Continued from yesterday:
Nightcrawler sighed as he eased the armour off his aching shoulders. It didn’t usually bother him but he’d been rather…active…lately, as the television, quietly droning away to itself, paid testament.
He flopped down in a battered armchair, watching with little interest as the news anchors talked about him and his recent public appearance. They were appalled at what had been done to the little girl…and equally appalled at his solution to the problem.
For the most part…
The interviews with the people in the street were very much mixed. The Jewish community in particular seemed to be behind him.
“Wish someone had done the same for us.” One man said.
“Those jerks deserve everything they get!” A young girl, obviously his daughter, growled. “I hope they string him up by the…” Her final word was censored out.
Nightcrawler allowed himself a smile.
He sensed rather than heard someone enter his private chamber. He knew who it was even before she spoke a word. He knew them all by the way they moved.
“How goes the poll, Spiral?” He asked, not even turning to acknowledge her.
“Most of ‘em agree with the kid.” She gestured with one of her many hands at the screen. “Some want him turned over to the proper authorities…”
He rose then to face her. “I take it you have another opinion?” He said as he walked towards her.
“I say we just gut the bastard!” She snarled.
“Spiral.” He warned. “You know my feelings about that.”
“Thou shalt not kill…” She sneered.
“Besides…” Nightcrawler smirked. “If heís dead…he canít suffer.”
She smirked. “I guess thatís why youíre the boss…hmmmm…?”
“Damn straight.”
“But the mantle of leadership weighs heavily on your head…”
“Come again?”
“I can see the tension in your shoulders from here…” She strolled towards him, placing a hand on either shoulder and spinning him around so he faces away from her. He winced as she dug her fingers into his flesh. “God…you’re hard as rock…” He hissed as she twisted knuckles into knotted muscles.
A second set of hands slid down his spine and began to work on the small of his back. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. Nobody could give a massage like Spiral.
It wasn’t until the third set of hand skimmed his belly and began to head southwards that he tensed again.
“Rita…” He warned. He rarely used her real name. It always had an impact.
“I know you want it…” She purred as she ran her tongue up the curve of his pointed ear.
He stepped away from her then, turning to face her.
“You have no idea what I want.” He told her.
“You sure about that?” She asked, arching her back in a way to emphasise her…assets.
“I can’t show any favouritism amongst the troops.” He said. “What kind of leader would I be?”
“Humph.” She pouted.
“Now go and check the poll results.” He told her. She spun on her heels and stalked out.
He flopped back into his chair with a shuddering sigh. She hadn’t been entirely off the mark.
He was, after all, only human…
~
Stacy was in the shower while Warren thought. He thought best when he was comfortable and *that* meant freeing his wings. Which, given the atmosphere of anti-mutant hate, meant being in private.
He really didn’t *want* to stop flying. Not really. He bought a wing around him, touching the feathers.
“Stacy was right,” said Greg. “You really shouldn’t have to hide them.”
“People make a lot of assumptions when they see them, though,” said Warren. “They’ll judge me by these - or as a mutant… just like they judge me by how many times my face gets on _Forbes_…”
“People judge people, it’s what they do.” Greg laughed. “Remember Kinky Julie? Wanted to do it in flight…”
“Yeah. I told her she’d need a safety harness… and she told me she wasn’t into B&D… Weird girl.”
Stacy emerged in a bathrobe. “You know, you don’t *have* to be your Daddy’s little boy. I’d say you’re… maybe - twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“Twenty-two and a half.”
“*So*… you legally own stuff, now, right? And that includes your right to make decisions.” She sat herself down, in all her be-scaled glory. “You can mutilate yourself to gain approval.”
“Nice phrase,” said Warren. “What happened to 'undergo cosmetic surgery’?”
“I prefer to tell the truth about certain things,” Stacy smiled. “And it *is* mutilation. Just like stripping my skin off and giving me grafts from a norm.”
Greg shuddered. “Eurgh. That sounds *awful*.”
“That’s what I thought when my parents suggested it. I’m not into pain. So I ran away. Turns out some people *like* the unusual… it paid the rent.” She shrugged.
