CHAPTER TWO
.. slow movement
Gray and gray. Indifferent. Circling. Neither hateful nor compassionate. Observing.
She didn't remember opening her eyes. But they were open. And looking at the clouds. Indifferent deities, they looked like. Just circling and observing. Going on about their business. Neither unaware nor concerned with what was below.
She was immobile, neck stretched back with her chin higher than the rest of her body, head on a curb, and shoulders on a baseball bat. If she didn't move, she was almost comfortable. She felt like she was in a giant cast.
It was the cold that woke her up from her mental sleep. That and that she was being buried. The same careless wind that pushed the clouds was covering her in litter, paper, banners, dummies, and bloody clothing. She hurt so much. Her head throbbed. Part of her wanted to just not move, to let herself be buried.
The shivering became too much. Every hair on her body stood on end and the cold felt like marching ants on rubbery skin. Her rattling teeth jarred her head. She stuck a tired hand in a pile of broken glass and pushed herself up.
Her throbbing head assaulted her. One eye squeezed shut in pain while the other squinted and observed her environment. There was no sign of life around her. Now crow. No color. No sound. No movement except for that which the wind decided to put into motion. Just more gray. More litter. More bodies left for dead like her own.
The man with the glasses that was after the boy was gone. The boy was gone. She wrapped her arms around herself in a stupid attempt to retain some heat. Hard, icy skin greeted her attempt. She was alone, with the drifting litter like tumbleweeds, with the slow circling clouds like indifferent deities.
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. her eyes rested on the crushed skull of a heavy man a few feet in front of her.
The clouds kept on their way.
There had to be a reason to get up.
She surveyed Times Square once more. Only silence. And from her, only silence.
He tried to smile at his doctor, but she wasn't doing anything right. Jean would always kiss his boo-boos before she bandaged him up. Storm did it coldly. Medically. Professionally.
One side of his mouth had the energy to pull up into a smile. "Ah, it's not the first time I've been shot and it probably won't be the last."
Storm didn't look up. "Hold still, Scott. I can't bandage your shoulder with you sighing over-dramatically."
He was quiet. She looked up. It was easy to tell when he was thinking about Jean.
She continued, more gently. "You are lucky Mystique didn't kill you. She is without mercy."
"No she's not."
"What?"
He hadn't realized he'd said it. But he did. It reached his own ears five seconds later. "I said, no she's not. She's not without mercy."
Storm looked confused by the soft, serious, convincing tone of his voice. The words seemed to amaze even Scott. She stopped wrapping.
He looked her very seriously in the face, the gravity of the situation beginning to reach the surface. "I could've died, Storm. She was only ten feet away - she could have easily shot me in the heart!" The fear of a man facing his death filled his eyes. "But she didn't."
He looked away and everything in the medical lab came into sharp focus. Then everything in Times Square came into focus. The banners in the air, the mutants on the left, the humans on the right, Mystique right in front of him. A boy with a gun in front of him. Aiming at him. Then everything stopped. It suddenly exploded and imploded and swelled and soothed and slowed and he saw.
".Her," he mouthed.
"Who?"
"Mystique spared me. because of her."
Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak.
The professor's wheelchair softly, slowly, and sweetly beat out a solitary, safe noise as the wheels turned.
Sq u e e e e e a a a a k.
The beat stopped. He was at the end of the walkway and resting in front of cerebro's central mechanism.
Quiet.
There was a slight "smph" sound as he put the head-set on. There was the usual swirling, the view of the whole Earth, the quick and the frantic crash down to focus in on someone specific and then. he found her.
And watched.
He wasn't aware of how much time had passed, but it was a while before the silence was broken with - "Interesting."
"Ugh, nothing like waking up to a man's voice." Logan growled.
"Good morning to you also, Logan. Or should I say, good afternoon," Xavier replied, looking at his watch. It was 1:30.
"Whadda you want, Chuck."
"A favor," he smiled good-humoredly.
The hairy, wolfish man looked at him under one raised eyebrow a moment, then fluffed his pillow again and rolled over.
The Professor was silent a moment. His tone changed. "This is serious."
With over-dramatic grunts, he sat himself up, rubbed his eyes, and looked back at him.
The Professor continued. "This could be it. The end to all of this."
Now it was the Professor that was sleeping. Over the hairy knuckles that gripped the steering device of the jet, he focused his eyes on the blue horizon and reflected on the rest of their conversation earlier that day.
