Broken Road Chapter 21, a x-men: the movie fanfic

Chapter 21

I don't know how to fight, but I'll draw blood tonight
If somebody tries hurting you

PLAIN WHITE T'S, Write You A Song

He leaned back, his back curving against the green cushion of the chair, and pushed his legs out in front of him. The chair was ridiculously uncomfortable and he wondered exactly how much cushion its manufacturing company had bothered using. Judging by the stiffness in his muscles and the hard plastic against his lower back, he'd guess not much. He sighed, stretched his arms over his head, and slumped further down in the chair.

Airport terminals were high on his list of places to avoid. Ever since the Mutant Registration Act had been submarined in the senate—fuck you very much Senator Kelly—it was as if the freaks had decided to congregate in them. They were probably up to no good, after all, two or more of them always led to trouble. Bunch of damned terrorists, the lot of them, always trying to destroy all the good, honest normal folks.

And Hartsfield-Jackson International was by far the worst when it came to mutants. Because it was so large, he supposed, the odds of running into a mutant almost tripled. He sniffed, raising his nose against the indecency of it all. What was the world coming to? Or at the very least, America? Well, America wasn't going down without a fight. Not while he and his own were still able to draw breath. It was their God-given right to defend themselves—he ticked off the second amendment like a breath of air—one might even argue inalienable. And that was what the Friends of Humanity stood for. They believed in protecting humanity, in keeping the morals and ideals of normal humans before all the mutants could destroy them. The FoH was a ministry really, a beacon in the swirling waters of sin and damnation. It was their job to protect the real humans and to wipe the blight of mutants from the eye of God.

It was a noble job, one that all members took very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that when a prospective member was pinpointed, he was to follow them. The Friends only allowed certain people into their ranks—good stock…good, normal stock.

Samuel Guthrie liked to describe himself as an honest, open person. He came from a good family: they might not have had much, but they were good. His father was good; clean up until the day he died. He'd had a nice funeral in the local Baptist church—it was one of those strictly southern jobs with the white paint and steeple, nothing fancy; his father would have wanted it that way. Yeah, good, honest, plain Kentuckians, those were who he came from. Give you the shirt off their backs, and all you had to do was ask. Perhaps it was for that reason that he found undercover jobs to go against almost everything he was raised to believe.

Honesty, for example, was a big one. Wasn't it one of the Ten Commandments? Yeah, he was pretty sure it made God's 'Top Ten' list. And if it didn't? Well, it was probably number eleven. To hear his mama go on about it, you'd think it was the first one. That being said, truthfulness had always been one thing he prided himself on. And one thing that could end an undercover career faster'n a lightning bolt was the truth. Especially when dealing with bigoted jackasses. Come to think of it cussin' was another one of those things his mama went on and on about.

"Sam?"

If he hadn't been there to see it, he wouldn't have believed it.

Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but those darned forelocks fell free, ghostlike tendrils spilling from her crown and grazing the outer corners of her eyes. Her eyelashes, black and sooty, caught in her hair, and she blinked a moment before tucking the white strands behind her ears. Her cheeks were rosy, sun-kissed, and her mouth, the color of wine, was upturned in the biggest smile this side of the Mississippi. And she was wearing jeans with a green tank top, and he could see skin. Honest to goodness skin! No gloves. No long sleeves. Skin! Sun-burned to hell, but glowing with excitement.

His eyes popped out of their sockets. "Anna Marie?"

She laughed—it sounded like bells—then wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

He pulled her closer to him, his arms circling her waist with practiced ease. Then he grabbed her bags with one hand and slung the other over her shoulders, hugging her to his side. She kissed him again, her lips grazing his jaw, and he shuddered pleasantly from her feathery touch. "Let's go, hon," and he steered her toward the terminal's exit.

Hartsfield-Jackson was huge, and as one of the biggest airports internationally, Sam wasn't surprised that it took a better part of an hour to get back to his car. The walk wasn't too painful, though. Rogue kept her body right against him and they laughed and talked about nothing in particular. It was downright nice, if he was honest…which, he was.

When they got to his truck, he opened the door for her and then piled her luggage into the bed of the pick-up. When he climbed in beside her, he let out a breath.

"Lawd! Ah mean that was downright nerve-wracking!"

Rogue smiled. "You ain't kiddin'. How long has that tail been on ya?"

"The guy in the seat?" He blew out a puff of air. "'Bout two weeks. He's real intent on findin' out if Ah'm for real."

She grinned. "Ah think we were believable." She waited as Sam pulled the truck away from the parking garage. "So…how've you been?"

"Think Ah should be askin' you that. What a kiss!"

Laughing, "Well, Ah'm supposed to be your wife, right?"

He chuckled. "So, your powers? All under control now?"

"Hank figured out a prescription." She dug into her purse and pulled out a flat pill case. "Even disguised them as birth control."

Sam whistled. "That guy's a genius. Didn't take him too long, did it?"

"Well, Ah guess you've been gone 'bout a month…" She stopped, licked her lips, and shook it off. "How's our new liaison doing?"

He caught the change in her demeanor, heard the quiet sadness that leaked into her voice. It was subtle, camouflaged in its southern softness, and something told him not to point it out, not to challenge it. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye and sighed. "Lorna? Ah think she's fine. Needs to dye her hair though. These people are suspicious of anyone who's different. Ah don't think it matters if she's dyed her hair green or if it's natural. Either way, they consider her a freak."

"So much for southern hospitality."

