No I in Team
"One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive." —Friedrich Nietzsche.
6. Family Matters
Location: Bunker Five Recreation Room
15:30 HRS
The TV blared quietly in the corner of the room; Elvis Presley was on stage, singing about his blue suede shoes. James, who was stretched out on one of the couches, ignored the music, just as he ignored the barely-touched cold beer nestled in his hands. The only thing he saw in his mind's eye was Bertelli's villa, the floor liberally coloured red, the sharp smell of blood saturating the warm air. He played a single scene over and over again inside his mind, trying to figure out how it could have ended differently, and Bertelli's wife died a hundred times as he tried and failed to save her.
His father had taught him that women should be respected and protected. Though he'd known many women who were, mentally and emotionally, every bit as strong—and indeed, sometimes even stronger than—men, they were usually physically weaker. His father had said that a man should do everything within his power to help a lady in need, and should always stand up to protect a woman if she needed assistance.
In Italy, James had failed. He hadn't believed Talon, when she'd said Bertelli would shoot his own wife and kids to save his own worthless hide. He'd mistakenly acted under the assumption that all men had been told by their fathers to respect women, and that no man would ever take the life of the woman he loved out of sheer cowardice. That mistake had cost a woman her life, leaving three innocent children essentially orphaned.
He knew, now, what he should have done. He should have rushed Bertelli the moment he'd spotted the man. Perhaps, if he'd appeared more of a threat, Bertelli would have turned his weapon on him instead of the mother of his children. But the indecision, the attempt to talk instead of fight, had almost gotten Talon and one of the children killed. It was small consolation that the kids had been saved. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the benefit of hindsight, whilst standing in that Italian courtyard, facing the murderous bastard.
"You look pissed." Victor dropped down on the other couch, sprawling out over it. The beer in his hand was almost empty. "That's your pissed face, right there."
"I'm not pissed," James scowled at his brother. He didn't have a 'pissed' face… did he?
"Riiight. You're just sat here, on your own, holding a beer you're not even going to drink, glaring at Elvis Presley like he just killed your best friend, completely ignoring the fact that you could be playing poker with the team and taking all Wraith's money off him… and you're not pissed."
"That's right."
"Is this about what went down in Italy?"
James shook his head, but he knew Victor wouldn't leave it alone. Once he'd picked up a scent, he was like a damn bloodhound.
"I don't see what you're so cut up about," Victor continued. "Mission successful. We got our guy and saved the glorious Land of the Free from yet another dangerous foe. Why get your panties in a twist over a few dead bodies? People die all the time."
"I know. But they shouldn't die because of us," said James, and Victor snorted, rolling his eyes. He'd heard this before. "The wars are bad enough, but at least it's just soldiers. At least there's a clear line, in war; us, and them. What we did in Italy… civilians got killed. Sure, you could say that some of them deserved it. But not all of them. Not Bertelli's wife. Not those security guards. They weren't soldiers, Victor… they were cannon-fodder. And I'm beginning to wonder if we've made the right decision."
"Bullshit," growled Victor. His forehead wrinkled as a frown spread across his face. "This is just you being you, Jimmy. You're a master at sabotaging your own happiness. Let me tell you how this will go. You'll agonise for a while about 'doing the right thing' because your conscience starts kicking you the moment anything good happens to you, like it purposely wants you to be miserable. Just like you agonised about running out on your wife, before you joined me in France during World War One, just like you agonised about joining the forces in 'Nam. And no matter how good it gets for us, you'll always find a way to screw it up, because you won't let yourself be happy, and you'll drag me along to follow your miserable ass around. Well, not this time, Jimmy. If you think you've made a mistake, then go ahead and quit. But I'm staying. Here, we're with our own kind. We're valuable. It's in Stryker's best interests to keep us sweet. There are worse people to fight for than the US military."
"That's just it, Victor. We don't have to fight at all, if we don't want to."
"Sure we do, Jimmy. We're mutants, and we live in a world where to be different is to be hated and feared. Well, we finally found a place where we can be ourselves. So either get on board and start acting like what you really are, or leave before you drag the rest of us down with you." Victor drank the rest of his beer, then stood up. "I'm getting another drink. Are you with us, or are you gonna run away again?"
James watched his brother head off towards the bar, and sighed. In some ways, Victor was right. This was the best gig they'd had in a long time—the killing of civilians notwithstanding—and it felt good to be able to relax, to not have to hide who and what he was. Living a lie was exhausting, but to admit what he was to non-mutants usually meant fear and loathing, sometimes with pitch-forks. Normal folks saw mutants as little more than glorified monsters; they didn't care that James had fought for their freedom and independence countless times. They didn't care about the blood he had shed for them, and the blood he had lost for them. All they cared was that he was different. He didn't age, and he had bone-claws, and that made him a freak.
He glanced around the rec room. Wraith, Dukes, Bradley and Maverick were playing poker again; Bradley laughed as Wraith told a joke, not realising it was just another distraction technique. Perhaps Talon was right; they were his shades of grey. But they were more than that. They were half-formed lumps of clay. James, if he stayed, could do his best to mould them into finished products. He could teach them about more than fighting; he could teach them about mercy, and that it wasn't weakness to show it. He could show them a better way, than the way of a killer.
Leaving the TV, he stood up and walked over to the game table. Wraith glanced up as he approached.
"Logan. You interested in losing some of your money to me?"
James glanced at the pile of notes in front of Wraith, and smiled. It was time to end the teleporter's winning streak. "Deal me in."
He took a seat and pulled a cigar from his pocket, lighting it up and taking a long drag. Some people said that smoking was bad for you, but he figured it couldn't be that bad; he'd been doing it for over a hundred years, and he was still perfectly healthy. Beer and cigars—possibly the secret to a long life.
