The next day, Scott was back at Valensky's planning table again. Bright and early, he'd slipped out of the school and onto the highway. Now, Sonya was explaining the details of how her miracle machine worked instead of how it would be used.
"Okay, explain this to me," Scott said, examining the blue print of the final model, which, unlike its current version, was a nondescript, cylindrical tube.
"Well, it uses radiation, as you already know. In a normal," she paused awkwardly, "uh, in an unmutated human, doses of radiation this powerful damage the cells of the body." Sonya pulled out a diagram showing the breakdown of the "normal" human cells exposed to radiation. "I'm sure you've heard of the Hiroshima victims." Scott nodded.
"The residual radiation from the atom bomb we dropped completely decimated the city. People were suffering radiation poisoning for months afterward – third degree burns, low white counts, and keloids, among other things. Survivors were practically ripped apart," he said solemnly.
"Right, but I have found that there is quite a different effect when the same levels of radiation are applied to mutants," Sonya continued, excitement building in her voice. She pulled another sheet of paper out and hastily scribbled a sketch. "Instead of suffering the detrimental effects that the non-mutants went through, they came out of the radiation as healthy as ever. Well, with the exception of their mutation. I actually didn't realize anything was happening to them until I put in an obviously physically mutated test subject. Imagine my surprise when he came out in his unmutated form! On a molecular level, his active mutation had completely disappeared. It's my theory, that the mutated part of the DNA sacrifices itself to protect the overall health of the mutant. Eventually, the mutation does 'grow' back as the mutant makes more cells, which have 'live' mutation genes in them." Scott was watching her doodle with rapt fascination.
"But what happens to the sacrificed mutation? Is it destroyed?" he asked, trying to follow Sonya's rushed explanation. Jean always was better at this sort of thing.
"No, it's more like the gene is reverted back to its dormant stage – like it was before manifestation. Fascinating, isn't it? Of course, it's only been tested on artificially mutated rats. I have no idea where I could find a person to test on. My funding's gone, my credibility's completely evaporated, and all of my contacts have 'forgotten' that they know me!" Sonya finished forlornly, tiredly running a slender hand through her hair. There was a moment of silence before Scott spoke softly.
"Sonya, would you like to test on me?"
Amidst the junk in Sonya's garage-like lab, Scott sat before the still nameless machine, watching Sonya. She was muttering something about a rate of absorption and yanking on the front of the machine. There was a loud snap as the piece she was jerking on popped off.
"There," Sonya said with satisfaction. "Now I can put on this piece here…" she murmured as she easily clicked on a bulkier part and stood triumphantly beside her creation. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Absolutely," Scott answered resolutely. They'd spent most of the day running tests on him, taking notes, and filling out forms. He was actually starting to get antsy, anticipation overpowering his usual patience.
"I've never done this on a person before, Scott," she said for the millionth time. "I don't know what the side effects might be."
"I know. We filled out the forms, Sonya. My signature's on everything. I'm a perfectly willing test subject." You won't be responsible if I die.
"Do you really trust me that much?" Sonya asked dubiously.
"No," Scott answered bluntly. "I'm that desperate." Sonya cast her eyes to the floor in silence. After I moment, Scott tried to lighten the mood with, "But hey, let's get this show on the road, huh?" Sonya nodded slowly and began putting on her goggles and lead apron. "Uh, am I going to need any of that stuff?" Scott asked, the first bit of uncertainty creeping into his voice. Sonya pushed a few buttons on the machine before she answered. The machine began humming loudly as it built up the power it needed to project the radioactive beam.
"No. Your mutation is in every cell in your body, so we need to treat all of you," she shouted over the hum, which was quickly building to a roar. The machine reached an almost deafening scream, and Sonya yelled, "Here we go!" Then she flipped a switch, and the machine fell silent, a relatively small beam of pure radiation shooting out of it and growing to become an insurmountable wall. Scott didn't have time to think before his body was engulfed in white hot light that burnt through to the bone and out the other side of him. He didn't know how long he felt like that, time suspended in inanimate limbo. He knew he bit his lip through. The metallic tang of his own blood leaked across his tongue. At least he didn't scream.
At last, Sonya turned off the beam, and Scott crashed back to Earth. She was at his side in an instant, checking his pulse and breathing. Scott blearily opened his eyes from his position on the floor. Now, he was flat on his back with no idea as to how he'd gotten there. But that wasn't the only thing he noticed. One of the first things that popped into his head was the realization that his world was still painted in shades of red. His heart sunk, and his stomach panged with despair. It hadn't worked.
"Scott! Are you okay?" Sonya's worried voice broke through his cloudy mind.
