Chapter 31
"No," said Royal.
"What was wrong with that one?" Scott demanded.
"When we're trying to establish character, there's a long list of words the jury should never hear coming out of your mouth. At the top of that list is the word 'lie'."
"I did lie!" Scott protested. "I lied a lot. Practically every day. For years. I had to."
"Why?"
"Because my powers were too big and too dangerous for people to know about. Because nobody would believe me. Because I was trying to live as normal a life as I could. Because if I was publicly outed as a mutant, then Jean would be next . . . my best friend in the world."
"Good. Yes. All of those are great, except maybe 'dangerous.' So try it again. The prosecutor asks, 'Did you lie to Paul Fischer?' and you say . . ."
Scott sighed, checked his upcoming sentence for forbidden words, and said, "I did keep my abilities secret from him. It was really hard. But anonymity was the only defense we had back then, and I didn't want to give him the burden of having to keep such a huge secret along with us."
"Stop avoiding the question! Did you lie to Paul Fischer?"
"I wish I hadn't had to! It was the only way to keep us all safe."
"Good!" said Royal, dropping the bullying tone of his prosecuting-attorney persona. "Good, good, good. You're getting the hang of it now."
"I sound passive-aggressive."
"No, you sound like a good guy in a horrible situation, which is what we need you to sound like. Because that's what you are. Remember that? Remember how that's true? Focus on that. We don't have a lot of time to whip you into shape for the witness stand, so I need you to concentrate."
"I'm concentrating," Scott promised. He scrubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. Both eyes were starting to itch. He'd forgotten about this particular annoyance; this was the longest he'd kept his eyes closed since middle school.
"We were lucky to get hold of Paul. Practically everyone you know is on the run from the law, so we've got to make everything we can of the character witnesses we can find." Royal trailed off, then asked sympathetically, "How're your eyes?"
"They're okay."
"And your jaw?"
"Better." Scott rubbed the spot of dull aching that marked where his filling was. "Ibuprofen is my new best friend."
"Want me to smuggle you in a razor blade so you can snort it?"
Scott laughed. "I appreciate the thought, but that's probably not the world's best idea. I'll just keep swallowing it for now." He set both hands on the cold metal surface of the visitor's room table and concentrated hard on not touching his face anymore. "Besides, guards keep coming to check on me like every twenty minutes or so. I'd never be able to chop up a whole pill in that time without taking off the tip of my finger."
"Good," said Royal.
"Why is that good?"
"It means they took me seriously when I demanded you get put on suicide watch."
Scott recoiled. "Suicide watch? What the heck? You think I'm going to try to kill myself?"
"Not even a little bit," Royal told him placatingly. "But I do think other people in this prison have got it in for you. I'd hoped it was just the one idiot who put you in a gym full of convicts without permission, but preliminary investigation is suggesting that it's bigger than that. The CO responsible swears up and down that he got ordered by his supervisor to put you in the gym, and the supervisor swears he got a memo from the warden's office, and the warden's secretary says he typed up the memo because of instructions from the clinic, and the clinic says they got a phone call from your floor supervisor . . . either this is the most incompetently run jail in America, or the staff are all covering for each other. That's what we call a conspiracy."
"So you put me on suicide watch?"
"So we've got somebody checking every fifteen minutes that you're still alive, and that nobody's tried to torture you into opening your eyes again. I know it's a pain, but it's the only tool I've got for keeping you safe, Kid. So if you don't like it, you may have to lump it."
Scott grudgingly had to admit that this made sense. "I can put up with it, I guess. It's only a couple of weeks, right?"
"Knock on wood, if you can find any."
"And the case is still looking okay? We're gonna win this thing, right?"
"Don't you worry. It's coming together beautifully. We've got every tech expert we can find going over and over the camera footage, and it's solid. There are like five layers of validation encryption on it, or something. I don't know, it's all technobabble to me, but they're very excited and very definite."
"Forge put it in, so I'm not even a tiny bit surprised."
"We're starting jury selection tomorrow, which is gonna be a mess. I don't know if there are twelve people left in the country who can even pretend to be impartial on this case. The internet's been going nuts, with mutant's rights folks and pro-Registration folks going after each other on every message board they can find, and the news has gotten so partisan it's downright embarrassing. I know you're not having any fun stuck in here with guards watching you bore yourself to death, but you're lucky to be out of the mud-slinging. At least for now."
