*** DISCLAIMER: The X-MEN are Copyright (C) 1997 Marvel Characters, Inc.
and are property of Marvel Comics Entertainment Group. They have been
used without permission. No profit has been made from this work. This
story is Copyright (C) 1997 by Jon Bartley.

*** WARNING: This story may contain adult content, adult language, and
violence. If you're offended by these things, don't read.

BLACK LOVE (9/12)
By Jon Bartley

PART NINE: "Jessica Fynd"

Despite his desire not to, Scott kept on wishing and his wishes kept on
coming true. By Fall, he noticed significant changes in reality. For
instance, he noticed buildings and homes, which were square- or
rectangular-shaped, were now oval-shaped and floated several feet off
the ground. Even the smallest of his wishes had profound aftereffects.
He knew he had to stop.
     But Scott kept on wishing.
     He just couldn't stop.

It was a cold December day. Flakes of snow, purple and spiked, had
fallen. The biting cold had cracked lips and reddened noses. Thanks to
the cold, the X-Mansion was out of every type of warm drink it once had.
And it was Scott's turn to make the trip to the grocery store to stock
up.
     He bundled up and make the trek on foot.
     Every day was worse than the one before. It was as though everyone
in the world were asleep and he was the only one awake--painfully awake
living inside a dream. Admittedly, he had his wife, his life, money, and
a home. But for every one thing he had, he lost ten more things he cared
about more. It was only a matter of time.
     He was half-way to the store, when a voice called out to him: "So
you're the one causing all this mess."
     Scott turned and saw an old woman standing on the front porch of a
house that looked older than anything he'd seen. There was an expression
on her face not unadjacent of that of a mother ashamed of her child.
"What...? What did you say?" he asked.
     "I said this is your fault," she answered, discouraging a response.
"All this. You're the reason why the buildings are oval; why the snow is
purple; why my tea kettle has a mind of its own--literally. You're this
century's wisher, aren't you? *Skuddly's* wisher, right?"
     "How..?"
     "...did I know? I did business with that devil long ago. I stole
back everything he took from me... unfortunately. But I know. Well, I
suppose you'd like to know how to fix all this, eh?"
     Scott nodded, his eyes locked onto the aged, wrinkled slits behind
her eye-glasses.
     "Well, come on in."

The old woman introduced herself as Jessica Fynd. She and Scott seated
themselves in her living room. He sat in a large, velvet chair, and she
sat on a blue couch. The two were separated by a coffee table, on which
sat two tea cups, a tray of crackers and a kettle.
     "Can I get you some tea?" she asked, a little more polite than
before.
     "Yes. Thank you."
     "Well, you heard him," said Jessica, nudging the kettle.
     The kettle on the table let out a groan, stampered over to Scott's
cup, leaned forward to fill it halfway, then stampered back across the
table. Scott took a careful sip of the tea and sighed.
     "So you know about Skuddly?" Scott wanted to know.
     "Yes. The story goes: each century, Skuddly must feed on the soul
of a living being. It powers him. The rest of the time, he makes wishes
and sends them off into the world. This century, he's chosen you to feed
from."
     "How can I get my soul back from him?  How can I fight him?"
     "The same way you make your wishes. You've got power--use it.
Select a battlefield, arm yourself and win back what's he's taken."
     "Yes, but *how*?" he whined.
     Jessica growled underneath her breath. "It's different for each
person. For me, all I had to do was dare him to withdraw a sword from a
block of marble. The trick was, the sword could only be touched by a
person with an honest and gentle heart. He lost. I got my soul back."
     "Was it--your soul--the same? I mean, was it changed?"
     "Of course, it was changed. Skuddly had buried it in his spit. He
was waiting for me to die, so he could swallow it. It was never the same. 
But I'd gotten it back. It was mine."
     "Doesn't sound too easy." Scott said, slumping in his seat.
     Jessica's growled again. "It shouldn't. What you've done is
unforgivable. You've gone around slinging about your gifts of black love
--changing your life, the lives of your friends, the lives of the world,
and reshaping them all so they look beautiful in your eyes. It should be
the hardest thing in the world to get your soul back. Most things will
never be the same. NEVER."
     There was a long pause of silence.
     "But," Jessica broke in, rising from her seat. She went over to a
desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a long white strip of cloth. "...I
believe this can help."
     "What is it?" Scott asked, accepting the cloth.
     "Tie this around your forehead, when you go to sleep--when you
decide to battle Skuddly. It will become a suit of armor, any type of
armor you like. It will holster any type of weapon you like, or think
you may need. It should help."
     Jessica showed Scott to the door, informing him he should end this
battle with Skuddly as soon as possible. He stopped at the front door
and turned around. "I have another question: is it possible for me to
set things right?"
     She thought about this, then said: "What was your first wish?"
     Scott smiled. "To bring my wife back from the dead."
     "Do you really want to set things right? Of course, you'll never
set everything right. But do you want to try to set a few things right?"
     He nodded.
     "Destroy your wife," she ordered coldly.
     Scott's lower jaw dropped as far as it would drop. "I... I... I...
I..." he stuttered. "I... can't *kill* my wife. She's my wife!"
     "If she was your first wish," Jessica explained, "then she holds
certain magicks that the other wishes were dependent on. Without her,
the other wishes couldn't have been granted. And I didn't say 'kill her'. 
I said 'destroy her'. There's a difference. Good day."
     Scott left Jessica's house with a sick feeling in his stomach. He
supposed that, if it were him, he'd have been as cold and unfeeling as
Jessica had been to him. Scott looked down at the white cloth she'd
given him.
     Scott now knew what he had to do.

To Be Continued...
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