"I'm okay," he assured her. She looked at him doubtfully, seeing the tears that had slipped passed his visor and the small traces of blood highlighting his lower lip. "I'm fine," Scott repeated, feeling a little more secure in the words as he began to sit up. Sonya let him, though she looked like she was waiting for him to collapse on the spot.
"Do you feel any different?" she asked with genuine curiosity. Not that she mentioned it, he did feel… off. He couldn't identify how or where it felt weird. It wasn't exactly a bad feeling – just… strange.
"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "Something's changed, but I don't know…" Sonya's cool fingers pressed against his neck.
"Your pulse is almost back to normal. Breathing sounds good," she said, grabbing a chart from his old physical. His eyes hadn't been studied since he'd settled into Xavier's, so the information was over a decade old, but it was all they had. "Okay, read that chart for me, please," she said, gesturing to an old eye chart she'd taped onto a wall about 20 feet away. Scott read off all of the letters he could until Sonya stopped him. "Obviously, your vision hasn't been affected. I think it's safe to open your eyes now, Scott. Close your eyes," she said, gentle hands fluttering to his visor and lifting it off his face. Scott let her, obligingly closing his eyes.
"I don't know," he said quickly. "We haven't done any tests to see if my mutation has been changed or not." The last time he'd opened his bare charged eyes, he'd blown a hole through the roof of a 12-story hospital. He'd been on ground level.
"Okay, so we'll test it outside. It's okay. The worst that can happen is that we give the neighbors a light show," she persuaded. Reluctantly, Scott let her lead him outside. As she opened the door, he felt the crisp evening air rush into the lab and remembered the 18 months that he'd lived blind on the streets. "Alright, you're all clear. Just tilt your head back and open your eyes," Sonya said cheerily after leading him a few feet into the street. Fear bubbled up from his gut as he leaned his head back as far as he could and opened his eyes.
He saw blue.
A beautiful cerulean blue with the faintest trace of a stark white, whispy cloud right on the verge of his vision. Another realization struck him.
He was seeing color.
"Sonya, am I blowing anything up?" he asked breathlessly.
"No," she answered with a huge smile. "Your eyes are completely normal." Scott turned his face from the sky to take in the rest of the world. After being deprived of colors for so long, his eyes were hyperalert. There wasn't much grass on the broken down street, but he saw what little there was in a billion-shade spectrum of greens. The asphalt beneath his feet glimmered with a sparkle that would've put the most beautiful of diamonds to shame. A giant smile broke out on his face, and he turned around, taking in everything he could. The decrepit buildings were windowless and covered in obscene graffiti, but he saw passed that, his eyes mesmerized by the myriad of colors. Sonya came into his field of vision, and he saw a person in color for the first time in 15 years.
Sunlight lit up her lightly browned skin and the faintly red highlights in her dark hair. She was still in her ridiculously conspicuous lab coat, though this time it was worn over jeans and a dark blue sweater. The image was forever burned into his memory. She was beautiful. The world was beautiful. Suddenly, laughter bubbled up from his chest as the situation began to sink in.
He could see color. He wasn't shooting anything. He wasn't hurting anyone. He was normal.
The words floated through his mind like a mantra over and over, fueling his euphoria. Sonya was beaming as well, though for far different reasons. Her machine had worked! All the possibilities for her future flowed like a rapid river in her head; she would win a Nobel Prize for sure, get grants for future research, make millions selling her work to private companies. And it was all thanks to the man in front of her. Scott had calmed a bit, reigning his laughter in to a smile that reached from one ear to the other.
"It's a new world for mutants now, Scott. It's a new world for you," she said, watching him take in his own "new world" with rapt fascination.
Ororo's head was pounding. She'd gotten through all of her classes, including the ones she was still teaching for Scott, and the tour of the mansion she'd taken Hank on at the professor's request. Now, her head was positively pulsating, and she was more than ready to turn in for the day.
"Ms. Munroe!" a lone student called from down the hall. Reluctantly, Ororo turned to face the youth, hoping that the boy didn't need help with homework or a trip to the store. As long as someone needed something, her bubble bath would have to wait. The young man approached with a frown. "Is Mr. Summers at a meeting or something?"
"Not that I'm aware of, Andrew. Why?" she asked curiously.
"Well, it's just that he wasn't in class today, and we didn't have a sub or anything," the boy explained. He paused before continuing in a low voice, "Did you guys have to do, ya know, X-men stuff?" Ororo frowned, trying to come up with a feasible reason for Scott to have disappeared.
"I'll look in to it. Did your class fall behind its schedule?" she asked, trying to draw his attention away from her confusion.