Warren had a look of horror on his face.
“Relax. Most of the time, they wanted to talk. The rest of the time it was fun. I’m cool. Long story short, my boss found me and we started a little mutant-friendly organisation.”
“Xavier’s?” said Greg.
“No. We’re more - subtle. A place of sanctuary, if you like. Built by mutants for mutants and of mutants, you know the deal. Thing is, we got more mutants than we can support, Xavier’s prefers people who can 'pass’ - and we need someone on our side who can help us out.” Stacy recrossed her legs.
“Xavier’s is open to *any* mutant,” argued Warren. “It’s a freaking *school*.”
“Yeah? Seen all the people there?” Stacy challenged. “Tried to play 'spot the norm’? That’s why they want you. You’re different, but still acceptable. Who could honestly hate an *Angel*?”
“And you want me for my money,” said Warren.
“At least I’m honest about it,” Stacy grinned. “Think about it. Take your holdings and stock and buy a building complex. Hire mutants and mutant-friendly norms. Start tolerance.”
“And your organisation fits in–?” prompted Greg.
“Underground. We’re covert and discrete. Mostly.” She glared at the television. “Oh *fuck*, no…”
Greg found the remote and turned up the volume.
“…Men under *this* man’s command exterminated her family and took her from her home. Scientists under his orders tattooed her. They put numbers on her arm…”
“…shitshitshitshitshit… *No-ooo*…” Stacy muttered.
“Holy–” said Greg.
“*Fuck*,” said Warren.
Stacy had her hands over her mouth. “…that was why…”
The watched the rest of the broadcast in silence. Stacy wound up cowering in Warren’s arms.
“Okay, so he’s a psychotic bastard, but *damn*, you gotta admire his style,” said Warren.
~
'So this is what the government sends me,’ growled Warren Worthington II, resplendent in an Armani suit, surrounded by grim bodyguards, 'a slut a thief. Fantastic, just fantastic.’
Storm bristled under his remarks, inwardly cursing both him and Dann for giving her such a ridiculous outfit. Gambit, however, merely lounged in the shadows.
'Remy thinkin’ you shouldn’t be sayin’ such rude things,’ he drawled, 'not to people tol’ to protect you, least ways.’
The suited man sighed, and pit his lip, 'I’m sorry,’ he said, 'but I'm tense. Worried. But I’m glad you’re here, really I am, it’s good to know you’re here.’
'We’re just doing our jobs, sir,’ said Storm, though inwardly she knew that, if this was anything else but professional, she would hand his head to Nightcrawler in a moment. But she had her duty, to herself, to Dann, and to all of mankind. She couldn’t afford to let her emotions get the better of her. She sensed Remy felt the same way.
'How’s de pole going?’ asked Remy lazily.
'Not good,’ replied Worthington, 'some of the people are demanding justice, but most just want to see his head on a pole. God, and to think I might be next…’
'It wouldn’t be without reason,’ murmered Storm softly, and winced at her own words, she hadn’t meant that to come out aloud.
As it was Worthington’s two, sharp blue eyes turned on her, biting deep with their gaze. 'I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said softly, 'and you’re right, they do have their reasons, and so do I. Not everyone is happy to be mutants, not everyone wants their children to be freaks. There’s a war coming, you know. More and more children are being born mutants, and they’re a danger to us, wether they know it or not, whether they mean to be or not. And one day either they'er going to kick out or we are, and when that day comes they’ll be blood and death and one of them is going to be sent to the gas chambers… I just thought… I just thought that it was better a few die now than billions later. I… I did it for the children[35], I did it for my son…’
He suddenly stopped, as if something had struck him.
'Oh god,’ he murmered, 'my son! he’s out there! I have to call him, have to check he’s OK…’
'Sir, I’m sure that he’ll-’ Storm began, but Worthington waved her into silence as he put his mobile up to his ear.
'Hello… hello? Warren? Is that you?’
*
Warren winced, the happenings on the TV screen had distracted him so much he’d picked up the phone without checking who it was first, and now he was placed in the unpleasant circumstance of talking to his dad.
