Chapter 7: Slice and Dice
Scott wanted to ask for ice, but Iceman was still absent. "That's the fifth time, mister… in the face alone!" His oft-hit, swollen nose felt like a ripe apple, weighing him down. This was looking very, very bad. And what was that just then? Jean waving at Wolverine? Gasp. That was the last straw.
"Coming at you, bub!" Wolverine smiled evilly and seemed to be lining up his next strike.
"Oh no." Jean covered her eyes. "This is beginning to look more like dodge ball!"
But Cyclops had other ideas for the future of this all-important match. "Alright. Time for drastic measures! Switch to the visor." He clamped his eyes shut while he exchanged the sporty glasses for his fashion-less, but deadly visor.
"Don't see how that's gonna help you, one eye!" Wolverine took aim, and served the ball.
But this time, good old Cyclops was ready.
FZZT!
He lightly fired his red, force laser, nudging the ball half an inch over the net and dropping it back onto Wolverine's side, making it impossible to retrieve. He had learned to be so precise with his visor; this action was no difficult calculation for him.
"What happened to your whining about the rules?" Wolverine insulted.
"We decided to allow mutant powers on the court, so Cyclops' action is permitted by the rules." Professor X stepped in. (He didn't really step in, cause he can't actually walk, but you know.)
Wolverine reacted to this in true Wolverine fashion. He considered dicing up the net to show how much he disapproved of this bureaucracy. But, he did still like the game, and the net did seem to add a certain element that would be missed. He decided he would play the game by their rules but maintain the fun of it. "Whatever you say, bub. Bring it on."
Cyclops grinned. He had finally found his edge.
"Here you go!" Wolverine announced the next serve.
Scott pushed the ball back into Wolverine's path with his laser, feeling proud and noticing Jean's admiring gaze. In face he was so preoccupied with Jean, he didn't notice Wolverine had released his claws and was amusing himself with slicing up the ball and sending it skyward.
"Hey," Jean noticed the flayed ball departing into court two. "Scott, isn't that the special tennis ball you were boasting to me about last night?"
"What!? My official Dazzler autographed tennis ball? Nooo!" (What the heck?)
In the air, one piece of felt fuzz detached from the slaughtered (and special) tennis ball, and drifted merrily along to enjoy its last moments of freedom before approaching the ground of court two and going straight up the nose of the K.O.ed pointy-eared, fuzz-ball. (Also known as Kurt Wagner for all those who don't speak fuzz-ese.)
Two unnerving yellow eyes opened suddenly. An earth-shattering sneeze followed Kurt's revival, drowning out even the sounds of Northstar's recreation.
"Aaaaah chooo!" He immediately covered his face with both unusual hands. (Elly's got an unhealthy obsession with those hands…) "Argh! The pain! I didn't mean to break his neck, I swear! I've tried so hard to follow the teachings!"
Rogue just so happened to be passing at the moment. (Convenient, eh?) She let herself into court two by the gate, and knelt next to the hysterical, sniffly mutant. "What're you talking about?"
Nightcrawler dropped his hands at the sound of her voice, cringing sharply (Get it? With those teeth, anything he does with his mouth is sharp! Haha hah! Uh… yeah. Stop that, Elly; your infatuation is scaring us.). "I… I wasn't killed by that last hit?"
Rogue shook her head, a bit frightened by her teammate's outburst. "Nah, you're still breathing."
"Thank goodness!" Kurt exclaimed literally, gazing upward with appreciative eyes. "For a minute there, I thought that was happening again…"
"What?"
He mumbled something vague about Dante's Inferno, but she couldn't make any sense out of it.
"Well Sugar," She clapped him on the back a little harder than necessary. "I think we'd better get this competition back on track. I fear for the birds' health at this point."
It was Nightcrawler's turn to be confused. "What?"
She nodded east. "Seems like your pal there got sick of causing Salem's greatest traffic jam and decided to chase sandpipers across the basket ball courts instead."
It was true. Northstar could be made out, running circles around the panting bird with ease.
"You expect me to play so soon after that near-death experience?"
"So what?" Rogue started yanking on his arm to pull him upright. It was Kurt's turn to be nervous at a touch. "Couldn't have been so bad for you, cross-bearer. What'd you see? Doves, gardens, angels with harps floating on clouds, or would you just keep it simple by envisioning the pearly gates?"
Nightcrawler swayed dizzily upon reaching the awkward standing position. It must have been the throbbing in his neck that brought back the unfortunate memory. "Do I look like an angel to you?"
