Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 14

Continued from yesterday:

  Magneto walked with ease behind the guard. As far as disguises went, having Mystique be a guard was an excellent way to get in to a facility.

  And it was personally amusing to get some use out of the late Mr Laurio.

  People never questioned a guard, never really looked at who they lead… never *thought*. He was just another man in a grey suit. At least, today he was.

  They found her meditating on a bench. The heater in the cell had ensured that she had taken her coat and shoes off, revealing that her most interesting skin could also blend when she was completely relaxed.

  Were it not for the clothes, which looked like the invisible woman was in the cell, she would have been impossible to spot.

  “Visitor,” said Mystique-as-Laurio.

  Eyes opened in the patch of wall where her head should have been. "They don’t let visitors down here,“ and she *moved*, revealing where her skin finished and the background began. The colours shifted and faded into the myriad of aquas that were her natural state. She was also as tall as advertised, almost towering over him, were it not for her tendency to stoop. "Erik Magnus Lensherr, I presume.”

  He tipped his hat. “Magneto,” he corrected. “You have me at an advantage, miss…?”

  “Sara Louise Adrien. This week’s news. So tell me… Why does a megalomaniac who survived the holocaust name himself after an engine part?”

  He and Mystique exchanged a Look. “If she’s a telepath, too, we might have a strong Beta,” Mystique murmured.

  “Everybody keeps *thinking* that,” said Sara. “Honestly, it’s just a question of observation and deduction…”

  Magneto decided to get back on the track. This child was erratic. Flighty. But he could gain control of her. “What is your *real* name, Sara?”

  “Abc'defghij'kl’m'nop'qrstuv'w'xyz[1],” she said, apparently amused. "Supercalafragalistic-expialidocious… Fimblamenacular-diatropetazatemine - but you can call me ‘Fimblar’.“

  "You don’t *have* a real name,” he said.

  “And you expect to give me one - *Magneto*?” she snorted. “I really have to know - *why* an engine part?”

  He bent the bars aside for her. “I am the master of magnetism,” he said. “Metal is mine to command.”

  “Even copper and aluminium? What about gold?[2]” Annoyingly, she remained inside the cell. “Superconductors? What happens if you get too close to a working microwave?”

  Maybe she was thick. He’d dealt with that, too. “Questions for another time, my dear. I’m offering you the ultimate freedom… the chance to step above those who have held you down.”

  She stepped closer to the gap in the bars. “Just like you gave it to Mort?” Her skin rippled with a band or two of black.

  “Ah yes. The Toad. I’ll gather him for you shortly, my d–”

  The next thing he knew, there was a pain in his face. An equal pain in the back of his head. Someone was screaming. Not Mystique. One eye wouldn’t open. He struggled to open the other.

  This child… this *slip* of a creature… had metamorphosed into a living demon. Her skin rippled with bands of black, red, and yellow as she held her own against Mystique.

  And worse yet, the child was winning through sheer, unadulterated rage and brutality.

  His vision waned.

  When he was next able to focus, the child-demon had him in a choke-hold. Distant figures, blurred through concussion, were moving closer to the scene.

  Mystique was down. One of her arms had been broken.

  “Give me one good reason,” the child-demon snarled. “Just *one*.”

  “Murder is for the unimaginative, Sara Louise.”

  “…charles…” he whispered. God, he never thought he’d be so glad as to hear Charles’ voice.

  “*Sara*…” an unknown. The blur was tall enough to be of her family stock. Perhaps her father or a close male relative. “What did he *do*?”

  “He *uses* people,” the girl managed, her fury plain on her face. “He used up Mort. He *hurt* him…”

  “Put the ole sod down,” said the Toad. “He ain’t worth it.”

  If he could but focus… Just one slip of metal. Just one wound…

  “But–”

  “Don’t become him?” Toad pleaded.

  The anger colours faded. Tears spilled and she put him down.

  Magneto was grateful for unrestricted air. He managed to sit up, smiling at Toad. “I knew…” he panted. “I knew you’d not forget your debt to me.”

  “Yeh. ’S'right. I owe you one.” He had a good run up.

  The last thing he knew was an incoming boot at warp 9.

 [1] Remember that song from _Sesame Street_?

 [2] Non-magnetic metals. I’ve wondered about this, myself…

~

  She was shaking. She’d just taken down the man who was possibly the world’s most dangerous mutant and she was *shaking*. Once she could control her breathing, she could box these shakes away…

  “Ride it out,” advised Daddy. “Let it go into the air. Don’t keep it.”

  Mort was keeping guard over Lensherr. The guard had transformed into a blue woman who was– oh dear. Sara blushed, grabbed her coat from inside her cell, and at least covered her over.

  “I did this?” she squeaked.

