Sebastien didn't know how long he'd been running. His breath hurt in his
lungs and his chest felt tight. Rain soaked through his shirt and made his
blonde hair cling to his forehead. He knew he couldn't stop, or look back,
only that he needed to get as far away from his pursuers as possible.
His ankle bent painfully as he turned into an alleyway, water splashing up as his feet impacted hard with each step. He saw the alley come to a dead end with sickening force just seconds after he heard the sound of his pursuers footsteps splashing louder behind him.
The cold wet brick felt unforgiving and immovable beneath his outstretched palms. His heart began to beat harder in his chest and louder in his ears and he knew they were almost on top of him.
The footsteps behind him slowed, as his pursuers realised there was no need to run anymore. He was trapped, and alone, and the knives and pipes in their hands were going to destroy him.
Slowly, he turned around and faced his attackers: Three of them, wearing army issue brown T shirts, navy pants and Doc Marten boots, all pale and dead eyed with clean shaven heads. They looked at each other with satisfied smiles, tapping their weapons with their free hands like baseball players waiting for their turn on the plate.
Sebastien stared back at them with what he hoped looked like defiance. "Why don't you just get it over with?" He screamed.
The man closest to him, who Sebastien assumed was their leader, smiled indulgently, and his face twisted into an ugly parody of pity. "We don't invest so much time in the chase if we aren't going to enjoy ourselves at the end," he replied simply, like he was teaching a difficult child.
Sebastien wondered if it would make a difference if he tried to run past them, wondered if it would expedite his demise, and make them mad enough to kill him quickly.
No such luck.
The first blow came from the leader of the pack. The steel pipe made a dull, wet thunking sound when it connected with Sebastien's head. Surprisingly, Sebastien did not fall. He could taste blood in his mouth and his head snapped back at a very painful angle when he was struck, but he was still, stubbornly, conscious.
He looked up at the leader of the pack, who held his pipe high, like a baseball bat, and unsure of what to do next. Sebastien's vision was swimming and his head roared pain in his temples, but he was still alive. The leader of the pack lowered his pipe as he met eyes with Sebastien, and he stumbled backwards. The man looked stricken, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. The other two men at his side took this opportunity to inflict some more damage upon their prey. They ran at Sebastien with their implements raised high, crying out like a pack of hungry dogs as their bodies collided with Sebastien's.
Sebastien didn't know how long the ordeal lasted, only that he was struck with blunt and sharp things while he was curled up into a fetal ball. The rain sounded like a thousand drums in his ears and he couldn't hear himself screaming.
His mind was reaching into every nook and cranny of his being, telling him that he must survive. Do anything! Lash out! Make it stop!
Then, he opened his eyes and unfolded his body, even as the men continued to bring down their weapons on him. He made no attempt to shield himself from the blows, but looked up at the nearest man, and stared him in the eye. The man (who held a knife), stared right back, and the arm that held the knife fell to his side. His companion shouted at him to keep going, but the man shook his head and stared straight ahead, mouth agape, and slashed his own wrists. The other man looked from his companion to Sebastien, and Sebastien just stared at him, his arms wrapped around his waist and his eyes projecting hate. His face was dripping with rain and blood.
Sebastien watched as the other man looked for his leader. He was nowhere in sight. He then looked at Sebastien and roared a wordless curse at him, raising his club over his head to bring it down in a swift, final arc.
Sebastien closed his eyes tight and saw stars burst into the darkness. The last man standing was still roaring at him, but it sounded like he was very far away. Sebastien felt his stomach lurch and his body went slack. Amazingly, he could still hear as he slipped into unconsciousness: The sound of wet bodies making violent contact, the sound of a pipe clattering to the ground, and then, a sound he'd never heard before. It sounded metal sliding against metal, but muted and too quick to be the sound of knives sliding together:
"snikt"
ONE
It had been raining for days.
It was the kind of rain that looked like a solid mass of misery rather than a light shower. The TV weather men all cheerfully proclaimed that the rain would subside "in the next few days", but Ororo Munroe knew differently. The rain could go in a snap of her fingers, and the sun would come out and everyone would stop complaining.
But Ororo loved the rain. She loved the feel of it on her skin and the way it cleansed everything. Sometimes she would call up the rain just because she missed it, but the people around her would just grumble and groan. So she promised them that she would only deliberately call down the rain in the woods, on her own, away from the mansion. She had to swear to everyone that the downpour of the last few days was not of her design, and a naturally occurring weather pattern. She didn't think they believed her.
She sat atop the bell tower on the roof of the mansion, which was home to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, where she had lived for most of her adult life. The smell of wet grass and damp skin intoxicated her, and filled her heart with limitless joy. Even the smell of wet cement was pleasant to her on a good rainy day.
She inhaled deeply and slid off her perch before disappearing into a little wooden trapdoor set into the wooden floor of the bell tower, and descended a long spiraling staircase that led to a tastefully decorated hallway with a highly polished floor. She could see her reflection in the floor, in a glistening honey colour. Her dark skin and white hair looked somehow caramelized beneath her feet. She smiled at it and continued down the hallway, listening to the rain fall outside, and feeling content.
"We have to call the police," she heard someone's voice say, from an opened door ahead. "For all we know, he could be..."
"What? A criminal?" The other voice was harsh, and low, and Ororo smiled to herself as she appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the door frame.
The owner of the first voice, a tall, well proportioned man with a serious face, obscured by deep crimson lensed glasses, had his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw muscles bulged. He looked up and regarded Ororo with a warm smile. The other man, a shorter, darker and older looking man, looked up as well. His expression softened and he walked towards her. "You can talk to him," he said with a sneer. "I've had enough."
Ororo moved and let her friend pass. She put her hand on his broad, muscled shoulder, and looked at him pleadingly. "Logan..." She said his name like it was all she needed to say.
He gently shrugged her hand off. He looked back into the room with a frown. Then he stormed off. Ororo moved into the room towards The taller man. "What was all that about, Scott?"
Scott Summers grimaced. He was a handsome man, and he had perfect teeth, and at that moment he looked like a Ken doll. He regarded Ororo's purple dress clinging to her body, and quickly met her eyes again. (At least she was almost sure he was making eye contact; the reflective glasses made it hard to tell.)
"The boy that Logan dragged in here," he replied with a sigh. He sat down on a nearby couch in the large common room, and ran a hand through his shiny brown hair. "I mean, he can't just expect us to take this kid in, no questions asked. We have to ascertain who he is, find out if he has a home and family to go to..." He sighed again and threw up his hands, like the boy was his sole responsibility.
"I understand Charles is trying to dig up what he can," Ororo said, as she sat on the edge of the nearby coffee table. "How is that going?"
"There's only so much Charles can do until the kid regains consciousness. You know how he feels about using his powers on an unwilling or unconscious subject."
Ororo nodded. Charles Xavier was indeed a man of principles, sometimes stubbornly so. "Surely the boy can stay here until he is recovered."
"Well, there's no doubt about that. But lately, the school has had a lot of unwanted attention, and the last thing we need is..."
Ororo held up a hand. She knew only too well of the problems the school had endured. Recently, a boy came to the school after running away from home. The boy was scared that no one would take him in after he almost killed one of his classmates just by touching him. The other boy's skin burned and charred like it was on fire, and spent more than half the year in intensive care. Apparently, the boy's father had locked him in the basement after dousing him with ice water, to "fix him up." He showed up at the school fearing his life. Charles Xavier took him in without the need for further explanation, and began to teach the boy how to harness his power so that he could have the semblance of a normal life.
Somehow, the father became aware of his son's whereabouts, and made it known to every media outlet in close vicinity that the school abducted and brainwashed his son. Charles Xavier and his students soon found themselves thrust into the harsh glare of scrutiny, and Charles very publicly defended his school and its mission, without ever fully giving away the details of its true purpose.
