Continued from yesterday:
Mort had, in fact, managed to snag one wallet and quickly ditch all forms of ID and any kind of card with anyone’s name on it before he slowed to a halt outside of the TV store.
There was no sound, but the words scrolling across the bottom of the screens said more than enough.
_Mutants attack White House,_ the ticker read. _President is unharmed. Sources are uncertain which organisations, if any, are involved._
He felt like he wanted to throw up.
_This ain’t Magneto’s work,_ he thought. _Not Mystique’s style… It's *insane*. Who’d *do* this?_
Trying to lipread the newscaster, read the ticker, and watch the action at the same time made him feel dizzy. He could *feel* people staring at him from the side as they, too, caught what was going on. It was an effort not to hyperventilate in panic.
_Sara. What’s gonna happen to *Sara*?_
And then her scream, far distant. Calling his name.
Mort swam upstream against the solid blockade of milling people, dodging in all directions as he ran, trying to get there. When he did, he remembered too late that he didn’t have a key.
He buzzed the intercom with, “The fuck’s goin’ on?”
“…should you be unable to afford an attourney…” said a voice in the background. Eve.
“Stay right where you are, Mr Toynbee,” said Gonad. “We’ll be down in a minute.”
Then came the crisply starched stickybeak, just on her appointed hour. "What’s happening?“
"Haven’t the foggiest,” he said. “Some nutter attacked th’… White House.”
Stickybeak let herself in with a, “Stay *put*, please?”
_Fuck that,_ thought Mort, and followed her in. He thundered up the stairs while Stickybeak caught the anaemic elevator. When he got there, Sara was in handcuffs and Eve quickly read him *his* miranda rights for conspiracy to attack the White House, cuffed him, and gently propelled them both towards the lift.
Stickybeak emerged into the confusion, and once again, Mort didn't catch her name. He barely acknowledged Sara begging the woman to house-sit and feed Chuckie… keep the candle in the window lit for her father. Or on the balcony if she was unsure of the time she’d be there. Just one little visit a day. Ten minutes out of her time. Please.
And the next thing he knew, he was in the back of the police car, listening to Gonad and Eve argue about the validity of the charges versus how pissed off their boss was going to be.
The police band radio was full of mutant arrest chatter, requests for positive ID on various individuals, chasing down outstanding warrants on known mutant criminals, and basically arresting anyone who even looked funny.
They were panicking, arresting anyone who could possibly be a mutant terrorist.
They’d probably be shocked when they found out they actually caught one.
Him.
And he’d just damned Sara by association.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I can understand your curiosity,” said Sara. She thought he was talking about her stuff. “I can see why you felt compelled to pry when I wasn’t aware. You were even civil enough to put things back where they belonged… It’s just - I thought people respected locks.”
“They only use ‘em… to hide,” said Mort. “Ain’t no respect.”
“Ah,” said Sara. “The illusion of safety. Yes. So what, if anything, is truly safe?”
Mort shrugged. “Buggered if I know.”
~
It was a kneejerk reaction. Registered mutants, visible mutants, people who *looked* like they could be mutants… all were swept up for 'questioning’ by the authorities.
The cells quickly overflowed, forcing the police to improvise an enclosure and use it as a temporary holding facility. Word, of course, passed around and the secure perimeter soon gathered a crowd of screaming fanatics.
Sara was a dark, dark aqua, and she huddled in the shadows of her bunk. Mort could see that someone had managed to cut her peeling skin from her… and they hadn’t been gentle.
His own processing had been - rough. He had, in Sara’s words, 'gone automatic’ during the more brutal parts.
And Sara didn’t have that option.
He sat nearby, not invading her personal space. “Need someone?” he offered.
Sara lunged, draping herself around him and shaking with tears. "…they didn’ 'ave t’ be *horrid*…“ she managed around the sobs.
Mort gingerly patted her back, rocking her slowly. People passed him by, glaring at the two of them.
