Chapter 41
"You're coming today?" asked a man Gambit had never seen before who sounded suspiciously like Kurt.
"Dat's yo' disguise?" Gambit demanded. "Y'look like Humphrey Bogart, mon gar."
"Everyvone's a critic," Kurt complained. "You know you can't get into ze trial. You'll get arrested."
"Dat'd be embarrassing. I ain't comin' to de trial. Got other errands to run."
"Like vhat?"
"Since when d'I answer questions like dat?" Gambit swung up into the open sphere with Pietro, Sabertooth, and Betsy. Kurt followed him.
No one said anything until they'd landed in Central Park. There, Gambit buttoned up his coat against the cold and announced, "See y'all later."
"Steal us something good for the victory party, will you?" Betsy requested. "Champagne would be nice."
"See what I can do."
It was, he reflected, only partly a lie. If there was any champagne in Senator Creed's house, he'd drink it in her honor.
He headed east out of the park, looking for a gas station. It would be hard to find an unattended vehicle at this hour of the morning, but there was no rush. He had all day.
Logan and Jean had spent the night on a train from Winnipeg to Toronto. They ate breakfast in the station—just McDonald's, though Jean admitted that after two weeks of Korean food even an Egg McMuffin won points for familiarity— and watched the news while they waited for their connecting train to Penn Station.
"Tensions are running high in the streets of New York this morning as the jury prepares to hear closing arguments in the landmark trial of Scott Summers. Senator Graydon Creed, who has been closely following the trial proceedings, spoke to NBC correspondent Nancy Deans."
The feed cut to Senator Creed's face. Jean had never met him in person, and hadn't seen much of him from the news footage in Seoul. This morning, he struck her as leonine, with his thick, wavy dark blond hair and peculiarly light brown eyes. Predatory.
"This trial has been historic all the way through," he told the reporter. "The prosecution has been fair and thorough, and I'm confident the jury will bring in a well-considered verdict and we'll be able to bring some peace to the families of our dead Marines."
"Are you worried about the possibility of riots here downtown if the verdict is guilty?"
"No, I'm not. Obviously mutant registration is still a hot-button issue, and a lot of people are very emotional, but I believe that New Yorkers and Americans overall have faith in our justice system and will abide by the verdict."
"Thank you, Senator Creed."
"He's bluffing," Jean decided.
"How do you know? You reading minds via satellite now?"
She reached up and placed a finger between her eyebrows. "He's got little worry lines right here. He's under stress."
"Good call. I was more interested in the sweat on his forehead, myself."
"Are you done eating? We need to catch our train."
"Yep. Let's go home."
Warren Worthington was wishing he hadn't worn this suit.
It was one of his nicer outfits, had cost a ridiculous amount of money, and made him look both powerful and attractive. He'd reserved it specifically for the last day of the trial, for moral support. The problem was that it was just a hair too tight. His wings, pinned to his back under a self-made harness, were feeling squeezed and itchy. He wanted to fidget and squirm like a ten-year-old kid in church.
He was one of the first spectators into the courtroom, and took his by-now-usual place behind the defense table, where he had an unimpeded (if uninteresting) view of the back of Scott's head. A few minutes after, the Avalon delegation filed in amongst the crowd. Magneto was the only member of the group he recognized on sight. With the five of them, himself, and Scott, there were seven mutants here to see the fate of their people decided. How many more of the spectators here were mutants in hiding, watching in silence as their future unfolded?
The tips of his wings were starting to tingle from the pressure of his too-tight vest. Warren fidgeted his shoulders and wished this were over.
Judge Webb rapped her gavel against the bench. "Come to order."
The room obediently settled into silence.
"Madam District Attorney, are you prepared to make your closing statement?"
"I am, Your Honor."
"You may proceed."
Warren settled back against the bench, took a deep breath, and let it out. Here we go.
Rogue, just to spite the universe, had stayed up late the night before, watching one mediocre movie after another, and then let herself sleep late the next morning. She showered, loaded up her backpack, payed her bill at the front desk, and started walking towards the edge of town where she could fly away unobserved.
She did not want to go upstate. She did not want to spend all day hanging around Creed's empty house. She did not want to protect Creed from anything . . . particularly not from Pyro, who was an obnoxious human being and who could burn the clothing off her back, though he couldn't do her any actual harm. This was going to be a long, boring day at best, and a nasty, destructive fight at worst . . . and all to protect a man she'd like to kill herself.
Professor Xavier's directions had been good, and she was able to find the house with a minimum of fuss. It was huge: not as big as the Institute, by any means, but much too big to elicit any sympathy. Apparently the U.S. Senate paid pretty well.
In the interests of discretion, she landed in one of the old-growth trees that lined the road and climbed down until she could drop onto the sidewalk. She brushed bracken out of her hair, hitched her backpack up onto her shoulders, took a deep breath, let it out, and headed for the front door.
For some unfathomable reason, she took the long way around, going up the paved walk rather than cutting across the lawn. She smiled at her own fastidiousness, the same instinct that had made her go back and pay for the pair of shoes she'd stolen on her first "job." She'd trained herself so carefully to follow all the rules.
She'd planned to just shove the door open, forcing the bolts through the doorframe, but the knob turned easily under her hand.
The door was unlocked.
Rogue experienced about two seconds of raw, walls-closing-in panic. She was an X-Man, trained to fight in teams, and she was completely alone with an unlocked door swinging silently open in front of her. This was a trap, and she was alone.
Her reflexes responded to the flash of silver before her brain even perceived it was there.
And there she stood, clutching in one hand the end of the gleaming metal staff that Gambit had swung at her head.
"All rise."
Scott stood up, yet again, tugging at the bottom of his suit jacket in the hopes that it still lay smooth. Last day. I'll be on my way home tomorrow.
He heard the judge's chair scrape against the floor of the bench. "Be seated."
And down again.
"Mrs. Braddock, are you prepared to make your closing argument?"
"Yes, your Honor."
"You may proceed."
Scott heard her stand up again, and her heels began clacking across the floor. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beseech you to remember that seven American servicemen are dead. Mr. Summers and his colleagues killed them. They did so deliberately, with a full understanding of the consequences of their actions. Mr. Summers, himself, has admitted as much to you."
He could hear pencils scratching madly behind him; the reporters were having a grand old time.
"Mr. Summers's mutant abilities are what many of us would call unimaginable. His genetic code allows him to manipulate energy in ways our best scientists can't even begin to understand. And he is far from the most powerful mutant in the Xavier Institute. Telepaths who can invade and control our minds . . . teleporters and phasers to whom walls and locks mean nothing . . . teenagers able to manipulate matter and warp reality without restraint, either by the laws of this country or by the laws of physics . . . and tech wizards who can do absolutely anything with a computer. There is no way to say for certain if there is anything mutants can't do. Seven American servicemen went into that house, and seven dead bodies came out. Every record provided by the U.S. Armed Forces and the New York State National Guard, including the testimonies of no less than nine eyewitnesses, attest to the fact that this action was a legal arrest. The only contradictory evidence was provided by the mutants themselves.
"American servicemen are dead. Their families need closure. The people of America need to know that mutants are subject to the rule of law. Scott Summers, alias Cyclops, is only the first mutant to threaten the safety of the people around him. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have an opportunity today to send a message and set a precedent. Human mutation is the defining issue of our age. You have the chance, here and now, to declare that humanity will not be cowed by the consequences of mutation . . . that mutants will be made to submit to the rule of law. Summers killed American soldiers in cold blood. He must be made accountable for that choice. A guilty verdict is the only one that you can legally and ethically bring."
Mon gar: dude.