Continued from yesterday:
“I got Dianne to plead for shoes,” said Callisto upon her return. “As for scissors, I found a shaper who wants a crotch insert. Frontal wedgie.”
“Ig,” said Sara. “All alterations require the alteree to be nude for at least a day, alas.” She handed another thread to Mort, who began spooling. She had her own unitard down to rectangular pieces arranged on her bed. “At least until I have enough to start making extra. There's also a distinct possibility that I’ll get in trouble for this, so… let me catch the heat first?”
“Already done. Everyone’s standing well back to see what happens.”
“By the by, what does our shaper shape?”
“Metal.”
The spork snapped in his fingers. No. He’d have *noticed* if Erik was around. The old fart had an allergy to camps like this. Besides, he'd have been out of here and causing a riot in five seconds flat. Plus the sod was stuck in his hamster cage in the middle of a mountain, somewhere.
“Dear?”
Mort shook himself. He’d been so far into a panic attack that he hadn’t noticed Sara was talking to him. “Just… reminded of someone I… know.”
“Any relation to Erik Lensherr?” Sara guessed.
Mort was really, *truly* lucky he wasn’t holding anything else, yet. "You *sure* you’re–“
”–not a telepath. Absolutely. Complete dead-head.“
"You’re doing a very spooky impersonation of one,” said Callisto.
“Damn straight,” said Mort. He shakily reached for another impromptu spool.
“Just logic,” said Sara. “The news of a metal shaper inspired real fear in you, Mort. And there’s only *one* metal-shaper I’m aware of who can cause fear in *anyone*, so… I just had to allow for the possibility of equally psychotic relations. You know. Given that the X-gene can be passed along, and all.”
“Far as I know… he don’t have kids.”
Sara’s face fell. “You were at Liberty Island,” she whispered. "That’s where you got hit.“
He spooled faster than he ever thought possible. Get it done and get out. That’s all he had to do. "Just tell me to… piss off,” he said, feeling dead inside.
This is what happened when he *cared* for anything.
“Hardly,” said Sara.
Mort froze. “You wha’?”
“Okay,” said Callisto. “Now I *know* you’re freaking *nuts*!”
Sara seperated more pieces into piles. “Mort was… badly used,” she said. “I don’t think he owes any further allegiance to a megalomaniac who - I’m sorry, dear - abused him.”
“Allegiance, nah,” said Mort. “A bucket of fear… definitely.”
“But he can’t *hold* you with that. Fear ultimately leads to flight-or-fight. A very poor tool for keeping something, in my opinion." Another thread.
Mort drank in the feel of her hand against his as he accepted it. "He’ll find me.”
“You don’t have to go with him. If I can excape my dragon… you can surely escape yours.”
“When the hell did dragons get into this?” wondered Callisto.
“Shorthand,” said Mort. “You ain’t met ‘er… mum.”
“Fuckit. You two have your own language, *fine*. Just give me the cliff notes when you’re done. I need to see how Dianne’s getting on with negotiations.”
Mort grinned as Callisto strode out. She didn’t understand - couldn't understand - the infectious nature of Sara’s personal shorthand. After a while of living in her orbit, you just - picked it up. Or enough of it to work out the rest.
“Very shrewd of her, you know.”
“Hm?” said Mort, prone to be agreeable.
“Sending a visibly pregnant woman out to ask for something that everyone obviously needs. Rather devious, actually. They won’t be inclined to shoot, and men tend to be subtly scared of pregnant women. Puts us on the home field advantage, as it were.”
“Fuckin’ spooky impersonation,” said Mort. “Pard'n th’ French.”
Sara blushed anyway. “I just put things together, dear. It’s not as if I can forget very much, anyway.”
*
Avery smelled popcorn. Someone had taken over the TV. Not that he minded, much. It was just that the night belonged to him and when it did - so did the cable.
He could see pointed ears on the sillhouetted head in front of the old black-and-white movie, and froze.
“His bathwater was tepid,” said a man on the screen. “Poor Lolita. I fear her married life will be the same.”
The dark shape chuckled.
Avery would later swear that he never made a sound, but the subliminal gasp and the shifting of his weight must have reached those ears.
“There’s plenty of room for two,” said the shape. “And popcorn to spare.”
Well… since he wasn’t doing anything but *sitting* there… “How'd you know?”
