The Point

Get to It

Chapter Five

Pietro Maximoff was going to throw up.

He watched on the news as the video clip replayed, and replayed, and replayed. It was on every channel with story titles like "Insectopia" and "When Bugs Attack" and "Insect Invasion!" Presently, the aftermath was being shown. Ambulances everywhere; people in paramedic uniforms crouched over motionless victims, trying to resuscitate them; black body-bags lining the streets and slowly being moved by big men into blue and gray caravans. Even sitting on the couch here at the Brotherhood House, Pietro could practically smell the carnage—but then, maybe that was just the Brotherhood House by itself.

And then a news anchor was on the screen, sitting behind his desk and talking with a insect-specialist. The scientist didn't know what was going on, why the bugs had attacked the city of Mulder all of a sudden. They talked a lot about possibilities in the government having to do with some new weapon of mass destruction ("there could have been a major technical malfunction at a medical research center nearby, probably experimenting in nerve-gases that were somehow released into the air at the start of this hypothetical calamity, which affected the bugs in such a way…" etc.). But mainly the scientist and news reporter focused on the possibilities of mutants being involved. It was said kids from Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters had allegedly been on the scene at the time of the attack, and since everybody knew about the X-Men these days (because of Mystique's big failure of a conspiracy, Pietro thought), then of course all mutants must have something to do with the recent psychotic behavior in the local insect population.

Honestly, though, Pietro wasn't sure what made him sicker. The actual carnage of the insects attacking? The fact that this reporter and scientist were so stupid/prejudice? Or the secret knowledge that Pietro's own father had somehow arranged for all of this to happen; and that, however stupid and prejudice the reporter and scientist were, they were right about one thing—mutants had everything to do with the recent psychotic behavior in local insects.

Today had started out so well, too, Pietro thought now. He hadn't awoken to any new conspiracy/failure/drama/the-toad's-awful-stench this morning. No one had spit on, kicked, punched, or pulled a prank on the speed demon lately. Nobody had yet threatened Pietro's life, not even Wanda, who had fallen into the habit of avoiding the Brotherhood House whenever possible because Todd had fallen into the habit of following her around, shooting her back with plenty of suggestions that any lawyer could easily put him away with on sexual harassment charges, even a bad lawyer. And, maybe best of all, Lance was in more of a miserable mood than usual, moping about like the world was coming to an end (again) and he had been left out of the plot. Pietro had even gotten to eat three balanced meals today; a true rarity.

Holding his stomach as he stood, Pietro dropped the remote and headed for the door. He needed to get out, to walk, to escape the secret knowledge that Magneto had done this. His own father! All those people dead! True, Pietro didn't have much sympathy for them; regular humans had never shown Pietro, a mutant, anymore respect or love than he felt for them.

But so many dead, and not all of them fully grown! Some of them were kids!

Pictures of black plastic body bags flashed through Pietro's mind in all sizes, but mostly small ones. Small ones, just the size for a regular human child. And with those pictures in mind, Pietro suddenly thought of the day his sister had been taken away. The way she screamed and cried, and reached for him. Pietro didn't feel guilty about that, not exactly—Wanda's powers had been so out of control, so out of their father's control, and their father was already so powerful, there was no other way to take care of her; she was hurting herself as much as she hurt others. But then Pietro paired that memory with the other pictures, of the small body bags, of children running and screaming under siege of millions of billions of insects—and Pietro stood by, watching in quiet disgust and horror as they ran, as they screamed and cried—and as they fell, they reached for him, but Pietro stood with his father and couldn't go to them, because to go to them would be to betray his father, and Pietro just couldn't do that. Not exactly.

Suddenly he stopped walking and dropped onto a park bench, not realizing how far from the Brotherhood House he had traveled. Pietro took in a deep breath, then dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and let the breath out slow and miserably. Nausea resurfaced and Pietro dwelled on it a while. He gagged once, but that was all that came and went. For what might have been a long time (time always seemed to fly for him), Pietro simply sat and breathed, and thought about how much his stomach hurt as he tried not to think about the falling children that reached for him, that he couldn't go to.

Finally Pietro lifted his head. Realizing something, he looked about.

There was silence. Terrible, complete silence. It was well since dark out, nearly one o'clock in the morning. Only the crickets chirped, and the sound sent a chill down the speed demon's spine. Loneliness descended like a plague. Alone out here with the crickets, Pietro thought now, like he was the last man on earth. Pietro thought he could smell the people's fear on the air; fear of the outdoors, of the unknown. Their world had changed dramatically again today and they still didn't know quite how to react. Treat tomorrow like every other day? Or panic, become phobic and stay inside the house with a can of Raid at the ready? Or should they simply slit their wrists because the world was indeed coming to an end this time? Maybe there would be another insect-attack tomorrow, or the next day; maybe this was it, the worst of the storm had passed.

Pietro stopped thinking altogether when, out of the blue, he heard voices.

A feminine voice said, "Is anyone else cold?"

"No," said a deep male voice.

