A/N: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Thou wicked and spiteful writers block you shall not defeat me! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!
Hokay, so, this chapter was complete crap for me to try and write and I was sitting in my chair thinking "Damn it all, why can't I write this?" And then prest-o-change-o I wrote it. =)
=)=)=) Happiness time three!
So, the long awaited Scott shows up, along with a half daozen or so familiars, so please tell me how I got them. Izzy, again, I'm sorry, I didn't give you much on her at all. I gave you abit more on Nat, only because she is so deep inside her own head, it's hard to not give you something from only a page of writing. I abandoned my efforts to write a welcoming speech for the professor, so he doesn't get to say much, sorry, more about him later. I would really like some input on what anyone thinks about my Magneto. *_*
I don't own, we all know the drill...
I AM THE MOST HOLY RULER OF THE WORLD, I HAVE TRIUMPHED OVER WRITERS BLOCK AND NOW COMMAND YOU ALL TO REVIEW!
Chapter Seven
The Professor's office was much the same as the hall had been. Shiny wood, quaint tables, lots of flowers. The far wall was lined with windows, streaming mid morning sunlight into the room. A desk sat in front of that wall, and two wooden chairs in front of that, with a chalkboard pushing into far corner to Izzy's right and several other random pierces of furniture tucked her and there. All together it was very scholar-y, in a homey sort of way.
McCoy was greeting an older bald man who was seated behind the desk. Izzy stopped a polite distance away and waited for the men to finish up their talk.
"Good morning, Charles."
"Henry. You're back so soon?"
Izzy could feel McCoy glance over his shoulder, but pretended not to notice. She continued gazing intently at nothing.
"Yes. We drove straight through the night."
"You must be tired then."
"Hmm." This time when McCoy looked over his shoulder at her, Izzy looked back. "This is Izzy Richter."
The old man gazed at Izzy. On any other man Izzy would have called it 'looked' but this professor guy seemed like one for gazing. However, his gazing-thing was getting a little weird. He was staring at her, face unreadable, his eyes intense but somehow searching.
At last he smiled slightly and McCoy nodded.
"I think that I am going to bed for a while. I am simply beat. I'll see you both later." McCoy smile encouragingly at Izzy on his way out. Liar, Izzy thought and arched a brow at him as she watched him go, thinking it was almost like a rat on a sinking ship. He hadn't been the least bit tired in the car.
The sound of the shutting door was almost comically dramatic. Izzy might have laughed had it not been she that was still stuck in the room. Instead, she dug her hands into her pockets and turned around to look at the man expectantly. He didn't disappoint.
"Why don't you have a seat, Izzy?"
"Why don't I?" she responded and slunk over to one of the chairs in front of the desk to sit down.
*!*
His brain felt like someone had replaced it with a good amount of goose down. It throbbed, in in a securely cushioned way. He was sure he had some sort of drug to thank for that. Slow thuds and piercing beeps seemed to echo about in his downy head, sending his body rolling. He tried to move his arm, but found that he lacked the strength. He tried to open his eyes, but found them immovable. He tried to speak, and found the tubes choking him.
A trio of young female voices sounded then, as He floundered, trying to draw air into his lungs.
"He is waking," announced one.
"He is choking," a second corrected.
"He must not open his eyes," said a third. "The ceiling is real marble."
"We must tell Miss Frost," the first voice answered. "Miss Frost will be pleased he is waking."
"Miss Frost lusts after him something awful."
"We will die if he opens his eyes."
"Miss Frost is overjoyed the man is waking," the first voice seemed to bee to most dominant. "She is on her way now."
"His eyes are opening."
His movement had upset whatever was securing his eyes closed. The flew open and the ceiling was real marble. Pure white threaded with streams of black. The rest of the room was also very white. The ceiling didn't move.
God…
It was white.
It was so beautiful.
But he was still choking, the tubes not allowing him to breath on his own, and his panic at this restriction and the shock of the whiteness all around him was overwhelming. He felt it wash over him like a wave of water gliding over the sand, soaking upon contact, not presuming to ask permission to sweep over.
God. He could see.
"Miss Frost is almost here."
"She is excited."
"He is crying."
"How weak."
"Miss Frost doesn't cry."
"Miss Frost is here."
A face invaded his vision. It was beautiful in a glacial way, all smooth, pale lines, haughty blue eyes, silky white blond hair, and quite a bit of skin that seemed to melt in with the rest of the room.
The face spoke. It said, "I'm glad you are awake, darling. I was beginning to worry that that wretched woman had done something harmful to you."
*!*
"Scott!"
With that cry, the Professor, a man Izzy had know for all of ten minutes now, tumbled from his seat.
Huh. They may insist on silly names, Izzy thought. But at least they are original in action.
