Chapter Fifty
It was late afternoon at the Mansion. The day's work was done, and all of them had the evening off. Hank and Maria were going into the city to have dinner and either see a movie-her preference-or take in the Yankees at the Stadium-Hank's choice. He suspected that Maria would prevail in that dispute. Then maybe some music, and home by the one o'clock curfew. A good evening. Maria would be the center of attention, and Hank delighted in seeing her as such. They could be out together, and hardly anyone would recognize him. Of all the X-Men he was probably the least famous, and that was a deep, deep relief.
At five, Hank and Maria drove off to the city. Maria was wearing a green dress that, as she said, didn't "accentuate" a damned thing other than her lumpy body. She didn't care.
"Henry," she said, "I have to be a woman sometimes, no matter how silly I look. You'll have to live with it."
He laughed as he drove. "Darling-you're the most beautiful woman alive. I feel blessed."
"I know you do," she said in a funny voice. "I know, Hank. You never make me feel like anything less than a woman." She was silent for a second. "I dunno if I've said this outright-but..." She broke down, and Hank heard a muffled sob. "I never thought I'd have that. How could I? Hank-if I died tomorrow, I'd feel lucky. That I had everything I wanted out of life. I just want you to know that. And that you did that for me."
He stopped the car and took her hand. "Maria-I'm the one who's been blessed. No one-not even Scott-is as lucky as I am." She smiled, and they continued on.
They ate in a place near Times Square, an Italian restaurant which had the best lasagna Hank had ever tasted. The sensation Maria made on her entrance couldn't have been bettered by royalty. And indeed, Maria looked like royalty to Hank. She was tall, regal, and totally herself. The buzz that accompanied their entrance continued while they were seated and as they read the menu and ordered. After a few minutes, a child at a near-by table came over. "Miss Gianelli-" he asked, and Maria smiled at him.
"Yes, honey?"
"I just wanted to say that we all love you. Don't think anyone pays any attention to those stupid TV ads."
Hank thought Maria would break down, but she mastered herself, bit her lip, and nodded at the boy. "Thanks, dear. I'm very happy to hear that. What's your name?"
"Paul, Miss Gianelli. Paul Luzzini."
"Well, Paul-and I'm 'Maria', by the way-I'm very, very pleased to know you." And she asked how he was doing in school, and how many brothers and sisters he had, and in a few minutes the boy was talking to her like she was his best friend, eyes bright, voluble, his face lit up. Then his parents came over, apologized for his taking up her time, and she laughed and said how much she enjoyed it. Then they left, Maria waving goodbye and telling him to do well in school, and she'd talk to him again someday. Hank looked at her with admiration when they were alone again.
"Maria-I'd rather undress in Macy's window, than do what you just did."
She laughed. "Oh, Hank-! You underestimate yourself. Once you get that shyness out of your system-and hang around me long enough, it'll happen-I guarantee you'll be making me look like a recluse. You have a natural talent with people. We just have to unleash it upon an unsupecting world."
Hank shivered. "That's easy for you to say."
Dinner was indeed delicious, and afterwards they walked out into Times Square hand-in-hand. Dusk was turning into night, and they felt the city around them, and they laughed because they were young and in love and because everyone they passed gaped at them, and they loved that, and they laughed because so many people called out good wishes to them both and they laughed because an occasional passer-by turned their heads away in disgust, and they laughed because it was a cool, clear evening and the lights of Times Square were coming on and enchanting them. They laughed for these reasons, and many others, and they walked and walked and walked and they didn't care about a movie or a baseball game, they just walked east to the river then west to the other river, then through the Park and not giving a damn about muggers. There in the Park was some live jazz being played to a crowd surrounding a stage, and they stood on the fringe of the crowd in the dark so that they wouldn't be a distraction, and they listened to their concert and after awhile Hank took Maria in his arms and they danced together to a quiet tune, and they kissed when it was over and looked in each other's eyes, and Hank was entranced all over again by those hazel eyes.
And then they walked over into the west Eighties, and as they did so they heard the far-off cry of "help!", and they ran to the sound and saw a woman being accosted by three armed muggers. Maria looked at Hank.
"You or me?" she asked.
"Me, fair maiden," Hank said, and Maria nodded.