"I'm telling you," said Wraith, continuing the conversation the group had been having before James had joined them, "there's something off with Stryker. Did you see his face, when he joined us at the airstrip's car pool? He looked like someone had just killed his puppy."
"Probably getting shit off the brass for the blood-bath we left behind in the Corona Building," said Maverick, casually glancing at his cards. James picked up his cards and looked at his hand, but it wasn't anything special. Not yet, anyway.
"Nah, man," Wraith replied, "the brass couldn't have known what went down in Italy. And Stryker didn't even come back here to write reports on our mission. Don't you find that a bit weird? Since when does he just take off without a word?"
"Since he's our superior officer."
"You guys," Dukes grumbled, "are you gonna play, or just talk all night?"
"Speaking of which," James mused, as Victor returned with a fresh beer and sat down to watch the game, "it's awfully quiet in here." He looked around the room and saw Wade sitting further away, pen in hand and paper on the table in front of him. "Whatcha doing, Wade?" he called.
"Writing."
"I didn't know you could write," said Wraith, and Bradley grinned.
"One of my many skills"
"What are you writing?" asked Bradley.
"A letter. To Talon. Chicks go in for that whole sensitive writing-letters crap, right? By the way, how do you spell 'effervescent'?"
"Man, do you even know her name?" said Wraith.
"Sure. Talon."
"Her real name, genius," James clarified.
"Why does that matter?"
"Well," said Wraith, "it might help you to send her a letter if you knew her real name. And her address might be useful, too."
Wade shrugged. "How many people can there be with the name and address of 'Talon, MI6, England'?"
James shook his head. No doubt, now, that Wade was delusional. The world he was living in truly must be a special place.
"Look," said Wraith, "forget about some girl you only met once; grab a beer and come play poker with your pals."
"I'm only your pal when you want to take my money, John."
"Hey, there's just as much chance of you beating me, as there is me beating you. Now c'mon and I'll deal you in to the next round."
"Well, alright. I suppose a couple of games couldn't hurt. It's not like I have anything else to spend my money on right now."
Both Wade and Victor joined the poker circle, and Wraith dealt out a new round. James glanced at his brother, and Victor tipped his beer bottle to him. James nodded. For now, Victor was right. For now, he could play happily families, and try to lead the team as best he could. It wasn't as if he was trapped here forever, after all; he could leave at any time he chose.
o - o - o - o - o
Location: Stryker Family Residence
New Jersey
17:30 HRS
William Stryker considered himself a sensible individual, a down-to-earth man well-grounded in the present and not given to flights of wild imagination. It was therefore a surprise when, for the first time in four years, he walked up the front path to his family's home and did not immediately feel welcome. The front of the house seemed to leer at him knowingly, the dark drapes making evil, glaring eyes out of the rectangular windows, the zigzag cornice hanging from the veranda giving the doorway the appearance of a gaping maw that threatened to swallow him whole.
Behind, he heard the car that had brought him here leave; the driver wouldn't come back until Stryker called for a pick-up. And, as the sound of the car engine died away, so did his only hope of retreat. Not that he would consider running from his responsibilities; a man who ran away was a coward, and if there was one thing William Stryker did not consider himself, it was a coward.
He strode up the front path, taking a deep breath to straighten his body and give him an appearance of confidence. In truth, he was afraid of what he would find within the confines of his mockery of a home, but he knew, better than most, that the fastest way to let your fears control you was to acknowledge them. The best way to deal with fear was with sheer stubborn-headed determination and a desire to get the job done.
When he reached the front door, he reached into his pocket for his key. This wasn't the sort of neighbourhood in which people needed to lock their doors, and at one time, Stryker would not have given an unlocked door a second thought. But then, he'd learnt about mutants, and made Sarah promise to lock the door whenever she was home without him. It was a poor barrier to keep out mutants, but better than no barrier at all. Now, however, he had to face a very unfortunately possibility; that the lock on his family door wasn't keeping mutants out, so much as it was keeping them in. Protecting not his family from the world, but the world from his family.
The door opened, and he was met with a resounding silence, the only sound that of the large grandfather clock, quietly ticking away at the bottom of the stairs. An antique from her grandmother's youth, Sarah loved that clock, said it made her feel safe, like the ghosts of her parents and grandparents were watching over her through it. Crazy idealistic nonsense… but it was her crazy idealistic nonsense, and he loved her for it.
"Sarah?" he called, stepping through the hallway, his footsteps quietened by the long rug covering the well-polished floorboards. "Sarah, I'm home. Are you here?"
"William?" Her voice came from the kitchen, and she appeared a moment later, covered in flour up to her elbows, her flowery apron dusted with white. Her face was pale, her brunette curls pulled hurriedly back into a messy bun, and she had a smear of flour on one cheek. "I… I wasn't expecting you home for another hour. Dinner isn't ready yet."
"It's alright, Sarah," he said. He stepped forward and took her in his arms, holding her close for a long moment, drawing strength and comfort from her, and giving it in return.
"Oh, your uniform…" She glanced down at his now flour-covered fatigues.
"I can get changed later. Don't worry about it." He looked at the stairs, at the row of doors pulled closed along the landing. "Is he up there?"
Sarah nodded. "Hasn't come down since they refused to let him back to school. He won't talk and barely eats or drinks."
"Tell you what, why don't I help you get dinner ready? You can tell me everything that's happened, and then we'll see what Jason has to say for himself."
His wife paled further, but nodded her agreement, and together they returned to the kitchen. Stryker found a strange sort of solace in the rhythmical chop chop chop of his knife as he prepared the vegetables, and as Sarah continued rolling pastry she regaled him with the story of Jason's… incident. There wasn't much she could add that she hadn't told him by phone, but this time her recount was calmer. She didn't burst into tears, and her voice remained steady as she talked about what had happened in the playground.
