(no subject)
Part Two
There’s only a moment between waking up and realising why he’s awake. Brendon’s always been good in the morning, the most coherent of all his siblings, before they left the house to live proper Mormon lives. It worked in his favour once he no longer had Mom or Mason putting a hand on his shoulder to rouse him for school, but an alarm clock, or, on more than one occasion neighbours screaming through the onion skin thin walls. This time it’s neither. Brendon’s awake because that thirteen year old that has glass shattering screams is doing so. Brendon shoves his pillow over his face, trying to muffle the sound before his ear drums burst. It seems unfair that he should have to suffer because some girl had a nightmare.
Except she doesn’t stop screaming, like one would expect after waking up from a bad dream. And then Neuron sends a wave of OH GOD HELP M- before her thought gets cut off, and Brendon knows this isn’t just a dream. Something bad is happening. His bed scrapes across the floor as his forcefield turns on and he lands hard on his pyjama clad ass.
“Morgan! You need to come with me!” But of course he can’t hear him, Brendon can’t even hear himself. Part of him hopes that this damage isn’t permanent, he can’t go on stage if he’s deaf. The rest of him reminds him that he has to actually survive this before he can worry about performing. The only other thing he can do is climb to his feet and charge at Morgan, bed and boy being shoved in the wake towards the door. Finally he gets the message and gets up, though he hovers at the door.
His field is too expansive, it won’t let him through. Brendon clenches his hands into fists and thinks about chewing gum. It’s the only thing that’s really worked in training sessions, the first metaphor that hit him properly. If he can imagine the field is like a cocoon of blown gum around him, he can suck it back in, if he chooses to. It’s not exactly the manly image of being a superhero, but it works. Usually.
Thankfully it’s one of the times that it does. He runs through the door and presses his hand along Morgan’s feathered back as they run.
When they see the first military guy Brendon’s fear springs the feild back into action, diameter of the field far wider this time. It’s enough to tumble Morgan to his feet, and Brendon can’t help him back up, can only apologise. The black clad man turns down a different hallway, and Brendon breathes a sigh of relief as they come up to one of the secret passages that’s going to get them out safely. Morgan hits at the fake wood panelling until it collapses in and he can run in and down the concrete stairs. Brendon’s fucked. There’s no reason to even try to stand here and attempt to coax his field back in. It’s like a bubble of gummy concrete, and it’s not gonna happen. The only option he has is to run for the stairwell, and the front door beyond it.
Those are the most terrifying minutes of his life. Part of training is knowing what they're vulnerable to and what they aren’t. In Brendon's case, he knows other mutants powers and stuff like baseball bats and golf clubs can’t get through, but no one’s ever tested high speed projectiles like bullets or darts. Brendon knows they have tranquilizer darts, not real guns, he sees Annalyn get shot and there’s no blood, just her crumpling. It's not as reassuring as it sounds.
At the front door he passes several men, a few of which have students -friends- they’re carrying out. He feels guilty for being happy about their capture, but it’s the crucial second that it takes the men to jostle the weight to the other side and have a free arm for shooting their tranquilizer gun that lets him get away.
Not that he knows where he’s going. Jubilee says they have regular emergency drills, for stuff like what to do if someone can’t or decides they don’t want to control their power, or what to do if someone that doesn’t know about mutants visits the school, or what happens if they need to evacuate. But in the time Brendon and Spencer and Ryan have been here they haven’t had a drill. Sure Mr Summers got Piotr to show him what direction to run in where a secondary safe house was, but Brendon hardly thinks it’s fair to be expected to remember the lesson. It was his second day and for the first time in his life he was at a school where people didn’t ignore him. He’d been desperately trying to not think about how none of his family met him before Storm’s jet landed outside Spencer’s house, and when it still came into his brain every five minutes, trying to not let it hurt. Not to mention the optimist in him had been a bit jacked up on the inevitability of Panic’s real band status, not having to work every last moment to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach, and getting to have sleep overs with friends every night. Though the last one hasn’t worked out too well. Brent left, and Spencer and Ryan are having capital I Issues that Brendon doesn’t even know how to start helping with, but suspects the hickeys on Ryan’s neck aren’t helping either.
Not having a clue, he just runs. It’s harder in the woods, there aren’t many paths he can take that allow for his field. If he struggled hard enough he could probably break down the trees, but they don’t deserve that, so he just sticks to running down the walking paths, certain that none of them lead anywhere safe. As he gets further and further away and they don’t chase after him it shrinks slightly, but Brendon doubts it’s going to go away for a good long time. Maybe even as long as sunrise.
The moon is still high in the sky when he hears the crunching of leaves and twigs. Before he has much of a chance to panic though, he turns and sees it’s Map Walker and Shutter. They’re best friends, it’s not exactly surprising to see them together. Although Brendon can’t help but wonder how Shutter is navigating the woods, even with Map’s hand on his back. Shutter sees everything in stills, he has to blink his eyes to see a new image. When he’s watching Stargate, apparently the only show he cares enough about to bother, he needs to blink as rapidly as possible to actually catch what’s going on. With so much tree debris on the ground he should be tripping every second step.
Map’s voice sounds friendly when he gets close enough to speak, as close as Brendon’s feild will let him. “I knew you’d be lost. You can’t even find your way from class to class. We’ve been trying to find you for over an hour. Didn’t your parents ever teach you if you get lost, sit where you are and wait for someone to find you?”
Brendon shrugs, though he’s not sure Map Walker can see it in the darkness. “Probably. But some of the people that were finding are military, and I don’t know if my field holds up to tranq darts.” That’s if they’re even tranqing anymore, what if they hit quota and are using real bullets for the rest? Not that he wants to say it out loud, in case Map hasn’t thought of it yet. Besides, bullets might be better than being dragged away to some secret facility, in the long run.
Shutter rolls his eyes, and Brendon wants to ask if he sees anything different when he does that, but refrains. “Yes, and some are us. Follow us to safe house three.”
“What? Three?”
“Wow, you didn’t pay any attention at all during orientation did you?” Despite the words Map doesn’t sound pissed or like he thinks Brendon’s a dumb ass, both tones Brendon’s pretty used to. “There are eighty kids, probably closer to ninety with you four coming. Think about how big the school is, can you picture an single emergency shelter fitting everyone?”
“I don’t know if I can make it go away enough to get inside a door. I’m kind of really freaked out right now. Should I just stay here? You could refind me when I calm down more?” It’s not really fair to put Map Walker and Shutter in danger like this.
“No,” Map says definitively. “I’m taking you to Spencer. He’s in safehouse two, and I’m sure he wants to see you. It’s bad enough that Ryan’s not here.”
“What do you mean? Where’s Ryan?” Brendon’s stomach churns, and Map Walker and Shutter both stumble back as his field expands and pushes at them.
“He’s on the road right now, heading to Boston.”
Brendon blinks. “Spencer’s not gonna like that.”
“He’s not kidnapped, or with the army guys, at least. He’s with Rogue and Bobby and Pyro.”
Brendon thinks about that for a second, then thinks about the hickeys, then thinks about Spencer. “I don’t think that’ll help much.”
Shutter shrugs, and Map answers for the both of them. “Yeah. Probably not, actually. Not really looking forward to telling him. We have to get there first though, so if you want to take calming breaths, and shrink it a little that’ll be great. It’s not all on a path.”
Brendon shrugs back at them. He’ll do his best.
*
Patrick’s only somewhat concerned about waking up with an eight am phone call. He’s touring, but he’s not meant anywhere for hours, the nice thing about playing small clubs all over England is there’s no need for a tour bus and sixteen hour drives. Pete promised to not call in the middle of the night because Patrick would be sleeping in, but there’s an equal chance that he just forgot and just watched something great on Youtube rather than he’s upset and not sleeping. Hell, it might not even be Pete. It could be Joe or Travie or anyone else he knows with an erratic schedule leading to one-two-three am calls seeming perfectly acceptable forgetting his current location.
For that matter it could be someone in actual England, trying to get an interview. Unlikely, yes. None of them have released CDs yet, though his EP is out and The Black Cards have some purposely leaked tracks. But it’s possible that someone wants to know what the ex-singer of Fall Out Boy is doing. The thought makes picking up the phone unappealing. But if it’s Pete he might need him, and if it’s another friend he or she will probably just call again and again, his friends are persistent like that.
It’s not a friend, or an interviewer, or a whatever the fuck Pete is. She doesn’t even have to say anything, Patrick recognises the deep breathing. It’s one of the staple sounds of his childhood, his sister being asthmatic. It’s Kat. Kitty, as she likes to be known. It’s a family joke that no one is the same on their passport as they are on their birth certificate. Patrick Vaughn Stump and Kitty Pryde, born to the Stumph family. If he’s remembering correctly there’s a three hour difference between Pete in California and Travie in New York, which means it’s almost three. “Okay sis, isn’t it a bit late? Shouldn’t one of your telepaths be scolding you for being up right now? Not that I don’t want to talk.” Hopefully a short conversation, so he can roll over and go back to sleep.
“Ricky, I’m scared.” Even ignoring the second clause, Patrick would know. It’s in every syllable, and she only calls him Ricky when she needs him firmly set into Older Brother mode. He just got to sleep four hours ago, but he’s going to do this, play the part for her. He has to.
He sits up and turns on the lamp until it’s burning his eyes on the brightest setting, to try and force himself more awake. “What happened, what’s wrong? Can you wake up your roommate? You said her name was Siryn, right?”
“No, no no no I can’t, I cant I-”
Patrick wills her to be calmer. If she starts hyperventilating she’ll need a suck of her inhaler, which she might not be able to take if she’s having trouble controlling her phasing, another side effect of tension. “I thought you said you were friends. I’m sure she’ll understand. I haven’t slept long and I’m not mad you woke me up, right? It’s-”
“Ricky! I’m not at school.”
“What? Where are you?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds miserable, and Patrick wishes he could be there. “It’s just a payphone. I don’t know where.”
“Why are you at a payphone? Are you drunk?” He doesn’t really want to think of his sister almost assaulted and in the middle of a random street hiding from her ‘date’, but she’s fifteen, well old enough to be going to parties.
“I ran. I just ran and ran from the school, I didn’t look where I was going, I just ran.”
“From what? Did Siryn or someone else try to hurt you because-” he has no idea how he’s going to finish that sentence, so for a moment he’s glad when she interrupts. And then he registers what she says.
“It wasn’t mutants, it was people. Military. Or robots. They had weird bumps on their face and could see in the dark, I couldn’t tell what it was, I’d just woken up. Everyone woke up. We got so lucky, Siryn woke up, she screamed before they shot her. It warned everyone. She’s so loud nobody could have slept through it, not even deaf people. My eardrums nearly burst before I phased out. I don’t know what would have happened if she didn’t, maybe we all would have been shot.”