'Hi father,’ he greeted, trying to sound cheery.
'Warren,’ his father’s voice replied, 'Warren I want you to get down here now, understand? I need you with me now?’
'Huh? What?’
'Warren, please son don’t argue with me now, just do as I say? Alright?’
Usually Warren would make up some excuse, or ask more questions but there was something in his father’s voice, a rare panic, that alarmed him.
'Fine,’ he said, 'can I bring round a friend? I don’t want to leave her here alone?’
'Can she be trusted?’
Warren turned and clanced back at Stacy, watching the TV screen, mouth agape, as though hypnotised by the moving images.
'I trust her as much as I trust anyone,’ Warren replied.
That answer seemed to satisfy his paniced father, 'fine,’ he grunted, 'bring her, but come quickly!’
Warren slammed the phone down.
'Greg!’ he called, 'do you mind staying here, I’m off to see my father, OK?’
'Sure,’ said Greg, slightly put off.
'Stacy,’ Warren turned to the woman in question, a smile turning the edges of his lips, 'you want a peek at Worthington industries? Fancy meeting my dad?’
'Sure,’ said Stacy, managing to tear her eyes away from the screen, 'sound’s fun.’
Warren picked up the keys to his car, then took a glance outside. The moon was just waning out of fullness, clouds dotted the starry sky, it was past 10pm, most people would be inside…
'On second thought,’ he mumbled, putting down the keys, 'let’s travel by air.’
His smile turned into a fully fledged grin as he turned back to Stacy, 'fancy a taste of the high life?’ he asked.
~
Warren let himself in from the balcony.
“Damnit, can’t you put a *coat* on? Did anyone see you?”
“I love you, too, Dad,” said Warren, heavy on the sarcasm. “This is Stacy Xarellai. A new friend. Thanks for asking.”
“Hi,” said Stacy.
“Have you made the appointment, yet? You never returned those–” Dad finally saw Stacy. “Oh my *God*… *What* have you bought *home*?”
Stacy arched an eyebrow. “And you want to please this man - why?”
“He *is* my Dad, you know.”
“I think I’m lucky I just got tossed out…” Stacy waltzed over to the Cajun and shut his mouth for him. “You’ll catch flies, hon. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”
He shook his head. “Uh-uh.”
Warren grinned at the guy. Everyone knew Remy “Gambit” Lebeau from the press releases. Even though Stacy was fully dressed, she had a certain effect on every male in the room, what with the lavender-purple scales and all. The only female, Ororo “Storm” Munroe eyed the girl with a raised eyebrow and some jealousy of her outfit.
“What appointment?” Storm asked.
Stacy leaned in for a conspiratorial murmur. “Daddy wants our boy Warren to mutilate himself so he can pass.”
Warren’s wings contracted towards his body of their own volution, as if cowering for protection. Warren felt an illogical desire to comfort them. When it came down to it, what did he want more? To fly? Or to fit in?
He couldn’t decide. Not here and now. “It’s a big decision, Dad…”
“*What* decision? You don’t wanna be one of these *muties* do ya?”
“Newsflash, Dad, I *am* one of these 'muties’. You can’t change *that* with surgery.”
“Besides,” added Stacy, helping herself to a cracker. “What if they grow back?”
Stunned silence followed her around the room.
“Some mutants do that, you know. Regenerate. As in *completely* regenerate. One of the kids does that. They took out her appendix and she grew a new one. Took out her tonsils and they detected a pattern. Our boss managed to rescue her before they turned her into an organ farm. Poor kid… They didn’t look at her talent, her smarts, her capability, her life– they just looked at what they could *make* out of her.” She sighed. “They didn’t even ask her if she *wanted* to do it.”
Storm winced. Gambit looked away. Warren looked down.
None of them looked at Mr Worthington II.
“Janet’s a generous kid,” Stacy continued. “She tried to run back - after she recovered - so she could help people, she said. We had to sit her down and talk through exactly what those people were doing to her." She paused for effect. "She was missing an eye, a kidney, a lung, and most of her liver at the time. They weren’t even waiting for her to grow them all the way back. Bastards.”
