Chapter 35

Scott woke up and stared for a moment at the inside of his eyelids.

It's today, isn't it?

Another voice echoed in his head. Yes, it's today.

He grinned. Hi, you.

Hi, you.

Gonna wish me luck?

You don't need it. Everything's going to be fine. Just stay calm. I'll be watching you.

Glad somebody is. He scrubbed at his eyes through the blindfold. I'm so sick of this thing on my face, Jean. I swear, as soon as I get my visor back, I'm bolting it onto my head. I might also kiss it. I hope you won't be jealous.

She laughed. Do I seem jealous? He felt an illusory kiss press against his mouth.

Wow.

Thank you.

I didn't know you could do that.

I'm full of surprises. She kissed him again, brief and sweet. You're going to be great. And I'll be there to help you if anything goes wrong, okay?

Counting on it.

She faded away, and Scott got out of bed. He had no idea what time it was, so now was as good a time as any to shower and shave. He'd been getting lax about shaving . . . not much point, he figured, when he was locked in a box by himself . . . but today was a big day.

Royal had provided him with a suit. Not his own, since his one suit was probably in an FBI evidence locker, but a nice one that fit well and he hoped he'd be able to keep. It was annoying to not know what color tie he had on. Well, he'd trusted Royal this far; he'd just have to take a leap of faith and trust his taste in ties, too.

As it turned out, he'd woken up early. The next several hours were excruciatingly boring. He'd been given some books in Braille, and over the course of his confinement had gotten his reading speed almost back up to where it had been when he was a kid, but this morning the books couldn't hold his attention. He spent the time pacing his cell, lying down, getting back up, doing a few restless push-ups with his feet on his bunk just to burn off some energy, and going over and over the endless instructions Royal had drilled into his head. Sit up straight. Turn towards whoever's speaking. Don't say 'lie.' Address the judge as 'Your Honor' but don't give any honorific to the DA. Don't fidget. Don't exaggerate. Don't shout.

Finally, something metal tapped against his door. "Let's go, Summers."

Scott, familiar with the routine by now, stuck his hands through the slot so they could be cuffed. He was escorted through the prison . . . not to the visitation rooms, but along other hallways, past other checkpoints. Out to the front door, where Royal was waiting for him.

"How're you feeling, Scott?" his lawyer asked.

"Nervous," Scott admitted. His guard unlocked the cuffs, and he rubbed absently at his wrists.

"You're gonna be great. Here . . . I brought you a present." Royal took him by the shoulder and turned him around, then untied the ragged and sweat-stained scrap of his blindfold. A cool band of fabric took its place.

"Cream silk," Royal told him as he tied the new blindfold snugly behind Scott's head. "Much more professional. Though I'll admit that there isn't really a precedent for the latest fashion in blindfolds."

"Just so long as you didn't get it monogrammed." Scott felt his face, just to be sure he didn't have an embroidered SS sitting on his nose. "And Royal?"

"Yeah?"

"What color is my tie?"

Royal laughed. "Blue with thin red diagonal stripes. All red would be too aggressive, but all blue makes you look like a push-over." He turned Scott around again, straightened the blue-with-red-stripe tie, and brushed off the shoulders of his jacket. "All set. Let's go."

Scott buttoned his jacket and followed Royal's guidance out of the jail that had been his home for the last two weeks. It was cold outside, but not as much as he'd thought it would be. Hardly any sunlight shone through his eyelids.

"We're getting to the courtroom pretty early," Royal told him. "Fewer reporters hanging around that way. Watch your head."

Scott found the roof of the squad car and ducked inside it, sliding to the far edge of the vinyl bench seat.

"I said 'fewer,' Royal clarified as soon as he slammed the door closed behind himself. "Not 'none.' When we get out of this car, you're gonna get hit with a lot of yelling and a lot of camera flashes. Whatever you do, don't try to cover your face. Makes you look guilty. Just walk straight ahead. Don't react, and don't say anything. The approach is about thirty feet, and then there are seven stairs. Once we're in the front door, you're in the clear. Got it?"

"Don't hide my face, don't say anything, thirty foot approach and seven steps," Scott repeated.

"Smart boy."

"Are they gonna film the trial?"

"I requested it, but the DA said no. They know we're banking on public sympathy, so the less they let your face get on television, the happier they are."

"Is Warren gonna be there?"

"Yep. Probably Creed and his lackeys, too."

"Anyone else?"