“Kitty, I need to call someone to come get you.”
“Please don’t hang up.”
“But I-”
“Ricky, please.” He hasn’t heard her like this in a long time. Not since she first showed him she could walk through things, and begged him to not hate her. It had taken her two weeks of avoiding everyone that August to work up the courage, and Patrick still hates the idea that she might think he could ever stop loving her.
“Okay, I’m going to use the hotel phone. You’ll hear me still, I’ll put the cell close.” She doesn’t object, which only impresses on him how serious this is. For the last two weeks of vacation she refused to tell anyone else, wouldn’t even listen to his suggestions. It wasn’t until she started the first day of sixth grade and fell through her desk onto the floor that she decided she needed help. Kitty doesn’t like being reliant on other people.
It takes him a minute to remember Pete’s number. They’re almost always together with no need to call and he’s two on speed dial if they’re not in the same state or country. Eventually he gets it, remembering to dial out, then international, then area code, then Pete. “Pete, I don’t know if you were sleeping but-”
“No, it’s fine, was watching Colbert. What’s going on in London?”
“My sister needs help. You need to call around, find someone that’s in New York to help her out.”
“What the hell? What happened? Doesn’t she have like a whole school of people to help?”
“I don’t know, she said something about an attack.”
“The fuck?”
“I don’t know Pete, just find someone.”
“Where is she?”
“It’s gotta be Westchester.” There’s no way she ran further than that.
“That’s a city, Patrick, you can’t just-”
“I know.” He switches the angle of his head it’s more towards the cell in his left. “Kitty, do you see anything street names or a store that isn’t Walmart. Something distinctive?”
“There’s a pastry shop called Wake and Baked?” Under normal circumstances Patrick would probably laugh. Instead he relays the information to Pete, who tells him it’s going to be okay, he’s got this, he’ll call back when he finds someone. Patrick believes him, he trusts him. Pete wouldn’t let him down, not with something this important.
*
Gabe’s always believed you learn better from doing than studying, that lessons stick much better when you’re mired in them. What he’s currently learning is nothing is more bitter than a fan scorned. Midtown breaking up is apparently almost entirely his fault, and everyone seems quite happy laying out all the reasons why. The forums are full of people hating him, threads upon threads of possible reasons he’s such a tool. There seem to be three reasons that come up far more often than anything else though. Some have accused him of wanting to sell out and go mainstream. Gabe’s not sure how actually making money for performing is any more soul damaging than making money wearing a suit or a respectable skirt and typing files in an office, but the more ‘hardcore’ a fan is, the more offensive the idea seems. Some blame the fact that he’s recently begun to enjoy substances, thread handles full of X’s and quotes from Minor Threat. That’s bullshit too, the rest of Midtown would ditch straight edge in a flat second if they could. As it happens though, they can’t, alcohol and drugs fuck with their abilities too much for it to be safe. Gabe’s just lucky enough to not have that problem. Some even buy the ‘differences in musical opinion’ bullshit PSA the band put out, threads about what he or Rob or Heath or Tyler might have wanted to do differently. That’s garbage too, in reality he might have sometimes craved a keyboard, but it’s not like they would have kicked him out for it.
The real bottom line is he just doesn’t care enough anymore to pretend to be an activist. Emo mutant kids need to cheer the fuck up and realise they’re only alone because they decide they are. He doesn’t feel like making depressing music about how much it sucks to be a mutant anymore. Nor does he hold any interest in answering the occasional interview about what it’s like to be a mutant in the scene. And at some point being invited to play somewhere not because their band kicks ass, but because they’re the only mutcore band in Jersey got really fucking old.
Still, that doesn’t mean he’s not willing to hold up his own if it comes to it. He owes the scene a few favors, and mom taught you pay up when you’re asked to. So when he gets a phone call from Patrick Stump at half past three in the morning asking him to pick up a girl in Westchester, Gabe pulls on a hoodie and starts driving. Not no questions asked, of course, he texts Pete the whole drive. But the point is considering it’s almost four Patrick was lucky he didn’t tell him to fuck off and turn off his cell so he couldn’t be called again.
Pete releases some pretty interesting snippets in 140 character bursts; the girl’s name isn’t Kitty but just call her that anyway, she’s Patrick’s little sister, she needs help because the government raided her school and she doesn’t know if any of her classmates are alive. It all sounds pretty fucked to Gabe. Patrick’s in England, Joe, Andy and the rest of that band are in Minnesota or somewhere thereabouts, and Pete’s in California, but even though they know other people in New York he’s their first non Fall Out Boy choice. Seemingly when it comes to mutant rescue he’s the safest bet.
It’s easy enough to find her, map app on his iPhone showing him every turn he needs to make. It’s just as easy to spot her, there aren’t a lot of teenage girls in nightgowns hanging out in the middle of the sidewalk, beside a payphone. What might be more difficult is getting her to actually come with him. He slows his car into an idle beside her, and before he can even open his mouth she shouts “I am not a hooker!” and slinks back against the bakery.
“I’m really not looking for one.” And even if he was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a girl that looks thirteen, that’s fucking disgusting. “I’m Gabe. Your brother sent me.” She’s pressed hard against the wall, and Gabe has no doubt that if he doesn’t pull this off she’ll sink into it and disappear. And then Pete and Patrick will kick his ass, and he’ll probably sort of deserve it because who loses someone’s little sister?
“Before I ran out of quarters he said he was sending mutcore Gabe Saporta. You don’t look like a rockstar.”
“Well, that was sort of the gimmick, wasn’t it?” It worked damn well, for a long time.
It’s on every forum, on Wikipedia, and if he goes with this superband thing Pete’s proposing it’ll probably attract Livejournal attention too. As a child Gabe had a bad nervous habit of chewing on hair, worse than nails or even self harming because eating hair would eventually lead to a trichobezoar and stomach surgery. It got to the point where friends and family watched him so he wouldn’t pluck it out of his skull. And then twenty minutes before his first June exam in sophomore year, Matty refusing to let him pluck, stress driving him out of his mind, Gabe pinched a hair off Matty’s hoodie and popped it in his mouth before Matty could protest, strand sharp and long against his tongue. And when he swallowed it, Matty stared and Jessica screamed and the guidance counsellor had to come and escort him away, because he had turned into Matty. He’d been stuck that way three days, until he finally got the bright idea to peel a hair out of his brush. Eating his own had turned him back into himself.
When he finally got into a band with a teleporter, a guy with feet that would let him walk on any surface including fire and up walls, and a regenerator, it became a thing. Every night he sung as a different person, sometimes several people, depending on how often he could crowd surf and pluck another hair. Sometimes the voice sounded like shit, but that hardly mattered, it wasn’t the point.
“Look, if you don’t trust that Patrick sent me 'cause Pete told him I was a good bet, they’re both in my phone. You can call them. You know Pete, right? I mean he is your brother’s... something. I’m sure he’s been around the house.”
The girl nods her her head and slinks out of the wall. She stares at her hand for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration before being able to grab the door handle. It’s another frown before she can sit on the seat. Gabe figures that has to suck, concentrating so you don’t fall apart. He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do now, but if it’s almost dawn, judging by all the late nights he’s had, she either wants food, mellow music, a shower, or bed. Possibly a combination of the lot. He starts the drive back to his house, taking a moment to text both Pete and Patrick that Kitty’s safe. Patrick will no doubt call him back so he can talk to her. Unless he’s already doing a show, Gabe’s never been real up to date on time zones.
*
After they all pile into one of Cyclops’ cars, Wolverine floors it. Somehow they get off the property without someone taking out the windshield or the tires. He cranks the heat to compensate for the chill that Bobby’s giving off, not helped by everyone wearing night clothes, but there’s nothing else he can do. They can’t exactly stop in a Westchester Walmart for clothes, there’s not a single wallet between the five of them, and Scott has no emergency stash of cash in the glove box. Which fantastically also means that he doesn’t have a licence, so as soon as he gets out of Westchester he needs to slow down so he doesn’t get pulled over. For now though, speed is better than stealth. He heard the soldiers talking, they weren’t expecting the secret passages, they thought they were going to collect everyone easily. It’s impossible to know how many units have been dispatched, waiting for escaped teenagers. Nothing is more important than getting out before there’s someone to cut them off.
Wolverine considers himself lucky that there aren’t barricades around the county. It’s about the only thing he’s been lucky with in the last month. Between finding no answers at Alkali, and not being able to continue with Stryker, and his passengers being entirely incompatible he suddenly feels very drained. Not that it matters, the drive from Westchester to Boston is eight hours, and he’s not about to let anyone else have a turn at the wheel.
If there’s one thing Wolverine is certain of, it’s that this is not a good combination of people to have together. Sure, the school is for all intents and purposes a hormone stew, only the youngest of students avoiding the dramatic workings. But this combination is worse than average. Thanks to their conversation in the kitchen Wolverine knows Bobby and Rogue are in a celibate but fraught with emotion relationship. He also knows that it’s difficult for Bobby, because his best friend dislikes Rogue, and the feeling is entirely mutual. It also seems to have been passed onto the glowing kid that’s curled into Pyro. It only takes a minute of glancing into the rear view mirror to see there’s something between the two brunets, the average teenage male doesn’t cuddle. Ryan doesn’t seem to have a lot of patience for Bobby either, if the sneer every time he says something means anything. Pyro, on the other hand, is obviously bubbling over with suppressed lust. Every time his legs relax open enough that his thigh touches Bobby he jerks away violently. If Logan had a choice he’d be states away -preferably in a bunker- so this mass of tangled emotions doesn’t hit him when it explodes. He doesn’t really have that option now though.
Ryan keeps leaning into the front seat to change the radio, at least once every ten minutes. Each time he does Rogue flinches. Wolverine would blame the swaying that forces her to dodge on a lack of coordination due to being a skinny tall teenager, except each time Ryan does it he can see Pyro smirking in the rear view mirror. It’s almost bullying, but Logan isn’t about to intervene on her account. Everyone needs to know how to fight back. All she has to do is flinch forward, not back, and Ryan will be wincing in pain and know better than to tease. He also grants Ryan the honour of not cutting off his hand every time he arches over the cup holders before falling back against Pyro. The restraint is for a variety of reasons; Xavier would not be happy if he brought someone home with an amputated limb, his taste in music isn’t abysmal, he’s only switching at the end of songs, not in the middle, Ryan’s a scared kid musician and the music looks like it’s helping the same way Pyro’s flicking his Zippo is helping him. Most importantly, they’ve been driving five hours and Wolverine’s irritation is the only thing keeping him awake.
