Dream the Fifth—Just Like Me
He was flying. Flying fast, with the wind on his face and rest of Alpha Flight behind him, over Toronto. And he was not pleased about it. He was flying as fast as he could, despite the pain, to get away from them. If only they hadn't followed him, distracted him, Clementine would be alive now. And he wouldn't be so winded. Wouldn't be injured. It felt as if his ribcage was caving in, even now… the explosion that killed her had hit him hard.
He tried not to think of it. The terror of seeing her, the woman he had been racing to save, his ex-comrade, once known as Numèro Deux, lifeless on the floor of the abandoned theatre she'd been hiding in. Just like Jacques the night before. His friends. His family, once upon a time. Or, as close as he'd ever had to a family, before Aurora.
Who was now chasing him in a concentrated effort to stop him from saving the lives of Numèro Trois and Lettre A. Two more once-upon-a-time members of his "family" from all those years ago, when he'd been involved with Cell Combattre.[1]
God, how it hurt to hear Jeanne-Marie accuse him of returning to terrorist activities. To know that she did not believe in his promise to her, to stop all violent resistance, to let it go, and let it be in the past.
It broke his heart, really, to hear it. Made him sick to his stomach, thinking of how honest he'd been with her. How much he would give up for her.
And she would never believe in him.
But that was not his main concern right now. He had to be single minded, if he was the save the rest of his friends from death. Just concentrate on the wind in your face, Jean-Paul, the feeling of flying. Don't think about the pain. Just think about the job.
He found them just where he'd expected— Numèro Trois and Lettre A, warned them. And they accused him… of being there to betray him…
How was it that it all felt so… familiar?
Non, he swore to them in French… it felt like he had not had a conversation in his native tongue in years, for some reason. Non, I came to warn you…
Desperately, he pleaded, but they would not listen. Pulled their guns on him, his old friends.
And then, Alpha Flight showed up.
And all hell broke loose.
An explosion. A gunshot. His own teammates fighting him, his ribs about to collapse into his lungs. Crushing him. Burning him. He saw it, as they went up in flames, his friends, his compatriots. Heard them scream. Felt tears jump into his eyes, as the wave of heat from the fire hit him.
Four. Four dead. Two left. Three, counting him.
No… he had to get to Lettre B and Lettre C… could not let them all die… all of his friends. He had believed in something, once. With them. He had hoped to make a difference, had fought for freedom. In a panic, he shook of Vindicator's hand, shot off into the night, as fast as his tired, bruised, wrecked body would take him.
Wait… no… no that was wrong.
He could remember now. He hadn't flow off, after that… he'd stayed with them, with Alpha Flight. To save them, his comrades.
Why was he flying away? It was wrong… all wrong.
But suddenly, the city below him disappeared. And he was flying into nothing… with a weight in his arms. Arms around his neck. Long, dark hair blowing past his face. And violet eyes turning up to meet his.
"Remember what it was like, Jean-Paul? Remember when you would have broken your promise to your sister, protected your terrorist friends from the Canadian government—"
He wanted to drop her… but he couldn't. He could not force his arms to open, to let her fall. She put her cheek to his, her lips close to his ear. He could feel her breathing. He felt a shiver… and flew a little faster.
God… god why…?
"You're not answering me, Jean-Paul…"
He gritted his teeth, trying so hard to let go. To force his body to obey his commands. Why could he go faster, but not simply let her fall? Into the blackness below them, all around them. Let her fall and end it.
It wasn't real. This wasn't happening again. If he could let her go… he had been with Bridget… wake up, wake up, wake up. "I wouldn't have gone back to it," he snarled. "I meant what I said to her. Why don't you do me a favor and die, hm?"
"Charming, darling."
He felt a twitch at the sound of her calling him that. "What do you want from me?" he asked. He tried to speed up… and couldn't. He could not possibly go faster.
For some reason, that made him angrier than anything else about the entire situation.
"Your sanity, really," she said it almost conversationally. As if it were a perfectly natural thing to want from him. "I'm sure your little psychic friend, whoever the hell it was, told you what it is I do. I felt him, I know he's powerful. But yes, I want to suck you dry," her whisper was low in his ear, her breath hot, making his skin crawl, "use every last bit of your mind I can, make myself stronger… and then leave you empty."
He wanted to kill her. Honestly and truly, with every fiber in his being, he wanted to see her die. He hated her more than he could remember ever hating another human being in his life. For what she was doing to him. For how much she loved it. For her legs around his waist and her lips on his ear. For the way he felt like spiders were crawling all over him, when he thought of her. For the way she had her arms wrapped coyly around his neck. For the sheer insanity of what she was saying. And now, when he opened his mouth to ask her why, what it was about him that made her hate him so much, made him a worthy victim… he found he could not even speak.
