continued from yesterday:
Warren was a very rare person. Aside from being rich, handsome, and having two wings on his back, he had the strange and slightly sick predilection of actually liking getting up early. He knew that the early bird got the worm. He liked to set his alarm just before sunrise, so he could wake up and stand on his balcony, listening to the bird song in the fresh, dawn air. (Or, perhaps, the birds coughing rhythmically [1] in the smog of early morning New York.)
Sometimes he would even take early morning flights, if he was in the mood. After the terror of last night, he certainly wasn’t in the mood, and he was even less in the mood when he saw the paper’s headlines.
He sat up in the the baclony now, a silk nightrobe and dressing gown hiding his soft white wings. He munched on toast and read through the many newspapers that were delivered to his door.
Their headlines included:
‘Dreadful Mutant Massacre!’
'Freakish Killing Spree!’
'Shiva Strikes!’
'A Hellish Party!’
'Satan visits Manhattan!“
'They Walk Among Us!’
'The Demons Within!’
Also splattared across the pages were news of the ousting of Dazzler.
'Superstar Freak!’
'Dazzler Unmasked!’
'The Truth She Tried to Hide!’
'The Real Alison Blair!’
'She’ll Never Sing Again!’
The last made Warren shiver. He had always been a big fan of Dazzler, still was, it pained him to think that she would never sing just because she was a mutant. Now she would lose the thing that she loved the most, just because she was a mutant, just because she was a freak.
He reached back and touched is feathery wings, stroking the quills, as if checking they were still there.
Finishing his toast and putting down the papers, he moved to his phone, the answering machine had 6 messages on it. An unusually large amount, but he had been far too tired to check it last night, and he had slept so deeply that he had probably missed any other phone calls.
He pressed play and listend.
-Beep- 'Hello Warren, this is your father. You’ve probably got that letter off Greg now, I know you’ll be to busy to answer at the moment, off at that concert, but when you do receive this message ring me back. We can arrange the date with the surgeon very soon, with a bit of luck we can have it done before next week! Hear from you soon. Good bye.’
-Beep- 'Um… Mr Worthington, uh, it’s Miss Greer, I can’t make that 2:00 appointment, can I change it to 3:00? Please get back to me.’
-Beep- 'Warren! Warren! It’s father here! Are you alright son? I've just heard about the attack! Warren! Warren! Please call back, alright? Call back as soon as you get this message! Please!’
-Beep- 'Hello Mr Worthington, this is Mr Stazinsky of the New York Herald, we understand that you were at Dazzler’s party tonight, could you do an interview? Please call me back.’
-Beep- 'Hi Warren, I’m Mr Blackson, I’m a reporter from the Manhattan times, we hear you were at the Mutant Massacre last night, wondering if you could do a little talk with us, share your experiences of that night, a general interview for you. There’d be plenty of advertising space for Worthington industries in our newspaper if you agreed. Give me a call back? OK?’
-Beep- 'Greetings Mr Worthington. This is the Manhattan Police department, we understand you were at Miss Blair’s party last night, could you please report to the station for an interview. Thankyou.’
-Beep- Uh… Warren… it’s Greg. Shit, Warren I’ve gotta talk to you. Are you OK? Oh god, please be OK, I’m sorry Warren, I’m so worry. Please… uh… please call me. Sorry. Bye.’
The messages ended, Warren sighed, he had a lot of phoning to do.
~
"So, how did it go?”
“I think I’m very lucky that the Wolverine went road-warrior,” said a very luscious voice. It was a voice that didn’t at all agree with the speaker. If you looked at Meggan, you would expect her to growl, or not be capable of human speech at all. “They never knew I was there.”
Kurt grinned. “Excellent. So what of the new mutie?”
“Alison’s staying at the Institute, but she isn’t on the team. The human said she was 'too whitebread’ for their image.”
Kurt snorted and rolled his eyes. “I’ll be surprised if he breeds. The idiot.”
“Jean Grey’s going to be Miss Marvel, now. Something about focussing groups…”
“Yes?” Kurt resisted the urge to strangle her. Meggan was ideal for sneaking in to places, owing to her ability to change into almost *anything*. But she was a little bit scatterbrained and somewhat simple, and had the annoying habit of leaving the most important details until last.
“She’s going to be on a three-page spread… in a swimsuit. She was rather upset about that. Oh! And they all heard the human say that the army men on the site were his.”