It’s light by the time he parks in front of Bobby’s house, 10:07 if Scott’s dash is to be believed. He’s been up forty five hours now, having driven through the night in order to get to the school faster. Between the exhaustion, cramped hands and legs that a ten minute break at a gas station couldn’t fix, nervousness about what the fuck happened at the school, and the constant backseat sniping for the last seven hours he’s really not in a good mood.
Getting to the Drakes’ should make things easier. It doesn’t. Ryan comments about it being a imbecilic place to hide a spare key, Rogue glares at her boyfriend's family being slagged, and Logan just holds himself back from smashing his head against the door frame. He sprawls over the couch as Bobby shows Pyro and Ryan his bedroom so they can pick out a change of clothes, before leading Rogue to his parents bedroom for the same. There’s a difference between being invulnerable and not feeling pain, and what his aching legs really need is the chance to be stretched, knees unbent.
It’s depressing but hardly surprising that his streak of shitty luck continues. From the couch he has the pleasure of getting the scent of hormones flooding the room. Rogue and Bobby are doing whatever they can do, he doesn’t feel comfortable thinking out the mechanics. Pyro and Ryan have the ability to go way beyond what Rogue and Bobby can, and most unfortunately they are using that ability. Wolverine scrambles into the kitchen, hoping the slight gain in distance will place a blanket over his all too knowing senses.
It doesn’t really work. The next sentence spoken is Pyro exclaiming when he finds Bobby’s jerking off lotion, commenting that it’s in the same place he always put it when they shared a room. He can almost hear the smirks.
He needs a drink. Well, no, what he really needs is to get out of here, beyond where he can sense their stupid teenage pheromones. But Wolverine can’t leave. Even if his own morality would let him, if others found out he abandoned everyone life would suck considerably. Xavier would make him think he was a little girl, and Jean and Storm could both kick his ass. So a drink to dull the pain will have to do. Thankfully there’s a healthy amount of beer in the Drake fridge.
Of course, that’s when things go from bad to worse. Because it’s not bad enough to be stuck in a house with four who he can only hope aren’t minors having sex, the universe has to throw more crap at him. He hears the sound of them approaching the door, but not nearly early enough to get the bodies disengaged and out the front door. Instead the door slams open and the conversation between Mrs Drake and Bobby’s brother trails off as they notice him. The teenage boy gapes at him, and her arm curls around him like she thinks that could really protect him if he was a burglar. Wolverine’s trying to think of something non-threatening to say when Bobby comes charging down the stairs, Rogue hesitating in the middle of the flight. The Drakes don’t seem happy to see their son home in the middle of the semester, but at least it’s no longer his problem. Bobby will know how to handle them better than he possibly could.
There’s a sharp burst of smells Wolverine twitches through, leaning against the door frame of the living room as Bobby awkwardly comes out to his parents, Rogue’s gloved hand on his knee. Ryan and Pyro come down a minute later, hair mussed, lips bruised pink. Pyro levers himself onto a tall side table, Ryan standing beside him, a move which makes Mrs Drake wince. She probably doesn’t want the crocheted doily under Pyro’s ass wrinkled.
The atmosphere of the room only gets more tense with the new arrivals. Not just because it’s obvious what they’ve been up to, and the Drakes are officially multiple kind of phobic, though that’s a great contributor. The real problem is neither of the brunets have much in the way of guest manners. Pyro is flicking his lighter non-stop, probably akin to anyone else smoothing out invisible wrinkles or curling strands of hair around their finger. At least he acquiesces when Mrs Drake snaps at him to stop. Ryan won’t stop glaring at Mr Drake, and when Pyro points out that fathers carry the gene so it’s actually his fault and the man winces the look only intensifies.
When the brother storms off Logan knows it can’t get any worse. Bobby’s not going to be winning them over. Now it’s just a matter of how they can get out with the least amount of damage.
*
They’re just barely in Seattle - maybe five minutes past the giant Welcome To sign that no one bothers to take a blurry out of the window photo of, having been in the city half a dozen times before- when Mikey finds out a school for runaway teenage mutants was raided by the military. It’s not from television, though as soon as he finds out he shouts out to the guys and CNN gets booted up on four laptops almost simultaneously. It’s obvious either Frank or Gerard is going to have to deal with this during the next interview, they’ll need to be as informed as possible. Although from what he can see looking over at Frank’s screen, CNN is sort of full of shit. It makes him wonder how bad Fox News is right now.
He knows the truth of it because Pete has texted him, and Patrick’s sister attends the school. There’s nothing on the news about shooting ten year olds with dart guns, or some of them being kidnapped for experimentation. It’s fucking nauseating for a dozen different reasons, starting with how friends of friends have been adversely affected by this. Mikey can only hope that Patrick’s sister is okay, he doesn’t even know her name to attempt to Google details. Viewed as a bigger picture it’s even worse. As long as he can remember there’s always been distrust between mutants and flatscans, but it seems to have gotten worse lately. Mikey can’t remember protests as a child, but it seems every week there’s something new on the news. In twenty years Frank and Jamia’s kids might be in this position, mutant genes passed on. If flatscans keep hurting mutants like this, maybe two decades from now Vixen and Bela won’t trust him, even the bond of being their godfather not enough to bridge the gap.
It’s upsetting to think about what’s happening in Westchester, but Pete’s method of communicating upsets him even more. Pete’s been sending him a series of texts, phrases devoid of emotion. He should be furious, he should be ranting on the phone loud enough that the driver can hear it. Mikey has to wonder how many hours Pete’s been awake, and if this situation is going to start a bad cycle for him.
Mikey hasn’t been with Pete in a long time. He still isn’t quite sure if Pete and Patrick were in an off again phase, or if they’d fucked occasionally while he and Pete were dating, and he doesn’t really care. It had worked for them, an entire tour’s worth of late nights and burnt microwave popcorn, wearing shirts at all times so hickeys wouldn’t show. And evidently it had worked for the complexity that was Pete and Patrick. That’s all that matters. In his long time of dating he’s found relationships are hardly ever monogamous, or simple. At least in his experience. He doesn’t need to be shaking with the anticipation of Pete fucking him hard to care about him though. Pete told him for a reason, just as much because he’s the bassist of My Chemical Romance as because he’s a friend. If he doesn’t do something it’ll hurt Pete, and that’s the last thing he wants.
Luckily he’s got the perfect thing in mind. Let Gerard handle the on stage speeches, sassy and demanding the same from their audience. Let Frank and Gee do the interviews while he and Bob fade into the background and Ray tosses in the occasional comment. Mikey’s way is more subtle, but hopefully it’ll attract attention outside the small sphere of fans that obsessively search for recordings of their concerts on Youtube. Back when he and Pete were together he was invited to join a few secret Fall Out Boy concerts. Only one of them was truly secret, it was at a mutant school. A stipulation of playing was consenting to arriving blindfolded, which Mikey had almost said no to, until Pete promised a blowjob to make up for the lost sense. Unless Patrick has connections to more than one -Mikey doesn’t know how many there are around the world, but the United States should at least have one on each coast- it has to have been the one on the news now. Mikey’s got a dozen good memories from the concert, along with a hundred photos that never made their way online.
Until now. He searches through his box of his USBs until he finds the one with the right year and season label, and plugs it into his laptop. Pulling up the school concert folder Mikey searches for a visible power, someone that will make his point. When he finds Artie he smiles grimly. It only takes a second in MS Paint to crop the photo and convert to jpeg.
That done, the only thing left is to ask Ray for his Twitter password. Ray knows all this secret codes, he’s much better at that stuff than Mikey. In fact, he knows the various passwords for everyone on the bus, all of them are pretty shitty at remembering things like that. Mikey doesn’t use Twitter often. Besides the logging in issue, there’s that it has the limitations of texting, while denying privacy. But that’s the point now.
@GabrielSaporta gov shot up school of mutant kids. Nothing scarier than this, right?
If all goes well, Gabe will reply, and other people will retweet it. The more people that see it, the better. Another Iran style protest movement would be great.
It’s hardly surprising that Frank shouts from the front of the bus about an hour later “nicely done, Mikeyway.” Frank and Ray are the only ones that really use theirs for much, and Frank’s the only one that logs on every day. Mikey just shrugs and texts Adam back. It’s not like he wasn’t going to do anything.
It’s also not surprising that Frank won’t take Mikey’s silence as an answer, and comes to the bunks to peer at him. “I mean it, that’s pretty great. People will know now that it’s not just Gee running roughshod over you. You’re not exactly vocal in interviews, but that says more than enough.”
Mikey shrugs again. That was sort of the point.
“You’re kind of great in general, and I’d like to make out with you now.”
There’s a hopeful look plastered over Frank’s face. Mikey doesn’t bother to ask about Jamia, he knows she and Frank have an understanding. He can’t see Gerard being upset by it either, Gerard’s not the jealous lover type. With no reason not to, he grabs Frank’s wrist and pulls him down for a kiss.
The moment is broken the way almost all moments on tour are; someone else butting in. Frank calls from the front, “you gonna have sex with my boyfriend’s brother?”
“The panties have fallen but he’s not in bed yet.” Frank pauses a moment then adds, “Metaphorically speaking.”
“Good! I really didn’t want to hear about his panties.” That’s Gerard, and Mikey snorts. Like Gee has any room to talk about crossdressing.
When Frank slips into his bunk Mikey finds himself appreciating the fact that whatever allows Frank to duplicate himself doesn’t let him duplicate any objects. It’s difficult to strip in a bunk, but this Frank comes pre-naked. Frank for his part doesn’t seem too concerned with getting Mikey naked, content to just press the heel of his hand over the bulky zipper. Fucking tease. Well, two can play that game. He bypasses Frank’s dick to cup his balls. He’s not getting Frank off until Frank gets him off, or at least starts to try. If it takes until they get to the venue so be it, figuring out how their relationship is gonna work is worth a bit of delayed gratification.
*
Kurt begins to recite a prayer as Storm informs them the Air Force planes are going to fire at them. He continues as they both fire their first and Storm rolls the jet to evade them, as Wolverine demands weapons, as Storm creates tornadoes that take the first plane out. The second pilot is luckier, he manages to fire two more missiles before ejecting from his plane. Jean Grey takes one out with considerable mental exertion, but the other smashes into the jet. Kurt has made his peace with God, if this is the day he’s to die than so be it.
That’s when Rogue is hurtled out the edge that’s ripped open like a can opener. Kurt is sure that she is not ready for that journey, and so the only thing to do is to pop out into the open sky and grab her. The jet is still plummeting, but a man in a purple helmet catches it and sets them down gently. Kurt does not understand, but far be it for him to question the workings of the world.