  “Weren’t nobody else,” Mort said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Lensherr, as if he were some kind of anti-leprechaun who would grant more evil to the world if he was allowed to get away. “Only caught the end of it, luv. You were fuckin’ *beautiful*…”

  Guards were arriving, now. Sara slunk back inside her cell and held on to the straight bars for support. If she sat down, her legs would refuse to work for half an hour.

  _It’s all right,_ soothed Xavier in her head. _They won’t blame you._

  _Meaning you’ll see to it personally?_

  A smirk. _I, too, once learned to tap-dance._

  The resulting kerfuffle passed by in a blur for Sara. She *wished* she could recall the exact dance of Xavier’s filibustering, but shock had disconnected her synapses. She’d remember the feel of her father’s hand against hers, the simple warmth of a parent’s loving touch.

  He never flinched. Not once.

  She remembered coming through the bent bars, rough blanket itching her skin, and watching Mort making certain the guards had Lensherr strapped down and given some chemical concoction that disconnected him from his powers. She remembered Mort asking if they could wake him up… grabbing the old man’s hair and yelling.

  “You got taken down by a couple of fucking *Gammas*, ya fuckin' bastard! 'Ow’s *THAT* for yer fuckin’ new world?”

  She heard her own voice, but never remembered actually speaking. “Mr Toynbee, really. The Dragon is dead. There’s no need for mutilation.”

  “Had t’ take the heart, luv.” He grinned - cheeky - and paced away from Lensherr. “You be all right?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve always been half-left,” she said as she was ushered into the next available cell. “I *would* be eternally grateful for a decent hot chocolate, though.”

  Mort’s hand against her cheek. A tender touch, as if afraid he would somehow break her. “Nuthin’ but the best, luv.”

  One by one, all the players in the drama filed away. Sara got her coat and shoes back. A styrofoam cup of hot, sugary tea was pressed carefully into her hands by a guard. And then she was alone again.

  Ugh. They put non-dairy creamer in it.

  Sara drank it anyway. Hot sugar helped with shock.

  Too frazzled to meditate. Too shaky and aware to nap. Too low on resources to create… Sara found interesting shapes on the walls with her eyes.

  It was something to do until the forces in charge decided what should happen to her life.

~

  There was quite a show of force for the final part of Sara’s trial. The assembled mutants in the audience of the court, along with those humans who looked 'mutant’ enough to have wound up behind the wire, sat in such profusion that Kurt had turned off his holographic disguise in order to fit in.

  The sandy-haired man near the front was the girl’s father, but it was the presence of the greenish man *next* to him that caused Ororo to stiffen.

  “Problem?” he whispered.

  “Toad,” she whispered. “One of Magneto’s henchmen.”

  “Not anymore, so the Professor said,” murmured Kurt. “Remember?”

  “It could have been a plot.”

  Kurt was still trying to figure out what sort of plot hinged on betraying someone you greatly feared when the key participants filed in. Some minor paranoia had caused the guards to block Sara in, thus obscuring all but the top of her head and the thatch of disorganised hair that rested there.

  They all rose for the judge, and sat again.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?”

  “We have, your honour,” said the spokesperson.

  “And is that verdict unanimous?”

  “Yes, your honour.”

  A piece of paper was passed between the jury and the judge. The elaborate pantomime of American law played out as the focus of so much attention rose.

  _Leiber Gott… she *is* that tall._

  “How do you find?”

  “In the charge of conspiracy against the President of the United States… not guilty,” the spokesperson read. “In the charge of terrorism… not guilty. In the charge of conspiracy to commit murder… not guilty. In the charge of incitement to riot… not guilty.”

  The court erupted. Sara’s jubillant arms enveloped both her father and the man Ororo had identified as 'Toad’. Applause broke out, barely suppressed by the judge’s gavel.

  He did rise and bring his hands together as himself… but he balked for the representational introductions and turned the more - acceptable face on.

  No sense in scaring the poor kid before they even got her inside the gates.

  Sam made the introductions. “Sara? This is Ororo Munroe and Kurt Wagner. They’re teachers at that school I was telling you about.”

  Sara’s greeting was entheusiastic - she hugged the stuffing out of them. She was grinning ear to ear and shining like some rare and exotic gemstone. She pulled back and clasped his hand. “Isn’t 'freedom’ a *marvellous* word?”

  She almost didn’t notice that she turned completely blue.

  Her eyes hadn’t changed colour at all. It was odd to see his colouring without those familiar yellow eyes staring back at him.

  Sara let go, distracted. “That’s never happened before…”

  Ororo and Toynbee were staring each other down like cats. She never once broke eye contact with him as she ran through the full spiel for Xavier’s marvellous institute-come-sanctuary.

  Then Sara said the words that started an entirely new mess of trouble.

  “Can Mortimer come, too?”

~

  Mort glared at the woman who tried to kill him. She glared back with equal venom. They’d both been in a battle on opposing sides. They’d both fought for their lives and various causes.

