Making A Change
Bishop walked down the hallway of the Xavier Institute, his long black leather storm coat flapping about his ankles as he strode past the various passageways that branched off into the mansion's interior. Underneath his coat were a few self-defence items he always carried out of habit – his plasma pistols were stowed safely at his hips, easily accessible should he need them, his shock-stick, a collapsible riot-control baton, was stowed at his belt, and he had a couple of knives slid down the sides of his boots, just in case. The rest of the X-Men would probably say he was over-reacting, but he never liked being under-prepared for anything, even just a simple night of "people-watching".
This had become one of the usually-dour, solitary Bishop's favourite pastimes of late – simply going into Manhattan and watching people go about their business was fascinating to him. In his time, all of Manhattan was a dusty, dead ruin, so to see it so vibrant, so alive, was almost exhilarating, in its own way, and Bishop enjoyed letting the energy of the past wash over him. He sometimes found it easy to slip off into his own thoughts, and forget that he was a traveller from a distant future, but then somebody would mention something that he had no idea about – mention it as casually as could be, as if everybody around them knew what they were talking about – and he would once again be reminded that he really had no place being here.
Bishop was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of a portable music system playing a low but recognisable tune. He rolled his eyes, and waited for the inevitable verbal follow-up. He'd had to endure this every time he went out on his own – at least, ever since Iceman had found a website to download Isaac Hayes songs from. And sure enough, he was about to endure it again…
"Who's the black private dick that's just a sex machine to all the chicks?" crowed Drake as he capered around behind Bishop like a snow-clad clown.
"Bishop!" squealed Rebecca Braddock, as she struggled to keep her heavily-pregnant bulk from falling too far behind the two men. Bishop ignored her, and picked up his pace a little. He'd never been comfortable around her, simply because of her connection to Sinister, and this little incident just helped to prove precisely why that was probably a good idea. Anybody who'd find this kind of prank funny – especially after having it repeated for the tenth or eleventh time – had to be a little bit suspect, after all…
"You damn right!" Drake followed on faultlessly, making Bishop's teeth grind together a little more. He kept telling himself only put up with this because of Drake's reputation in the future, but that seemed like less and less of a reason to stop himself from punching the man's teeth down his throat… "Who's the man that would risk his neck for his brother-man?"
"Bishop!" Rebecca chimed in again, giggling.
Her response prompted Drake to continue with a cool "Can you dig it?" and then sing "Who's the cat that won't cop out, when there's danger all about?"
"Bishop!" Rebecca laughed.
"Y'know, they say this cat Bishop is a bad mother –"
"Shut your mouth!" crowed Rebecca, who was apparently really enjoying this little game. Well, somebody has to, Bishop supposed sourly.
"Talkin' 'bout Bishop!" Bobby finished in triumph, pointing at Bishop with both hands.
Bishop rolled his eyes again as the two younger mutants collapsed into paroxysms of laughter, falling against each other as they guffawed noisily, and decided it would probably be best for all concerned if he let them have their little joke, and get on with what he wanted to do that evening. After all, wasting breath on their lame-brained attempts at humour was probably a bad idea, and he'd doubtless get yet another pointless Drake lecture on how he needed to "lighten up," "get down with his bad self", or "bust a move". To this day, Bishop had no idea how he was supposed to go about doing any of that, and to be quite frank, he didn't really want to know. He put it down to that being just another thing about this era that he didn't have a clue about, and marched towards the door that led towards the communal garage. This called for a fast ride into town, and he had a mind to take Drake's Mustang, just to irk him…
Manhattan's nightlife was busy already, even with the sun only just beginning to dip beneath the horizon. Bishop had parked the Mustang somewhere secluded and made sure it was securely locked up (for all the irritation Drake caused him, Bishop didn't really want to lose the man's car), and had begun to head for a busy-looking bar, just to soak up the ambience of the place. He had no intention of getting into a conversation with anybody, of course, but that was where the challenge lay – if he could blend so seamlessly into the surroundings that he wouldn't be noticed, then he would consider that a success. Then again, he thought ruefully, being six-foot-five, weighing almost three hundred and twenty pounds and having a large black 'M' tattooed onto his face didn't give him much of a choice about standing out. His fingers strayed unconsciously to the surface of his face, tracing the lines of the identification tattoo with practiced ease. Sometimes, when he let his guard down, he could still feel the sting of the branding needle as it etched the symbol into his face, and he could still smell the oil of the Sentinels as they towered over him and his fellow prisoners, bellowing orders in their cold, mechanical voices. They still haunted his dreams sometimes, and he would wake up in a cold sweat screaming his sister's name. Jean had asked him if he'd wanted to talk about it once or twice, but he had politely declined her offer. Better to keep her from being tainted by the same poison, he thought.