As the sun begins to set Kurt finds himself wishing for the Munich circus. There his companions were far less needful. They had all found within themselves a sort of peace. Such a thing was important when constantly on tour, travelling had a way of breaking down those not strong enough. There is only one person on this expedition that seems truly centred. Even then it’s not a true calm. Mystique is full of plans on how the future must be and how the world must change. Kurt fears she is only so accepting of herself because she hates everything else.
From the day he has had to observe he feels sure almost everyone’s problem is that they are looking for love rather than having faith that it will be provided. Wolverine clearly wants Jean Grey, and she wants him while she believes she shouldn’t. Bobby chases after something he can never allow himself to catch, in order to ignore the far more real love standing beside him. And thirty feet away John -Pyro as he wishes to be called- and Ryan are having intercourse as though to drive away the loneliness. It’s all so clear to him, like the angelic symbols.
Clearly frustrated by the noises escaping the tent, Rogue stalks away from the fire Pyro created earlier. She shows her gratitude for saving her, and then asks if he can hear what the other adults are saying. He agrees. It would be pertinent to know what’s going on. It’s hardly more than a thought before he’s high above the cluster of people, claws embedded in the bark of the tree.
Storm is the first person to speak after his silent interruption. “But how would Stryker know what Cerebro is, or how to find it?”
Magneto reaches up to touch the back of his neck, seeming upset. “Because I told him. I helped Charles build it, remember? Mr. Stryker has powerful methods of persuasion. Even against a mutant as strong as Charles.”
“Who is Stryker anyway?” Jean asks, which Kurt thinks is a very good question. He must be a monster to have set something like this in motion.
“He’s a military scientist who has spent his life looking for a solution to the mutant problem. But if you want a more intimate perspective, why don’t you ask the Wolverine?” Magneto turns to Logan for a moment before saying, “you don’t remember?” Logan crosses his arms, and Kurt can imagine he is not happy. “William Stryker is the only other man I know who can manipulate adamantium. The metal on your bones? It carries his signature.”
“But the Professor...”
“The Professor trusted you were smart enough to discover this on your own. He gives you more credit than I do.”
Wisely, Storm decides to interject with a question before Wolverine can kill the old man. Though Kurt supposes it wouldn’t be as easy as one would guess looking at them, if Wolverine’s bones really are covered in metal and Magneto can control all metals. “Why do you need us?”
“Mystique discovered plans for a base that Stryker’s been operating out of for decades. But we don’t know where it is. And I believe one of you might.”
Wolverine snaps, “the Professor already tried.”
Magneto sighs, “Once again, you think it’s all about you.”
That’s when Magneto turns his gaze upward, the rest copying the movement moments later. Kurt is caught, redhanded.
He pops to the ground and sinks until he’s sitting, across from Jean. Everyone is crowded around him, and while he’s used to crowds staring at the Incredible Nightcrawler, this feels much different. His nerves must be showing, entirely unprofessionally, Storm puts a hand on his shoulder in attempt to reassure him. “I, I didn’t mean to snoop.”
“Relax,” Jean commands, but he does not see how that can be. He flinches as she puts her fingers on his temples. Blurry flashes rush through his mind - soldiers holding him on the ground - being held in the back of a truck - entering along, dark tunnel from above ground - a massive lab - the flash of a camera. Everything he sees makes his head hurt, and makes him feel angry that he can’t remember more because of what they did to him.
“Stryker’s at Alkali Lake,” she says with some confidence. Kurt does not understand how she can be so sure, he didn’t get anything so complete from the memory flash.
Wolverine too doesn’t seem to trust her certainty. “That’s where the Professor sent me. Nothing’s left.”
“There’s nothing left on the surface, Logan. The base is underground.”
After that they continue to talk, barely noticing when he slips off to the tents Bobby had set up earlier. He is tired, and his mind hurts, and since he doesn’t imbibe chemicals, and the jet would be unlikely to have anything anyway the only way he has to sooth his taxed brain is to sleep. He doesn’t envy Jean Grey, who must stay up until the jet is fixed if they’re to pull this off correctly tomorrow. He does not trust the restlessness in Magneto’s soul, but children do not deserve to be imprisoned, and God is giving him the chance to save them.
The next morning they discuss strategy. Mystique is going to break into the base in the guise of Wolverine. Once they all get in safely, they will search for their lost compatriots, the children, and the way to stop Stryker. At least, that is what the adults will be doing. Storm has instructed that the four teenagers stay on the jet and wait for them to come back. None seem happy for the chance to stay safe. If asked Kurt would say he believes they are capable of helping, but he is not their teacher, and the only one that doesn’t previously know anyone else. As an outsider he is not asked.
*
The situation sucks. It’s not that Ryan wants to be inside the dam, because he doesn’t. He’s come to trust Storm as much as one can trust an authority figure, and if she thinks that he’s better off here Ryan believes her. Hell, even just plain common sense tells him he’s better out here. The dam has military personnel, probably every man that Wolverine didn’t kill with his claws for daring to raid the school. Probably more, Stryker’s had a little less than thirty-six hours to gather all the military presence in North America. It’s really shitty odds, and Ryan feels far more comfortable with sure things.
The problem with not going in with the adults is that it leaves the four of them alone on the jet. On paper it doesn’t seem like an issue, undoubtedly it didn’t even occur to the adults they might need supervision. In reality it’s not good. It’s quite possibly the most uncomfortable enclosed area Ryan’s ever been in, and that includes the time the Smiths invited him and Dad for a dinner party. Forget the actual dimensions of the jet, and it’s seatbelts for twenty, with just them the walls seem to be closing in. It feels like he’s in Rogue’s lap and since she’s a power stealer that’s not a good thing.
“They’re taking too long,” John announces. He’s clicking his Zippo manically, and Ryan can only hope the hinge doesn’t break, or that he doesn’t run out of lighter fluid. It has to be close to empty, he’s been playing with it for the last day without filling it. But if John doesn’t have that outlet, things will get a lot worse.
Bobby and Rogue don’t acknowledge him, and Ryan doesn’t know what to say. Even before he started drinking his father was never on time to a thing in his life. After his parents fucked him over Brendon had no choice but to rely on buses, so he was either on time or fifty minutes late. Ryan doesn’t pay much attention to time if he can help it, ignoring things that are out of his control is the best system he has.
“I’m so done with this kid’s table shit.” He emphasises the statement by hitting the button that makes the stairs descend.
“They told us to stay here!”
“Do you always do what you’re told?” It’s obvious he’s not asking Rogue. But Bobby’s not saying anything.
Ryan doesn’t particularly want to go get himself killed. Situations leading to death have already happened once yesterday -twice if you count the cops pulling guns on them- and once the night before. It’s enough for a life time, really. But he sees the way John’s breaking because of this. There was never anything to hold Ryan in Summerlin, and what little is holding John is slipping way each moment no one agrees with him. So Ryan stands and follows him out of the jet.
Outside is an expanse of snow and trees and concrete dam. Ryan looks down at Bobby’s size too small shoes on his feet because John doesn’t look like he wants to be looked at. Ryan doubts it will help, but he says it anyway. “I don’t think he would have come even if she wasn’t here.”
Ryan can understand hating your crush’s girlfriend, god knows he doesn’t like Boom Boom at all. But the truth is Bobby is a coward and it wouldn’t have mattered if the jet was him and John and a stockpile of guns, he still wouldn’t have mounted a rescue. Spencer, on the other hand, Ryan has no problem imagining him barging into the dam like he owned it.
“Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just us.”
What he needs to do is buy himself some time. If they go in, they will most likely die. Ryan’s power is useless for combat. The best he can do is blind people and run past them, but they’ll figure out a way around that quickly. Hell, a pair of sunglasses would probably do. John’s ability is far more aggressive, yesterday’s scene at the Drakes proved it if he hadn’t known earlier, but it’ll only last as long as his lighter fluid does. And once they get in, what are they supposed to do? Surely the adults have split up all over the complex already. What if they come out with snipers on their tails, needing to leave immediately, and he and John are still inside the dam?
In the wilderness there’s not a lot to distract a person with. It’s not like he can say ‘wanna play xBox’ and get John drawn into five hours of Super Smash Bros. But he’s got his ass and his cock and his hands and his mouth, and those are attributes that have gotten him through other situations. So when John takes the first few steps towards the dam, Ryan grabs his wrist and pulls him in.
He’s got his tongue in John’s mouth when the sound goes off. It’s like sticking your head between two gongs and smashing down the mallet, everything vibrating around you, except in soprano. It’s so loud and shrill and all encompassing Ryan thinks he’s going to die. He falls to the ground, not noticing the snow biting at him. It’s trivial compared to the sound boreing it’s way into his brain. It needs to end, or he needs to pass out, or die, he doesn’t care what comes first as long as it stops. He would bash his head against a rock to make it stop, but the pain has completely taken over his nervous system, he can’t move at all, not counting the reflex action that makes him curl into a ball.
It stops, after an endless period. Realistically it can’t have been very long, the sun is still in the same position in the sky. But it’s long enough that he’s certain in his knowledge that nothing will ever hurt him more, he’s found his pain threshold. And it’s long enough to make him hate whoever did this, whoever made him this weak.
“Your nose is bleeding,” John tells him. Ryan grimaces. He hates bleeding noses, they’re so grimy. When Ryan doesn’t do anything to staunch the flow John presses the sleeve of his jacket to Ryan’s face. It’s cold and damp from the snow, but it’s probably better than nothing.
The last few minutes have clarified things for Ryan. Spencer was always supposed to be there for him, no matter what. He wasn’t. If they’d still been rooming together they would have escaped together, like he and John did. but Spencer picked a girl over him, and maybe he held her through the shrieking nightmare, like he’s sure Bobby and Rogue did. That he still wants him, still loves him even, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to need him. Ryan can move beyond that, let go of his own attachments the way John did.
In the distance is a helicopter, Magneto and Mystique looking out the window. Earlier Magneto became John’s Pete Wentz; a wiser, more experienced man able to say everything you’re feeling without becoming patronising, a possible way out from a shitty life to one where you get what you deserve. Ryan got his chance, now it's time for Pyro to get his.
They don’t say anything as they climb on, at least nothing of importance, really. Just welcome Pyro, and what’s your name?, just filler. Still, he answers. “Ryan.”
“What’s your real name?”
Ryan knows he means mutant code. “Luminescent. Lume.” The long form is relevant and he likes the sound of it, and the short form is practical and sounds foreboding.
“It’s good to have you, Lume.” On a scale Magneto doesn’t sound nearly as congenial as Mrs Smith, but that’s not an option any longer. Ryan nods his head at the statement, then finds a handle to hold on to. When the helicopter lifts into the air he’ll need it.