"If any of your people are showing up, they didn't tell us. I'll keep my eyes peeled for suspicious teenagers wearing Groucho Marx glasses."

"Don't bother. If they don't want to be seen, you won't see them."

Jean woke up.

For a long moment, she stared at the ceiling.

Something had happened . . . something that filled her with equal parts excitement and dread. Was it a dream she'd just woken up from, or something that had happened last night?

She lay perfectly still and let the memory come rushing back to her. The roof. The cold air. The sparkling city. Logan. His worry that anything she felt for him would fade with the dawn.

She took stock of herself, staring at the bare white ceiling of her hotel room. Did she love him by daylight?

Yes.

Enough to end her relationship with Scott, leave the team that was her second family, and disappear into an uncertain future?

Yes.

She lunged out of bed so fast that she would have startled Laura, had Laura still been there. The other bed was empty. A glance at the clock told Jean that she'd slept much later than usual, and that both Laura and Logan were probably upstairs in Mariko's suite, having breakfast, as had become their custom in the week they'd been in Seoul.

Though she wanted to rush straight upstairs, sense . . . and vanity . . . insisted that she shower first, dry her hair, and make sure that it fell just so around her face. She had no makeup, but found to her surprise that she almost didn't need it: her cheeks were pink with excitement, and her eyes were bright enough to draw attention to themselves without the assistance of cosmetics.

When she was satisfied with her own appearance, she took the elevator up to Mariko's room, knocked, and was admitted by Mariko herself.

"Good morning, Miss Gray," Mariko greeted her. "I hope that you've slept well." It was hard to tell on that serene, professional face, but Jean could have sworn that there was a shadow of a smile there. Did she know?

"Wonderfully, thank you." Jean entered, slipped off her shoes to leave in the doorway, and went to the table where both Logan and Laura were eating a decidedly non-western breakfast of white rice and a sort of red soup that looked painfully spicy.

Logan turned in his chair to look up at her.

Jean's heart all but stopped. She'd known Logan for over ten years, and had seen him almost daily for much of that time, but somehow she'd never noticed it before. There was gold in the brown of Logan's eyes.

If she hadn't already made her choice, that sight would have made it for her.

She dipped into his mind almost without meaning to; it was wide open this morning, in sharp contrast to last night. He'd hardly slept, though not for lack of trying, and despite every good intention to pretend the conversation hadn't happened, hope had seeped in. It was that forbidden hope that was brightening his eyes now, that gave him that open, human expression, and made him look so much younger. He didn't want to influence her choice with what he wanted, but Jean saw pictures in his thoughts . . . imaginings of what they could become if she chose to love him.

Jean smiled. Beamed, really. She couldn't help herself. She loved him by daylight, and a whole new future was opening up in front of her.

He smiled, too . . . a subtle, private smile, more in his eyes than in his mouth.

Despite Logan's promise that they would 'talk,' nothing really needed to be said. They just shared a look across the breakfast table, and everything was settled between them.

"Sit down and eat," he told her at last.

Jean sat down and reached for one of the pastries that was set out for her . . . she alone had trouble stomaching Korean food before noon, and opted for 'western'-style breakfast fare.

"Your eyes are different," Laura observed, sounding suspicious.

"I'm happy," Jean explained. Though she had no inclination to share what had just happened with anyone but Logan, she reluctantly remembered that she'd promised Laura total openness. She opened her mind and let Laura see her memories of the last few hours.

Laura's head tipped sideways as she processed the new information. "I don't understand."

"You'll get there, Kiddo," Logan told her. "Quit worryin' and eat. You're still so skinny you make me hungry just lookin' at you."

Mariko resumed her seat, and breakfast continued peacefully.

Kurt was rather proud of himself. He wasn't a programming genius, but he'd managed to put together a new holo-self that was actually kind of cool. He'd made himself look about fifteen years older, changed the color of his eyes, tweaked his features, and added two inches of height. He'd also given himself an overcoat and a fedora, because they just seemed appropriate.

"A fedora?" Amanda asked. "Seriously?"

"I sought it looked dashing," Kurt said defensively.

"You look like Humphrey Bogart."

"Cool!"

"No . . . really like Humphrey Bogart. Like, people are going to be wondering what Humphrey Bogart is doing at Scott's trial if he's supposed to be dead."

Kurt sulked. He hadn't exactly been going for Humphrey Bogart, but . . .

