Moira told me that after she graduated college (summa cum laude with a degree in Political Science) and started job-hunting, she was always asked two questions during interviews. 'How fast do you type?' and 'Do you take dictation?' It was taken for granted that she would make and serve coffee as well.
Thank God for feminism and voice-recognition word processing software. Without them, I believe would have hanged myself before I was twenty out of sheer frustration. I certainly couldn't type up to employable standards without mutant powers; I'd be doing no better than hunt-and-pecking. Pulling the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter, I checked it over. Okay. No typos this time. I placed the page in a folder with the other two, then opened up the…top part of the typewriter. Pre-electronic era technology is not my strong suit, but I had read that typewriter ribbons kept an impression of all key strokes. Therefore, a resourceful person could get access to sensitive information by thieving the ribbon used to type the document in question and reading it.
I did not want this information getting out. I barely wanted to make it known to anyone else, but Mr. Black had done a lot for us and I wanted to give him something in return. I removed the used portion of ribbon, rethreaded it with the new part, and put it back together. Adding a blank check to the folder, I wound my way through the corridors to the director's office, pausing only to set fire to the used ribbon in a handy ashtray.
Mr. Black was in, and greeted me with, "Mrs. Lensherr, this is an unexpected surprise. Won't you come in?"
"Thank you, yes." He stood up when I entered, as a gentleman does, a touch I appreciated. I took the seat opposite the desk, and began by taking out the check. "To get this out of the way first, will twenty thousand be enough to cover rebuilding the obstacle course?"
"Oh, that," he waved dismissively. "Forget about it. Did you see the grass growing up inside the tire run? This is a research facility, not a training camp. It was there for whoever wanted to make use of it, and as you can see—," he slapped his ample belly by way of demonstration, "none of us did. I'll just have the groundskeepers clean it up, till the ground and plant grass."
"I do regret the destruction, though. I fear I am not suited to handling young adults. The children I watched in the orphanage were younger and had no powers." I looked down not so much out of modesty as from shame. I didn't mind lying outrageously to the mutant haters, but when it comes to people I liked, I much prefer to say nothing.
He propped his elbow on his desk and rested his chin on his hand. "You're actually doing quite well when it comes to team-building. They listen to you without giving you lip. You got them working together, and enthusiastically, too. The martial arts training was a good idea, and of all the things that could have been destroyed, you picked something that wasn't crucial or expensive. What's on the agenda for tomorrow?"
"In the morning, lessons in first aid, and more martial arts in the afternoon," I told him, shifting the folder. "They are, for the most part, eager to be part of a group and to work."
"Sounds like there's at least one who's a disciplinary problem," he remarked.
There was, and it was Angel, who had the idea that she was on vacation. That was a can of worms I didn't want to open at the moment. "I wish I could get Hank and Alex to stop locking horns, but I think that's simply youthful masculine aggression. However, that isn't why I'm here. I had another reason for stopping in besides paying for the damage.
"In the orphanage, one of the first things the nuns taught me from the Bible, after first frightening me with the part of Leviticus which calls for stoning women who speak with the dead and practice magic, was a parable.
"They told me there was once a man who was going on a journey and he had three servants. He did not want to take all his gold with him, so to the first he gave four talents of gold, to the second, two, and to the last, one. The first two servants had doubled the money entrusted to them, so he praised and rewarded them, but the last only hid his talent in the ground and did nothing to make it grow, so he was punished. I thought the master was lucky to get any of his money back intact, but that, I was told, was not the point. When God gives you talents of whatever sort, you have a duty to put them to use." (I was actually brought up Unitarian, and I did point out things like that in Sunday School, sometimes to the exasperation of the teachers. )
"Well, I am not a Catholic. I am not sure what I am, but this story does have a point. I have talents, and if at the end of my life, I am called on to account for what I did with them, I want to have a satisfactory answer." That, at least, was the truth. "I told you that my mother could predict some future events."
"Yes." He took his elbow from the table and sat up straighter. "Only natural events, if I recall correctly."
"That is so. I, however, can see other things. Imperfectly, and not as completely as I could wish, but I can see some future events. I have here three lists." Opening up the folder, I laid the first sheet in front of him. "I separated them for security reasons. Each alone is worthless. Two together are suggestive. The order is very important. This is a list of people who will do…certain things, and the date on which they will do them."
"November 23, 1963, Lee Harvey Oswald," he began to read it aloud.
I shushed him. "Please. When you've seen the others, you will not want them in the same room ever again, much less breathe a word of them."
"I've never heard of this man. Is he important?" Mr. Black looked up at me quizzically.
"Not yet. He will be, but if you investigate him too closely, too openly now, events may change out of recognition. I don't get second visions about a single event—or at least, I have not yet. This is a list of what these people will do." I handed him the second page.
His eyebrows bunched together, and I saw his lips form certain words as he read silently. 'Assassinate. Murder. Assassinate. Shoot. Murder. Abandon to her death by drowning. Murder. Massacre. Destroy. Abduct, rape and murder. Collapse two skyscrapers in New York and damage the Pentagon.' I had not only covered political events, but thrown in a few serial killers for good measure
Putting the two lists together so they overlapped, he looked at the two together. "September 11, 2001—Who is Al-Qaida?"
"A terrorist group of Muslim extremists who resent both Soviet and American interference in their affairs. I'm afraid that the further ahead these visions are, the less reliable they will become, especially if you can prevent the earlier items from happening. The visions stop in 2013, when I will be seventy-nine. I believe that is when I will die. My mother could not see beyond her own lifespan, nor any seer I ever heard of. This is the third—the people who will be targeted, and where it will take place." I gave him the last sheet of paper, and watched his face go almost as white when he put it together with the others.
"Dear God." he said, and I began to fear for his health. Another one like Hendry, with the added complication of obesity. What could I do if he were going to go into a coronary? I could unblock his arteries, I suppose, but where would I put the cholesterol? Best just to holler for help, I suppose. "The first name on this list…" He looked over at me for confirmation.
"Yes." I said. It was President Kennedy, of course.
"Dear God." he repeated. "This is worth a lot more than an obstacle course. You could destroy the whole building and buy forgiveness with this."
"I do hope it won't come to that," I joked. "It's not intended as payment for anything. Consider it a gift, if not from mutantkind to America, than one from me to you. You're better placed to do something with this than I am."
"I don't know what to say except—what was that?" I had heard it too, a sound like a very loud flashbulb going off with a 'Bamph!', and to me it was very familiar. The following scream and splat was not, but I had a fair idea of what was going on.
"Azazel!" I gasped. "Get down! It's Shaw's teleporter. He can't pop in blind or into too small a space because he might materialize in an object. Can you alert everyone in the base from here?"
"Yes." He reached for a mike on his desk. Another 'Bamph', another scream, another splat.
"Tell everyone to get into as small a windowless space as they can and lock the door until you give an all-clear. Don't engage, just hide!"
He did it, tripping a siren as well, I took the mike at the end and added, "Mystique, Logan, Darwin—all our team—This is not a drill. Prepare for paranormal hostiles, and I'm on my way!" I turned off the mike. "What's that door?"
"The toilet. It has no windows." he said.
"Excellent. Take a chair in there and wedge it under the door handle. Don't come out until I tell you, 'Lycopodium', got that?"
"Yes." He was already moving as I tore out the door.
A/N: As I understand it, Nightcrawler's powers work as described, and since Azazel is his daddy, (got to speak to Mystique about that life choice), in this AU that's how his powers work. I am the writer and I say so, so there! Nyah!
