Disclaimer: I don't own Scott Summers. Nor do I own Jean Grey,
Sabretooth, Wolverine, or Chucky X. I do own the angry cop, though. "Take
THAT, Joey Q!"
This heat is getting to him. It has to be. His head is pounding so badly, even his vision is going blurry. And he swears he just saw lightning, but there's not a cloud in the sky. But his day has just begun; he can't go home to Jean without finishing all his "chores." Not when Logan's waiting in the wings to be as charmingly helpful as possible.
"Y'know, Summers," he muses to himself ", the smart play would've been to let Logan handle these things, and stay home with your wife. What's the worst he could do? Succeed? Maybe take some sick satisfaction at sniffing your lady's unmentionables?"
He massages his temple at the very thought of this disturbing vision.
Another flash of light. Suddenly, the leader in Scott emerges as he thinks of his brother, Alex, and the much bally-hoed Summer's brother competition blankets his pain and disorientation.
"I've battled a hundred Sentinels. Traveled to the future and the past, and even to far-off galaxies. I'm not about to give up over a simple head- ache."
With that Scott looks up, just in time to realize he is, in fact, at the wheel of his car, barreling down the highway at unheard of speeds! He grabs the steering wheel with both hands, and attempts to maneuver through the condensed traffic of I-95, tapping the brakes in 3-second intervals to slow his momentum. He may be on 95, but he's going much faster than that. As he's weaving in and out of traffic, he notices a car pulling into his intended course, and decides it's time to test those brakes to the fullest extent. As expected, he loses control of the vehicle, but manages to alter his course onto the emergency lane.
White-knuckles clench the steering wheel, even after the car has stopped. His heart is racing, which only worsens his migraine. Scott places his head against the steering wheel, breathing a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, God. I promise I won't complain about the day, anymore," he mutters aloud.
A flicker in the rear-view mirror catches his eye.
"Hey there, 'smart-guy', ya happen ta know how fast you'ere goin'?"
Scott squints his eyes enough to recognize the garb of a police officer. Worse yet, it's the same police officer he dealt with at the grocery store.
"No sir, I'm not sure."
"128 miles per hour," came the quick, agitated reply. "Prob'ly ain't at libe'ty to tell me why you were swerving all ova' ad road like you was."
Thinking quickly, Scott replied ", I'm diabetic."
"Ooohhh, good one. I've heard it, though," retorted the officer. "Just like I'm sure those shades are aren't hiding red eyes, right?"
Scott winces, audibly at this. But he isn't paying much attention. In fact, he uncharacteristically begins counting how many ways he could cripple the officer with all the martial arts training he's received as an X-Man. The "red eyes" comment opens the gate with an astonishing 25.
"Look, it may not matter to you fancy rich boys and your foreign cars, but there are other people who use these roads. And I'm their protection. Protection from schmucks like you."
26. No, make that 27. He's not even considering his optic blasts.yet.
Twenty minutes and a rather sizable ticket later, the officer informs Scott that he'll be escorting him home. Scott thanks him with a devilish grin, mouthing the words "hope you can keep up."
As he pulls away, he knows it isn't right to feel this way. He did endanger many lives driving the way he did. Suddenly an alarm goes off in his head. It's his migraine, back again, though until now, he hadn't noticed it was gone. But it's back now, with a vengeance. Inexplicably, he thinks of Jean. And Sabretooth? Odd.
The first night Creed spent in the mansion (under Professor Xavier's humanitarian "care" to rid Creed of his homicidal urges), no one slept much. Especially since Wolverine had left the team after Magneto's leeching of his Adamantium skeleton. Naturally, as a team the X-Men could easily take Creed.couldn't they? Hopefully it wouldn't have to come to that (little did they know), but Cyclops was sure that the Professor could handle Creed; Jean wasn't as sure.
Much like Logan (though certainly not to the same degree), Jean had trouble entering Creed's mind. And though everyone was afraid to admit it, Jean had already surpassed her mentor in terms of power. But Charles was too stubborn to admit a failure, even before taking on the task. And Scott? Scott was too naïve not to believe Xavier. Certainly after losing every bit of family he had, Scott needed to believe in Xavier. No matter the decision, no matter the cost.
Jean Grey (two months short of marrying the love of her life) had no such compunctions. She argued with Charles, heatedly, over his decision to "rehabilitate" Victor Creed. She believed that an animal such as Creed could not be "saved", to which Charles countered with his successes in Logan, Rogue, and even Remy. Jean acquiesced, but as she left the Ready Room she mentally noted ", you're wrong."
"You're wrong."