“Excellent, Meggan,” he said. “Once again, your prioritisation skills leave me in breathless awe!” It was the exact truth, but he masked his sarcasm in tones of enthusiasm.
Meggan smiled, pointy teeth flashing in the half-light. “Thank you…”
Dear Meggan. Versatile, extraordinarily well-powered… and remarkably easy to fool. All one had to do was be a fantastic actor.
“So?” said Stacy, appearing by his elbow. “What now?”
“Now we try to convince an Angel to keep his wings…” said Kurt. “And it isn’t going to be easy.”
~
Warren sighed, clicking the phone back into place on the hook and staring into his mug of now-cold coffee. A thin film of gel now extended across the cup, and when he tipped it to the light it refracted into a thousand rainbow colours. Pretty, but utterly undrinkable.
Having spent the better part of an hour on the phone, he wasn't especially surprised. Not having the heart or inclination to face work he’d called Shelley Greer and cancelled her appointment indefinately, then been forced by his accursed manners to listen while she related the health of her mother, cat, and self down the line in minute detail. After that he’d also called the numerous newspapers - save for some joker called Jameson at the Bugle, who had left a message *while* he was calling the Times and been unreachable ever since - declining all interviews for various reasons.
The next port of call had been the police, and, knowing full well that he couldn’t put them off the way he had the reporters, Warren now had a new appointment at ten o’ clock with NYPD’s finest. Not exactly the kind of lunch date he was used to, but needs musts wants, and all that jazz.
For some unknown reason, Greg had also proved unreachable. Either the battery on his cell phone had run dry again, or else he’d forgotten to switch the confounded thing on when he went out, because he certainly wasn’t in his apartment when Warren called, and seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth ever since.
Which left one call on his list. And it was the one call he really didn’t want to make, but had to.
His mother answered, voice high-pitched and shrill, as it was won’t to do when she got over-excited or anxious about something. Immediately, warren felt a stab of guilt, and so didn’t snap as he usually would've done to such a tone.
“Mom? Mom, it’s me, Warren.”
“Warren honey? Omygod! It’s him! Warren, it’s Warren! Our son, you idiot! He’s alive! Oh Jesus, honey, are you OK? We saw the news, all those poor, poor people. Can’t turn around for reporters showing pictures about those horrid mutants. And then you didn’t call, and we were so *worried*, and you *know* your father’s heart isn’t so good….”
There was the sound of scuffling, and Warren Worthington Sr. snapped at his wife for being too melodramatic. But then when he came on the line his voice sounded strangely tight. Well, tighter than usual, at any rate.
“Warren, are you OK?”
“All in one piece, Pops.”
“You went to that… concert thing?”
“And the dinner afterwards. Saw the whole thing until those X-Men herded me out of the door.”
“Dangerous freaks, throwing their weight around like that” his father spat, and reflexively Warren reached to his mouth, half-expecting to find excess spittle had flown onto him. “Who the hell do they think they are?”
The Worthingtons were generally a family devoted to sameness. One only had to look at the names to see that (Warren Worthington I, Warren Worthington II, Warren Worthington III) [16]. The present Warren somehow didn’t think his parents would be overly awed to discover their son was a winged mutant, whose genes were making a break from the norm that ostensibly nobody knew how to 'fix’.
_Until now, of course,_ he thought numbly. _And that operation…_ An image of blue fur and fangs popped into his head as he inadvertently replayed Nightcrawler’s words from the night before.
_In the long term, it’s better to be respected and feared than to be controlled and laughed at._
Shaking himself free of the dour ruminations. Warren instead channelled his indecision into the conversation, riposting his father with as witty a comment as he could muster. Which wasn’t very.
“They’re the government mutant division, Pops.”
“Still no reason to go blowing up buildings like that. Is Greg OK?"
"He didn’t go. Pulled out at the last second for some reason.”
“Probably for the best. That boy’s not right, if you ask me.” A feminine burbling in the background. “Yes, we’re all aware of your homosexual theory, Kathryn. There’s no need to go repeating yourself to the boy.”
Warren smiled, then glanced at his watch. “Listen, Dad, I have to go. I have an interview with the police about this whole sorry mess, and I doubt they’ll be very accommodating if I’m late.” In truth, the appointment wasn’t for a good few hours, yet, but Warren wanted to get away as soon as possible, so he wouldn’t be asked the question he was dreading.