He turned, then, showing eyes that glowed in the dark. “These ears aren’t just to look pretty, ja?” He had a shy smile. “It’s okay. I scare a lot of people.”
“I heard you scared Kitty,” said Avery, feeling emboldened by his stillness. “Can you really stick to walls?”
“Walls, ceilings, floors… it’s all the same to me. Comes in handy when there’s glass on the floor to vacuum up. I never get any in my feet.”
“And the tail?” Avery was creeping up on him, now.
“Still permanently attatched,” the dark man joked. “I find it useful, so no trying to pull it off.”
He turned the corner, and now had a prime view of the mutant perched on the couch. There was no other word for that pose than 'perch’. At the same time both completely inhuman and yet - what with the tail - utterly logical. The physical oddities of his shape were seen, filed and adjusted to in a matter of seconds. It was weird, but that was how he was.
“What’re you watching?”
“_The Mask of Zorro_. A classic.”
Maybe in *Germany* or something. “Why’d they have to make the remake in black and white?”
Mr Wagner levelled a glare at him. It was the sort of Look he got a lot. It said, “You couldn’t have possibly meant what you just said, kid.” Aloud, he said, “Nein. They made the remake in *colour*. This is far older.”
Avery sat down and helped himself to the popcorn. “So where’s the old Zorro?”
“There is no old Zorro. He decides to become Zorro all on his own. Fighting for good against the corrupt officials, that sort of thing. A sort of Mexican version of Robin Hood.”
“Robin who?”
“You’ve never heard of Robin Hood?” Mr Wagner took a deep breath and started talking, movie forgotten. He easily spun a world of dark forests and noble bandits who stole from the rich and gave to the poor… full of derring-do and swordfights and archery and even romance.
“Yuck,” said Avery, when informed about Maid Marion.
“When you’re older, you might not mind so much…” Mr Wagner yawned. Wow. He really *did* have all those pointed teeth. “Ach. Sorry, junge… I really must to bed.” He reached over himself as he got up, grasped the back of the couch, and used it to stretch himself into an inverted U. Then he flipped over the furniture to land lightly on his feet.
“*Coooooolll*…” said Avery.
“Once again, the Incredible Nightcrawler wows his audience,” Mr Wagner bowed theatrically. “Guten Nacht. Perhaps I will share more tomorrow. You remind me, ne?” He turned away and blended right into the shadows as he walked.
Forget what Kitty said - which was easy, given the downside of his power - Mr Wagner was the *coolest*.
The movie playing on the screen was something boring and black and white featuring men in suits and women in ball gowns. Avery blinked the channel. What else was on?
~
Caroline Garvallo, Social Worker, was allowed in Sara’s apartment after the photographers had just about created a mosaic of the entire place. She made sure the hamster was safe, and visited him in Mrs Nezbit’s apartment before performing whatever maintenance Sara’s place needed.
“Lemme guess,” said Brisco as she let herself in. “You’re here about the damn candle.”
Caroline smiled and laughed. “It’s odd, I know, but I think Sara would just go to pieces if she even thought it wasn’t lit.” Wax was getting low, but it had a day to go, yet. She moved the whole thing out to the balcony, just in case she didn’t get in in time, tomorrow.
“Goren tells me she was keepin’ vigil,” said Brisco. “You know who for?”
“For whom,” said Caroline. “Darn. Now she has *me* doing it.” She put a new candle on the sill. “She’s keeping vigil for her father. He goes overseas a lot with work and it’s for months at a time… during most of which he’s incommunicado.” A flick of the day planner. “She’s had it burning since the move so he can find her, even though he’s not due back until… O my goodness…”
“What?” said Parr.
“Today. November the eleventh. He’s due home *today*.”
*
Sara stopped sewing, looking out into the middle distance. So far, she’d only taken a break for meals, lights out, and the inevitable call of nature.
“Somethin’?” said Mort.
“Daddy’s coming home.” Optomism turned into dread. “I don’t have a light burning. How can he find me?”
“He’ll figure it out,” said Mort, comforting her. “It’s not as if… we ain’t all over… the tube.”
“…i don’t have a light,” she whispered. Her hands had gone slack in her lap. Her work forgotten.
Mort hugged her shoulders. It was all he could do.
