"Wrong Place, Wrong Time"
August 2001 –
"This is the last place I wanted to come to", he thought as
he made his way past a burnt out apartment building. Layers upon layers of dried graffiti art made the walls of the
place look dull and unrecognizable. He
stepped out of the building's shadow, and scowled as he took in the panorama of
garbage, blasted out tenements, vandalized walls, and broken down cars that
littered the street. "I'd be lying if I
said if I said I've seen worse."
Indeed, the ride through Dakota's automated subway was bad enough. Dried urine and garbage stuffed the corners
of the subway-cars, or at least the cars heading here. The rest of the city was rather picturesque
and enjoyable. The rich cultural
diversity of its many neighborhoods and Burroughs was a stark contrast to the
nearly homogenous northeastern locale he just left months earlier. But this neighborhood, if it could be called
that, was a different matter all together. The only way into it was the subway,
and an old bridge. It made sense that
decades earlier the city planners placed the main hub of the industrial sector
on an "island", or rather a peninsula, across the river. But over the last 30 years, a large
residential neighborhood sprung up around the factories, and Paris Island was
born. This was kind of a boomtown for
the poor people here who migrated from other parts of the country, mostly the
south, and settled to live near the factories where they found employment. But the factories have all since closed
down, and 20 years of economic decline and staggering unemployment had taken
its toll on this place. He could easily
see that. The last time he was here,
the place was getting bad, but it still had some semblance of life. Now, it was just crowded with hookers,
pimps, gangs, and the rest of the people… heck, they were hostages
probably. As he walked down 3rd
street and turned south on Macon blvd, he had to stop dead in his tracks. Macon blvd still was lined with seedy little
liquor stores, pawnbrokers, and head shops... but there was a glaring
difference.
"Son of a… ", is all he could say. Instead of "Tat-Money's", a local tattoo parlor run by Dennis
"Tat" Larsen, there stood a storefront style CHURCH called "House of Hope
Ministries". "I guess old Tat finally
retired. He probably died in a bar brawl or something… and why the hell am I
talking to myself anyway?"
"LOGAN!!!" A familiar
voice came from inside the tinted storefront windows of the church. The doors swiftly opened, and the mutant's
jaw nearly hit the dirty pavement. If
it weren't for his super-powered senses, he wouldn't have truly believed it was
him. There, in front if him stood a
cherubic, well-dressed man who barely resembled Tat Larsen. How could this be Tat? The last time Logan saw him this man was a
bar-brawling, bed hopping, tattooed thug.
Maybe the tattoos are still there, but the dress shirt and kaki slacks
certainly didn't scream out the word "THUG".
And Logan's enhanced sense of smell couldn't pick up even the faintest
aroma of alcohol and cheap perfume (which usually came with Tat's favorite
women). "So are you just going to stand
there, and gawk or come on in?"
Shaken from his absolute state of shock, "No, ummm… sure
uhhh…" was all Logan could manage. "Ok
Tat… what happened to you? I mean… damn
look at you!"
"Heh heh. Why don't
we take this inside brotha. It's
gettin' late." Well, the laugh was the same. Deep, baritone, and dripping with
a southern drawl that would make Marie miss Mississippi. The wisp of her name jarred his mind, and
forced him to suppress it until he could focus on his apparently "changed"
friend.
Logan followed his friend into the small church. He stopped when he saw the name on a program
sitting on a desk near the front door.
House of Hope Ministries, Sharing God's Love to a Lost Generation… Senior
Pastor: Rev. Dennis Larsen!
"Reverend?!?! Alright Tat,
what's the scam?" This made the older
man stop and turn around. He motioned for Logan to sit in one of the padded
steel folding chairs. He slowly sat
next to him, his added weight making Logan shift over one more seat. Then the man turned his grey-templed head,
and looked Logan over… REALLY looked him over.
"Fine, I'll tell you everythin' and then some, but first, you
tell me brotha… how come I got ten yea'z olda' and you still look the same?" Now it was Logan's turn to shift a
little. His agelessness was something
that he didn't have to confront too often because he rarely made friends that
stuck around, or lived long enough to notice.
Damn it! Why is Tat not a
drunken tattoo parlor owner? Logan
placed his hands in his leather coat's pocket, and he pulled out a small
pocketknife.
