Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 25

Continued from yesterday:

  One of the kids held up his hand. Simon. “Sir? I could have stayed in the art room instead of going off to -uh…” a telling hesitation, “do stuff.”

  Scooter gave him the fish-eye. A remarkable feat for someone with their eyes obscured. “We’ll discuss *that* part, later,” he advised.

  Bobby raised his hand. “I could have run for the extinguisher…”

  A group of other hands raised.

  “I could’ve gone to the rec. room and been there and changed things.”

  “I could’ve remembered.”

  “I could’ve–”

  Mort lost the plot as many other eager volunteers to take the blame overspoke each other.

  “I could’ve been with her,” Mort whispered under the babble. At the time, he’d been taking baskets of dirty clothes from washer to dryer, completely unaware of what had been going on above.

  If only…

  _Don’t blame yourself,_ said Xavier’s voice in his mind. _Even I couldn’t detect her peril._

  _Stay outta my head, thanks,_ he mentally growled. It had disturbed him how bloody easily Xavier got in his head. And took control. _I'll call when you’re wanted._

  _Very well._ And then he was gone. Just like that.

  The babble fell to an eerie silence, and for a minute, Mort wondered if Xavier had turned them all ‘off’. At least, until he found the focus of the room’s attention.

  Sara.

  She’d borrowed a top that barely qualified for the name. 'Front’ would be more apt, since it consisted of a single piece of fabric anchored at the neck and the back with spaghetti ties[1]. Hank had obviously forbade her to walk by herself, and pushed her into the room via a wheelchair. It had a drip-stand on it.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said Scooter.

  “The Professor did call *everyone*,” said Sara. “And what better witness than the survivor?”

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” murmured Xavier.

  “I woke myself,” she soothed. “Just in time for the APB[2].” She shifted, leaning on her uninjured arm. “If there’s anyone to blame… it’s me.”

  The entire room howled objections to that - though the adults were a little more restrained than the kids.

  Scooter and Xavier both pleaded fruitlessly for quiet and order. All Sara had to do was hold up a finger. Very shakily as it happened, since that finger belonged to her injured arm.

  Mort could see the spots of pain firing. Little blips of red amidst the sickly yellow. There was less of it, true. By the afternoon, she'd be free of caution. But that didn’t stop him wanting to run to her and do everything he could to ease her discomfort.

  “I knew it was happening,” she said. “I could have 'called’ for someone to… help, despite my considerations for Mr Summers’ nausea. But I didn’t. I went *looking*, when all I had to do was *think*… and then capacity for thought fled. I was stupid. In more ways than one. This is *my* fault. Don’t blame anyone else?”

 [1] What the hell are these called? I refer to them as 'hankie-tops’, but I know that’s not the name for them.

 [2] All Points Bulletin - basically, everyone gets notified.

~

  Rogue tapped Mort on the arm. “Why is she defendin’ him? Ain’t he the guy that’s keepin’ you apart?”

  Mort had the goofiest look on his face. “That’s Sara,” he said. "Defending the defenceless…“

  She had to smile, knowing what it was like to be in love. But this was an adult in love with someone her own age… more or less. "How’s it… gonna work with you?”

  “Day at a time?” Mort shrugged. “Any day, she can wake up to 'erself an’ realise… there’s lots of better fish in the sea. I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  _Ouch,_ thought Rogue. He really *had* given up on self-worth. It was hard to hate him, having witnessed what she had. Harder to comfort him, given the age gap between himself and the girl he loved. She laid her gloved hand on his arm, giving him a companionable squeeze. “She saved your life,” she said. “That’s gotta be worth somethin’.”

  “Everythin’,” whispered Mort.

*

  Scott stared down at the girl he was usually used to looking up at. "Are you *serious*? I got you exactly the wrong coat… I let you go on your own…“

  "Mr Summers, are you suggesting a Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda duel? I know what my body does. If there’s any better judge to care for me… they're welcome to step forward.” Her eyes flickered, however briefly, up to the corner where Toynbee was.

  Toynbee flinched in his seat, then forced himself to stay still.

  “It’s still my concern to see to the safety and wellbeing of the students here,” he said. “The fact that you’ve been in so many accidents in so many days… points to a dangerous lack, somewhere.”

  Sara put up her 'well’ hand, smirk wide on her face. “Speaking,” she chirped. It wasn’t funny. “Everyone else is accident-free. Mishap-free. Incident-free. Ergo, the flaw must lie with me. Straight-up logic.”

  “So… logically speaking, what can be done to prevent further - trouble?”

