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Chapter Thirty-Four: Philosophies of the Beaded Beard
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Eric Lensherr leaned back slowly in his seat, surveying the eager face of his adolescent charge. The boy looked slightly uncomfortable, but pleased as well, wearing a bold expression that reminded Lensherr of his own, before the world had taught him that eagerness must be submitted to the rule of necessity. Each stared back at the other for a moment, two white-haired mutants with defiant gleams in their eyes.
It was an intimidating scene. The large, elegant room was upholstered in dark fabrics, with high walls draped here and there with heavy tapestries. Two of the world's deadliest mutant discussed local politics with his closest young acolyte. Despite the summer warmth outside, a fire burned on the hearth to sap some of the chill from the conditioned air of the cavernous, stone-walled room.
"You let her go?" Magneto spat, teeth-clenched. The iron pokers beside the fireplace rattled menacingly in their holder.
Pietro swallowed hard and twined his fingers together nervously in his lap. "I let her off not far from the interstate, with a little money and a pair of pants—" at this, Magneto eyed him strangely "—but not enough to live on for long." Pietro shrugged his slim shoulders defensively. "She needs the comfort of knowing that joining the Brotherhood was ultimately her decision, not mine. I made sure to give her a way to contact me if she decides to join us. When she decides to join us, that is." He gave a little half-smile.
"Your confidence in this matter is both encouraging and distressing, Pietro," Lensherr sputtered as he rose to his feet, stretching his spine on the way to the fireplace. His hand lingered for a moment on the mantle, among the ancient mementos, the faded monochrome faces that Pietro almost recognized gazing out from thick gold frames. It was strange to see what was probably family to Lensherr; few people ever entered these private rooms, and few ever saw these oddly humanizing touches of Magneto's "normal" life. The older man's gaze fell on a photograph that Pietro was examining, a frame that held a blurry picture of an ivory-haired man with two infant children in his arms. Pietro's eyes narrowed.
Magneto slammed his hand down, smothering the photographed people against the wood of the mantle. His eyes flashed in Pietro's direction, and the boy glanced away sheepishly. Magneto continued, unperturbed by Pietro's stare but still unhappy about the situation at hand. Spittle clung to his lip, and his eyes flashed angrily. "Your little plan may still backfire. You can't simply assume that she'll join us. Not without the proper incentive."
The younger man's lips twisted into a harsh smile, confident and rather grating. "I've already provided that incentive, sir. She's got very little reason to return to that mansion now that her friends are beginning to doubt the reliability of her devotion."
"And you had better be correct about this, Quicksilver. If Irene's visions hold true, and they always have, that little girl is potentially the most powerful mutant we've ever dealt with, save Xavier and myself. From what I can see, an old scrap of parchment I picked up years ago, and its 'silly prophecies' as Mystique once called them, may pay off with immense profits for us. For all of mutantkind, really. Fairbanks' destructive capabilities alone open the opportunity..." He trailed off, an odd expression floating over his face.
Pietro felt his throat go suddenly, painfully dry, but he remained silent and essentially stoic.
"Speaking of destruction—" Lensherr paused for effect, glowering in Pietro's direction "—I hear that you've had a bit of recent experience in the area."
"You…uh…heard, then?"
"It's common knowledge, my boy. It would be hard to watch the neighborhood newscast without seeing a report about the fiery incident at the good professor's home," he added, glowering. He smiled faintly, an unpleasant, unfriendly expression. "You've placed yourself in a bit of a jam, it would seem."
Cheeks inexplicably burning, Pietro glanced away. "Xavier…he's…"
"Comatose. Yes, I've heard. I keep myself fairly well updated on the situation regarding Xavier and his mutants," Lensherr went on. He cracked his knuckles and sat down again across from Pietro. On the other side of the room, a metal urn on a shelf trembled and toppled to the floor with a clatter, ignored. A blunt pain was forming in Pietro's temple, and he found himself wondering, with a jolt of dull fear, if Magneto was toying with the metallic elements in his blood. "You had better hope that he recovers. And that his former student comes stumbling back our way rather than his before he can recuperate and use Cerebro to locate her."