After that, he asked her about the little things; had she read anything interesting at her book club lately? Were the neighbours finally keeping their dog off the lawn? Had Father Mulgrew decided what charity to support for Christmas this year? She answered each question with less enthusiasm than normal, her voice subdued by sad tones.
At last the pie was made, and put in the oven to cook, and the moment Stryker had been trying to delay as long as possible was finally looming in front of him. He told his wife to sit down in the living room, then went to the bottom of the stairs, and called up.
"Jason, this is your father. We need to talk. Come down to the living room, young man."
He returned to his wife, joining her on the sofa, and it didn't take long for the patter of small feet to appear on the stairs. Jason might sulk in his room for Sarah, but he knew better than to keep his old man waiting. Stryker had taught him more respect than that.
Jason's small, pale face appeared around the doorframe, his mismatched eyes darting to and fro as he looked first at his mother, then at his father. Stryker waited patiently, knowing that this situation, and how he dealt with his son's incident, would set the tone for their entire future relationship. Perhaps it didn't have to end in tears. Perhaps Jason could still have a life, and a successful military career. He just had to make sure he never used his mutant powers again.
"Sit down, son," Stryker said, gesturing to the comfortable armchair. Normally, the armchair was Stryker's, his throne when he was home, left empty when he wasn't here, but he felt that some sort of sacrifice was required, to show his son that this situation was under control. Jason could sit in the armchair throne, this once.
The boy perched on the edge of the chair, his feet dangling off the edge. His socks were dirty underneath, almost black; probably hadn't been changed in days. Stryker tried to keep the grimace from his face. He'd drilled neatness and routine into his son, just as he would any soldier, and to see the boy's socks dirty, his short hair ruffled and unkempt, his shirt incorrectly buttoned up, was a slap in the face. A flicker of angry fire licked at his mind. Sarah had always been too soft on the boy, letting him get away with too much. If she'd been a little more firm with him, he never would have shut himself away and become so unkempt. Children, like soldiers, needed a firm hand to guide them and set boundaries, and mutants were no different. It irked him, to realise he was having more success with a team of untrained mutants, than he was with his own son.
"Jason," he said, "your mother told me about what happened at school."
"Yes, sir," Jason whispered, both eyes on the ground And that, too, angered Stryker. He'd always told his son to keep his head high, to be proud of who he was, to ignore the bullies at school who teased him because of his eyes. Strykers did not cringe or lower their eyes, like servants.
"I want you to tell me what happened."
"I didn't mean to do it," said Jason immediately. "It was an accident. I just wanted them to stop teasing me. I wanted to teach them a lesson. You said I should stand up to bullies and not let them push me around. I… I thought, how would they like it, if everybody was pointing and laughing at them?"
Stryker closed his eyes for a moment, the playground scene playing out in his mind, Jason surrounded by a bunch of bigger, older boys. It was always the bigger ones who teased and bullied him. And Stryker had told Jason to confront them about their behaviour, but the boy was so small, not built for physical fights. It was only natural then, wasn't it, that he'd lashed out with his mind, using a power he'd never known he had?
"Why spiders?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at his son.
"I saw Gerry screaming once, when he put his hand through a spider web on the jungle gym. I knew he didn't like them. I knew he'd be embarrassed if the other kids saw him screaming like a girl over a little spider." Despite Jason's downcast gaze, there was a tone of defiance in his voice; he sounded almost proud of how he'd shown up those bullies.
Insidious little voices began to whisper inside Stryker's mind. Yes, his son was a mutant, but he wasn't one of those different-looking ones. At least Jason looked human. And perhaps his power could be put to some use. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise; unless his son filled out as he grew up, he probably wouldn't have an easy time in the army, like his old man. But there were other ways Jason could serve his country; just look at Team X. Each one of them a powerful weapon in his own right. And the British spy, Talon, had been one of them too, with abilities similar to Jason's. He'd heard Team X talking about her powers on the plane back to the US, but even before that, he'd seen her in action, when she'd convinced the Italian police to let the truck carrying Bertelli pass without inspection. A mutant who could make others see what he or she wanted was a powerful tool indeed.
But… no. That sort of thing was all well and good for ordinary mutants, but not for Jason. No matter how useful he proved to be, it could potentially end Stryker's career. And if his career was ended, he wouldn't be able to protect his wife, and his son, and his country, against the growing mutant threat. The best thing to do would be to find a cure. To put the scientists at Bunker Five to work on curing mutation, so that Jason could be normal, so that any mutant who threatened the American way of life could be effectively neutralised. He wasn't an unfair man; he was willing to let those mutants who wished to serve their country continue to do so, to be the tools of humanity that nature intended, but the rest of them—the anarchists, the trouble-makers, the ones who thought that having special powers gave them special rights—there would be no mercy for them.
"Jason, have you used your powers again since the school yard?" he asked. Jason's head quickly shook from side to side. "Have you tried?"
"No, I swear, I haven't tried, sir!"
The panicked tone in Jason's voice told Stryker that his son was telling the truth. The boy knew better than to lie; Stryker had drilled that lesson into him at a very early age. Only cowards told lies. Real men stood up and accepted responsibility for their actions, even if it meant being punished. Real men weren't afraid of punishment, when it was deserved. It helped to build character.
"Alright," he said. "Go on up to your room. Your mother and I need to talk. Dinner is in half an hour, and I expect to see you washed and in clean clothes, ready at the dinner table in twenty five minutes."
"Yes, sir," Jason said, hurrying out of the room and back up the stairs. He'd finally realised that sulking wasn't going to get him anywhere. Really, Sarah should have seen to this in his absence. Couldn't a man leave his family home for a short time without everything going to hell?
"What are we going to do, William?" Sarah asked, her eyes full of hope and fear. She looked to him to make everything right, to fix the problems she could not. Perhaps he'd been too hard on her, expected too much of her. She was Jason's mother, not his father, and it was unfair of Stryker to ask her to take on a man's share of the parenting role, as well as her own.