  “A bodyguard-keeper,” said Sara. “Or a set of them. I know one person who would volunteer on a permanent basis–” again, a flicker to Toynbee, "–but we’re all honour-bound to stay away from that option.“

  They drew up a schedule, in the end, of students and staff who were willing to keep Sara 'company’ during her many waking hours. And it would start the instant she left the infirmary.

  As Hank began to wheel her out, he said, "Mr Toynbee, I request and require your assistance with Miss Adrien’s wounds. At your earliest convenience, of course.”

  Toynbee all but leaped to his side.

~

  Sara leaned forward instinctively, trying to get away from the pain despite the fact that she *knew* it was part of her. Her right arm cupped her borrowed top to what could charitably be called her bosom, and even then, the straps were like ribbons of fire.

  “Strings,” she said urgently. “Inna back, please. Please… undothestrings…”

  A kind hand - Mort’s, if she could judge by the relative coolness - pulled gently on the ties and moved them away from the searing agony that was her back. A cool, careful touch spread blessed numbness across the area.

  “Move out from the middle, dear,” she advised as soon as she could breathe easier. “I know what this has to cost you.”

  “Just a memory, luv,” he soothed. “Makin’ itself useful for the first time in forever.” His touch lingered on the more painful bits, though she could feel little else but the pressure of his hand. He worked on her arm, next, carefully guiding it about so he could - well - apply himself.

  There was no pain in his eyes, just - concern.

  Sara watched idly as the illusion of popping red bubbles of pain on her skin settled down into little red freckles amidst a sea of vomitous yellow-green. “You’re a minor miracle, Mr Toynbee.”

  He smirked at that, and bowed and kissed her hand. “And you, Miss Adrien, need to look after yer fool bloody self, awrigh’?”

  She could feel the idiot grin overtaking her, even as they wheeled her into the warmed infirmary. “My dear Mr Toynbee, for your sake, I think I should eschew ice-cream forever.”

  “Wouldn’t make you do that. Just until next week, eh?”

  Her skin pulled at her as she moved, but she performed the necessary stretches anyway. “A small thing bothers me, though… Did you or did you not leave an ample supply of your secretions with Dr McCoy?”

  “I thought I did…” said Mort.

  Hank turned back to them from his computers. “Testing has proven that the beneficial effects of Mr Toynbee’s -er- epidermal discharge lose efficaciousness on the shelf… and all attempts at replication have been - less than encouraging.”

  “I thought this bugger spoke English, luv,” said Mort.

  “Hank said your miracle goo loses potency over time,” she translated. "And what a champion liar he is, too.“

  Hank grinned. "Took me ages to find the right circumstances to spoil the stuff.”

  “Cheers for the Scooter conspiracy,” laughed Mort.

~

  Apart from the periodic visits from Mortimer, it was a dullish day. Visitors drifted in and out to check up on how she was doing, ask the obvious question - “Does it hurt?” - occupy her mind and time for a while and then drift out again.

  Sara never thought she had so many friends.

  _A month ago, a realisation like that would have had me in a twitching heap…_ Sara pondered. _Huzzah for the Professor’s mantra, it seems._

  “Deep thoughts?” prompted Kitty.

  “Self-realisation,” said Sara. “I really messed myself up over the last decade.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You had help.”

  “From every quarter, yes.” Mortimer’s miracle goo actually sped her recovery to the point where one could watch it real-time. It tended to distract her from the chess game if she let it. Sara moved a knight. "Now that I have genuine help, I have trouble accepting that it exists.“

  "Trained into bad thought,” said Kitty. “Y'know… we *could* prank you if you think it’d help. Shaving foam in the phone… spring-snakes… a 'compliment me’ sign on your back…”

  “Once a week, perhaps,” said Sara, laughing. “I wouldn’t want to start thinking people had something *against* me.” She observed a 'wave’ of scales turn from sickly yellow pain colours to pale green-blue, and then fade into her proper aqua. “Beware, though, I may retaliate… creatively.”

  “We’ve found your movies,” said Kitty, moving a bishop. “I think we're warned.”

  “Oh *dear*,” said Sara. “All of them?”

  “Kurt said they were masterpieces in schlock parody. A bunch of us had a movie marathon. Priceless stuff, girl. 'You just love me for my braaaaiiiinnnnsss…’ the whole room was ROFLTAO[1].”

  “I *said* it was an immortal line,” Sara considered the board. “Are you distracting me from a check in five?”

  “No, I’m making pleasant conversation. And you’re sick, so I’m letting you win.”

  “Excuses, excuses.”

  Kitty poked out her tongue. “Anyway, we’re driving Scooter-boy nuts by quoting bits of dialogue out of context. All freakin’ day. So far, the STFU count is up to twenty.”