Ororo shuddered as she remembered how the authorities came to the school to take the child away, brandishing guns and with news cameras trailing in their wake. The images of the dawn raid were front page items on every major daily, and the top story on the news at six. The image used mostly, was of Logan standing before the boy, legs apart, his eyebrows knitted, daring the armour clad commandos to come at him. The boy could be seen cowering like a frightened rabbit, his hands over his ears and his ears shut tight. Ororo could understand Logan's anger, and his indignation at his home being raided.
Now the school was under investigation by two separate bodies, both trying to ascertain whether it should be shut down or more closely monitored. It was no wonder everyone was tense.
"...And Logan can't just assume he can drag some kid in off the streets and have our okay! There are certain procedures, Storm..."
Ororo knew Scott was using her code name because he was being defensive. It made anything he said sound like a command.
"I'm sure Logan knows what the rules are, Scott," she replied mildly. "He just chooses to ignore them." She smiled at him and stood up. "And he couldn't have just left the boy..."
"Now you're starting to sound like him."
She sighed. Sometimes she could understand Logan's frustration at Scott. He was simply too stubborn and inflexible, and he was afraid of straying from the path. She left the room with a little wave, and re entered the hallway. The whole place was too quiet; most of the students were off campus or in their dorms watching movies. Rainy days were really not conducive for learning.
"Ororo."
Storm spun around to see Jean Grey emerging from a nearby oak panelled door. Jean was a tall, white skinned and flame red haired woman, and she was also everything Ororo was not: Authoritive, in control, and a living doll in the eyes of most men. Ororo always felt slightly ill at ease whenever she stood near Jean, but she admired her greatly. She trusted her life with Jean, and she hoped Jean did the same. Jean smiled as she reached Ororo's side. Jean was also a telepath, and knew exactly what Ororo was thinking, but said nothing to her friend's (misguided) insecurity. Instead, she said, "I probably shouldn't ask if this rain is your doing."
"Not if you want to find out what its like to be hit by a lightning bolt."
Jean laughed softly and shrugged. "The students have come to the conclusion that they should bribe you to make it stop."
They began walking together down the corridor. Jean was holding a manilla folder in one hand and a cell phone in the other. "Charles just called to tell me how the negotiations are going," she said, holding the phone up with a smile. "He's going to keep me informed, but I have to check up on our mystery house guest now."
Ororo knew that the phone was superfluous when it came to two telepaths communicating, but she said nothing. "Charles thinks it would be wiser if he kept his communications to a more...usual medium," Jean said, as she heard Ororo thinking. "Some people might see it as colluding with his mutant flunkies. That is the last thing we need."
Ororo nodded. Charles was meeting with representatives from one of the independent committees looking into the school's operations, to head of a full investigation. He'd left for Washington earlier that day, and as far as anyone could see, he would be there for quite some time. "So how is the boy?"
Jean sighed in response. They reached the elevator doors, which were shiny and reflective, and Jean punched a code into a keypad set into the wall beside it. The keypad let out a little beep and the sound of the elevator cables humming could be heard. They watched the numbers above the door illuminate green in ascending order, and neither spoke for a few seconds. Jean fixed her green eyes on Ororo, then, and asked, "Were they fighting in there?" Her face was like that of a child awaiting punishment. She bit her lower lip.
Ororo smiled. "They had a small disagreement over procedure."
Jean's expression hardened then. "Which is to say they were fighting. Again."
"Logan and Scott will never see eye to eye, Jean. You above all should know that."
Jean nodded as the doors slid open before them. They entered the little space before them and Jean punched the button marked 'MED LAB', and the elevator began to glide down. "They think alike, sometimes," Jean said. She was staring ahead of her, not really looking at anything.
Ororo incline her head. She did know what Jean was saying - it was hard not to notice that Logan and Scott's clashes had more to do with matters of the heart than anything else. Scott was protective of Jean, and their bond was strong, but Ororo could tell something compelled Jean towards Logan, even though Scott and Jean were due to marry in the near future. "And this boy seems to have given them a reason to get on each other's nerves. They do tend to look for the slightest reason to argue."
Jean nodded. Ororo was right. Logan and Scott needed to have conflict to relate to each other. They were polar opposites, and could find no common ground between them, except for their love of the same woman.
The elevator doors slid open and Jean tried to push all wayward thoughts from her mind, which was easier said than done for a telepath, and they entered the cool white sterility of the med lab.
They approached the only occupied bed in the lab, and Jean opened the file. Ororo leaned over the boy's sleeping face to look at him. He was handsome, and looked almost angelic with his shiny blonde hair. Ororo touched his forehead lightly and prayed that this boy would find where he belonged. "What do we know about him?" She asked Jean in a whisper.
Jean sighed in response. "Some kind of trauma triggered the coma," she said with an air of detachment, as she consulted a monitor beside the bed. "But for the life of me, I can't figure out what sort of trauma that was. Every test I've run so far has told me nothing, except that he is a perfectly fit, healthy young man."
Ororo straightened, then folded her arms over her chest. "Have we checked the missing persons database for a match?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"Nothing."
"Have you spoken to Logan about the night he brought the boy in?"
Jean sighed again. "Not yet. I think Scott's interrogation was thorough enough. But I do know Logan didn't tell Scott the full story."
Jean jotted something in the folder and placed in on the metal cabinet beside the bed. "I can tell you, I've been tempted to see if I can go in and pull this kid out of the coma, or at least find out who he is."
Ororo nodded. The frustrations of the past weeks were starting to show on Jean's face. Dark circles were starting to form under her eyes.
"I don't think Charles would approve of it, though."
Jean shrugged. Charles had warned her about invading another person's mind if they are unwilling or unable to give consent. And she understood his reasoning behind it, and it was for those reasons that she resisted. Her powers of telepathy were not as advanced as Charles', and it sometimes scared her to know that one day she would be as powerful as him. Even know she heard the random thoughts of the pupils in the dorms above them, and it took her a great deal of discipline to shut them out to a dull background noise, like a radio searching for a channel.
"I think this kid is one of us," Jean said as she leaned in and checked his pulse. Her red hair fell over her face as she did so.
"Why is that?"
"I guess its more of a feeling than anything else. He may not be aware of it himself yet, but I am definitely picking up some...I don't know....Energy patterns...Emanating from him."
""How old do you think he is?"
"At a guess I'd say between sixteen and eighteen. Just about the right time for mutant powers to start surfacing."
"Logan said he was being attacked by a bunch of skinheads. Maybe they saw his power manifesting...." Ororo didn't want to finish the sentence. The sheer revulsion of such an act made her shudder. From the sounds of things, the skinheads were most likely a part of a dangerous fringe group calling themselves The Friends of Humanity. The group was slowly growing and had become a rising political power, especially in the south. The Friends of Humanity preached purity and goodness to the masses by way of denouncing those different from them. Mutants, homosexuals, Asians, blacks and Russians were all damned and impure and would burn in the fires of hell for eternity. They had the ears of politicians, the clergy and, most scary of all, the media.
"If he is a mutant, and he doesn't know about it, then we have an obligation to help him."
Jean nodded, gravely. "Logan did the right thing," she said softly, touching the boy's forehead one more time. Then she smiled at Ororo. "But don't tell him I said that."
Logan sniffed at the air as he walked towards the pond just behind the mansion. The rain was now just a gentle drizzle, and felt almost warm on his skin. The earth smelled swollen with moisture, and the air was thick with a musty, sweet fragrance. The pond's surface was still being disturbed by the steadily falling rain, and it looked as if the body of water was shivering. Logan looked down at his distorted reflection in the surface, and sat on the edge, where the reeds were growing tallest.