"Tat, I trusted you with my life once, and I'm going to trust
you again. But if ya tell anyone what
you're about to see… I'll kill ya." If
Tat was intimidated, the old Vietnam vet didn't show it. He just stared curiously at Logan as he
flipped open the knife blade.
"Jesus!!!" he yelled as Logan plunged the knife right through
his hand. The wound immediately started
gushing crimson fluid. "Are you crazy
man? Here take this! Oh Lawwd!" he
handed Logan a handkerchief… then let out a small gasp. There was Logan, holding his hand up, with
only a bloodstain where the wound was.
"That's not all", said Logan. "I didn't need to use the pocket knife, heck I don't even know
why I still have it, when I have these!" SHUUNNK! With a sick, blood-wet sound, three foot-long silvery
blades shot out between his knuckles.
The older man nearly jumped out of his skin, and into an adjacent row of
chairs.
"You're one o' them mutants!
I knew there was some'n crazy about you. And I thought it was just you're hair!" With that, the laughing started, and the tension melted. "Well, man, to answer your question… this
ain't no scam. It's the real deal. I could chew your ear off with the long
version, but I'll spare you the sermon…" To which Logan secretly thanked
whatever God was listening. "I met a
woman at a bar that changed my life.
She was a hooker, and you know how I wasn't 'xactly picky about my
women, but later on she started to goin' to that big church on Delaney Street –
Paris Baptist. Man, Logan if you could
'a seen the change in her! She was
always preachin' and carryin' on about Jesus this, and Jesus that… this woman
was the biggest ho on the block just 2 months befo'!"
"So what'd you do Tat?
Did you marry her? I never
figured you for the marrying type."
Logan's patented smirk was already plastered on his face.
"No brotha, she died."
Good-bye smirk, hello doe-eyed concern. "Aids. The good Lord saved her just in time. I loved her, man, and I was there next to her when she was on her
deathbed. That woman went out preachin', and told me that she knew why God made
her. In the 8 months befo' she passed
away she filled that church with so many ex-hookers and pimps that the church
could hardly handle it. Includin' me."
"I'm sorry", is all Logan could say. Before he could say anything more, Rev.
Larsen began speaking again. "This is
the SHORT version?" Logan thought.
"Don't be sorry brotha.
That woman led me to Jesus, and I'm a new man cuz of it. I went through some bible school with Paris
Baptist, got ordained, and opened up this little church after I closed my
tattoo parlor. Heck, most of my
congregation are the same people she led to the Lord. Logan…", he said getting up, "it's late. Where are you stayin'
at?"
"Uhhh, that's kind of why I came by. I'm on my way to Canada, and I'm sorta
taking the long way. Plus I remember a tattoo-shop owner who owed me some
money… you seen him around?" Logan's smirk was back, big as life.
"Well, I ain't seen that man in years, but I can pay his debt
with kindness… that is, if you need a place to hole up? Just follow me."
"Lead the way… old man."
The irony wasn't lost on Logan. He could likely be DOUBLE this man's
age, and the little middle-aged black guy with the small, graying afro looked
like he could be his father… ok, an adopted black father… but who cares. The two chatted about the past as they made
their way outside. Rev. Larsen locked
the church up and rolled down the graffiti-covered steel window shutters. Logan noticed that all the neighborhood
shops and businesses had already done the same, and there were many MORE
unsavory types filling the streets in all directions. As the two of them walked north up the street, they noticed 4
young men unconsciously blocking their path. The young men, wearing whatever
baggy urban fashions were in this month, were busy with their own
"business".
"Hannibal! Does yo
momma know you out here with these… these friends o' yours?" Tat was in full Reverend mode. You could practically hear the gospel choir
singing behind him.
Before the youth responding to the name "Hannibal" could
answer, another young man, sporting cornrow braids and a gold chain with a
charm that read "On Fire", yelled back, "Who you f***in' wit' n*gga? Didn't we tell to mind ya damn business last
week?"
"Chill Trev", Hannibal said.
He removed his blue Dakota Bull-dogs cap, and smiled an uneasy smile at
Rev. Larsen and his white friend.
"Look, Rev, out o' respect to my momma, I ain't gonna f*** with
you. But you can't come 'round here and
f*** our sh*t up any time you feels like it. Come on, n*gga, we just tryin to
get paid off this sh*t."