  “You really should ease up on the poor man. He’s recently bereaved.”

  “That’s no excuse for him being an asshole.”

  Sara moved a castle. “If you saw *your* best-beloved near-fatally attacked by someone… someone who turned up in the tow of a presumed innocent who happened to claim they were a changed individual - would *you* believe?”

  Kitty sighed. “Damnit… quit taking his side.”

  “It isn’t about sides, dear. It’s about perception. About the way people see things. Add to the existing predicament the fact that our age difference makes things… difficult… and you have the whole can of worms.”

  Kitty rolled her eyes. “Geez. Back in the middle ages, girls of twelve were marrying guys of thirty and nobody said *anything*. It's the way things *worked* back then. Hell, old rich guys marry barely-legal twigs after abandoning their *real* family and nobody says a thing.”

  “Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s an old *poor* guy and the twig in question is both affluent and his first love?”

  “Now *that’s* a theory to put up for debate,” Kitty laughed. “Age and affluence versus allowable coupling choices.”

  “Certainly one to hash out into social math,” said Sara. “Your move, dear.”

  “I know. I’m trying to put it off.”

 [1] Pronounced row-ful-tay-oh, and short for Rolling On (the) Floor Laughing Their Arses Off.

~

  “…no, I gave the *peasant* the pellet with the poison… bwee-heeheeheehee…”

  Scott rolled his eyes and tried to ignore it as he strolled with Professor Xavier through the corridors of his institute. Well, to be more correct, he strolled and the Professor piloted his chair from one place to another. It didn’t help that they were keeping tabs on the number of times he told them to knock it off[1].

  “Silly season seems remarkably focussed, this year,” noted the Professor.

  “They’re punishing me for the deal,” he said. “Kurt and Emilia's lessons on how to read people are kicking in *fast*… they know exactly where the line is.”

  “…don’t you listen to the song?[2] Now look what you’ve done - untold evil everywhere! Heheheheheh…”

  “And some of them are balancing on it,” said Charles. His mouth still quirked in a smile that wasn’t strictly allowed. “Did they put your room back the way it was?”

  “More or less,” Scott blushed, deciding to omit their addition of Inflatable Ingrid[3] to his bed.

  “I’m not cleaning *that* up for you, young man.”

  “Aaaw, *maa-aaaaa*…”

  The two students ran giggling away while Scott rubbed at the incipient migrane. “On the plus side, they’re exhibiting working knowledge of strategic planning, precision strikes, psychological warfare…”

  “Yes. You’ve found me. Meep. Meep… hahahahaha…”

  “Will you kids knock it the heck off?” Scott bellowed.

  “Twenty-five!”

  “Twenty-five on the tab!”

  “Twenty-five!”

  “Twenty-five, *yay*!”

  Scott winced. He’d sworn he’d never yell at them again, and he swore so anew, now. “They’re really *fine-tuning* the psychological warfare…”

  The Professor was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “When I warned you that you’d come to regret your decision, this wasn't precisely what I pictured.”

  “There’s definitely plenty of damage, sir,” said Scott.

  “Damage?” queried the telepath. “Scott, what you’re dealing with is fallout. Miscellaneous flack from the very edge of the problem.”

  “But… nothing else has been happening…”

  “Look again,” said the Professor. “Sara’s seizures have been more frequent, this week, haven’t they?”

  Scott stopped cold. Her seizures, he knew, were caused by stress. Usually, the stress of unexpected kindness working against her anticipation of unpleasantness in her immediate environment. However, other stresses could work to trigger off a fit. The meditation regime had helped, true… but there *were* more of them. Moments when she grew close to what the Professor called a fatal break.

  One of them had been when she’d panicked in front of him… before he’d started the chain of events that lead to her setting herself on fire.

  And what had the girl panicked over?

  The fate of Toynbee… and whether or not they’d ever be allowed to share the same air again.

 [1] And anyone who knows what STFU stands for will know that Scooter self-bowdlerises.

 [2] There’s a sorta swing-esque song called _Don’t Go In the Basement_ which I mean to make a clip someday ;) [And it’s the version by Oingo Boingo]

 [3] Side-fling to _Red Dwarf_

~

  “Sara! *Hey*!”

  “Back in the land of the living!”

  “How’s the burns?”

  Sara smiled. Therapy *had* to be working. This sort of warm welcome used to have her flinching in anticipation. Or twitching. Or both. The fact that she could smile back and come up with a witty reply was a huge leap forward. “It hurts and stings,” she said. “Hence the supremely loose mega-shirt.”

  “You could fit three of you in that thing.”

  “What the heck is a thy-la-kine, anyway?”

  “It’s pronounced 'thy-la-seen’ with a soft th'th. Better known as the Tasmanian Tiger.”