He often came out here when he felt like Cyclops was looking for a reason for him to slit his throat. Slitting your team leader's throat wasn't really the done thing in civilised society, but who ever said Logan was civilised. Jean once said he was "barely house trained", and it made him smile. In a way, Xavier's school was giving him a reason to rejoin the rest of the world, and allowing him to do it with relative anonymity. Well, as much anonymity as one without a past could have.
Charles Xavier was a decent man in Logan's eyes, and he believed the man when he promised to help him fill in the blanks about his life. Charlie Xavier knew how hard it was for Logan to remember anything from even ten years ago, and it concerned Xavier that neither he nor Jean could fully delve into Logan's mind; whoever screwed with his head and erased his past must have done a bang up job if the most powerful telepath in the world couldn't penetrate it. But they were making progress, and it taxed both Logan and Xavier to retrieve even the simplest memory or snippet of one.
Logan broke off a reed and ran his fingers along its edge. His thick black hair was clinging to his face cheeks and forehead, and there was no other sound out there except his own breathing. He looked out over the surface of the pond and caught a whiff of a familiar perfume; it smelled like jasmine and citrus, and it was everything that was sweet with the world. He knew Jean was approaching behind him, and he was impressed that he hadn't heard her approach. Must be letting his guard down. "Did fearless leader send you out here, Jean? See what else I ain't tellin' him?" Logan said. He did not turn around. She was standing directly behind him.
"How could you tell it was me?"
"One of the draw backs of having an acute sense of smell is that you can identify someone just by their scent."
"Do I have a distinctive smell?"
"Everyone does. You mask yours with perfume and deodorant. But there's no masking it."
Jean knelt beside him but he still refused to look at her. "Scott didn't send me out here. I haven't spoken to him all morning, but I know about your argument."
"Eavesdropping again?"
"Its hard to keep anything from a telepath."
Logan smiled, but still didn't turn around. Jean touched his shoulder lightly and tilted her head to look at his face. Unlike Scott, Logan had a very blunt, rough face, which was not unattractive. His eyes alone told the story of his time on this world, and how long that was, nobody knew. Not even him. At times he seemed to have limitless energy and vitality, then he would crash and burn, and nobody would want tot get in his way. His mutant ability to heal wounds rapidly came in handy when he was on a mission, but there is no healing factor for the soul. Logan search for himself was causing him more pain than any external wound, and Jean wished there was more she could do for him.
"Summers don't understand what it's like to be unwanted," Logan growled, pushing his knuckles hard into the cool wet earth. "That puts him out of touch with the rest of us here. He thinks leadership is about ego, and it ain't. It's the complete opposite."
"Scott never got the chance to feel unwanted. His parents were killed in an accident when he and his brother were young. Charles took him in, and Scott has always tried to be the best he can be, to prove himself worthy Charles' approval."
Logan sighed. "Still don't make him a nice person."
"Is this more about you and Scott than the welfare of the boy?"
"You know me, any excuse to get into an argument with Cyclops. He could do me some real damage. If he tried."
Jean let out a breath and hooked her arm around Logan's. "Nothing has been the same since you moved into the school, you know that?"
Logan turned his head and breathed in her scent like it was the smell of his sweetest memories, and put a hand on her head. Her cheek rested on his broad shoulder and his roughened hand looked so odd compared with her shiny, smooth beauty. "Yeah," he replied. "I think I'm starting to get it."
Bobby Drake leaned against a wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared ahead of him, through a huge one way mirror. On the other side was a large, cylindrical room that the students trained in to hone their mutant abilities. Xavier Apparently had the room's walls re enforced with titanium alloy and cement, and built it so far underground that not even the largest explosion would be noticed anywhere else. The kids affectionately called it the "Danger Room" and the name stuck. Xavier preferred that they call it the "training centre" to add a bit of legitimacy to it, but even he called it the Danger Room now.
It was here that Bobby was able to unleash his mutant power to freeze the air around him, and even transform his body into living ice, and since those first few awkward times, he had reached a stage where he was able to concentrate his power and manipulate it, and use it in a battle type situation. Xavier was harder on his students in the Danger Room than with their theoretical assignments; "In the real world, you won't have the chance to do a make up exam."
Some of the pupils used the Danger Room as an avenue of release when the world was treating them harshly. Others used it to get in shape. Bobby watched now as two students faced off against one another; the first, a lanky boy with a floppy blonde haircut, whose name was Sam Guthrie, a nice guy with a southern drawl you could tar a road with, and Jonathon Starsmore, an English boy who preferred to keep to himself on account of the missing lower half of his face. Just beneath his nose, his face exploded into raw energy which looked not unlike an electrical fire. His deep brown hair fell in limp tendrils over his eyes, which were locked on Guthrie with fierce anticipation. If Bobby were going to bet on the outcome of this match, he'd put his money on Starsmore, who liked to call himself "Chamber".
Guthrie leapt into the air as Starsmore projected his energy towards him, then, as he flipped in the air, he let his power loose and the lower half of his body turned into something that resembled the propulsion jet on the back of a plane. This sent Guthrie hurtling towards Starsmore with his fists outstretched before him. Starsmore took the blow in the stomach and they both went crashing straight into the wall behind them. The window before Bobby shook. Bobby leaned closer to see if they were okay, and saw the pair of them in a twisted heap against the wall.
Starmore's voice - which was projected from his conscious thought rather than his mouth, which didn't really exist - echoed inside Bobby's head. "Was that completely necessary, Guthrie?" His English accent was clipped and harsh.
"Nope," Guthrie replied breathlessly, as he pulled himself up on his elbows. "Ah can't control the direction of muh power once I start up. At least, not yet. The professor's helpin' me get a handle on it."
Starsmore stood up, and brushed off the lapels of his black vinyl jacket. It was made from the same material as his pants. "Just pray you get a handle on it before Xavier sends you out on a mission. That sort of undirected attack will land us all in trouble."
"Ah am tryin', Chamber! But it ain't easy. I gotta really concentrate to control it. You wouldn't know anythin' about it."
Chamber glared at Guthrie. His eyes were hollow, like a scarecrow's. "I'd know quite a lot about self control, Guthrie. Like having to keep an explosion of energy contained in one's body when all it wants to do is burst out? Like having to ensure that your power doesn't rip open the other half of your head? That is what I call concentration, mate. You just have to point yourself in the right direction."
Chamber walked off without a glance behind him. Bobby descended a flight of metal stairs and approached the thick metal doors that closed off the Danger Room, just as Chamber was exiting. "Don't you think you were being a little hard on him?" He said. Chamber regarded him with a raised eyebrow- one of the few facial expressions he could actually pull off.
"No. I think he was being an idiot."
Bobby sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Chamber a frown. "Give him a break. He hasn't been here that long and he's still learning. You're his training buddy. You should be encouraging him."
"I did not ask to be stuck babysitting some hick who can't control his powers."
Chamber walked away from Bobby and Bobby entered the Danger Room with a sigh. Sam Guthrie was toweling himself off. His hair was damp with perspiration. He looked up as Bobby approached. His baby face was troubled. "That guy gives me the creeps," he said, motioning towards the general direction of Chamber's departure. "And he's not a real good teacher."
Bobby shrugged and smiled. "He's just uptight. It's the British upbringing."
"Ah think he hates me."
Bobby put a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam was probably right. Chamber probably did hate him, and everyone else at the school. He even resented Professor Xavier and the X-men for wanting to help him. Bobby could only guess at what he'd been through. Maybe his anger was justified.
"Don't worry about him. Let's go get some lunch."
"Professor Xavier. Please take a seat."
The moment he looked up from the paper in his hands, Robert Frost knew he'd put his foot in it. Charles Xavier wheeled himself into the office in a motorised wheelchair. His smooth scalp shone in the fluorescent light and he had an amused look on his face. "I don't think that will be a problem, Mr. Frost."