Part Three
There’s only a moment between waking up and realising why he’s awake. Brendon’s always been good in the morning, the most coherent of all his siblings, before they left the house to live proper Mormon lives. It worked in his favour once he no longer had Mom or Mason putting a hand on his shoulder to rouse him for school, but an alarm clock, or, on more than one occasion neighbours screaming through the onion skin thin walls. This time it’s neither. Brendon’s awake because that thirteen year old that has glass shattering screams is doing so. Brendon shoves his pillow over his face, trying to muffle the sound before his ear drums burst. It seems unfair that he should have to suffer because some girl had a nightmare.
Except she doesn’t stop screaming, like one would expect after waking up from a bad dream. And then Neuron sends a wave of OH GOD HELP M- before her thought gets cut off, and Brendon knows this isn’t just a dream. Something bad is happening. His bed scrapes across the floor as his forcefield turns on and he lands hard on his pyjama clad ass.
“Morgan! You need to come with me!” But of course he can’t hear him, Brendon can’t even hear himself. Part of him hopes that this damage isn’t permanent, he can’t go on stage if he’s deaf. The rest of him reminds him that he has to actually survive this before he can worry about performing. The only other thing he can do is climb to his feet and charge at Morgan, bed and boy being shoved in the wake towards the door. Finally he gets the message and gets up, though he hovers at the door.
His field is too expansive, it won’t let him through. Brendon clenches his hands into fists and thinks about chewing gum. It’s the only thing that’s really worked in training sessions, the first metaphor that hit him properly. If he can imagine the field is like a cocoon of blown gum around him, he can suck it back in, if he chooses to. It’s not exactly the manly image of being a superhero, but it works. Usually.
Thankfully it’s one of the times that it does. He runs through the door and presses his hand along Morgan’s feathered back as they run.
When they see the first military guy Brendon’s fear springs the feild back into action, diameter of the field far wider this time. It’s enough to tumble Morgan to his feet, and Brendon can’t help him back up, can only apologise. The black clad man turns down a different hallway, and Brendon breathes a sigh of relief as they come up to one of the secret passages that’s going to get them out safely. Morgan hits at the fake wood panelling until it collapses in and he can run in and down the concrete stairs. Brendon’s fucked. There’s no reason to even try to stand here and attempt to coax his field back in. It’s like a bubble of gummy concrete, and it’s not gonna happen. The only option he has is to run for the stairwell, and the front door beyond it.
Those are the most terrifying minutes of his life. Part of training is knowing what they're vulnerable to and what they aren’t. In Brendon's case, he knows other mutants powers and stuff like baseball bats and golf clubs can’t get through, but no one’s ever tested high speed projectiles like bullets or darts. Brendon knows they have tranquilizer darts, not real guns, he sees Annalyn get shot and there’s no blood, just her crumpling. It's not as reassuring as it sounds.
At the front door he passes several men, a few of which have students -friends- they’re carrying out. He feels guilty for being happy about their capture, but it’s the crucial second that it takes the men to jostle the weight to the other side and have a free arm for shooting their tranquilizer gun that lets him get away.
Not that he knows where he’s going. Jubilee says they have regular emergency drills, for stuff like what to do if someone can’t or decides they don’t want to control their power, or what to do if someone that doesn’t know about mutants visits the school, or what happens if they need to evacuate. But in the time Brendon and Spencer and Ryan have been here they haven’t had a drill. Sure Mr Summers got Piotr to show him what direction to run in where a secondary safe house was, but Brendon hardly thinks it’s fair to be expected to remember the lesson. It was his second day and for the first time in his life he was at a school where people didn’t ignore him. He’d been desperately trying to not think about how none of his family met him before Storm’s jet landed outside Spencer’s house, and when it still came into his brain every five minutes, trying to not let it hurt. Not to mention the optimist in him had been a bit jacked up on the inevitability of Panic’s real band status, not having to work every last moment to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach, and getting to have sleep overs with friends every night. Though the last one hasn’t worked out too well. Brent left, and Spencer and Ryan are having capital I Issues that Brendon doesn’t even know how to start helping with, but suspects the hickeys on Ryan’s neck aren’t helping either.
Not having a clue, he just runs. It’s harder in the woods, there aren’t many paths he can take that allow for his field. If he struggled hard enough he could probably break down the trees, but they don’t deserve that, so he just sticks to running down the walking paths, certain that none of them lead anywhere safe. As he gets further and further away and they don’t chase after him it shrinks slightly, but Brendon doubts it’s going to go away for a good long time. Maybe even as long as sunrise.
The moon is still high in the sky when he hears the crunching of leaves and twigs. Before he has much of a chance to panic though, he turns and sees it’s Map Walker and Shutter. They’re best friends, it’s not exactly surprising to see them together. Although Brendon can’t help but wonder how Shutter is navigating the woods, even with Map’s hand on his back. Shutter sees everything in stills, he has to blink his eyes to see a new image. When he’s watching Stargate, apparently the only show he cares enough about to bother, he needs to blink as rapidly as possible to actually catch what’s going on. With so much tree debris on the ground he should be tripping every second step.
Map’s voice sounds friendly when he gets close enough to speak, as close as Brendon’s feild will let him. “I knew you’d be lost. You can’t even find your way from class to class. We’ve been trying to find you for over an hour. Didn’t your parents ever teach you if you get lost, sit where you are and wait for someone to find you?”
Brendon shrugs, though he’s not sure Map Walker can see it in the darkness. “Probably. But some of the people that were finding are military, and I don’t know if my field holds up to tranq darts.” That’s if they’re even tranqing anymore, what if they hit quota and are using real bullets for the rest? Not that he wants to say it out loud, in case Map hasn’t thought of it yet. Besides, bullets might be better than being dragged away to some secret facility, in the long run.
Shutter rolls his eyes, and Brendon wants to ask if he sees anything different when he does that, but refrains. “Yes, and some are us. Follow us to safe house three.”
“What? Three?”
“Wow, you didn’t pay any attention at all during orientation did you?” Despite the words Map doesn’t sound pissed or like he thinks Brendon’s a dumb ass, both tones Brendon’s pretty used to. “There are eighty kids, probably closer to ninety with you four coming. Think about how big the school is, can you picture an single emergency shelter fitting everyone?”
“I don’t know if I can make it go away enough to get inside a door. I’m kind of really freaked out right now. Should I just stay here? You could refind me when I calm down more?” It’s not really fair to put Map Walker and Shutter in danger like this.
“No,” Map says definitively. “I’m taking you to Spencer. He’s in safehouse two, and I’m sure he wants to see you. It’s bad enough that Ryan’s not here.”
“What do you mean? Where’s Ryan?” Brendon’s stomach churns, and Map Walker and Shutter both stumble back as his field expands and pushes at them.
“He’s on the road right now, heading to Boston.”
Brendon blinks. “Spencer’s not gonna like that.”
“He’s not kidnapped, or with the army guys, at least. He’s with Rogue and Bobby and Pyro.”
Brendon thinks about that for a second, then thinks about the hickeys, then thinks about Spencer. “I don’t think that’ll help much.”
Shutter shrugs, and Map answers for the both of them. “Yeah. Probably not, actually. Not really looking forward to telling him. We have to get there first though, so if you want to take calming breaths, and shrink it a little that’ll be great. It’s not all on a path.”
Brendon shrugs back at them. He’ll do his best.
*
Patrick’s only somewhat concerned about waking up with an eight am phone call. He’s touring, but he’s not meant anywhere for hours, the nice thing about playing small clubs all over England is there’s no need for a tour bus and sixteen hour drives. Pete promised to not call in the middle of the night because Patrick would be sleeping in, but there’s an equal chance that he just forgot and just watched something great on Youtube rather than he’s upset and not sleeping. Hell, it might not even be Pete. It could be Joe or Travie or anyone else he knows with an erratic schedule leading to one-two-three am calls seeming perfectly acceptable forgetting his current location.
For that matter it could be someone in actual England, trying to get an interview. Unlikely, yes. None of them have released CDs yet, though his EP is out and The Black Cards have some purposely leaked tracks. But it’s possible that someone wants to know what the ex-singer of Fall Out Boy is doing. The thought makes picking up the phone unappealing. But if it’s Pete he might need him, and if it’s another friend he or she will probably just call again and again, his friends are persistent like that.
It’s not a friend, or an interviewer, or a whatever the fuck Pete is. She doesn’t even have to say anything, Patrick recognises the deep breathing. It’s one of the staple sounds of his childhood, his sister being asthmatic. It’s Kat. Kitty, as she likes to be known. It’s a family joke that no one is the same on their passport as they are on their birth certificate. Patrick Vaughn Stump and Kitty Pryde, born to the Stumph family. If he’s remembering correctly there’s a three hour difference between Pete in California and Travie in New York, which means it’s almost three. “Okay sis, isn’t it a bit late? Shouldn’t one of your telepaths be scolding you for being up right now? Not that I don’t want to talk.” Hopefully a short conversation, so he can roll over and go back to sleep.
“Ricky, I’m scared.” Even ignoring the second clause, Patrick would know. It’s in every syllable, and she only calls him Ricky when she needs him firmly set into Older Brother mode. He just got to sleep four hours ago, but he’s going to do this, play the part for her. He has to.
He sits up and turns on the lamp until it’s burning his eyes on the brightest setting, to try and force himself more awake. “What happened, what’s wrong? Can you wake up your roommate? You said her name was Siryn, right?”
“No, no no no I can’t, I cant I-”
Patrick wills her to be calmer. If she starts hyperventilating she’ll need a suck of her inhaler, which she might not be able to take if she’s having trouble controlling her phasing, another side effect of tension. “I thought you said you were friends. I’m sure she’ll understand. I haven’t slept long and I’m not mad you woke me up, right? It’s-”
“Ricky! I’m not at school.”
“What? Where are you?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds miserable, and Patrick wishes he could be there. “It’s just a payphone. I don’t know where.”
“Why are you at a payphone? Are you drunk?” He doesn’t really want to think of his sister almost assaulted and in the middle of a random street hiding from her ‘date’, but she’s fifteen, well old enough to be going to parties.
“I ran. I just ran and ran from the school, I didn’t look where I was going, I just ran.”
“From what? Did Siryn or someone else try to hurt you because-” he has no idea how he’s going to finish that sentence, so for a moment he’s glad when she interrupts. And then he registers what she says.
“It wasn’t mutants, it was people. Military. Or robots. They had weird bumps on their face and could see in the dark, I couldn’t tell what it was, I’d just woken up. Everyone woke up. We got so lucky, Siryn woke up, she screamed before they shot her. It warned everyone. She’s so loud nobody could have slept through it, not even deaf people. My eardrums nearly burst before I phased out. I don’t know what would have happened if she didn’t, maybe we all would have been shot.”