Pietro sighed, the pain in his head tightening briefly before it vanished suddenly. "Yes, sir."
Lensherr rose to his feet and strode from the room as if it were empty, leaving Pietro alone and uncomfortable.
He cleared his throat with a nervous grunting sound. Despite his self-assured ravings, he was worried. With every good thing that happened lately, there seemed to be some inevitable bad thing along for the ride. He was pretty sure that he had Nat where he wanted her, just starting to lean toward his advancements, but Xavier was another matter, and totally out of his control. The professor had been taken to the hospital and was undoubtedly undergoing the best medical treatment and supervision that his virtually unlimited supply of money could buy. Nat, on the other hand, was pretty much helpless and homeless, trying to find her way away from those that wanted to nab her in a world that she couldn't yet handle. He knew her better than she was aware of: she'd come around and return as soon as she realized what she faced on the run. Whatever the professor's condition turned out to be, he'd still be able to deliver Nat to Magneto. And to Pietro himself, if things went as planned.
Things were bumpy, but he hadn't yet failed. Not completely. He could still be redeemed.
In that case, I'll only loose one leg rather than both, he though, bearing more than a trace of mental bitterness. Goody.
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Taking a deep breath, Nat slipped into the grocery store, trying not to meet anyone's gaze. Nat was back to that irrepressible feeling of paranoia again, and it seemed that every passerby was looking right at her, matching her face to one that might have been on the local news.
For the past twenty-four hours, she had avoided most public places until she felt that she was far enough out of town that she didn't have to worry about running into someone who might know her. Still, the fear that she might have made the papers or even the television lingered on. She didn't know that although the professor's story was all over the area already, thanks to some talkative members of the fire department who hadn't had the luxury of having their minds wiped of the memory now that Xavier was out of play, Nat Fairbanks herself had been pretty much eliminated from conversation. No one knew, except the X-Men and probably the Brotherhood, that a suspected arsonist was on the loose not more than a day outside of Bayville. The fire department had chalked up the incident to a cigarette thrown from Nat's bedroom window onto the rose bushes below. Even the angered young X-Men knew it was a bad idea to inform the world that they harbored a girl who could summon flames from her own flesh.
Nat left the grocery again, her pockets a little lighter, an apple and a day-old roll from the bakery in hand. She tried to ration them, to make them last at least until midday or the following morning, but her self-control had worn thin when she remembered that she hadn't eaten since long before she left the institute.
Eternally grateful for the oversized clothing given to her by Pietro, but still a little bitter about how he'd gone about giving it to her, Nat walked slowly to the riverfront and along the edge of the water. There were several others a distance away, all of them homeless or otherwise removed from the generally clean, suburban society. A young man, bearded and apparently strung out on something that made him twitch a lot, waved at her with a wink and nodded for her to come over to the upturned sofa upon which he and an equally-chemically-altered friend sat. She suppressed a nervous tickling in her stomach, reminding herself that she couldn't be judgmental about people who were now just like her, but shook her head and walked quickly away. After all, there was a fine line between being open-minded and just plain stupid.
The river, a slow-running, muddy old thing, looked calm tonight, and sparkled when the light from the moon and the streetlamps caught its peaks and curves just right. Nat sat on a park bench, shivering a bit in her bones, and wrapped her arms around her body. She ran her finger along a crude drawing carved into the wood of the bench, trying not to think about what she was running from.
It was hard. The river looked like the lake had, that night that Kurt followed her to the water's edge, and held her in arms so warm she imagined now that they must have been mere fantasy. The thought brought tears to her eyes, and made her disregard the apple that she hadn't yet finished. It fell to the ground and rolled away, forgotten.
"Whatcha cryin' about, little 'un?"
The voice was soft and gentle. Nonetheless, she leapt to her feet and scrambled away, terrified. She stumbled a bit, falling onto her rear as she tried frantically to squirm back into a standing position. The speaker frowned at her, looking surprised and faintly amused. It was the boy that had been sitting on the old couch, the one who had waved to her a few minutes earlier.