Back in the present, Scott realizes his headache has caused his mind to wander again. His perception is getting worse. If only he could take these glasses off for a minute or two.
"Get a grip, Summers," he mutters unknowingly. He takes in his bearings, once more.
Road: wavy, but check.
Speed: 55 mph.
To Do List: uhm..
"Damnit!" he exclaims. "Must've flown out, since the top is down. Brilliant move, Summers. Damn. I could probably think straight if it weren't for that racket going off..."
Then it dawns on him. There is a sound, like an alarm. But he's on the open road heading away from town. What could possibly--?
PSSSSsssss.
Scott's mind automatically analyzes the sound he just heard. It sounded like a blown tire. But the steering column isn't affected, only the accelerator. As the car finally slows to a stop, Scott finally sees the steam emanating from the hood of the vehicle. Then he notices the gear shifter, snuggly in first gear where it's been for quite some time. The dummy light is on warning of a necessary gearshift; same for the temperature gauge. Too bad Scott couldn't see it.
To add insult to injury, the officer that has been tailing Scott, ever since the grocery store, smugly waves as he passes by.
"No big deal, Summers", he says to himself. "Just a few miles from the Xavier Institute. I'll just-"
CRACKOW!
"Oh, sure, NOW it rains!" Scott cries. He tries, valiantly, to start the car again and put the convertible top up, but the car refuses to turn over. "Oh, for God's sake! What the hell?! Damnit! Damnit, damnit, damnit!!!"
"Why God? When's it ever enough? It isn't bad enough being essentially blind all the time. It isn't bad enough being hated and feared because of a handicap! But the one time I try to have a normal day, I'm stopped at every turn thanks to my DAMNED EYES!!!"
He isn't sure just how long he sits there, kneeling in the rain. Time is a concept lost on him at this point. The storm rages on, reflecting his mood in its tenacity. It's unforgiving, and so is he.
Eventually, he rises, head still spinning and throbbing at the same time. He collects the one bag of groceries he didn't rip apart in rage, and begins the long trek home.
Hours later, he mopes through the gates of the Xavier Institute. He doesn't bother to enter the mansion. He simply heads to the boathouse that he and his wife have called home since their marriage. He goes to call for his wife, but his throat is dry. Pity. At the foot of the steps to the second floor, he notices the damp carpet. "Great," he thinks ", I wonder who'll clean that up tomorrow?"
He heads up the stairs to bed, feet tracking the stains of blood up stairs.
This heat is getting to him. It has to be. His head is pounding so badly, even his vision is going blurry. And he swears he just saw lightning, but there's not a cloud in the sky. But his day has just begun; he can't go home to Jean without finishing all his "chores." Not when Logan's waiting in the wings to be as charmingly helpful as possible.
"Y'know, Summers," he muses to himself ", the smart play would've been to let Logan handle these things, and stay home with your wife. What's the worst he could do? Succeed? Maybe take some sick satisfaction at sniffing your lady's unmentionables?"
He massages his temple at the very thought of this disturbing vision.
Another flash of light. Suddenly, the leader in Scott emerges as he thinks of his brother, Alex, and the much bally-hoed Summer's brother competition blankets his pain and disorientation.
"I've battled a hundred Sentinels. Traveled to the future and the past, and even to far-off galaxies. I'm not about to give up over a simple head- ache."
With that Scott looks up, just in time to realize he is, in fact, at the wheel of his car, barreling down the highway at unheard of speeds! He grabs the steering wheel with both hands, and attempts to maneuver through the condensed traffic of I-95, tapping the brakes in 3-second intervals to slow his momentum. He may be on 95, but he's going much faster than that. As he's weaving in and out of traffic, he notices a car pulling into his intended course, and decides it's time to test those brakes to the fullest extent. As expected, he loses control of the vehicle, but manages to alter his course onto the emergency lane.
White-knuckles clench the steering wheel, even after the car has stopped. His heart is racing, which only worsens his migraine. Scott places his head against the steering wheel, breathing a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, God. I promise I won't complain about the day, anymore," he mutters aloud.
A flicker in the rear-view mirror catches his eye.
"Hey there, 'smart-guy', ya happen ta know how fast you'ere goin'?"
Scott squints his eyes enough to recognize the garb of a police officer. Worse yet, it's the same police officer he dealt with at the grocery store.
"No sir, I'm not sure."
"128 miles per hour," came the quick, agitated reply. "Prob'ly ain't at libe'ty to tell me why you were swerving all ova' ad road like you was."
Thinking quickly, Scott replied ", I'm diabetic."
"Ooohhh, good one. I've heard it, though," retorted the officer. "Just like I'm sure those shades are aren't hiding red eyes, right?"