“Kitty, I need to call someone to come get you.”
“Please don’t hang up.”
“But I-”
“Ricky, please.” He hasn’t heard her like this in a long time. Not since she first showed him she could walk through things, and begged him to not hate her. It had taken her two weeks of avoiding everyone that August to work up the courage, and Patrick still hates the idea that she might think he could ever stop loving her.
“Okay, I’m going to use the hotel phone. You’ll hear me still, I’ll put the cell close.” She doesn’t object, which only impresses on him how serious this is. For the last two weeks of vacation she refused to tell anyone else, wouldn’t even listen to his suggestions. It wasn’t until she started the first day of sixth grade and fell through her desk onto the floor that she decided she needed help. Kitty doesn’t like being reliant on other people.
It takes him a minute to remember Pete’s number. They’re almost always together with no need to call and he’s two on speed dial if they’re not in the same state or country. Eventually he gets it, remembering to dial out, then international, then area code, then Pete. “Pete, I don’t know if you were sleeping but-”
“No, it’s fine, was watching Colbert. What’s going on in London?”
“My sister needs help. You need to call around, find someone that’s in New York to help her out.”
“What the hell? What happened? Doesn’t she have like a whole school of people to help?”
“I don’t know, she said something about an attack.”
“The fuck?”
“I don’t know Pete, just find someone.”
“Where is she?”
“It’s gotta be Westchester.” There’s no way she ran further than that.
“That’s a city, Patrick, you can’t just-”
“I know.” He switches the angle of his head it’s more towards the cell in his left. “Kitty, do you see anything street names or a store that isn’t Walmart. Something distinctive?”
“There’s a pastry shop called Wake and Baked?” Under normal circumstances Patrick would probably laugh. Instead he relays the information to Pete, who tells him it’s going to be okay, he’s got this, he’ll call back when he finds someone. Patrick believes him, he trusts him. Pete wouldn’t let him down, not with something this important.
*
Gabe’s always believed you learn better from doing than studying, that lessons stick much better when you’re mired in them. What he’s currently learning is nothing is more bitter than a fan scorned. Midtown breaking up is apparently almost entirely his fault, and everyone seems quite happy laying out all the reasons why. The forums are full of people hating him, threads upon threads of possible reasons he’s such a tool. There seem to be three reasons that come up far more often than anything else though. Some have accused him of wanting to sell out and go mainstream. Gabe’s not sure how actually making money for performing is any more soul damaging than making money wearing a suit or a respectable skirt and typing files in an office, but the more ‘hardcore’ a fan is, the more offensive the idea seems. Some blame the fact that he’s recently begun to enjoy substances, thread handles full of X’s and quotes from Minor Threat. That’s bullshit too, the rest of Midtown would ditch straight edge in a flat second if they could. As it happens though, they can’t, alcohol and drugs fuck with their abilities too much for it to be safe. Gabe’s just lucky enough to not have that problem. Some even buy the ‘differences in musical opinion’ bullshit PSA the band put out, threads about what he or Rob or Heath or Tyler might have wanted to do differently. That’s garbage too, in reality he might have sometimes craved a keyboard, but it’s not like they would have kicked him out for it.
The real bottom line is he just doesn’t care enough anymore to pretend to be an activist. Emo mutant kids need to cheer the fuck up and realise they’re only alone because they decide they are. He doesn’t feel like making depressing music about how much it sucks to be a mutant anymore. Nor does he hold any interest in answering the occasional interview about what it’s like to be a mutant in the scene. And at some point being invited to play somewhere not because their band kicks ass, but because they’re the only mutcore band in Jersey got really fucking old.
Still, that doesn’t mean he’s not willing to hold up his own if it comes to it. He owes the scene a few favors, and mom taught you pay up when you’re asked to. So when he gets a phone call from Patrick Stump at half past three in the morning asking him to pick up a girl in Westchester, Gabe pulls on a hoodie and starts driving. Not no questions asked, of course, he texts Pete the whole drive. But the point is considering it’s almost four Patrick was lucky he didn’t tell him to fuck off and turn off his cell so he couldn’t be called again.
Pete releases some pretty interesting snippets in 140 character bursts; the girl’s name isn’t Kitty but just call her that anyway, she’s Patrick’s little sister, she needs help because the government raided her school and she doesn’t know if any of her classmates are alive. It all sounds pretty fucked to Gabe. Patrick’s in England, Joe, Andy and the rest of that band are in Minnesota or somewhere thereabouts, and Pete’s in California, but even though they know other people in New York he’s their first non Fall Out Boy choice. Seemingly when it comes to mutant rescue he’s the safest bet.
It’s easy enough to find her, map app on his iPhone showing him every turn he needs to make. It’s just as easy to spot her, there aren’t a lot of teenage girls in nightgowns hanging out in the middle of the sidewalk, beside a payphone. What might be more difficult is getting her to actually come with him. He slows his car into an idle beside her, and before he can even open his mouth she shouts “I am not a hooker!” and slinks back against the bakery.
“I’m really not looking for one.” And even if he was, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a girl that looks thirteen, that’s fucking disgusting. “I’m Gabe. Your brother sent me.” She’s pressed hard against the wall, and Gabe has no doubt that if he doesn’t pull this off she’ll sink into it and disappear. And then Pete and Patrick will kick his ass, and he’ll probably sort of deserve it because who loses someone’s little sister?
“Before I ran out of quarters he said he was sending mutcore Gabe Saporta. You don’t look like a rockstar.”
“Well, that was sort of the gimmick, wasn’t it?” It worked damn well, for a long time.
It’s on every forum, on Wikipedia, and if he goes with this superband thing Pete’s proposing it’ll probably attract Livejournal attention too. As a child Gabe had a bad nervous habit of chewing on hair, worse than nails or even self harming because eating hair would eventually lead to a trichobezoar and stomach surgery. It got to the point where friends and family watched him so he wouldn’t pluck it out of his skull. And then twenty minutes before his first June exam in sophomore year, Matty refusing to let him pluck, stress driving him out of his mind, Gabe pinched a hair off Matty’s hoodie and popped it in his mouth before Matty could protest, strand sharp and long against his tongue. And when he swallowed it, Matty stared and Jessica screamed and the guidance counsellor had to come and escort him away, because he had turned into Matty. He’d been stuck that way three days, until he finally got the bright idea to peel a hair out of his brush. Eating his own had turned him back into himself.
When he finally got into a band with a teleporter, a guy with feet that would let him walk on any surface including fire and up walls, and a regenerator, it became a thing. Every night he sung as a different person, sometimes several people, depending on how often he could crowd surf and pluck another hair. Sometimes the voice sounded like shit, but that hardly mattered, it wasn’t the point.
“Look, if you don’t trust that Patrick sent me 'cause Pete told him I was a good bet, they’re both in my phone. You can call them. You know Pete, right? I mean he is your brother’s... something. I’m sure he’s been around the house.”
The girl nods her her head and slinks out of the wall. She stares at her hand for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration before being able to grab the door handle. It’s another frown before she can sit on the seat. Gabe figures that has to suck, concentrating so you don’t fall apart. He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do now, but if it’s almost dawn, judging by all the late nights he’s had, she either wants food, mellow music, a shower, or bed. Possibly a combination of the lot. He starts the drive back to his house, taking a moment to text both Pete and Patrick that Kitty’s safe. Patrick will no doubt call him back so he can talk to her. Unless he’s already doing a show, Gabe’s never been real up to date on time zones.
*
After they all pile into one of Cyclops’ cars, Wolverine floors it. Somehow they get off the property without someone taking out the windshield or the tires. He cranks the heat to compensate for the chill that Bobby’s giving off, not helped by everyone wearing night clothes, but there’s nothing else he can do. They can’t exactly stop in a Westchester Walmart for clothes, there’s not a single wallet between the five of them, and Scott has no emergency stash of cash in the glove box. Which fantastically also means that he doesn’t have a licence, so as soon as he gets out of Westchester he needs to slow down so he doesn’t get pulled over. For now though, speed is better than stealth. He heard the soldiers talking, they weren’t expecting the secret passages, they thought they were going to collect everyone easily. It’s impossible to know how many units have been dispatched, waiting for escaped teenagers. Nothing is more important than getting out before there’s someone to cut them off.
Wolverine considers himself lucky that there aren’t barricades around the county. It’s about the only thing he’s been lucky with in the last month. Between finding no answers at Alkali, and not being able to continue with Stryker, and his passengers being entirely incompatible he suddenly feels very drained. Not that it matters, the drive from Westchester to Boston is eight hours, and he’s not about to let anyone else have a turn at the wheel.
If there’s one thing Wolverine is certain of, it’s that this is not a good combination of people to have together. Sure, the school is for all intents and purposes a hormone stew, only the youngest of students avoiding the dramatic workings. But this combination is worse than average. Thanks to their conversation in the kitchen Wolverine knows Bobby and Rogue are in a celibate but fraught with emotion relationship. He also knows that it’s difficult for Bobby, because his best friend dislikes Rogue, and the feeling is entirely mutual. It also seems to have been passed onto the glowing kid that’s curled into Pyro. It only takes a minute of glancing into the rear view mirror to see there’s something between the two brunets, the average teenage male doesn’t cuddle. Ryan doesn’t seem to have a lot of patience for Bobby either, if the sneer every time he says something means anything. Pyro, on the other hand, is obviously bubbling over with suppressed lust. Every time his legs relax open enough that his thigh touches Bobby he jerks away violently. If Logan had a choice he’d be states away -preferably in a bunker- so this mass of tangled emotions doesn’t hit him when it explodes. He doesn’t really have that option now though.
Ryan keeps leaning into the front seat to change the radio, at least once every ten minutes. Each time he does Rogue flinches. Wolverine would blame the swaying that forces her to dodge on a lack of coordination due to being a skinny tall teenager, except each time Ryan does it he can see Pyro smirking in the rear view mirror. It’s almost bullying, but Logan isn’t about to intervene on her account. Everyone needs to know how to fight back. All she has to do is flinch forward, not back, and Ryan will be wincing in pain and know better than to tease. He also grants Ryan the honour of not cutting off his hand every time he arches over the cup holders before falling back against Pyro. The restraint is for a variety of reasons; Xavier would not be happy if he brought someone home with an amputated limb, his taste in music isn’t abysmal, he’s only switching at the end of songs, not in the middle, Ryan’s a scared kid musician and the music looks like it’s helping the same way Pyro’s flicking his Zippo is helping him. Most importantly, they’ve been driving five hours and Wolverine’s irritation is the only thing keeping him awake.