"Really Hannibal", Larsen replied, "Is that what your Allah
is all about? Why don't you come by to
church and…"
"Awww sh*t, here he goes again!" Trev interrupted, drawing
nods of approval from the others. "Look
muthaf***a, you wanna drop knowledge? Well f*** that Jesus sh*t n' peep this."
"Oh?" Larsen looked intently, "You got life figured out, eh
young man? I gotta hear this. Tell me Mr. "Trev", what… knowledge
you talkin' about?"
"All around the world's the same song… N*ggaz gotta get they
bang on. Straight like that, Rev. You
came up on 'em streets." Trev continued on, despite the sad look on Tat's face,
and the absolutely confused look in Logan's.
"It ain't like n*ggaz bang cuz there ain't nuttin' to do out here, it's
just the sh*t that's goin' on out here.
It's a reality thang. Your homie
gets smoked you gotta smoke some n*ggaz for yo homies, or n*ggaz gonna think
your hood is… uhhh… marks in yo hood or something."
"What the hell are you talking about and why can't you say it
in English?" Logan was fed up with the short exchange. What these guys were doing to the English
language was absolute murder and, quite frankly, he didn't care to stand here
and argue with a bunch of thugs over their chosen "street-pharmaceutical"
business. At first, the group was taken
back by his brazenness, but one second later they closed the box around him and
Rev. Larsen.
"First… who the f*** are you, and what the f*** is up with
that muthaf***in hair!" Logan didn't answer.
He was too busy figuring out how he could slice all their throats in the
quickest possible way. His facial
features took on an animal-like feral quality.
An eyebrow arched, nostrils flared, eyes darted back and forth, and if
menacing scowls could kill, these young men would all be six feet under
already. He wasn't even paying
attention to what they were saying.
Larsen was pleading with them to back off and calm down. The young men were saying something back,
but Logan was just waiting for their first stupid move. Actually, their second stupid move, since
the first was making fun of his hair.
"You heard 'im b*tch, run them watches, the jacket… and yo
shoes muthaf***a", said another young man, this one holding out a pistol. That's it, bad move. In a blur of movement that defied the laws
of physics, the pistol burst into pieces and Logan was holding his outstretched
claws at two different young men's throats.
"Your move a**hole. I
don't give a flying f*** about your business, your rationale, or you for that
matter. Either you back off and leave
RIGHT NOW… or you all die… right here… today."
The stunned gang members began backing off slowly. Logan heard differing takes on the words
"What the f***".
"F*** this sh*t, I'm out", said Trev as he and the others
were leaving. Hannibal stared back as he walked off, almost looking ashamed,
and not making direct eye contact with Rev. Larsen. "Yo Rev, this ain't over.
After we handle some major sh*t, it's round two mutha f***z." With that, they piled into a low-riding
Crown Victoria, and cruised away, ear-splitting bass music blasting Logan's
eardrums in the process.
Logan and Tat continued up the street, barely uttering a
word, until they came to an old apartment building. After fumbling with the keys to the front security door, Tat let
them both in. The place actually looked
much cleaner on the inside. Despite the
worn and chipped paint, the hallways and old doors looked well kept. It kind of reminded him of the doors in the
mansion, his home. Home? Since
when was that his home? They say home
is where the heart is… and he had to admit, he left his heart back there. But with whom did he leave it, Jean, or
Marie? He followed his old friend to
apartment #309. They stepped into the
quaint two-bedroom apartment, and instinctively plopped on the couch. Tat spoke first.
"Thanks Logan. Although, you did set that off in the first
place."
"I started it?" Logan's eyes widened. "I wasn't the guy who decided to start
lecturing gang members about their uhhh… career choices. I also didn't try to
start a religious debate with 'em either.
You can thank yourself for that one my friend."
"Yeah", Larsen laughed, "them knives of yours come in pretty
handy. You cut right that boy's
45! What are those made of?"
"Something called adamantium. A lady explained it to me once (*Jean*), but I forget the
details. Anyhow, who were those guys
and what were they talking about?"