It was the way the Professor said, "the end to all of this," that stung him. For a minute, Logan let himself enjoy that phrase, allowed himself to believe there was a salve for the leprosy that was this stupid violence. Then his apathy returned. His apathy was not to pain and violence, but apathy towards the idea that anything can change. He was hopeless. And bitter, like one pounding their fists against a fresh grave. He was furious at the death of hope.
He didn't believe in any cure for the human heart's many ailments. He didn't believe in miracles. Fairy-tale shit.
"I originally believed she was merely a mutant with extremely underdeveloped telepathic powers. I didn't pay her much attention. Just surveyed her and. moved on. But that is not her true power at all," the Professor had said earlier. "Examining Scott's memory of being shot, I saw what she did to him. She didn't stop him. He stopped himself."
"Huh?" he'd asked.
"She has the power to. to pacify people. She makes them unable and unwilling to harm another."
He responded with apathy. Bitter apathy. That hate of anything promising. Then, finding there were no more beer bottles around his bed, he got up to find a cigar. "So what, does she turn everyone into tree- huggers?"
"No, Logan. Scott couldn't explain how she did it, or what exactly happened. But I know that I was viewing his memory, I felt a bit of it, too."
Logan stopped, his back to the Professor. Not wanting to show interest, he didn't turn around to speak. "What'd it feel like?"
There was only one simple word for it. "Heaven."
Heaven. Heaven, Logan thought. The epitome of hope, the purpose of hope, or the source of hope? Stupid hope. Stupid stupid hope, he'd thought, clinching onto the edge of his dresser. He stood there, wanting to not to think it was nonsense, wanting the Professor to go on, and wanting to mock him all at once. "A pacifist."
He nodded. "Consequently, she is unable to throw a single punch to defend herself."
The conversation finished replaying itself and Logan was back staring at the blue sky over his big hands. They were approaching their destination.
"War is upon us," the Professor had said gravely, back in his room. "A power like hers could end that all." He spoke gingerly, not brashly or heroically. "She could be the key."
Logan still had his back to the Professor. He was unconvinced.
The Professor knew it. "Besides, she's quite beautiful."
In ten minutes they were on the jet to get her.
Gray and gray. Indifferent. Circling. Neither hateful nor compassionate. Observing.
She didn't remember opening her eyes. But they were open. And looking at the clouds. Indifferent deities, they looked like. Just circling and observing. Going on about their business. Neither unaware nor concerned with what was below.
She was immobile, neck stretched back with her chin higher than the rest of her body, head on a curb, and shoulders on a baseball bat. If she didn't move, she was almost comfortable. She felt like she was in a giant cast.
It was the cold that woke her up from her mental sleep. That and that she was being buried. The same careless wind that pushed the clouds was covering her in litter, paper, banners, dummies, and bloody clothing. She hurt so much. Her head throbbed. Part of her wanted to just not move, to let herself be buried.
The shivering became too much. Every hair on her body stood on end and the cold felt like marching ants on rubbery skin. Her rattling teeth jarred her head. She stuck a tired hand in a pile of broken glass and pushed herself up.
Her throbbing head assaulted her. One eye squeezed shut in pain while the other squinted and observed her environment. There was no sign of life around her. Now crow. No color. No sound. No movement except for that which the wind decided to put into motion. Just more gray. More litter. More bodies left for dead like her own.
The man with the glasses that was after the boy was gone. The boy was gone. She wrapped her arms around herself in a stupid attempt to retain some heat. Hard, icy skin greeted her attempt. She was alone, with the drifting litter like tumbleweeds, with the slow circling clouds like indifferent deities.
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. her eyes rested on the crushed skull of a heavy man a few feet in front of her.
The clouds kept on their way.
There had to be a reason to get up.
She surveyed Times Square once more. Only silence. And from her, only silence.
He tried to smile at his doctor, but she wasn't doing anything right. Jean would always kiss his boo-boos before she bandaged him up. Storm did it coldly. Medically. Professionally.
One side of his mouth had the energy to pull up into a smile. "Ah, it's not the first time I've been shot and it probably won't be the last."
Storm didn't look up. "Hold still, Scott. I can't bandage your shoulder with you sighing over-dramatically."
He was quiet. She looked up. It was easy to tell when he was thinking about Jean.
She continued, more gently. "You are lucky Mystique didn't kill you. She is without mercy."