"No, Mr. Summers leaves his lesson plan on his desk and Bobby was there, so we just did what was under today's date. Bobby's a genius in World War II stuff, and that's the section we're on, so I guess it evened out. "Is Mr. Summers okay?" Andrew persisted. Ororo sighed, exhaustion oozing out of every pore of her body.
"I'm sure he's fine. Professor probably just called him away to run some errands or something," Ororo assured the student. "Now, I happen to know that you have an essay due for me tomorrow. Are you finished with it?" Andrew's eyes widened and drifted sheepishly to the floor.
"Uh, not quite, but…" he paused, searching for an excuse. "Well, g'night, Ms. Munroe," he said with false cheer.
"Good night, Andrew," she said, though his form was already retreating toward his room. Well, it looked like her day wasn't over yet. She walked down the hall, reluctantly passing her own room to stop in front of Scott's door. No light shone from the crack beneath the door, and no sound filtered through. Regardless, she knocked politely, just to be sure. After a moment, she tried the knob and found it to be unlocked. Hoping she wasn't disrupting anything, she opened the door and stepped over the threshold. Immediately, her headache increased a thousand-fold, causing her to gasp in pain. Scott wasn't in the room, but Ororo couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone.
"Scott?" she called as she flicked on the light. His things were still in place… as were Jean's. He just couldn't bring himself to pack her things. It was almost as though he expected her to come home. Sadly, she looked around the room for any clues he might have left. The room was extremely neat with a harshly made bed and a clutterless dresser. Well, on one side at least.
Jean's side of the room had old knick knacks lying all over the place, on her dresser, her desk, her nightstand… Jean's wall was coated with paintings that students had made for her and Scott. There was a small bulletin board full of sticky notes and push pins. She'd certainly been a busy woman. Scott merely had a mirror and a few pictures on his wall.
There was one lone sticky note on the mirror, its bright pink color in stark contrast to the rest of his room. The actual sticky was, of course, from Jean's side – it's ridiculously cheery color betrayed that, but the note was completely Scott. It said:
Went out. Be back soon.
Don't call, cell off.
Don't worry.
Most definitely a rushed note. "Went out," that was very vague for a person who made students sign out before they left campus, especially when the note ended in "don't worry." She'd known him a long time, and those words usually meant Scott was into something he had no business in.
"Don't worry," is what he'd told them when he'd gotten the "great" idea to raid the professor's wine cache the night before exams. "Don't worry," were his words when he'd suggested that the team take a "flying lesson" down to Marti Gras without the professor's knowledge. "Don't worry," never resulted in anything good. Ororo groaned.
Her headache still hadn't let up, and it felt like her head was going to implode. One hand on her head, she perched on the edge of Scott's bed and picked up his bedside phone. He'd said not to call, but she could still leave a message. An angry message. As much as he complained about Logan's irresponsibility, you'd think he would know better than to abandon his classes on a whim! She dialed and waited patiently, though she didn't have to wait long. Scott's cell immediately clicked to voicemail, verifying that it was, indeed, turned off.
"Scott, where-" A lightning bolt of pain streaked through her skull, causing her to drop the phone and crumple to the floor, tears streaming from her eyes as an anguished cry slipped passed her lips.
Ororo? she heard the professor's alarmed telepathic question echo in her mind, distorted to the point that she could barely understand her own name. She remained like that for several long moments before resurfacing, without pain but with a new voice in her head. It was an eerily familiar voice that both comforted and scared her. Jean's. But it wasn't a voice so much as a new insightful clarity, a sudden burst of chaotic thoughts and memories, none of which were her own. There were things that Ororo now just knew.
Jean was alive; she'd never died. Logan had found her, and there were in a motel just east of Alkali. Jean wasn't exactly stable. She needed Scott.
Ororo, feeling completely normal, opened her eyes and sat up, smoothing her snow white hair as she did so. With apathetic calm, she put the fallen and forgotten phone back on its hook, doubtlessly leaving a frightening message on Scott's cell. Suddenly, chewing Scott out for skipping his classes seemed ridiculously petty. Her friend was rotting in some crap motel; she had to go get her.
"Ororo?" Xavier asked, rushing into the room. He'd gotten an immense shot of pain and had lost all contact with the room's sole occupant a few moments before. It was like she'd been surrounded by mental shields stronger than any he'd ever seen. Now, everything seemed fine. There were no traces of any discomfort at all from Ororo, who was sitting on Scott's floor, her back resting against his bed. "What happened?" he asked with concern.
"I don't know," she replied, rising to her feet, "but we have to go to Canada. Now."