Frost stood bolt upright and raised his hands in a gesture of contrition. "Professor, I am so sorry..."
Xavier held up a hand. "It's perfectly fine, Mr. Frost."
"Call me Robert."
"I'd like to thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Robert. I hope our meeting can resolve some of the concerns we all have."
Frost smiled in response, and there was a trace of apprehension to it. Even meeting with Xavier was venturing into hazardous territory these days, and he didn't want to even think about what the other members of the committee would say. But there was something about Xavier and his School that struck a chord with Frost. He'd seen many exceptional Schools doing great work in his time with the department of education, and he'd also seen some of the worst. He'd talked to headmasters who'd just given up, and walked walked through schools that had fallen into disrepair, but Charles Xavier had always seemed so fiercely protective of his students and proud of his school. The school itself was breathtaking; a sprawling mansion sitting on a huge, well attended property on the outskirts of Westchester, New York. And he had spoken to Xavier a few times over the phone, seen his face on the television, and had no idea that the guy was in a wheelchair. His cheeks burned as he spoke. "I would appreciate your discretion regarding this meeting, professor."
Xavier nodded solemnly. "You have my word. And please, call me Charles."
"If it wasn't for your reputation I don't think you would have even got this far."
"I can count my blessings and my friends in high places." Xavier said with a smile.
Frost gave a little nod to Xaviers gentle humour. He rested his clasped hands on the manila folder in front of him, and his face suddenly switched to "all business mode".
"But this is a very serious matter Charles, and I'm afraid it's not going to go away."
"I'm not asking for the matter to be swept under the carpet. Just that I get a balanced investigation into the school, and not a witch hunt."
"Nobody wants that."
Xavier gave Frost a "you know better" look. Frost leaned back in his leather chair, and it squeaked musically. "Let's talk about the boy at the centre of this mess," he went on, slowly. "Dane Williams shows up at your school with bruises all over his body."
"Thats right. He told me his father was responsible, and that he was scared. I did not think twice about taking the boy in."
"A compassionate gesture on your part."
"Any right minded person would have done the same thing."
Frost nodded and breathed heavily through his nostrils. Frost looked older than his forty years at that moment, his forehead creased into a frown. His dark hair was beginning to show flecks of grey and his whole body looked like it had been all but but drained of its youth already. Xavier tried hard not to listen to the man's thoughts before he spoke. "Thats true enough, professor, but it would also occur to a right minded person to call the police as well. It baffles me why you didn't."
Xavier let out a sigh. "The local police have been less than helpful with similar situation in the past. They seem to only respond when there is a complaint about the school's activities."
"Okay. Let's put that aside for a moment and concentrate on a much larger issue: Did the boy ask to leave the premises on any occasion after that?"
"You mean, did I keep him against his will? Of course not! All my students are free to leave at any time."
Frost held up his hands in response. "Sorry. I just had to ask. The boy's father has been quite adamant about it."
"The boy's father is a violent drunkard who inflicted serious wounds on his son. I cannot believe that anyone is taking him seriously." Xavier was getting frustrated. Frost was just playing devil's advocate, not really listening but throwing up questions. Xavier knew this man wanted to help, and he didn't want to break any rules doing it. Sometimes its the people who sit back and do nothing that can cause serious damage.
"The sad fact is, people do take things like this seriously. And if the committee finds that any of the allegations made by him are true, then I'm afraid Xavier's school may be forced to close."
Detective Vic Morgan blew smoke out through his nostrils and looked at the ambulance officer with ice green eyes that unnerved even the hardest criminals. The man had just told him how they found two men dead and another a screaming mess. The first man had apparently thrown himself in front of oncoming traffic, according to several witnesses, and the second had slashed his own wrists. The third man was found in a fetal ball, yelling and squealing like he was possessed. He had tried to throw himself out of the ambulance and it took three officers to properly restrain him. It was no secret that all three men were part of the Friends of Humanity, or one of it's fringe groups, and all kinds of pressure was now on Morgan to get to the bottom of the incident ASAP.
"The one who survived, none of what he said made sense," The ambulance officer said, and looked from side to side. He was young, but his eyes told the world they had seen too much. He smoked a cigarette that Morgan had offered, and his blue uniform shirt and black jacket marked him as a saviour. As he spoke, he watched the ambulances pull up into the bay, nodded at some of the officers wheeling gurneys into the ER, then looked back at Morgan. "He was ranting about the scourges of humanity, that the freaks had taken control, that a new world order will come, and cleanse the planet...Yadda yadda, and so forth. Since there was nothing physically wrong with him, there was only so much we could do. But he was threatening to kill himself when we weren't looking, so we bundled him off to psych ward on suicide watch."
Morgan scratched his chin, grunted. His square, unshaven jaw and blunt features made him look more like a hitman than a detective with the NYPD. For thirty eight, looked good. But he was only thirty one. He ran a hand over his close cropped brown hair, and flicked his cigarette butt away. "I don't suppose he's still here?" He asked.
The ambulance officer shook his head. "Not anymore. We only hold 'em for twenty four hours, usually."
Morgan nodded, and swore. The ambulance officer noticed his agitated look, and gave him a half smile. "Policy. He calmed down after a few hours. They had one of the psychologists look at him, and he seemed satisfied that this guy wasn't going to off himself, so they discharged him to free up some more space."
"And what did you think?"
The other man sighed and shrugged. "A lot of his type cross my path, detective Morgan, and I have learned not to make any assumptions and just do my best to help them." He sighed again, this time louder, and Morgan could see anger in his eyes. "These Friends of Humanity guys are no better then Nazis. They sicken me. If it were up to me, I'd have left him there to kill himself. But my opinions don't count much 'round here."
Morgan nodded. "What do you know about a boy they were chasing? Was he there when all this went down?"
Another shrug. "We showed up, scraped one guy off the road, bundled another into a body bag and restrained the only one left alive. The poor kid probably ran as far and as fast as he could. It isn't hard to imagine why they were chasing him." There was real disgust in his voice.
Morgan didn't need to join the dots on the other man's anger. Morgan had seen it many times, on the faces of those used to being on the receiving end of violence and hatred. He'd seen it on the faces of young black prostitutes, old Asian shopkeepers, and gay men. In Morgan's eyes, this man's anger was not only justified, but understandable. Morgan thanked him for his time, shook his hand, commended him on his good work. He was met with a weary smile and a similar commendation, and he walked back to his car, thinking about the story that was slowly emerging in his case notes. And the questions were mounting:
Why did one man throw himself in front of a moving vehicle?
Why did another slit his own wrists?
What stopped the third from following suit?
And, most importantly, what happened to the boy they were pursuing through the streets only moments before? Did he meet a grisly end at his own hand, or at the hands of the unfortunate zealots?
Too many things did not add up. Nobody saw what happened between the boy and the other men, even if twenty people were standing around at the time. New Yorkers have temporary blindness when it comes to certain things, because they don't want to become involved. Morgan opened his car door and sat with his hands on the steering wheel for a long time, just trying to get his bearings. Where could he go from here? The hospital records did not yield a name or address for the third zealot, and the boy seemed like a dead end. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and scrutinised his random jotting like they were written in a dead language. The ink ran in places where rain splashed onto the paper, and coffee stains obscured the pages even more. The only person he could talk to had just walked out of hospital and may as well have burrowed into a haystack.
He rested his chin on the steering wheel and watched as a light shower assaulted the windscreen. He tried to think: where would a fringe dwelling zealot go to hide? Surely he wouldn't run straight to The Friends of Humanity for help? The Friend of Humanity had a compound Not far out of Westchester, on a sprawling acreage enclosed by huge brick walls. And they didn't like visitors.