It’s light by the time he parks in front of Bobby’s house, 10:07 if Scott’s dash is to be believed. He’s been up forty five hours now, having driven through the night in order to get to the school faster. Between the exhaustion, cramped hands and legs that a ten minute break at a gas station couldn’t fix, nervousness about what the fuck happened at the school, and the constant backseat sniping for the last seven hours he’s really not in a good mood.
Getting to the Drakes’ should make things easier. It doesn’t. Ryan comments about it being a imbecilic place to hide a spare key, Rogue glares at her boyfriend's family being slagged, and Logan just holds himself back from smashing his head against the door frame. He sprawls over the couch as Bobby shows Pyro and Ryan his bedroom so they can pick out a change of clothes, before leading Rogue to his parents bedroom for the same. There’s a difference between being invulnerable and not feeling pain, and what his aching legs really need is the chance to be stretched, knees unbent.
It’s depressing but hardly surprising that his streak of shitty luck continues. From the couch he has the pleasure of getting the scent of hormones flooding the room. Rogue and Bobby are doing whatever they can do, he doesn’t feel comfortable thinking out the mechanics. Pyro and Ryan have the ability to go way beyond what Rogue and Bobby can, and most unfortunately they are using that ability. Wolverine scrambles into the kitchen, hoping the slight gain in distance will place a blanket over his all too knowing senses.
It doesn’t really work. The next sentence spoken is Pyro exclaiming when he finds Bobby’s jerking off lotion, commenting that it’s in the same place he always put it when they shared a room. He can almost hear the smirks.
He needs a drink. Well, no, what he really needs is to get out of here, beyond where he can sense their stupid teenage pheromones. But Wolverine can’t leave. Even if his own morality would let him, if others found out he abandoned everyone life would suck considerably. Xavier would make him think he was a little girl, and Jean and Storm could both kick his ass. So a drink to dull the pain will have to do. Thankfully there’s a healthy amount of beer in the Drake fridge.
Of course, that’s when things go from bad to worse. Because it’s not bad enough to be stuck in a house with four who he can only hope aren’t minors having sex, the universe has to throw more crap at him. He hears the sound of them approaching the door, but not nearly early enough to get the bodies disengaged and out the front door. Instead the door slams open and the conversation between Mrs Drake and Bobby’s brother trails off as they notice him. The teenage boy gapes at him, and her arm curls around him like she thinks that could really protect him if he was a burglar. Wolverine’s trying to think of something non-threatening to say when Bobby comes charging down the stairs, Rogue hesitating in the middle of the flight. The Drakes don’t seem happy to see their son home in the middle of the semester, but at least it’s no longer his problem. Bobby will know how to handle them better than he possibly could.
There’s a sharp burst of smells Wolverine twitches through, leaning against the door frame of the living room as Bobby awkwardly comes out to his parents, Rogue’s gloved hand on his knee. Ryan and Pyro come down a minute later, hair mussed, lips bruised pink. Pyro levers himself onto a tall side table, Ryan standing beside him, a move which makes Mrs Drake wince. She probably doesn’t want the crocheted doily under Pyro’s ass wrinkled.
The atmosphere of the room only gets more tense with the new arrivals. Not just because it’s obvious what they’ve been up to, and the Drakes are officially multiple kind of phobic, though that’s a great contributor. The real problem is neither of the brunets have much in the way of guest manners. Pyro is flicking his lighter non-stop, probably akin to anyone else smoothing out invisible wrinkles or curling strands of hair around their finger. At least he acquiesces when Mrs Drake snaps at him to stop. Ryan won’t stop glaring at Mr Drake, and when Pyro points out that fathers carry the gene so it’s actually his fault and the man winces the look only intensifies.
When the brother storms off Logan knows it can’t get any worse. Bobby’s not going to be winning them over. Now it’s just a matter of how they can get out with the least amount of damage.
*
They’re just barely in Seattle - maybe five minutes past the giant Welcome To sign that no one bothers to take a blurry out of the window photo of, having been in the city half a dozen times before- when Mikey finds out a school for runaway teenage mutants was raided by the military. It’s not from television, though as soon as he finds out he shouts out to the guys and CNN gets booted up on four laptops almost simultaneously. It’s obvious either Frank or Gerard is going to have to deal with this during the next interview, they’ll need to be as informed as possible. Although from what he can see looking over at Frank’s screen, CNN is sort of full of shit. It makes him wonder how bad Fox News is right now.
He knows the truth of it because Pete has texted him, and Patrick’s sister attends the school. There’s nothing on the news about shooting ten year olds with dart guns, or some of them being kidnapped for experimentation. It’s fucking nauseating for a dozen different reasons, starting with how friends of friends have been adversely affected by this. Mikey can only hope that Patrick’s sister is okay, he doesn’t even know her name to attempt to Google details. Viewed as a bigger picture it’s even worse. As long as he can remember there’s always been distrust between mutants and flatscans, but it seems to have gotten worse lately. Mikey can’t remember protests as a child, but it seems every week there’s something new on the news. In twenty years Frank and Jamia’s kids might be in this position, mutant genes passed on. If flatscans keep hurting mutants like this, maybe two decades from now Vixen and Bela won’t trust him, even the bond of being their godfather not enough to bridge the gap.
It’s upsetting to think about what’s happening in Westchester, but Pete’s method of communicating upsets him even more. Pete’s been sending him a series of texts, phrases devoid of emotion. He should be furious, he should be ranting on the phone loud enough that the driver can hear it. Mikey has to wonder how many hours Pete’s been awake, and if this situation is going to start a bad cycle for him.
Mikey hasn’t been with Pete in a long time. He still isn’t quite sure if Pete and Patrick were in an off again phase, or if they’d fucked occasionally while he and Pete were dating, and he doesn’t really care. It had worked for them, an entire tour’s worth of late nights and burnt microwave popcorn, wearing shirts at all times so hickeys wouldn’t show. And evidently it had worked for the complexity that was Pete and Patrick. That’s all that matters. In his long time of dating he’s found relationships are hardly ever monogamous, or simple. At least in his experience. He doesn’t need to be shaking with the anticipation of Pete fucking him hard to care about him though. Pete told him for a reason, just as much because he’s the bassist of My Chemical Romance as because he’s a friend. If he doesn’t do something it’ll hurt Pete, and that’s the last thing he wants.
Luckily he’s got the perfect thing in mind. Let Gerard handle the on stage speeches, sassy and demanding the same from their audience. Let Frank and Gee do the interviews while he and Bob fade into the background and Ray tosses in the occasional comment. Mikey’s way is more subtle, but hopefully it’ll attract attention outside the small sphere of fans that obsessively search for recordings of their concerts on Youtube. Back when he and Pete were together he was invited to join a few secret Fall Out Boy concerts. Only one of them was truly secret, it was at a mutant school. A stipulation of playing was consenting to arriving blindfolded, which Mikey had almost said no to, until Pete promised a blowjob to make up for the lost sense. Unless Patrick has connections to more than one -Mikey doesn’t know how many there are around the world, but the United States should at least have one on each coast- it has to have been the one on the news now. Mikey’s got a dozen good memories from the concert, along with a hundred photos that never made their way online.
Until now. He searches through his box of his USBs until he finds the one with the right year and season label, and plugs it into his laptop. Pulling up the school concert folder Mikey searches for a visible power, someone that will make his point. When he finds Artie he smiles grimly. It only takes a second in MS Paint to crop the photo and convert to jpeg.
That done, the only thing left is to ask Ray for his Twitter password. Ray knows all this secret codes, he’s much better at that stuff than Mikey. In fact, he knows the various passwords for everyone on the bus, all of them are pretty shitty at remembering things like that. Mikey doesn’t use Twitter often. Besides the logging in issue, there’s that it has the limitations of texting, while denying privacy. But that’s the point now.
@GabrielSaporta gov shot up school of mutant kids. Nothing scarier than this, right?
If all goes well, Gabe will reply, and other people will retweet it. The more people that see it, the better. Another Iran style protest movement would be great.
It’s hardly surprising that Frank shouts from the front of the bus about an hour later “nicely done, Mikeyway.” Frank and Ray are the only ones that really use theirs for much, and Frank’s the only one that logs on every day. Mikey just shrugs and texts Adam back. It’s not like he wasn’t going to do anything.
It’s also not surprising that Frank won’t take Mikey’s silence as an answer, and comes to the bunks to peer at him. “I mean it, that’s pretty great. People will know now that it’s not just Gee running roughshod over you. You’re not exactly vocal in interviews, but that says more than enough.”
Mikey shrugs again. That was sort of the point.
“You’re kind of great in general, and I’d like to make out with you now.”
There’s a hopeful look plastered over Frank’s face. Mikey doesn’t bother to ask about Jamia, he knows she and Frank have an understanding. He can’t see Gerard being upset by it either, Gerard’s not the jealous lover type. With no reason not to, he grabs Frank’s wrist and pulls him down for a kiss.
The moment is broken the way almost all moments on tour are; someone else butting in. Frank calls from the front, “you gonna have sex with my boyfriend’s brother?”
“The panties have fallen but he’s not in bed yet.” Frank pauses a moment then adds, “Metaphorically speaking.”
“Good! I really didn’t want to hear about his panties.” That’s Gerard, and Mikey snorts. Like Gee has any room to talk about crossdressing.
When Frank slips into his bunk Mikey finds himself appreciating the fact that whatever allows Frank to duplicate himself doesn’t let him duplicate any objects. It’s difficult to strip in a bunk, but this Frank comes pre-naked. Frank for his part doesn’t seem too concerned with getting Mikey naked, content to just press the heel of his hand over the bulky zipper. Fucking tease. Well, two can play that game. He bypasses Frank’s dick to cup his balls. He’s not getting Frank off until Frank gets him off, or at least starts to try. If it takes until they get to the venue so be it, figuring out how their relationship is gonna work is worth a bit of delayed gratification.
*
Kurt begins to recite a prayer as Storm informs them the Air Force planes are going to fire at them. He continues as they both fire their first and Storm rolls the jet to evade them, as Wolverine demands weapons, as Storm creates tornadoes that take the first plane out. The second pilot is luckier, he manages to fire two more missiles before ejecting from his plane. Jean Grey takes one out with considerable mental exertion, but the other smashes into the jet. Kurt has made his peace with God, if this is the day he’s to die than so be it.
That’s when Rogue is hurtled out the edge that’s ripped open like a can opener. Kurt is sure that she is not ready for that journey, and so the only thing to do is to pop out into the open sky and grab her. The jet is still plummeting, but a man in a purple helmet catches it and sets them down gently. Kurt does not understand, but far be it for him to question the workings of the world.