"No she's not."
"What?"
He hadn't realized he'd said it. But he did. It reached his own ears five seconds later. "I said, no she's not. She's not without mercy."
Storm looked confused by the soft, serious, convincing tone of his voice. The words seemed to amaze even Scott. She stopped wrapping.
He looked her very seriously in the face, the gravity of the situation beginning to reach the surface. "I could've died, Storm. She was only ten feet away - she could have easily shot me in the heart!" The fear of a man facing his death filled his eyes. "But she didn't."
He looked away and everything in the medical lab came into sharp focus. Then everything in Times Square came into focus. The banners in the air, the mutants on the left, the humans on the right, Mystique right in front of him. A boy with a gun in front of him. Aiming at him. Then everything stopped. It suddenly exploded and imploded and swelled and soothed and slowed and he saw.
".Her," he mouthed.
"Who?"
"Mystique spared me. because of her."
Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak.
The professor's wheelchair softly, slowly, and sweetly beat out a solitary, safe noise as the wheels turned.
Sq u e e e e e a a a a k.
The beat stopped. He was at the end of the walkway and resting in front of cerebro's central mechanism.
Quiet.
There was a slight "smph" sound as he put the head-set on. There was the usual swirling, the view of the whole Earth, the quick and the frantic crash down to focus in on someone specific and then. he found her.
And watched.
He wasn't aware of how much time had passed, but it was a while before the silence was broken with - "Interesting."
"Ugh, nothing like waking up to a man's voice." Logan growled.
"Good morning to you also, Logan. Or should I say, good afternoon," Xavier replied, looking at his watch. It was 1:30.
"Whadda you want, Chuck."
"A favor," he smiled good-humoredly.
The hairy, wolfish man looked at him under one raised eyebrow a moment, then fluffed his pillow again and rolled over.
The Professor was silent a moment. His tone changed. "This is serious."
With over-dramatic grunts, he sat himself up, rubbed his eyes, and looked back at him.
The Professor continued. "This could be it. The end to all of this."
Now it was the Professor that was sleeping. Over the hairy knuckles that gripped the steering device of the jet, he focused his eyes on the blue horizon and reflected on the rest of their conversation earlier that day.
It was the way the Professor said, "the end to all of this," that stung him. For a minute, Logan let himself enjoy that phrase, allowed himself to believe there was a salve for the leprosy that was this stupid violence. Then his apathy returned. His apathy was not to pain and violence, but apathy towards the idea that anything can change. He was hopeless. And bitter, like one pounding their fists against a fresh grave. He was furious at the death of hope.
He didn't believe in any cure for the human heart's many ailments. He didn't believe in miracles. Fairy-tale shit.
"I originally believed she was merely a mutant with extremely underdeveloped telepathic powers. I didn't pay her much attention. Just surveyed her and. moved on. But that is not her true power at all," the Professor had said earlier. "Examining Scott's memory of being shot, I saw what she did to him. She didn't stop him. He stopped himself."
"Huh?" he'd asked.
"She has the power to. to pacify people. She makes them unable and unwilling to harm another."
He responded with apathy. Bitter apathy. That hate of anything promising. Then, finding there were no more beer bottles around his bed, he got up to find a cigar. "So what, does she turn everyone into tree- huggers?"
"No, Logan. Scott couldn't explain how she did it, or what exactly happened. But I know that I was viewing his memory, I felt a bit of it, too."
Logan stopped, his back to the Professor. Not wanting to show interest, he didn't turn around to speak. "What'd it feel like?"
There was only one simple word for it. "Heaven."
Heaven. Heaven, Logan thought. The epitome of hope, the purpose of hope, or the source of hope? Stupid hope. Stupid stupid hope, he'd thought, clinching onto the edge of his dresser. He stood there, wanting to not to think it was nonsense, wanting the Professor to go on, and wanting to mock him all at once. "A pacifist."
He nodded. "Consequently, she is unable to throw a single punch to defend herself."
The conversation finished replaying itself and Logan was back staring at the blue sky over his big hands. They were approaching their destination.
"War is upon us," the Professor had said gravely, back in his room. "A power like hers could end that all." He spoke gingerly, not brashly or heroically. "She could be the key."
Logan still had his back to the Professor. He was unconvinced.
The Professor knew it. "Besides, she's quite beautiful."
In ten minutes they were on the jet to get her.