~
Sam Adrien staggered off the plane in zombie mode. Jet lag always got to him when he was on his ulcer meds. Brief paranoid check of all belongings… present and accounted for. Bravo. He lurched towards luggage and collected the wheelie suitcase that held all his other belongings. Now all he had to do was find–
“Sam!” The warm pink thing currently engulfing him *had* to be Jaquelline. Sara called him 'Daddy’ and attempted to crush his ribs. “O Sam… O Samuel, it’s been so *awful*…” She sobbed into his shoulder.
Priorities. Jaquelline had to know she was loved. Sam wrapped his free arm around her and found that little spot just behind her earlobe to kiss. “I missed you,” he sighed. And it was true. He missed her dearly. Every time he saw her, every time he went away, he was reminded of the jubillantly enthusiastic and bubbly Jaquelline he fell in love with. Whom he still loved.
Time and her own philosophy - her family’s ideals - had worn her down to a part-time monster wearing Jaquelline’s skin.
He lived for the rare, beautiful moments in which *his* Jaquelline shone through.
Her scent. The feel of her skin. The warmth of her and the rhythm of her heart… all of these had remained unchanged.
“O Sam… O Sam it was *horrible*. That *girl* of yours…”
_Danger sign number one._
“…she up and decided to be a *mutant*! Of *all* things, she has to be a *mutant*. O Sam. What else could I *do*?”
And speaking of the other lady in his life… “Where *is* Sara?”
“I told you. She became a *mutant*. She got mixed in with those *terrorists*. It was so *horrid*. It’s all over the *news*. O Sam… I'm at my wits end…”
Educating Jaquelline about why mutanthood was not a choice would take a long, long time. Especially with this level of hysteria. “Jaquelline. Beloved. Please… I just got off the plane and I’m still high on my medicine…”
“Of course. Of course. I’m so sorry, it’s just that you’ve been out of contact for so *long*.”
“I tried ringing, but the 'phone was engaged,” said Sam. _And for a month and a half, too._
Jaquelline managed a nervous laugh. “It must have been both of us trying to ring each other. Either good timing or bad, you decide.”
“Later,” said Sam. “Right now, I just want to catch up on my sleep and hold you for as long as I can.” And his suspicions about the tangled lines could wait until he could think.
His baby girl was in trouble… and he had a spouse to defuse. Never a good choice.
~
The metal-shaper was an overweight guy called Andrew. So far, he'd altered a metal tray to become a pair of scissors, pins, a container for pins, and now he was changing the unitard zippers with the happy mien of a man who soon would not be feeling pain every time he stood.
Sara sewed, as did Emilia and a few others who both knew how to handle a needle and understood Sara’s shorthand.
Their clothing was still yellow, but thanks to the lining they at least had a decent supply of underthings. Admittedly, they were all made out of rectangular pieces, but they *worked*.
None of the guards had said a word about Sara’s alterations to her jumpsuit in order to make it a two-piece with an ex-lining undershirt. Nobody seemed to be interested that, one by one, people’s shapeless yellow garments gained shape and style.
Mort felt rather proud that Sara still used his thread-needle, and even wore it like a badge on her jacket. Yet he still hung back from having his own unitard altered. Make no mistake, he was grateful for the boxers, but…
Something about waiting in the altogether for new clothes made him nervous.
He’d always hated being stared at, the open curiosity of others once they viewed his exposed body, the suppressed giggles and never-suppressed nasty comments. The mere concept of being so vulnerable to the rest of Sara’s sewing circle… made him feel worse than all the times the other kids at the orphanage had stolen his clothes.
So he waited, lounging on the upper bunk, watching protectively over Sara and observing the proceedings.
“Do you want to learn how to sew, dear?” said Sara.
“Nah,” he said. “Feel better up here.”
Sara looked up. “Enochlophobia[1]?”
Nobody else was looking at him. “Acquired.”
“I hear *that*,” said Dianne. She paused in her sewing to rub her belly. “Anywhere public… when I was out in the real world… I got obsessive. It felt like people were looking at my - growth… rather than looking at me. Sometimes, I felt like I was just something to haul the growth around, all day.”
“It’s the same when you’re fat,” said Andrew. “People talk to the stomach.”
Emilia laughed. “I had a friend who was very big up here,” a gesture at her own bosom. “She had trouble with people with people remembering her face.”
All the ladies laughed.