He was good. The way he feigned interest in his newspaper, the way he slid down in his chair before standing and stretching and following them out—it was inspired. Really. He swirled through the crowd, his eyes low, never making contact with those around him, but keeping his mark in view. There was predatory curve to his shoulders; he kept them hunched, taut, ready to pounce with one wrong move.

Yes, he was good. Clean. Sterile. In a dirty sort of way. The way hospitals feel.

He followed the couple out, lagging behind by twenty or so feet. Close enough to keep his visual confirmation, but far enough that they wouldn't suspect him…and he wouldn't hear their conversation. Sometimes compromises had to be made.

The fun of it was the girl following him. She was better. Slipped between the sunlight and shadows like she belonged in both. She made it a point to let her body slide into others. It was more natural, more subtle. Dancing around people like they had the plague filed you away in their memory. Made them remember you, made them consider you…strange. Bumping into them during a particularly rushed moment…nothing out of the ordinary about that. Problem was…she bumped a little too often. And since she was attractive…men remembered her affectionately, and women with the tiniest hint of jealousy.

The bad black wig wouldn't help her either.

Then, there was him.

He dropped his cigarette and rubbed it into the cement. His smoking buddy looked at him expectantly.

"Charlie, I t'ink I forgot somethin' in my car."

The older man nodded and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Yeah. That's the third time they've announced my mother-in-law's flight. Ah probably should go and git 'er." He mumbled, "The ol' bat makes me nervous."

The younger man chuckled, slapped him on the back, and held out a cigarette. "Have 'nother one. On me."

"Hey, thanks, man."

He tipped his head and disappeared into a passing crowd.

The thing about tailing…and really, the only thing about tailing…was not to get caught. It was important to find a way to hide in the open. People tended to call the cops on the man cowering in the begonias, but the one walking his dog around the block was usually overlooked. Both the man and the woman had that particular nuance down. He'd have to give them gold stars for their plain-sight hiding abilities, but after that…

And it had been hard on him. To stay tucked away when he saw her throw her arms around Sam…saw her kiss his lips…it had been murder. And when they passed him outside, it had been all he could do to keep shooting the shit with his new smokehole buddy—another important layer to hiding in the open. He had shoved that cigarette so far into his mouth; he almost wedged it clean into his lungs.

He wanted to punch Sam straight in his guts.

And he knew it was just a show.

He moved like honey—slow, careful. It was important not to rush too fast when following someone. That attracted too many people, not to mention the person being followed. The man had been slower, but too intent, too obvious with his movements. The woman wasn't as obvious, but moved too quickly. He sighed, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter. It really was an art. Every movement had to be thought out and manipulated to give the effect of nonchalance, of anonymity.

He smiled at a group of middle-aged women. They flushed under his attention and crumbled like giggling teen-age girls once he was past them.

He helped an older gentleman free his suitcase wheel from a grate.

He climbed into his car and waited as Sam and Rogue, followed by the man, and then the woman, drove past. Parking in a place that everyone had to drive by was another important aspect of tailing. And all that took was a little bit of luck. And an electric screwdriver. And a license plate with an overwhelming number of unpaid traffic tickets attached to it.

He'd have to get another one of those.

It occurred to her as she looked around the apartment that perhaps she had missed something in her briefing. The apartment was okay—a white building with each quarter's door opening to a courtyard. At least she got to see something besides pavement, she decided, and continued to stand in the doorway of the only bedroom in the apartment. A queen-sized bed was pushed against the wall to her left. A mountain of disheveled blankets were piled over a twisted sheet that coiled down one side to pool into a cotton puddle on the floor. On the wall across from the foot of the bed stood a beat-up looking dresser. The mirror had a crack in the upper right hand corner that had spidered; she counted her face twenty times. To her right were a walk-in closet and a bathroom. She licked her lips and decided to save that discovery for later.

Sam came up behind her, a sheepish grin on his face. "Ah know. One bedroom, right?"

She looked at him from over her shoulder. "Why is there only one?"

"Rogue, you gotta believe me. If'n Ah could afford a two bedroom, Ah would've gotten one."

"Didn't the professor send you with any money?"

He chuckled. "No, ma'am. Scott said that we had to maintain what our profiles could afford. I got a night job as a maintenance worker. But Ah checked out the crime reports."

She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"No murders in the last couple of years in this area. But…if'n you go out at night, you might want to take some mace along with ya." He offered a flat grin. "Can't be too careful."

"Lovely."

"On the bright side—"

"There is one?"

"Ah work with two FoH members and they got me into the group pretty quick."

Her brow knitted. "Ah gotta tell ya, Sam. Ah've got some mixed feelings about that."

He nodded, his gaze dropping to his fingers. "Ah'll sleep on the couch. You don't gotta worry 'bout nuthin' but those assholes."

"Oh, it's not that, Sam." She leaned into the doorframe, and rubbed her eyes. "D'ya ever think," she stopped, sighed, and ran her tongue over her lips. "D'ya ever think that you're life did not turn out the way it was supposed to?"

"'Cause we're mutants, you mean?"

"Not just that. Just in general, ya know?"

He sucked in his lips and pushed them out again. "No," he admitted finally. His left shoulder hit the doorjamb, punctuating his admittance. "No, Ah think it's supposed to be this way." He suddenly became very interested in the carpet and dug the toe of his boot into the middle of a stain. "Ah believe God's got this master plan and even though we've got free will an' all, he pretty much helps to steer us in the direction we need to go. Sure, some of us disappoint him—we're human—but, Ah think that the good will always outweigh the bad and that we'll get to where He wants us. Jus' might take a little longer than was first projected." He allowed a little chuckle, "You know, like a mission."