Mort returned the glare. Fending them off. Protecting her.
*
Piotr Rasputin watched the television. Like everyone else, he was riveted to the news. Here, in this safe house, he was watching the possibility of incoming danger.
People were talking about a 'huge conspiracy’ involving hundreds of mutants, most of whom were in New York. Once again, they focussed on their 'lizard girl’ who had been rounded up mere instants after the story broke.
She, like her partner, were visible mutants. Captured because of a unique rage overtaking the people. Piotr had seen it before, when anyone who visited a mosque or who was identifiably foreign was immediately suspect.
The only problem was that few people would *care* how many innocent were winnowed from the guilty.
It was easy for them to condemn a mutant for being a mutant. For being inhuman.
It would be easy for them to excuse inhumane acts *against* those mutants.
But what could he do here? Miles away from anybody and with the emergency resources the Professor had left in this place… he didn't have many options.
A Dr Hank McCoy appeared on the screen, calmly explaining that hysteria did not solve anything, and many mutants were more afraid of themselves than ordinary humans were.
Dr McCoy… He’d seen that name…
Piotr leaped up, dislodging Avery in the process, and reached for the small book near the telephone. Emergency numbers. He’d skimmed through them when they first arrived, but had been too frazzled to let anything sink in.
There he was. Dr Hank McCoy. Home, office, cellular, email, website…
Piotr muttered a prayer of thanks and started dialling.
~
Sara had cried her tears out and appeared to be vague and distant from some degree of shock. She clung to him, still, but payed little attention to the world outside her head.
Every now and again, she’d say some random phrase that may or may not have been related to reality.
”…they didn’t even let me keep my underpants…“
Mort actually remembered a fragment of that. Just the image of someone closing each article of clothing in a biohazard baggie for later examination. Nothing more.
All of the people here had found a bunk for one reason or another. Some obvious, like the very pregnant black woman with the growth on one side of her face… some not, like the vacant-eyed man just staring at nothing a few feet away.
Children uprooted from their homes cried and whimpered. Most of them were without comfort.
Almost everyone here was visibly different. Those who were apparently normal were either deep in shock or nervously watching the doors.
One was walking, checking on all the others. Picking up crying children and soothing them until their tears ebbed. Doing what little she could for the others.
The most noticable thing about her was that she was missing an eye. The black patch that covered her left socket and the scar that ran above and below told Mort that this was a woman well used to surviving, no matter what her life threw at her. She walked like a predator, but she *moved* like someone who deeply concerned. Someone who *cared*, yet was toughened by life into a dangerous creature.
Mort watched her listen to the pregnant woman.
"They bought me in for this,” she gestured at the disfiguration. “It's just a fibrous growth. It’s not even cancer, it’s just something that *happened*…” she sniffed. “The doctors are still tryin’ t’ find out what it is… an’ they bought me in fo’ bein’ a mutie…”
“Did they hit you?”
The woman shook her head.
“I know they strip-searched everyone… even the children. Did you see if they swapped gloves between probings?”
“…o my god…” whimpered the woman.
“They double-gloved,” murmured Sara. “Went through an even dozen per patient. Each set tagged and bagged.”
Mort checked her over. Her eyes were still distant. She wasn’t home, yet she’d answered with perfect clarity.
One-eye stared for a moment, then went back to subtle and gentle questions. How far along was the pregnancy? Were there any signs of mutation in the scans? Did anyone want a DNA test to find the X-gene? Were there official charges? Had she been read her miranda rights? Did she know what she was charged with? Could she plausibly prove an alibi? Did she know any really good lawyers?
After that, it was a set of instructions. The disfigured mother-to-be had to keep warm and try to relax. Focus on deep breathing and making herself calm. It was all going to be a big mistake and they’d be home and laughing before the end of the week.
“Hey,” she said to Mort. “Name’s Callisto. You two an item?”
“Kinda sorta,” Mort said. “She saved me life. I owe 'er.”
“Don’t talk a lot.”