"Let me start some coffee and I'll tell you", Larsen got up
and shuffled to the kitchen. Man, did
he look his age. Ten, actually, eleven
years earlier this was a thirty-nine year old bar-thug. Can't hardly tell now, Logan thought. What Tat came back he was holding two mugs
of coffee. He handed one to Logan who
sipped it slowly. "Those uhhh…
gentlemen, are Paris Bloods. One of
their momma's goes to my church. The
dude named Hannibal. He has a little
sister named Cornelia and a two-year-old son named Edmund that his mom takes
care of, 'cause the baby's mother was killed in some kind of drive-by
shooting."
"Talk about your family values."
"Yeah man, and it's getting worse. There're some rumors about some major things going down pretty
soon. Logan, people are scared. The gangs in Paris Island have been fightin'
each other and carryin' on for years, but word is that they're gonna settle it,
once and for all. Something called the
Big Bang."
"The what?" Logan thought he was through with craziness when
he left the mansion. Now it seems like
the entire world has gone insane.
"The Big Bang.
Bangin' is a gang word for all the fightin' and shootin' they do. Everybody knows that the major gangs, like
the Paris Bloods… the Force Syndicate… Double L's, they're all in on it. Some time, maybe soon, they're all going to
come together, and fight it out. One
big war."
"So? Why not let them kill each other? I mean, if they are so eager to kill
themselves then why not put 'em all out somewhere, and let them have it
out?" Logan finished his coffee and
placed the mug on the nearby end table.
"Because those are people's children Logan. They're people's
sons, brothers, in some cases, fathers… and you think that they're only going
to hurt each other?" Larsen shifted
back and forth, looking worriedly as he did so. "When that war pops off, in this part of the city, that's exactly
what it's going to be… a WAR! People
are going to get killed, lots of them.
And don't think the mayor is going to stand by and let this happen. That
old buzzard got elected because he said he would "clean up Paris Island". All that has meant is more harassment for normal
folks, and absolutely nothing about the actual criminals." Logan and the Rev talked about all kinds of
things that night: life in Paris Island, Logan's time in Canada, and even the
X-men (though there were many major details he left out). The Wolverine was allowed to stay at the
Rev's home as long as he needed it, while Logan made a bit of money and got
himself ready for his trek to Canada… and his search for answers. The truth was that, honestly, he stopped by
Dakota looking for a familiar face, before facing the unknown up in
Canada. Running into Tat Larsen was a
God-send (since when did he believe in God?
Man, the old guy is getting to him), and finding him as a preacher
actually was a bonus. But all good
things come to an end, and for Logan, the end came the following weekend while
he was in a local bar on Delaney Street… not too far from Paris Baptist Church
(go figure).
"What's going on, bub?
Why're you closing early, it's only 9 o'clock." Logan finished his beer with an extended
gulp.
"You haven't heard? Buddy, you gotta get out of here and get
you're a** home quick. Lock the doors
too. You can't stay here!" The barkeep
was hurriedly stacking chairs on tables and, come to think of it, most of the
people were beating their feet out the door.
Those who weren't were quickly finishing up and fixing to leave
themselves.
"Can't say I've heard anything. What's got everybody so spooked?" Then Logan heard the three words that had haunted his mind since
his friend uttered them. And this man, this bartender, had the same stark look
of terror as the old Reverend when he first said them.
"The Big Bang!" The bartender just started cleaning up
faster, and the remaining patrons nearly tripped over each other when they
overheard what he said. "It's going down tonight. Minton Park near the old factory by the Paris Island Bridge. It's
going to be bad man, real bad!"
Logan paid for his drink and got up calmly and walked
out. He saw people all around him
milling about swiftly. Oh yeah, they
knew. He could feel the waves of fear
and anguish coming off of these people.
He almost felt nauseous due to his heightened senses. They were nearly in overload. That's when he started hearing it. The sounds of gunfire began erupting from
many different directions, and all hell broke loose. The people on the street, who were just hurrying just moments
before, have turned into a full-scale riotous mob as they run and duck for
whatever cover can be found. Logan
flattened himself against a building
for a few minutes to escape the oncoming rush of humanity. Once the initial throng subsided, it was
followed by traffic gridlock, as cars and people forgot every traffic law and
plowed through intersections, red lights, stop signs, just trying to get away.
"They're all heading west", he thought… and immediately started heading
EAST. "Might as well see what all the
hell is going down." Famous last words.
He knew that. But something inside him
just couldn't ignore what was going on.