"I'm here for back-up if you need it." And she walked behind Hank as he approached the mugging, and the muggers turned to him with their switchblades and cursed him and told him to bleep off, and he just shrugged and in a moment there were three unconscious muggers on the pavement, and a very frazzled but grateful victim who, when she saw Maria and realized who Hank was, seemed almost more nervous than she had been with the muggers. But she kept her composure, and didn't act disrespectful in any way, and Hank and Maria moved on, and the victim moved on, and they left the muggers there in the street, the lady not wanting to "get involved" even though she had been the victim. And Hank and Maria accepted it, this night they accepted everything that came, and they walked in the city until after midnight and got home at just the stroke of one o'clock, and neither of them could ever remember having a better night in their lives.
Jean came down to breakfast still yawning a bit. She had been a little short of sleep since her relationship with Scott had blossomed. No complaints, she told herself happily. No, indeed. But she was yawning a little now and again...
There was dead silence at the breakfast table. She was the last to arrive-yes: she had overslept by ten minutes. They were all carefully not looking at her. Especially Scott. But it wasn't a serious silence. No, they were trying not to laugh. And why was there a newspaper at her place-?
She walked over, and took a look. It was a copy of The National Enquirer. With a huge headline- "Jean to dump Scott; declares love for Prince Charles". And, indeed, there was a photo on the cover, superimposing her with a picture of the jug-eared seventeen-year old who was heir to the throne of England. She looked around the table quickly, but the others were too fast for her, turning their eyes away before she caught them. Except, of course, for one... Maria smiled at Jean bashfully.
"Your Highness. I presume we call you that now. Will you need a lady-in-waiting?"
She stared at the rest of the team. This was not promising. Even the Professor was having trouble keeping a straight face. Carla entered the dining room carrying a platter of scrambled eggs, and after putting it down turned to Jean and said:
"Well, if it isn't Her Majesty. Don't forget us little folk, OK, girl?" And went back to the kitchen without a backward glance. As if Jean weren't capable of retaliating. Which she did, immediately. She took the first page of the paper, telekinetically scrunched it up into a spitball, and tossed it hard at Maria.
"Off with her head!" Jean cried out in what she hoped was an imperious tone of voice. Maria dodged the spitball and laughed.
"It's already going to her head!" Maria cried. The others agreed, as Jean kept creating missiles and flew them at Warren, Bobby, Hank. Scott she saved for last, feeling sure he deserved pride of place. For him, she created three spitballs and threw them one after the other so quickly he couldn't avoid them. He put his hands up in surrender, and Jean finally relented.
"Professor-I'm not sure I shouldn't bless you with a little present," she said in a mock-stern voice. "I'll bet you're the ring-leader of this conspiracy."
The others enthusiastically agreed with this assessment, while the Professor smiled. "Guilty, your Majesty," he said lightly. "We couldn't have you getting airs, now, could we, Jean?"
"I guess not, sir," she said with a laugh, sitting down for breakfast. "Needless to say, His Royal Highness is safe from my evil designs."
Bobby frowned. "That's funny. I mean, wasn't there a Queen of England once named Jean Grey?"
"Actually," Hank answered, "that was Jane Grey. Lady Jane Grey. She was only Queen for nine days, and some authorities don't actually regard her as a legitimate Queen at all. It was a complicated situation-" There was a collective groan, and several of the spitballs found themselves being hurled in Hank's general direction. Jean turned to Scott.
"You haven't had much to say about this."
He shrugged. "It's my quiet confidence. I don't have to fret or strut."
"You're doing very well at this quietness," she said with just a bit of an edge. "You mean, you weren't jealous at all when you saw that headline?"
"Of a kid with ears like that?" Scott said. "I don't think so."
She sighed ostentatiously. "Oh, Scott," she said in a mock falsetto, "you do know me so well." The table laughed, and they ate the rest of the meal in relative calm. Then there was work-study, Danger Room sessions for them all, individually and as a team. The team session went very well. They faced robot versions of The Hulk and Sub-Mariner, who had once teamed up and for all anyone knew, would again some day. Jean spun the Sub-Mariner robot around with her TK, after which Scott knocked the fight out of him with an optic blast. Meanwhile, Maria was wrestling with the Hulk robot. She Shifted to her diamond form, and Bobby aided her with some strategically-placed ice balls, and the Hulk robot went down, too. The Professor praised their performance.
"Needless to say, if this had been the real Hulk and Sub-Mariner, it would not have been so easy. But your tactics and use of your powers was very well-conceived and imaginatively executed. Well done, my X-Men."
"Thank you, sir," Jean said, and they all nodded. On their way out, the Professor asked if Jean would come to his study. Jean, frowning, did so.
He invited her to sit down. Jean, sweating a little from the Danger Room, was curious. The Professor paused, then started to speak.
"Jean-you've asked my forgiveness about that episode with the Stranger. When you told me that you were wiser than I was about it."
