Epilogue
Several weeks later, New Orleans, Louisiana
It was late afternoon as a shrieking infant temporarily topped decibel levels at the free health clinic buried deep within the French Quarter. His irate cries were eventually absorbed by a cacophony of other noises, however. Two women who worked the streets, if their manner of dress was any indication, were having a heated argument in the center row of plastic chairs set up to accommodate waiting patients. A junkie in the throws of withdrawal was yelling for his methadone at top volume. Wearing a look of beaten submission, a mother tried to control the behavior of four active children. A handful of winos had made their beds in various places on the linoleum floor and a homeless schizophrenic apparently off his medication shouted at one wall. The smell of disinfectant didn't quite cover up stronger odors of sweat and unwashed bodies. Stifling in the heat and humidity despite ceiling fans, this was not the most pleasant place to be. It was a typical day here.
The clinic, dubbed with the unlikely name of "Caring Hearts Family Medical Clinic," had been established by local charities to deal with members of society who had no where else to turn. The ones who were uninsured or uninsurable, the homeless, the destitute, the ones on the edge of the law, even the rare mutant still left in the world - in other words, the denizens of any American inner city that no one else wanted to deal with. It was a catch all for almost any medical situation, though it was intended only for non-emergent care. That was a like a bad joke. If a man was injured trying to move illegal merchandise on the street, did his girlfriend carry him to the local hospital where the police might show up and ask uncomfortable questions, or did she drag him in here, where he could get stitched up and go home? As a result, the clinic often seemed more like an emergency room than a doctor's office, complete with a triage nurse making the rounds amidst waiting patients. Staff here were also on a first name basis with the area's coroner and had the ambulance service on speed dial.
Already today they had dealt with a shooting victim, the aftermath of several nasty fights, an OD and a hysterical rape victim. That was in addition to the normal flow of colds, flu, STD's, pregnancies, chronic conditions and minor injuries that were constants in such a place.
The clinic was maintained by two nurses and an LPN who doubled as a receptionist. A doctor came in during the morning hours. Local authorities visited regularly, but were only guaranteed cooperation if the doctor was actually in. The nurses all had an unspoken agreement with one another to answer police questions vaguely, if at all, depending on the wishes of the patient. Even the flotsam and jetsam of society needed a safe place to receive medical care, no questions asked.
The particular nurse on triage duty today stood up from examining a little boy with an injured arm. She stretched her aching back and smiled down at him. The boy's arm wasn't broken. If this had been morning, and Dr. Thomas were here, he would have insisted the boy be taken for x-rays at the local hospital - an expense this family could ill afford. She knew an x-ray was unnecessary and the child would be fine with a bandage and sling for a few days.
The nurse kept her eye out for blood, bodily fluids and obviously mangled body parts, but otherwise examined the waiting patients in a first come, first serve order. Some she was able to treat and send on their way without them ever having to go back to the examining room. Of course, whether she was supposed to do that or not was another story, but the only one who ever said anything to her about it was the good doctor and that was when he deigned to show up to work sober. Her fellow nurses took it in stride; if it helped the patients, it was all right by them.
It just went to show that there was a place for everyone, even someone like her. Certainly no place other than one of such desperation, on the edge of society, would hire an obvious mutant. Here, though, she had developed a reputation with the regulars and they trusted her.
Her genetic gift was not the flashy kind; not like the larger-than-life heroes and villains that so regularly appeared on the evening news. She just had a sense of things, a diagnostic sense as well as some type of psychometry that seemed to go with it. She could touch someone and know exactly what ailed him. She could hold an object and pick up information about the owner, even including a location sometimes. The first aided her tremendously in her line of work. The second was a glorified party trick to her way of thinking, that friends and co-workers found amusing. Though she had helped to find not only lost pets, but wayward spouses and even a lost child or two in her time. Mostly, people just wanted her to use it to find those who owed them something.
