Finally...

The Chaos Factor
Chapter Three:"Burden in My Hand"
By Jim Cannon

    Still suffering a bit from the time difference, Dick Grayson
managed to awake with the dawn and pull on some sweats. Scotland or no,
secret identity be damned, he needed to get some exercise. And though
the thought of trying out the gymnastics facility intrigued him
greatly, especially with a natural acrobat like Wagner on the team,
Dick knew that any showboating would compromise his secret. So he stuck
to running.
    The room MacTaggert gave him was small and functional, which was
all he asked. It had the further bonus of being on the ground floor,
and Dick eased himself out the window, dropping lightly to the grass
below, still moist from the morning dew. The sun was just coming up
over the horizon, a welcome change from the last few days of gloom and
rain. Dick supposed that Reed Richards and Vindicator managed to solve
whatever problem that had caused the terrible storms.
    He ran a hand through his thick mat of long dark hair, and once
again vowed to get it cut. Long hair really was a dumb idea for someone
in his profession, but Dick could never seem to find the spare fifteen
minutes to have his locks shorn. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could find
someone on the island to do it. Dick thought it unlikely that Moira
MacTaggert owned the whole island, and he planned to look for signs of
a settlement on his run.
    His investigation of the earlier evening had yielded little
intelligence. Not much of use anyway. The MacTaggert Institute and
headquarters of Excalibur was standard spandex and masks fare. Secret
laboratory beneath a nondescript exterior, a helipad, docks, training
rooms for the metahumans, etc. In a way, the place reminded Dick of
the old Titans Tower, though MacTaggert's house lacked the style of his
former home. But it could give Bruce's mansion a run for its money.
    Dick shook his head. *There'll be a chance for woolgathering later,
Grayson. Time for work* With that, Dick headed off towards the shore
at a lope, intending to make a quick circuit of the island, before
anyone awoke and noticed him missing. A light mist rolled off the sea,
coating Dick in a layer of moisture. *Fine Scottish weather* he
thought.
    The shore was a jumble of mismatched blocks and boulders, seemingly
wedged together by some cyclopean hand ages ago to form a shifting
expanse of shattered and desolate rock. Very little vegetation could
find a foothold in the rocks, though gulls and other birds nested
amidst the nooks and crannies. Dick bounded from rock to rock, letting
the sun and the sharp tang of salty air worry away at his better
judgement. It really was a glorious morning, and Dick enjoyed
stretching his limbs out and testing his balance on the precarious
stones.
    This girl, Desdemona, could prove to be trouble. Dick felt
responsible for her, having rescued her from the Wizard and brought
her to Excalibur. Dick had no desire to spend an extended period of
time on Muir Isle, but it seemed he might have to. Well, at least with
the weather clearing, he could give Alfred a ring. No sense in calling
Bruce. Maybe he should contact Wally, too. If he was going to be stuck
here a while, he was going to need a few things from his apartment. Who
better than Wally to bring them over?
    Dick's reverie was broken by a loud crash. Only long years on the
balance beam enabled him to stay on both feet as the ground shook
beneath him. He staggered, and looked around wildly for the source of
the noise, even as another rumble sounded not far ahead. Not a tectonic
disturbance, then. Perhaps another one of Des's summoned creations?
Whatever it was, the mist shrouded it in secrecy.
    Dick leapt across a water filled rift and headed for the source of
the terrible din. Another crash echoed through the mist, and then the
cloud thinned, and Dick was able to make out the silvery form of
Colossus hammering away at a massive boulder that jutted from the sea.
The mutant's sledgehammer fists were shattering the huge rock to bits.
Colossus readied for another blow as Dick approached, and, sensing the
American, he paused and turned.
    Dick froze in midstride when he saw Colossus' expression. He was
planning to ask the mutant about the possibilty of finding a quiet town
nearby for breakfast and maybe that haircut, but what he saw caused the
words to die on his lips. Piotr Rasputin's metallic features were
twisted into a mask of anguish and hatred, a mix that promised a lethal
response to anyone who interrupted his seemingly senseless attack on
the rock.
    A normal man would have run screaming, but Dick stood his ground.
It never occurred to him that retreat might have been a sane option;
long years as a costumed do-gooder had warped his natural responses
beyond the norm of humanity. To someone who had faced Trigon, an angry
Colossus was nothing to be too concerned about.
    Still, Dick wasn't stupid. He stood motionless, waiting for
Rasputin to make the first move. If he became violent, Dick would evade
him; and if he calmed down, maybe Dick would be able to satisfy his
curiosity and find out just what was going on here.
    His patience was rewarded, as Colossus slowly calmed down. "Mr.
Grayson," he said, breathing deeply. "I hope I did not alarm you."
    Dick shook his head. "Nope," he lied. "Just piqued my interest. How
dangerous is that boulder, really?"
    Colossus looked sheepishly at his handiwork. Massive cracks
criss-crossed the bulk of the boulder, and several dozen fragments of
