The last thing Sam wanted to see upon entering the mansion was Scott Summers sitting on the couch, stared slack-jawwed at the television in front of him. After driving the girls back to the academy and dropping them off, he and Logan had returned silently to Westchester, where Logan was currently dragging the still-unconscious Justin into the med lab for a quick checkup before hopefully mindwiping him and sending him on his merry way.
That meant he, being the truthful, honest young man that he was, would eventually be trapped in a corner like a timid mouse.
"I'm surprised you made it out of there alive," Scott started, gesturing wildly to the T.V. Sam cautiously walked over to stand behind the couch, feeling beads of sweat form on his forehead as the news anchor stood in front of a pile of ... something ... that was currently in flames.
"Yes, Sandra, that's right. No word yet on the assailant who instigated the riot, but the preliminary investigations already being conducted point to this as being the initial weapon used." The camera panned around to show one of New York's finest holding a clear plastic bag, in which rested a plastic thing that looked like a flashlight with plastic antennae sprouting from the ends.
Scott scratched his eyebrow. "Jubilee got one of those things at the Bruce Springsteen concert."
Sam coughed nervously.
The camera swung back around to focus on the reporter. She clutched her microphone to her chest as a group of disgruntled teenage girls ran by, all carrying their concert signs. The last one in the group moved back into camera range and pulled the microphone closer to her.
"We want Justin back! Whoever took him won't get away with this!"
The other girls nodded their agreement before leading her to the burning tower in the background. The reporter looked back at the camera, obviously a little harried. "No word yet on where group member Justin Timberlake is, either. We'll update you if we learn anything."
"Thank you, Jessica," replied a perky blonde sitting behind a desk, chipper voice clashing with her somber expression. "We go now to inside the arena for a special meeting called by Britney Spears, who opened tonight's show without injury."
Sam gulped and clutched the back of the couch tightly. Bobby sauntered in, making no move whatsoever to keep his eyes from widening when the object of his longtime affections came onto the screen. He made his wish to hear her speak known when he shot the Glare o' Death at Scott for daring to open his mouth.
"Shh! The Goddess speaks!"
"Goddess? Bobby, she's a kid."
"She's an adult, thank you," Bobby corrected, taking a bite from his turkey sandwich and staring in dough-eyed wonder at the television. There stood Britney, still in the outfit she wore during her performance, surrounded by various camera crews.
"All I can say," she started, sniffling loudly, "is that whoever could, you know, do such a thing, is really, really low. Really low. Justin, if you can hear me right now, don't worry! We'll ... um ... do everything we can to find you, y'know. I miss you!" She sniffled again. "And we will find whoever could, like, do such a thing, too!"
As reporters began firing off question after question at her, Bobby gave a dazed smile and leaned back against the couch cushions. "Or maybe he's lost forever. And then you'll be mine, Britney. All mine!"
Scott blinked behind his visor.
Sam continued sweating.
"Sam," Scott started, turning around in his spot. Sam jumped and bumped into Logan, who was just coming out of the hallway that led downstairs to the medlab.
"Ah didn't do it!" He shrieked wildly, eyes wide and terrified like those of a deer in headlights. "Ah didn't mean t'kill 'im, sir, Ah swear!"
"With the way you crack under pressure, I hope you never get caught by some government cronie," Logan grumbled under his breath, glaring balefully at Sam. Sam, however, didn't notice.
Scott's brow creased as he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong. "I...uh, I was just going to ask if you've ever seen Cast Away. I stopped by Blockbuster on the way home and rented it. Just thought you might want to watch it, that's all."
"I got 'im in there, but Beast is at some convention with Chuck," Logan whispered to the younger man.
Sam's eyes, if possible, widened even more. "So that means..."
Logan nodded, a slow, evil grin forming on his face. "Yup. And she wants ta talk to ya."
"Great." He looked back at Scott and forced a smile he by no means felt. "Thanks, but Ah've um...got some stuff Ah need t'go take care of. Maybe later, though."
Scott nodded warily and reached for the remote, drawing back in surprise when Bobby smacked his hand away.
"No! She's still talking!"
******
Standing in the doorway of the medlab, Sam wondered if there was any possible way he might be able to live to see thirty. Or even twenty-five. That would be nice.
"Ah killed 'im, didn't Ah?"
"You panic too much, Guthrie. You and your cow-tipping self need to go on a vacation."
Cecilia Reyes. M.D. Hopeless cynic.
And eternal tormenter of one innocent, simple country boy.
"Ah've never tipped a cow, actually."
"There are other things to do in Kentucky?"
"Plenty."
"Like what? Practice aiming at unsuspecting entertainers?" She asked with a hatefulness in her voice she hoped would hide her humor at the entire situation. She cast a quick glance up at the young man as she moved to the side of the bed upon which Justin was resting, taking no small amount of satisfaction in seeing Sam freak out before her very eyes.
"Ah wasn't aimin' at him! Ah just...Ah thought about throwin' it, an' Ah didn't even realize Ah did it until...well, everything fell apart."
"You didn't mean to hit him?" Cecilia asked incredulously, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Sam shook his head, somehow maintaining the innocent look he'd kept in between bouts of temporary insanity and panic. "Bull. You hit this kid dead in the forehead. You have a good aim. Ever consider playing for the Mets?"
Sam blushed but smiled a little, ducking his head and making long blond bangs fall into his face. "Huh uh. Maybe the Yankees."
"No!" Cecilia almost shouted, brown eyes furious. "Absolutely not! You will play for the Mets, end of story."
Sam blinked.
"Sorry," she apologized somewhat sheepishly. "Mike Piazza's my boy. I gotta stick with him. Loyalty, stuff like that." She shrugged and finally took mercy on the uneasy young man in the doorway. "Look, the kid's fine, okay? He's gonna have a helluva headache when he comes to, but nothing Advil can't fix. Next time you feel like knocking out and kidnaping some insanely popular star, could you maybe sneak into John Cusack's dressing room? I'd love you forever."
"You don't already?" Sam teased, that same childish grin appearing again. Cecilia took one look at him before turning her back.
"No. And especially not after this trick! In fact, I don't know you, okay? Cops aren't very kind to accessories."
"Ah didn't kill him."
"If it helps you sleep at night..."
"Ah didn't! You said so!"
"I said no such thing. I said he'd have a headache."
"Well, he can't very well have a headache if he's dead, now can he?" Sam shot back, arms folded smugly over his chest to show he was obviously proud with the way the argument was going.
"Oh, you are a bright one."
Their friendly bickering was brought to an abrupt halt when they noticed Scott standing in the hallway, staring at Sam with as much of a puzzled expression as he could manage with his eyes concealed.
"Sam, did you kill Justin Timberlake?"
******
Notes: This was originally supposed to be a stand-alone chapter, but eh. Things didn't work out that way. Basically, this is just a little throwaway scene that takes place outside the medlab between Bobby and several of his teammates. Just more stupid humor. Enjoy. Or at least keep the rotten tomatoes to yourself. :-)
10:41 P.M.