She went home, showered, and dressed. There was no saving her clothes, unfortunately, so she flung them in the trash, dabbing iodine and aloe vera on the worst of her wounds. One or two of the scratches on her legs would probably scar, and her lip burned even after she put ice on it, but like the police officer had said- she wouldn't be running marathons any time soon, but she didn't need any medical attention.
"Of course," she told Hector, "the floor of that alley was filthy as heck. So I'll probably pick up AIDS or cholera or sepsis and die an agonizing death in a hospital room with half my limbs rotted off."
Hector looked at her a moment, then went back to licking his paw with a disinterested meow.
"Sure, you say that now, but just wait 'till you're living in Racquella's dorm room with sorority parties every night and her roommate sneaking in boys every five minutes."
Unsurprisingly, Hector did not respond.
"Oh, crap," she realized. "I'm talking to my cat."
Theresa rushed to the train station- in a taxi, this time- and took the train to a tiny station on the outskirts of Somerset, Virginia, an equally tiny town forty miles north of Richmond. Blinking as she exited the cool dark of the station (the clouds had disappeared as soon as the sun came up) she looked around for her ride, finally spotting the armored jeep at the bottom of the gray stone steps. As she began her descent (careful of her high heels) a caramel brown head stuck itself out of the front right window.
"Vengate con prisa, doctora!" yelled Francisco Alvarez. "El jefe just texted me- Juggernaut's refusing to see anyone but you!"
Theresa cupped her hands around her mouth like a bullhorn. "You think we'll get there faster if I break my ankle, Alvarez?"
As she drew closer, she could make out Francisco- a grinning man of about thirty-five with Latino features and clear, liquid brown eyes. "We don't need your legs, doctora," he said with a grin as she approached the car. "Just your mouth. Although your legs are, of course, love- dios mio, doctora, what happened to you?"
"Got in a bar fight," she said airily as Jonathan Myers, the driver, yanked Francisco back through the window and shoved him back in his seat, gawping at her. Jon was the personification of gentle giant- six-four and built like a linebacker, with a square jaw, bushy brown eyebrows, and muscles on top of his muscles. He could have been a boxing heavyweight champion if he hadn't been such a devout pacifist.
"A bar fight," he repeated skeptically as she got into the back seat. He began to roll up the windows.
"Yep. They caught me cheating at poker, so I kicked all their asses."
Both of the men laughed, and they spent the entire thirty-minute drive to the prison telling stories about the bar fights they'd been in, each more fantastical than the last.
"So I say to her, I say, chica, why you hangin around with this loser? And she says to me, because he's good-looking. And I say, that's only 'cause-"
"For gods' sake, Alvarez," hissed Jon as they pulled up to the gate. "Shut up!" The gate guard checked under the car, looked through the windows, and waved them through.
"You got to tell the one about the goat in the dress! And I don't care how drunk you were, amigo, that did not happen!"
"Yeah? Well-"
Theresa tuned out their bickering with practiced ease. Before her lay the VDFDCM, or the Virginia Detainment Facility for Dangerous Criminal Mutants. It's gloomy grey cement walls and ruthlessly pruned shrubbery stood at odds with the sprawling green hills that surrounded it on all sides, and it's height (six stories) made it seem like the stereotypical villains' lair in a cartoon. Even on sunny days like this one, Theresa still expected to see storm clouds swirling around the tallest tower, with dramatic flashes of lightning every time her boss finished a sentence.
Grabbing her purse, Theresa gingerly eased her aching body out of the car, bidding farewell to Francisco and Jon. Theresa walked up the cement pathway to enter the refreshingly cool lobby. As she submitted to a pat-down and purse search, Jeanette, the receptionist, waved at her from her desk and pointed to the elevator.
"Warden Braxton wants to see you! Should I let him know you're- girl, what happened to you?"
"Bus accident. Yes, let him know I'm here."
Theresa endured six stories worth of elevator music and the suspicious stare of a newbie elevator guard before arriving at the executive level of the building. As head psychologist, her office was up here too.
She walked down the carpeted hallway, knocked on the wooden door marked "Jonah Braxton, Warden," and received a gruff "come in." She did so, only to halt in surprise at the three unexpected occupants of the office.
"Ms. Cain?" asked the first. "Hello, I'm-"
"Henry McCoy," she said, holding a hand out to shake. "Congratulations on your promotion. From what I've heard you deserve it. " He took her hand, shaking it carefully to avoid cutting her with his claws. She managed not to stare, but it was difficult-he was very large, and very blue.
He looked pleased, though it wasn't easy to tell. "Thank, you, Ms Cain," he said in a rich baritone. "Though I fear others may not share your opinion."
"Then we shall pity them for their ignorance and flip them off when they're not looking."
"God, girl," burst out Jonah from behind his desk. He had blue eyes, and the iron of his hair reflected his personality. "What happened to you?"
Theresa extended her hand to the bald man in the wheelchair. "Hello, Ms. Cain. I am Professor Charles Xavier." He had an English accent and impossibly wise eyes.
"Hello, Professor. I've read your thesis on the death of the Neandrathals."
"Did it worry you?"
"A bit- but I like to think we've evolved since then," she said with a wink. He laughed, and introduced the man standing behind him. "This is Logan- he's a professor at my school."
"Teacher," corrected the burly, handsome man standing behind him. "Teacher, bodyguard, babysitter, chauffeur- but I ain't no professor."
She laughed and shook his hand. "I get the feeling you've said that before."
He cracked a smile. "A million times, ma'am. Chuck here uses 'professor' like you wouldn't believe."
"Hello? I hate to interrupt your little introductory love-fest over here, but I asked you a question, Cain."
"Oh, this? Some bimbo waitress was flirting with my date, so I punched her in the face."
Logan gave a mock-impressed whistle. "Didja break her nose?"
"Knocked her out cold, but the hostess jumped me from behind."
"Girl, one day you're gonna make me jump off this roof, I swear to God."
Theresa gave him a concerned look. "If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, then as a registered psychologist I am required to-"
"Cain, shut up. We've got a new patient for you."
Theresa frowned. "And you called me to your office for this because…"
"You might wanna sit down for this, lady," Logan advised. "And if you got a family history of heart issues-"
"Pal, I am fifty-seven years old and I run four miles every other day. The day I have a heart attack it the day Jo-Jo here dances the can-can with Juggernaut. Speaking of which, the guy's asking for me, so…"
"Forget Juggernaut," Jonah said, pushing a file across his desk. "You got bigger problems."
"Only metaphorically," snorted Logan, "because there ain't much literally bigger than that guy."
Theresa barely heard him. The file was labeled Erik Lensherr- alias, Magneto.
She sat down hard, clutching the file to her chest.
Wow. And I didn't even have to kill anyone.