"Canada?" he asked, surprised. Canada was where Logan had taken off to.
"I need you to find Scott," she continued, ignoring his startlement. "He'll want to come with me."
"Ororo, what's going on?" Charles asked anxiously. One of his X-men needing to cross the border – understandable. But two? Something was definitely going on. Ororo turned to look at him with something akin to annoyance.
"Jean wants us to pick her up from the motel," she said as if she were explaining something very simple to someone who has temporarily lost their sanity. Charles continued watching Ororo blankly. "The motel Logan took her to… after he found her at Alkali…" she continued, trying to spur up knowledge that he really shouldn't have known. Suddenly, it clicked.
Logan had confided that he'd been having strange dreams about their mishap at Alkali. Xavier had dismissed them, telling Logan that his already delicate mind was having trouble incorporating another trauma into his psyche. He'd given Logan the address of a local therapist (not that Logan would actually consider the idea) and told him to get some rest. A few weeks later, Logan had disappeared for Canada, declaring Jean alive and waiting. Now, Ororo was hell-bent to pick her supposedly dead friend up from a motel. Ororo wasn't one for the supernatural, so either two of his X-men were sharing a delusion or… Jean was alive.
"My god," Charles whispered, his voice filled with awe. If Jean was alive (he could hardly believe he was even thinking something so unlikely), her telepathic powers would've had to have evolved astronomically for her to have contacted Logan and Ororo from Canada. Clearing his mind, Charles began telepathically searching for Scott. After a moment, he looked up. Scott wasn't on campus; he was coming off of the highway a few miles away. "He's coming," Charles said, realizing how tired such a small exertion had made him. He certainly wasn't in his prime anymore. "Why don't you go meet him in the front yard?" he suggested, hiding his tiredness. Ororo nodded quickly and started down the hall at a jog.)
Jean was floating contently on the cusp of sleep. She felt warm with soft feather blankets above her and Scott's chiseled chest under her face. Her fingers skimmed over his chest, his stomach, and his thighs languidly. A smile tugged on the corners of her mouth as he started to squirm beneath her attentions. His hand caught hers, gently leading it back up to his shoulder. She frowned, though it was really more of a pout, and tried to free her hand, so she could go back to exploring.
"Jeannie, wake up," a rough voice said, making Scott's chest rumble. Wait, her sleep-addled mind managed to think, Scott's not here. Again, her fingers trailed over the t-shirt clad chest. Scott didn't wear t-shirts…
"Logan!" she squeaked as she shot up in bed, eyes wide open. Her mind raced to retrace her steps to discover how she'd wound up sleeping with someone other than Scott.
The man in her dream wasn't the only illusion. The sheets covering their bodies were scratchy and smelled of way too much bleach instead of the lilac scent that she'd imagined. The sunlight from her dream had been replaced with a dim but harsh lamp light in the room's opposite corner. The sea breeze that had felt so perfect brushing along her skin and had sounded wonderful rushing through her ears had been swapped for a rattling old air conditioner that made the room far too cold. And the book that had been lying in Scott's lap was traded for the remote to the TV resting just above Logan's knee.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, climbing out of the bed. "I wasn't awake. I thought you were… someone else."
"It's alright, Red," Logan said, hiding his slightly wounded pride. "What's a little groping between… us, right?"
"Exactly," she said with a small smile, relieved he was letting her off the hook this time. "I'm glad you understand. So, no need to mention this ever again." A pause. "Um, has anyone called?"
"You mean anyone from the mansion?" he asked as she studied herself in the smudged mirror outside the bathroom. "Nah, Scott and 'Ro left without calling, but Chuck called not too long after they left." A pause. "You could have told me they were coming." She turned from the mirror, looking a bit guilty.
"Sorry, it's just – Well, I called 'Ro without thinking really. With my head." A pause. "But you're right, I should have mentioned it. Uh, I'm going to get in the shower; I'm filthy," Jean said awkwardly.
"I bet. 3 months of lake water'll do that, I guess," he said in an attempt to lighten the suddenly constricting mood.
"3 months?!" Jean cried in amazement. "It seems like it was just yesterday! I thought that it was odd that no one was there but you! I was wondering why no one else was looking for me!" she continued in a rush.
"We did look for you, Jean. All of us did. For almost a month if I remember right. We scanned the lake over a thousand times, but we couldn't find anything. Scott wanted to keep looking – said you were still down there. I guess he was right," Logan explained, dropping his head as he realized how viciously he'd fought Scott on staying at the lake.