Scott sighed, reached up to scrub at his eyes again, thought better of it, and put his hand back on the table. "But my team's still out there."
"And the girlfriend," Royal observed sympathetically.
"She's all right," Scott insisted. "She's a lot tougher than I am."
"Tougher than you are? You've got to introduce me to this Wonder Woman someday."
Scott laughed. "The second we get that 'not guilty' verdict, I promise I will."
"Good. I like tough women."
"Hey, watch it!"
Royal laughed. "Sensitive much, Mister Summers?"
"Just keep your imaginary hands off my girlfriend."
"A man can dream, can't he?"
"Not about a telepath, he can't. Believe me."
"Ouch. Good point."
Scott sagged back in his chair, grinning. Jean, are you there? Earth to Jean . . . you've got another fan.
No answer. Well, that wasn't unexpected. Sometimes she could hear him, and sometimes she couldn't. But the thought of her, and her presence in the conversation, made everything easier. His eyes had stopped itching, and he was laughing. Even when they were too far away to speak, she still made his life better.
"Scott? Still with us?"
Scott sat up. He couldn't make himself stop smiling. "Yep, I'm here. Let's work."
Royal drilled him for what felt like a long time . . . he had no idea how long, since time was getting very abstract in his black, clock-free world . . . then bid him an inappropriately cheerful goodbye and left with a promise to bring some books in Braille tomorrow.
Scott was escorted back to his solitary cell, where the door clanged shut behind him.
He hated metal doors. They made such a lonely, depressing sound as they closed.
He followed the wall over to his bunk and sat down. Now alone and at leisure, he could reach farther, yell louder into the telepathic silence. Jean! Can you hear me?
She could be anywhere, but he knew that her range was tremendous when the conditions were right—she'd once heard him yelling for help all the way from Mexico, and that was a long time before she'd started her telepathy/telekenisis stretching exercises.
No answer. She hadn't been in contact for quite a while now. Although he knew Jean was perfectly capable of taking care of herself . . . far more capable than he was, in fact . . . it was hard not to worry, especially when there was absolutely nothing else to do.
He flopped back onto his bunk and stared through his eyelids at the ceiling.
Why hadn't he married her by now?
There were lots of reasons, of course. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, but it was easy enough to put off. They were both too young, there was always too much going on, he was still in school and relying on Professor Xavier for his support, she was on her way to medical school, problems, complications, not the right time, stalling, excuses, blah, blah, blah.
Well, if he was waiting for the end of the world, it had come and gone.
When I see her again. The promise solidified in his mind as soon as he thought it. He didn't have a thing in the world to offer her . . . not even a ring . . . but there was no point in waiting a second longer than necessary. When he got out of this prison, whether he was going home or going to war, he wanted to face it with Jean by his side.
He chuckled to himself. Fresh out of jail, no visor, no ring, with his bruised face and his throbbing jaw . . . this was going to be the worst proposal in the history of the world. Jean would probably think it was hilarious.
Jean woke up screaming.
She couldn't help it. It was hard to keep one's cool when jolted out of deep sleep by someone screaming bloody murder only a few feet away. "Laura!"
Laura was thrashing in her blankets, screaming so horribly it sounded as though she'd rip her throat open. When Jean flipped on the light, she could see that the younger girl's eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
"Laura, wake up!" Jean kicked her own blankets off and scrambled across to the other bed. "Wake up! You're having a nightmare!"
Laura gave her such a kick she was sent reeling onto the floor. Gasping to draw air back into her squashed lungs, Jean struggled to her feet. "Laura!"
Let me in! Logan's voice resounded in her head, barely audible over the ear-splitting noise. Jean obeyed without question, on reflex, her TK reaching across the room to grab the bolt of the door and wrench it backwards.
The door slammed open and Logan was suddenly there, grabbing Laura's thrashing shoulders and forcing her down into the mattress. "Laura," he snapped at her, his voice loud, deep, and inappropriately calm. "Laura. Laura. Laura."