In the end, his father asked it anyway.
“Yes, yes, I understand. But Warren, tell me quickly, did you think about the letter? About the operation?”
“Yes… I thought about it.”
“So when’s best for you. Dr. Zobrowski’s diary can be cleared for any time next week, he tells me. That might have something to do with all the money I’ve fronted for this procedure - not to mention his silence on the matter - but heck, it’s worth it to make you normal again.”
Normal again. No more freaky gene, no more hiding, no more worrying about people finding out.
_No more flying._
“Warren?”
“Dad, I… I…” His throat tightened, and he suddenly felt like he'd been crawling across the desert in a drought for three weeks. “I'll speak to you later about it. Someone’s at the door. Bye, and give Mom my love.”
{CLICK}
The coward’s way out. He knew he was only putting the decision off, but any time gained was better than nothing.
It was ridiculous really, but… his thoughts were so messed up about this whole thing. That Nightcrawler’s creepy lecture hadn’t helped one iota to sort them out. Nor had seeing the X-Men. Sell-outs. Government lapdogs. Traitors to their own kind.
_But they saved my life. And the lives of all those people. Nightcrawler’s people were killing, but they… they rescued us… Sell-outs? Heroes? They’re mutants, filth. They’re… aw crap-o-rama! I need some fresh coffee, sans milk._
_________________
“No swimsuit?”
“One more word and I’ll ram your teeth right down your throat, LeBeau.”
“Ah, the early morning pep-talk. Nothin’ like it, eh chere?”
Jean scowled, riffling through her purse and then slamming it down on the kitchen sideboard when it failed to give her what she wanted. Remy raised a sardonic eyebrow over his mug as she crashed in and out of cupboards and drawers.
“OK, who moved the aspirin. I know I left a stash in here.”
Since they were the only two in the room, her eye invariably fell on the Cajun, but he jest shrugged and took another sip of steaming hot sweet tea - which was famous for being, as Alex put it, 'four parts sugar, one part milk, hot water and teabag’.
“Don’ look at me, chere. Although I’d advise the drawer on the left. I t'ink Alex needed some last night, an’ dat’s de only place you ain't checked yet.” He took another sip as the redhead stormed past. “Why you need aspirin anyway?”
“One of the many wonders of being a telepath,” she sighed, filling a glass with water and downing the two small tablets. “Alison was broadcasting all night long.”
“Dreams?” Remy’d been embarrassed from time to time in his early days at the Institute, after Xavier and his crew picked up his outcast self running from a mob of assassins on the streets out of New Orleans. Back then his psychic shielding had been exactly none, so both Jean and the Professor had been privy to his more private thoughts, dreams and nightmares on a regular basis.
But Jean shook her head. “No, repressed images. Y'know, from the hotel? First time she ever saw a dead body, and it was falling on her at the time.”
“Nasty.” Remy winced. “Mebbe I go check on her. Make sure she alright.”
“Don’t bother. Far as I can tell, she’s not even awake yet, let alone up. Besides which, I doubt she’ll really be in the mood for visitors for a while. Poor thing needs to get her head around what’s happened first.”
“Remy unnerstand dat, no problem.” Another sip. He licked his lips, catching stray sugar. “So, when you goin’ to dis photoshoot?”
“Later. I have to go shopping first. For a swimsuit.” She pulled a face.
“Scott goin’ wit you?”
“I’m a big girl now, Remy. I can handle a shopping trip on my own without the aid of our fearless leader.”
_Not quite de reason I was askin’, chere._ But he held his tongue. Scott’s tongue had practically left a trail mark throughout the Institute where it’d followed Jean for the past four years. Yet she had yet to notice him romantically. Or if she had, she’d shown no trace of it, even to Remy’s trained eye. Scott had commiserated in all his teammates at one point or another, but had yet to do anything vaguely proactive about the situation - something Remy found both sad and comedic in equal measure.
“Ororo goin’?”
“Hell no. I think she’s had quite enough of swimwear, what with that damn costume of Dann’s.”
“I don’ know. I t'ink it be quite nice.”
“You’re male. You would.” Glancing at the inside of her wrist, Jean sighed and retrieved her purse, shoving things back inside haphazardly. "I’d better get going.“
"Why? Stores ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Yes, but I hate shopping for swimwear, and I’ll probably have to try on everything in the place before actually finding something I like.”