They stood quietly for a few moments. He cleared his throat.

"Ah gotta get ready for work." He moved into the room toward the dresser, then stopped and turned to face her. "Ev'rythin' will work out in the end."

She raised her eyes and he saw the water swimming in the green pools. Her voice cracked a little when she asked, "How can you be sure?"

He looked at her; his gaze was unwavering. "Ya gotta have faith, Anna Marie."

One month.

It seemed like a lifetime.

He'd driven all over the states. Spent a weekend of debauchery down in N'awlins. Coasted the waves in California…skinny dipped with some stacked blonde. Had a private little rodeo of his own in Texas. It was his way after all; it was what everyone expected him to do. Right? Go out and fuck his brains out until the pain went away. It was what he did. He did it after Belle. Hell, he went to another continent to do it after Belle.

It helped, he told himself, it made the pain disappear. Numbed it. Dig into the scars enough and it becomes the norm. Like a sweater, stretched in the washer, the pain can't snap back, which means it can't hurt anymore. It reaches the limit and the only thing left is to throw it in the dryer and shrink it back.

And the girls? They were his dryer. His diversion to make the pain go away.

Only the damn thing didn't work properly.

Instead, each time, he saw green eyes and white bangs and wine-colored lips. And the pain intensified. The sweater stretched and stretched until the only thing left was a very unfashionable muumuu and a terrible ache in his chest.

So, he'd get up and go. Find another state, another girl. Hell, maybe three. And he'd find himself staring into three clones, each with those same green eyes and merlot lips.

When the sex didn't work, he'd drown himself in Wild Turkey and pass out in the back of his car. That backseat was the only reason he hadn't swapped it out for a Harley.

Only that didn't work either.

Just gave him one bitch of a hangover.

And a swirling dream of the one thing he was trying to escape.

He'd considered calling Xavier. But dammit he hated it when the old man was right. Reminded him of how powerful baldie actually was. And besides, he knew what was going on. He was going to be a key player in the infiltration before he left. Scott probably hated him. He did leave them in a lurch. And for what? Selfish reasons. And that made him anything but a hero. And he hated that, because he wanted to be a hero. But if he'd stayed…his heart just wouldn't have survived.

Something Scott understood.

And Stormy and JP?

They were probably pissed. But the cool thing about their family—even though it wasn't by blood—was that they'd love him. And he knew it.

But did she understand?

And he'd find himself trying to obliterate her from his mind. Fuck. Drink. Guilt. Repeat.

It had gotten to be such a vicious cycle that when he found himself in Atlanta a week earlier he wasn't sure what part of the circle had actually deposited him there. And to be perfectly honest, he didn't particularly care.

Took him a day to locate Sam. Took him ten seconds to spot the tail and another five to spot the tail's tail. Who he could only assume was his replacement. He really needed to speak with Scott and Xavier about the finer aspects of the invisible job. For starters, not to be seen. Which, he congratulated himself as he enjoyed a cigarette, he had yet to be.

Sam and Rogue had been in the apartment for a couple hours. He yawned, tapped the butt against his ashtray, and glanced at the clock. It was almost time for Mr. Guthrie to head to work. Which meant Mr. Smooth and the Invisible Girl would be following him. And Rogue would be alone.

Running a school was hard.

Running an infiltration op was harder.

Running both at the same time? Xavier popped four aspirin into his mouth and washed them down with a dry sherry. His head pounded—a sharp ache beginning at the base of his skull and curving over the top to imbed itself in his right eye. Maybe he should have tripled the recommended dose. Instead, he stuffed the pill bottle into a mahogany drawer and pushed it closed.

"Better?"

He looked up. Scott was leaning against the doorjamb.

"Not really."

"Well, I guess that's good in a way. What I've got to tell you would only make it hurt."

Xavier closed his eyes and sighed. "Maybe we've over-extended ourselves."

"It's too late for hindsight, sir. We're in it to win it now." Scott sat down in the armchair opposite Xavier's desk. His movements were slow, thought out, and Xavier knew he was trying to find a good way to word his news. It took him more than a moment. He stared dejectedly at his hands for a time, his fingers circling over the tops of his knuckles before clasping them together and turning them white under the pressure. "I just met with Logan in Columbus. He's seeing the same kind of M.O. in Chicago. Each prospective member is closely followed and then they go through ritualistic hazing. It's like trying to get into a college frat. Only the hazing is to see what you can stomach."

"How are Piotr and Kurt holding up?"

"Logan wouldn't say exactly. But as gentle as they both are, he said he doesn't think they'll be able to last."

"What kind of things are they having to handle?"

"Well, Emma—and you know how cold-hearted she can be—Bobby said she cried for an hour after the first time. He said that they watched the Friends pull a mutant into a room and beat him senseless. Then they hauled him off. They don't know what happened to him after that. Newly ordained members aren't given the keys of knowledge. They have to earn them. Guess how they do that."

Xavier grimaced.

"Pretty much."

He ran his hands over his face and head, "Oh, Scott, how can there be so much hate in the world? So much violent intolerance?" He poured himself another glass of sherry. Raising the crystal to his lips, he gave a sardonic chuckle. "Do you know what I think about sometimes? Sometimes, I wonder if God gave me this power to prevent that kind of thinking. If all I'm supposed to do is reach into their brains, mess about in them, and rearrange them a bit. And I could do it you know. I could—I have the power to prevent this. And to do that, all I would have to do is become the monster that they already believe I am."