She flinched. "Sir-I feel so foolish over that moment-"
But the Professor put his hand up and shook his head. "No, no, Jean. Please. I don't hold it against you at all. I just wanted to say that in the sheer chaos of that moment, none of us knew what we were doing. Whatever the Stranger did to us, especially to Maria, well-" He pursed his lips. "I cannot explain why I was unable to read your mind at that moment. Somehow, the Stranger must have blocked my ability to do so. His powers are ultimately inexplicable to us. You don't remember anything about that moment?"
She felt uneasy. She didn't like thinking about it, and the Professor could see she didn't like it. But she answered as best she could. "Sir-I can only say that The Stranger-whoever-whatever-it must have been him-anyway, I received some sort of message. Or warning. Or something. I feel sure that The Stranger thinks I have some importance. As a result of that, I am beginning to wonder myself. And that's all I can really tell you."
The Professor sighed. "That is enough. Jean-there's something I must tell you. I've kept this from you, but you need to know now. You have more potential-unrealized potential-than any of the X-Men. Even more than Bobby, and he too has barely begun to tap his. The others-Hank, Warren, Scott-while their power will grow and their mastery of it shall grow as well, still we know more-or-less what their powers are and what they can do. Maria-" The Professor sighed. "She is an anomaly. I still don't even know what the questions are for her. Much less have any answers. But in your case, Jean, at least I thought I knew the questions. Now, after the Stranger, I'm not so sure."
"What do you mean by potential, sir?" Jean asked. "You mean my telepathy, which has been suppressed?"
The Professor sighed. "Basically, Jean, yes. You are an immensely powerful psi, at least potentially. But it's more than that. There's a point in which a change in quantity becomes a change in quality. And that is what has always concerned me, Jean. I believe that your full potential will take you to some level, frankly, beyond anyone else. Even me. It is why I have deliberately not tried to nurture your psi abilities, at least at this time. Because I'm afraid for you." He shook his head. "I know this is almost on the verge of being an insult. It is certainly patronizing and over-protective. But the incident with the Stranger makes me wonder. It makes me wonder very much." He looked sharply at her. "Forget for the moment the appropriateness, or lack of it, of your telling me that you are 'wiser' than I, regarding that moment. Can you remember what you meant, Jean? Can you remember anything at all about that?"
Jean shook her head helplessly. "Professor-I have no idea! Something happened. And it vanished like a dream. I can't say anything more."
The Professor looked unhappy. "Jean-I'm going to request something very difficult of you. I am aware of that. You have every right to refuse, and I shall not think any the less of you. But would you permit me to enter deep into your mind, to see if I can find any context for that remark? I would not be asking you this, if I didn't feel it was of supreme importance."
Jean's heart beat against her sternum like it wanted to be let out. The idea panicked her. But she couldn't permit the Professor to know, to even suspect, this. Because if he did, then he'd know how uneasy she was about it. But if she let him do this, he'd know anyway... To hell with it. She had always trusted him. She would continue to do so.
"Sir-I am at your disposal."
He smiled very wanly. "I'm glad, girl. More than I can say- Relax. Just sit there, and let me in. I shan't be hurting you. Or going anywhere I shouldn't be. I'm going to focus." And Jean Grey shut her eyes and leaned back in the chair, and she felt the tentacles of the strongest psychic on the planet entering her mind and they were gentle tentacles, grabbing onto her psyche with a feather touch, but nonetheless going deep. She felt tense, but also at peace, that peacefulness one felt when getting a massage or a hair-cut or a medical examination-the sense of someone being there, helping, doing something that you knew was good for you, that was necessary and right. She sensed the Professor diving into her mental depths, exploring her memories and then her psychic drives and then her inchoate images and gut feelings right from her Id. And she felt, too, his lack of success, the moving around of her psychic baggage without discovering anything new. Then, slowly, she felt him withdraw. Finally she opened her eyes after hearing him sigh.
"No good, Jean. Whatever is in there is buried too deep for me to discover. But I sense that there is something. Well, it is beyond my ability to ferret out, and that's all there is to it. I could do no more without risking your mental balance-or even your sanity itself. Needless to say, that is not an option."
"No, sir." She felt compelled to be totally honest with the Professor. "Sir-I have to confess. I'm glad you failed. I didn't want you to find anything. Could that have had an effect on the results of your psychic probe?"
The Professor smiled slightly. "My dear Jean-I felt that reluctance on your part, the hope I would fail, on the outer-most level of your mind. I got around that with ease. Believe me, that was not an issue at all."