“You need advice, Remy be happy to go with.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she rolled her eyes against his charm.
“Spare me. I’ve never been, nor will I ever be another notch on your bedpost, Gumbo.”
Remy shrugged as she swept past. “Remy OK wit dat. He try other courts in de pursuit o’ love.”
Jean paused in the doorway, a wicked smirk playing about her lips. "Then I should probably let you know now, before you make a fool of yourself. Alison’s already got a boyfriend.“
"Damn. I hate telepaths.”
Jean laughed lightly as the door swung shut behind her, heading for the garage and her car. She patted her pocket, making sure her keys were still therein, and was rewarded with a musical jangle.
She rounded the corner, humming a tune the radio had been playing as she got dressed. It had no words she could remember, but was catchy, and had stuck in her mind with all the adhesion of superglue. Which was good in a way, as it meant her attention was divided, and she didn’t have to listen to the undercurrent of senseless mental babble that made up everyday life as a telepath.
The Institute garage backed onto a large stretch of grass surrounded by trees, which was hidden from the view of the main gate and commonly referred to as 'the Green’ by residents. On the path from the mansion to the cars Jean had a good clear visual shot of it, and also the cluster of figures playing on it.
She stopped, suddenly struck by the urge to watch. As usual, the children of the Institute had risen much earlier than the adults, and fallen to playing amongst themselves at no-powers baseball - which they were cheating madly at, also as per usual.
The children. All wards of the Professor himself, these kids were all that was left of the once-bustling place of learning the Institute had been. If she recalled correctly, the students here had once numbered at more than a hundred, their ranks swelling ever day with new arrivals. Now, these eight were all that were left, and she looked on sadly as they went on with their game, oblivious to her presence.
Ororo had only graduated into the main body of the X-Men because of her 'ethnicity factor’, as Dann put it. Before then she’d also been a student, with Xavier named as her legal guardian after he rescued her from a life of street crime in Cairo when she was nigh on five years old. He hadn’t known she was a mutant then, and it seemed it was just pure, dumb luck she’d turned out to be one in the end. She was much more familiar with the kids now spread out before Jean, but the redhead recognised them anyway, and found herself running through their names in her head, as if to remind herself of their identities, of the reason why she and her teammates shut up and kept to their place under Dann's thumb.
Bobby Drake, fifteen years old and a motormouth of astronomical proportions. He’d been tipped as the next to receive an 'upgrade’ into the X-Men ranks, but, as of yet there had been little action on Dann's part to realise it. Which was probably just as well, given recent developments. Jean watched as he created an ice slide for himself, six feet into the air so he could catch the baseball and get the person who’d hit it out.
He did, and the girl ground to a halt with a scowl on her usually smiling face. Jubilation Lee - or just plain Jubilee - was only fourteen, but acted a lot older, having spent several months living on the streets and in the Hollywood Mall before Xavier found and rescued her. Another - taller - boy jogged up to her side, yelling something, and she turned to yell back before stalking off the field. The boy looked a little shocked, and Jean could only imagine what expletives the Chinese girl had chosen to use this time.
Samuel Guthrie was a softly spoken boy from Kentucky, and, though it wasn’t always clear, one of Jubilee’s best friends. Like Bobby, he was fifteen, but unlike him, was gawky and not a little conscious of his height. He stared after Jubilee, only looking up when the last part of their odd little trio pattered up and tapped his arm. Scottish born Rahne Sinclair was the Institute’s other resident redhead, fourteen years old and the butt of all jokes when the kids chose to watch Hammer Horror movies. One of two shapeshifters at the mansion, Rahne was an easygoing soul, and Jean often found herself engaging the younger girl in conversation, if just to hear her lilting accent.
The two of them chased after Jubilee, abandoning the game to follow her, and several kids yelled after them for spoiling things. Loudest of which was a blonde girl, who blew a large pink bubble from her mouth. Tabitha Smith was always the most vocal kid, and ran alongside the youngest and newest member of their little group, one Jamie Madrox - who could literally be his own baseball team, all by himself.