Pushing those notions out of his mind and forcing himself to pull his hand away from his face, Bishop walked into the busy bar, and settled himself into a booth after ordering himself a glass of mineral water. Sipping it gently, he began doing what he'd been trained to do – picking out the people most likely to cause him or the establishment problems. It wasn't anything to do with the way that they dressed, or talked, or the colour of their skin, but rather the way that they carried themselves. Bishop had seen enough potential troublemakers in his time as an XSE officer to know when a person was likely to turn nasty and endanger themselves and others – and sure enough, before he'd even scanned the bar halfway, he'd picked out half a dozen people, of both sexes, that he thought would be liable to make things unpleasant later on. Filing their faces away for future reference, Bishop took a small sip of his drink and returned to his own thoughts.
Suddenly, a shape obscured the light from the bar, and Bishop looked up to see an attractive young woman standing in front of him, clutching a glass of what looked like Coke (but Bishop suspected that it also contained something stronger, too) in her coffee-coloured fingers. She smiled coyly as he noticed her and said "Hi. Is this seat taken?"
Inwardly, Bishop scowled. He hadn't wanted this to happen. Reaching into a pocket, his fingers closed around his battered XSE identification badge, and he brought the wallet which contained it up to his own eye level for a moment or so, before snapping it closed and sliding it back into his coat. "Sorry, miss," he said firmly, not wanting to sound overly brisk despite his own annoyance. "Police business."
"Oh." The girl seemed crestfallen at that, her smile wilting a little. "Sorry." As she walked away, her shoulders slumping in defeat, Bishop could practically smell her disappointment and embarrassment, and for a moment or two he considered calling her back over. Then he noticed that a small tussle was developing between two of the troublemakers he'd earmarked earlier, with one or two flailing punches being thrown, and he stood up from his seat, his fingers closing around the textured handle of his shock-stick. He unhooked it from its holster and effortlessly flicked it out to its full length, hearing soft clicks as each section settled into the moulded grooves of its neighbour, and he flexed his fingers gently so that his own bio-energy activated the stick's crackling power field. The stick hummed as he swiftly moved out of his booth and strode over to where the two men were struggling against each other, and he used it to place himself in between them with all the authority he'd learned to project as an XSE squad leader (breaking up mutant/human conflicts was something he was very good at).
Then, when he'd managed to separate the two combatants, he glanced at each of them in turn and said "Is there a problem here?"
One of them glared at him with pure, undiluted hatred in his eyes, and threw a gesture behind him to a booth that was obscured by other patrons of the bar. "She brought her freak kid in here!" Bishop glanced in the direction he was pointing, and saw a young woman with flowing blue hair cradling a terrified boy with scaly skin and two huge toe claws, their drinks spilt and pooling on the floor. Instantly, he recognised them as Tonya and Bobby Anderson, who had recently become friends of his comrades-in-arms Archangel and Psylocke, and he turned to the man who had screamed at him, his eyes no more than slits.
"I suggest you leave," he hissed, his knuckles tightening around his baton. "Now."
"What?" the man almost shrieked, incredulous. "She and her mutie kid are the ones who should leave!"
"Why?" the man who had been fighting with him exclaimed, straining against Bishop's arm. "She ain't done anything wrong!"
"Mutie-lover!" the other bar patron cried, before Bishop glared at him and cracked him across the face with his shock-stick. It wasn't the way he usually used the baton, but it had the desired effect, as the bigot stumbled backwards, shocked out of his skin.