A slightly lighter male voice added, "But then, me and Oz are pureblooded." After a second, it continued, "I'd give you my shirt, Ice, but since the moths have feasted on it, I'm not sure it would offer much warmth."

"That's okay, Theo," murmured the female. Ice? A couple seconds later, her voice came again. "Is anyone else tired?"

"No," said the deep male voice. Oz?

The lighter male voice, Theo, "It has been six hours, Oz. Maybe we should stop for a while? Isis hasn't eaten, and she's cold. She has powers like ours, but she's still human. If she doesn't get enough sleep, she'll just slow us down tomorrow. And after everything today, using our powers to hold off those bugs—it's sort of miraculous she's still walking, let alone breathing."

"Way to make a girl feel like the hero she is, Theseus. Thanks. If I had the energy, the feminist in me would slap you right about now."

The deep male voice, sounding vaguely annoyed, "Fine. We'll rest for three hours. Isis, go lay down somewhere. Sleep. Theseus, go with her."

"What about you, Osiris? You've got a lot of pride, but the little speck of human in you has got to be pushing his luck, pushing himself like this…"

"Didn't I tell you to go lie down and sleep? I'm going to—"

"'Search and secure the area. Find food, locate a source of drinkable water, and keep an eye to the shadows and an ear to the skies.' All right, brother. I'm sorry I asked." Pietro suddenly became aware of approaching footsteps. The female voice continued, "Man. Sometimes I wonder if Oz really ever left the facility. He can be such a—"

Abruptly there was silence. Pietro stared hard into the darkness, in the direction of the voices. All the lamps in the park had been broken the previous week by a gang of kids that thought they were cool, badass shit, and hadn't been replaced yet (if ever). But Pietro's eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and he was sure he saw two very solid figures not a full forty yards away, and maybe, hazily, a third further back and already moving away. He wondered how the two moving toward him had already seen him. He was virtually lying down on the bench, and the shadows were deeper here because of the grove of oak trees hovering near, and it was hard enough to see them from so far away and in this pitch-black night.

And then a voice said from directly behind him, "Mutant."

The deep voice. Oz—Osiris. Whoever these kids were.

Pietro spun around and stared into a set of very red eyes, very inhuman red eyes. Before he realized his doing, Pietro had stood and stumbled away from the menacing young man. Even in this dark, the red eyes seemed to glow with an angry light—like warning lights. Pietro had seen people with red eyes before. They hadn't been human either—at least, not anymore; not after Magneto was through brainwashing them. A guttural sound emitted from Pietro's throat as he tried to find his voice, tried to remember how to speak.

Meanwhile, the broad-shouldered youth advanced around the park bench. He was short, and because of his muscular build the best word Pietro thought described him was stout. After a moment, Pietro realized this kid couldn't be much older than himself; maybe even younger. It took him a moment for him to realize this because of the mature, menacing look the boy wore; his face did not resemble one that indulged its youth; as if this kid never smiled or had a happy thought in his entire teenaged life. His hair was black, his tan face flat, the red eyes squinted and close-together—this one was definitely Asian. His clothes were cheap and out of style, but, more than that, they were ragged. Holes bigger than Pietro's hands ruined the murky-colored tee shirt that seemed too small, leaving exposed the heavily muscled torso and his strong arms, and the dark denim jeans weren't in much better shape, leaving other things, some inappropriate things, just a tad naked. Pietro noticed the kid walked with a swagger.

As Osiris advanced, he surveyed the silver-haired mutant that wasn't much older than himself—that was, if Osiris had a specific age, which he didn't. All of his senses went on red alert. An angry white light flashed behind his eyes, giving his vision a grainy, sonar-like quality; like the way bats see things, but with color. And bright color at that; it could have been daylight, the way Osiris was seeing things. The mutant-boy's maroon sweater, tan slacks, white running-shoes—the whites of his very blue eyes, the flush of pink to his very pale face, and especially the white hair. Osiris saw all of this and more, able to detect the smallest stitch out of place in the clothing, or the tiniest, clogged pore on the boy's ivory face.

"Mutant," spat Osiris again.

Pietro tripped and fell back, only to be caught midway on his descent toward the ground. He looked up at the taller, much stronger-appearing, blond-haired boy. This one definitely had a couple years over Pietro and his red-eyed companion. Pietro was caught a little off-guard by the dissimilarity between this guy and the red-eyed boy. The first thing he noticed was the piercings: three in each ear in varying studs and styles; one in the lower lip; a glint of something in the right nostril. This one had neatly dreadlocked blond hair, almost as white-blond as Pietro's own; his face was elongated and sharp-boned, and this guy's eyes were… well, in the dark it was a harder to tell, but Pietro was sure these eyes weren't just blue, nor entirely green, and were those rings of red or brown nearest the pupil? And instead of the yellow- brown skin of an Asian, this one's complexion was lightly beige, as if he saw the sun a lot and enjoyed basking in its rays often. The easiest way Pietro thought to describe him was German. His shirt was long-sleeved and light blue, and dirty, and though the holes in it were much less severe than his stout companion's, it still looked as if this guy had stripped the shirt off the nearest hobo. He had the sleeves rolled back, revealing very firm forearms, and the front was all the way unbuttoned. The black slacks looked mostly intact, mostly untouched; perhaps even new.