Maybe his time around those X-geeks had rubbed off on him. "Wonder if
One-Eye'd be dropping bricks right now?"
He inwardly chuckled as he made his way east, and then north, towards
Minton Park. All along the way he avoided the armed clashes between different
groups of young men. The youths were
armed and wounding and killing each other with reckless abandon. "How could people live like this?" Then he saw a boy, maybe 17 years, get hit
in the chest. As the young man's chest
exploded open, Logan thought to himself, "They can't live like this. Nobody
can."
He stopped by the boy's crumpled body, and noticed a dead
girl right next to him. Probably his
girlfriend, Logan mused, and then, gazing into the girl's dead brown eyes,
thought of Marie. "Oh God Marie, if you
ever got caught up in something like this…" He determined that he would make it
to Minton Park, by any means necessary.
Maybe he could stop some of this madness from happening. Probably not, but something deep down urged
him on. He felt the need to be more
than just a spectator… but rather, a witness.
As he watched the last jerky bodily spasm from that boy on the ground,
Logan involuntarily popped his claws.
His anger was on the surface now… but who was he angry at? The guys who
shot him? Poverty itself, causing people live in places like this? Maybe it was directed at the kid for being
in a wrong place in a hell of a wrong time.
Regardless, he sheathed the killer claws, and continued onward.
Logan made his way closer to the park, block by block. Deeper and deeper into the absolute worst
section of the nightmare called Paris
Island, Logan trudged on. As he did so,
he found many more groups of young men in running gun-fights, and as he got
closer to Minton Park, the fighting intensified and steadily got heavier. The sparse gun battles turned into constant
shoot-outs from street to street. Dead
gang-members and innocent victims littered the streets like dead animals run
over by cars. And some cars were doing
just that.. in their desperation to get away from there. As he skulked down 1st avenue,
what passes for Paris Island's main street, Logan was taken back by what he
saw.
It
was like a battle out of World War II, possibly D-Day. Indeed, many young men, possibly a couple
hundred, were converging on a huge run-down park near a factory, and taking up
positions in different spots, sniping at each other with all kinds of
weapons. Logan had done it… he found
the hub of the Big Bang.
What is a bonafide mutant hero to do at a time like
this? Take cover behind a grove of
trees! "This was a bad idea", he
thought to himself. "Spending so much
time with the Reverend messed me up in the head. Let these people kill themselves!" Logan ran and ducked behind some trees, whose shade and bushes
made him impossible to see at this time of night. It didn't really matter
though, no one was looking for him, and the dead body lying next to him wasn't
going to mind if he hid here for the moment.
The deafening sounds of gunfire, people screaming, and dying surrounded
him. His augmented hearing could hear
the whiz of every bullet. His nose
picked up the rotting stenches of fear mixed with death. Then he heard another louder sound. Police sirens!
Overhead, he could see over a dozen police
helicopters, shining their spotlights on the warring young men in the
park. Dozens of police cruisers and
armored personnel vans, carrying what he estimated as a couple hundred SWAT
team police officers, flooded the park.
The gang members, which up until then were intent on continuing their
pitched battle, began to break ranks, scatter, and run. Some young men, dressed in mostly red,
turned around and regrouped, and began exchanging gunfire with the police. Soon other groups joined the fray, and what
started as a gang vs. gang war, became a gang vs. police war. Well, they fought the law… and the law
won! The police begin pushing the
disorganized gang-members out of the park and into the streets of Paris Island,
where even more police cruisers were waiting for them.
Logan
decided this was probably his time to make tracks. No sense in getting arrested for something that he wasn't a part
of, or even cared about anymore. That
was a lie. He was mentally fighting
with himself over whether to stay and help in some way, or just beat it out of
here. Compassion vs. Apathy. One thing was clear in his mind though:
Justice. Let these guys go to jail.
They deserve it. If they were literally
willing to kill each other over drug turf and whatever the hell else they want,
then let 'em. Innocent people like that
17 year-old and his girlfriend were the ones he was concerned about. It was just then that he heard a sound that
he would remember long after that night.
The wet-thuds of dozens of tear gas canisters began to clank on the
ground a few hundred yards ahead of him into the crowd of gang-members. And then.. the screams began.