"We're better than they think we are."

Xavier smiled—it was superficial—then took a sip of his sherry. The Amontillado felt dry on his tongue, and he swallowed with effort. "Don't you suppose we're frightening? People with powers? Only gods have powers." He twirled the crystal in his fingers; it refracted the light of his lamp and sent tiny rainbows skipping across the wooden surface of his desk. Setting down the stemware, he asked, "If you could have any power, Scott, any at all, what would you pick?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, sir."

"I would want to fly. It'd be a damned sight better than this." He tapped the heel of his hand against his wheelchair's armrest. "And it'd be a damned sight better than this." It was a whisper, but he punctuated it with a terrifying finality, tapping his index finger lightly against his temple.

Scott shifted in his seat, forced a laugh. "I suppose I wouldn't mind Jamie's powers. Think of all the work I could finish."

Xavier nodded, plucked up the crystal, and swallowed the rest of his drink. "Speaking of work," he began, his dark mood seemingly dissipated, "have you heard from Rogue?"

"Rogue landed safely at Hartsfield-Jackson; Lorna radioed in. Said Rogue gave quite a performance for their tail. Definitely looked like a homecoming to her."

"Good."

Scott cleared his throat and stood up. "You need to get some rest, Professor."

"There's too much happening for me to rest."

"I'll talk to Hank. Maybe he can give you something."

"When do you meet with the other liaisons?"

There was a sigh before he sat back down. "I meet with Kitty tomorrow. In Hartford. Then I fly to Tulsa to meet with 'Ro. After that, it's Memphis with Lorna."

"I'm sorry, Scott. I just—I don't want to lose anyone this time."

Scott's lower lip trembled and he squeezed his mouth closed. "Goodnight, sir." And he left.

Xavier sighed, his fingers rubbing the interior corners of his eyes and then moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Tugging open the drawer, he pulled out the pill bottle and swallowed two more aspirin.

She pulled the covers up to her chin and looked around the room. The apartment was unnervingly silent so every sound from the outside was magnified by two hundred percent. She heard a dog bark in the distance, heard the unmistakable wail of an ambulance, and she scrunched further down in the bed and covered her head. She felt like an imbecile; she was an X-Man dammit! She shouldn't be afraid of the dark. She kicked the covers away, her skin prickled and a chill skittered down her spine and she slumped against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest.

It had been the same way at the Institute.

She hadn't slept well for a month.

She could lie to herself. Say that it was because the maniac she had absorbed gave her nightmares, or that with her friends off on a mission, she was overcome with worry. But the problem with lying to yourself was that you always knew the truth. Even if it was buried. Even if you were too damn prideful to admit it.

Remy left.

And she was still there. Still hanging on to Kitty's shoulder, her mind sifting the words, stretching them, shredding them, trying to understand…to fathom what her friend could actually mean, what code she was using.

Dumb.

Numb.

Umm…

Remy left.

Just like Cody.

Just like Bobby.

No…

It wasn't the same. And in a way she wished it was…that he was out there with another girl, with another love, and that he had torn her heart in two, that he had burned her, and not the other way around. The look in his eyes when he left…well, it haunted her, drove her to tears, to hatred.

He never should have…

He never should have told her.

Remy left.

She had asked when he'd be back.

Ororo had cried. JP had whispered curses in French. She knew what he said. Caught the gist of it anyway. Scott—Scott had spent a day in the Danger Room.

The professor had stared at her. Intense brown eyes boring through her with such strength that she was afraid he knew. And when he blinked, when he refocused those eyes on hers, she wasn't afraid anymore. She knew he knew.

She ran her hands over her face, swiping the sleep out of her eyes. Every night she tortured herself with what-if's and why-not's. What if she'd told him? Why not admit it to him? Who was she helping by lying, by pretending to be in love with another man? She wasn't helping herself. She wasn't helping Remy. And she sure as hell wasn't helping Joe. It was obvious and she knew it. But she didn't want to be like Cody or Bobby. She didn't want to hurt Joe the way that they had hurt her. And yet, she couldn't fault their logic once faced with the reality of staying with someone she didn't love when she could be with someone she did.

And understanding them…no, worse…agreeing with them…meant that they had done the right thing…and that was hard to stomach.

"If you can't keep your head, I'll submarine you and send you back to the Institute. Is that clear?" Ororo glared into her webcam.

The firecracker on her monitor snapped right back. "That's just fuckin' dandy, Storm. You get to bark orders and boss us around and you don't even have to see! You don't know what they do in there—"

"This is a mission. And if you are too juvenile to handle—"

"Juvenile?" Jubilee slammed down her fist; her image shook on the monitor. She stared at the split scene on her own computer, her eyes focusing on JP. "Tell her what we saw today! Tell her how much—" she faltered, swiped at her eyes, then swallowed. In a calmer voice—one that pumped ice through Ororo's veins, she continued, "Tell her how much blood there was." She pulled out her earpiece and switched off her camera.

Ororo's screen blinked, replacing the half-frame with a whole picture of JP. He was staring at his hands; his shoulders slumped forward. She licked her lips, brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "What happened today, JP?"

