Chapter 4: Sick
Amy whimpered as she woke.
She had a horrible headache that threatened to split her skull open. Her throat felt dry and scratchy, and she had a dim recollection of getting up and throwing up the night before. When she tried to sit up, her head whirled and she could hardly stand up straight.
Hannah blinked at her as she came out of the bathroom. "Jeez, Amy, you okay? You look terrible." Then her nasty side took over and she sniggered, "Was it the dinner you ate last night? None of the rest of us got sick, why do you think you did? Is your stomach too delicate to handle regular food?" she laughed again as Amy stumbled into the bathroom, to throw up.
She was glad it was a Saturday, and classes weren't in session. The teachers seemed to be taking a rest day, too. After assigning half of the orphans to inside duty in the kitchen and the dormitories, and the other half to outside duty painting the house and fixing down loose shingles, they all disappeared. None of the students saw them again, except now and then Mr. Fry would wander through and check on them. Amy found herself inside with the crew in the kitchens, scrubbing the sinks and countertops, trying to scrub off years' worth of dust, grime, and dirt. She kept stopping and throwing up, and when Mr. Fry came through the kitchen again and saw her bent over the toilet yet again, he dismissed her.
"Get out of here," he snapped, grabbing her scrubbing sponge out of her hand. "You're useless. Go do something useless somewhere. Get out!" Amy fled upstairs to the dorm, wanting desperately to lie down, but there were students at work up here, too, washing and waxing the floors. She fled, and found herself outside. She curled up at the base of a tree, feeling miserable as she shuddered her way through the dry heaves that followed an entire night and day of throwing up. She desperately wanted water to wash her mouth out, but she didn't dare use the tap water. Deciding that lake water was better than nothing, she wandered down to get a drink, wash her face, and compose herself.
A little later, she heard the sound of pounding feet, and looked up to see the kids streaming out over the lawns to play, the staff having released them from their chores to spend the rest of the beautiful sunny afternoon however they wished. If Amy had been in a mood to appreciate the gesture, she would have gone up to her room to get her book and drifted off somewhere to read, but as it was, she was so weak she couldn't move. She lay on the bank of the lake, staring into the water, for what seemed like ages before she heard a sharp pop-pop-pop and turned, startled at the sound.
Greg, Dave, Mark, and Howie had found the used paintball guns someone had given to the orphanage one Christmas (Amy couldn't remember which one) and the padded gear and paintballs that had gone with it. They were now engaged in an enthusiastic game of paintball, which stopped as they saw her lying on the edge of the lake. Greg walked up as she sat up.
"Daydreaming, Fireball?" he teased. "Or still getting sick? I don't think the rich people who live over there will appreciate seeing you vomit in their water," he snickered.
Amy drew her knees up to her chest, folded her arms on them, and rested her hot forehead against them "Greg, go away," she said. "Please. I'm not in the mood for it. I don't feel good."
He grabbed a handful of her shirt and hauled her head up. "Well, we need a target to practice our shooting," he said. "So get up and start running. We'll be nice; we'll even give you a twenty-second head start." He stepped back. "Nineteen, eighteen…"
Amy blocked it out. She wasn't falling for his tricks today. He wouldn't do that to her. She let herself drift off into a hazy fog of aching head and sore stomach muscles.
Greg was surprised when she didn't get up. "Eight." he paused. Leaning close to her, he said, "Better start running. I hear these things hurt when they hit unpadded skin." When she still didn't move, he aimed his gun at her and shot a paintball squarely into her back.
Amy howled in surprise as bright red dye stained her white uniform shirt. The paintballs were designed to explode on contact, not to penetrate, but they did hurt hitting her skin, especially at point-blank range. It felt like someone had kicked her. She was sure she was going to have a bruise there later, and stared at Greg in shock.
He laughed. "Now I have your attention. Start running, Fireball, cause it's gonna hurt a lot more in a few seconds." He resumed counting. "Seven, six, five…"
Amy stared for a moment, wasting two more seconds. He was serious. She turned and forced her weak, shaking legs to move as he counted "Two, one! Let's get her!" and then pain erupted all over her as blue, green, and yellow paint colored her white shirt. The balls hit her body all over as she ran blindly, sobbing in pain and humiliation. "Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, leave me alone, oh, please leave me alone…" she tripped over a root on the ground and fell, and the paintballs smacked into her shoulders and cheek as she turned to scream at them. Then one well-aimed ball flew at her face. She wasn't quick enough bringing her arms up. It smashed into her glasses, breaking one of the lenses and scratching her eyelid with the flying glass. She screamed, turned, and stumbled blindly away from them, not caring where she was going, as long as it was away from them.
Just across the lake, the X-Men were out on the back lawn, enjoying the lovely warm fall day. Scott, Warren, Betsy and Jean were playing a game of volleyball with Remy, Logan, Ororo and Rogue, with the others cheering as they watched. Then, just before it was Logan's turn to serve, he stopped and raised his sunglasses. "Y'all hear that?" he said. He sniffed, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. He turned in the direction of the lake, about a hundred yards away, as a stumbling figure wearing a garish shirt and a gray pleated skirt stumbled out of the woods on the margin of the lake. Before anyone could react, four padded figures followed her, and the bright spots on the shirt were explained. Someone was shooting paintballs at her.
