Disclaimer: All characters are property of Marvel and are used without permission for entertainment and not profit.
Author's Note: This naturally falls in the Mutatis Mutandis timeline, archived at www.originofspecies.cjb.net.
Fallout - Chapter Three
Five days.
Somehow, he just couldn't get his mind around it. It had been five days since they'd woken up to find her gone. Just poof, disappeared, blinked away, with not a word of warning and did he realize it had been five days?
St. John Allerdyce was not normally one to obsess over the well-being of others; people had been falling in and out of his life for a long time and he'd learned not to take anything too seriously. However, Clarice had been in the swank penthouse before any of them, and having her gone was like waking up to find one of the living room walls had vanished in the night. One of the living room's supporting walls, no less.
It was, St. John reflected as he stood near the rear of the living room, almost funny how much that quiet little girl had come to mean to the team. He could understand why it had happened - Clarice was one of the only people any of them had ever met who was willing to accept them exactly as they were. Combine that with the fact that none of the Acolytes completely trusted one another and you had a recipe for the perfect Wailing Wall incarnate. Clarice could be counted on to listen to you no matter how stupid your problem was, and she never said a word to anybody else about it.
St. John sighed and bounced a tennis ball off the living room wall. He'd made sure it was not a support wall - just in case.
Magneto was upset. St. John knew this because Pietro knew this, and in the absence of their Wailing Wall Pietro had needed to tell somebody.
"He didn't see it coming at all," Pietro had whispered in the dark. St. John had nodded, wishing the other boy was upset enough to want to crawl into his bed. For comfort, of course.
"He has no idea why it happened. He keeps asking me if I noticed anything strange about her behaviour before she left. I said to him, 'How would I notice anything? She never talks about herself."
Bouncing the tennis ball idly in one hand, St. John mulled over the truth of that statement. Clarice always listened, rarely spoke. The only person who rivaled her for silence was Chamber, a.k.a. "the creepy guy in the bedroom."
An' I'll bet, St. John thought to himself. That if anyone knows why she left, it'd be that one.
He tossed the tennis ball behind him, where it rolled under a table and was still.
***
It was a bad night.
There was nothing wrong with the weather; the stars were shining in a clear sky and the temperature was almost balmy. Nor was it a bad night in terms of conflict; the general atmosphere of the house was one of contentment. There'd been a brief skirmish earlier between Remy and Pietro over the possession of the TV remote control, but aside from that everyone co-existed quite pleasantly.
Jonothon Starsmore was not a social creature - the only person he'd ever exchanged more than five words with had been Clarice. Communication was a chore. And when speaking to Clarice Jonothon had early on realized that she understood a lot of what he meant without his ever having to say it. This was a blessing, as he did not enjoy attempting to put the sordid details of his violent depression into words.
So, whenever Clarice would ask him if he had slept well because he "looked tired," instead of explaining that he'd spent the entire night curled up on his bedroom floor obsessively picking at slowly mending flesh and having silent hysterics, he would simply reply "bad night."
Jonothon had a lot of bad nights.
Tonight he found himself hovering just outside his bedroom, halfway drawn by the sounds of the other Acolytes in the living room and half repelled by the same thing. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, aging an inner war with no real winners.
Just walk in there, sit down. Watch the telly for a while and just forget about everything.
Right. The second you go in there everyone will stop. St. John will stop laughing and Pietro will refuse to look at you. You're a walking reminder that things don't always go as planned.
If he could sigh conventionally, he would have. If he had the voice to scream, he would have done that also. So he did neither, and after a dark glance down the hallway he retreated back to his bedroom.
Better just not to bother.
* * *
Elsewhere, at the same moment a hand raised to knock on a door, Boliver Trask smiled into a telephone receiver.
"Oh no, Senator. That was just the prototype…"
***
Gambit nearly tripped as he made his way to kitchen. He bent down and picked up the offending object: a fuzzy yellow tennis ball. Shrugging, he tossed it lightly at a support wall and went to get a snack.
***
Knockknock. Knock.
*Go. Away.*
St. John rocked on his heels, undeterred. "No. I'm comin' in, mate."
He creaked the door open cautiously and was met with darkness and another, more emphatic, *Go away.*
St. John stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the half-light and picking out a figure stretched out on the bed. Music played on the stereo - he picked out something about "this place is death with walls" before focusing his attention on what he had to say.
"Chamber. I need to ask you something."
No reply. St. John decided silence was acquiescence so he went on, "Do you know what happened to Clarice?"
*If I did, don'tcher think I would 'ave said something to Buckethead?*
"Not necessarily."
*Assuming for a moment I did know,* Jonothon continued as he got up off the bed and moved closer to the door, *Why exactly would I tell you?* He loomed over St. John in the darkness like an angry wraith.
Not one to let himself be intimidated, St. John met Jonothon's gaze and poked a finger directly into the other boy's chest.
Or rather, where the other boy's chest should have been. St. John noted with squeamish fascination that his finger sunk into the leather wrappings up to the first knuckle.