He reached out to take her hand in his, and squeezed it comfortingly. "We're going to find a cure for our son. We can fix this, Sarah. Jason will have a normal life. I swear it."
o - o - o - o - o
Location: Bunker Five outdoor shooting range
10:30 HRS
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
James watched as six bullets hit the centre of the training dummy's head with unerring precision. Without even a glimmer of a smile, Maverick holstered his pistol and surveyed his handiwork with a cool-eyed nod.
"Ten bucks to anyone who can match that," the sharp-shooter said.
Alright, I'm game," said Wraith. He stepped up to the firing line and raised his pistol, sighting for a moment, then fired six shots. They weren't bad shots, either; three in the chest, one right shoulder and two left arm. Not bad, but not good enough to win him the money.
"My turn," said Dukes. The pistol looked comically small in his large hand, more like a child's toy than a real weapon. He smelled of calm confidence which didn't change as he fired the gun six times in succession. Again, his shots were decent; two head-shots and four in the chest.
"Not bad," said James.
"But could be better," said Zero. "Bradley, you're up next."
"Yeah, right, like I could even hit the target, never mind the head." But he managed three hits, and looked pleased by his accomplishment. The remaining three bullets flew wide, hitting trees. "Hey, I hit it!"
"Barely," Zero scoffed.
"Move over, kid," said Victor, nudging Bradley aside as he lifted his gun. He barely even bothered to aim, merely peppered the target with six bullets which hit completely different areas.
"Interesting aiming method," said Zero. His tone wasn't quite as scornful this time; he was more wary of Victor than he was of Bradley.
"I call it 'the collateral damage style.'"
"I can see why. Logan? You think you could manage a couple of hits?"
"Sure, Maverick," he replied. He knew why the man had suggested target practice for today; he wanted to show off his skills. Stryker was still away and the major's number one boot-licker was starting to feel neglected. This was simply a way of stroking his own ego, by proving he was a better shot than anyone else on the team.
He stepped up to the line and sighted down the short barrel of the pistol, then pulled the trigger. As he saw the first bullet hit the throat, he adjusted his aim a tiny amount and fired again, resulting in a head-shot. He must have moved his hand between shots, possibly because of the small amount of recoil, because his next one clipped the edge of the target at ear-level, and the last three hit the right shoulder.
"Guess we know which brother got all the accuracy in the family," said Zero. "But not good enough to win my money." James smiled to himself. By Zero's standards, that had barely been an insult at all. Obviously, he hadn't been expecting all of James' bullets to hit the target. James didn't particularly care about taking Zero's money, but he'd settle for seeing the man's ego deflated a little. Luckily, there was one person who might be a good enough shot to do just that. He glanced around for the last member of Team X and saw him leaning atop a locker, pen in hand once more, his tongue poking out of one side of his mouth; clear indication of deep concentration from Wade Wilson.
"Wade," he called, "you're up."
"Up for what?" came the absent-minded reply.
"Maverick says you're a crap shot. He doesn't think you can hit the same area of a target six times, like he can."
"Uh-huh. Tell him he's a dick."
"C'mon," said Wraith, "what's more important than taking Zero's money from him?"
"Effervescent. How the hell do you spell it?"
"Tell you what, get your ass over here and take Zero's money, and I'll write that damn letter for you, effervescence and all."
"Hmm, I suppose you do have neat handwriting." Wade shoved his paper and pen into his pocket and picked up the last pistol from the locker. Bradley handed him a box of ammo and he loaded the gun, then stepped up to the line. He lifted the gun, narrowed his eyes at the target, and at the last moment lowered his aim by a centimetre before pulling the trigger six times.
"Damn," said Wraith, his eyes travelling down to the lower half of the target.
"That's hardly a fatal area," Zero said, rolling his eyes, trying his best not to admit defeat.
"Smaller target than a head, though," Wade pointed out. "Even smaller on some men than others. Anyway, same area of a target, six bullets. I believe you owe me ten bucks, Zee."
"Another ten says you can't do it again," said Zero.
"If you want to waste your money, be my guest."
Wade reloaded his pistol and Zero set off across the field to put up a fresh dummy. As James watched, Wade lifted his gun and pointed at the unwary Zero's head. "Wade," he said, putting a warning into the single word.
Wade smiled. "Bang bang," he said, and lowered the weapon. "Oh, don't give me that look, Logan. You can't tell me you wouldn't like to see him eating lead. I know you don't like him."
"I don't like you either," James pointed out. "But that doesn't mean I'd let Maverick put a bullet in your head."
"Touché."
Bradley put down his own weapon and leant against the locker. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to live a normal life?"
"What's normal?" Wraith countered. "There's guys out there who think it's perfectly normal to dress up in a monkey suit and work a 9-5 job and go home to a white picket fence, and then other guys who'd go insane if you gave them the all-American dream. Even the norms don't agree on what makes them 'normal.'"
"I guess I just wonder what it would be like to not blow out street lights by accident when I sneeze."
"Everything we can do, whether it's blowing out electrical circuits, teleporting a dozen miles, or deflecting a bullet… they're gifts, Bradley. You can do something unique, that nobody else can. That makes you special. It makes us all special. Yours powers are a blessing."
"Sometimes they feel more like a curse," Bradley admitted.
Wraith rested a hand on the young man's shoulder. "In which case, think yourself lucky that your curse is invisible, and that you can pass. I seen a guy once with green skin, and eyes like a lizard. The people in his home town feared him, so they stuck him in a cage."
"What happened to him?"
The teleporter shrugged. "Probably died. After I saw what those people did to their mutants, I wasn't going to stick around. Got myself out of there pronto. Do I wish I coulda done something to help the guy? Sure, but I was young, and unsure of my own powers and my own place in the world. I wasn't about to stick my neck out for some lizard-looking guy I'd never met before."