“Same problem, opposite situation,” said Sara. A motion chest-wards. "Obviously. I just test high on forgettability.“ Her needle never stopped moving. "Ever since… the riot… Well. People *see* me. They can’t help looking.” A brief laugh that had no humour in it and a great deal of nerves. “Mother always wanted me to be famous.”
Mort reached down to soothe her hair. All the comfort he could extend, right now. And even that took effort.
Andrew smirked. “You two *sure* you’re not a couple?”
Sara twitched. A violent jerk of her head. “That… doesn’t happen to me.”
_I want it to,_ thought Mort. _*God*, how I want it to._
Andrew gave him a Look. It said everything. He knew. Hell, he’d been there when Mort had failed to resist the lure of Sara’s lips… and the miracle of her return kiss. He doubtless knew of the seizure, that night.
Word like a re-living of _The Exorcist_ gets around.
The horrid things that came out of her mouth that night, said in another woman’s voice, still gave him chills.
Andrew knew and sympathised. He’d say no more about him and Sara. Especially not to Sara.
*
The President swallowed his fear. This was, at least to him, the third time that this mutant had been in his office. The only difference, the one that mattered, was that this time, he walked in.
“Guten Tag, Herr President,” he said.
He’d been expecting a growl. A snarl. Something from the pits of Hades. Not a warm, pleasant voice, softly spoken.
“Good day, Herr Wagner,” he said. It was an effort to shake that hand. He kept thinking how pale he looked against that dark blue skin.
A smile that was somewhat impish despite the sharp teeth. “You're doing very well, mein Herr… given -ah- previous circumstance.”
He laughed. “I believe I’m the first President to ever shake hands with a would-be assassin.” He gestured at the couches. “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”
“And the first President to shake hands with a known mutant,” he inspected the couch, and found a place that let him sit naturally despite the tail, which moved some cushions aside for the dark-skinned lady with the white hair that, perhaps, only he and the mutant remembered from his address. All this, he made to look like it was perfectly natural and everyday. “I consider that a step forward, at least.”
_One of a thousand miles,_ thought the President. “Well… let’s begin with the amnesty…”
*
One of the things about Jaquelline’s… problem… was that she was obsessive about proof. Sam speed-read the doctor’s documents and news clippings as Jaquelline spun it all into a personal plot against *her*.
It broke his heart.
“Jaquelline… *Jaquelline*… Please.”
She wound out of her rant. “Sam?”
“Would you blame Sara if she was born with a hare lip?”
“What?”
“Would you blame her for having a hare lip?” he repeated.
That gave her pause. “It would be a disaster, of course, but… that sort of thing can be *corrected*, Sam.”
“What about something else. Something that couldn’t be corrected? Something that made her different from birth - because of her DNA?”
“I– I– I guess not…”
“Being a mutant isn’t something you *choose*, Jaquelline. It’s in the DNA. Sara was *born* a mutant. Her change… is just something that happened because of it.”
“She did it to *spite* me!”
“Sara *can’t* have done it on purpose. Just like I can’t choose the colour of my eyes…” _…or how much I still love you, no matter what you’re doing._ “She needed her parents and you threw her out.”
“She took out a restraining order against me!”
“*After* you threw her out,” said Sam. “I have to ask - did she have to?”
This didn’t sit well with her. “You’re taking her *side*!”
“Someone has to.”
Accusations. “You don’t love me at all!”
Somehow, he retained the essence of zen. “On the contrary. I love you too much. You’re hurting yourself by doing this, Jaquelline. You're hurting our *daughter*. Your own *child*.”
“She’s no daughter of *mine*, I’m sure.”
“The DNA says otherwise, Jaquelline.”
Threats. “And I suppose you’ll want a *divorce*!”
Even in the calm of zen, tears slid from his eyes. “Never. But if you *must* make me choose between my beloved wife and my cherished daughter… I have to choose the one who needs me the most. Sara needs my help more than you do, Jaquelline.”
Jaquelline was flabberghasted. She regained her balance - barely - with another threat. “If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.”
“I’ll miss you,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper. “Just like I’ve missed the real you for over a decade. Just like I miss the real you in moments like this one.” He closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at the body of his wife when he said this. “Death is only one form of potential closure, Jaquelline. Are you sure you want to take it?”
Jaquelline’s only reply was an incohate squeak.
[1] Fear of crowds.
~