Logan growled as the panting figure tripped over the stargazing rock and fell to her knees, scraping them on the rough gray stone. The four boys were on her, shooting their paintball pellets at her. As he started toward them, and as the other X-Men broke out of their shock and started to cross the intervening space to stop the boys' assault, the girl turned to them. "Leave me ALONE!" she screamed, and raised her hands.
A ball of fire shot from her hands and nearly set one boy's hair on fire. The second fireball just narrowly missed the second boy, who ducked just in time to escape being killed, and it hit a tree instead, engulfing the tree in a sheet of flame. Another ball of flame formed in her hands, but as she let it go, it stretched, elongated, until a great fiery dragon hung there in the air, between the girl and her attackers. The boys stared for one terrified moment before they screamed and ran. The dragon pursued them a short way before it dissipated into air.
Jean and Ororo were the first ones to reach the fallen girl. She sat in a crumpled heap on the rock, her hands still glowing from the fire she'd conjured a few moments earlier. Jean touched her shoulder, ignoring the paint that instantly dyed her hand blue and yellow. "Amy?"
Amy cried incoherently and fought the hands that touched her. "Stop it, just stop it, leave me alone, please!" she screamed.
Ororo grasped her hands firmly and said quietly, "You are safe, child, they are gone. Your fire manifestation chased them off. Are you injured?"
Amy squinted through the missing lens. "I hurt," she moaned. "Jean? Is that you?"
"I'm right here. Ssshh." Jean slipped an arm under one of Amy's and tried to help her stand, but Amy's legs wouldn't hold her, and she sank back down with a moan. She closed her eyes to ease the pounding in her head, and heard Jean say to someone she couldn't see, "Charles, she seems disoriented. Do you mind if we take her up to the mansion and check her out?"
"Of course not." Xavier was worried. The fire dragon had been pretty impressive, for someone who was only fourteen. Storm was busy calling down a mini rainstorm and Bobby was bombing the flames with ice to douse the burning tree, which continued to burn, notwithstanding the rain and ice trying to quench it. Jean turned back to the girl, tried to get her up. "Come on, Amy. Let's get you up."
But Amy's legs wouldn't hold her. She was too exhausted.
Strong, slender arms slid under her back, another under her knees, and she was lifted gently and carried as if she weighed less than a feather. She tried to open her eyes, to see where she was going and who was carrying her, but the effort was too much, and she closed her eyes. In moments darkness claimed her, and she slipped into unconsciousness.
Jean led the way to the medlab, Rogue carrying Amy, and Hank sat up as Rogue set her down on an exam bed. "My stars and garters," he said, hurriedly pushing aside the notes he was taking on a sheet of paper and removing his glasses, "What's this? Do we have a refugee from a paint factory?" Humor aside, he was pulling off her ruined glasses as he shone a light into her eye. "No ocular damage, thank goodness. Jean, not to offend her sense of modesty, but I will need to get her clothing off, and women's clothing tends to make me feel as though I'm all thumbs…" Jean was already undoing the buttons on Amy's paint-soaked blouse.
Amy stirred, whimpered and opened her eyes. "No," she said, weakly trying to pull the fabric out of Jean's hands. "No, please, I don't want you to see…"
"Amy, sugah, ya ain't got nuthin' we girls ain't seen before," Rogue said as she gently but firmly unclenched the girl's fingers from around the edge of the shirt. "An' Hank here, well, he's seen just 'bout everythin' we girls got, seein' as how he's our doctor. Ain't nothin' new to him."
Jean carefully pulled off the paint-soaked shirt, and Rogue bit back an exclamation. White scar tissue marred the left side of Amy's body, starting from mid-chest, down below her waist, disappearing into her skirt. "Lord, sugah," she said, trying to hide her shock, "I know we got scars, bein' the X-Men and all, but surely you're too young for all that. What happened?"
Amy huddled on the bed, tears starting to fill her eyes. "My Mom and Dad died when I was seven, and I went to live with my grandfather. My friend's mother was driving her daughter, my grandfather, and me home from a ballet audition one night when a drunk driver crashed into the van. They all died instantly, but I was trapped under my Grandfather's wheelchair and I couldn't get out before the other car caught fire. The firemen pulled me out before the fire burned all of me, but I was still burned a bit. When I woke up in the hospital they told me I had to go to an orphanage because they couldn't find anyone else related to me to take care of me."
"Oh, Amy." Jean wrapped her arms around the girl. Amy pulled back, resisted a bit. Jean hugged her harder. "No, don't," she said. "Go ahead. Cry. You've held it back too long. Let it go, Amy." And the girl sobbed into Jean's shoulder as Hank gently examined her. By the time he finished, she had cried herself out and just sat quietly. Jean sat down beside her. "So how is she, Hank?"
"Well, she seems to have suffered no permanent damage in the paintball attack," the blue-furred doctor said. "Just bruises. Amy, we have instruments here that will remove that scar tissue from your body should you wish it."