His jaw flexed and he pulled in a wine glass from outside the frame. "They have this room. It's like a fuckin' arena." He sipped, rolled the alcohol across his tongue, considered speaking again, and took another drink instead. Swallowing his second mouthful, he continued, "They dragged in—she had to be a child—and beat her." He stopped, his lip curled into a snarl. Downing the drink, he pulled a bottle into view and unplugged the cork. Taking a swig, he turned his usually bright eyes straight into the camera. "They sold raffle tickets to see who got to—" He stopped, swallowed, drank. "It was like a frickin' church bake sale." He looked at his monitor, stared at her, but didn't see her. "But do you know what the damnedest part was? We had to buy tickets or we would look suspicious." He shook his head, rubbed his fists into eyes, his voice cracked. "Mon nombre n'a pas obtenu appelé... (My number didn't get called…)"

"Oh my God."

"Send her home, Ororo."

"JP, I can't send you in there by yourself."

"Send her home." He stood up; she could see his shirttail. "She's no help to anyone."

And her screen went black.

She was less than a hundred feet away.

If he closed his eyes, if he reached out with his empathy, let its ethereal hand slide across the space between them, he could feel her. He wondered at that. Wondered how she would feel. Would the whispered caresses of his power be enough for him or would her spirit cajole him for more? He thought about that. Thought about her skin, how it would feel under his fingertips, how soft—it would slide like silk beneath… His fingers twitched and he dug into his glove box for a pack of cards. He had to stay busy…focused…or he would lose his sanity. The moonlight glinted off her window, catching his eye and drawing in his attention once more, and suddenly he couldn't stop himself.

It moved slowly at first, a silver sliver of mist curling in and around itself like a spring stretching and pulling away from its base, elongating power like a rubber band waiting to snap back. The curves straightened and picked up speed. He pushed it past the white wooden wall, past the door, past a too small living room and a non-existent breakfast nook.

He stopped outside a bedroom door.

He could feel her crying.

And suddenly he was there, taking shape within the silvery spring and pressing his ear against the door.

She was crying for him.

Scott scrubbed his hands down his face and ferociously rubbed his eyes before putting on his visor. There was a sound that he couldn't place and he shook the sleep from his head, scanning the room like he'd never seen it before. Red block numbers glared angrily at him and he slammed his fist on its buttons.

The noise didn't stop.

He punched at them again, but still nothing.

The noise was insistent, urgent even, and he ran a hand through his hair, still trying to shake the haziness out of his brain.

It was his phone.

He flipped it open, shoved it to his ear, and rolled back into bed. "It better be the end of the world," he grouched between yawns.

Kitty's voice was titanium. "It just might be."

He pulled himself up, leaning against his headboard, and switched on his bedside lamp. "What's wrong?"

"We're in fucking deep shit, that's what."

"Kit?"

"Look, I can't wait to talk to you and you're gonna want to meet with the others ASAP."

"What is it?"

"Joe and Betsy…they're gone."

He sat in his car, frozen. He tugged on the spring, pulled his empathy back, and reeled it into himself.

She was crying for him.

And he knew he should break down her door and pull her to him.

"What do you mean 'they're gone?'"

"Well, they're going."

"Oh my Go—" Scott pursed his lips to keep from screaming. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

"You don't understand," Kitty's voice was slowly creeping up an octave. "in a week the Friends are taking them to some sort of national convention. They have a freaking convention, Scott! Like presidential candidates!"

"Nobody else has reported anything. Maybe it's just Boston."

He knew he should go to her.

"They just found out at their chapter meeting this evening. Joe emailed me as soon as he got home. Apparently the big wig is going to be there."

What the hell would he say to her?

He swallowed, shook his head. No, it wasn't the right time. He hadn't actually sat down and planned what he would say. He didn't have a clear understanding of all the entrance and exit strategies needed in something like this.

And he didn't know what she would do.

And he really needed a drink.

Scott pulled on his robe. "These people have an actual individual leader?"

Kitty made some disgusted grunt and he could practically see the eye roll. "Oh, yeah. And I can't find a blessed piece of info on the guy. I've been to all ends of the World Wide Web. Either he's using an alias or he's gone to a lot of trouble to be invisible."

He was down the hall, rushing toward Xavier's chambers. "For pete's sake, Kit, give me his name. I'll run it against any information we have here."

Her voice dripped acid. "Creed. Graydon Creed."

Sam believed in America. Believed in freedom and liberty. He believed in the right to speak freely, to disagree with the government. He believed in his Rights as they were written in the Constitution and Amendments. He knew that he was protected from persecution, from blatant and furtive racism, and that, as an American, he had a social responsibility to report abuse of those laws, of those rights.

Unfortunately, that wouldn't have set too well with the whole infiltration part of the mission.

Which really sucked because he was dealing with racial sadists.

"Hey, Sam!"

Speak of the devil.

"Joe."

"Been waiting fer ya t' clock off. Ah've got awesome news." Joe clapped him on the back with one hand and dug into the pocket of his dirty jeans with the other. He pulled out a neon pink paper folded into little more than a wad and thrust it into Sam's hand. He grinned, lifted his red baseball cap and ran a hand through his ash blonde hair. "Go on, man, check it out."

Sam sighed. "Man, if it's another kegger, Ah told you, muh wife just got here an' Ah really want to spend some time with her."

Joe shook his head, swiped the paper and unfolded it himself. "Bring her with ya. The Friends want to meet her. Aren't you both applying for membership?"

The question was a punctuated with a raised eyebrow and a certain tilt of the mouth that made Sam's skin crawl. Predatory, that's what it was. And he was the hunk of meat.

"'Course she wants to join, but we ain't seen each other in a month."