Jean sighed. "Of course not, sir." She looked at him. "Does that end the matter, then?"
"It does, Jean," the Professor said with a sigh. "I see nowhere else to go. We'll have to await developments-if there are any developments. And thank you for your patience."
Jean nodded, and went up to her room for a quick nap. Her head ached from the Professor's probe, and she was nervous, upset, for reasons she couldn't explain. Guess I'm just queasy about the coronation, she thought to herself before she nodded off.
Emma Frost could barely contain herself when admitted to Wilson Fisk's office. As always, she was surprised by the office's relative lack of luxury. Fisk was not one to care for frills. Emma didn't know whether or not she admired this, being fond of "frills" herself.
"Well?" Fisk said shortly after she entered. "You look like you can't wait to tell me something."
Emma sat down, crossed her legs, and gave Fisk the biggest and broadest smile she could imagine. "I've found out something, Mr Fisk."
"About Raven?'
"Oh, yes," Emma said with a laugh. "Indeed about Raven." Fisk's insistence that Emma psychically spy on his spy in Graydon Creed's camp seemed almost logical to Emma, in the nightmare spy-vs-spy world she had gotten herself involved in. James Bond was all good fun on the movie screen, but in real life-! Well, she wished she could just go back to old-fashioned sex and dominance games. The Hellfire Club never looked so good to her.
"Well?" Fisk said with a hint of impatience.
"Well, indeed," Emma said. "Raven impersonates Graydon, who has been taken away to somewhere awful by his father, the psychotic Sabertooth. And lo and behold, Raven inherits Graydon's horny secretary, Janice. Whom Graydon has been screwing enthusiastically. As a result, Raven, to defuse suspicion, has been screwing her enthusiastically as well. Following me so far, Mr Fisk?"
"With crystal clarity," Fisk said. Emma nodded.
"Quite so. Now the plot thickens. Because you see, Janice isn't Janice."
"What do you mean?" Fisk said, frowning. "Are you playing some kind of game with me, Miss Frost? Because if so-"
Emma laughed. "Oh, Mr Fisk! A game of sorts is certainly being played, but not by me. Oh, no. Janice, Mr Fisk, is in reality another metamorph mutant. A male. And as queer as J Edgar Hoover. So he, as a woman, has been screwing dear Raven, as a man."
Fisk didn't make any reponse for a full minute. And waiting a full minute, Emma thought as it was passing, was a very uncomfortable experience. Finally, Fisk said simply: "Who?"
"Who? As in, who is he? Or who, as in who sent him?"
"Both. Neither. Anything."
Emma laughed. "Oh, my dear Mr Fisk-! He is named simply the Changeling. And he has a very extensive clientele indeed, as a man and a woman, from men and women. It's amazing what some people will pay, to be with the person of their dreams. And the Changeling is more than willing to oblige. For ten thousand dollars an hour."
Fisk almost choked. "Ten thousand dollars an hour? And he finds people willing to pay this sum?"
"Lots of them," Emma said. "Some of the names would make your eyes pop. If you like, I could give you a complete list. I don't know, of course, if you're into blackmail-"
Fisk scowled. "Miss Frost, I am into everything. I shall expect that list before you leave this building."
Emma nodded. "Certainly, Mr Fisk. In any event, the Changeling's own inclinations are very much to the swishy side. Extravagantly so. But he'll do whatever it takes to earn his money, and there have been very few complaints. Some of it...well, really, Mr Fisk, I'm a broad-minded girl and all that, but still-!"
Fisk grunted. "Your natural modesty and delicacy are duly noted, Miss Frost. Now-who sent him into Creed's headquarters?"
"Oh, this is too rich, Mr Fisk. Just too rich for words... Charles Xavier."
Fisk looked shocked. "The X-Men?"
"Indeed. They, too, are nervous about the Sentinels-and really, Mr Fisk, you can hardly blame them. So you and Xavier have been working at cross-purposes."
Fisk did not look happy. "That is unacceptable, Miss Frost. Wasted effort is wasted money. We shall have to coordinate our efforts. Somehow."
Emma shrugged. "Well, really, Mr Fisk, that's your business, not mine. I'm just a poor working girl. You're the mastermind."
Fisk grunted. "On the whole, Miss Frost, you do remember that. That is to your credit. But this..." He studied his hands. "Somehow, Raven and this Changeling creature will have to work together. And Xavier and I will have to come to some sort of understanding. The stakes are too high for anything else."
"Well, Mr Fisk, Xavier is known as being a straight-arrow. And you have-well, you do have a reputation. I'm not sure he'd cooperate with you."