James listened in silence. In his experience, a man didn't bring up something like that, and talk about his feelings of a situation, unless it was weighing heavily on his mind. By the sound of it, the case of the mutant on the cage had been weighing on John Wraith's mind for quite some time.
"How old were you when you discovered you were a mutant?" Bradley asked.
"Ugh, the old 'how I discovered my powers' story," said Wraith. "That's a tale best told over a cold beer. Tell you what, run and get us some from the fridge in the rec room, and I'll tell you all about it."
"Beer? At ten-thirty in the morning?" Bradley asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
"It's ten-thirty in the evening somewhere," Wraith shrugged.
"Uzbekistan," said Wade. "It's ten-thirty PM in Uzbekistan right now.
"You're a fountain of useless knowledge, Wade. Or a fountain of made-up bullshit. Either way, I salute your useless bullshit."
"Guys," said Logan, interrupting the good-natured insulting, "as captain, I gotta point out that beer and weapons practise just don't go together."
"That's alright, I'm done with weapons practise for the day," Wraith grinned.
"And I'll be done with weapons practise as soon as I've finished winning back the fifty bucks Zero took off me in the last poker game," added Wade.
"And I doubt any amount of practice will improve my skill with a gun," said Bradley.
"Not like we get many chances to do what we want at ten-thirty in the morning," Dukes said. He'd got an earful off Stryker one day for turning up late to team training because he'd been busy flirting with Gina after breakfast, and had been sore about it ever since.
"C'mon, Logan," said Wade. "Cat's away; we mice gotta play. You've had us training every day whilst Stryker's been MIA… maybe it's time to let off a little steam."
James sighed. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. But on the other hand, he had been pushing them hard in Stryker's absence. Plus, he was genuinely interested in hearing of Wraith's early years. He decided to loosen the reins a little… just for today.
"Alright, Bradley. Head back to the barracks and tell the first soldier you see to bring us some beers."
"And chips," Wade added.
Twenty minutes later, Logan, Bradley, Wraith, Dukes and Victor were standing on the practise range, beers in hand, watching Wade win back another ten bucks from Maverick, who didn't look pleased at being proved wrong a second time.
"How'd you get to be such a good shot?" Wraith asked. "I never even seen you use a gun, until Logan took your swords off you."
Wade shrugged. "All part of my mysteeeeerious origin story. But I believe you're the one with a tale to tell. That is the reason we're all drinking before midday, right?"
"Yes," Bradley agreed. "I'd like to know how you discovered your powers, John. If you don't mind telling, of course."
Victor snorted. "Sure, why don't we all sit in a circle and sing kumbaya and talk about our feelings?" He picked up a pistol and ambled over to the shooting line. "Let me know when the touchy-feely crap is over."
"Victor," James warned.
His brother waved his gun dismissively. "I'm only aiming at a damn target, Jimmy. And you know as well as I do that a single beer's nothing more than a glass of water to us."
James didn't bother trying to argue. It was true; because of his and Victor's enhanced constitution, it took a hell of a lot of alcohol to get either of them drunk. There was certainly no question of Victor hitting anybody whilst on his first beer. Well… not hitting them intentionally, at least.
"I can't believe you're all drinking, and it's not even lunch time," Zero scoffed.
"Hey, look, Zee," said Wade, bending down to pick up an old discarded branch. "I found a stick that looks just like the one stuck up your ass."
"Funny," Maverick said drily. "There's nothing wrong with discipline, you know."
Wraith rolled his eyes at James, then sat himself down on the ground, sprawling out so that he could both watch Victor shooting at his target, and speak to the rest of the team at the same time. Or perhaps he wasn't watching Victor shoot at the target… perhaps he just didn't want to put his back to Victor. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with John.
"So," the teleporter said, "you wanted to know how I discovered my powers, Bradley?"
"Yeah," the young mutant said eagerly.
"Well, it was an accident. I was twelve years old, and one of those outdoorsey kids. I loved going off with my friends during the holidays, exploring the neighbourhood, sometimes making a bit of trouble… nothing too severe, though. Mostly, my upbringing was pretty normal, for a black kid from a working family. Sure, it wasn't all peaches and cream, but I can't complain. I had it better than most.
"Anyway, like I said, I was twelve. I was hanging out at the old wooden bridge near my home, with a few of my other friends. We were stupid kids. One of them came up with a dare; to climb over the side of the bridge and make our way from one end to the other. Just to show that we weren't afraid. And of course, I was stupid too, so I agreed. Followed three of my friends to one side of the bridge, and we all climbed over the railing. Another four followed me. And slowly we began to make our way across it. Didn't realise just how old that bridge was. Half the wood was warped and rotten, only nobody had seen that part of it because all they ever saw was the middle of the bridge, the bit a car could drive over. About half way across, the railing disintegrated. Just came away as if it had never been nailed down. One of the kids in front of me, and the two directly behind me, started to fall at the same time I did. All I remember was seeing the river and the rocks below me, and thinking I was going to die. Time seemed to stretch out into an eternity, and I prayed to God one last time. At that moment, just as I was about to hit the water and the rocks, there was a flash of light across my vision, and somehow I ended up on the banks, safe and dry. Three kids died that day, and it was only because I was a mutant that it wasn't four."
"Wow. I'm sorry," said Bradley. And he sounded it, too.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Wraith said, taking a long swig of his beer. "Accidents happen. I was lucky."
James said nothing. He'd heard that line before, inside his own head. It was the line he'd told himself over and over again, after every battle and every war he'd fought in. I didn't die because I was lucky. And, for a while, he'd even believed the lie. Eventually, though, he'd been forced to admit the truth. He survived because he was different. A mutant. A freak. It had helped him to overcome the guilt he'd felt for years about surviving against the odds when so many good men had died. It had helped to absolve some of the blame he ascribed to himself, for not being able to do more. Blame he suspected John, too, had felt, after being the only child to survive the fall. The only one not to leave behind a heartbroken mother.