Morgan considered his options for a few more seconds, and straightened in his seat. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly and started the car.
His ankle bent painfully as he turned into an alleyway, water splashing up as his feet impacted hard with each step. He saw the alley come to a dead end with sickening force just seconds after he heard the sound of his pursuers footsteps splashing louder behind him.
The cold wet brick felt unforgiving and immovable beneath his outstretched palms. His heart began to beat harder in his chest and louder in his ears and he knew they were almost on top of him.
The footsteps behind him slowed, as his pursuers realised there was no need to run anymore. He was trapped, and alone, and the knives and pipes in their hands were going to destroy him.
Slowly, he turned around and faced his attackers: Three of them, wearing army issue brown T shirts, navy pants and Doc Marten boots, all pale and dead eyed with clean shaven heads. They looked at each other with satisfied smiles, tapping their weapons with their free hands like baseball players waiting for their turn on the plate.
Sebastien stared back at them with what he hoped looked like defiance. "Why don't you just get it over with?" He screamed.
The man closest to him, who Sebastien assumed was their leader, smiled indulgently, and his face twisted into an ugly parody of pity. "We don't invest so much time in the chase if we aren't going to enjoy ourselves at the end," he replied simply, like he was teaching a difficult child.
Sebastien wondered if it would make a difference if he tried to run past them, wondered if it would expedite his demise, and make them mad enough to kill him quickly.
No such luck.
The first blow came from the leader of the pack. The steel pipe made a dull, wet thunking sound when it connected with Sebastien's head. Surprisingly, Sebastien did not fall. He could taste blood in his mouth and his head snapped back at a very painful angle when he was struck, but he was still, stubbornly, conscious.
He looked up at the leader of the pack, who held his pipe high, like a baseball bat, and unsure of what to do next. Sebastien's vision was swimming and his head roared pain in his temples, but he was still alive. The leader of the pack lowered his pipe as he met eyes with Sebastien, and he stumbled backwards. The man looked stricken, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. The other two men at his side took this opportunity to inflict some more damage upon their prey. They ran at Sebastien with their implements raised high, crying out like a pack of hungry dogs as their bodies collided with Sebastien's.
Sebastien didn't know how long the ordeal lasted, only that he was struck with blunt and sharp things while he was curled up into a fetal ball. The rain sounded like a thousand drums in his ears and he couldn't hear himself screaming.
His mind was reaching into every nook and cranny of his being, telling him that he must survive. Do anything! Lash out! Make it stop!
Then, he opened his eyes and unfolded his body, even as the men continued to bring down their weapons on him. He made no attempt to shield himself from the blows, but looked up at the nearest man, and stared him in the eye. The man (who held a knife), stared right back, and the arm that held the knife fell to his side. His companion shouted at him to keep going, but the man shook his head and stared straight ahead, mouth agape, and slashed his own wrists. The other man looked from his companion to Sebastien, and Sebastien just stared at him, his arms wrapped around his waist and his eyes projecting hate. His face was dripping with rain and blood.
Sebastien watched as the other man looked for his leader. He was nowhere in sight. He then looked at Sebastien and roared a wordless curse at him, raising his club over his head to bring it down in a swift, final arc.
Sebastien closed his eyes tight and saw stars burst into the darkness. The last man standing was still roaring at him, but it sounded like he was very far away. Sebastien felt his stomach lurch and his body went slack. Amazingly, he could still hear as he slipped into unconsciousness: The sound of wet bodies making violent contact, the sound of a pipe clattering to the ground, and then, a sound he'd never heard before. It sounded metal sliding against metal, but muted and too quick to be the sound of knives sliding together:
"snikt"
ONE
It had been raining for days.
It was the kind of rain that looked like a solid mass of misery rather than a light shower. The TV weather men all cheerfully proclaimed that the rain would subside "in the next few days", but Ororo Munroe knew differently. The rain could go in a snap of her fingers, and the sun would come out and everyone would stop complaining.
But Ororo loved the rain. She loved the feel of it on her skin and the way it cleansed everything. Sometimes she would call up the rain just because she missed it, but the people around her would just grumble and groan. So she promised them that she would only deliberately call down the rain in the woods, on her own, away from the mansion. She had to swear to everyone that the downpour of the last few days was not of her design, and a naturally occurring weather pattern. She didn't think they believed her.
She sat atop the bell tower on the roof of the mansion, which was home to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, where she had lived for most of her adult life. The smell of wet grass and damp skin intoxicated her, and filled her heart with limitless joy. Even the smell of wet cement was pleasant to her on a good rainy day.
She inhaled deeply and slid off her perch before disappearing into a little wooden trapdoor set into the wooden floor of the bell tower, and descended a long spiraling staircase that led to a tastefully decorated hallway with a highly polished floor. She could see her reflection in the floor, in a glistening honey colour. Her dark skin and white hair looked somehow caramelized beneath her feet. She smiled at it and continued down the hallway, listening to the rain fall outside, and feeling content.
"We have to call the police," she heard someone's voice say, from an opened door ahead. "For all we know, he could be..."
"What? A criminal?" The other voice was harsh, and low, and Ororo smiled to herself as she appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the door frame.
The owner of the first voice, a tall, well proportioned man with a serious face, obscured by deep crimson lensed glasses, had his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw muscles bulged. He looked up and regarded Ororo with a warm smile. The other man, a shorter, darker and older looking man, looked up as well. His expression softened and he walked towards her. "You can talk to him," he said with a sneer. "I've had enough."
Ororo moved and let her friend pass. She put her hand on his broad, muscled shoulder, and looked at him pleadingly. "Logan..." She said his name like it was all she needed to say.
He gently shrugged her hand off. He looked back into the room with a frown. Then he stormed off. Ororo moved into the room towards The taller man. "What was all that about, Scott?"
Scott Summers grimaced. He was a handsome man, and he had perfect teeth, and at that moment he looked like a Ken doll. He regarded Ororo's purple dress clinging to her body, and quickly met her eyes again. (At least she was almost sure he was making eye contact; the reflective glasses made it hard to tell.)
"The boy that Logan dragged in here," he replied with a sigh. He sat down on a nearby couch in the large common room, and ran a hand through his shiny brown hair. "I mean, he can't just expect us to take this kid in, no questions asked. We have to ascertain who he is, find out if he has a home and family to go to..." He sighed again and threw up his hands, like the boy was his sole responsibility.
"I understand Charles is trying to dig up what he can," Ororo said, as she sat on the edge of the nearby coffee table. "How is that going?"
"There's only so much Charles can do until the kid regains consciousness. You know how he feels about using his powers on an unwilling or unconscious subject."
Ororo nodded. Charles Xavier was indeed a man of principles, sometimes stubbornly so. "Surely the boy can stay here until he is recovered."
"Well, there's no doubt about that. But lately, the school has had a lot of unwanted attention, and the last thing we need is..."
Ororo held up a hand. She knew only too well of the problems the school had endured. Recently, a boy came to the school after running away from home. The boy was scared that no one would take him in after he almost killed one of his classmates just by touching him. The other boy's skin burned and charred like it was on fire, and spent more than half the year in intensive care. Apparently, the boy's father had locked him in the basement after dousing him with ice water, to "fix him up." He showed up at the school fearing his life. Charles Xavier took him in without the need for further explanation, and began to teach the boy how to harness his power so that he could have the semblance of a normal life.
Somehow, the father became aware of his son's whereabouts, and made it known to every media outlet in close vicinity that the school abducted and brainwashed his son. Charles Xavier and his students soon found themselves thrust into the harsh glare of scrutiny, and Charles very publicly defended his school and its mission, without ever fully giving away the details of its true purpose.