Joe nodded and followed Sam to his pick-up. "And why was that again?"

That was one of the things about the Friends that he had to give them credit for. They were constantly checking and rechecking the story. If it wasn't down pat, they'd know and skin you alive for it. He jerked open the door. "Ah told you. She didn't want to leave the daycare center in a lurch. She's just like that."

Joe grinned. "Good girl."

"The best."

The grin broadened. "Then we'll see both of you tonight. The directions are on the paper."

"Perhaps it's a nom de plume." Hank offered as he set the computer to scan for the name Graydon Creed. "He wouldn't be the first."

Scott shook his head. "No, it's his real name. These people are blatantly racist toward mutants. Why would they bother hiding themselves?"

"For the same reason hate groups like the KKK wear hoods. There's power in anonymity." Hank wiped his spectacles on the hem of his labcoat. "Think about it, Scott. It allows for a false sense of security. If you don't know that guy over there is an enemy, you're far less likely to assume imminent danger."

"Anymore I think it's wise for mutants to assume it."

"That makes you just like the Friends. After meglomaniacs like Magneto can you truly blame the normal humans for being jumpy?" Hank pushed his glasses up on his nose and sighed. "Unfortunately we're all in the same boat, just different sides." He leaned toward the monitor. "I have a partial hit on the name."

Scott stood behind him. "Victor Creed? Could it be the same guy?"

"No. Creed is the legal name of a one Sabretooth."

"One of Magneto's cronies."

"Exactamundo."

The first thing he noticed was the unmistakable absence of the Friends' tail.

The second thing was the green sundress.

Rogue's hair was pulled back into a ponytail that twisted and tangled its way down to slap against those bare shoulder blades. She followed Sam toward their truck, her fingers tugging on the narrow straps that kept the dress in place. She seemed to be self-conscious of the bareness and placed a naked palm across each shoulder. A second later, and the ponytail was gone and shimmering locks spilled down, hiding her neck, her shoulders, from view.

His lips tugged down.

He waited as their truck pulled onto the road before he followed. It was easy. They weren't erratic or over-cautious. They didn't even know he was following.

They turned into the warehouse district on the outskirts of the central city. He turned down the following street.

"Are you in place?"

"Yeah. I don't know about this though, I feel exposed." Lorna Dane spoke into her headset as she pulled her green locks into a ponytail. She was kneeling on the roof of a brick building; the laptop in front of her showed several shots of one warehouse.

"You're fine. Is the equipment set up?" Scott's voice buzzed in her ear.

Checking the video feed, she let out a shaky breath. "Visual monitoring is up and running. You can watch from the Institute. We'll know soon enough if the audio is working."

Through the headset, Lorna heard the rapid clicking of a keyboard. "We're logging into the site. Visual is up."

She looked over the lip of the building. "I have a limo in sight. Confirmation?"

"We see it." Hank's voice answered.

The limo pulled into the parking lot of a gray metal building. Lorna watched silently as several men got out. Using the computer's video feed, she zoomed in on their faces.

"I don't recognize these men."

Scott's reply was wheezy. "It's fine."

She scanned their faces once more. "I'm serious. I've never seen them before."

One of the men leaned into the limo and reemerged with something in his hand. The sun bounced off the black metal.

"They've got weapons!" Lorna zoomed in on the .45. "We've got to abort. They're gonna kill them!"

"Calm down, Polaris. We can't pull out. There have been absolutely no signs that they are aware of anything."

"What do you mean 'no signs'? They've got a fucking gun!" She fumbled for her cell phone. "I'm gonna call Sam and tell him to turn around."

"No. Listen to me, if they fire, you can stop the bullet."

"Are you insane?!"

"You are Magneto's daughter. If he can do it, so can you."

"Do you know how fast—"

"You can do it. Is there metal around?"

"The whole warehouse is metal."

"If they attack. Stop the bullet. Then use the warehouse to block Sam and Rogue from sight. They'll be able to get away. You are their guardian angel. If they need you, intervene, but otherwise, keep down!" Scott was calm, calculated. "We need them in this group, Polaris. I've heard from Logan, Kitty, and Ororo. There's going to be some sort of national convention. I need to know if Sam and Rogue are going to be there as well."

"But the gun—"

"Welcome to the X-Men. Now deal with it."

Sam stopped the truck. In front of the warehouse was a limo; several men stood around it.

"They've got a gun."

He looked at Rogue. "Ah didn't see one."

She faced him, her hair falling around her face, shielding her cheeks from the waning sunlight. "Ah did. Could this be a trap?"

He chewed on his lips. "Gawd, Ah hope not." He rubbed his hands down his face. "Stay kinda behind me. If it is a trap, Ah want them to shoot at me. If Ah can fire up, it won't hurt me."

"What if you can't?"

He offered a crooked smile. "Then Ah'll probably be dead." He tilted his chin toward her door. "Let's go."

She pulled on the latch and pushed the door open. Stopping, she turned to look at him.

He froze his door in mid-swing. "What?"

Leaning in, she kissed him. It was quick, a feathery brush across his lips, and she pulled back, her lips smooshed into a flat line.

Sam's brow furrowed. "What was that for?"

"Ya're a good guy, Sam."

He nodded, licked his lips. "Ah'm an X-Man. Deep down, we're all good guys." He chewed on the inside of his mouth before adding, "Even the ones that aren't here." Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he slid off the leather bench seat. The gravel crunched beneath his boots.