Blood
curdling couldn't begin to describe it… but watching a throng of young men
running in different directions with their faces melting off (*MELTING*) drove
the point home. What the hell was in
that stuff. He heard more canisters hit
the ground, and the screams began to multiply and intensify. But this time it sounded different. OhmyGod… the police officers were yelling
too. Something was going wrong! That gas was killing everybody in
sight. Even people from the nearby
apartments began running out as the gas seeped into their homes. Police and
gang-members alike were writhing in pain on the floor. Scattered gunshots could be heard, but they
were being drowned out by the sound of screaming and running… of windows
breaking as people tried to take shelter anywhere they could. Even police SWAT teams sealed themselves up
in their own vans. Then Logan began to
feel the burning in his lungs. The GAS!
He
didn't get hit directly, but it was in the air. He had to find shelter. He ran back into the park, and thought about
the old factory. Naw, no good, too many
holes and broken windows. Then he saw
it. The nastiest, most polluted, pond
in all existence. He could still see algae
in it, which meant there had to be SOME water in there. "Healing factor, don't fail me now", he
thought as he ran, took a deep breath, and dove in just as more tear-gas
canisters hit and exploded next to where he was standing.
For
three minutes there was silence. The
outside world disappeared into a fog of wet darkness, from which he could
barely even tell what direction he was facing.
But once his enhanced lung capacity gave out, he quickly figured out
which way was up, and up he went. As he
pulled himself out of the muck, the wall of noise that hit his ears almost
pushed him back under the briny pond-waters.
If he thought the scene was chaotic before, it was nothing compared to
what he gazed at now. As police
spotlights swept the park, a hundred bodies, maybe more, could be seen. And their conditions were in varying stages
of melting off their bones. There were
gang members, police officers, and innocent pedestrians scattered over the
park. And the streets near the park
were worse. It was obvious that the
gangs tried to break the police lines.
Near the lines, dozens of squad cars, lights and sirens blaring could
still be seen, but nothing but melted and melting bodies were piled in top of
them… and around them… and under them.
In fact, the riot had made its way towards the Paris Island Bridge. The Bridge! Logan thought to himself that
it's time to leave this mess and regroup. He'd phone Tat Larsen later, and
check up on him, but right now that didn't matter. Canada didn't matter. The
only thing that mattered was getting out of here, helping out when it's all
over, and then getting home. HOME?
No time for mental debates about what makes a mansion in Westchester, NY
his home. But one thing is clear… Paris
Island shouldn't be home to anyone!
Logan
decided that it would be easier to just go behind the other side of the factory
to get to the bridge, than go all the way around on the riot-littered
streets. Anyhow, sporadic gunfire could
still be heard, and looters were already on the march. He ran behind the old factory, which seemed
to stretch forever, but stopped abruptly when he saw a guy running towards him,
and suddenly burst into a splash of WATER!
He then noticed some strange glowing shapes streaking across the sky…
and they weren't helicopters. The
shapes were barely visible due to police spotlights and smoke from nearby
burning building. Rioters were already in burn-mode! He finally turned the corner of the factory and saw groups of
young men and police officers running in different directions, still shooting
at each other. Others were screaming
for help, as the deadly effects of the gas began taking effect. He saw one man
burst into flames and begin running and yelling. But the weirdest thing was that Logan was sure that the guy himself…
WAS NOT BURNING! Everything around him
was, including some of his friends, but he seemed to be intact. "No time for that", he thought, and
continued in his trek towards the bridge.
He
could see it now, and the lights of the rest of Dakota glistening on the other
side. But then he caught sight of
another group of SWAT team members already on the bridge. Some were already in a heated-battle with
some gang members, who tried to break their line and leave Paris Island, but
the others… what where they doing? Only
seconds before the blast did Logan smell it… Explosive materials. Wolverine was in mid-air when the SWAT team
set off the charges that blew the bridge, killing the other officers defending
the bomb-setters, as well as the gang members who were attacking them. The blast sent Logan hurtling through the
air and right through a plate glass window in the old factory, which rocked and
shook under the force of the blast. A
portion of the factory collapsed on some young men, but fortunately Logan
wasn't under the pile. It must've
weighed tons. "Poor bastards. At least they went out quick", Logan slowly
pulled himself up, cuts and bruises already closing themselves up. He could feel several bones mending. "Hurts like hell", he said that out loud as
he grimaced in pain, and then he almost feel back as he witnessed what he
thought was impossible. One of the
young men who was trapped under the debris climbed out! He pushed what should've been hundreds of
pounds of steel and concrete out of his way and then crawled out. The young man stood up quickly, and that's
when Logan's augmented senses detected what his eyes couldn't believe. This guy didn't have a scratch on him. Unlike Logan, who was in various stages of
self-repair, this young man didn't need to heal. He wasn't hurt. Not a
hair out of place. Well, his clothes
had definitely seen better days though.
