Disclaimer: Marvel owns eeeeverything! Except for the kids (most of whom don't appear in this chapter) and Mr. Snapè, who... sort of belongs to us. In a highly plagiarized kinda way.

A/N: This chapter makes less sense than the last! YAY! In fact, since it's been so very long, we've lost all track of the original plot, so a new one has been fabricated for your pleasure. Yeah, that's it. Pleasure.

* * * * *

Chapter 2: Avast, Foe!

So, they all had their stupid kids. Luckily, the kids were with their equally stupid Big Brothers, so it all worked out. Lance, the co-hero of this story, was dumbfounded, looking around for something to do with his kid.

Think, Lance, THINK! he commanded himself. Well, what do kids like to do?

His brain responded with silence. It was a lot of help.

Gee.

He pondered further, expanding on the thought of "Gee".

Whiz, he finished.

As Lance stood there in complete repose, which was a new word for Lance ("repose", that is, not "stood"), Slab did something sudden and unexpected.

He smacked his head against the pavement. You weren't expecting that, were you?

*Wham!*

By this point, the rest of the Brotherhood had left to do their... well, whatever, with their respective kids. Lance and Slab stood-- well, Lance was standing while Slab was, y'know, sitting on the ground while hitting his head-- in the parking lot of the school. The sun began to set. How many hours had he been standing here? The day was almost over and Lance hadn't done anything-- ah well. Screw it.

Lance sat down, furrowed his brow in deep thought, and, rather like a Zen master--

* * * * *

"Boink"? thought Scott. What kind of a noise is that for smashing your head against the pavement?

Well, maybe Lance needed more practice.

From the other end of the parking lot, the bespectacled hero watched Lance with simultaneous disgust and amusement, which made for a very stupid expression, much like Lance's in the previous chapter. The ensuing sound reinforced Scott's theory that Lance's head was full of rubber and other materials of equal buoyancy. Scott was a rather scientific fellow. He once thought of wearing double monocles and a top-hat whilst carrying a cane. He even had a cool name to go with it, but the idea didn't pan out in the end.

"Mister, why are we still standing here, mister? We've been standing here for hours, mister. I want some ice cream, mister, before my mom comes, mister. I'm not allowed to eat anything that's not nutritious, mister. I get carrot sticks for dessert and rice cakes, too, if I'm good. Mister," Asthmanaut pulled on Scott's stylishly khaki pant leg, "are you listening to me, mister?"

"Yes, Jean, of course," Scott said blankly.

"My name's not Jean, mister."

"Of course not, Jean. Your hair looks great. Duncan will love it."

"Who's Duncan, mister? Snap out of it-- gasp!" Asthmanaut then gasped, as he caught of... His eyes narrowed. We will not finish the sentence, for we want to cut to the conflict. "...Slab."

Scott nodded, still in "Jean" mode.

"Oh, it's you," Asthmanaut said in his deep, manly, superhero voice that wasn't all that deep, manly, or super. He launched into a tirade directed towards his hated enemy. "You, hated fiend, I despise the very ground you smack your... visage upon!"

Scott blinked, snapping out of his trance. Wow, the kid was using more SAT words than he did, and Scott had been a senior for three seasons-- er... for a while now.

"...in the darkest of night, around six-thirty, before the street lights light up in their ethereal yellow haze, I have searched for you, my rival. One day, I shall mete vengeance upon you, and the world shall be cleansed." With a dramatic flip of his cape, which was durable yet winsome (or so his mom said), he ran off towards Slab and Lance.

"Uh oh." With that less dramatic note, Scott charged after his wayward kid. "Hey! Get back here! We're supposed to be having fun! I scheduled 'fun' in my day planner!"

* * * * *

Lance, who'd been in a euphoric state of head-smashiness, didn't notice, until it was too late, the two geeks charging towards him.

"Avast, foe!"

What the hell?

*Wham!*

Apparently, Slab took no notice of the sudden influx of dorkitude. Truly, the kid was far more Zen than Lance could ever hope to be. But soon, the master would become the student, and soon, the teacher would go out to lunch!! Or something equally as uplifting and foreboding! Lance was suddenly hungry. It was then that he noticed Scott, sunglasses angrily glinting crimson in the fading sunlight, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Lance knew this could only mean one thing: Scott was going to shove him against a locker and accuse him of kidnapping a teammate or lighting the X-Jet on fire or some equally stupid thing. But wait! There were no lockers out here!

"Haha!" Lance cackled triumphantly. "There are no lockers here, Summers! What're you gonna do now?!"

"Um." Scott looked confused, or so his sunglasses suggested. Lance looked deep into the red lenses, as Scott continued to stand in confusion. "What?"

"Ha! Can't think of anything, can you? Not so big now, are you?" Lance paused. "Or... are you?"

"What?" Scott had a feeling he didn't like where this was going. "Or do I?" he said.

"What?!" It was Lance's turn to look confused. The dialogue was going nowhere, so Scott decided to take some initiative.

"We're leaving!" he said, snatching up his kid, who was trying to get Slab's attention so that he could smite him.

"Fine!"

"Good!"

"I'm glad!"

"Swell!"

"Swell?"

"Shut up, Alvers!"

And with that, Scott Summers stormed off, Asthmanaut in tow. After fifteen minutes of walking without direction, Scott realized that he actually didn't know where he was going. "Where do you live, kid?"

"Asthmania!!"

"That's not a place."

"It is, too! I have a sign on my door that says so and everything, mister!"

"Oi." Scott smacked his head with his palm, carefully avoiding blasting the kid with an accidental slip of his shades. This was going to be so much fun. He had to remember to give Principal Darkholme a big "Thank You" bomb when he got around to it. It wasn't a very X-Manly thought, but he didn't care!