"And what do you suppose this stands for?" he snarled rhetorically, jabbing a gloved finger at the M tattooed on his face. "You want to pick on a 'filthy mutie', boy, pick on me." He hefted the shock-stick again and increased the charge to it so that its power field turned an angry red, and beckoned the man towards him with it, the baton humming with energy as it moved through the air. Then he watched as the man staggered out of the crowd as quickly as he could, blood still flowing from his bruised and shattered nose, and allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. When Bishop was sure that the situation had calmed down, he returned his attention to the Andersons. "Are you all right?" he asked Tonya gently (or as gently as he could manage – he freely admitted he wasn't exactly the world's greatest humanitarian), and the blue-haired woman nodded without saying a word, still clutching tightly to her boy. Bobby, meanwhile, was staring up at Bishop with the same large-eyed gaze that he had used when he had visited the mansion.
"Will you stay with us?" the boy asked, still sounding terrified.
"I –" Bishop hesitated, before he folded his baton up and clipped it back into place on his belt. "Yes. I'll stay if you wish." He settled into the seat across from the young lady, Tonya, and continued "I apologise if I am crossing too many boundaries here, but… was this wise? Bringing your son – an obvious mutant – to such a public place does not seem, to me, to be all that sensible."
Tonya shrugged sheepishly. "You know what? I'm asking myself the same question right now. I usually only take Bobby out this late because it's the only time we can ever get much peace in public – everybody's usually too busy getting drunk to worry about one little mutant kid, you know?"
"I… suppose so," Bishop conceded. As he did so, Bobby suddenly grabbed at his sleeve and tugged excitedly.
"Hey, Mr Bishop," he exclaimed, instantly sounding more confident even though a couple of salty, drying tear trails were still snaking down his scaly face, "thanks for helping me and my mom."
Bishop cracked an uncharacteristic smile at that. "You're… you're welcome," he said, feeling genuinely pleased at having been able to make this boy's day better. Then he motioned towards the upturned glasses on the table and continued "Would you like me to get you a refill? I think it's the least I can do." Tonya held up a hand and shook her head gratefully but firmly.
"Thanks, but no thanks," she said, before she began fishing in her handbag for her purse, and when she had found it, drew out a crisp ten-dollar bill. "I should be the one buying you a drink, don't you think?"
Considering the point for a moment or two, Bishop had to concede that what she was suggesting was probably more sensible, and he replied "If that is more agreeable to you, please do so. I'll have another mineral water, thank you."
"What, no Klingon blood wine?" Tonya asked facetiously, causing Bishop to stare at her blankly, the reference passing completely over his head. "Oh, never mind," Tonya said. "I can see you're not a Star Trek fan. Let's just forget I ever said anything, okay?"
"Indeed," Bishop replied thoughtfully, filing that particular pop culture reference away as something that needed further investigation. He supposed Drake would be able to help him with that, considering the amount of time that Iceman spent slumped in front of the television with his arm around Emma Frost (who Bishop liked for a single reason, and a single reason alone – she was as awkward around children as he was, and as such he could relate to her in that regard. In every other aspect, however, he wasn't at all comfortable having her in the X-Men's home, and made it his business to keep as much of an eye on her as he possibly could), and made a subsequent mental note to inquire about what Tonya had just said.
"All right," Tonya said, getting up from her seat and gesturing lightly to her son. "Would you mind watching him while I go to the bar – just to be on the safe side, you understand." Bishop glanced at Bobby, who had pulled down the hood of his top and was beaming up at him with his mouthful of sharp little fangs, and nodded.
"Very well," he said, unclipping the top of one of his pistols' holsters just in case. He didn't really think much could happen in the time it would take Tonya to walk to and from the bar, but his years of training didn't let him relax his guard so easily, and he made sure to keep a finger or two on the butt of the gun, so that if he needed to, he could draw and fire it in the space of a few seconds. He'd been top of his class in marksmanship, and had shattered his own target-practice record more than once – much to the chagrin of his little sister, who had been obsessed with being the best ever since the two of them had joined the XSE. The two of them had wagered ration packs on who could beat the other more than once – sometimes Shard had gone hungry, and sometimes Bishop had. Whatever else Shard had been, Bishop thought, she had been a hell of a marksman.
