White spots mirroring the stars on the black landscape of the darkened ground bled into streaks. The streaks, then, started twirling, slowly. Behind the wheel of the small airplane, Scott closed his aching eyes tightly. A surge of fatigue rushed to his head, and he snapped his eyes open again. For a few more seconds, his eyes were clear.
"C'mon, Scott," he said aloud over the roar of the propeller. "Hold it together." The little energy reserves he'd developed since awakening atrophied and weak were totally sapped. He was running on fumes, and he knew it. Sheer will power kept him from keeling over. His shirt was sticky and wet with blood, and the dog bites on his arm were beginning to burn with infection. He'd made great time in the air, aside from the wide berth he'd given New York City and its airspace, and the trip had been without incident so far. The biggest threat, he knew, was falling asleep, but there were too many factors pushing him towards slumber. Scott didn't know how much longer he could hold out. The white noise of the engine wasn't helping in the least.
"What are you doing up here?" he said. "You have no business in the air in your condition." He let out a hysterical chuckle. He didn't know which was funnier—the fact that he was chastising himself aloud, that he found that funny, or the fact that he had to be on death's door before he found a sense of humor.
Sighing, he decided to search the ground below for familiar landmarks. According to his calculations, he knew he was getting close. As many times as he'd flown through this area in the dark, he was confident he could find his way, even without the instruments or maps he was accustomed to. Sure enough, he saw a shopping center, lit like a Christmas tree, sitting atop a hill that he'd always looked for when flying this way. It always meant that he was only five minutes from home. Of course, that was with the Blackbird's speed. In this plane, that time would definitely be longer. The real joy came from seeing something familiar.
With the flight path he'd chosen, to limit his visibility, Scott was approaching from the south-east. With the spotting of the mall, he knew he'd found his familiar approach home, a carefully plotted path least likely to land the conspicuous Blackbird on the evening news. The thought again made Scott smile. Adrenaline and excitement was beginning to pull him out of his downward spiral. He knew this place. That had to confirm it. He wasn't crazy. It had all been a horrible scam.
"Wife, my eye," Scott said, his thoughts falling strangely towards Julia. Her performance had been most convincing of all. And now, so close to home, he realized that she more than anything else had almost convinced him to believe the lie.
A swift motion to his right caught Scott's eye and shattered his thoughts. A large, black helicopter dropped from above and behind directly in front of the plane. Flashing lights and the word "Police" written in white on the whirly-bird's side left their intent rather clear. Scott swore loudly and gripped the steering wheel tightly. "You don't know who you're dealing with," he said. Clenching his teeth, Scott turned the wheel and pulled back hard. The plane flipped and banked hard, and Scott's stomach struggled to keep up. The smaller aircraft, with its relatively weak engine, was no match for the helicopter's speed or maneuverability, but Scott was no typical pilot, and he wasn't about to give up now. He leveled the wings and then dropped altitude. He pushed the throttle up and the roar of the engine and propeller grew substantially louder.
Flying dangerously close to the ground, especially in the dark, Scott shot glances in every direction, trying to trace the helicopter. Before long, not one, but two helicopters dropped into formation: one on each side of the plane. The plane began to shake from the turbulence created by the two massive blades so nearby. A voice came over a loud speaker, but Scott couldn't understand what was said. He'd been flying with the radio turned off. It was dangerous, he knew, but it also kept pesky air traffic controllers from bothering him.
He checked his instrumentation and corrected his bearings by jerking the plane left. The helicopters both jerked quickly away. This time, he understood the booming voice as he was cursed up and down. "I'm just getting warmed up," Scott said. At this speed, though, he knew he wouldn't need to maneuver much longer. Professor Xavier would kill me if he was still at the Institute, Scott thought. Too bad. Thankfully, Emma will have no compunctions about sending the police on their merry way, confused how a plane could simply vanish into thin air.
Pretty sure that the plane he was flying wasn't equipped with vertical thrusters, Scott knew he was going to have to find an area of land large enough to land a plane on. He searched his memory, but he knew there wasn't any stretch of road wide or long enough. There weren't any air fields close enough to the Institute, and he probably wouldn't make it off the field if he did land there. No, he was going to have to land in the front yard of the mansion if he was going to get away from his "escorts."