"What about you, Wade?" said Bradley. "How did you discover your powers?"
"I was a stupid kid too," Wade admitted. "Only, more stupid than Wraith. Pretty standard story, really. Army brat, moved around a lot when I was a kid, never really stayed in one place long enough to make real friends. Had a big mouth, believe it or not, and that got me into trouble with my old man, and with authority figures in general. One night I got into a bit of a fight with one of the local kids. The cops were called, and I decided the best thing to do would be to run. Only this time, I found I could run faster than ever before. I could jump higher and keep going for longer… long enough that the cops got tired of chasing me. So that's it. My noble origin story. Maybe one day, someone will make a movie out of it, though it's admittedly not as exciting as falling to my potential death from a height, or stopping a tank with my bare hands. Guess I could let Dukes and Wraith cameo in my movie… just to get the action fans in."
There was a moment of silence, and James held his breath. He knew what was coming next, and he didn't want to talk about it because his past shamed him. Yet how could he lie, or refuse to speak, when the others had been so honest? How could he ask them to talk about themselves, and refuse to do the same? If only Bradley wouldn't ask. If only he'd think of something else to talk about. But then, Bradley spoke the words James had been expecting to hear.
"Hey, Logan, how did you find out about your mutant powers?"
He took a deep breath. It was a story he'd never told before, because the only living witness—Victor already knew how it ended. It was a story he'd never thought about telling, until now, and he found himself very reluctant to tell it. The others would probably understand, but he didn't want to be understood. He didn't deserve it. So he decided to be blunt, and hope the inquisitive young mutant wouldn't ask any further questions.
"I got angry and killed a man."
"Oh," said Bradley, and James took a swig of his beer so he wouldn't have to see the disappointment in Bradley's eyes.
It had been over a hundred years ago, now, but James could still see it clearly in his mind's eye.
The crash of thunder and lightning. James, on the cusp of his twelfth birthday, walked along the landing towards the stairs. The room swayed as fever gripped his mind, and shadows lengthened, reaching out towards him with their vicious fingers. He was scared, but he forced himself forward, towards the voices which were raised in anger.
Thomas Logan, Victor's father, was standing nose-to-nose with James' father, John. His mother was off to one side, begging Thomas to leave, and even from this distance, even in the grip of fever, James could smell the alcohol rolling from Thomas Logan's body in waves of foul stench.
A gun was brandished, a shot fired, the sharp smell of gunpowder momentarily overwhelming that of stale alcohol. His mother screamed, and his father dropped to the ground, blood pooling on his chest, overflowing onto the wooden floor. James felt his heart hammering inside his chest, heard his mother's scream inside his head over and over again, and he ran down the stairs despite the terror which wound through his heart.
He crouched beside his father on the cold floor. Father's breath was rattling, the light in his eyes growing dim. Then, a pained groan, and his chest stopped rising and falling, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. In the background, mother was still screaming.
"He has a right to know," James heard Thomas Logan said. The man's voice was oddly calm. He'd just shot a man in cold blood, and didn't even have the decency to sound as if he cared.
For the first time in his life, James Howlett knew anger—pure, undiluted fury that seized his heart and his mind, twisting and wrenching them until a haze of red and black wrapped itself around his entire body, encasing him in its violent, velvet embrace. He wasn't just angry; he was anger incarnate. The living embodiment of hate-filled rage.
He screamed, a sound of primal fury, and felt something snap inside him. Suddenly, pain was there too, tearing through his flesh, his bones and sinew grinding in agony. His scream deepened, and he looked down at his hands which dripped blood onto the floor, onto his father's body. There, extending out from between his fingers, were three claws on each hand, sharp-looking talons that felt both familiar and alien.
A sharp intake of breath. He looked up to see Thomas Logan watching him, heard his mother stopped screaming as she looked on in fear at her son. And suddenly, it was all too much. The fever, the shouting, his father's blood-soaked body… James launched himself forward with another scream, this one of unbridled aggression. His gaze was fixed solely on the man who had murdered his father, and as his fists connected with Thomas Logan's torso, he felt the bone-claws sink into flesh and muscle, tearing through vital organs.
He pulled away, and Thomas sunk to the ground. He'd been a man three times James' size, and now he was at head-height with his tiny antagonist. Blood bubbled on his lips, and in his eyes was… sadness. Terrible, deep sadness.
"He wasn't your father," Thomas said, his words little more than a pained whisper. And finally, James understood what the shouting had been about. He looked to his mother, saw the devastation on her face, and for a brief moment, he hated her every bit as much as he hated Thomas Logan.
Tearing his eyes away from the woman who'd betrayed his father, who'd betrayed her family, he looked back to Thomas. There was no fear in the man's eyes, no hatred, no guilt. James realised he considered himself as much a victim in this as the man he had murdered.
"Son," said Thomas, a final acknowledgement of the hateful truth James did not want to accept. Then he, too, ceased to breath, though the blood still trickled from his lips.
"What are you?" his mother demanded. Her face was twisted into a caricature of fear and revulsion. She looked at him as if he was a stranger, and not her own child. Again, anger clouded James' mind. How dare she judge him, after all she had done, after she had torn their family apart?
But it wasn't just anger he felt now; it was fear. He had killed a man. Granted, that man was himself a murderer, but the townsmen wouldn't care. They'd take one look at the body of Thomas Logan, one look at the claws on James' hands, and drag him to the gallows. Even at the best of times, the townsmen were wary of outsiders, of people who were different. They would see James as nothing but a monster, and he knew it.
So he ran. He didn't look back, at the two bodies staining the floor red, at the disgust in his mother's eyes—he merely ran for his life.