As the baseball game devolved into a powers play-fight, Jean’s gaze searched the Green for the last two children she and her teammates were protecting with their roles as X-Men. For a moment she missed them, but then a lavender smudge drew her eyes, and Jean smiled to see the mansion’s other shapeshifter, and sharer of Tabitha’s common surname, Sharon Smith [17]lounging to one side, utterly disinterested in what the others were up to. That is, until one of Tabitha’s little bombs exploded rather too near, upon which Sharon leapt into the air, all the fur along her neck and tail raised. Sharon, due to the nature of her mutation, was a girl of few words, but the air of bruised pride that flew through the ether towards Jean now needed none to make itself clear.
Sat to one side, not involving herself in the game other than to shoot a death-glare at Tabby, was a young girl of no more than sixteen, the white streak in her hair shining brightly in the early morning sun. Rogue - other names unknown and most likely staying that way - was a reading some thick, dusty tome retrieved from the depths of the Institute library, and seemed rather annoyed at the others for disturbing her peace with their antics.
Suddenly Bobby stopped icing Sam’s feet to the ground and waved at Jean. The others broke off what they were doing to do likewise, and jean, spotted at last, waved back before carrying on along her way towards the garage.
Those kids were all that was left of Xavier’s dream. With the exception of Sam, who had grandparents back in Kentucky, all of them were also completely dependant on him as a father figure, to provide for them and their needs in the most fundamental ways possible.
Jean felt a pang strike her chest as she walked away, remembering old faces she’d known when the school was still that. Back then she’d been called on as a teacher, but now she spent so much of her time as an X-Man she barely had time to speak to the kids, let alone teach them. There were other people Charles had called in, sure, but somehow it wasn’t the same. Truth be told, Jean missed the simple pleasures of her old life as Xavier’s student, before mutantkind went public, and sighed to herself as she opened the garage door and slid into her car.
_Grey, you’re being maudlin,_ she chastised, starting the engine and checking her reflection in the mirror. _Just go and lose yourself in a bit of retail therapy and stop thinking about what’s gone._
Yet as she drove away, she couldn’t help one last glance at the seven children traipsing back inside, and wondering after what might have been.
~
“Small world,” said Stacy.
Warren looked at her. “Oh. Hi! Where did you dissapear to, last night?”
Stacy hid half of her face with one hand, pretending to cover a blush. "Would you believe I ran like a terrified squawk the minute the demon turned up? Half the night I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed that I did - or worried about *you*.“
"I -uh- managed to fight him off,” he lied. He siezed a chair and inverted it, sitting on it backwards. “You making a statement, too?”
“Oh, yes. I *am* a witness…” she trailed off and looked at the way he was sitting. “You did that last night, too…”
“I have a spinal deformity,” he confessed. “Makes sitting on straight- backed chairs nigh-on impossible for me.”
_Liar._ “Ouch,” she sympathised. “Can anything be done?”
“Well, there is a surgery and some gene-therapy. But I’m having my doubts about going through with it.”
“Really? That’s such a co-incidence,” she dropped her voice to a whisper and amped up the pheromones a touch. “I have a little skin condition that forces me to wear a lot of makeup.” She winked, then returned to more casual speech. “I *could* get it fixed, but - the cure’s worse than the disease, and - well - I just wouldn’t feel like myself, any more.”
Warren looked down. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
A uniform walked into the waiting area. “Miss –” she made a face. “Ex-ah-rill-ee?”
“Jzha-rell-eye,” corrected Stacy. “Stacy Xarellei.” She shook his hand.
“Warren Worthington.” He smiled.
“Last night was kinda fun. We should do it again - without the terrorists.” She could feel him watching her ass as she left the room.
_B-I-N-G-O…_
~
Alison rolled out of bed with a thump, sitting up amongst the rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets with a start. Contrary to what Jean believed, her sleep hadn’t been completely devoid of dreams, and she looked around the room with wide eyes for the host of uniformed corpses chasing her only moments before.
Her gaze fell on the digital alarm clock, and she read off the time aloud.
“10:21 a.m. Jeez, it feels like I never went to bed at all.”
Unwilling to return to slumber and face the wraiths again, Alison instead hauled herself upright, and staggered past the window with its still-drawn curtains, and into the en suite bathroom after a glass of water. In her blurry state she barely noticed the sumptuousness of the place, instead just going to sit back on the bed, massaging her temples and wondering what the hell to do next. She was a stranger here. An interloper.
Opening her eyes, she realised the room also came complete with its own phone. Her last thoughts of the previous night came back, and she went to it with a sigh, recalling Roman’s number and waiting for him to pick up.
~