"AAAAAHH!" With the kind of rasping shriek that would have been more appropriate coming from a great cat, Laura lunged up, slipping free of Logan's grip, and buried all four claws into his torso up to her knuckles.
Logan snarled, and Laura gasped.
Jean scrambled for the bedside lamp and switched it on.
The weight of Laura's upper body was hanging from her arms, both fists still pressed against Logan's bare chest. Dark, viscous blood was pouring over her hands and onto the blankets. The t-shirt she'd been sleeping in, a white, oversized thing with 'I 3 SEOUL' printed across the front, was already drenched, and her skinny chest was heaving underneath it. Her combed hair hung in disarray around her face, but through the gaps Jean could see her eyes, wide and unfocused.
Laura screamed again, but it was a startled, sudden shriek, a natural reaction to waking up and finding herself elbow-deep in Logan's blood.
Logan's jaw was clamped shut, his lips pulled back and his face screwed up against the pain. With deliberation, he took hold of her left wrist and yanked her claws out of his body. Blood gushed from the now-unblocked holes.
As all three of them struggled for breath, the first words out of Jean's mouth somehow ended up being, "What a mess."
Logan laughed, or tried to—the movement pressed a fresh spurt of blood out of his chest. Laura finally gathered the presence of mind to retract her claws. As soon as he was free, Logan rolled over onto his back, settling in to lie perfectly still until the pain and the bleeding stopped.
Jean came around to the other side of the bed so she could gather up a handful of the bedspread and press it into the wounds. Logan hissed, but she didn't let up on the pressure.
"Bad dream, Kid?" he asked at last.
Laura swallowed nervously. Her drenched hands were quivering. "I didn't mean to," she choked.
"Course you didn't. Don't you worry . . . there's no harm done." He reached up behind his head and squeezed her knee through the blood-soaked blanket. "You're okay. Take it easy."
"I could've killed you."
"Ha. In your dreams."
"Yes," said Laura, flatly.
Jean reached out telepathically. Show me your dream, she requested. I can block the memory, if you want.
She expected to be rebuffed and glared at, but to her surprise Laura's mind opened wide. She saw images that hadn't come from her own imagination flash into her brain — guns, and needles, and a little boy of maybe six years old with terror in his eyes. Adults in lab coats and uniforms watched a person in a hazard suit take Laura by the wrist and use her claws to remove Logan's head.
Jean felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Bracing herself against Logan's chest (he hissed again, but she ignored him), she pushed the memories back into Laura's mind, as deep as she could go, burying them at the bottom of the younger girl's subconscious where not even her dreaming mind could access them.
When she broke her concentration and opened her eyes, she saw Laura watching her. She wasn't crying, wasn't glaring . . . in a strange, unfamiliar way, the look communicated frank gratitude, though not a muscle in her face had moved.
Jean nodded in acknowledgment, then turned her attention back to Logan and lifted the blanket to see if the wounds had closed yet. Two were still open, and blood welled up when she removed the pressure, but the flow was slow and small.
"It'll stop in a second," Logan assured her. He got his elbows underneath himself and eased up into a sitting position.
"Can you stand up?" Jean asked gently.
"Gimme one good reason."
"I want to get these blankets off the bed before the blood soaks through onto the mattress."
He sighed. "Well, it ain't a good reason, but it's a reason." He swung his legs down until his feet hit the floor, then gingerly stood.
"Laura, you go jump back into the shower. Most of that will come right off if you don't let it dry on you."
There was a moment, just barely too long, in which nothing happened.
"Go on, Kid," Logan ordered.
Laura squirmed out of the bloody blankets and scrambled into the bathroom.
As soon as the door closed, Jean let out her breath in one rush. "Logan, she could have—"
Logan put a finger to his lips, then touched his ear. Laura could still hear them. "Go get that shirt outta my room. She can sleep in that. And grab me a wet towel or something so I can get this crap off me."
Jean nodded. "Okay."
The door to her room was still open, as was the door to his across the hall. It only took Jean a few minutes to find the t-shirt among the pile of things they'd bought for him yesterday, in the underground mall that connected to the hotel's basement levels, and to dampen a monogrammed towel with warm water from the tub. When she came back, she could hear the shower running. She tapped on the bathroom door, then eased it open and hung the shirt on the towel rack. "Clean shirt. Leave that one to soak in the tub and we might be able to save it."
