Washington to New York, NY State.
That night.
Jean's thoughts were tightly shielded, but they still intruded constantly into Marc's mind in the five-hour drive from Washington to the Institute in upstate New York. Niggling little thoughts about anything and everything. Eventually, with a sigh, he threw up his mental shields with such force that Jean swerved slightly. She regained control immediately, then turned to look at him.
"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.
"Just peachy," he answered. He tapped his head. "What about you?"
She attempted a smile. "Oh, just a little worried. I have an appearance in front of the Senate in a few days time dealing with the Mutant Registration Bill. The leading Senator in favour, Senator Kelly, is going to be handling the questioning. I'm doing it because of all my work with mutants makes me the authority on them." She snorted.
"Kelly? I've met him," said Marc. "He invited my dad over to schmooze once, and to try and sound out dad's position on the mutant issue. Dad brought me along as a treat. He started spouting all this bull about dangerous mutants. Then my dad turned round and said that all the mutants he had met were neither dangerous nor evil, but real people with opinions and a right to live side by side with others. Kelly called him naïve and liberal. My dad then called me over and said that he was the proud father of a mutant, and that mutants were the future. I telekinetically offered my dad and Kelly a drink from a passing waiter's tray." He smiled an evil smile. "I'm afraid that when Kelly refused the drink, my control of the glass kinda slipped and he ended up with about twenty dollars' worth of Dom Perignon on his shirtfront. He's not been invited to one of Kelly's functions since. That was about seven months ago. Dad's not too worried. There's ninety-nine other Senators to worry about now."
Despite themselves, the women smiled.
"He must be quite some character, your father," said Jean.
"Oh, he is," said Marc, his voice brimming with pride. "I grew up in France while he was Junior Ambassador to Madame Perrault, and then Germany under Monsieur Brichard. Then Spain, then China, and now finally the US as senior Ambassador. This is his last post before he retires. Because of all the globe-trotting, I can speak French, German, Spanish, Mandarin and English like a native of any country. I can also manage two or three local dialects for each."
"And after America?"
"He'll return to Canada with Mom. I don't know if he'll get a contractual post for some private company, or if he'll just spend time fishing and reading. He wants me to join the Alpha Flight."
"What's that?"
"It's a group of Canadian mutants that have been employed by the government for security, espionage and intelligence purposes. All mutants registered with the Canadian authorities are entitled to a post in Alpha Flight, from the front line to the desk officers. Any mutant in Canada who registers will automatically be exempt from discrimination. Companies that discriminate are blacklisted in the mutant community, and as we make up approximately 5 of the population, that's one in twenty workers the corporations can't afford to lose."
"And if we had something like that here, then all the mutant problems might just disappear overnight," replied Ororo. "We might see less and less mutants declaring themselves outside of the normal community and suffering the stigma of being X-Factor Positive."
"Well," said Jean, turning off the interstate and onto one of the local roads. "The professor seeks out and tries to recruit as many mutants as possible before they become too deeply entrenched in their parents' political views. The school has a regular curriculum, and alongside it runs the mutant curriculum. Things like Applied Powers, Problem Solving, Piloting, et cetera."
"Piloting?" repeated Marc, not believing his ears.
"Piloting," confirmed Jean. "We have a special jet called Blackbird that Storm, Scott and I can pilot. One other student is taking part in a course to learn how to fly it. His name's Piotr Rasputin, but he's known as either Peter or Colossus. I think you'll be the next person to learn."
"Who's Scott?"
"He's also called Cyclops, and he's the team leader for the X-Men, which is Storm, him and me at the moment, although we're looking at promoting a few of the long-term residents like Bobby into the main body of X-Men."
"And what do the X-Men do?"
"They're like Alpha Flight, but completely unofficial, funded by the Professor," said Ororo, with a warning look at Jean. "The code names are unofficial, too, but in the Danger Room simulations, they're better that people's full names. Peter's called Colossus, because he's able to transform himself into an indestructible form made of organic steel. I'm called Storm, because I can manipulate the weather."
"Why is Scott called Cyclops?"
"His mutation is the ability to fire optic beams from his eyes, and he has to wear a special visor that controls them. It has one long vision bar across his eyes, hence Cyclops."
"I think I remember something about a kid in America who nearly killed a classmate due to red optic blasts from his eyes. My dad showed me something about it when I was about ten. The news was five years old then. They said the kid was about twelve."