"Watch your step," said the cheerful Theseus. Yet the white lights were going behind his eyes, too.

Opening and closing his mouth, Pietro felt suddenly very, very scared. More than that, because the fear went deeper than that, but Pietro didn't know a word that could describe this newfound, deep-rooted fear that the sight of these two strangers up-close inspired. Terror, maybe. What was strangest of all, however, was that he didn't even know where the fear came from or why he was afraid. He could outrun any danger, especially if it was human. So what did he have to be afraid of? Pietro had dealt with scarier things than a couple of teenage thugs that thought themselves mean. Pietro had proven himself to be much meaner.

Still, the secret knowledge didn't calm the ball of terror that bounced around his interior like a rabbit with its foot caught in a trap.

He couldn't speak, could scarcely even breathe while the German's hands gripped him.

"Stop it," said a third voice, feminine this time. And then a girl was there with an Asian face so alike the first boy's that Pietro knew instinctively they had to be related, if not identical twins. She materialized out of the darkness, an aura of light surrounding her entire being, and yet the light seemed to come from within, as if its source coursed through her very veins. Her hair was black, glittering with electric blue highlights because of the light her body seemed to be generating; but it was impossible to tell the color or shape of her eyes, as dark-tinted sunglasses veiled them, despite the night. She was slender, and yet exactly the same height as the Asian boy. Pietro couldn't tell her age, but sensed that she was young; maybe his age, maybe younger. Her head swiveled left, the sunglasses reflecting the red-eyed boy, and then turned to the right, reflecting Pietro himself, and yet seemed to be focusing on the German guy. "Both of you."

Suddenly, the bouncing ball of terror within Pietro disappeared.

"Spoil-sport," commented Theseus, and when Pietro chanced a glance up at him, saw that he was smiling. Catching the glance, Theseus's multicolored eyes turned down; and Pietro saw clearly that the smile didn't reach those eyes. "Hi there," said Theseus.

"Let him go, Theo," commanded Isis.

The thick-fingered hands removed from Pietro's narrow shoulders and the German showed his open palms to the girl. Pietro looked at her, wondering if she was their authority figure, but somehow couldn't picture it. The German guy was too big; the stout Asian boy too menacing. Even the surrendering gesture seemed mocking.

Pietro noticed her attire then—in need of repair as badly as the Asian boy's—and quickly found he couldn't tear his gaze away.

"Keep looking at our Isis like that," commented Theseus happily, "and I'll be forced to rip your eyes right out of their sockets."

It was easier to look away after that. He turned quickly, which for the speed demon was too fast for the eye to follow, and put his back to the only open space the trio had left for him. The four of them now stood in a complete square. The trio exchanged cryptic looks, two sets of gazes amused and the third simply expressionless, and yet a message seemed to have transferred between them. Then they looked at Pietro. He snapped, "Who are you people? Wait—I take that back. What are you guys?"

Two sets of gazes turned to the Asian boy.

Osiris coolly surveyed the mutant. "None of your business," he stated.

"Oh really?" Pietro shot back, squaring his shoulders and jutting his chin. "Well that's a nice way of telling me. Go to all the trouble of coming over here to scare the shit out of me, and then all you have to say for yourselves is 'None of your business.'"

If Osiris had been the type of person to shrug, he would have then.

Theseus commented, "If we told you the truth, we'd have to kill you." He grinned when Pietro looked at him. "No, I'm not just being over-protective this time. We would really have to kill you. Which seems a shame seeing as we don't even know you. Speaking of which, I'm Theseus. Theo." He extended a hand in a friendly greeting gesture, continuing while Pietro eyed it warily, "Sorry for scaring you like that. You surprised us, slipping under our radar like that for as long as you did. Usually one of us senses a mutant at least a mile away; and here you were, barley forty yards." The hand hung in the air a moment longer before Theseus seemed to realize Pietro wasn't going to take it, and lowered it. Yet the obvious rejection didn't appear to phase him. Theseus went on, "To answer your question to the best of my ability without being obligated to kill you, I guess you could say we're mutants. That's why Isis here," he glanced at the girl that didn't react to the vague introduction, "glows the way she does. She can manipulate airwaves, which, after a complicated explanation, gives her the ability to naturally generate electricity. Negative and positive charges of air currents and all that—Ice would probably know more about the facts that Oz or me." His gaze switched to the Asian. "That's Osiris," said Theseus. Finally his multicolored eyes turned to Pietro, and this time the smile reached them. "And lastly, to answer the question you're about to ask—we can sense you're a mutant because it's part of our… uh, genetics is as best as I can explain it."

Pietro remembered hearing the girl and the German discussing something about a 'facility.' He remembered a number of facilities he had visited time and again with his father over the years, remembered the misshapen creatures with doctored genetics Magneto kept in cages that were always too small. He wondered if they had been discussing a facility like that; and maybe if they were creatures like that, only an advanced version.

"Now, if you don't mind my asking," continued Theseus. "Who're you?"

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