"But Scott's not the one that came for me, is he?" she asked coldly, one cool hand cupping his face. Logan's eyes darted up, locking onto hers. There was a fire there, a passion that was new to her. Suddenly, Logan was wary of her; she wasn't in full control behind those eyes.
"You'd better get in the shower. It won't be long before they get here," he said, keeping his face neutral. He thought she might be offended by his rebuttal, but she just smiled sweetly.
"You're right, Logan. Thank you for looking out for me. I wouldn't want to be looking like this when Scott and Ororo get here." Jean turned and gracefully floated into the bathroom, humming as she went. "Oh, Logan – would you mind finding me some clothes?"
"Sure thing, Red," he called after her, still a bit dazed from her wild mood swings.
Scott was driving well over the speed limit on his way to the Canadian motel. Ororo was sitting next to him in the passenger seat, pretending to read some health magazine, but her eyes kept darting to the speedometer and out the window to the dreary evening outside. It probably wasn't a good thing that the needle was stuck at the bottom of the meter, meaning that they were going over 120 mph. She hated driving. It was so dangerous, especially when the driver insisted on going 50 miles over the speed limit. Of course, she wasn't about to say anything.
The silence in the van had taken over since she had explained why they had to drive to Canada. Scott hadn't acted surprised at all. He'd just popped the passenger door, and she'd climbed in. Ororo supposed that he was concentrating on the road; at least, she hoped he was. Dying wouldn't be a good thing right now. Scott shifted in his seat beside her, adjusting his seatbelt before continuing his wordless speeding. The silence was driving her crazy. Wasn't he excited? Didn't he want to jump up and down and scream to the world that he was the lucky guy who got the love of his life back from the dead? Didn't he want to… well, show some sort of emotion? He wasn't smiling or anything. Just driving.
Maybe he was excited in his head, but didn't want to show it. Maybe that's how adults acted. Ororo spent so much time around the students, who absolutely exuded emotions all the time, that maybe it just seemed odd to be around a normal, restrained adult. Still…
"Scott?" she asked softly, giving up on the magazine in front of her.
"Yeah?" he returned calmly, glancing over at her.
"Nothing." Maybe he was in shock... He shouldn't be acting so normal. They were going to pick up their formerly deceased friend, not a gallon of milk. "Are you excited?" she asked, piping up again.
"Yes," he answered simply.
"Really?"
"Yes." He was still staring intently at the road. She sighed.
"Well, I'm excited. I mean, this is great!" Ororo continued, a smile breaking across her face. "We've got her back! All that crying was for nothing!"
"Right," Scott answered, not sounding like he meant it in the least. "What exit did you say it was?"
"The next one. I wonder what we'll do with Henry now. I hope the professor will keep him around; he seems like a character, a good influence on the kids. How about you?" she said, still trying to make conversation.
"I'm sure he's great," Scott answered apathetically.
"You don't like him? I know you weren't thrilled about him coming, but now that you've met him?"
"He's fine, I guess. I don't know, 'Ro. I don't know the man!" he said, frowning at the windshield now.
"I like him," she said, ending the conversation. Scott turned off at the next exit sharply, causing the wheels to squeal and Ororo to grasp at the door handle. "Be careful," she warned, not caring how excited, or shocked, or whatever he was.
"I got it," he muttered, "relax," looking at the name of the motel, which was written on a notepad, which was shoved into a cup holder. "I've aced flying simulations harder than this."
"Yes, but those are simulations, Scott! There are no safety mechanisms here. Be careful," she said again. Scott tightened his jaw and continued to stare expressionlessly at the road. Ororo shifted in her seat and leaned her head against the cool window. She allowed herself to relax, distancing herself from the awkwardness in the van. Looking up at the sky, her eyes slowly clouded over until they were completely white. Thoughtlessly, Ororo swirled the clouds. It was one of her favorite things to do as a child. Normal children had to use their imaginations to see pictures in the clouds; Ororo just made the images she wanted to see. Unconsciously, the clouds began to form a picture she was very familiar with. Before too long, her father's face was smiling down at her, looking just as real to her as he had the day before he was taken from her with light filtering through the clouds in just the right places to give him a glowing ambiance. He'd been so happy that day…
Twelve year old Ororo raced over the African savannah with the speed and grace of any gazelle toward her father, who was standing on a mound of dirt squinting off into the distance. She reached him quickly and tugged on his arm sharply.