Before he could say anything the young man ran down the streets of Paris
Island, into the heart of the chaos, and was concealed in the night. "Hannibal", Logan said as his mutant
nostrils picked up the scent. That's
the kid the Rev was talking about. A
mutant?
Logan
looked up as he saw another 4 helicopters fly over him. These weren't police.
They were news. His enhanced eyesight
clearly made out the letters CNN, even at night, and despite the think pall of
smoke that covered most of the sky. "I
hope the world likes what it sees."
~~~~~
Somewhere
across the country, in the state of NY, in the small upstate town of
Westchester… a group of teenagers and teachers, along with the school founder
gathered in the "recreation" room of their mansion home/school. Like everyone across the nation that night,
their eyes were fixed on the scenes of horror that every major news station was
depicting in vivid detail. Various news
reporters tried their best to make sense of it all, and earn themselves a
Pulitzer while they're at it.
"…the
carnage is unbelievable…"
"..an
estimated 250 dead, but those numbers are sure to go up…"
"…
Congress in emergency session…"
"Worst
rioting in U.S. history…"
"…
President is already calling for an investigation…"
Professor
Charles Xavier, founder of the School for Gifted Youngsters, shifted nervously
in his wheelchair. "Professor, we have
to do something!", Cyclops said.
The
professor looked up at Cyclops, and then the other teachers, who were secretly
his X-men. He took a deep breath, gazed
at the images on the TV screen, then turned to his protégés and said, quite
calmly mind you, "No… we will do nothing."
It
took seconds for the collective gasps of the students and teachers alike to
subside. Cyclops clenched his fists,
his most outward visible sign of frustration.
"Professor, there could be hundreds of people dead in that city… and we
do nothing? Nothing at all? Why,
Professor?"
"Because
this disaster, regardless of its magnitude, is of their own making!" Before
anyone could speak, he continued, "The poverty that created that part of the
city, the political landscape that exists there and approved that kind of
police response… the desperate young men and women who decided to end their
lives over drug money, turf, or whatever they call it these days… these things
are not the kinds of things we can do anything about."
"But
professor…", started Jean.
"But
nothing, Ms. Grey. It's one thing to
protect humanity against a mutant threat, or against some outside enemy… but we
can't protect them against the culmination of hundreds, or thousands of
individual bad choices and decisions.
No… in these matters they must reap what they sow, as must we all. I feel your compassion, your horror at what
we are witnessing, but this too must pass, and we must be prepared for whatever
the consequences. Good night all." As the professor turned around and headed
out the hallway in his wheelchair, he pretended not to pick up the many
cluttered thoughts that were flying in that room.
"Scott",
Ororo said, eyes tearing up, "we're not doing anything? What if this were your hometown? Or here for
that matter?"
"We
have to trust the Professor, Storm.
He's right." Cyclops' leadership veneer was already donned and ready.
"I
can't believe you… any of you!!!" Storm, well, stormed out of the room.
"Follow
her Jean." Jean Grey was already going
after her friend before Cyclops got the words out. "As for the rest of you", he turned to the eldest students who
had been allowed to stay up and watch the late night news broadcasts with the
teachers, "Lights out. There's nothing
more to know. I'll do a bed check in 20 minutes. No exceptions."
"But
Mr. Summers…"
"No
buts, Marie. Everyone has to be in bed
in 20 minutes, or there will be a local urban disaster right here in the
mansion." The teenagers all got up,
turned the TV off and muttered various curses under their breaths. Cyclops was lucky he wasn't telepathic, but
somewhere up in his room Professor Xavier winced at the kind of vocabulary that
angry teenaged girls are capable of using.
"Oh
dear", he thought, as he made every effort to block out the outside world, and
possibly even get some sleep of his own.