As the sun begins to set Kurt finds himself wishing for the Munich circus. There his companions were far less needful. They had all found within themselves a sort of peace. Such a thing was important when constantly on tour, travelling had a way of breaking down those not strong enough. There is only one person on this expedition that seems truly centred. Even then it’s not a true calm. Mystique is full of plans on how the future must be and how the world must change. Kurt fears she is only so accepting of herself because she hates everything else.
From the day he has had to observe he feels sure almost everyone’s problem is that they are looking for love rather than having faith that it will be provided. Wolverine clearly wants Jean Grey, and she wants him while she believes she shouldn’t. Bobby chases after something he can never allow himself to catch, in order to ignore the far more real love standing beside him. And thirty feet away John -Pyro as he wishes to be called- and Ryan are having intercourse as though to drive away the loneliness. It’s all so clear to him, like the angelic symbols.
Clearly frustrated by the noises escaping the tent, Rogue stalks away from the fire Pyro created earlier. She shows her gratitude for saving her, and then asks if he can hear what the other adults are saying. He agrees. It would be pertinent to know what’s going on. It’s hardly more than a thought before he’s high above the cluster of people, claws embedded in the bark of the tree.
Storm is the first person to speak after his silent interruption. “But how would Stryker know what Cerebro is, or how to find it?”
Magneto reaches up to touch the back of his neck, seeming upset. “Because I told him. I helped Charles build it, remember? Mr. Stryker has powerful methods of persuasion. Even against a mutant as strong as Charles.”
“Who is Stryker anyway?” Jean asks, which Kurt thinks is a very good question. He must be a monster to have set something like this in motion.
“He’s a military scientist who has spent his life looking for a solution to the mutant problem. But if you want a more intimate perspective, why don’t you ask the Wolverine?” Magneto turns to Logan for a moment before saying, “you don’t remember?” Logan crosses his arms, and Kurt can imagine he is not happy. “William Stryker is the only other man I know who can manipulate adamantium. The metal on your bones? It carries his signature.”
“But the Professor...”
“The Professor trusted you were smart enough to discover this on your own. He gives you more credit than I do.”
Wisely, Storm decides to interject with a question before Wolverine can kill the old man. Though Kurt supposes it wouldn’t be as easy as one would guess looking at them, if Wolverine’s bones really are covered in metal and Magneto can control all metals. “Why do you need us?”
“Mystique discovered plans for a base that Stryker’s been operating out of for decades. But we don’t know where it is. And I believe one of you might.”
Wolverine snaps, “the Professor already tried.”
Magneto sighs, “Once again, you think it’s all about you.”
That’s when Magneto turns his gaze upward, the rest copying the movement moments later. Kurt is caught, redhanded.
He pops to the ground and sinks until he’s sitting, across from Jean. Everyone is crowded around him, and while he’s used to crowds staring at the Incredible Nightcrawler, this feels much different. His nerves must be showing, entirely unprofessionally, Storm puts a hand on his shoulder in attempt to reassure him. “I, I didn’t mean to snoop.”
“Relax,” Jean commands, but he does not see how that can be. He flinches as she puts her fingers on his temples. Blurry flashes rush through his mind - soldiers holding him on the ground - being held in the back of a truck - entering along, dark tunnel from above ground - a massive lab - the flash of a camera. Everything he sees makes his head hurt, and makes him feel angry that he can’t remember more because of what they did to him.
“Stryker’s at Alkali Lake,” she says with some confidence. Kurt does not understand how she can be so sure, he didn’t get anything so complete from the memory flash.
Wolverine too doesn’t seem to trust her certainty. “That’s where the Professor sent me. Nothing’s left.”
“There’s nothing left on the surface, Logan. The base is underground.”
After that they continue to talk, barely noticing when he slips off to the tents Bobby had set up earlier. He is tired, and his mind hurts, and since he doesn’t imbibe chemicals, and the jet would be unlikely to have anything anyway the only way he has to sooth his taxed brain is to sleep. He doesn’t envy Jean Grey, who must stay up until the jet is fixed if they’re to pull this off correctly tomorrow. He does not trust the restlessness in Magneto’s soul, but children do not deserve to be imprisoned, and God is giving him the chance to save them.
The next morning they discuss strategy. Mystique is going to break into the base in the guise of Wolverine. Once they all get in safely, they will search for their lost compatriots, the children, and the way to stop Stryker. At least, that is what the adults will be doing. Storm has instructed that the four teenagers stay on the jet and wait for them to come back. None seem happy for the chance to stay safe. If asked Kurt would say he believes they are capable of helping, but he is not their teacher, and the only one that doesn’t previously know anyone else. As an outsider he is not asked.
*
The situation sucks. It’s not that Ryan wants to be inside the dam, because he doesn’t. He’s come to trust Storm as much as one can trust an authority figure, and if she thinks that he’s better off here Ryan believes her. Hell, even just plain common sense tells him he’s better out here. The dam has military personnel, probably every man that Wolverine didn’t kill with his claws for daring to raid the school. Probably more, Stryker’s had a little less than thirty-six hours to gather all the military presence in North America. It’s really shitty odds, and Ryan feels far more comfortable with sure things.
The problem with not going in with the adults is that it leaves the four of them alone on the jet. On paper it doesn’t seem like an issue, undoubtedly it didn’t even occur to the adults they might need supervision. In reality it’s not good. It’s quite possibly the most uncomfortable enclosed area Ryan’s ever been in, and that includes the time the Smiths invited him and Dad for a dinner party. Forget the actual dimensions of the jet, and it’s seatbelts for twenty, with just them the walls seem to be closing in. It feels like he’s in Rogue’s lap and since she’s a power stealer that’s not a good thing.
“They’re taking too long,” John announces. He’s clicking his Zippo manically, and Ryan can only hope the hinge doesn’t break, or that he doesn’t run out of lighter fluid. It has to be close to empty, he’s been playing with it for the last day without filling it. But if John doesn’t have that outlet, things will get a lot worse.
Bobby and Rogue don’t acknowledge him, and Ryan doesn’t know what to say. Even before he started drinking his father was never on time to a thing in his life. After his parents fucked him over Brendon had no choice but to rely on buses, so he was either on time or fifty minutes late. Ryan doesn’t pay much attention to time if he can help it, ignoring things that are out of his control is the best system he has.
“I’m so done with this kid’s table shit.” He emphasises the statement by hitting the button that makes the stairs descend.
“They told us to stay here!”
“Do you always do what you’re told?” It’s obvious he’s not asking Rogue. But Bobby’s not saying anything.
Ryan doesn’t particularly want to go get himself killed. Situations leading to death have already happened once yesterday -twice if you count the cops pulling guns on them- and once the night before. It’s enough for a life time, really. But he sees the way John’s breaking because of this. There was never anything to hold Ryan in Summerlin, and what little is holding John is slipping way each moment no one agrees with him. So Ryan stands and follows him out of the jet.
Outside is an expanse of snow and trees and concrete dam. Ryan looks down at Bobby’s size too small shoes on his feet because John doesn’t look like he wants to be looked at. Ryan doubts it will help, but he says it anyway. “I don’t think he would have come even if she wasn’t here.”
Ryan can understand hating your crush’s girlfriend, god knows he doesn’t like Boom Boom at all. But the truth is Bobby is a coward and it wouldn’t have mattered if the jet was him and John and a stockpile of guns, he still wouldn’t have mounted a rescue. Spencer, on the other hand, Ryan has no problem imagining him barging into the dam like he owned it.
“Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just us.”
What he needs to do is buy himself some time. If they go in, they will most likely die. Ryan’s power is useless for combat. The best he can do is blind people and run past them, but they’ll figure out a way around that quickly. Hell, a pair of sunglasses would probably do. John’s ability is far more aggressive, yesterday’s scene at the Drakes proved it if he hadn’t known earlier, but it’ll only last as long as his lighter fluid does. And once they get in, what are they supposed to do? Surely the adults have split up all over the complex already. What if they come out with snipers on their tails, needing to leave immediately, and he and John are still inside the dam?
In the wilderness there’s not a lot to distract a person with. It’s not like he can say ‘wanna play xBox’ and get John drawn into five hours of Super Smash Bros. But he’s got his ass and his cock and his hands and his mouth, and those are attributes that have gotten him through other situations. So when John takes the first few steps towards the dam, Ryan grabs his wrist and pulls him in.
He’s got his tongue in John’s mouth when the sound goes off. It’s like sticking your head between two gongs and smashing down the mallet, everything vibrating around you, except in soprano. It’s so loud and shrill and all encompassing Ryan thinks he’s going to die. He falls to the ground, not noticing the snow biting at him. It’s trivial compared to the sound boreing it’s way into his brain. It needs to end, or he needs to pass out, or die, he doesn’t care what comes first as long as it stops. He would bash his head against a rock to make it stop, but the pain has completely taken over his nervous system, he can’t move at all, not counting the reflex action that makes him curl into a ball.
It stops, after an endless period. Realistically it can’t have been very long, the sun is still in the same position in the sky. But it’s long enough that he’s certain in his knowledge that nothing will ever hurt him more, he’s found his pain threshold. And it’s long enough to make him hate whoever did this, whoever made him this weak.
“Your nose is bleeding,” John tells him. Ryan grimaces. He hates bleeding noses, they’re so grimy. When Ryan doesn’t do anything to staunch the flow John presses the sleeve of his jacket to Ryan’s face. It’s cold and damp from the snow, but it’s probably better than nothing.
The last few minutes have clarified things for Ryan. Spencer was always supposed to be there for him, no matter what. He wasn’t. If they’d still been rooming together they would have escaped together, like he and John did. but Spencer picked a girl over him, and maybe he held her through the shrieking nightmare, like he’s sure Bobby and Rogue did. That he still wants him, still loves him even, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to need him. Ryan can move beyond that, let go of his own attachments the way John did.
In the distance is a helicopter, Magneto and Mystique looking out the window. Earlier Magneto became John’s Pete Wentz; a wiser, more experienced man able to say everything you’re feeling without becoming patronising, a possible way out from a shitty life to one where you get what you deserve. Ryan got his chance, now it's time for Pyro to get his.
They don’t say anything as they climb on, at least nothing of importance, really. Just welcome Pyro, and what’s your name?, just filler. Still, he answers. “Ryan.”
“What’s your real name?”
Ryan knows he means mutant code. “Luminescent. Lume.” The long form is relevant and he likes the sound of it, and the short form is practical and sounds foreboding.
“It’s good to have you, Lume.” On a scale Magneto doesn’t sound nearly as congenial as Mrs Smith, but that’s not an option any longer. Ryan nods his head at the statement, then finds a handle to hold on to. When the helicopter lifts into the air he’ll need it.
Part Three