Ororo shuddered as she remembered how the authorities came to the school to take the child away, brandishing guns and with news cameras trailing in their wake. The images of the dawn raid were front page items on every major daily, and the top story on the news at six. The image used mostly, was of Logan standing before the boy, legs apart, his eyebrows knitted, daring the armour clad commandos to come at him. The boy could be seen cowering like a frightened rabbit, his hands over his ears and his ears shut tight. Ororo could understand Logan's anger, and his indignation at his home being raided.
Now the school was under investigation by two separate bodies, both trying to ascertain whether it should be shut down or more closely monitored. It was no wonder everyone was tense.
"...And Logan can't just assume he can drag some kid in off the streets and have our okay! There are certain procedures, Storm..."
Ororo knew Scott was using her code name because he was being defensive. It made anything he said sound like a command.
"I'm sure Logan knows what the rules are, Scott," she replied mildly. "He just chooses to ignore them." She smiled at him and stood up. "And he couldn't have just left the boy..."
"Now you're starting to sound like him."
She sighed. Sometimes she could understand Logan's frustration at Scott. He was simply too stubborn and inflexible, and he was afraid of straying from the path. She left the room with a little wave, and re entered the hallway. The whole place was too quiet; most of the students were off campus or in their dorms watching movies. Rainy days were really not conducive for learning.
"Ororo."
Storm spun around to see Jean Grey emerging from a nearby oak panelled door. Jean was a tall, white skinned and flame red haired woman, and she was also everything Ororo was not: Authoritive, in control, and a living doll in the eyes of most men. Ororo always felt slightly ill at ease whenever she stood near Jean, but she admired her greatly. She trusted her life with Jean, and she hoped Jean did the same. Jean smiled as she reached Ororo's side. Jean was also a telepath, and knew exactly what Ororo was thinking, but said nothing to her friend's (misguided) insecurity. Instead, she said, "I probably shouldn't ask if this rain is your doing."
"Not if you want to find out what its like to be hit by a lightning bolt."
Jean laughed softly and shrugged. "The students have come to the conclusion that they should bribe you to make it stop."
They began walking together down the corridor. Jean was holding a manilla folder in one hand and a cell phone in the other. "Charles just called to tell me how the negotiations are going," she said, holding the phone up with a smile. "He's going to keep me informed, but I have to check up on our mystery house guest now."
Ororo knew that the phone was superfluous when it came to two telepaths communicating, but she said nothing. "Charles thinks it would be wiser if he kept his communications to a more...usual medium," Jean said, as she heard Ororo thinking. "Some people might see it as colluding with his mutant flunkies. That is the last thing we need."
Ororo nodded. Charles was meeting with representatives from one of the independent committees looking into the school's operations, to head of a full investigation. He'd left for Washington earlier that day, and as far as anyone could see, he would be there for quite some time. "So how is the boy?"
Jean sighed in response. They reached the elevator doors, which were shiny and reflective, and Jean punched a code into a keypad set into the wall beside it. The keypad let out a little beep and the sound of the elevator cables humming could be heard. They watched the numbers above the door illuminate green in ascending order, and neither spoke for a few seconds. Jean fixed her green eyes on Ororo, then, and asked, "Were they fighting in there?" Her face was like that of a child awaiting punishment. She bit her lower lip.
Ororo smiled. "They had a small disagreement over procedure."
Jean's expression hardened then. "Which is to say they were fighting. Again."
"Logan and Scott will never see eye to eye, Jean. You above all should know that."
Jean nodded as the doors slid open before them. They entered the little space before them and Jean punched the button marked 'MED LAB', and the elevator began to glide down. "They think alike, sometimes," Jean said. She was staring ahead of her, not really looking at anything.
Ororo incline her head. She did know what Jean was saying - it was hard not to notice that Logan and Scott's clashes had more to do with matters of the heart than anything else. Scott was protective of Jean, and their bond was strong, but Ororo could tell something compelled Jean towards Logan, even though Scott and Jean were due to marry in the near future. "And this boy seems to have given them a reason to get on each other's nerves. They do tend to look for the slightest reason to argue."
Jean nodded. Ororo was right. Logan and Scott needed to have conflict to relate to each other. They were polar opposites, and could find no common ground between them, except for their love of the same woman.
The elevator doors slid open and Jean tried to push all wayward thoughts from her mind, which was easier said than done for a telepath, and they entered the cool white sterility of the med lab.
They approached the only occupied bed in the lab, and Jean opened the file. Ororo leaned over the boy's sleeping face to look at him. He was handsome, and looked almost angelic with his shiny blonde hair. Ororo touched his forehead lightly and prayed that this boy would find where he belonged. "What do we know about him?" She asked Jean in a whisper.
Jean sighed in response. "Some kind of trauma triggered the coma," she said with an air of detachment, as she consulted a monitor beside the bed. "But for the life of me, I can't figure out what sort of trauma that was. Every test I've run so far has told me nothing, except that he is a perfectly fit, healthy young man."
Ororo straightened, then folded her arms over her chest. "Have we checked the missing persons database for a match?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"Nothing."
"Have you spoken to Logan about the night he brought the boy in?"
Jean sighed again. "Not yet. I think Scott's interrogation was thorough enough. But I do know Logan didn't tell Scott the full story."
Jean jotted something in the folder and placed in on the metal cabinet beside the bed. "I can tell you, I've been tempted to see if I can go in and pull this kid out of the coma, or at least find out who he is."
Ororo nodded. The frustrations of the past weeks were starting to show on Jean's face. Dark circles were starting to form under her eyes.
"I don't think Charles would approve of it, though."
Jean shrugged. Charles had warned her about invading another person's mind if they are unwilling or unable to give consent. And she understood his reasoning behind it, and it was for those reasons that she resisted. Her powers of telepathy were not as advanced as Charles', and it sometimes scared her to know that one day she would be as powerful as him. Even know she heard the random thoughts of the pupils in the dorms above them, and it took her a great deal of discipline to shut them out to a dull background noise, like a radio searching for a channel.
"I think this kid is one of us," Jean said as she leaned in and checked his pulse. Her red hair fell over her face as she did so.
"Why is that?"
"I guess its more of a feeling than anything else. He may not be aware of it himself yet, but I am definitely picking up some...I don't know....Energy patterns...Emanating from him."
""How old do you think he is?"
"At a guess I'd say between sixteen and eighteen. Just about the right time for mutant powers to start surfacing."
"Logan said he was being attacked by a bunch of skinheads. Maybe they saw his power manifesting...." Ororo didn't want to finish the sentence. The sheer revulsion of such an act made her shudder. From the sounds of things, the skinheads were most likely a part of a dangerous fringe group calling themselves The Friends of Humanity. The group was slowly growing and had become a rising political power, especially in the south. The Friends of Humanity preached purity and goodness to the masses by way of denouncing those different from them. Mutants, homosexuals, Asians, blacks and Russians were all damned and impure and would burn in the fires of hell for eternity. They had the ears of politicians, the clergy and, most scary of all, the media.
"If he is a mutant, and he doesn't know about it, then we have an obligation to help him."
Jean nodded, gravely. "Logan did the right thing," she said softly, touching the boy's forehead one more time. Then she smiled at Ororo. "But don't tell him I said that."
Logan sniffed at the air as he walked towards the pond just behind the mansion. The rain was now just a gentle drizzle, and felt almost warm on his skin. The earth smelled swollen with moisture, and the air was thick with a musty, sweet fragrance. The pond's surface was still being disturbed by the steadily falling rain, and it looked as if the body of water was shivering. Logan looked down at his distorted reflection in the surface, and sat on the edge, where the reeds were growing tallest.