Rogue's heart flittered in her chest and she felt the warm sting of tears threatening her behind her eyes. Swallowing, she climbed out and followed Sam to stand in front of the truck.

He gripped her hand in his and waved at the crowd. "Sure hope this ain't no lynching. Ah just don't think Ah'd look to good dangling from the end of a rope."

She let out a nervous chuckle. "You an' me both."

Sam scanned the crowd. "Ah don't know any of these men."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Stay behind me."

The men were nondescript, hard to identify as individuals, each wearing the same black suit and white shirt as the next. Black sunglasses covered their eyes, hiding any spark of humanity behind those dark lenses. They stood tall, at attention almost, around a black limousine.

As Sam and Rogue approached, one of the men, a clean-shaven man with dark skin and dreadlocks approached them. In his hand was the gun Rogue had seen from a distance.

"Samson and Anna Marie Smith?"

Sam smiled, held out his hand, "Sure am."

The man ignored his gesture but shoved the gun into a holster under his jacket. "This way."

They followed him toward the black clad group. Stopping on the outskirts, the man turned to them again. "Stay here." He moved into the throng and tapped against the window of the limo. The door opened and two men climbed out.

The first was in his mid- to late-thirties. A mop of brown hair swooped around his head, falling with mock-innocence into his eyes. The second was blonde, older, and moved with a perpetual chip on his shoulder.

"Samson and Anna Marie?" The first one spoke, his voice was deep, but the pleasantness of it was put off by the fact that if he knew what they were, he'd probably kill them.

Sam nodded, swallowed. "That's us, sir. Um…where's Joe?"

The man smiled. "Back at the meeting. He told me all about you, Sam. I wanted to meet you in person."

The blonde man stared at Rogue. She smiled nervously back at him. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. She edged a little closer to Sam.

"Joe's a very loyal member to our cause. He believes you will make a fine addition to it as well. You two are the type of people we want. Hard-working, honest. You are what this country was built for, not those animals." He extended his hand. "Welcome to the Friends of Humanity, Sam…Anna Marie…We are honored to have you among our number."

Sam shook his hand, tipped his head. "Thank you, sir. The honor's ours. We just want this country to be here for our children. And it sure ain't headed that way."

The man grinned, slapped him on the back. "I am Graydon Creed," he put his hand on the blonde man's shoulder, "and this is my most trusted associate, Theodore Lane."

Theodore reached for her, grabbed her hand in his. His skin felt thick, heavy…hard, and his fingers crushed hers, pressed them into one another with the cold-blooded decisiveness needed to pull a trigger.

Somewhere in her brain, she screamed.

He watched from his perch on a neighboring warehouse. Across the way he could see a tornado of green hair flip in the evening wind. He shook his head, pressed his stomach into the warm metal rooftop and pulled a handheld computer from his trench coat. If he knew Scott, then the whole meeting would be broadcast via satellite right into the war room. He shook his head, his fingers flying across the miniature keys. A second later, and he had video. He shoved earphones into his ears and grinned at crunch of gravel. Even more importantly, he had sound.

He watched as Sam and Rogue left the safety of their truck.

He watched as the men vacated the limo.

His blood froze.

His shoulder exploded. Blood, flesh, bone powdered through the air and damn it if he didn't breathe it in. Cold heat dug under his skin, tiny needles that worked their way through his shoulder and spilled out the other side in a puddle of molten metal. His knees buckled beneath him and the concrete jarred him on contact. His head cracked against the ground and for a scary second, he thought he might be dead. He rolled his head to one side. Rogue was standing against a brick wall, her hair wild curls down her back, and she was screaming.

She was staring at him—unshed tears glittering despite the hazy air that surrounded them—and she pushed away from the bricks. He made his eyes flash, made her stop in her tracks. Made her press back into the safety of the wall with little more than sheer will.

Straining, blood spilling down his arm, painting the white cement crimson; he stood and stared down the barrel of a gun.

"That's right. Be a good little freak and I'll kill you quick."

He could break the little man with his pinky if they went hand to hand. Wouldn't even need his powers. But he was afraid. Afraid that he was really in trouble, afraid that this pathetic excuse for a man would find Rogue. Without thinking, he swept his eyes to hers.

"What's wrong, gene-joke? Thinking about runnin'? You're not so big and bad when you can't use your powers, are you?" The man's eyes were hard. The wind swept in around him, pushing his yellow hair up around his head, like a halo.

He stepped back, another unconscious glance to Rogue. "'Bout as confident as you are wit'out your gun, I reckon."

The man followed him, matching each step back with a step forward. He was so very near the wall, near to Rogue's hiding place. He felt the adrenaline run his heart faster. He was losing so much blood.

"Why don't you come here, mutie? Can't believe you're scared of a little human."

He snorted. "I ain't scared of you, homme. I'm just not too keen on dat huge fuckin' canon you carryin' 'round wit' you."

Almost there.

When Rogue peeled off her glove, he couldn't help the smile. Another step and the man was down, foaming at the mouth, and crumpled like a paperdoll. And Rogue, her beautiful face, was constricted in pain.

Just like now.

The man from his nightmares was gripping her hand.

Theodore Lane was a first-class mutant-hater and right-hand man of the Friends of Humanity's president and founder, Graydon Creed. He was stoic, controlled, unemotional…most of the time. The only thing that pushed him over the edge, the only thing that caused him to lose his cool, was a mutant. He considered himself a knight, not unlike those gentlemen knights of the Round Table, whose prime adversary/cause was the blight of the homo superior's future in relation to homo sapiens.

