold on or around their food? Alright. Now tell me how many of those insufferable hypochondriac yuppies in Alexandria would sue? If you ran a business, would you really take a chance letting a person who, let's face it, is walking fungus, in your restaurant?" Emma said.
"What did you see when you looked in the owner's mind?" Beast asked.
He paused. "…Is he a racist?"
"Henry. Sweet, sweet, Henry. No one thinks they are racist," Emma replied.
"They think they're right," Betsy said.
"Man, I know time travel sucks but this's one of those days I wish we could get back," Bobby said.
"We could replay today a thousand times and it would play out the exact same way." Warren's eyes burned like a lit cigarette. "You saw the way the cops looked at us. They were relieved. Mutant superheroes here to clean up mutant riot. We're mops and dustpans to them. And the protestors, they were just as bad. They looked at us like the Calvary arrived and we'd gloriously lead them in battle against everyone."
"Didn't take long for the mood to change from an unarmed demonstration to a bloody riot," Betsy added.
"I'm telling you, when people see the X-Men, something about us, I don't know, humans, mutants, it doesn't matter. They see us and the switch goes on and they want to kill each other," Warren said.
"Back to the image inducer, Hank," Bobby said.
Hank gave a labored half smile. Bless Bobby, he was trying. But the chance to diffuse the tension had long since passed.
Mark Ferguson's last minutes on Earth kept repeating in Hank's mind. Why, why in blazes did the kid have to shove Warren? The cops warned him over and over not to move.
Hank's toes curled. His sharp nails scraped against the floor. They should've made it clearer they were on the boy's side. They should've done a better job protecting him instead of trying to calm him down.
But they just didn't know. They needed to gather more information is all. That's it. The last thing they wanted was to rush in without knowing the full story and risk hurting someone.
Ha.
Epitaph of an X-Man. "We didn't want anyone to get hurt." Mark had so much rage and desperation and…and betrayal in his eyes. The whole world was turning against him. And it was like, if the X-Men weren't with him then he was alone.
Hank could still hear what would be Mark's last words ring in his ear. Ya'll a buncha sellouts! Puppets!
Then he shoved Warren. Warren's stunned expression said it all. It was like Mark's palms tore through Warren's chest and yanked his heart out. Once one of the officers saw Mark's sickly green hand hit Warren…
Officer must have panicked.
Yeah.
Warren sighed. "I'm just tired, you know? Aren't you guys tired of always being on defense? We never have enough Intel. We're never prepared. We go into these things dumb, deaf, and blind trying to play catchup and make chicken salad out of chicken you know what. And we do. We do time and time again and succeed against all odds and maybe that's the worst thing that could happen. Because we've gotten so good at working with nothing that being an X-Man has turned into trying to always make the best of unwinnable situations. We should be so much more than that. We're just, I don't know…glorified band aids."
Betsy stood up and rubbed Warren's shoulders. Been awhile since Hank saw her and Warren that way. It wasn't the same touch she'd give Warren when they were an item.
No, no, no, Hank remembered being far more uncomfortable walking in on them in the kitchen. Lawn. Hall. Those were much different. Well. Kind of. This wasn't a passionate rub. But just as loving.
"I don't know. I guess I just need to sleep it off." Warren gently smiled and nodded at Betsy.
"I think that's one thing we can all agree on," Hank said, "We could all use a nice peaceful-"
Thunderous shockwaves crashed against the Blackbird. The mighty jet shook like a paddle boat in a tsunami.
Hank's head slammed against the back of his headrest. Warren and Betsy were flung off their feet and tumbled to the back of the jet.
"Bets!" Warren yelled.
A flash of golden light washed over the sky. The darkened clouds vanished. Blinding waves of light bathed the cabin in brilliant strobes.
Hank sneered, his powerful hands grabbed the controls and tried to maneuver out of the turbulence.
A psychic assault? Couldn't be. Emma would have detected it already instead of gripping her seatbelt like a startled cat. He jerked the controls up. Left. Right. Down.
No response.
"Oh, dear…" Hank muttered.