  At the time, all the old bastard had said was, “Go down there and delay them.”

  He’d been glad to comply, attempting to make 'daddy’ proud.

  Maybe his heart hadn’t entirely been in it with this one. Maybe he'd heard one too many snide comments from his alleged team… but he'd saved his one offensive weapon for last-ditch circumstances - and paid the price.

  He heard Sara’s innocent question and felt his heart stab him.

  “Don’t think I’d be welcome,” he said. “We got 'istory.” His body, unbidden, curled easily into a quasi-defensive posture.

  Just like Storm’s had.

  Both were waiting for the first one to strike.

  Sara sized up the situation in seconds. “I see. Ms Munroe, am I correct in guessing that you were on the side of the mysterious benefactors who chose to remain unnamed?”

  Storm looked startled[1]. “Are you–?”

  “She’s not a telepath,” said Sam, Mort, and the German guy together.

  “She’s reading us,” said the German guy. “And if I may say so; you're very good at it, Fraulein.”

  “Dankeschoen, mein Herr… aber ich bin nicht bis zum Niveau der legendderen Detektive, noch[2],” said Sara, blushing.

  Mort rolled his eyes. “Great,” he muttered. “Now she can’t take a compliment in *two* languages…”

  “Fifteen, at the last count,” murmured Sam. “I love you dearly, sweetie, but you’ve *got* to learn to stop at the 'thank you’.”

  Sara was shrivelling under their combined attentions. “…’m not worth it…”

  Fuck the weather bitch. Sara needed him. He wrapped an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “Hey. Shh… ’s all right. You got a whole bunch of people who reckon you *are* worth it. They’re *teachers*. They gotta know something, right?”

  Sara managed a little nod. “…mmm…”

  Sam was watching him with a raised eyebrow. Mort wouldn’t put it past him to know about Sara’s absolute faith in the judgement of teachers. It was one of the things he’d used to get Sara to try the more advanced courses in the first place.

  “So all we gotta do is go to your flat an’ get all your things packed right.” He couldn’t resist the temptation to brush the tears from her cheek. “You’re goin’ to a new school. You’ve got your second chance.”

  Sam ushered them out. “I’m sure we can discuss this over lunch… I know this nice little place where we can all manage the little details in a civilised manner. I believe some of your friends might be there, Sara…”

  “It’s *all* about second chances,” said Sara.

  _Aw *fuck*,_ thought Mort.

  She whirled out of his arms, walking backwards and only relying on the touch of his hand for guidance. “Ms Munroe… would you agree that death is the ultimate change?”

  “I–”

  “And having come as close to death as Mort has would improve a person’s perspective vis-a-vis action, consequence, and the path they choose for themselves in the future?” She was talking very quickly. Tapdancing… but not literally.

  “Ah…”

  “Ergo, coming dangerously close to death is the ultimate chance to be born again. Mr Toynbee *has* had that chance. My father is a witness. He *saw* Mort turn away from the path he’d once followed.”

  “…and spit in its eye, too,” added Sam.

  “He’s already *been* dead… why not allow him to reincarnate?”

  “Because some people don’t *get* that chance,” Storm said.

  “Then it makes the ultimate gift,” Sara persisted. “Give the chance that others couldn’t take… or weren’t given. I can testify that - since his recovery - Mr Toynbee has made a concerted effort to turn his life around… and in the process, help others. Isn’t that what *you* do?”

  “Your 'Mr Toynbee’ was a terrorist.”

  “So was I,” said the German. “Yet you gave *me* a chance.”

  “You weren’t in your right mind,” she argued.

  “There’s more than one way to control someone’s thoughts,” Sara argued. “Believe me, Mort bears the scars. Lensherr was a pro. I’ve no doubt he *learned* from pros… and yet, *somehow*, Mort’s managed to break free of it.”

  “You *can’t* trust him.”

  “Ms Munroe, I trust Mort implicitly. He stayed by me when he had no motive to stay. He caught me when I fell, and helped me stand when I needed support. In all good conscience, I can do no less than that in return. All he needs is a job and a place to stay. And what better place than where you can keep an eye on him?”

  God, he loved Sara-logic. She could twist things about so that they *worked* for an ideal good… that also left the opposition scratching their head and wondering how the hell it happened.

  The German fellow took up the baton. “Why not?” he said. “I don't think *anyone* wants a loose cannon running around free in New York.”

  _O, please, Br'er Bear… don’t throw me in that there briar patch…_ thought Mort. He decided not to say anything, concentrating instead on steering the still-backwards Sara safely through the pitfalls of New York sidewalk life.

 [1] Which I’m certain is Halle Berry’s one and only expression when 'acting’

 [2] Thankyou very much, sir… but I’m not up to the level of the legendary detectives, yet.

~