How could he convey that to the rest of Team X? How could he possibly tell it in such a way that would capture his anger and his helplessness, his fear and his hatred? How could he excuse what he had done when he had acted in haste and ended a man's life? There was no excusing his actions, and he wanted no understanding for them. All he wanted was to be left alone with that memory. And so, he did the only thing he could think to do. He swiftly changed the subject.
"Y'know, Bradley, you've asked us how we discovered our powers, but you haven't talked about your own experience," he pointed out.
"There's not really that much to tell," Bradley replied, running a hand through his hair. "It happened when I was at school, at a time when I was being picked on for being smaller than most of the other kids. I was probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. One day, three guys cornered me in the locker room, and though they'd only ever verbally bullied me before, I just knew that this time it was going to be different. That it was going to get physical. I remember thinking I wish I had the courage to lash out, to punch one of them even though I knew it would get me punched in return. And then, just as I was thinking about it, all the lights blew out. Glass everywhere. The sound drew the attention of the gym teacher, but he thought it had just been a power surge. That's what I thought, too, until it happened to me at home. I was having a bad dream, and as I woke up from it, the lights shattered in my house… the TV blew, too. My parents blamed it on the electricity company. By that time, I knew better."
"Did the other kids stop picking on you after that?" asked Wraith.
"No, because they didn't know it was me who'd blown the lights." Bradley smiled. "I got my own back, though, in other ways."
"Ooh, the vindictive side of Mr Christopher Bradley," Wade said. "Do tell."
"Well, it was mostly just little things. One of the guys was a typical jock; real vain. So whenever he was chatting to girls, I generated a static charge around him, made his hair a frizzy mess. Sometimes I diverted electricity and ran it through the lockers, to give the bullies minor electrical shocks. Oh, and I drained the battery in one guy's car. Every day. For a year."
"Note to self: Do not piss Bradley off," said Wade.
"Well," said Wraith, "we already know how Dukes discovered his powers. That tank never saw him coming. What's your story, Zero?"
"No story," Maverick replied. "I just woke up one day with cat-like agility."
"Heh. Right. Message received."
James tossed aside his empty can and reached for another beer, his eyes wandering of their own accord to Victor. He knew that his brother had heard every word of the conversation shared by the rest of Team X, but, as usual, he stubbornly refused to be part of the group. Not even James knew how Victor had discovered his own mutant powers, and somehow, he doubted that was going to change any time soon.
o - o - o - o - o
Location: Westchester County, New York
11:00 HRS
The proud and stately mansion loomed into view, and Stryker halted the car outside the front gates. There was a camera mounted high above them, atop a pillar which proclaimed this place Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He hadn't wanted to come here, but it was Sarah's idea, and she was determined to come and speak to the man named Xavier regardless of whether her husband agreed. Reluctantly, he agreed to accompany her. In the back of the car, Jason was silent and pale, his eyes roving over everything outside the car windows so that he didn't have to look forward, at his parents. That tiny act pained Stryker more than he would have thought possible.
After a moment of being scanned by the security camera, the gates opened up, allowing the Stryker family car to proceed up the long, gently-winding driveway. As he drove forward, Stryker allowed himself a moment of envy. This 'Xavier' had obviously done alright for himself, despite being a mutant; the grounds of the mansion were immaculately kept, and the house itself was fine and large enough to satisfy even the pickiest of politicians.
Two figures were waiting at the top of the drive, at the bottom of the steps to the front door, and as Stryker approached it was only his familiarity with mutants that stopped his mouth from dropping open in surprise. Sarah, who had no such experience, did not have that benefit, and when he glanced to his wife he saw the shock on her face.
Stryker stopped the car and took a deep breath. "Well, we might as well see this through," he said quietly, more to himself than to his family. "Sarah, Jason, try not to stare. The mutant might not like it."
He couldn't blame them for staring. It wasn't every day you saw a mutant with blue fur wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized basball shirt. He hadn't expected there to be such outlandish mutants present at the school… though he realised he shouldn't have been so surprised. If a mutant couldn't pass, then where else would he come, if not a school for such freaks?
Opening his car door, he stepped outside and gestured for his family to do the same. Together they approached the waiting pair, and for the first time, Stryker turned his attention to the second man. He was fairly nondescript, save for the fact that he was bald as a billiard ball… and yet his face was oddly young, at odds with his lack of hair. His blue eyes had an intense, penetrating look about them.
"Mr and Mrs Stryker," the young-old man said. "My name is Charles Xavier. Welcome to my school."
"Thank you, Mr Xavier," Sarah said, rushing forward to shake the man's proffered hand before William could open his mouth. She'd been so desperate to get Jason here, and so afraid that Xavier would refuse to meet with them.
"This is my colleague, Henry McCoy," Xavier said, gesturing to the blue mutant.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr and and Mrs Stryker," Henry said. Thankfully, he didn't offer his hand. Or paw. Whatever it was. He did look down at Jason, though, who was trying his best to hide behind his parents. "And this must be young Jason. I'm glad to see you here, Jason, and I hope we'll have chance to become good friends."
"I've asked Henry to give Jason a tour of the school whilst we talk in my office," said Xavier. "I'll give you all the grand tour later, but I felt it best that we get the formalities out of the way, first. I hope that's alright?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Stryker said. What else could he say? He was a guest in this man's home, and he didn't exactly want Jason listening in whilst the adults discussed the boy's… problem. It was something Jason was still very sensitive about.
"Jason, would you like to come with me and I'll show you some of our facilities?"
Jason glanced to his father, for permission or reassurance, and Stryker nodded.
"Go on, son. We'll see you again once we've spoken to Mr Xavier here."
"Yes, sir," Jason said, and allowed himself to be led off by the ape-like Henry.
"Please, Mr and Mrs Stryker, if you'll follow me, I have tea and coffee waiting in my office," said Xavier.
