Continued from yesterday:
Sara opened her eyes to Mr Scott Summers hovering over her. _Talk about unwelcome awakenings… is it too late to feign a blur into consciousness and fake a coma until he goes away?_
_Yes,_ ‘said’ the Professor.
_Fudge._
“What the hell were you thinking?” demanded Mr Summers. “This morning, you were a walking advice column and this afternoon, you’re unconscious from falling down a flight of *stairs* that you didn’t *see*…. What the hell is *UP* with that?”
“I was working on something,” she said. “Possible solutions to make the week go faster, combined with methods of proving Mortimer's integrity without actually communicating with him. I *meant* to walk down the hall, but I must’ve sidestepped in the wrong direction on autopilot.” Her fingers became briefly intrigued by the gauze. “I'm guessing I fell into something breakable?”
“You shouldn’t *be* on 'autopilot’ in the halls,” Mr Summers raved. "Are you aware of how close you came to serious injury?“
"Depending on the vectors, on a strictly straight-line basis, five centimetres to fifteen centimetres.” She blushed. “I kind of absorbed a copy of Grey’s Anatomy a long time ago, so I know where the arteries are… there were these rumours going around, and–”
“Sara,” said the Professor. “You’re not usually this careless.”
“I don’t usually come across social math,” she said. “I’m still trying to define the Summers equation.”
“Social. Math,” Mr Summers repeated.
“Blame Pythagorus. He said everything is numbers, and - short of finding your file and riffling through it - your numbers are interestingly complex.”
He faced the Professor and said, “I’m an *equation*.”
The Professor was rubbing his lips and trying not to smirk. “Actually, the concept is rather interesting…”
“You’re not helping, sir.”
“Consider it, Mr Summers. You make judgements on people based on the company you keep; and yet, I’m the innocent in need of protecting whilst Mortimer is still technically evil for his quote-unquote 'work’ with the megalomaniacal engine part.”
The Professor snorted.
“You *are* innocent,” he persisted. “You *believe* all the stuff he'd fed you. They’re nothing but *lies*!”
Sara sighed. “You haven’t had the chance to observe without bias, sir. Before I figured out exactly who he was, I knew that there was a history of abuse. I gave him medical care, and I *know* what inflicted wounds look like. I also know what self-inflicted wounds look like… accidental or otherwise. The proportion of accidental scars is minimal - and they are the only self-inflicted wounds available.”
“You can’t know how old those scars are - or how long he was working with Magneto.”
“I do know that some of them were rather fresh,” argued Sara. “And I have a very *long* familiarity with the healing rate of wounds.” She upturned her arms, showing the fine, pale lines across her scales where scars used to be on her pink flesh. “Vampire harp.” She restrained herself from glaring at the man. “Where is your evidence, Mr Summers?”
~
Okay. Focus. He was older than her, he knew more about the world[1] than she did. He could beat her in this debate. Besides, she was recently concussed. If she passed out, he could win by default.
_Wait. Stop,_ he told himself. _This isn’t about winning… it’s about saving her from a damaging decision._
“He was at Liberty Island… *as* it became an event.”
“Yes. I know.”
“When he was there, he tried to *kill* Jean.”
“He tried to,” she said. “He did not succeed.”
“He *could* have! If I hadn’t found her in time–”
“But you did. And you saved her.” Sara began folding her infirmary sheet along the top seam. Making a linen concertina. “Do you blame Mortimer for her actual demise?”
“*YES*!”
“He wasn’t there, Mr Summers. He has about two hundred fellow incarcerees as an alibi. Not to mention the assembled media filming us to see if we did anything vaguely entertaining.”
“He tried to kill Ororo, too.”
“Again, the word 'tried’ emerges… my mother would be eager to tell you that there is no reward in trying. Therefore, to my mind, little punishment.”
“Attempted murder isn’t enough for you?”
“When we were in the camp, sir, Mortimer and I had a lot to talk about. There was very little else to do, you know. He told me he was sent down into your path as an expendable pawn. Should he have perished, no-one would have missed him. Least of all the man who rescued him from a life of squalor and poverty. I get the distinct impression that his efforts against you were deliberately lackluster. Enough of an effort to keep the bosses from calling, if you will[2]. He had no true motive to succeed, and every necessity to not fail.” A calm, eerily cold glare. "I’ve been trapped in that twilight, myself. You’d be surprised where it can drive you.“
"The exploding locker incident…” mused Xavier.