One of his many duties was to supply mutants for the Purifications and Initiations held by the FOH throughout the year. He also sated Creed's hate with his own personal mutant menagerie. He never lost a mutant.

Until a few months ago.

It was a day that he relived every night in his dreams. And he fully intended to obliterate the blemish on his record.

And for some reason as he shook the young woman's hand, he steeled himself to do it soon.

She was pretty, he decided, but terribly shy. Something he hadn't expected. She seemed so wild at first, so spontaneously sexy, that he licked his lips. But there was something else…he felt as if…it was impossible…but he knew her. Some how, he knew her. Her skin made him prickle and made his hair curl with perspiration.

She was frightened by his outwardness and released his hand to cower behind her husband's shoulder. He watched her, and his brain sorted through his life…for some reason his memories had been hazy over the last few months. He imagined that the devil-eyed mutant had something to do with it.

He heard Creed explain about the Convention, heard him tell Sam that he would be helping with the last minute preparations, heard him explain that Atlanta was a perfect location for the event.

He watched as they left the group.

He watched as she reached out to touch her husband's arm.

He watched as they drove away.

She reached out to touch her husband's arm…

"Shit!" he raged, pulling a gun out from behind him. "I knew it!"

Creed turned to him. "What's wrong with you?"

Theodore's face was flushed with anger. "I knew I—"

The explosion knocked him off his feet. The Friends scattered like plastic army men across the ground, their bodies rolling across the pavement. From across the street, Lorna looked up.

"Oh, dear God—"

Scott hollered into her ear. "What the fuck was that?!"

Another explosion and the limo was little more than twisted black metal with designer rims. The men scurried about, dropping for cover behind whatever makeshift shelter they could find. From the roof of the neighboring warehouse came a brown blur. It somersaulted to the ground and flipped behind a nearby car.

The air resonated with the sound of rapid-fire and Lorna crumpled against the roof of her hiding place. Bullets pinged and pelted everywhere. She heard the ricochet of metal against cement. She shrank further down.

"They're shooting at him!"

"Lorna! We don't have a visual! The cameras are out of range. What is going on?!"

She peeked over the edge. A flash of magenta flew from behind the car and she watched as the side of the warehouse exploded with the contact. The earth trembled around her and swooning, she pressed herself back down.

"It's a mutant, sir. They're shooting at a mutant."

Scott swore. "Use your power to give him cover. He'll be able to get away then. Hurry!"

She swiped at her face with the back of her hands and swallowed. Peeking over, she squinted into the swirling dust and smoke. A wall shook and whined, and she peeled it back in her mind, like one would derobe a banana. She pulled it forward, and heard the sudden rush of air as no one dared to breathe, let alone fight. The wall screeched across the ground, and she balanced it with her power, successfully cutting off the two halves of the fight.

With one hand holding up the wall, she lowered herself to the ground with the other and ran to the mutant.

"C'mon! We've got to get out of here!"

He stood up, a sideways smile sliding across his handsome face. "T'anks, but I got it under control." He dug into the pockets of a worn trench coat and pulled out a deck of cards.

"Are you insane? This is no time for games."

He chuckled, it was deep and pleasant and she felt her brain tickle a little. "You're scared."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You had to read my mind to figure that out? What are you totally incapable of noticing the obvious? Now let's get the hell out of here. This wall is only going to work for so long before they decide to do something about it."

As if on cue, the gunfire opened up again. The mutant's head jerked up.

"I cain't. I got business here. An' now, I gotta cover for you."

"Look, I was only trying to help—"

He tipped his head, smiled, "Mercí beaucoup. Now get yourself an' your equipment outta here. Scott'll have you but good if you lose all that."

She blinked. "What? Did you say?"

He pulled a handful of cards from their box. They glowed magenta. "Hide."

She lifted from the ground, slipped back to her hiding place, and let the wall fall in front of him.

The impact jarred the Friends, and they fell to the ground. The mutant rushed in, his glowing arsenal flipping out from him at all angles, preventing the men from capturing him in their crosshairs. He stopped in front of Theodore Lane.

The blonde man snarled. "I should have known you'd be here."

The mutant grabbed him by the jacket, his hands glowing that ominous pink. "Next time, consult your psychic." He pushed him as hard as he could, and twisted away to land on the ground some feet away.

Lorna felt the building pitch underneath her and she rolled across the roof. The equipment followed her, sliding into the roof's lip and sparking against the impact. She scrambled for balance, fought to find her hands and knees again. Crawling back toward her perch, she froze at the sound of a single gunshot.

Hey! It's been such a long time. I hope that you haven't forgotten this story. I can honestly say that we are nearing the end. More or less.

I want to thank everyone who reviewed my last chapter. Thank you for the words of encouragement, as well as the constructive criticism. I appreciate all of the help. Also, thanks for adding Broken Road as a favorite story. I'm glad that you are enjoying it that much.

So, Gambit couldn't stay away, could he? Looks like the Professor was right about that. Too bad Rogue didn't get to see him. But after what Lorna heard, the question is whether or not any of us will ever see him again. The Friends are a pretty heinous group. Can the X-Men continue with this infiltration or will the violent acts against mutantkind make them lose their mind...or worse yet, their tempers? Will Jubilee continue? What's going to happen at the Atlanta Convention? Will Hank and Scott solve the mystery behind Graydon Creed's invisible past? Will I be able to update in a reasonable amount of time or will work, baby, and husband tag team me into writer's block? Stay tuned...