  “Aren’t they extinct?”

  “Oh, there’s been progress in bringing them back,” Sara breezed. “Last I heard, they *nearly* had a viable foetus[1]. It’s one of my not-quite scams.”

  “A scam?” said Piotr. “I thought you were a *good* girl.”

  “Once upon a time, when I was three,” Sara grinned. “This one kind-of started as research into how gullible people were… and then it started making an immense profit, so… I legally donate a percentage of the proceeds towards the thylacine projects that are making the most progress.”

  “But - *free* the thylacine?” said Avery.

  “That’s the gullability part.” Sara shrugged as much as she was able to. “I figured most Americans wouldn’t know a thing about anything beyond their own stomping grounds, so…”

  “You picked an obscure place with an extinct critter to 'free’,” Amy rolled her eyes.

  “The Dodo was completely out, of course. It’s *famous* for being extinct.” Sara gestured at tossing the idea out of the window. “But our dear friend the marsupial 'tiger’ has *just* enough cryptozoological credit on its side that I had volunteers willing to buy nature reserves for them.”

  “Yike,” said Bobby.

  “I know some people you could sell those shirts to,” said Sam.

  “I’m still doing a roaring trade… though some people confess to buying it for the irony factor - and being asked by strangers about how they can contribute.”

  “*Oy*…” said Kitty.

  Rogue considered all this. “Damnit… now *I* want one.”

  “Twenty bucks. No friendsies discounts.”

  “It’s still worth it.”

*

  Mort sighed. So far, he’d narrowly avoided self-injury in the kitchens, the laundry *and* the feeder bins. On the average of twice every hour.

  Sara’d never forgive him if *he* wound up bruised, burned, battered or broken so close to the finish line.

  Day four was nearly over.

  Three more days.

  He could last three more days.

  Especially after he’d half-inched[2] one of her shirts from the laundry and concealed it under his pillow. All right. So *maybe* keeping a girl’s clothes to sniff wasn’t exactly the first word in chivalry… but it helped him keep *sane*. It gave him an anchor.

  It helped him *sleep*.

  He was wearing down to a frazzle and it seemed everyone knew it. They passed on news, quotable quotes, notes, anecdotes… every little snippet they could glean. All so he could relax just a little bit and stay saner for a few minutes longer.

  Mort, during his free time, gained his old strength and agility back in the gym. He sparred against the training tree[3] and any shadow that he spotted. He threw himself into routines old and new.

  Had to wear out the body to prevent the mind from whirring off into unwelcome tangents.

  He was probably in better fighting form than he’d ever been in before. Better, even, than his peak under the constant jibes and taunts of Magneto. Mort didn’t care what the old fart thought of him now. The old fart had certainly forgotten about *him*.

  Amazing how deep a Dragon’s claws could dig… even after escape.

  A splintering crack woke him up from the rythm of the dance. Fuck. He’d just broken one of the knobs off the training tree. He’d have to pay for that.

  Double fuck. Splinters in his hand and wrist.

  Mort took himself to the nearest bin and began plucking wood out of his wounds, staving off his usual pain response until he was sure he was clean of all infection vectors.

  “Impressive,” said Logan. “You should be teachin’.”

  “Ain’t no sensei,” said Mort. “I just dance.” Ooze and blood mixed, dried in the air he blew over the area. Set itself into an interesting scab. “And I ain’t teachin’ the way I fuckin’ learned.”

  Logan just shrugged. “So teach in a better way. Teach 'em to survive.”

  Mort gave the man a glare. “Sure that’s a good idea? I know some 'survival skills’ that’d put me straight back in the fuckin’ basement.”

  “Lockpicking? Escapology? Street-fighting?”

  “All of the above *and* 'other’,” said Mort. Had he dripped on the floor? No. Less work for later.

  “Good. Kids’ll need that and then some.” Logan grinned. “It’s all well 

and good having a discipline, an’ knowin’ the rules… but when it gets 

down to the dirt, the dirt don’t care.”

  “Too bloody right,” said Mort. He thought about it. Considered the possibility. Professor Toynbee… learned applicator of Surviving Shit 101. Well… maybe with a fancier name. “Scooter know about this?”

  “He thought it was an idea.”

  But not necessarily a *good* idea, or one with moral merit. Mort grinned. “When do I start?”

 [1] Like I said, 'not-too-distant future’… and someone’s *bound* to have been doing *something*.

 [2] Cockney rhyming slang. Half-inched = pinched = stolen.

 [3] That wooden post thingy with projections poking out of it. Used in some martial-arts movies. If anyone has the official name, I’d be glad to have it.

~