An hour or so later, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of an arm, she pushed her dark curls behind her ears and looked up to see a mostly empty room. She was more than ready to go home, then put her feet up for the rest of the evening and watch CSI re-runs. It had been a long day.
Beverly, the LPN, was just helping the last drunk to the exit, and Sam, the hallucinating schizophrenic, had finally calmed down after his meds were given - he could go now as well. She tried not to think about the poor man spending the night sleeping next to Lake Ponchartrain. There was no use worrying; she'd learned long ago she could only do so much to help. That left only the quiet fellow in the corner who'd waved her away several times over the past couple of hours to the more obviously needy (or vocal) occupants.
He was the picture of patience, she'd give him that. She couldn't imagine voluntarily sitting in this madhouse for so long with nothing to do but wait. He wasn't dressed like most of the people who came through here, either. I wonder if he's an undercover cop or something? That would be just her luck, when she was already so tired.
She made her way over to him, smiling her everything-will-be-all-right nurse's smile. Jeez, the guy could at least try not to stare, she groused to herself. Most people gave her that courtesy. Sure, she might be a bit funny looking, but there was no need to be rude about it.
"You're the last one left, there's no shooing me away this time," she grinned down at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, clipboard in hand. "So what hurts? What can I do for you?"
He looked up at her, unsmiling, for what seemed like a long time. Oh God, tell me I haven't landed a crackpot or a mutie basher at closing time, she thought.
"Why nothing." He finally smiled, and she relaxed a little.
Okay, so maybe he's just a lost tourist or something; stranger things have happened in the Big Easy. "Wow, you sound like you're a long way from home. That's not an accent we hear around here a lot. Is it German?"
He shrugged and nodded.
"Now what did you mean, nothing is wrong?" she propped a hand on her hip, "You've been sitting there for hours. Surely you don't consider our little facility a tourist destination..." She waved the hand holding the clipboard in a sarcastic gesture that encompassed the peeling walls, stained ceiling and cheap plastic chairs that littered the waiting room.
The corner of his mouth twitched in another half-smile. "In part, I was simply seeking to escape from the heat outside. I came in here because the door was open and no one would try to force me to buy drinks or some other rubbish if I sat here," he tilted his head slightly and quirked an eyebrow, "Or will you now try und convince me to purchase a key fob or undergarments with the city's name displayed on them?"
She chuckled in spite of her fatigue. "No, I don't have any plastic doohickies or lingerie for sale today, your loss though. But you said in part. What was the other part?"
Kneeling down to face him, she added, "Here, I can at least check you for signs of heat exhaustion, though you look okay to me." Laying her clipboard aside, she took his wrist, and moved to measure his pulse. But rather than the smooth skin she'd expected to feel under her fingertips, there was what felt like velvet. Her internal sense clicked on and allowed her to see the truth of the man before her. Her eyes widened and locked with his gleaming red ones.
Kurt knew exactly when she really "saw" him. Her liquid black eyes fastened on his gaze and didn't waver. There was no fear. This petite nurse would probably stare down Apocalypse himself, if her behavior today was any indication.
He had debated with himself for weeks before deciding to find this particular mutant. With the very limited X-gene population remaining in this world, it had not been difficult to do, once he'd made up his mind. The X-Men had a database linked with a machine referred to as "Cerebra" that pinpointed most of the mutants left, and even categorized them by powers, when possible. All told, it had taken very little effort on his part to locate this one.
He'd been watching her for hours now. He had listened to her banter with the patients, scold them or sometimes offer comfort. She'd stepped in to stop an imminent fight between two teen-aged street thugs without batting an eye, though they'd both towered over her. She's so sure of herself, Kurt thought. She seems to truly enjoy helping these unfortunate souls. He very gently removed his wrist from her grasp.
"I am not suffering from heat exhaustion, though I thank you for your concern." He smiled at her, attempting to avoid showing too many teeth. "However, Sydney, I could perhaps use your assistance with something."
Her name came out sounding like "Zytney." She looked at him quizzically.