"Twelve plus fifteen is twenty-seven, Scott's twenty-six, so I guess they must have got his age wrong on that part. It must be him. Plus I've never heard of anyone else who fires red optic blasts from their eyes," murmured Jean. "Yeah, he attracted a lot of media attention then. They didn't know what a mutant was, and subjected him to batteries of tests. It was only when the Professor got him out of hospital and into the mansion that the press frenzy died down. The Professor designed his ruby-quartz glasses that focus the beams, and now he's able to see again."
"He's also Jean's boyfriend," said Storm, a teasing note in her voice.
Jean turned to glare at the other woman. Storm didn't twitch. "Eyes on the road, Jean, the exit's coming up."
Jean pulled the car around the corner with force. Roaring up Greymalkin Lane, they pulled into an ornate driveway and up the long gravelled drive to the front of the mansion that housed the Institute. Jean cut the engine. At that moment, a telepathic voice spoke.
Welcome to the Xavier Institute, Marc. My name is Charles Xavier, and we will shortly be meeting in my office. In the meantime, let Ororo show you to your room and unpack. Dinner is at nine. I'll warn you, the students already know that you're arriving, and you'll be introduced to them at dinner. His 'voice' held a hint of amusement. It's not everyday that we get a new student.
Marc turned to Storm, who was helping him with his bags. "I suppose that means there's a kind of hazing ceremony?"
Precisely, said Xavier.
"I'm sorry?" said Storm, a quizzical expression on her face. "Oh, that was the Professor. He usually gives a telepathic greeting and warning to the new students. And he's always right."
Walking through the ornate hallway, passing a few people, Marc marvelled at the size of the place. He followed Storm up two flights of stairs, extremely conscious of the whispers and glances that were sent his way by the current students. He tuned into their thoughts.
Another new student…Cool! Someone new!...Aha! Fresh blood for the prank master of the Institute!
Marc grinned to himself. Locking onto the last person's thoughts, he responded telepathically.
You'll be bloody lucky, friend!
"Oh, my God, another telepath!" said the prank master. He was a tall boy, with blond hair and ice-blue eyes.
"And don't you forget it," said Marc, a broad grin on his face as he passed him. My name's Marc, Marc Duchaine. Who's this "Prankmaster" I'm supposed to be in fear of?
Marc could feel his surprise at being directly contacted. Uh, I'm Bobby, Bobby Drake, but you can call me Iceman. How'd you lock onto me so quick?
I'm a telepath, remember?
Yeah, but…
But nothing. Marc 'smiled' mentally. You'll never catch me off-guard, and if you do, you'll end up thinking you're a teeny-bopper schoolgirl. You have been warned.
Bobby grinned. I think you and I are going to get along just fine.
Dinner was everything Xavier said it would be. After unpacking his clothes and putting them away, putting the posters and hockey stick up and being shown the facilities by Storm, he was famished. Walking down to the large kitchen/dining room, he saw the rest of the school's population gathered for the meal. As he entered the room, every eye turned to follow him as if on cue. Following Storm's lead, he sat down at an empty spot between Bobby and a very tall and well-built guy. The plates were already loaded with food, and as soon as the three adults were seated, everyone began talking and eating.
Bobby started questioning him almost as soon as he sat down. The other guy turned out to be the Russian, Piotr "Peter" Rasputin, and Marc made a point of talking to him. He wished that he'd learnt Russian as well as all the other languages. Bobby seemed surprised that he knew so many languages, and Marc told him about his father being in the Diplomatic Service and his travels, growing up in lots of foreign countries.
"But wasn't that difficult, knowing that you'd never seen your home country?" Bobby, as he scooped up some mashed potato.
"Not really," said Marc, laughing. "I went home in the holidays and spent them with my grandparents. Dad's parents live in Ottawa, and Mom's in Montreal. I know Canada extremely well."
"But you've never seen an ice hockey match?" asked Peter, clearly surprised. "I thought the Canadians lived and breathed ice hockey."
"Well, I didn't used to," explained Marc. "That was before they both became too old to have me for the minimum two week holidays. I follow the Canadian national team results, and I support the Ottawa side."
"But you have yet to see them play," pressed Peter.
"Yes, I still haven't been to one of their games. I have an autographed hockey stick, but that was mail-order from the club's website. That's the one on display in my room. My playing one's just a regular from a sport store in Washington. That's the first place I learnt to skate. Are there any rinks near here where I can learn?"
