"By the way, do you have that menthol gel and heating pads on hand? Stuff you would use for a severe back-ache?" Grace asked Jean as she slipped off the table.
"Of course. Why? Are you feeling sore?"
"It's not for me. You see…Yesterday morning, before Erik left, the brass monkey told me to jab a needle into his air mattress. He's supposed to be back this evening." Only one night apart since we've started living together, and I missed him terribly. "I checked the weather in Oregon where he said he was going, and it rained last night. Even he doesn't know how old he really is, physically, but once somebody's out of their teens, sleeping on the ground just doesn't work any more."
Jean laughed. "Why did the monkey want Erik to wind up sleeping on the ground?"
"You think they'd tell me? It could be anything. I just hope he has some ibuprofen or something with him."
"No painkillers? Nothing at all?" Erik asked.
"Nothing. I'm sorry, Father."
"That is…unfortunate. I'm chilled to the bone, and there is practically no part of me below the neck that does not hurt. There's a town nearby; I remember we flew over it. Toad, put us down somewhere discreet within walking distance of a shopping center. If I have to endure the trip all the way back to Xavier's feeling as I do now, I will wind up in a wheelchair as well."
"What are you going to do?" Pietro asked him.
"Go to a drugstore or a supermarket. Somewhere that sells painkillers and those air-activated adhesive heat patches."
The Toad obeyed. Rather than send someone else, Erik opted to go himself, as he would not have to wait as long. Pietro had offered, but he would have had to maintain a normal human pace for the errand (he was still unable to run), so no time would be saved.
Erik shook the doors of the pharmacy, only to discover they were locked. Glancing at the listing of store hours on the door, he was irritated to see that the store should have been open. Furthermore, he could quite clearly see someone moving around inside, and there was nothing whatsoever to indicate they were closed for inventory, or any other reason. I will not be thwarted. I'll simply pop the lock and say it opened for me when I tried it.
A mere touch of his powers was all it took, and in he went.
Only to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun. He had walked in on a holdup.
"Down on the floor, old man. On your face! How the hell did you get in here, any way? I thought that door was locked." The gunman, a young man with red-rimmed eyes and sandy hair, glared at a middle-aged woman on the floor.
She cringed. "I did lock it. I swear it!"
"Never mind. On the floor, geezer. Now!" The gunman waggled his weapon.
"No." Erik said, disgusted. "I'm not getting down on that floor for you or anyone. I spent the night sleeping on the largest boulders in all of Oregon, and I ache. Lie down yourself." I am not going to break cover over this scrap of offal, but I don't have to. Let him pull the trigger all he wants. It won't do him any good.
"What?" the robber gaped.
"Mister, you better do as he says. He killed a man at the bank across the street." quavered a teenage boy.
"So he says." Erik sneered. "I've seen real killers in my day. I doubt this one has the strength to pull the trigger."
"You have a death wish, old man? Cause I can help you out of this world, if you're so tired of it." said the stick-up artist, trying to regain control.
"Tired of the world, no. Tired of you? That took ten seconds. Go ahead. Show me you have the courage." He stepped forward, forcing the issue.
The gunman leveled his weapon at Erik's head, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. It didn't click. It didn't even move. "Aaah!" the man cried out, in surprise and rage, trying again and again.
"I thought as much." Erik taunted him, letting his contempt show on his face.
Throwing the gun at Erik's head (of course it missed him by several feet) the man turned and bolted for the doors.
Unfortunately, they slammed in his face, and the man rebounded off them with his forehead. I couldn't let him get away. The police would hold me at least twice as long for questioning if they were looking for a suspect rather than taking one into custody. I shall have to hope no one saw. They are automatic doors, after all.
But a woman, perhaps a dozen years younger than Erik was looking at him with the light of realization in her eyes. As the other former hostages rushed about calling the police, she sidled closer to him, and said softly, "You're a mutant, aren't you?"
He closed his eyes. No. Not now. I truly do not want to be taken into custody now. Those benches are uncomfortable at the best of times.
"It's all right. I won't tell anyone." She smiled, gently.
About forty-five minutes later, Erik was telling the police. "I teach at a private school in New York State. Yes, Michael Xavier, that's right."
"Thank you, sir. I don't think we'll need you as a witness. We have your contact information just in case. Now." The policewoman who was taking his statement was ridiculously young, and as freckled as a plover's egg. She put on as stern and mature a face as she could, which made him smile inwardly. "What were you thinking when you decided to face him down? At your age, sir, surely you know how dangerous that was."
"I'm afraid I must have been in shock somewhat, officer. You see, my son and I—there he is now. Looking for me, I'm sure."
Pietro was at the door, looking around the pharmacy, suspiciously. "Father? Are you in trouble?"
"Not any more, Peter. It's all over. You see, I happened to walk in on a robbery in progress, but fortunately no one was hurt. Officer, this is my son Peter. He and I were camping in the forest here, and my air mattress sprang a leak last night. I woke up stiff and sore, which was why I came here to begin with. When that miscreant told me to lie down on my face, all I could think of was how much it would hurt."
"Well, in the future, try not to be so much of a hero." she admonished him.
"Excellent advice, officer. Thank you. Regrettably, I still don't have the self-heating adhesive pads or the analgesics I came here for."
The cashier raised a finger. "Just a moment." She scurried down an aisle, and came back with a bag full of the items. "On the house."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly. Here's fifty dollars. I trust that will also cover the price of a bottle of water from your cooler there…"
"So what happened, really?" Pietro asked, as they walked away.
Erik swallowed two of the ibuprofen with a swig of water, looked at the 'Use as directed' label, and took two more. "Exactly what I said. I walked in on a hold-up. Mind you, I did unlock the door to get in, and neither I nor anyone else there was in any danger once I walked in."
"And you didn't take the place apart?" Pietro gaped.
"I didn't want to break cover."
A car pulled up beside him—it was the woman who had spotted that he was a mutant. She leaned over, and said through the open window, "Thank you."
"Ma'am, it was nothing. Thank you."
The light changed, and she drove away.
Magneto looked after her car and shook his head. "Look at that. New York license plates. I knew it. This entire incident had the fingerprints of Grace's little friends all over it. There is no such thing as coincidence or chance when one is involved with Grace Engstrom to any degree whatsoever. I wonder whether she'll turn up on the jury, or whether she's a federal court justice?"
"I've been meaning to ask you why you trust and believe in her and her voices so implicitly." Pietro looked at him searchingly.
"Have you ever examined one of her pieces closely? Many of them are completely reversible. All of them are finished as well on the inside as on the outside. That bespeaks a certain care and integrity which cannot be faked. I suppose it's possible someone could be that scrupulous in their work and duplicitous in every other way, but I doubt it. As for her voices…
"I suppose it's because they're not only accurate and effective, they're unpretentious. If she had said it was saints, angels or God speaking to her, I would think she was either delusional or being deluded. Neither does she puff herself up in importance because they chose her to speak to. In fact, she's embarrassed by it. These voices are so odd and ridiculous they inspire confidence."
"If you say so…How did you ever meet her in the first place?"
It is a very good thing Grace and I discussed the need for a coherent story about how we met, and agreed beforehand. "It was some time ago, in Australia…"
