The funeral took place three days after Jean Grey's death. Three caskets were set up in the back yard, three coffins for three friends lost. Xavier, and McCoy delivered eulogies for the three fallen students, and Ororo stood up to say a few words. She kept her words brief; she was still weakened from the head injury. Kitty attempted to deliver a eulogy for Rogue, but three words in and she was overcome by tears. Bobby Drake spoke for Ray, telling the story of their first week in the mansion and an aborted attempt to make laxative brownies that ended en route to the girls' dormitories thanks to Logan's nose. Thin smiles drew across several lips as Bobby described how Ray shot insult after insult at Logan until three silver claws buried themselves into the wall and Ray earned the both of them a weeks worth of early-dawn danger room sessions, the first of many according to Bobby.
Scott was the last to stand up; no one had doubted that he would want to give the last word on the person to whom he had dedicated so much of his life. Standing in front of Jean's coffin, however, he found himself unable to say anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Approaching Jean's coffin with soft footsteps, he placed the box in the palm of her hand, whispered something in her ear and then walked through the gathering of people and into the mansion without another word.
One resident that had not attended the funeral was Wanda. She had remained in her room for the three days following her own confrontation with Jean Grey. Nothing to eat or drink, Wanda had retreated to the sanctity of her bed and remained there.
"How ya doin' sis?" She heard the voice come from beyond the bed, but she needed no eyes to tell her who was speaking.
"Pietro!"
"Yea, hey, I know this is bad time for everyone and all, what with the deaths, but I just thought I'd stop by. How are those memories doing?" His words spat out machine-gun fast and upbeat, a mocking tone not lost on Wanda. Pushing her self off the bed with energy she didn't know she possessed, her footsteps light and unsure. Her stomach growled loud and wet.
"Why are you here?" She growled through anger and hunger.
"Big Brother can't visit his sister? I'm hurt Wanda, really. Weren't we always closer than two peas in a pod? I'm pretty sure that's true in at least one of those back-stories currently floating through that little noggin," Wanda's head felt light. "And Magneto? Come on, he was a great father. Don't you remember all those trips to carnivals?"
"That didn't happen! You were never my big brother and he was never a father. I spent my childhood in a cell so small I couldn't even lay flat! Do you what happened in that place?"
"Course I do. A nightmare from which there can be no waking, does that about cover it? Maybe, 'Complete and utter torture, a mind-bending experience unlike no other', would that work better little sis?" Wanda's head was now pounding.
"Stop calling me sis," Wanda screamed, and fired off a blue hex bolt. She felt her energy ebb almost instantaneously, but Pietro just stood there, nary a scratch to his form. He just stood there with a smug smirk, leaning on one of the bed's finials as Wanda waited for her energy to return to her, panic rising in her throat. "Why are you still here? I hit you!"
"Funny thing about that, lil' sis, hallucinations aren't really something you can hit, at least, not in the normal usage of the word," Wanda just stared blankly, still feeling dazed. "Ok, I was hoping you'd figure this out yourself, but I guess Big Brother needs to come to the rescue once again."
"Stop calling yourself that!"
"You haven't eaten anything in three days, that water glass next to your bed been empty almost as long, and I don't think you were exactly the picture of a balanced diet before you got here. Last I can recall Brotherhood house didn't stock up too well on health food."
"You mean, you're just in my head. I'm standing here talking to air?"
"Not so much standing. You passed out five minutes ago."
Along a thin dirt road, a lonesome figure stumbled through the muck and grass that separated the two-lane blacktop from the woods beyond. The figure cradled an arm marked by a long, deep slash still oozing thick blood. Other cuts and scratches adorned the parts of her exposed to the elements by the tattered remnants of clothing that hung to her thin body. She didn't breath; her breath came out in ragged spurts and wheezes and her eyes hung dimly in her skulls, half shrouded by eyelids. Behind her, she heard a distant whine. What does that mean, she wondered.
A car. A car meant a person driving, a person that could lead her to safety. But where was it coming from. Her rain, starved for food and sleep, couldn't place the sound. She tried to take another step, but her foot caught something and she fell into the mud. Behind her, she could tell the car was close, but no longer possessed the strength to hold herself on her feet. Feebly, she raised an arm out of the muck, but the car drove past.
This is death, her mind said. Close your eyes and it will be quick. Knowing nothing else, she complied.
My god, child! What the devil happened to you," She was yanked out of that mad pit so fast she almost lost what consciousness she had left. As it was, all she could do was stare at her rescuer. Old man. Nice man. "Can you speak?"
"Cold." She said softly.
"Of course," He unwrapped his jacket and threw it around her as he led her towards his car. He sat her on the backseat, where almost immediately she lay down. "You're in good, cpable hands, Dear. My name is Dr. Nathaniel Essex." The last thing she saw before falling asleep was a filthy clump of white hair that fell into her eyes. She was too tired to brush it away.