"Dad," she said in her native language, still trying to get his attention. "Dad, where are they?" Silently, her father pointed to a mere speck on the horizon. Ororo squinted determinedly, trying with all her might to focus on the small dot. "I don't see them!" she whined with a huff. Her father laughed, a rich sound that rolled across her, filling her with loving warmth. He leaned over and scooped her up onto his shoulders, giving her a better vantage point. Her father wasn't particularly strong by the village standards, but he had grown up on the Kenyan plains, which had given him lean muscles that made him a natural athlete. Ororo, too, was a small, lanky girl compared to the other girls her age in the village. Her black hair fell in waves around her face, half-hiding her deep brown eyes. Most of the girls in the tribe had the same eyes, but they kept their hair short. The other girls had mothers to cut their hair for them, but Ororo's mother had died many years ago, and so her hair hadn't been cut since. It was just one of the many things that the other village children teased her for. She was of the age to be married now, but the tribe had chosen not to give her away until next year, hoping that she would grow up and become beautiful if given another year to mature.
The wedding pairing was the event that she and her father were watching now. Men came from all over the area to compete in the wedding pairings. They had to compete in many events against each other, but the overall winner, who was decided upon by the elders, got first pick of that year's girls. Ororo didn't much care that she wasn't being paired. In her eyes, it was just one more precious year she could spend with her father, the only person in the tribe who really liked her. Ororo was too independent to make a good wife. Besides, she told herself, any husband that picked her would probably tease her just as much as the other village children. For now, she was happy.
"I see them!" she exclaimed with excitement, bouncing slightly on her father's shoulders. The men had finally come far enough to be seen, and they were running at a steady pace toward the village. "Here they come!"
There seemed to be one man who was at the forefront of the race. He was a man from a village 6 miles away, and he'd been doing outstandingly well in all of the contests.
"Hold on, Oro," her father said in his deep but gentle voice, using his nickname for her. Obediently, she grasped two handfuls of his thick hair and wrapped her legs tightly around his shoulders. Ignoring the death grip his daughter had on him, he started sprinting toward the village along the same route as the racers. Ororo giggled merrily, squealing with delight as they caught up and began passing men in the crowd of runners. Soon enough, her father had caught up with the lead man from 6 miles away. Ororo looked at him with a giant smile and laughed when the man, who was a good 6 inches taller than her father, nearly tripped himself in his surprise. Her father continued his easy lope right up to the finish line, eventually passing the lead man and reaching the group of people who were watching the race with fascination.
He slowed to a stop in the center of the crowd, which had parted around him. The crowd cheered, though her father wasn't actually a participant in the competition. With a broad smile, he swung the bright-eyed Ororo down from his shoulders, lowering her to the ground before the other racers arrived. The crowd cheered with renewed vigor as the actual racers ran into the clearing. Now forgotten in the turbulent crowd, Ororo's father ushered her out of the center circle, leaving the racers to their congratulations.
"You've still got it, Dad," she said when the reached the outermost rim of the cluster of people, which numbered about 60. Her happy, high-pitched giggles were wearing down, and she was becoming her usual docile self. Her father wasn't stupid; he saw the changes in his daughter when she was around the tribe. She became quiet, shy, and submissive. It was the only way she knew to avoid the other children's ruthless jibes. It made him burn with anger to see his little girl acting so out of character, but it wouldn't have to go on for much longer. Soon enough, he would be taking her out of the tribe to live with his sister in another village a few miles away. If Tahnka allowed it of course… Ororo, however, was oblivious to this information and was perfectly content to suffer the disdain of the rest of the group. She was with her Dad for another year, and if that meant that she had to be the brunt of the village's jokes, it was fine.
"Niko!" Tahnka, the village leader, called from a few yards away. Niko, Ororo's father, turned wearily. Relations between Tahnka and Niko had always been strained; it was just one more reason that Niko was planning on leaving. "Up to your trouble-making again?" Niko smiled a forced grin.
"Just having some fun, Tahnka," he said, wrapping a protective arm around Ororo's small shoulders. Tahnka was a huge, imposing man with muscles and a mean glare to boot. Ororo had learned early on that it was best to avoid him if at all possible; he also had a nasty temper. Tahnka looked at Ororo thoughtfully before turning back to her father.
"Of course. Enjoy it while you can, brother," Tahnka said as he turned away. Niko frowned slightly; they may be in the same tribe, but he was not, under any definition of the word, Tahnka's "brother."
"Is anything wrong, father?" Ororo asked, looking up at her father from her position on the ground. Niko brushed away his bad mood.
"Not at all," he replied, his carefree nature returning.
That night, while Ororo slept, low voices filled her tent. Men spoke in hushed tones just outside the tent flap, her father among them. Firelight from the torches that stood outside the entrance flickered in the warm night air, casting shadows along the tent wall above her resting form like a puppet show of silhouettes. Angry words were exchanged and a short scuffle took place, though Ororo would never know it. When she woke up, her loving father, the only person in the entire tribe who cared for her at all, was gone.