Sara nodded. “My last hurrah. My efforts against those enemies were non-lethal by choice. Their efforts against me were damn near lethal out of ignorance.” Again, that cold stare-down. “Back then, I only had one person who would have missed me.”
“That’s… obviously different.”
“Is it? Trapped in the care of a Dragon in an unfeeling environment? Being just useful enough to keep? The only real difference between Mortimer’s past and my own is that he never had anyone to hold him until he’d cried himself out. There, but for the grace of God… as they say.”
“But he’s *evil*!”
“He’s had more than one opportunity to prove himself so through his actions towards me,” she said. “So far, he’s taken his chance for redemption with open arms.”
Scott played his trump card. “What proof have *you* got that he won't turn against you, later?”
“He’s seen me dancing in the dawn’s light - only once. The rest of the time, he kept his eyes averted. A purely evil man would have seized a very open opportunity.”
[1] Try saying that to *anyone* who’s lived through various disprovals of mythos in an all-girls’ boarding school.
[2] Side-fling to _Office Space_ Go watch it. Funny ^_^
~
“Bu–” Scott attempted. The image of a grown - and evil - man in the presence of a girl who was voluntarily naked closed his throat. In the presence of true evil, Sara would not have survived unmolested. She might not have survived at all. “Ju– hi– wa–” his brain completely derailed and he turned to the Professor. “Exploding locker incident?”
“Two hundred and seventy-three lockers exploded at Carol Danvers High… on the exact date that Sara was expelled.”
“I was on my way out, anyway. What’s a little larceny and petty revenge between enemies?”
Hank’s shoulders were shaking.
“You were lucky no-one was *killed*!” Scott ranted.
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Each device was completely non-lethal. Offensive - yes. Lethal - never.”
“The explosion in this case was nothing more than a small charge to ensure the doors flew open,” said Xavier, “and that a payload was -ah- *delivered* to the target.”
Sara had a beatific smile on her face. “I still have the securicam footage on file. I tend to play it when I’m extremely depressed.”
Scott stared at her in a new light. “That’s almost… psychopathic.”
“Yes. I know. But I never kill. People can’t learn anything when they’re dead.” The smile faded completely, now. “I came close to murder, once. And only once. I have the Professor and Mortimer to thank for pulling me back from that brink.”
The world was turning upside-down. Little girls did not thank terrorists for preventing an act of utmost violence. Little girls did not blow up lockers as an act of 'petty revenge’…
_Little girls do not hear other people’s thoughts inside their heads,_ 'said’ Xavier. _Nor do little boys accidently rip off their guardian's heads with a blast of concussive force from their eyes._
“You’re not being fair,” he said to his mentor aloud.
“Am I?”
A quick glimpse of a memory. Sara. Angry - *furious* - at the old man who’d hurt the one she cared for. The ferocious colours of her skin were not nearly as violent as the waves of unadulterated bloodlust washing off her. The animal within was in control and it wanted swift and brutal justice.
And then the very man who had spent years under the old man’s heel stepped forward and said three words that drew the animal back. Don't become him.
“She took down Mystique?” Scott boggled. “But she’s *horrible* in Defence.”
Sara was looking at her fingernails. “All I really remember is that she was in the way after I punched him,” she said. “I don’t - recall… what I did or how. That’s… very disturbing for me.”
And Sara was so *good* at remembering everything.
“I can’t accept that he’s on the level,” he finally admitted. “I know what he’s done. I know what he’s guilty of. He’s… he’s dangerous for you.”
“I’m dangerous for myself, Mr Summers,” she said, indicating her new wounds. “If Mortimer was by my side, he would have steered me. Ergo, he has *some* vested interest in my continued wellbeing. You have to admit *that*, at the very least.”
Hank checked her pupillary responses. “There. All better. Though we shall be checking on you every couple of hours for a little while. Try not to dive down any more staircases, hm?”
“If I do, I’ll try to have better form,” Sara joked. She checked her watch. “I missed all my classes.”