After the funeral, Talia had snuck into the shower while most everyone else slinked off to their bedrooms. The preacher's daughter was having a hard time with everything, not because of overwhelming emotions but rather the lack of them. She had no frame of reference for these people, and what nagged her was the wonder, was she supposed to mourn people she'd hardly met or was this guilt just a result of her upbringing? Exhaling the last of the smoke from a hastily rolled joint, she let the last bit of paper dance away on the wind, put out her incense, and made the walk back to her room.
She was by Wanda's side before her shower caddy hit the ground. Talia felt breathing, slow and ragged, but there was breathing. Grabbing a cup from Wanda's night table, she filled it as fast she could in the bathroom and dumped much of it over Wanda's head upon returning.
"Gah-ack-What the hell, Pie-where…Talia? What the hell is going on?"
"I came in and found you on the floor. First time out of bed in three days, did you forget how to walk?"
"How would I forget how to walk?"
"Nevermind," Talia handed Wanda the glass, and she greedily drank. "So, what happened? Do you need me to grab the doctor or-
"No, I need something to eat, sustenance, food in stomach digesting and releasing sweet little nutrients. Look, I'm not too sure what the hell is going on, but I'm sifting through two sets of eighteen years of memories. That's thirty-six years, lot of memories to go through. But, I swear I will tell you all about it, I will share and have feelings and emotions and all those wacky things that normal people do. Just lead me to food."
On the ceiling above his bed, Scott counted ridges in tiles above his head. When he ran out of ridges, he counted cracks in the paint, and when that was done he simply counted. He was desperately trying to focus on something, anything but what his mind wanted to focus on.
Jean. God he could still hear her scream. He could-
"You in there? Scotty, open up," What in the world could he want, Scott wondered. He started off the bed, and then stopped. It was probably just another meal, and he didn't feel like eating at the moment. He stopped still, and listened at the door. "I know you in there, I can hear the sound of responsibility." Another moment, then two, then finally Scott heard heavy footsteps, muffled by carpet, walking away from his door. He let out a breath he hadn't noticed being held and fell back onto his pillow, where Jean's death played again in his head, unbidden.
"Live," and her words were punctuated by the sharp roar of a defense turret, the type scattered all about the school's grounds. Scott fired off a blast from his eyes, melting the turret to useless ballast before rushing to Jean's side. He picked her up to cradle her, and immediately he felt warm blood running in rivulets and jagged bone. He looked into her eyes and begged and pleaded and screamed for her to be safe, to just hang on for one more second. He could hear the voices behind him, the others were close, but it was no use. Her green eyes were already clouding over as her life ebbed from her body.
Scott brought his fists to his temples in an attempt to will away the memory when there was a sharp rap at his balcony window. Curious, and sensing a distraction from his thoughts, he pulled back the curtain.
"See, I knew you was in there." Scott opened the door and quickly stepped out onto the balcony.
"How the hell did you get up here?"
"Trellis."
"There isn't a trellis below my balcony."
"But there is one three balconies over. Aren't y' gonna even ask why 'm here?" Scott could already feel his patience wearing thin.
"Ok, fine, why are you here." With that, Remy grinned wide and produced a manilla envelope from the folds of his trench coat.
"Special delivery for a Mr. Summers," As Scott took the package, Remy pulled out a cigarette and lit it before asking, "Y'mind if I smoke?"
"Very much."
"Oh. You got an ashtray?"
"Well, if I said you-" Scott finally looked up from the envelope. "What was the point of asking?"
"It was polite." Scott sighed, turning his attention back to the package.
"What is this, anyway?"
"I ain't got X-ray vision. Someone called me up yesterday an' asked me t' deliver dis envelope to your hands only. Very specific, paid me a nice ten thousand dollar courier fee."
"So you have no idea what's in here? Someone just paid you ten thousand dollars to run something? This could be a bomb!"
"Hey, hey, y' watch yo' tone. I ain't an assassin and I ain't ever gonna be one. Now, I got ways of knowin' it ain't a bomb or anythin' else gonna kill you," He exhaled a large plume of smoke. "Besides, I like you. There ain't a whole lot o' people in this world can deal with a drunk Remy." Scott sat back in one of the lounges and continued playing with the envelope. If he had any thoughts on what Remy had said, he did not express them. On one side, his name was scrawled in messy black marker, on the other side, several layers of clear packing tape held down the opening. He flipped it over and over in his hands before grasping one edge of the envelope and tearing in one swift motion. A small black book fell to the ground.
"Told you it wasn't a bomb."
"Remy, shut up." Scott said, flipping open the book to the first page...
October 21, 2001: I scarcely know how to begin this. One of my finest students nearly destroyed my entire mansion along with everyone within. I know that it makes no sense, but Jean has always displayed the utmost control over her powers, something none too easy given the cerebral nature of her powers. I can recall the days before I was able to build my own psychic walls. But I suppose nostalgia for my own days of youth helps this situation none. The only reason my home was not destroyed was the unique powers of Rogue, although I am concerned for her well-being as well. One thing is for certain; I need to find out what caused this.