Scott winces, audibly at this. But he isn't paying much attention. In fact, he uncharacteristically begins counting how many ways he could cripple the officer with all the martial arts training he's received as an X-Man. The "red eyes" comment opens the gate with an astonishing 25.
"Look, it may not matter to you fancy rich boys and your foreign cars, but there are other people who use these roads. And I'm their protection. Protection from schmucks like you."
26. No, make that 27. He's not even considering his optic blasts.yet.
Twenty minutes and a rather sizable ticket later, the officer informs Scott that he'll be escorting him home. Scott thanks him with a devilish grin, mouthing the words "hope you can keep up."
As he pulls away, he knows it isn't right to feel this way. He did endanger many lives driving the way he did. Suddenly an alarm goes off in his head. It's his migraine, back again, though until now, he hadn't noticed it was gone. But it's back now, with a vengeance. Inexplicably, he thinks of Jean. And Sabretooth? Odd.
The first night Creed spent in the mansion (under Professor Xavier's humanitarian "care" to rid Creed of his homicidal urges), no one slept much. Especially since Wolverine had left the team after Magneto's leeching of his Adamantium skeleton. Naturally, as a team the X-Men could easily take Creed.couldn't they? Hopefully it wouldn't have to come to that (little did they know), but Cyclops was sure that the Professor could handle Creed; Jean wasn't as sure.
Much like Logan (though certainly not to the same degree), Jean had trouble entering Creed's mind. And though everyone was afraid to admit it, Jean had already surpassed her mentor in terms of power. But Charles was too stubborn to admit a failure, even before taking on the task. And Scott? Scott was too naïve not to believe Xavier. Certainly after losing every bit of family he had, Scott needed to believe in Xavier. No matter the decision, no matter the cost.
Jean Grey (two months short of marrying the love of her life) had no such compunctions. She argued with Charles, heatedly, over his decision to "rehabilitate" Victor Creed. She believed that an animal such as Creed could not be "saved", to which Charles countered with his successes in Logan, Rogue, and even Remy. Jean acquiesced, but as she left the Ready Room she mentally noted ", you're wrong."
"You're wrong."
Back in the present, Scott realizes his headache has caused his mind to wander again. His perception is getting worse. If only he could take these glasses off for a minute or two.
"Get a grip, Summers," he mutters unknowingly. He takes in his bearings, once more.
Road: wavy, but check.
Speed: 55 mph.
To Do List: uhm..
"Damnit!" he exclaims. "Must've flown out, since the top is down. Brilliant move, Summers. Damn. I could probably think straight if it weren't for that racket going off..."
Then it dawns on him. There is a sound, like an alarm. But he's on the open road heading away from town. What could possibly--?
PSSSSsssss.
Scott's mind automatically analyzes the sound he just heard. It sounded like a blown tire. But the steering column isn't affected, only the accelerator. As the car finally slows to a stop, Scott finally sees the steam emanating from the hood of the vehicle. Then he notices the gear shifter, snuggly in first gear where it's been for quite some time. The dummy light is on warning of a necessary gearshift; same for the temperature gauge. Too bad Scott couldn't see it.
To add insult to injury, the officer that has been tailing Scott, ever since the grocery store, smugly waves as he passes by.
"No big deal, Summers", he says to himself. "Just a few miles from the Xavier Institute. I'll just-"
CRACKOW!
"Oh, sure, NOW it rains!" Scott cries. He tries, valiantly, to start the car again and put the convertible top up, but the car refuses to turn over. "Oh, for God's sake! What the hell?! Damnit! Damnit, damnit, damnit!!!"
"Why God? When's it ever enough? It isn't bad enough being essentially blind all the time. It isn't bad enough being hated and feared because of a handicap! But the one time I try to have a normal day, I'm stopped at every turn thanks to my DAMNED EYES!!!"
He isn't sure just how long he sits there, kneeling in the rain. Time is a concept lost on him at this point. The storm rages on, reflecting his mood in its tenacity. It's unforgiving, and so is he.
Eventually, he rises, head still spinning and throbbing at the same time. He collects the one bag of groceries he didn't rip apart in rage, and begins the long trek home.
Hours later, he mopes through the gates of the Xavier Institute. He doesn't bother to enter the mansion. He simply heads to the boathouse that he and his wife have called home since their marriage. He goes to call for his wife, but his throat is dry. Pity. At the foot of the steps to the second floor, he notices the damp carpet. "Great," he thinks ", I wonder who'll clean that up tomorrow?"
He heads up the stairs to bed, feet tracking the stains of blood up stairs.