Snapping back to reality, Ororo blinked a few residual tears from her eyes, noticing that the already dreary sky had darkened considerably. She really needed to get a handle on her emotions lately. Wondering how long she'd been daydreaming, she glanced at the dashboard clock. 15 minutes – not too bad. Scott seemed to be as stoic as ever, she noticed as she began to get her bearings.
"We're here," he said as he pulled into the dingy motel's parking lot and stopped in front of the main office. Though Ororo had instinctively known precisely where the motel was, she couldn't remember the room number Logan and Jean were staying in. Shaking the last of the daydream fog from her mind, she hopped out of the SUV and casually walking into the front office to the get information, leaving Scott by himself in the dark car. As impassive as he'd been for the entire drive up, he was now surging with nerves.
Would she look the same? Did he? Had she been hurt? How had she survived? Why did she call Logan and Ororo but not him? That last question in particular bothered him.
His world was again bathed in red by the familiar filter that was his ruby quartz glasses. Sonya said that shed didn't know how long he would be under the radiation's effects, so it was safer for him to wear his glasses for the time being. Scott would know when his dread optic blasts returned in the same way that he'd know that something had changed when they disappeared. Maybe that was what he was really worried about. Would Jean still love him now that he was powerless? She'd always been so passionate about building her own mutation; would she think less of him for choosing to abandon his? It was, he reminded himself, only temporary. If Jean didn't like it, he could just wait for the radiation to wear off and then not visit Sonya for a follow-up. But would he be okay with going back to a red world? He certainly wasn't happy now, he realized as he fingered his glasses. Before he could follow that train of thought, Ororo popped open the passenger side door and hopped back into the seat beside him.
"They're in Room 328. That's just around the corner," she said quickly, excitement mounting in her voice. Obligingly, Scott drove around the corner and parked before a room emblazoned 328. This was it.
Jean came out of the bathroom, feeling fresh from her shower, and settled demurely on the couch, opposite from Logan. He was focusing on the TV and had barely spared her a glance on her way in. Now, she too stared at the TV, though she had no idea what was going on. It looked like it was related to hockey, but the puck had been replaced with some giant, heavy block that glided across the ice and there were no goals.
"What is this?" she asked softly. Logan looked at her as if trying to gage her wildly varying mood. Finally, deeming her safe to talk to, he spoke.
"Curling."
"Oh. Do you play?" she asked, trying to keep the conversation going. She felt oddly lonely…
"Nah, I'm too heavy," he answered.
"Oh," she said again. "Um, so, three months, huh?" He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
"Yeah," he said gently, "3 months." Jean paused before asking her next question, trying to determine how much emotion was behind his short answers.
"What was it like? After I…" she couldn't say it. She hadn't been dead, or she couldn't be alive, which she was.
"We looked for you, but we couldn't find anything. We were all feeling the strain, so Chuck took us home. Scotty wasn't doing so great," Logan explained delicately. Jean cocked her head slightly and squinted her eyes as if trying to remember some obscure fact she'd heard once upon a time.
"Did he… hurt you?" she asked slowly, testing the words to see if they fit. Logan shifted in his seat, an almost half-smile tugging on his lips.
"We got into a little… tussle, but nothing really happened. No big deal," he said, feeling a bit awkward. Jean frowned, sensing that there was more to the story. Logan sighed; he couldn't get anything past this woman. "Look, we were both under a lot of stress, and we needed someone to take it out on. It's out of our systems now." Jean's eyes returned to their normal size.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" she said with quiet surety. Logan raised an eyebrow, sensing that her emotions were about to go on another roller coaster ride. "Logan," she said, turning to him with an insane smile, "I see you." Logan frowned.
"Well, I am sitting right here, Red," he said. She continued as if he'd never spoken.
"Molecule by molecule," she began, revealing the scientist within. "It was never like this in the text books. And your mind…" That jigsaw puzzle mind of his was drawing her attention again, sucking her in with childlike fascination. Logan felt the eerie tingling at the base of his skull.
"Jean-" he began.