"No," She admitted. "But you do look like you have potential to be the best tennis pro out here today. You're not just going to let Northstar dash away as the fastest mutant, right?" Rogue put her hands on his shoulders to steady him, but even gloved, her touch seemed to do nothing but further weaken him. "If you give up now, you will never hear the end of it! I should know. I mean, last week Gambit and I came out here with some racquets and ever since he…" She snorted. "Well I will beat him, even if I have to track down both the Williams sisters and borrow their talents to do it!"
The suggestion of Rogue using her powers against someone inspired Kurt to stand without help. "No offense." He carefully shrugged off her assistance. "Doesn't that guy ever get tired?" He exhaled hopelessly, following Northstar's progress in herding some confused field mice into a bucket. He had a few dozen inside already.
"It'd be nice if he put all that energy to a useful cause now and then." Rogue suddenly called out to Jean-Paul. "Hey you unoriginal Quicksilver knock-off! There's some laundry piled up in my room if you can't find anything better to do than the cat's job!"
Northstar heard her, abandoning the squeaking bucket when he realized Kurt was standing up. In two shakes (point two, really, considering who this is) he had flown over the fence and was speaking. "Okay, let's pick this up where we left off. And you," He jabbed a finger at Rogue. "Suggest that I'm a maid again, and I'll have your entire wardrobe in the incinerator before you can even say the word laundry. Now get off the court!"
Rogue put her hands on her hips and turned her face aside proudly. "Stop sweet-talking me, Northstar, or I might have to give you a good luck kiss. Oh that's right. You wouldn't be interested, would you?"
Jean-Paul glared at her intensely, keeping his finger pointing for her to exit.
"How about you, 'Crawler? Need some good luck?"
Kurt winced at the proposition, gripping his retrieved racquet a little tighter. "No thanks."
"Worth a try." She shrugged as she strutted out of the court, staring through the fence again. "Ironic, isn't it? I'm surrounded by sports, and carnage on the streets but I'm still not getting enough action. Maybe if I'd remembered my pom-poms…"
"Oh look," Jean abandoned her vigil over court three for a minute, seeing the resumed play on court two. "They're playing again. What was their score again?"
The Professor concentrated on the question. "They're tied with two sets a piece. So unless they keep scoring deuce like before, it should be over in a few minutes."
"Last second bets, y'all?" Rogue asked, sauntering back to resume her conversation with Jean.
Jean scowled. "I told you, I'm not taking sides."
"They say the world's divided between gamblers, and losers who never tried their luck." Rogue smirked, scooting Jean down the bench to make room.
"Oh, who says that?"
"Gambit, but that's besides the point. You oughtta take some chances now and then, Jeannie. You could make some good money…" Her eyes drifted to the two players on court three. "Or make some good something else."
The redhead laughed in a choked way. "I don't need gloves to remind me to keep my distance from risks, Rogue. No bets, and that's that."
Rogue's eyebrows were moving suggestively, but she kept quiet and watched the game… if it could still be called a game, considering the players seemed to have their own conflicting rules and scores.
"That's it, mister!" Scott huffed. "If you don't finally catch on and play the game right, I'll have to declare it over!"
Wolverine picked some green lint from his extended claws. "Don't be a sore loser, bub. Not everybody can slice the ball like I can."
"That is not how you slice it!" Cyclops lectured. "This is a slice." He dropped a ball and hit it with a chopping motion, putting spin on it so that when it landed on Logan's side, it bounced unpredictably.
"So's this." The sliced ball was met with a slice of Wolverine's. It split into three pieces and sailed away to land in court two, as all of its predecessors had done.
Scott's arms hung disbelievingly at his side. "Okay, you know what? Fine. Just be like that, but you have to realize those 'slices' of yours count as a point for me."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Beamy." Logan patronized. In his mind, his version of tennis required more skill anyway, so why should he bother with those other old-fashioned rules at the moment?
"This isn't even a competition." Cyclops continued to complain, meeting Jean's eye with a 'see how he is?' look. "This is just expensive target practice for him…"
"You're fault for buyin' the pricey stuff, Pro-shop!" Rogue catcalled.
"Whatever." Scott finally settled. "The balls are sacrificed, but at least I'll get some practice with my serve."
"Suits me." Logan mumbled. His aim was improving with this practice. He had been able to get almost every stray ball to fall into Nightcrawler's path, but he had yet to smack him directly with one. He couldn't wait to improve some more!