"Say, Mr Bishop," Bobby said, tugging at Bishop's sleeve again with a clawed hand, and shaking him out of his reverie, "did you know I got a gold star at school today? My teacher gave me it because I did a big painting of a flower."
"Really?" Bishop inquired, doing his best to appear interested – which was definitely much more easily said than done for him. "What did it look like?" He'd heard Scott and Jean talk this way to younger children, and he supposed that he could at least attempt to do the same as the two of them. Bobby grinned, and began to describe his painting in intricate detail.
"It's red an' green, an' it's got seven petals with blue dots on them, an' it's got two big leaves with orange beetles flying around. Mommy said it was beautiful when I showed it to her."
"It sounds it," Bishop replied, nodding, even though it actually sounded very gaudy to him. "What did your teacher say about it?"
"She said it was my best work ever," Bobby stated proudly. "She liked the beetles. She said they were pretty."
Just as Bishop was trying to think of a reply, Tonya placed a glass of mineral water on the table in front of him. "Thank you," he said gratefully, as she set down two more glasses – one full of Coke which Bobby immediately set about emptying, and the other full of orange juice. Bishop took a small measure of water into his mouth and swallowed, enjoying the faint residual tang of fruit coming from the thin slice of lemon floating on the water's surface. He'd never really got used to sweet things being so readily available in this time – sugar was like gold dust in his future, because it was so rare – so this was a nice treat. He rolled the water around his mouth once or twice, just to get the fullest benefit from the flavour, and then swallowed thoughtfully. While he was doing that, Tonya had managed to get Bobby to come and sit on her lap, laying one arm across his waist carefully so that she could be sure he wouldn't run off. Then she kissed her son lightly on the top of his hairless scalp and sipped a little of her orange juice.
"So," she said slowly, "what brought you out here tonight? From what I've heard about you, this doesn't exactly seem like your sort of place."
Bishop raised both eyebrows, the M over his right eye warping a little as he did so. "I find it… interesting… to observe people in this time," he began, after a short pause. "When I was still a squad leader for the XSE in the future, New York was destroyed, so I like to see what it used to be before the Sentinels came. It's… refreshing, in a way, seeing everything so alive." He paused. "I like seeing things as they used to be. If I'm going to be living in the past for the rest of my life, I think I should learn to like my surroundings, don't you think?"
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Tonya replied. "So what was it like in the future? Did you have a flying car? A robot sidekick? Did you have to fight killer cyborgs all the time?"
"None of that," Bishop said, holding up a hand to quiet her. Tonya's enthusiasm was almost infectious, he thought, if a little misguided. "Randall and Malcolm, my partners, and I used to hunt down mutant criminals with nothing but a good gun and our mutant powers to protect us. I think you have been spoiled by too much television."
"I have not!" Tonya retorted, trying to sound as offended by Bishop's remark as she possibly could. "I don't even get to watch it that much – this little guy is too busy playing on his Playstation to let his poor old mom watch her soaps." She hugged Bobby a little tighter then, and Bishop would later swear that he had seen Bobby's scales turn a faint shade of pink.
"Mom!" Bobby almost screamed. "Don't do that! You're embarrassing me!"
"I would think," Bishop began, not really knowing what he was going to say, "that your mother only does that because she loves you, little man. I never had that growing up. Make sure you don't squander it." He reached out with a hesitant hand and patted Bobby three times on the top of his hairless scalp. After that, Bobby's expression couldn't have been more adoring, and he made no more trouble for the rest of the evening.
Just then, however, Tonya breathed a sigh of relief, and, as Bobby babbled happily to himself about how cool Bishop was, she whispered "Thank you."
Bishop simply nodded in response, and raised his glass in a silent toast. Apparently, his night of people-watching hadn't been a total failure after all…