“I don’t think you would have been there for them, anyway,” said the Professor. “Even if you were present.”
Scott vaguely recalled Ororo saying something about her being miles away in class, that morning. After Physics, there had been Culture Studies with Kurt… sort of an advanced languages class so one could say what they *meant*, as well as what they wanted to say. And after that… her now-infamous tumble.
Kurt had only left her side on a promise from him that he’d watch over her - and a small disaster upstairs that he had to adjudicate.
He had to honour that promise, now.
“Kurt should be having one of his black-and-white schlockfests up in the entertainment room,” he said. “He… made me promise to see you safe, and–”
“What better way than to hand me off to someone I like?” she said. "You can relax, Mr Summers. I reserve hate for those who can’t help but purposefully make my life a misery. You, sir, are a mere annoyance in comparison.“
For some reason, that was funny. "I can deal with that,” he said.
~
Mort had endured the drudgery of the school’s laundry facilities in lieu of being a kitchenhand. After that, there had been heavy lifting and hauling - taking in supplies and placing them in their various storage bins and hoppers.
And after that… his time was his own.
Which meant finding something to occupy his time and thoughts before he drifted, mothlike, towards the flame that was Sara.
He had a bargain to keep.
And miles to go before he could exhaust himself into a coma for the night.
The mental image of her, hurt - let alone alarmingly still and quiet - clung to his mind and tickled his guilt with maniacal glee. It also gave him a seemingly endless supply of nervous energy to burn off. If only he was there. If only she hadn’t agreed to that stupid deal. If only Summers wasn’t such a complete dick[1]…
God, he needed something to do. Right *NOW*. Or his head would fucking explode.
He found the answer to his troubles in the school gym.
*
Ororo left the kitchen, heading for the gym. During down-time, Kurt was in one of four places: the chapel, the kitchen, the gym or the entertainment room. She usually checked them in order, owing to the least-cost flight path. Once she found him, there was always something to share and enjoy with him.
Someone was working out, but the someone in the darkened gym was not Kurt.
She could pick out a figure moving in slow repetition on a frame, but beyond that, there was little clue as to who he was.
She flicked on the light, lending colour to the moonlit scene. Green skin stretched tight over sculpted, if wiry, muscle.
The Toad was only wearing a pair of shorts and some wrist and ankle weights. She could pick out every fibre of his muscle as he put it to work.
She could see every ancient scar on his person.
Kurt’s scars were beatuiful. A work of art in the understanding of penance.
These markings were a history of pennance, true, but they were anything but art.
Long years of association with Jean helped her catalogue them. Glass bottle there. Cigarettes there. Some kind of whip or cord used like a whip until he bled. Knife wounds, criss-crossing or merging. The ugly snarl of a burn…
They were all over him.
Even the soles of his feet.
He turned upside-down, revealling more marks. Some nearly surgical… most of them - not.
The burn scar - or part of it - vanished inside the shorts.
And most recent, on top of everything, were the marks she’d given him. The lightning she made left its traces in the history already drawn on his flesh.
Sara had seen all of it. Treated it. Made it better… She knew the exact ins and outs of the pain she’d delivered. The lingering agony of recovery. She *knew*… and yet she still treated Ororo like a decent human being.
Mort’s eyes were open. “Enjoyin’ the show, luv?”
“I…” it was so difficult to meet those eyes. “I’m - sorry I hurt you.”
“I’m not,” he said. “Gave me a new life, you did. Let me meet *her*." He eased his weight onto one arm, balancing whilst pushing himself slowly up and down. "It ain’t every day you ge’ a second life.” He swapped hands.
“I’m still sorry,” she said. “I regret what I did.”
“It was you or me,” he said. “Frankly, I never was keen on hurtin' pretty gels. ’D'rather take me lumps'n get it over with. Coulda done without some of it, but…” he flipped around, tumbling through the air to land in front of her. “It happened the way it did,” he shrugged. "Water under the bridge, eh?“ Mort offered his hand.
She took it. Sort of cool and almost unnaturally smooth. "Water under the bridge.”
[1] Fling to the first movie. C'mon… chorus the lines, now: “Hey. It’s me.”/“Prove it.”/“You’re a dick.”/“Okay.”
~