"Uhm...how did you know my name?"
Kurt pointed to the name tag pinned to the front of her scrubs and his lip twitched again with amusement.
"Ha! Silly me, of course." She shifted on one foot and cocked her head to the side with a slight smile. "So what exactly do you think I can assist you with Mr...?"
"My name is Kurt Darkholme, und I am looking for someone. I understand you might be able to help me find him."
Sydney raised an eyebrow skeptically. "What, does he owe you money or something?"
"Nein, nothing like that. He und I are simply old friends. I'm eager to see him again."
Very eager to see him, Kurt thought grimly, but kept his expression pleasant.
"What makes you think I can help?"
"Now Schatzi, we mutants have to stick together, ja? There are so few of us now. You have something of a reputation for helping those in need und I'd hoped you would be willing to help me."
She looked away from him, contemplating, then met his eyes again. "All right. Sure, why not? Do you have something that belongs to him?"
"Ja, indeed I do." He handed her a stained and crumpled piece of paper. "Can you tell me where the man is who wrote this note?"
He watched in fascination as the markings on her skin pulsed and flickered with an eerie light while she concentrated on finding the owner of the paper.
Sydney couldn't quite read the expression on the man's face once she'd told him what she could. He seemed to be struggling to keep whatever he was feeling hidden. She experienced a flicker of doubt, but squelched it. A lot of people get emotional at the prospect of finding a long-lost friend, right?
Finally, he moved to rise, and she stood up as well, still watching him. It looked as though he'd gotten his thoughts under control when he smiled gently down at her.
"You do good work here, it is very noble."
Bemused, she answered, "I'm not sure how noble it is - it sure doesn't feel very noble when I have to hose down a drunk in the shower room or mop up somebody's recycled dinner or argue with another kid to take a pack of condoms." She grinned then, her eyes bright with humor.
He reached towards her, then hesitated. "Trust me, what you do is noble meine mitfühlende Frau. You give caring und hope to those who have none," He made a grand gesture to indicate himself before continuing, "Including this wayward stranger who has kept you well after hours. " He let his hand drop back to his side.
The woman looked around and realized he was right, it was left to her to lock up for the night. He was already to the door by the time she looked back.
Joining him there, she had an overwhelming need to say something, but she didn't know what or even why she felt like she should. This whole conversation seemed surreal. Finally she asked said, "I'm sorry I couldn't help more. I hope you'll be able to find your friend soon. Are you sure there's nothing else you need?"
He stood with one hand on the door and gazed at her with an extended pause before answering, "Ja, there is little doubt I will find him. Und I am well enough." He inclined his head to her. "But as you said earlier, I am a long way from home; I must be going."
"Well alright then. It was... uhm...nice talking to you..." she held her hand up in a little wave and he surprised her by taking it and bringing it to his lips. Wow! I didn't know there was anyone who really did that sort of thing!
She found herself watching thoughtfully until he disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. Definitely diary material. Retrieving her purse from her locker, she pulled the shades and locked the door behind her. Now it was time to go home to Juno the cat and forensic drama shows.
It was warm and balmy, as was common in New Orleans at this time of year. A scent of rain was carried on the breeze, mixing pleasantly with wild jasmine and the rich green dankness from the wild foliage hanging over the side-walk.
The strains of an old song, probably from one of the many cafés that littered the neighborhood, filled the night air:
*I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and must have it painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black
"Gute nacht Mausi," Kurt said softly from the shadows, as he watched her walk away.
*the lyrics are from a song by the Rolling Stones called "Paint it Black"
German translations:
Fräulein - a word corresponding to "Miss". It denotes either a young woman or an unmarried woman. (It is considered somewhat old-fashioned in places, but is still in use.)
Frau - a word corresponding to the English "Mrs." It can mean a woman or a wife.
Liebling - "Sweetheart" or "Darling"
Gute nacht Mausi - "Good night Little Mouse"