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.