He often came out here when he felt like Cyclops was looking for a reason for him to slit his throat. Slitting your team leader's throat wasn't really the done thing in civilised society, but who ever said Logan was civilised. Jean once said he was "barely house trained", and it made him smile. In a way, Xavier's school was giving him a reason to rejoin the rest of the world, and allowing him to do it with relative anonymity. Well, as much anonymity as one without a past could have.
Charles Xavier was a decent man in Logan's eyes, and he believed the man when he promised to help him fill in the blanks about his life. Charlie Xavier knew how hard it was for Logan to remember anything from even ten years ago, and it concerned Xavier that neither he nor Jean could fully delve into Logan's mind; whoever screwed with his head and erased his past must have done a bang up job if the most powerful telepath in the world couldn't penetrate it. But they were making progress, and it taxed both Logan and Xavier to retrieve even the simplest memory or snippet of one.
Logan broke off a reed and ran his fingers along its edge. His thick black hair was clinging to his face cheeks and forehead, and there was no other sound out there except his own breathing. He looked out over the surface of the pond and caught a whiff of a familiar perfume; it smelled like jasmine and citrus, and it was everything that was sweet with the world. He knew Jean was approaching behind him, and he was impressed that he hadn't heard her approach. Must be letting his guard down. "Did fearless leader send you out here, Jean? See what else I ain't tellin' him?" Logan said. He did not turn around. She was standing directly behind him.
"How could you tell it was me?"
"One of the draw backs of having an acute sense of smell is that you can identify someone just by their scent."
"Do I have a distinctive smell?"
"Everyone does. You mask yours with perfume and deodorant. But there's no masking it."
Jean knelt beside him but he still refused to look at her. "Scott didn't send me out here. I haven't spoken to him all morning, but I know about your argument."
"Eavesdropping again?"
"Its hard to keep anything from a telepath."
Logan smiled, but still didn't turn around. Jean touched his shoulder lightly and tilted her head to look at his face. Unlike Scott, Logan had a very blunt, rough face, which was not unattractive. His eyes alone told the story of his time on this world, and how long that was, nobody knew. Not even him. At times he seemed to have limitless energy and vitality, then he would crash and burn, and nobody would want tot get in his way. His mutant ability to heal wounds rapidly came in handy when he was on a mission, but there is no healing factor for the soul. Logan search for himself was causing him more pain than any external wound, and Jean wished there was more she could do for him.
"Summers don't understand what it's like to be unwanted," Logan growled, pushing his knuckles hard into the cool wet earth. "That puts him out of touch with the rest of us here. He thinks leadership is about ego, and it ain't. It's the complete opposite."
"Scott never got the chance to feel unwanted. His parents were killed in an accident when he and his brother were young. Charles took him in, and Scott has always tried to be the best he can be, to prove himself worthy Charles' approval."
Logan sighed. "Still don't make him a nice person."
"Is this more about you and Scott than the welfare of the boy?"
"You know me, any excuse to get into an argument with Cyclops. He could do me some real damage. If he tried."
Jean let out a breath and hooked her arm around Logan's. "Nothing has been the same since you moved into the school, you know that?"
Logan turned his head and breathed in her scent like it was the smell of his sweetest memories, and put a hand on her head. Her cheek rested on his broad shoulder and his roughened hand looked so odd compared with her shiny, smooth beauty. "Yeah," he replied. "I think I'm starting to get it."
Bobby Drake leaned against a wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared ahead of him, through a huge one way mirror. On the other side was a large, cylindrical room that the students trained in to hone their mutant abilities. Xavier Apparently had the room's walls re enforced with titanium alloy and cement, and built it so far underground that not even the largest explosion would be noticed anywhere else. The kids affectionately called it the "Danger Room" and the name stuck. Xavier preferred that they call it the "training centre" to add a bit of legitimacy to it, but even he called it the Danger Room now.
It was here that Bobby was able to unleash his mutant power to freeze the air around him, and even transform his body into living ice, and since those first few awkward times, he had reached a stage where he was able to concentrate his power and manipulate it, and use it in a battle type situation. Xavier was harder on his students in the Danger Room than with their theoretical assignments; "In the real world, you won't have the chance to do a make up exam."
Some of the pupils used the Danger Room as an avenue of release when the world was treating them harshly. Others used it to get in shape. Bobby watched now as two students faced off against one another; the first, a lanky boy with a floppy blonde haircut, whose name was Sam Guthrie, a nice guy with a southern drawl you could tar a road with, and Jonathon Starsmore, an English boy who preferred to keep to himself on account of the missing lower half of his face. Just beneath his nose, his face exploded into raw energy which looked not unlike an electrical fire. His deep brown hair fell in limp tendrils over his eyes, which were locked on Guthrie with fierce anticipation. If Bobby were going to bet on the outcome of this match, he'd put his money on Starsmore, who liked to call himself "Chamber".
Guthrie leapt into the air as Starsmore projected his energy towards him, then, as he flipped in the air, he let his power loose and the lower half of his body turned into something that resembled the propulsion jet on the back of a plane. This sent Guthrie hurtling towards Starsmore with his fists outstretched before him. Starsmore took the blow in the stomach and they both went crashing straight into the wall behind them. The window before Bobby shook. Bobby leaned closer to see if they were okay, and saw the pair of them in a twisted heap against the wall.
Starmore's voice - which was projected from his conscious thought rather than his mouth, which didn't really exist - echoed inside Bobby's head. "Was that completely necessary, Guthrie?" His English accent was clipped and harsh.
"Nope," Guthrie replied breathlessly, as he pulled himself up on his elbows. "Ah can't control the direction of muh power once I start up. At least, not yet. The professor's helpin' me get a handle on it."
Starsmore stood up, and brushed off the lapels of his black vinyl jacket. It was made from the same material as his pants. "Just pray you get a handle on it before Xavier sends you out on a mission. That sort of undirected attack will land us all in trouble."
"Ah am tryin', Chamber! But it ain't easy. I gotta really concentrate to control it. You wouldn't know anythin' about it."
Chamber glared at Guthrie. His eyes were hollow, like a scarecrow's. "I'd know quite a lot about self control, Guthrie. Like having to keep an explosion of energy contained in one's body when all it wants to do is burst out? Like having to ensure that your power doesn't rip open the other half of your head? That is what I call concentration, mate. You just have to point yourself in the right direction."
Chamber walked off without a glance behind him. Bobby descended a flight of metal stairs and approached the thick metal doors that closed off the Danger Room, just as Chamber was exiting. "Don't you think you were being a little hard on him?" He said. Chamber regarded him with a raised eyebrow- one of the few facial expressions he could actually pull off.
"No. I think he was being an idiot."
Bobby sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Chamber a frown. "Give him a break. He hasn't been here that long and he's still learning. You're his training buddy. You should be encouraging him."
"I did not ask to be stuck babysitting some hick who can't control his powers."
Chamber walked away from Bobby and Bobby entered the Danger Room with a sigh. Sam Guthrie was toweling himself off. His hair was damp with perspiration. He looked up as Bobby approached. His baby face was troubled. "That guy gives me the creeps," he said, motioning towards the general direction of Chamber's departure. "And he's not a real good teacher."
Bobby shrugged and smiled. "He's just uptight. It's the British upbringing."
"Ah think he hates me."
Bobby put a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam was probably right. Chamber probably did hate him, and everyone else at the school. He even resented Professor Xavier and the X-men for wanting to help him. Bobby could only guess at what he'd been through. Maybe his anger was justified.
"Don't worry about him. Let's go get some lunch."
"Professor Xavier. Please take a seat."
The moment he looked up from the paper in his hands, Robert Frost knew he'd put his foot in it. Charles Xavier wheeled himself into the office in a motorised wheelchair. His smooth scalp shone in the fluorescent light and he had an amused look on his face. "I don't think that will be a problem, Mr. Frost."