"Yes," said Laura, as though Jean were a superior officer that had barked a command.
Logan was sitting on the dresser, next to the silent television. His breathing was still laboured, although all of his wounds were now closed. Jean TK-grabbed a chair from the other side of the room and pulled it over so she could sit facing him. Conscious of the tenderness caused by internal bleeding, she gently wiped a clean swathe in the mess of drying blood on his chest.
"I can do it," Logan told her, reaching for the towel.
Jean grabbed it out of his reach, annoyed. "You let Rogue do this for you, you can let me. Shut up and hold still."
He smiled. "I already got stabbed tonight . . . you really think I need to get bossed, too?"
Jean lowered her voice, counting on the noise of the shower to keep her words incomprehensible from the other room. "I think if you hadn't made it here in time, this would have been me instead of you. Aren't I allowed to do something for someone who saves my life?"
"You would have caught her before she cut you."
"Maybe. But I'm glad I didn't have to find out." She cleared away another streak of gore, and this time he let her.
"You won't have to find out," Logan finally said, as she eased the towel over the fresh pink wounds in the side of his abdomen. "I'll always make it in time."
Jean smiled. "I know you will."
A few more soaks, and the towel was too bloodied to be of any more use. Logan's skin was more or less clean, so Jean left it at that. Without a word, she bundled the towel with the stripped bed linens and carried the whole mess across to his room, to rinse everything out and leave it to soak in the bathtub.
When she came back, her tank top and pajama pants both damp from the work, she found Logan lying propped up against the pillows of her bed. Laura, dressed in the plain brown t-shirt, was curled up against his side. His arm was around her, and her breathing was deep and even. Jean could read no telepathic flicker off her; she was out cold.
Amazing, she observed, switching to telepathy so as not to risk waking her up. A few nights ago, she wouldn't even close her eyes when we were in the room.
Startin' to trust us, said Logan.
Starting to trust you, at least. She really likes you, Logan. And she's already scared to death of losing you.
As soon as she thought the words, she wished she hadn't. It sounded . . . embarrassing. She felt herself blushing. She reached inside her face with her TK and found the capillaries in her cheeks, squeezing them, forcing the rush of blood to recede.
We can't leave her here, can we. It wasn't a question, and she didn't give it the inflection of one.
Logan looked down at the little girl curled up against his chest. No.
Jean sat down at the foot of the bed. Whatever they were going to decide, she wanted the security of knowing she wasn't going to fall over.
Not right away, at least, Logan amended. I was hopin' we could leave in a couple of days, but . . . that's not gonna work. She's gonna hurt someone if we do.
So what do we do instead?
I'll stay here. You can go back to the States, as long as you stay off of that station and out of Sabertooth's way.
And If I don't go back to Avalon, where am I supposed to go? Home to the mansion? To my parents' house? Or do you want me to just camp outside Scott's prison?
Ask Charles. You can get hold of him with the Cerebro once you're close enough.
So he can find me another 'safe house,' I suppose . . . like your Barbados idea. No, thank you.
You can still work. You'll have Velocity, so you can get around all right.
But there's nothing for me to do! Nothing but wait. Bite my fingernails to the quick worrying about Scott being tortured and wait for a trial to decide our future. I can wait and worry here just as effectively as I can anywhere else, and I can help Laura, too. You've got her trust, but you're not a telepath. We can help her better together than either one of us can alone. If you stay, then so do I.
Logan looked at her, long and steadily, from across the dark room. The light from the single lamp reflected one yellow spot against each of his dark eyes.
Thank you, he hold her.
Jean smiled. No, thank you. For not arguing with me.
For once?
For once.
He smirked at her. We'll stay until Mariko's ready to go home to Tokyo, then see what we see. Fair enough?
Fair enough. Jean stood up, stretching her back. Well, since you've commandeered my bed, I'll just go use yours. Good night. Holler if you need me.
Night, Red.
She shut the door gently behind her, pulling until she felt the latch shoot into place. Then she stopped, hesitating, breathing deeply.