Up close, she could tell that he was younger than she had originally thought, perhaps only twenty or even as young as herself, although the facial hair made him look much older. He was dressed in ratty clothes and several brightly colored beads had been woven into his beard, making him look almost comical and circus-like. His jeans were threadbare, and his shirt was dirty and far too large, so the bones that stuck out from his skin looked skeletal even through his clothes. The only thing he wore that looked like he cared much about was a leather jacket, studded and patched. She could imagine him a few years earlier: at age fifteen, he'd wanted nothing more than that jacket and he'd saved and saved for months just to get hold of it. She imagined that it was the only thing left that really mattered to him, his one last tie to the world he'd left behind when his recreational partying had gotten a little more intense than he had intended, and he'd taken to the streets.
Either that or he stole it.
Now, he stood over her, looking faintly amused. Slowly, with exaggerated care and his eyes held intentionally wide and puppy-like in an attempt to make her laugh, he reached out a hand to help her to her feet. Nat hesitated for a moment, but took his hand and let him hoist her up.
"Nobody's reacted like that when they saw me, before you," he said with a crooked smile, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He twitched, as if his eye and lip wanted to meet one another.
"S-sorry…" Nat trailed off. "I, uh, haven't…gotten to know the area yet. And…well…you know."
He nodded, making a little snorting noise through his nose, but his face was steady and solemn. "Yeah, probably best not to talk to many people around here at night. Lotsa crazies."
She smiled, and tried her luck with conversation. He seemed reasonably friendly. And, at the moment, friendly and crazy was more appealing that not friendly at all. "Is that a warning or an introduction?"
He laughed, opening his mouth and tossing his head back. He had several missing and rotten teeth and his lips were thin and white. He virtually towered over her by at least a foot, but his emaciated build told her that he probably weighed less than she did. "Take it however ya want, I guess." He stuck out his hand again, offering her something in a little foil wrapper. "Want a cig?"
The urge was almost unbearable, and Nat was shocked when she agreed and started to reach forward. Something inside her, she wasn't sure what or why, delighted in the thought of inhaling smoke, any smoke. The fire was hungry. Feeling slightly ill at the thought, she shook her head silently, dropping her hand back to her side.
He nodded, as if answering a question that neither of them had really heard out loud.
"What's yer name?"
"Um…Nat Fairbanks. You?"
"Dominic Rainbow O'Donahue. My mom was probably stoned or somethin', the way I guess it. Either that, or just bein' mean." He perched a cigarette between his lips, lighting it with a match that he lit by flicking it against his thumbnail. He inhaled the smoke, and Nat caught herself trying to drink it in, embarrassed. "So, kid—er, Nat—why were you cryin'? Missin' somebody? Must be somebody pretty important to make ya feel so bad."
Nat shivered and wiped at her face with her hands, trying to blot out tears that were no longer there. She squelched the idea that he had known that, figuring he'd simply guessed. "Just…thinking, I guess."
"'Bout somebody ya love a lot, huh?"
She frowned, still rubbing at her eyes with her fingertips. "How'd you know?"
He grinned, again showing the black spaces in his gaping gums, and raised his hands to the sky. "It's a gift, ya might say. Or maybe not. Can't tell yet."
Nat blinked, not quite sure of what she'd just heard. "A gift, huh?" She walked slowly alongside him as he started to stroll along the water, unconsciously imitating him. He thrust his hands in his pocket and walked with long, swinging strides. "What…kind of gift?"
"The best kind. And the worst kind, a lotta the time."
She rolled her eyes. "Do you ever stop speaking in riddles? Or do I have to figure out your mysterious clues before you give me the key to open the mermaid's treasure chest?"
He laughed again, that snorty, toothless sound that was somehow comforting when compared to the silence of the night before he'd approached. "I try not to talk too much 'bout it, unless people ask."
"Well, I'm askin' aren't I?"