Stryker nodded again, offering his arm to his wife and setting off up the steps. The mansion was every bit as sumptuous on the inside as it was the outside, and Xavier offered comments as they walked. Over there is the dining room; I only have eight students at the moment—hopefully nine, after today—but they eat together at meal times, like any family. Then, shortly after; Here we are at the stairs. The students each have their own bedrooms on the second floor, as well as a shared recreation room for playing games and watching TV—something that only happens once they've completed their daily school work, I can assure you.
Then, they passed a room from which the wonderful smell of baking bread came. Ah, the kitchen. We employ a cook, a wonderful woman who makes every meal to meet all of the students' nutritional needs. She and Alfonse, the gardener, are the only non-mutants here, but they're both very sympathetic to mutants and their needs. As they walked past yet another door, Stryker heard the sound of a violin being played within. Yes, the music room, Xavier commented. I firmly believe that students should not focus solely on academia; children need chance to be creative, to learn new skills and abilities which may have nothing at all to do with their mutations. Ultimately, it helps them to integrate into society.
"And, err, your… blue man," Sarah said, her grip tightening on Stryker's arm, "what is it that he does here?"
"Henry is one of my students, but he's a genius in his own right. He excels in physics, chemistry and biology… pretty much anything he puts his mind to, really. He's one of my oldest students, and helps to keep an eye on the younger ones."
Stryker merely nodded, feeling like one of those damn nodding birds, but also feeling a little out of his depth. In some ways, this school was similar to his own facilities at Bunker Five. The main difference was, he was training mutants to be weapons, whilst Xavier was trying to help them fit in with the normal folks. Their methods of training, he suspected, were very different to those Team X were subjected to.
"And here's my office," Xavier said, leading the couple into a large study. He took the chair behind the headmaster-like desk and offered the two seats in front of it to the Strykers. "Can I offer you a drink."
"Thank you," Sarah said. "I could use a nice cup of tea, after our long drive. William prefers coffee, though."
Stryker waited whilst Xavier served the drinks, and then watched as the bald man sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers above his own cup of tea.
"So," the school's headmaster said at last, "tell me about Jason."
"I think I covered most of it when we spoke on the telephone, Mr Xavier," Sarah said.
"You told me what happened to Jason at school, but I want to know about your son. What sort of things does he like? Does he have many friends? How is he reacting to everything that's happened to him in recent days?"
"No offence, Mr Xavier," Stryker said, speaking up for the first time, "but what does any of that have to do with Jason's treatment?"
One of Xavier's eyebrows rose. "Treatment?"
"Our son is a mutant. We need to cure him, so that he can live a normal, happy life."
Xavier took a deep breath; it almost sounded like a sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was careful and measured.
"Mr Stryker, may I speak honestly with you?"
"I'd expect nothing less."
"The truth is, mutation is not a sickness, or a disease; it is a natural progression of a species. In this case, the human species. And yes, although the word 'cure' has been thrown around by certain individuals, there is no proof that mutation can be, or ever will be, cured, short of culling out from the population anybody with the propensity to pass on the mutant gene. Genocide and eugenics are things I wish to avoid at any cost, and so I seek to change minds and opinions by proving that mutants can not only be good, respectable citizens, but that they can also be beneficial to 'normal' people who might otherwise fear and hate them."
"You don't have to sell me on the potential usefulness of mutants, Mr Xavier," said Stryker stiffly.
Xavier nodded. "Very well. Tell me; how much do you actually know about mutation?"
"More than you might guess," Stryker said. His team of geneticists were amongst the best in the country; Doctor Cornelius was a certified genius.
"And do you know that there are two main types of mutation? Those which are obvious from birth—such as my good friend Henry's prehensile feet—and those which manifest at a point in a mutant's life."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"I wasn't," Sarah admitted. "What is it that causes a mutation to manifest?"
"Normally, some sort of stressful event," Xavier explained patiently. "Usually such manifestations happen during the teenage years, when emotions and hormones are running high, and the feeling of insecurity is heightened."
"But Jason isn't a teenager."
"No. The mutations usually manifest during the teens, but not always. Sometimes, mutations don't show until early adulthood, and sometimes a person can go for most of their lives without being aware they are a mutant, simply because their mutation has never encountered that vital trigger point. In the case of Jason, the opposite has happened. Your son is seven, isn't he?"
"Yes," Stryker confirmed. "He'll be eight next month." He'd been planning to take the boy out hunting, for his eighth birthday. A man was never too young to learn how to shoot a gun. His own father had taught him that.
"So young," Xavier said, with a small shake of his head. His eyes glazed over as he stared at the wood-grain of his desk, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "Sometimes, early triggering can do more harm than good. Not all children can handle being given such power at a young age."
"Please, Mr Xavier," said Sarah, in a pleading tone of voice, "I just want my son to be safe. I don't want him to be a danger to himself, or to others. William is going to have the finest scientific minds working on a cure, but in the meantime, we need Jason to be safe."
"Yes," Stryker agreed. "Until my son can be cured, he needs to be taught how to manage his powers so that he doesn't cause harm to others. And that's something I can't do." He didn't like admitting his own deficiency—a man ought to be able to raise his own son, without input from another—but Jason's new mutant powers complicated things. There was nobody else he could turn to; nobody he knew had experience in raising a mutant kid.
Xavier subjected him to a long and focused stare, and then nodded imperceptibly. "Very well. I'll teach your son how to control his powers, and to use them responsibly. But ultimately, he'll look to his parents for guidance. It will be down to you to set an example for him."
"As it should be," Stryker said, feeling hope surging anew in his chest. With Xavier to teach the boy, there was less chance of Jason accidentally harming others. And with the scientists of Bunker Five at his disposal to work on a cure, he was certain that soon Jason, and all those like him, would lead normal lives once more.