Chapter 2 – Distraction

Scott looked at the photo on his bedside table. Every morning he did the same thing, blinking once at the ceiling as he woke. The next thing he saw would always be the photo. An angel stared back at him, auburn hair piled into a messy bun with a defiant, escaping curl emphasizing her slender neck. The sensual mouth he knew so well, open with laughter. The lively eyes, crinkled with laughter. And there, the source of the hilarity; Scott himself. He smiled sadly at it, remembering better times, and then got out of bed.

When he'd first discovered he was 'Cyclops', getting out of bed without blowing the roof off and waking the neighbours had been a bit of a mission. He'd had to wake up and quell the image to open his eyes before he had firmly placed his special glasses on his nose. Now he couldn't be bothered with the hassle, and slept with the visor on. Uncomfortable? Yes. Worth it? Maybe. He decided he could handle the sore necks it brought, rather than having a soggy bed every time it rained.

Scott quickly got changed and headed to the kitchen. He felt like an omelette today, and he was a man who liked his omelette like he liked everything else – without having to wait for it. Who, after all, could wait to taste egg, milk, salt, pepper, bacon and herbs? Heaven on Earth!

"Hey, Mister Summers," said a quiet voice.

He turned to see the young mutant Rogue raiding the fridge. From the looks of it, she'd just woken up. "Hi, Marie. Shouldn't you be in class?"

The girl smirked tiredly. "Shouldn't you be taking a class?"

"Touche," he replied, "but I have time off for being sick."

Rogue twisted the stalk of an apple she'd resigned to eating and threw it in the bin. Taking a crunching bite and speaking around its impeding presence, she said, "Oh yes, Mister Summers, and you do look dreadfully ill."

He mock-wielded a spatula at her threateningly. "I'll have you know I'm very sensitive about my looks, especially when I'm sick."

She shrugged, as if to say 'I tried', took another bite of apple and left him to concoct an omlette in relative peace.

But even silence couldn't help his mind rest. Xavier had said it was post-stress, a part of the grieving process – (completely normal, Scott, nothing to be ashamed of) – but Scott sincerely wished it would stop. The sudden melancholy was driving him mad. So where the what-if scenarios that clouded his brain.

She's dead. No amount of hindsight and mooning can bring her back. Honour her memory, remember her always, and move on.

He managed to get through cooking his omelette without thinking of her once. But this is only because he resorted to trying to remember every line of that god-awful Spongebob Squarepants movie he'd been forced to take the younger mutants to see. Ugh, it was horrible! Even just thinking about it gave him the shivers. By the time he finished eating the said omelette and cleaning up the mess he'd made, Scott was back into mooning mode.

Enough is enough. I have to see the Professor.

Xavier was discussing light refractions with his physics class when he sensed Scott coming towards them. Despair and confusion could hardly be missed. Already distracted beyond compare and feeling he was about to become more so, he dismissed his class and told them to do some prep outside.

Scott saw the class leaving, and knocked on the wooden door.

"Come on in, Scott."

He sat opposite his paternal mentor, expecting to see the knowing twinkle in those far-seeing eyes. It was there, but muted, dull with sadness. Scott straightened uncomfortably, then decided to get it out. Saying this was hard. Ever since he'd first been taken into Xavier's ward he'd never questioned as a father. But he had to now. "I'm going insane," he admitted, "I need your help, so I can stop feeling so wretched."

"You can't hurry grief, Scott," the Professor answered softly. Scott fancied he was talking from personal experience. "I know you've been hardest hit by this tragedy, but numbing the pain is not healthy, whether its done by a telepath or a bottle."

"I just can't stand it."

"You can," he said reassuringly, "And you will." He surveyed his melancholy surrogate-son and picked out what he needed to hear. "Jean wouldn't want you to forget her love so easily."

They talked for about half an hour longer, discussing at length various activities Scott could do to limit the time he had to think about his deceased beloved. The dreams, Xavier said, would be Scott's own way of honouring her memory. Though Xavier was as caring and concerned as he could ever want, Scott had a suspicion that the good Professor had something on his mind.

No, he thought, Xavier doesn't keep secrets from us. If something was bothering him, he'd tell us.

Charles picked up on that thought, and listened to Scott leave his office with a feeling of guilt mingled with sorrow. Though it pained him to admit it, this was something the X-Men could not be a part of. Well, he couldn't risk them being a part of it yet.

Soon, he mused, they couldn't not be a part of it.

Head... muzzy...

Bryony slowly blinked eyelids that seemed as heavy and responsive as bricks. The chain of events began to trickle through her mind, punctuated by aching pain from strained shoulders and neck, from the way her swollen and sore tied wrists made her sit. She tried moving her arms, and the plastic restraint bit unmercifully into her delicate skin.

What's going on?

Around her, few of the students were still asleep. Most were in varying states of consciousness. Some stared fearfully at their surroundings as memory filled the blanks.

The surroundings had changed. No longer were they on the bus, but were seated against the walls of a large, unadorned hall. The black men must have carried them out, one by one. The middle of the hall was clear except for the dark, silent form of those men, the abductors, a sure reminder not to move or talk.

Bryony felt a weight on her shoulder. It was Maria's head. Somehow, the girl had managed to take up the same position here that she had on the bus. She was still in the depths of sleep, her face marked with black by her previous fears.

Swallowing, Bryony tried to get her vocal chords to work, wanting to ask what was going on. It was incredibly hard to break the silence. It was alive, oppressive, smothering. She swallowed, and tried again. Before any sound left her chapped lips, she choked it back.

"What's going on?"

The voice that spoke was not her own. It belonged to a sandy haired boy, Rob, who was sensible and the captain of the summer A cricket team. Well-known and liked by pupils and teachers alike, Rob was just the person who was needed to take control over the situation.

The nearest man turned towards him as if startled that someone would dare to speak, and glanced at his co-conspirators for an indication of what to do.

"Where have you taken us?"

The students shifted to see what was happening, listening intently. The man Rob had targeted was at a lost. Obviously he didn't know how he was supposed to respond. His comrades looked on equally as curious.

"No talking," he said finally.

"It's okay." The man in the black cap stepped out from the doorways shadows, intimidating and mocking. "The brave boy deserves an answer." He turned slowly to face Rob, every slow move radiating authority. "You and your school mates have been taken away from your homes to lessen the mutant threat. Those of you who are not mutants or sympathizers will be returned to your families. Those who are will remain until we are convinced of their harmlessness. As to where you are... that's classified information. You'll soon find out for yourself."

Lessen the mutant threat?

Voicing her thoughts, Rob asked scornfully, "And how will this lessen the mutant threat?"

"It will keep possible mutants in their place, where we can monitor their behaviour. Now, there will definitely be no more talking. You will be told what you need to now."

Rob refrained from asking any more questions. The students slumped against their respective walls, quiet but far from satisfied.