Dominic grinned. "Ya sure are, English Muffin." She stuck out her tongue and made a gagging motion, and he laughed. "I got…some talents that…well, most people ain't got. That's all." He twitched again, his shoulders jerking epileptically.
"You mean, you're a mutant?"
He stared at her for a moment, looking stunned. "You just jump right in an' say it, don't ya?"
"When I really want to know something, yeah. So? Are you?"
There was a long silence, and Nat began to fear that perhaps she had asked too much from this stranger. Then, he nodded slowly, his violet-tinged eyes wide. "Yeah."
They had come to another bench, this one more graffiti-strewn than the first, and sat beside one another. They were silent for a long while, neither of them willing, or even eager, to break the stillness. Nat's voice shattered the air like a baseball striking a window, and Dominic flinched beside her. "Is that why you're out here?"
He didn't respond. She turned to glance at him, and saw him staring down at his dirty fingernails. "Yeah, I guess."
Emboldened, perhaps by something this young telepath was mentally doing to her, Nat went on. "Is that…you know, is that what makes you twitch like that?"
"Yeah. Well, that—" he grinned hugely "— and the meth."
Nat screwed up her face. "That's not funny."
"I know. But, hell, ya gotta try." He smiled and took a long draft of smoke, breathing out a little smoke ring.
"I guess so."
He sighed, folding his long legs beneath him on the bench. "So. Who were ya cryin' 'bout back there?"
Nat felt her throat constrict, threatening to make her start to sob. Dominic seemed to notice and waited in silence for her to respond. "A, uh, good friend of mine. Somebody I don't think I'll be seeing again. At least not any time soon."
"Well, that sucks."
She took a deep breath, and smelled the river water and the scent of burning tobacco. "Yeah. It really does."
"You ain't gonna see him anymore 'cause…'cause you've got a gift like mine, too?" Dominic pushed, smiling faintly. His eyes were mostly shut, and the ember of his cigarette was going out as the strip of tobacco ended, but it bobbed like an orange, flaming insect in front of his face as it began to fade.
"No. I mean, yeah, I've got one…a 'gift' like yours. Not just like yours—aw, never mind, you get the idea. But he, the guy, he doesn't care about that. He's got a gift, too."
"Lucky you. When my girlfriend found out I was a mutie, she shot me."
Nat's eyes went wide. "You're kidding."
"Nah. Little skank got me right in the back of the leg with her daddy's thirty-eight. Hurt like a son of a bitch."
They fell silent again, and Nat felt the familiar creeping of a telepath lurking around the edges of her consciousness. She tried not to react, and sat there quietly, letting him prowl about a little. When the mental strand pulled back suddenly, he nodded to that soundless voice again, and his left leg spasmed slightly. He watched her profile, and she pretended that she didn't notice, but when he pulled out another cigarette he nearly jumped to his feet when it seemed to light itself. A grin spread across his face, and he patted her shoulder lightly, making her smile.
"Ya know," he paused in thought, rubbing the back of his head with the empty cigarette package before he went on. "Sometimes we can't always tell who the bad guys are."
Nat spun to face him, staring intently. "What's that mean?"
"I dunno. Just…well, maybe you oughtta think things through a bit before ya keep on runnin' every which way. It ain't a real great life, I can tell you real honestly."
"Yeah, well, if you know so much about me and how I ought to live, maybe you should give me a few tips."
He ground the cigarette butt into the wood of the bench and tossed the lifeless stump of filter fiber into the grass. "Just think about things. You've got a few options, which is more than I had. And I wouldn't give up on either of 'em, if I was you." He was quiet for a minute, watching her. "You have a choice to make, and you shouldn't pass up any opportunities, that's all. Even the ones that sorta scare you."
Nat hung her head, watching her hands rub together in her lap as if she weren't the one controlling them. A crick was forming in the back of her neck and running down her back, but she didn't move for a long time. Then, she looked up to say something, waiting for Dominic's next pearl of incomprehensible wisdom.
The boy and his beaded beard were gone, vanishing into the darkness along the riverside.