She stopped in front of the television, which was infinitely replaying the blue man’s speech, replete with the little mutant girl.
“Is it any wonder people like him pull stunts like that?”
“Just trying to stay out of the gas chamber, sweet stuff,” argued Warren Worthington II.
“By what?” said Warren. “Putting us *in*?”
“Gambit t'ink you nuts, homme,” said Gambit. “Lot of us, we jus’ wanna live like norms. So what if we do somethin’ odd? We let you be. You should let *us* be.”
~
Silence reigned. Either the statement had no appropriate riposte, or else nobody felt much like giving one.
Stacy flopped into a chair, trailing a hand over the plush arm. Warren moved to stand beside it, but stayed standing, allowing his wings some much needed but rarely given freedom.
“So where’s Mom?”
“Soon as I got wind of this thing, I sent her to her sister’s for the night. Had Westly drive her over in the limo. She’s always saying Sheila’s in need of company, after all, and I don’t want her around if those thi- people turn up.”
Warren gave his father a hard look. “Dad, what exactly is going on? Why did you call me down here? It sounded urgent on the phone, but you don’t seem to be in much of a hurry to tell me anything.”
“It’s complicated, son.” Mr. Worthington looked up at Gambit’s no-so-secret snort and glared. The cajun just shrugged, then went to the outside glass wall and opened the transparent door onto the balcony.
“Have we met?” he heard Storm ask, the first words she’d said since their new guests’ untimely arrival. “You two seem very familiar, but I can’t place my finger on it.”
He paused in the entranceway. “Anybody mind if Gambit go out few a smoke?”
Nobody answered, so he took his leave, closing the door and staring out across the expanse of night-lit New York. The Worthington Tower competed with many other buildings in this landscape to be, if not the largest, then the most impressive. Here on the hundredth floor, Gambit had a perfect view of all and sundry, and marvelled again at just how different the Big Apple was compared to his hometown New Orleans.
_'Cept N'Orlans ain’t Gambit’s home no more,_ he thought wryly, lighting up and puffing small clouds of grey smoke that whipped away on the stiff breeze. It was a crisp night, perfect conditions for flying. He smirked at that, casting a quick glance inside at the angel-man, then returning his gaze to the world at large, taking the opportunity to investigate the horizon for any signs of an oncoming attack.
A blue, furry, oncoming attack.
_Much as it pains Gambit to say it, he wish dey get de damn poll over wit’, so he know where he and Stormy standin’. Guardin’ dis kinda asshole not what he signed up for when he became an X-Man._
_________________
“Levelling off.” Piotr flipped at the controls, and a cluster of lights flashed and died. “Switching to stealth mode.”
Sat next to him in the cockpit, Jean gave her in-flight-buddy a curious look. “Airfield?” Generally, they only used stealth mode over airfields and military bases. The former because they choked up radar for passenger jets, and the latter because they didn’t particularly like being shot out of the air by 'friendly fire’, or whatever jackshit they were calling it this time. They’d lost the original Blackbird that way, and were in no hurry to lose her successor - originally named the 'Blackbird Mark II’ - in the same way.
Piotr took his eyes away from the controls long enough to smile thinly at her. “You are telepath. You tell me.”
Jean made a show of clasping a hand to her chest. “Was that a joke? Well, knock me over with a feather duster and call me Shirley.” She noted his confused look and straightened up. “Just a phrase, Petey.”
“Piotr. You do not like Jeannie, I do not like Petey.”
“No, I most certainly do *not* like 'Jeannie’,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “Being named after an oldie mouldie TV show is something I can do without - codenames not being flavour of the month with me right now.”
“You are still unhappy with your new name?”
“Of course. Just 'cause I shut up about it doesn’t mean I’m not still seething. Stupid Dann and his popularity counter. At least the rest of you got to pick your own codenames. I get one I didn’t want, don’t like, and would like to tattoo onto his forehead at the earliest opportunity.”
Piotr, sensing a need for conversational change, looked straight ahead and asked, “What do we know about this Corban person?”