"Listen, ya yobbo," he said, his voice betraying none of his feelings. "Clarice was my friend too. I miss her an' I wanna know at least that she's okay. And since you're the only one around that has any idea of where she ran off to, I thought you could stop being a fuckwit for three seconds and put my mind at ease."
Silence again. Then Jonothon cocked his head to one side and moved away. *She's fine.*
"Where is she?"
*Can't say.*
St. John sighed. "Why'd she leave?"
*To stay true to 'erself. Done playing twenty questions, are we?*
"Yeah." St. John turned but paused before exiting. "Thanks."
*Yeah. Now naff off.*
* * *
Magneto assembled them all together the following morning. They stood side by side as he paced slowly in front of them. They were all hyper-aware that they were one less in number.
"I don't' suppose any of you have been watching the news?" Magneto asked at length. Somewhat sheepishly the Acolytes responded in the negative. Magneto paused, presumably to pray for strength.
"Thanks to Xavier and his meddling children," he said. "The assassination of Senator Hull was a complete failure. That stinking pile of human offal is now convinced more than ever that mutant registration must be put into effect."
"Maybe it's not such a big deal?" St. John ventured. Magneto turned on him, eyes furious. Chamber winced.
"I don't think you truly comprehend the gravity of the situation, Pyro," he said. His voice was tightly controlled - unnaturally so. "Mutant registration is a way for humans to keep tabs on who the mutants are. And if they know who you are, they can single you out. It is the same idea behind making the Jews wear the Star of David on their clothes before World War Two. Once they can target you, they make you their scapegoat. The next step after that is violence… cruelty… genocide."
St. John tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry as sand.
"Hull must be dealt with. He wants to know who the mutants are? Fine. We shall reveal our mutant heritage… but on OUR terms, not his." He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice had returned to normal.
"Anti-mutant demonstrations are raging across the country. Incidents of anti-mutant violence are up…" Magneto looked directly at Chamber. "In Fort Worth, Texas, a young girl was beaten to death by a truckload of men because she 'looked different.'
"We cannot afford to fail again. Hull is a threat, and if we dispose of him we will demonstrate that mutantkind is NOT at the mercy of humans."
"What do we do?" Colossus asked. His face looked as though it had been carved from stone.
"In three days Hull will be attending a rally in Chicago. The attendance is expected to be huge, but I know for a fact that security will be inadequate. They are not anticipating us."
*We're one short,* Jonothon pointed out. Magneto glared at him.
"It doesn't matter. You will assassinate Hull. I don't care what it takes… if it kills you, you will succeed."
* * *
Some words just echo.
"If it kills you."
(Like the reverberation of a rebounding tennis ball.)
* * *
"So. What do you think?"
There was a pause as Remy inhaled smoke, the tip of his cigarette flaring briefly in the dark. He and St. John were standing on the patio together, talking in low voices. They had spent all day in training, being pushed to their physical limits by their leader, who was like a man obsessed. Magneto had retired for the evening and the entire apartment was dark, but they were wary just the same.
"I think," Remy drawled softly, "Dat Magneto maybe ain't thinkin' as clearly as he should be, non?"
"No doubt about it, mate." St. John shook his head. "I dunno. I feel kinda weird goin' into this without Blink."
"Yeah. It was nice t'know she was watching our backs." He shrugged quickly. "We be okay."
"I know." St. John chewed the inside of his mouth, unable to express his unease. "Still."
Remy took another drag on his cigarette. "You heard the man, dey won't be expectin' what he's got planned. Catch em by surprise."
"You're sure about that?"
Remy grinned in the dark; his strange eyes black holes in his face. "Non. But I know how to slip away undetected."
St. John snorted. "Stick by your mates, eh?" he muttered. The temptation to make Remy's cigarette ember flare up was great.
"Besides," Remy continued. "Dere gonna be a crowd, non? Dey gonna panic once they see the horrible muties really are out to get em. Probably trample the security tryin' to get outta dere."
St. John giggled. "Runnin' like rabbits," he said.
"Exactly." He smirked. "Hell, dey take one look at Chamber dey probably wet themselves."
St. John nodded, giggling again. "I vote we put him and the Russian closest to the line of fire. Who cares if they get shot?"
"I always worry 'bout the ricochet off Colossus."
"Ooooh yeah." He smiled, reassured. What had he been so worried about?
* * *
It was a good night for Boliver Trask.
He sat, momentarily alone, in a small metallic office. He could hear the sounds of heavy industry - pistons pumping, steam hissing, massive gears turning in a mockery of the wheel of life. The sounds of progress.
Of security.
"I don't know where you are," he whispered aloud. "But I know you'll come." He smiled at the newspaper laying on his desk - the front page had a photograph of Senator Hull in profile, his face determined and his arms upraised in a gesture that managed to convey freedom and defiance.
"And when you do… your kind will know real fear."
* * *
Parting shots: Look! I haven't killed Gambit (yet)! You should all be very proud of me. Big 'thank yous' to the people who keep coming back to read this thing. C&C appreciated. (And if you think it blew goats, tell me WHY. "U Suck" is not a valid criticism.)