Scott shook his head and rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. "This should be interesting," he said. To Scott's left, he saw the sky grow lighter as the sun started to peek around the horizon. It was almost dawn. Another familiar hill approached at startling speed. Scott eased the throttle back again. Just on the other side of those trees, he thought. So close… He could see the image in his mind. The brownstone mansion, A-frame ceilings, with two large wings on each side, the huge fountain, the basketball court, everything. The helicopters tried to get closer, realizing he was going down and trying to prevent it. Scott ignored them, knowing they wouldn't risk running into him.
Coming in fast and hard, Scott barely missed the treetops as his landing gear sent leaves flying. He pushed the wheel in, banking down, and just as immediately pulled the wheel back up again. "What?" he cried aloud. Instead of Xavier's Institute beneath him, there was nothing but the manicured grass and sand pits of a golf course. "No!" he cried aloud. "This can't be right." Gaining altitude, now, Scott veered the plane left and watched the ground beneath him. "Where the hell is it?"
As his small aircraft circled in the air, the helicopters and their pilots were obviously confused. They held back, still calling out orders from their loudspeaker. Scott continued to gaze at the ground, feeling his hopes die. Then, his excitement returned as a thought occurred to him. "Of course!" he said. It had to be camouflaged, hidden from above. How could he have been so stupid? He would have to chastise Henry for not telling him about the cloaking device sooner. Scott leveled out, now relying on his memory to remember a safe place to land. He'd REALLY be in trouble if he drove a plane through the side of the foyer. He smiled at the thought as he again prepared to land. It wasn't going to be smooth.
Flying low, Scott dipped the nose dangerously fast and then whipped it up again, parallel with the grass beneath him. He was coming in way too fast, but he'd have to make due. Easing the throttle and the steering wheel, the tires beneath him touched the earth. Scott slammed both feet onto the brakes and his head bobbed violently as he was thrown into the safety harness. The wheels tore into the soil and grass, leaving deep pits behind them, but Scott held his pressure on the brakes. The plane started to turn, the wing started to pitch. Scott eased the brake and twisted the wheel. He certainly didn't want to go into a roll. Finally, with an audible groan, the plane came to rest, the wheels completely buried in the dirt. Sighing heavily, Scott wiped the sweat from his brow, and then quickly released his harness. He'd survived, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. He wouldn't be happy until he saw their faces. Logan was probably already on his way, ready to rip out the heart of the 'Joker' had the nerve to park in the lawn.'
Scott practically fell out of the plane and landed on shaky legs. He went down on his shoulder, but rolled to his feet, and came out running. Only, the image of the golf course didn't disappear. Beneath his shoes there was still manicured grass. A few feet in front of him was a sand trap. A few feet farther was a green. Scott's pace slowed, and then sped, and then slowed again, until he finally stopped and fell to his knees. His fists clawed at the ground. It was real. "No," he said. "How could it not be here?" He jumped to his feet again, and started running where his memory told him the front door should be. Behind him, the roar of helicopter blades came to rest on the ground. He heard feet pounding the earth and gear shaking.
Scott passed the 'door,' but kept running, until, finally he reached a tree, standing right where the staircase should have been, leading up to his bedroom. With trembling hands, he slowly reached towards the dark oak. With just his fingertips, he grazed the wood, and felt the rough, unforgiving texture of bark against his skin. When the police surrounded him, shouting for him to 'Freeze,' Scott was pounding the tree with his fists, over and over again.
Scott let out a throat-ripping scream, and he saw the men around him freeze. "I'm not crazy!" he shouted. "It was here!" he said.
"Look, pal, we don't want any trouble, and we don't wanna hurt ya, okay?" one of the policeman, dressed in protective gear, said behind his plastic facemask. "So why don't you just lay down on the ground and give yourself up?"
Scott wanted to fight. He wanted to hit something, hit somebody, as hard as he could until his knuckles bled. He wanted somebody else to hurt as much as he was hurting. "It doesn't make sense," he said.
"You're under arrest, Mr. Summers," the same officer spoke up. "You have the right to remain silent. What you say can, and will, be used against you in the court of law."
He looked at the policemen's faces, illuminated by the rising sun, and he saw men who were cautious but confident, tired and concerned. They weren't angry. They didn't want to hurt him. They weren't the bad guys. Slowly, Scott lowered his reddened fists. The grimace fell from his face, and his head and shoulders drooped, defeated. "Okay, gentlemen," he said. "It's over."