"But you don't want me in there," she said, whipping her head away and removing herself from his mind. She sat in calm silence for a moment. "And Charles wouldn't want me in there," she said, returning her vacant stare to the TV screen. Another minute ticked by, silent except for the sporting announcers and cheers coming from the speakers. "But Charles always did hold you back, Jean," she continued, talking, apparently, to herself. "He wouldn't let you reach your true potential; he's too afraid that-" Jean stopped speaking suddenly, her eyes wide and crazed and her body tense. Her voice dropped to a low tone that Logan only picked up on because of his enhanced senses. "He's afraid that you'll become more powerful than him, and he's sending his lackeys to get you!" she rushed on. Jean's demeanor changed completely. Her face took on a terrified look, and she huddled back into the couch. "What will they do to me?" she asked herself fearfully. Logan, watching in complete startlement, began slowly extending a hand toward her, like he would with a frightened animal. Jean had changed again, facial features reverting back to angry and hateful as she spoke. "They're going to hurt you! Tie you up and take your powers! Is that what you want?!" Scared Jean returned but not fully, melding with Angry Jean to make a face that looked almost like Normal Jean. Her babbling, however, was anything but normal. "No!" she exclaimed. "I have to fight them! I can't let them – Stay away from me!!" Jean cried wildly, slapping Logan's slowly nearing hand away. Now Logan stepped in.
"Jean, no one's going to hurt you," he said calmly, though the hair on the back of his neck was positively prickling. "We love you; we're your friends, remember?" Jean's eyes widened again.
"You! You're one of them! Stay away from me!" she screamed, telekinetically tossing him off the couch and throwing him into the TV with such force that Logan felt himself black out for a moment as electricity pulsed through his metal bones and sparks showered him from the demolished TV. He managed to roll away from the wreckage, rising to his feet before the electricity had fully left his body. The smell of his own scorched flesh assaulted his nose, but he took a step toward Jean, who was backed into the room's far corner.
"Jean, stop it! No one wants to hurt you!" he tried to exclaim.
"You stop it, you monster!" she cried back, smacking him with a surprisingly weak burst of power that only caused him to stagger back a step. She was getting weaker? She didn't look tired. He started forward again. Jean frantically hit him back through the bathroom wall, sending plaster and drywall up in a dust cloud through the room. Nope, definitely not getting weaker, Logan realized as he lifted himself to his feet. She couldn't control it.
"I don't wanna hurt you, Red!" he called, stepping back into the main room and hoping she wouldn't throw him again. She didn't, but she stood her ground. Logan took the moment to wipe some blood from a now healed head wound. "Jean, think about this," he said, regaining her attention. "Charles raised you; he took you in and loved you as one of his own. What has he ever done to hurt you?" Logan asked, slowly walking closer to the trembling Scared Jean. "He's not gonna hurt you now – no one is." Jean looked up at him, seeming to finally trust him.
"You promise?" she asked hopefully, looking at him with big, wet eyes. Logan nodded.
"Yeah," he confirmed gently. Suddenly, Jean lowered her head, and her eyes flickered closed. Something changed in her face, causing goosebumps to spread across his body as Angry Jean began to reemerge. Not risking another encounter with Normal Jean's crazed counterpart, Logan followed his instincts and tackled her. He wasn't sure what good it would do; she could just throw him off again, but something told him it was the best thing to do. His heavy body landed on top of her, dragging her to the ground and pinning her there. Jean screamed and lashed out with her hands instead of her telekinesis. Logan could handle physical attacks easily; he grabbed her flailing limbs and gently but firmly held her to the ground. Scott and Ororo chose that exact moment to kick down the motel room's door.
Scott stared at the door he was parked in front of… Room 328. Looking around the parking lot, he saw his motorcycle parked a few spots away, a sure sign that Logan was in the area. His eyes settled again on the room door in front of him, and he took a deep breath. His world was on the other side of that door. Ororo gently placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Are you ready?" she asked calmly, bright brown eyes boring into his. He nodded and slowly unbuckled his seatbelt. Following suit, Ororo got out of the car. The duo walked to the door and paused before knocking. Out of the corner of her eye, Ororo saw Scott smiling. She turned to him and happily returned the broad smile before raising her hand to knock. Before her hand made contact with the cheap door, a terrified scream leaked through the wall. Scott's eyes widened; that was Jean. Without any hint of hesitance, he nudged Ororo out of the way and kicked the door in, successfully shattering the wimpy lock. The door opened to reveal a disaster area.
Plaster dust was settling to the floor, masking the old gray carpet in a blanket of white. The wall to the room's bathroom was broken, explaining all of the plaster, and tile littered the floor. On the other side of the room, a shattered TV mixed with the broken desk it had been sitting on, still sparking dangerously. What horrified him the most, though, was in the corner beside the bed. Logan was lying on top of his precious Jean, who was struggling desperately. Ororo, who had followed him into the room, stopped and gasped just over the threshold. Scott was burning with rage. Logan looked up quickly, looking startled – a look not at all common for him.
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