"You don't have to speak," she answered his unspoken question, now tracing a finger idly over his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against his, making him nauseous. "I know what you're thinking, remember? I know everything about you, pretty boy. And I have my reasons. First of all, you fucked with me. That little bitch you're trying to protect, Bridget? She deserved to be shot, for what she did to us. Do you think it's because she didn't like our "terrorist activities?" Think she was some kind of hero? Oh no, no, my dear innocent one. She was angry because we didn't let her in. Didn't need her. She's not even a mutant, you know.
"And don't pretend she's such a hero. Did you sell out your friends, when you found out what they were up to? No, of course not. You talked to them, begged them to stop. Stupid, naïve, weak of you, yes. But then, you're a man, so what more could the world expect?"
Oh god. He was burning up inside, shaking so hard. He wanted to vomit, it made him so sick, the hate, the rage. Her, in his arms. Her breath leaving that horrible moisture on his ear… fuck, he wanted to let go… why couldn't he let go?!
"Because you're in my world, now. I am goddess here. I'm your Devi."
An unfamiliar sound, like a bird, like a cat. Perhaps like a small child playing somewhere far off. Exotic.
A peacock. It was the sound of a peacock. He wasn't certain how he knew it, but that's definitely what it was.
Dirt under his feet, a barren plain and a dusty path. Flat, as far as the eye could see. Alien trees and an endless sapphire sky. And one house, a huge house. Palatial. Whitewashed and alone, foreign design and marble staircase.
And he had no fucking clue where he was. Or what he was doing. But he was most definitely not in North America, and certainly not in Europe.
Another sound now, drifting to him from the house. The sound of finger symbols and a harmonium. Sounds he had not heard in a long time, not since he'd been with the circus… the tune was winding, exotic. A scale he was unfamiliar with, a sort of flow, a continuity of the melody that was beautifully foreign.
Intrigued, he began to walk toward the mansion. He could see people, in bright reds and yellows and white mostly, on the front porch, on the stairs. Huge columns held up arches—not of any of the Roman or Greek orders, and not the stable, perfectly rounded arches of the European architects. Scalloped, almost to a fleur de leis. Perfect and marble, the curve lending life, breath to the coldness of the marble. So bright, the clothes of the people on the stairs. So alive, the music he heard. He could smell it now, something sweet burning. Incense, he knew. Nag champa and the smell of something spicy, some sort of food that made his stomach growl hungrily. Onions and chili powder and something strikingly different, pungent.
The faces were all smiling, when he saw them. Brown faces, beautiful and peaceful. Some singing, some praying, some laughing.
India. Of course, he was in India.
He put his foot upon the first step before he saw her, sitting there. A young girl, perhaps twelve, no more than thirteen. Her sari shawl pulled up over her head, her eyes cast downward. He knew she was trying to look demure. But she looked sad. So very sad.
And all the others were facing her. Leaving plates at her feet, bowing their heads to her. Burning incense before her, asking her for gifts, for a blessing, for anything and everything.
She looked up, as he stepped onto the stairs. And her large, dark eyes found his. Her full bottom lip began to shake, and her eyes pooled up with tears.
He swallowed, hard. Something instinctive inside him explained what he was seeing. This girl, she was obviously considered some sort of living goddess. He'd seen what Hindus termed puja, or a worship service of sorts. And this was it. Flower garlands being hung about her neck. Music given to her. Offerings of food and incense placed before her.
And she did not want to be a goddess. That much was painfully clear to him, when those eyes caught his.
Someone demanded her attention, however. Asked her a question, in a language he could not understand, even in his dream. A man stood, and went to her side, and answered for her. She sat, eyes downcast, throughout the entire exchange. And they brought her a boy. A sick, convulsing boy. He thrashed about as if possessed. When the man had finished speaking, he nodded to her.
She didn't even look up. She simply reached out, and touched the boy's forehead, once.
Immediately, he stopped, and he went limp in his mother's arms. And her eyes flashed violet, in that instant.
And Jean-Paul Beaubier felt sick.
Someone was screaming.
A man. Half in English, half in that language… that language that tripped so lightly over itself, sounded like poetry, even without understanding. Even when yelling.
"Are you crazy, woman … can't be trusted … yeh ladki pagal hai!"
In a small, warm kitchen somewhere in North America. The same smells as before, only more intense. Garam Masala and onion. With a man. The same man who had stood up and spoken for the little goddess on the porch in India. He looked older now, his hair thinner, grayer, his eyes more wrinkled.
But he was angry, that much was clear.
The little goddess was in the corner, under the table. And she was no longer so little, perhaps a young woman of sixteen or seventeen. And she was no longer looking sad. As she watched her father, for he knew now that this was, indeed, her father, push her mother out of the way as he stormed out of the kitchen, her violet eyes held nothing but hate. The promise of violence.
She watched her mother now, as she crawled out from under the table.
And he was surprised to find that her expression changed very little, despite the change in subjects. "Why do you let him do this to us?" She demanded.
"He's your father, Maya…," was the only answer.
He could see it on her face, her decision being made. The decision to take matters into her own hands. She reached out, and touched her mother's face…
And the woman dropped to the floor instantly, in a deep sleep.