“Got 'it by lightnin’. Can’t talk a lot.”
Callisto shrugged, checking Sara’s pupils by gently turning the girl's face towards the light and holding her hand between the light and her eyes. “She’s retreated. Happens to the sheltered ones. I’m guessing she was doing okay up until her arrest?”
“For limited definitions of… 'okay’,” said Mort. “'Er mum tossed 'er… for bein’ a mutie. She’s been copin’. Just.”
Callisto whistled backwards.
“Yeh,” said Mort.
~
Mort measured Callisto up. Same orange one-size-fits-most jumpsuit as everyone else. No harrassed demeanor, nor any sign of shock or surprise. Were it not for the eye patch and associated scar, she looked… normal.
“Appearances are deceiving,” said Callisto. “I’m a mutie, just like you two[1]. My big mistake was volunteering for the register up at my damn-sure-soon-to-be-ex-employers. I went quietly with the police about five minutes after the shit hit the fan. You?”
“I’m with 'er,” said Mort. “An’ she go’ in… trouble with th’ law. 'Er face fell off… inna public area.”
“Shit. I *knew* I knew her. Those fuzzy security vids did her *no* favours.”
“…where’s chuckie?” murmured Sara.
“'E’s safe at 'ome… everyone’s lookin’ after 'im.”
“Chuckie?” said Callisto.
“She’s got an 'amster.” Mort soothed Sara’s hair. “It’s agorophobic.”
Callisto stared at him. Even with one eye, she was good at that 'are you on drugs or just shitting me’ glare that required one eye to squint. "Never mind. I’m better off not knowing.“
”…i left the candle burning… what if there’s a fire?“
"Mrs Jones’ll take care… 'f ev'rythin, luv.”
“…how’s daddy gonna fin’ me now?”
Callisto sighed. “She’s going to have to walk it out. You two’d be better off staying more than a meter inside the fence. There’s no guards in here with us, and a thin security team keeping the crowds at bay.”
“Ta, luv.”
“Don’t call me 'love’ unless you mean it,” she said.
“Righ’. Gotcha.”
[1] And on a side-note - does anyone know what the *HELL* Callisto's powers actually *ARE*? I haven’t got any cannon refs .
~
Hank pulled up at the discrete little place, tucked away where nobody would look at it. He remembered it vaguely as one of the Xavier holiday homes. Now it had an underground complex beneath it that would rival the Pentagon’s nuclear fallout shelter.
It was a moment’s work to bring out the large stack of pizzas, and only a little fiddling to balance them all the way up to the front door.
The large young man that opened the portal had to be young Piotr.
The ravenous crowd that dissassembled the pizza pile had to be the survivors of the raid on Xavier’s institute.
“Beware of geeks bearing gifts,” he joked. “Anyone hurt?”
“Avery was hit by dart,” said Piotr, lapsing into a thick Russian accent[1]. “He does not sleep, but he is not aware.”
“And how long?” Hank measured the boy’s pulse, checked his eyes as best he could. Syncopated breathing, but he wasn’t showing any signs of being in medical trouble…
“Since the night… I am careful, taking the dart out.”
“Yes, I noticed the bandage…” reflexes still there. “Do you know if he has any bad reactions to stimulants?”
“He does not sleep. He never needs them.”
_Lovely…_ “Many mutants have ideosynchratic reactions to medication… Just a very small dose of a mild stimulant, then. And hope it works the way it *should*.” His bag was always stocked with a few of the odder requirements for mutantkind, including super-mild versions of over-the-counter medication. Just a few millilitres… “Cross your fingers…”
The needle went in perfectly. As did the medicine.
“…ow…” Avery blinked. “IthinkI'mgonnabesick…”
Piotr picked him up wholesale and bolted for the nearest bathroom.
“Dr McCoy?” said a petite brunette girl. “Do you know what’s gonna happen?”
[1] I personally abhorred that they gave Collossus an American accent in the film
~