* * * * *

"Five points from... your next test!" shouted Mr. Snapè, glaring at Lance.

Lance didn't really care what Mr. Snapè did to his next test, as he had a killer headache from last night's wild fun with Slab, which was both wild and fun in a non-slash and non-pedophile kind of way. It was like with each slam of his head to the pavement, another chemistry formula vanished into oblivion. Also, he noticed a fun side effect of the meaning of the universe becoming clearer and clearer.

"Are you listening, Mr. Alvers?" Mr. Snapè hissed, pushing his greasy black hair away from his face so as to better glare at Lance.

"Uhh... not really," Lance admitted.

"You're just like your father," Mr. Snapè said in a venomous voice as his black eyes filled with contempt.

Lance, being an orphan who'd never seen his parents, looked up at Mr. Snapè with hopeful eyes. "Really?" he said. "You knew my father?"

"No! But I assume you're just like him!" Mr. Snapè declared. "Genetics and all that, you know."

"Um, but isn't that..." Lance searched for the word. Last night's activities had diminished his vocabulary. "...biology?"

"Yes, you idiot boy!" the sallow-skinned teacher snapped. "I don't even want to be teaching this class! I don't want to teach you the periodic table and how to put a stopper on iodine! I hate iodine! I always wanted to teach... Physical Education!!"

Lance, as well as the rest of the class, stared blankly at Mr. Snapè.

"P.E., you dullards!"

Mr. Snapè did this every day. He was a bitter man. He was also British, and he always wore black suits, which somehow billowed behind him as he walked.

There was a collective "Oh" from the class. Suddenly, something out of the ordinary happened. Scott Summers, looking very confused, walked into the classroom. He was looking confused a lot these days. Lance was convinced he only had two "looks", confused and dead.

"Um, Principal Darkholme changed my schedule, and now I'm in this class," he said, breaking the tension in the room.

"Dumbledore, you say?" Snapè queried.

"Um, no. Darkholme."

"Ah, Dumble--"

"--holme," Scott finished. "Darkholme. Principal Darkholme."

"Fine. It seems we have a new... celebrity," Snapè said rather dramatically. "Mr. Summers."

"How do you know my name? And why am I a celebrity?" Scott asked. He knew now that Principal Darkholme hated him. Why else would she have him transferred to this nutcase's class?

"I..." he said, after a dramatic pause, "read the new roll sheet." He approached Scott, malice glinting in his black eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Summers," he said in a deadly whisper, "On the periodic table, where would you find... WATER?"

There was a collective "gasp!" from the rest of the class.

"Water isn't on the periodic table, sir," Scott answered.

"I know!" Snapè declared, slightly giddy. "It was a trick question!! Now, sit down."

"Where?" Scott asked without thinking. Immediately, he regretted it. After all, there was only one contrived place for him to sit and further the plot.

"With Mr. Alvers, of course."

"Why?" Scott mumbled.

"Do you want to know why?!!" Mr. Snapè said with a gleeful little chortle. "Tell him why, Duncan?"

Scott noticed that Duncan was the only one with a first name. Hmm, clearly Mr. Snapè played favorites.

"Uhh..." Duncan looked like he just woke up. "Because 'Summers' comes after 'Alvers'?"

"Yes! Correct, Duncan! Five points for Sly-- I mean-- your next test!" He pointed to the chair besides Lance and watched with ill-concealed joviality as Scott, who was not so jovial, shuffled over to his new seat.

"Hello, Mr. Summers," Lance said, doing a pretty good Snapè impression. "Couldn't stay away from me, could ya?"

Scott blinked. "Did you hear anything Mr. Snapè said?"

"Yeah, what, that 'S' comes after 'A' crap? I know you just can't stay away from this!" he said with an elaborate gesture.

"What, the desk?"

"No, I mean--"

"The chair?"

"No, I--"

"FIVE POINTS FROM YOUR NEXT TEST!"

* * * * *

Scott was walking through the hall after a particularly dismal day at chemistry, when suddenly a locker whispered to him.

"Psst, hey, glasses-kid."

Glasses-kid? That could only mean one person among the many students at Bayville who wore glasses. Scott looked around, trying to find the source of the voice.

"A-22," it said.

Whatever could that mean?

"It's a locker, you idiot!" Clearly, the voice was becoming exasperated.

Scott walked over to the locker, who was very eager to talk to him, and said, "Hello?"

"Open it."

"I can't. I don't know the combination, and besides, it would be wrong!"

"31-2-53. Just open it! I have vital information for you!"

Scott sighed and did as he was told. As he opened the locker door, he was surprised to find a grizzled man with a toothpick and eyepatch staring back at him.

"It's me. Nick Fury," the man who often doubled as a plot device said in a conspiratorial voice.

"Yeah, I know. Don't you usually talk to Logan?"

"Well, he's in South Beach chasing after Sabretooth. I'm not really in the mood to get between that. Ever since Captain America left, Logan's been--"

"Please don't finish that sentence." Scott had always known on some level that those crazy Danger Room sessions Logan was so fond of were really the result of massive sexual tension. "Why're you here?"

"Magneto has a plan. An evil plan. Something about summer camps and Professor Xavier."

"He wants to take Professor X to summer camp? How harmful could that be?"

"Very. Harmful. Not to mention... sinister."

"Okay, well, uh, I'll keep on the look out for sinister summer camp going people."

"Good. Now, get me out of here."

*Ding ding!*

"Wait, that's the one-minute bell!" Scott cried, as he slammed the occupied locker shut out of habit and ran off.

* * * * *

A/N: Wow! Another chapter! How many years did that take? Is there even a plot? We decided we should wrap up our loose ends before we run off to college, but we seem to have left even more loose ends now. Ahhh well!