Staying here was the right thing to do. It was prudent; it was sensible. Here, she could help both Logan and Laura. There, she could help no one. This was a good decision. And it was what she wanted to do; her stomach twisted with dread at the thought of going back to the country that betrayed her to listen to the public debate on her own humanity. This decision was prudent, and it was desirable. So why was there guilt nagging at the back of her mind?
She took a deep breath, took hold of the blood vessels inside her skull, and stretched eastward as far as she could. Scott? Scott, can you hear me?
Nothing but silence.
He'd understand. When she did finally reach him, she'd explain everything. And he'd understand. He'd do the same thing in her position. And anyway, Scott always understood. It was one of the many reasons why she loved him.
She let go of her TK grip too quickly, making her head pound. Drat. She was going to have to practice the release on that. The pain drove her guilt from her mind, and she stumbled across the hallway to Logan's room, and bed.
The next drop was up a canyon outside of Salt Lake City. The mountains were steep and sheltering, and Rogue flew among them without fear of being spotted from the ground or pinged from the air. Kurt had been handling most of their transportation over the last few days; his power made him so bewildering to any tracking system that there was virtually no risk they'd be followed. She saw the practicality, but chafed at the restraint. Teleporting was slow and repetitive, and she missed the wide-open freedom of the sky.
More refugees, with backpacks and suitcases. More people who drew the genetic short straw and had been dismissed from the human race. More frightened Americans fleeing from the wrath of her brother, Senator Creed.
Magneto approached her again. It felt like he snuck up on her, dressed as he was in a knee-length wool coat with a scarf tucked into the collar, just like a few of the men climbing into the transport spheres. "You have a message," he announced bluntly, obviously annoyed at being relegated to delivery-boy. He handed her a piece of paper, neatly folded in on itself. An ace was drawn over the fold.
Rogue snatched it from him with ill grace. "He didn't come with you himself?" The question slipped out without her permission, but her desire to see Gamit there among the crowd of people was almost physically painful.
Magneto raised one dignified white eyebrow. "Did you wish him to?"
"Shut up," she snarled. "That ain't no business of yours."
"Very well. I'll give your next instructions to your brother, who has better manners. I'll see you in Seattle in one week, and we can try again on taming that tongue of yours."
"You wish, pervert."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Jeesh!" Kurt cut in. "You guys! Grow up already!" He turned to Magneto and asked, "Did Professor Xavier send us more names?"
"He did." Magneto produced another folded paper and handed it over. "I will see you in Portland in one week."
"Not LA?" Kurt asked. "Ve vere talking about it, and ve kind of figured LA."
"Possibly next week. We don't want you moving in too many straight lines, or we might find ourselves in the middle of an FBI raid."
Rogue snorted. "Ah say go for it. Ah'd love a chance tuh get some punches in. Blow off some steam."
"For once we are in perfect agreement, but my contract with your teacher precludes that sort of thing. For now. Once that contract is expired, we should talk again."
Rogue felt Kurt's hand on her arm, steadying and restraining. She glanced back at him and caught his look. Don't. She clutched the letter in her hand, and held her tongue.
She kept it in hand until the spheres had departed and she and Kurt had retreated into the valley, found a Motel 6, and called it a night. Kurt was out in seconds, snoring gently. Only when she was quite sure that she was absolutely alone did she switch on the bedside lamp and open her letter.
Ma reine des coeurs,
Miss you, too.
Be nice if that changed anything, hein?
You didn't have to do what you done. Merci.
Carol Danvers is locked up at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls, MT. Have fun.
A
She fell back onto the pillows of her bed and pressed the letter to her chest. It was a melodramatic gesture, embarrassing, but she was alone and didn't care. the piece of paper was a sorry substitute for her strong, living, breathing boyfriend, but it was all she had. That and her ring, which she was suddenly twisting around her finger again.
This was killing her.
Seeing Senator Creed's smug, serene face on every tv and every newspaper was killing her.
To violate the Professor's trust, and break her little brother's heart, would kill her.
Rogue, cherie, she thought to herself, reflexively using Remy's pet name for her, you're gonna get killed one way or another. Just gotta pick your way.
She didn't get to sleep for another two hours.