Frost stood bolt upright and raised his hands in a gesture of contrition. "Professor, I am so sorry..."
Xavier held up a hand. "It's perfectly fine, Mr. Frost."
"Call me Robert."
"I'd like to thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Robert. I hope our meeting can resolve some of the concerns we all have."
Frost smiled in response, and there was a trace of apprehension to it. Even meeting with Xavier was venturing into hazardous territory these days, and he didn't want to even think about what the other members of the committee would say. But there was something about Xavier and his School that struck a chord with Frost. He'd seen many exceptional Schools doing great work in his time with the department of education, and he'd also seen some of the worst. He'd talked to headmasters who'd just given up, and walked walked through schools that had fallen into disrepair, but Charles Xavier had always seemed so fiercely protective of his students and proud of his school. The school itself was breathtaking; a sprawling mansion sitting on a huge, well attended property on the outskirts of Westchester, New York. And he had spoken to Xavier a few times over the phone, seen his face on the television, and had no idea that the guy was in a wheelchair. His cheeks burned as he spoke. "I would appreciate your discretion regarding this meeting, professor."
Xavier nodded solemnly. "You have my word. And please, call me Charles."
"If it wasn't for your reputation I don't think you would have even got this far."
"I can count my blessings and my friends in high places." Xavier said with a smile.
Frost gave a little nod to Xaviers gentle humour. He rested his clasped hands on the manila folder in front of him, and his face suddenly switched to "all business mode".
"But this is a very serious matter Charles, and I'm afraid it's not going to go away."
"I'm not asking for the matter to be swept under the carpet. Just that I get a balanced investigation into the school, and not a witch hunt."
"Nobody wants that."
Xavier gave Frost a "you know better" look. Frost leaned back in his leather chair, and it squeaked musically. "Let's talk about the boy at the centre of this mess," he went on, slowly. "Dane Williams shows up at your school with bruises all over his body."
"Thats right. He told me his father was responsible, and that he was scared. I did not think twice about taking the boy in."
"A compassionate gesture on your part."
"Any right minded person would have done the same thing."
Frost nodded and breathed heavily through his nostrils. Frost looked older than his forty years at that moment, his forehead creased into a frown. His dark hair was beginning to show flecks of grey and his whole body looked like it had been all but but drained of its youth already. Xavier tried hard not to listen to the man's thoughts before he spoke. "Thats true enough, professor, but it would also occur to a right minded person to call the police as well. It baffles me why you didn't."
Xavier let out a sigh. "The local police have been less than helpful with similar situation in the past. They seem to only respond when there is a complaint about the school's activities."
"Okay. Let's put that aside for a moment and concentrate on a much larger issue: Did the boy ask to leave the premises on any occasion after that?"
"You mean, did I keep him against his will? Of course not! All my students are free to leave at any time."
Frost held up his hands in response. "Sorry. I just had to ask. The boy's father has been quite adamant about it."
"The boy's father is a violent drunkard who inflicted serious wounds on his son. I cannot believe that anyone is taking him seriously." Xavier was getting frustrated. Frost was just playing devil's advocate, not really listening but throwing up questions. Xavier knew this man wanted to help, and he didn't want to break any rules doing it. Sometimes its the people who sit back and do nothing that can cause serious damage.
"The sad fact is, people do take things like this seriously. And if the committee finds that any of the allegations made by him are true, then I'm afraid Xavier's school may be forced to close."
Detective Vic Morgan blew smoke out through his nostrils and looked at the ambulance officer with ice green eyes that unnerved even the hardest criminals. The man had just told him how they found two men dead and another a screaming mess. The first man had apparently thrown himself in front of oncoming traffic, according to several witnesses, and the second had slashed his own wrists. The third man was found in a fetal ball, yelling and squealing like he was possessed. He had tried to throw himself out of the ambulance and it took three officers to properly restrain him. It was no secret that all three men were part of the Friends of Humanity, or one of it's fringe groups, and all kinds of pressure was now on Morgan to get to the bottom of the incident ASAP.
"The one who survived, none of what he said made sense," The ambulance officer said, and looked from side to side. He was young, but his eyes told the world they had seen too much. He smoked a cigarette that Morgan had offered, and his blue uniform shirt and black jacket marked him as a saviour. As he spoke, he watched the ambulances pull up into the bay, nodded at some of the officers wheeling gurneys into the ER, then looked back at Morgan. "He was ranting about the scourges of humanity, that the freaks had taken control, that a new world order will come, and cleanse the planet...Yadda yadda, and so forth. Since there was nothing physically wrong with him, there was only so much we could do. But he was threatening to kill himself when we weren't looking, so we bundled him off to psych ward on suicide watch."
Morgan scratched his chin, grunted. His square, unshaven jaw and blunt features made him look more like a hitman than a detective with the NYPD. For thirty eight, looked good. But he was only thirty one. He ran a hand over his close cropped brown hair, and flicked his cigarette butt away. "I don't suppose he's still here?" He asked.
The ambulance officer shook his head. "Not anymore. We only hold 'em for twenty four hours, usually."
Morgan nodded, and swore. The ambulance officer noticed his agitated look, and gave him a half smile. "Policy. He calmed down after a few hours. They had one of the psychologists look at him, and he seemed satisfied that this guy wasn't going to off himself, so they discharged him to free up some more space."
"And what did you think?"
The other man sighed and shrugged. "A lot of his type cross my path, detective Morgan, and I have learned not to make any assumptions and just do my best to help them." He sighed again, this time louder, and Morgan could see anger in his eyes. "These Friends of Humanity guys are no better then Nazis. They sicken me. If it were up to me, I'd have left him there to kill himself. But my opinions don't count much 'round here."
Morgan nodded. "What do you know about a boy they were chasing? Was he there when all this went down?"
Another shrug. "We showed up, scraped one guy off the road, bundled another into a body bag and restrained the only one left alive. The poor kid probably ran as far and as fast as he could. It isn't hard to imagine why they were chasing him." There was real disgust in his voice.
Morgan didn't need to join the dots on the other man's anger. Morgan had seen it many times, on the faces of those used to being on the receiving end of violence and hatred. He'd seen it on the faces of young black prostitutes, old Asian shopkeepers, and gay men. In Morgan's eyes, this man's anger was not only justified, but understandable. Morgan thanked him for his time, shook his hand, commended him on his good work. He was met with a weary smile and a similar commendation, and he walked back to his car, thinking about the story that was slowly emerging in his case notes. And the questions were mounting:
Why did one man throw himself in front of a moving vehicle?
Why did another slit his own wrists?
What stopped the third from following suit?
And, most importantly, what happened to the boy they were pursuing through the streets only moments before? Did he meet a grisly end at his own hand, or at the hands of the unfortunate zealots?
Too many things did not add up. Nobody saw what happened between the boy and the other men, even if twenty people were standing around at the time. New Yorkers have temporary blindness when it comes to certain things, because they don't want to become involved. Morgan opened his car door and sat with his hands on the steering wheel for a long time, just trying to get his bearings. Where could he go from here? The hospital records did not yield a name or address for the third zealot, and the boy seemed like a dead end. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and scrutinised his random jotting like they were written in a dead language. The ink ran in places where rain splashed onto the paper, and coffee stains obscured the pages even more. The only person he could talk to had just walked out of hospital and may as well have burrowed into a haystack.
He rested his chin on the steering wheel and watched as a light shower assaulted the windscreen. He tried to think: where would a fringe dwelling zealot go to hide? Surely he wouldn't run straight to The Friends of Humanity for help? The Friend of Humanity had a compound Not far out of Westchester, on a sprawling acreage enclosed by huge brick walls. And they didn't like visitors.
Morgan considered his options for a few more seconds, and straightened in his seat. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly and started the car.