“James D. Corban. Medical whizz-kid, started out at the Brand Corporation fresh from college, before moving on to work for Worthington Industries. I’m guessing bigger paycheque. Anyway, his specialty is genetics, and from what I can gather he wrote some 'wonderful’ paper last year about genetic manipulation. Talked about altering genes to eradicate things like hereditary disease, cancer and the like.”
“Sounds very noble.”
“Yeah, it does, until you realise his research can and has been warped in favour of eliminating the X-gene in unborn children. Seems Mr. Corban, like so many misguided others, looks on mutantkind as one big disease waiting to be cured. Nice sentiment, huh?”
Piotr couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Dann told you all of this?”
“Well, he said a lot of it. He was thinking the rest.”
“Jean!”
“What?” She took her hands from the controls long enough to spread them wide. “Look, I don’t trust the guy as far as I can throw him. Besides, he was projecting.”
Piotr just shook his head, a small smile gracing his lips. “How much further?”
“About fifteen minutes. Why?”
“I am betting I can make it in ten.”
~
9 minutes 30 seconds later they had arrived at their destination, but James D. Corban, as it turned out, was not a man to be reached easily. The maid at the hotel in Ohio took them to his room, where he had locked himself in, refusing to see anyone.
Jean and Piotr exchanged glances, a locked door would go nowhere near stopping a teleporter.
'Mr Corban?’ Jean called, knocking, 'Mr Corban, It’s Jea- I mean Miss Marvel, and Collossus, we’re here to protect you, please let us in.’
'Go 'way!’
The voice was muffled.
Jean sighed and gestured to Piotr.
'Bill Dann for the damages,’ he grunted to the maid before, with a swing of his massive fist, he smashed the door in.
Corban shrieked, and backed away into a corner.
'It’s OK, Mr Corban,’ soothed Jean, 'I’m sorry for that but we had to–’
'Go away!’ Corban screamed before she could finish. 'Go away! I don't want you here! I don’t deserve it! Go away! I don’t… I don't deserve… not after… God!’ His words dissolved into soft sobs, and he collapsed on the floor, rocking himself and crying.
Jean stepped in and took a glance around her. The room was neat enough, the only mess was a broken coffee mug on the floor. She noticed the TV was playing one of the news channels, playing the footage of Nightcrawer’s speech and the image of that little girl…
Corban still sat babbling on the floor, Jean moved towards him.
'Sir,’ she said, 'what’s wrong?’
'I’m sorry,’ he whispered, 'I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry! I didn't know! I didn’t think, didn’t question, I just tried to solve… I never asked… that little girl… God I deserve… oh I’m so, so, so sorry!’
Jean did a quick surface scan, he was upset, alright, and as guilt-ridden as a body could be.
'Tell us what’s wrong,’ murmered Jean, 'tell us what’s happened, perhaps we could help?’
'I don’t deserve any help!’
'Tell us…’
This last command was given with a soft, telepathic nudge, enough to break through the angst. They needed to calm this man down, to get rid of some of his own self loathing before they could begin to protect him.
Sniffling though the words, Corban began to speak.
'I… I’m a thinker. I get data and I think about it and I solve problems. Worthington industries, the government… they approached me, gave me the problem of mutants, said they wanted to know a cure, wanted to know if I was interested. I said sure, I… you mutants… you're works of genetic art, you really are and… and I just wondered how it came about, how it could be undone. I never thought… I mean, it’s like a puzzle, you take it apart to see how it’s used, you don’t think of the consequences… not really. Then they gave me this data, collected by their researchers, Greenwood and the rest. They said to me… they didn’t say… I thought that it was all voluntary specimens, I didn't think that they could… I mean… I had my suspicions, of course, but I just… I needed the money and I was so wrapped up on the problem! In the puzzle. Then I watch TV tonight and I see that kid and… shit… she can’t even be six yet! And I saw… I know some of the… the experiments she… Oh god! It’s my fault, all my fault! I deserve it all, I really do. Oh god!’
The man fell back to sobbing. Jean held him, not knowing how to calm him down, and unsure whether anything Nightcrawler or the public could think of doing to him could be worse than what he was thinking of doing to himself.
~