A wicked gleam came into Bobby's eyes, and he and Peter shared a smile. "Sometimes," said Bobby. "It depends on whether or not the Professor lets me create one. There's a few people here who play, but it's only occasionally because it's a bitch to clear up an acre of ice in the middle of winter."
Marc's eyes narrowed. "You create ice rinks? What kind of power is that?"
Bobby reached out to Marc's glass of Pepsi, held it for a second, then let go. When Marc picked it up, it was freezing.
"Ah. Hence the name Iceman," said Marc dryly.
"I'll ask the professor about creating another rink tomorrow," said Bobby, as dessert was served by some of the students. "It's about time for a new one."
At that moment the Professor entered the room. "Yes, Bobby, you can create a new rink tomorrow, even though it is high summer."
Bobby whooped with delight. Marc was slightly surprised. A completely bald man in an electric wheelchair in a navy-blue suit wheeled himself to the head of the table where Storm, Scott and Jean were sat. His penetrating gaze fell on Marc.
Not exactly what you were expecting, Marc?
Uh, no, sir, he responded. The wheelchair threw me for a second, that's all. I'm sorry.
That's all right, thought the Professor. He cleared his throat, and there was instant silence in the room. Marc saw all eyes focus on the Professor.
"Now, as I'm sure you're aware, we have a new student joining us tonight. His name's Marc Duchaine. Marc, if you'd like to stand up and tell everyone a little bit about yourself?
"Sure," he said, rising to his feet. More than twenty facdes looked at him expectantly, but having grown up in the Diplomatic Service, he was a past master at projecting confidence. "My name's Marc Duchaine, I'm fifteen, born in Ottawa, Canada, and raised in Paris, Berlin, Madrid and Beijing. My father's a senior diplomat in the Canadian Diplomatic Service, which is why I've lived in so many countries. I speak English, French, German, Spanish and Mandarin, all at postgraduate level. I'm also telekinetic, telepathic and metamorphic." He saw a few blank faces among the younger students. "Basically, I speak five languages fluently, I can read minds, move things with thoughts alone, and shapeshift." So saying, he levitated all the unused cutlery from the table and put it away in the proper drawer, pulling the location from Jean's mind. He then ran through a few different forms, including Bobby's and Peter's, giving a demonstration of each power. He finished off with his own body, then bowed, to a polite round of applause. Jean grinned broadly.
"Well, if you can clear the table that quickly, I think we'll keep you," she said.
Marc grinned back, and sketched a bow. "Why, thank you for your kindness," he said. He pushed his chair away from the table, and levitated all the used crockery into the kitchen end of the massive room, piling it all neatly near one of the two large, industrial-grade dishwashers that the kitchen used. The rest of the students piled out of the room, some heading for their rooms, most heading for the recreation room, where a large TV was commandeered by the younger children to watch Cartoon Network. Some of the older children started a game of pool, while others just sat around with books. Jean followed them to supervise.
Marc started loading the dishwashers. Cyclops followed him and stood, watching his methodical movements. His red sunglasses tracked every movement of Marc's.
"That's quite a skills base you have," he said, arms folded. However, you forgot to mention the second grade black belt in karate, and your computer hacking abilities."
Marc slowly straightened up. "Jean warned me I might face a hazing from the students," he responded calmly. "Not from the staff."
Scott barked a laugh. "Not from me, you won't. I'm just saying that you have more than you let the others know just know, and that we know about them, we being the four teachers."
"So when do I get my timetable?"
"Monday. We've paired you up with the student who's joining us tomorrow, who I understand you know."
"John Allerdyce? Yeah, I know him. He's the one guy who talked to me when I started at my school in Washington that didn't seem to be a fundamental Christian and go off on one about God every opportunity he got. He's cool."
"Right. He'll be arriving about 10AM tomorrow morning. If you want to meet him, I suggest you get some sleep. I'll finish here, and see you tomorrow. Breakfast is at eight on a Saturday, and I'd advise you to get here early before the rest of them eat it all."
Marc gratefully left Cyclops to it, and made his way to his new room. Closing the door, he changed into the pyjamas that were laid out on his bed, brushed his teeth, set his alarm then fell into bed and slept the sleep of the just.
Author's Note - This story will be on hiatus for the next few days at least, as I have two and a half coursework assignments to catch up on. Please review the story and tell me what you think. I will acknowledge any reviews received.
-Michael.