"Give me that." Amanda took the holowatch off his wrist, defaulting his appearance back to its normal blue fuzziness. She altered the program with a few decisive button presses, then handed it back. "There. No hat, and less nose."

"I like my hat."

She grinned and kissed him on the cheek. "You're not even supposed to wear hats in courtrooms. You can be Humphrey Bogart for the victory party." She put the watch back on his wrist and turned it on. "There. Much better."

"Sanks." He leaned in to return the kiss, but Amanda put a hand over his mouth.

"Sorry, Kurt . . . not while you look like you're old enough to be my dad. It's creepy."

"Are we ready to go?" asked Betsy, entering the hangar bay. Her long purple hair was tucked up into a soft knitted hat of almost exactly the same shade. It was easy to mistake any stray wisps for loose bits of yarn.

"Nice hat," Amanda told her.

"Oh, she gets to vear a hat," Kurt complained.

"Thanks." Betsy tugged on it, pulling it jauntily to one side. "I made it. Did you know that one of the mutants from the Chicago pickup can spin silk, like a spider? She can do it any color."

"Cool! Like Spiderman?"

"Spiderman isn't a mutant," Kurt corrected, still annoyed at the double standard.

"You're such a snob."

There was a zip, and Pietro was suddenly standing among them, still wobbling a little from his sudden stop. "You guys ready? 'Cuz my dad's heading down and he hates when people keep him waiting."

"You make your dad sound like a lot more of a jerk than he really is," Amanda told him. "He spent like half an hour yesterday helping me sharpen all the knives."

"Ze better to disembowel you vith, my dear," Kurt teased.

"If he does choose to start disemboweling us all, surely he won't use the kitchen knives," Betsy observed. "How unhygienic."

"I promise that any disemboweling will be done with utensils set aside for that purpose," Magneto told them as he and Sabertooth came in after Pietro.

"Oh, good. That is a great comfort."

"We gonna chat all day, or get going?" Sabertooth demanded. "Don't want to miss watchin' my kid set off the end of the world."

Amanda patted Kurt on the shoulder and stepped back. "Good luck!"

Magneto raised a hand, and metal flowed up out of the floor to encapsulate the five of them in a pitch-black sphere.

"I hate these," Sabertooth grumbled.

"I'd never sought I'd say zis," said Kurt, "but I agree vith him." He grabbed hold of the curved interior wall and held on.

The sphere accelerated, throwing Sabertooth and Pietro off their balance—Kurt could hear the thuds and swearing as they hit the back edge. Travelling by sphere was nerve-wracking, but at least it was fast. After only a few minutes, the ride came to an end and the sphere unfolded.

"Central Park?" Betsy asked. "How public."

"Not at this hour of the morning," said Magneto. "And we're only a few blocks from the courthouse."

"No need for a taxi, then?"

"Would you like one?" He made a small gesture with his hand, and at the edge of park several car horns blared in protest to whatever he'd just started to do.

"No, thank you," said Betsy, politely.

"As you will."

They walked the few blocks to the courtroom, three adult men, a woman, and a youth, walking through Manhattan in the early hours of the morning.

There was already an enormous crowd gathered outside. Television news crews recorded their segments over the chatter of protesters and gawkers. Several squad cars were parked up and down the street, and uniformed officers, backed up by National Guardsmen in green camouflage and big khaki boots.

"How are ve supposed to get in zere?" Kurt asked, aghast. "I mean, I could, maybe, but I don't know ze layout inside."

"Don't worry," Betsy assured him. "I've been practicing with Charles."

She gritted her teeth, and lines of strain appeared between her eyebrows. The people in front of them began to shift, each one arbitrarily deciding that he or she needed to move a step or two to the side to see better or to ease the strain of standing. The mutants, single file, slipped through the narrow path that opened before them.

When they were nearly to the line of cops, a black car pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and the crowd surged forward to get a better look.

Scott climbed out of the car, keeping his balance by holding onto the shoulder of a dark-haired guy carrying a briefcase in his free hand. Camera flashes blazed everywhere, and cacophonic shouts of "Mr. Summers! Mr. Summers, over here! Scott!" exploded through the mass of people.

Scott and the man walked up the sidewalk and climbed the steps of the courtroom. Kurt wanted to yell to him, but in all this noise he doubted if he'd be able to hear himself.

As Scott passed them, his head turned, and he smiled. His right cheek twitched in what could have been a wink under the blindfold.

"He knows ve're here!"

"I told him," said Betsy. "Come along. We can wait in the lobby, where it's warm."