The professor had been in the process of telling her about the teaching staff, all the while regarding her with that searching look. Izzy had fixed a mildly interested expression on her face, keeping her comments on all the codenames to nothing more than a raised brow or two.
Something about the old man made Izzy unsure about him, about what sort of things she might say to him. Plus she didn't know what his mutation was. He could be some sort of telepath that was reading her thoughts before she even thought them.
Izzy got to her feet to peer over the desk. The Professor guy lay in a crumply heap of unconscious old man. She stared at him for a long minute. He didn't move.
Great, Izzy thought, and flopped back down in her chair. I somehow killed the old guy.
She turned in the chair when the door behind her banged open and a small flood of people entered. Well, only three people came in, but they had the intensity of a small, but fierce natural disaster.
It was a black woman accompanied by two white men The woman had spunkily cut white hair, and concerned eyes as she rushed around the desk to the crumpled old man. The two men were polar opposites. One was dark, stocky with a distinct look of something animal about him, and the other was taller, slim, with the sort of golden good looks that her mother and sister shared.
Izzy made up her mind not to like him.
The dark man rushed to the old man as well, while the golden one hung back.
As one, the dark man, the one who called himself Wolverine, and the woman, who could only be the Storm person, turned to look at Izzy. The dark man's face was angry, probably a default expression Izzy though, and the woman looked concerned.
"What happened?" the woman asked.
"Start talking, kid," the dark man growled, his voice almost theatrically ominous.
Concern gave Izzy a rash, but anger she could deal with.
The girl folded her arms over her chest and cocked a brow at the dark man, slouching subtly until she her body language just screamed "indolent." "How am I supposed to know?" she demanded. "He's your old man."
The dark man was spared from having to reply with the entrance of two more men. McCoy was missing his suit jacket, but the rest of him was the same as a few minutes before, and the second man, was about as tall and the golden man, with reddish hair and playful eyes that also happened to be a little red.
"Someting happen, cher?" the red man asked of the woman the same time as McCoy asked "What is going on?"
Izzy could tell the dark man was going to say something, probably something about Izzy's attitude, which was always a favorite topic of discussion among teacher types, but was saved-- much to her relief-- by the old man.
"Scott," he gasped. "He's alive!"
*!*
Nat was glued to the television when Magneto emerged from the bath room, wearing an old pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, both having belonged to her father. The clothes looked preposterous compared to what he had been wearing before. But at least they lacked holes and didn't have any noticeable blood stains on them.
"-- believe that this was a terrorist attack led by anti-mutant groups," the news reporter was saying. An aerial shot of the clinic and the surrounding area flashed on the screen covering the plastic looking face of the woman news reported. "Four men have been found dead," this time four faces flashed across the screen. The only one Nat could really recognize was James. "And another two were injured, but have thus so far been unable to issue statements." Two more faces flashed across the screen. "Police believed that the disappearance of a young girl related to one of the victims and a stolen Dodge truck is connected to this crime. License plates and a photo are as follows." This time a photo of the Dodge, with it's printed old license plates flashed, staying for about thirty seconds. Then Nat's own face flashed across the screen with a 1-800 number below it. "Natalie Sims was last seen in her bedroom, sleeping, by her mother. If you see either her or the Dodge truck please call this number," and the reporter rattled it off, repeating it for good measure.
Nat was quiet as the news reporter offered the spot light over to her co-worker at some sports stadium. Magneto was quiet as well.
Nat had been suspecting some story such as this. She glanced at the clock above the door. 10:12, right on time, too. Nat should have been impressed. But there were holes in the story. They thought that this was the work of a terrorist group on the opposite side of the fence from Magneto. Some might have argued that a fanatic was a fanatic, nut Nat suspected that this little mistake would either be very good for Nat, or very, very bad. As Nat was not the type of person to be overly optimistic, she suspected strongly that it would be the latter. And second, it had said nothing about the money. Doubtless her mother had checked for it, a stolen car could mean stolen other things, but the reporter hadn't mentioned it in the least. Nat was the only one who would have known where the money was hidden, let alone of it's existence, making it quite obvious that Nat was the only one who could have taken it. Instead they had made it sound like Nat was some defense little girl that had been possibly kidnapped by the big, bad men.
Who on earth was feeding the media the bullshit story?
And no one had made mention of James either. With his rap sheet, he wasn't likely to have gone unidentified for long. And…two of those four men had not been killed like the other two had been. But that hadn't been mentioned either….What on earth was going on?
Very slowly Nat turned to look at Magneto, who stood near the bathroom, having heard the report as well as Nat had. He was looking back at Nat, a joyful look in his eyes. His gaze locked with Nat's and he smiled, a slow and frightening smile. "Are you sure my 'acts of terrorism' hold no interest for you, Miss Sims?"