Maya, for her part, simply followed her father down the hall.
"There now," she whispered into his ear, "I've given something back to you. You understand now, don't you, Jean-Paul?"
What he didn't understand, he felt her filling in for him, in his mind, without speaking a word. Her powers had manifested as an adolescent, and her father had decided that she was a manifestation of the ever-present goddess. Benevolent and giving. He had set her up as such. Worshipped her.
And used her. For profit, for fame. Used her childhood. She didn't want to be the goddess. She just wanted to be Maya.
"But I'm not weak," She began to speak aloud now, finally taking her lips from his ear, but now leaning closer to his own lips.
He was terrified, of course.
And Jesus, he wanted to drop her.
But no. No, of course he couldn't.
"Exactly, my friend. Because I'm your Devi. Just like I was his. Until he lost his mind utterly, for what he did to me, to my mother."
Her mother…
"Yes, I took her mind too. I needed it, once I figured out that it made me stronger, at least for awhile. She didn't last long, not like you will. Living with him, it didn't leave her much to work with. A husband's oppression is subtle. All husbands, not Indian ones. He doesn't have to come right out and beat his wife, to make his point, to drill it into her and repress her soul for eternity.
"But only a weak woman would let it happen. And a weak woman is just as bad as a man. He may do it, but she enables it."
She disgusted him so thoroughly that he really did find it difficult to pay close attention. Even so, it was painfully clear—her logic was so stunningly… broken.
"You're not the first to think that, love," she kissed his cheek now, softly, slowly, spoke with her lips moving against his skin. Her breath on him. Oh god, he couldn't even shiver, her hold was so complete. "But luckily, the truth does not depend on your belief in it to remain what it is—the truth. You remember truth, don't you? I know you do. You remember what it was like, fighting for your cause? Believing in your goal? Accomplishing small steps forward, with your friends, your family. Oh yes, I know they were like family to you. More than that schizophrenic nymphomaniac sister of yours could ever be."
God… god… why did she insist on forcing him to relive every nightmare he'd already been through, on insulting him physically and verbally? Could he possibly burn any more inside without bursting, exploding, catching on fire spontaneously?
Shields. He had mental shields. His dream, his nightmare had stopped last time, when she'd tried to take it somewhere it wasn't meant to go. He had stayed with Vindicator, in the real world, on that night when he was searching out the last two remaining members of Cell Combattre. With Box, Puck, Snowbird, and Aurora. Maya had tried to make him leave, in the dream. To make him watch his other friends die, as they would have, had he not stayed with Alpha Flight..
But no. It hadn't worked. Not this time…
Her hands were growing more attentive now, playing with his wind-whipped hair, her voice more urgent. As if she could feel his thought process drifting out of her control.
And, of course, he knew that was exactly what was happening.
"I insult you because you deserve it," she was saying now, her lips hot on his neck when she paused for a moment. "You are weak, though not as weak as Bridget. And that is what makes me think you can understand why I do what I do. Why I fight. Why I take. You know what it is to have a common cause. You know what it is to accomplish something. And you know what it is to achieve it through fear. People are weak, Jean-Paul. Weak and foolish. They don't understand anything but fear. So I give them what they need. And I will continue, until they understand.
"Like we do. I know you understand, Jean-Paul. Because you're just like me. Selfish. Uncompromising. Needing to believe. Willing to do whatever it takes. You're just… like… me."
He felt it, as if it were a sliding door in his head, snapping shut. His mental shield snapped fully into place. And with that, Jean-Paul opened his arms, and dropped Maya Patel into the blackness of her own nightmare.[2]
[1] Rather than explain this in the story, allow me to just say here that Jean-Paul was once a member of an underground faction of Le Front de Libèracion du Quèbec, a Québécois sepratiste group, called Cell Combattre, using his power of speed to serve as a courier for them. He left them, once he discovered that they were nothing better than terrorists, and was never a party to any sort of violence himself. (However, he still held to his ideals of a free sovereign nation for the oppressed French-speaking people of Quebec.) The members of Cell Combattre all eventually left the terrorism and violence behind as well. In Marvel Fanfare #28, Northstar is called upon by an independent faction to "protect" and "warn" his ex-comrades from Cell Combattre that a vigilante killer is on the loose and looking for them. The faction turns out to be the problem, however, a vigilante called Scourge, and uses Northstar to find the former terrorists he cannot and wipe them out one by one. Normally, I'd just imply this sort of thing, and it wouldn't matter about the backstory. But in this particular case, I feel it's important to understand where he's coming from.
[2] Maya's story is a nod to Satyajit Rai, a brilliant Bengali filmmaker. If you know who I mean, you will note the similarities between her and the plot of the movie, Devi. The man spoke volumes about oppression, subtle, psychological oppression. I don't mean to imply that it's an Indian problem, because it's not. It's a problem everywhere. But I happen to like Indian Cinema, so that's the example for the day.