Amy's eyes widened. "Really? You could do that?" she looked around. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Amy, look at me, sugah," Rogue said, staring intently into her eyes. Amy tried to follow the sound of her voice, but when Rogue moved suddenly and Amy was still staring emptily at the space she'd occupied before, they all realized why she wore such thick glasses. "Amy…you're blind?"
Amy shrugged. "Pretty nearly," she said matter-of-factly. "The light from the fire was too bright, and my head was pinned by the wheelchair. I couldn't look at anything but the fire, and the doctors said the fire burned my lens or something. They couldn't fix it, so they just gave me glasses instead."
"Can you see with them?" Hank was now peering at the ruined lenses.
"Oh, yeah, I can see fine. Least, I used to. It's been getting worse the last couple of years because Headmaster Gilmore wouldn't get me new ones. But now that they're broken, maybe he'll let me get new ones."
"Years? How long have you had them? Have you had your vision checked by an optician lately?"
"Mmm. The accident happened four years ago, and I got those before I left the hospital, so it's been about four years since I had my eyes looked at."
Hank shook his head. "You should have had your eyes checked by an optical professional every year, at least, after such a traumatic accident happened," he said disapprovingly.
Amy bristled. "I would have if it had been up to me. If I had stayed at Pinewood I might have, too, the Headmistress was really kind to me. But Headmaster Gilmore couldn't care less. He keeps going on about how much everything costs."
"Hmm. Perhaps, as it is a smaller establishment, there are different rules for the allocation of funds," Hank said. "But you should have new ones. I will check your eyes before you return to the aforementioned establishment and have new glasses made for you."
Amy said warily, "I haven't any money. If I can't pay you, then why are you helping me?"
Rogue laughed. 'We're the X-Men, sugah. We help everybody."
Amy's eyes widened. "You're the—I've been—but—Miss Jean—I've been getting the Phoenix all dirty!" Horrified, she let go of Jean and scooted as far back from the redhead as possible.
Jean would have laughed if Amy's distress hadn't been so obvious. "Amy, it's all right," she said, dismissing the paint stains on her shirt with a wave. "There are more important things in life than dirt. And one of those," she said in mock sternness, wagging a finger at Amy, "is helping someone who needs to be helped. Sit back and let Hank check the rest of you over."
"I'm all right, really, I am," she said, refusing to lie back. "I've just got a headache from throwing up all night."
"What?" Jean said. "Were you sick?"
"Uh, well, " Amy looked suddenly nervous. "I tried to eat my dinner last night, but I couldn't. The meat looked like roadkill, and wasn't even half-cooked, and they used that tap water to make instant mashed potatoes, and it was all brown and gooey-looking. I couldn't eat it. Then Greg started to pick on me about not eating, and I told him to shove off. He grabbed my hair so hard it hurt. So I threw my food in his face. Headmaster gave me his usual lecture about wasting food and then brought out another plate of the stuff, and made me sit there until I ate it." She picked at a hangnail nervously. "I didn't have a choice but to eat it. I still had tons of homework to do. I spent the whole night throwing up. I was still sick this morning, that's how Greg, Dave, Howie, and Mark got to me this afternoon." She put a hand on her stomach. "Everything hurts right here," she said, "but at least I'm not throwing up anymore."
Jean turned to Hank. "Hank, can you do a full-spectrum blood test on her? When you get the results, let me know and we'll talk to Xavier. This mistreatment has to stop before they kill her."
"You're not going to talk to talk to Headmaster Gilmore, are you?" Amy looked panicked. "Please don't! If he finds out I've been talking I'll get in trouble!" She grabbed Jean's sleeve. "Please, please, don't, Miss Jean, please!" Jean flashed Hank a look over Amy's head, and he nodded. He grabbed a needle and slipped it into her arm. She was asleep before he finished injecting her. Jean lowered her to the table, and draped a sheet over her. "Please bring the results up when you have them, will you, Hank?" Jean said.
Hank nodded. "Certainly," he said. "I expect there will be a number of things about her living situation that will need to be corrected, based solely on her current physical condition. The blood test should tell us much more."
Jean turned to Rogue. "Can you arrange it so someone's with her at all times? If she wakes up unexpectedly she might try to sneak back into the orphanage, and we don't want that to happen until Charles has had a talk with the Headmaster."
"Sure." Rogue said. "Think Ah'll get Remy to watch her while Ah run up to the storage attics. Think we might have somea Jubilee's clothes still up there. Might fit her."
"Might be a good idea. I'm going to be talking to Charles upstairs." As she walked out of the medlab, she sent a thought up to Xavier. Charles?
In my study, Jean, he thought back to her. How is Amy? He sounded worried.
She could be a lot better, Jean said. I'm coming up to talk to you, with Scott. Hank will be coming up with her blood test results as soon as he's done.
I'm waiting. Jean broke the link, sent her thoughts in a different direction. Scott?
Yes, sweetheart?
Can you meet me in Charles' office? I'd like your feedback to some of the stuff I have to tell him.
On my way.