October 24, 2001: Every attempt I have made to contact Moira has failed- would she even want me referring to her as Moira anymore? Or is it strictly Dr. McTaggart now? I made a poor choice, but I was coming to her as one intellectual to another. I had hoped we could leave personal feeling out of the matter. Well, dwelling won't get me anywhere, I'll just have to do this without Moira's help. I started by contacting Jean's mother. Curious case. She was very willing to help, even offering to visit at the mansion for a weekend, and while it seems like nothing more than paranoia and the frustration of hitting one's head against a wall, I feel she was hiding something. A shame my telepathy does not work at long ranges. I still can't shake that feeling; her mother sounded like there was something more to be told.
October 25, 2001: Met with Rogue today. I want to say that everything is okay, but how could I tell? Rogue internalizes so much; she refuses to share anything with me and any psychic contact is taken as a personal invasion. She's so troubled, but I cannot help her if she does not reach out to me.
October 26th 2001: Psychic session with Jean today. Nothing of any note, which of itself may be of note.
October 28th, 2001: Something interesting-I did some checking on Jean's background. Well, I started the day after everything, but this is the first of everything I've dug up that is of note. A death certificate and autopsy report from around the time Jean's powers displayed themselves shows several signs of telekinetic intrusion. Using several means that I will not detail, I was able to view both reports. The autopsy contained several references to brain stem scarring, which could only have come from a psychic's intrusion. I've attempted to contact Jean's mother, but she has made it abundantly clear that she already believe I know too much. Unfortunately, this is the closest I've come to anything that could be a clue, I'm just going to keep hammering away at it.
November 30th, 2001: The entire story finally comes out. Jean grey's mother told me what happened. The story I received when Jean first registered with cerebro was false. More to come…
Mrs. Grey originally told me that Jean had witnessed a friend in a car accident, and this trauama awakened her powers. I wish that were the case. Jean Grey was…Jean grey was molested by her natural father. That was the trauma that awakened her powers, killing her father by disconnecting his brain stem. I can't say I feel pity for him, but Jean, Jean was never told the truth. Her still burgeoning psyche buried the entire incident, and her mother, in an attempt to protect her daughter, lied about the abuse.
What to do? Tell Jean that her powers, the thing for which she is persecuted every day, killed her abusive father? I've worked so hard to convince her, convince all my students that these evolutionary gifts are just that-gifts. I can't. I lie between a rock and a hard place, but to do nothing is to the worst.
"Dat's it?" Remy finally asked after a long silence. Scott didn't respond immediately, instead flipping through the rest of the book. The pages were all blank.
"I can't…this-this can't be true."
"Maybe a forgery?"
"Not a chance. I'd recognize Xavier's handwriting anywhere."
"Mon dieu," Remy muttered, briefly making the sign of the cross. "Hey, where you going?"
"I'm going to talk to someone," Scott said. "I owe you one for this, Remy."
Charles Xavier pored over the documents that were scattered about his desk, an insurance form here and a work order here, the mansion needed repairs and parents needed to be informed. How odd, he reflected, that he should come across Ray Crisp's file at that moment. Ray was abandoned without ever knowing his parents; Charles didn't even know if Raymond Crisp was the boy's real name. Dying without a name…
"We need to talk, professor." Charles heard the contention in Scott's voice, but he didn't look up until a small black book landed in front of him. He recognized the thing immediately.
"Scott, where…where did you get that?"
"So it's real? You wrote it?"
"Scott, I-"
"Did You Write It!" Scott screamed. Xavier met the gaze of his student and held for several seconds before simply replying.
"Yes. I'm not going to waste time denying it Scott. You wouldn't be here if you actually had doubts." Xavier spoke as though a great weight was attached to every word.
"So what happened then…it's connected to what happened now?" Xavier made cold eye contact with Scott for several silent minutes before simply uttering
"Yes," with his hands folded.
"And when were you planning to tell me any of this?"
"I wasn't. Scott, this was a private matter. Jean developed a multiple personality disorder, I did everything-"
"I had a goddamned right to know! I-I was going to marry her. Now she's dead, and you're telling me this is none of my business? You've been acting strange ever since California, Professor, and think I'm finally starting to understand why!"
"And what would you have done, Scott? Would you have had her live with the memory of her liquefying her father's brain stem?"
"He was raping her! She was traumatized! You said it yourself, in that book you're so damned concerned about!" Their voices reached a fever pitch, spittle collecting at the corners of their mouths. But then, Scott started laughing. "You know, I didn't get it until now. That turret didn't misfire. Jean did
"Damnit Scott, I did what I thought was right. I did what I thought was in the best interests of the school and Jean."
"Well, at least we can agree there."
"Scott, I- I don't understand."
"I'm leaving the X-men. I'll be out of the mansion before five." Charles struggled for the words that could keep Scott in the room, if only for a minute, but they never came, and the door slammed shut behind Scott. At the sound of the door, Charles sighed, turning his chair to face out the window. He stared long and hard into the horizon.
Xavier Wept.
A/N: Scott Summers' journey will continue in part two.