Emma shuddered, because Fisk was smiling at her. "Maybe not. But he would cooperate with a fellow mutant. You."
"Me?" Emma said, her voice almost a squeak. "What do you mean? You want me to go join those goody-two shoes adolescents? When hell freezes over, I assure you, Mr Fisk-"
But she stopped, because Fisk frowned and shook his head. "No, Miss Frost," he said in a very quiet voice that chilled Emma to the bone. "No, I do not want you to join the X-Men. But if I did-" And his voice got quieter yet, and Emma Frost in that moment was more frightened than she had ever been in her entire life- "if I did, you would. And you would do it without complaint."
"Yes, Mr Fisk," she said in a small voice.
"No, dear Emma," Fisk said, and his voice was almost jovial now. "No, I merely wish you to go to Xavier's and tell him the truth-that you are a mutant, a bit too old and independent to become one of his students, and that you are a member of the Hellfire Club. And that Graydon Creed is working with the Club to finance Trask. Tell him that your mental tracking of Creed has revealed that one of his employees-you need not go into more detail than that-is another mutant known as the Changeling, and that he's there at his-Xavier's-behest. Ask what the Changeling's role is, what his job is, and what you, Emnma Frost, can do to help. I need clarity before I can make any plans. I need to know what everyone else's plans and goals are. Then, perhaps, we can make the next move with confidence."
"Do I tell Xavier about Raven?"
"Certainly not. Tell him nothing you don't have to."
"But he may know anyway. The Changeling might tell him."
"Has the Changeling told him, Miss Frost? You're reading his damned mind, after all."
Emma shrugged. "He hasn't decided yet."
"Then don't tell Xavier anything he doesn't need to know."
A certain figure looked around its home. The room with the machines and computers was on its right, as it faced the front door. On its left was a conventional living room. Here, in the spacious front hall, were tables arrayed with photographs. Framed photos, with people, events, places, strewn everywhere. The figure walked to one of the tables. It picked up a photo, in a small frame. It showed a deserted and broken down mansion-Xavier's Mansion, in fact. In the foreground was a grave. On it were the words: "Jean Grey-Summers. She will rise again." The picture was dated October, 2008. Next to it was another picture. It showed a stunningly beautiful woman of about sixty, maybe a bit more. She had long gray hair piled down over her shoulders, bright green eyes, wore a green costume with a stylized bird emblazoned on it, and a knowing smile for the camera-a look that seemed to say that the Universe was her private joke, and the fact that she was here smiling into the camera was the greatest joke of all. She, too, was standing in front of Xavier's Mansion-indeed, precisely where the grave was in the other photo. But in this picture the Mansion was intact, indeed sparkling. A beautiful woman with red hair, younger and shorter than the other, was standing by the gray-haired woman, looking into her eyes. The picture had the legend: "Jean and Rachel Summers, The Mansion, October, 2008."
The figure picked up the photo of the two women, and kissed it. This is reality. Nothing else. This sustains me. You two sustain me. It picked up another picture. This showed the five original X-Men, in their graduation garb, caps on their heads, but wearing their X-Men uniforms. Charles Xavier was in the center of the picture. A legend read: "X-Men. Graduation. July 14, 1964." Another picture next to it showed the same five young people, and one other, all a little older, wearing the costumes Jean Grey had made for them after the defeat of Factor Three. This legend read: "X-Men. New costumes. November 3, 1967." Maria Gianelli was with them, wearing a blue-and-white costume.
The figure looked at one more picture. It showed the "new" X-Men, arrayed around the Professor. Scott, face grim but posture relaxed. Phoenix was next to him, wearing the green costume. Staring into the camera, with something of the same look that Jean had in her 2008 photo, but less knowing. She did not know as much then. She never truly knew as much as the Primal Jean did. And Peter, Kurt, Sean, Ororo, Logan. The legend read: "X-Men, September 22, 1977." Just after the M'Kraan Crystal. And before their abduction by Mesmero. Such a key moment. If only things had happened in a different way- Well, they didn't, and that's all there is to it.
The figure went out the front door, drank in the mountain air. I am beginning to feel that my whole mission has been in vain. It is too much for me. And if that is so, then it is too much for anybody. But nothing is certain yet. I can only do my best, and wait for whatever happens to happen. But I do know that my original estimates were way off. The crisis is coming now. Not years from now. Jean will enter the Crystal in this reality this year-1965. Well, that is beyond my power to change. Hah! Was that a joke? If so, it isn't very funny. It makes it all the more important that I be ready.
The figure entered the house, went to the room with the machines. It had work to do.