basalt lay scattered on the ground. He looked down at his clenched
fists, and seemed to make a conscious effort to relax them. He sighed,
but said nothing.
    "Are you okay?" Dick asked. Normally he wouldn't pry, but a being
with Colossus' strength and apparent anger hanging around Desdemona
invoked Dick's paternal instincts.
    "I...I..." Colossus trailed off. With a burst of light, he returned
to flesh and blood. He turned to Dick. "It is nothing you need to
concern yourself with, Mr. Grayson." He made as if to walk away, but
Dick called after him.
    "Maybe it isn't, Rasputin. But I'll tell you, whatever your
problems are, attacking innocent rocks isn't the solution. If you don't
find some kind of release -- healthy release -- your anger will kill
you."
    Rasputin turned to look at Dick again. "Are you a psychologist,
Dick Grayson?" The anger was back in the Russian's posture and voice.
    Dick shook his head. "No. But I've seen it happen. Hell, I've been
there a few times. And as much as lashing out at inanimate or animate
objects seemed to lessen the pain, it couldn't make it go away."
    Rasputin's features didn't soften, but something in his posture
told Dick to keep going. He took a careful step toward Rasputin. "You
need to find somebody you trust, and tell them about it. Whatever it
is. Once you start talking, it becomes easier to bear."
    "'Easier to bear,'" Rasputin mimiced. "You don't know anything
about me. How do you know what will help me?"
    Dick shrugged. "I don't. But like I said, I've been where you are
now. Maybe not for the same reasons, but I know how you feel."
    "Do you?" Rasptin was listening, at least. Though Dick couldn't
understand, for the life of him, why it felt so important to get
through to the man. Perhaps it was the comment Rasputin made the night
before, vowing to keep Desdemona safe. Or maybe Dick sensed something
of a kindred spirit in the big Russian. Whatever the case may be, he
kept talking.
    "When I was nine years old, my parents were murdered." Rasputin's
eyes widened, and some of the hardness in his face seemed to fade.
Perhaps Dick was on the right track. "They were killed by a mob boss
who was trying to extort money from my parents' employer. The sad thing
is, I overheard the gangsters threatening our boss. But my parents
didn't believe me. They thought I imagined it all. They were killed,
and at the time I was convinced I could have prevented it in some way.
    "But even more, I blamed the man who ordered their deaths. At age
nine, I planned to kill this man. Someone...found me, and showed me a
better way. I helped capture the mob boss, and I came to realize I
wasn't responsible for my parents' deaths. There was nothing I could
have done. It was only later that I had the knowledge and the skills to
prevent something like that from happening to anyone else.
    "It took years of sleepless nights and a lot of useless rage to
reach that conclusion. It helped to have someone to share my pain with,
someone to talk to about my parents. If it hadn't been for them..."
Thoughts of Jason came to his mind, but he pushed them away. "I know
I'd be dead today."
     Rasputin was looking at Dick with something like understanding.
"If only it were that easy," he said. "There is no one on this island I
can trust. Not anymore."
     Dick shrugged. "Then maybe you shouldn't be here. Look, I know
you've been an X-Man almost as long as I... I can remember, but that
doesn't mean you have to spend the rest of your life with these people.
In the real world, people take vacations and sabbaticals. And those are
people who don't live with their co-workers. Hell, maybe all you need
to do is find some people who don't wear spandex to hang out with."
    Rasputin nodded reluctantly. "Much of what you say makes sense. But
I have obligations..."
    "Do these obligations preclude you from having a life of your own?"
Dick asked, realizing that his words echoed some of his own internal
monologues over the years.
    Rasputin looked away, out to sea. "I used to think so. And recent
events seemed to reinforce that idea. And yet, I do not truly feel at
home here. Nor at the Mansion, not anymore." He looked squarely at Dick
again. "You have given me much to think about, Mr. Grayson."
    Dick grinned. "Glad to be of service," he returned. Sensing the
moment of crisis past, he changed the subject. "Now, maybe you can help
me. Is there a place on this island where I can find some breakfast, or
is the only sign of intelligent life back there?" he asked, gesturing
behind him to the MacTaggert home.
    Rasputin shook his head. "There is a town, not far from here. But
they do not much care for us mutants."
    Dick could tell Rasputin needed a lot of work. He was more morose
than Raven. "Well, unless your mutant ability is the power to absorb
huge amounts of sausage and eggs, I don't think you need to worry."
    Rasputin almost smiled.

              *    *    *    *    *   *   *   *

    While the morning sun was caressing the hills of Scotland, Gotham
City remained engulfed in shadow, despite the thousands of streetlights
and other sources of illumination. Somehow, no matter how had it tried,
Gotham could not quite shake off its dark nature.
    Tommy Monaghan was a man well versed in Gotham's darkness. He grew
up in the slums, witnessed every atrocious act man could commit against
man. It was a small wonder that Tommy gravitated toward a career that
bred on violence and greed, the very tenets Gotham was founded upon.
    Tommy made a living as a hitman, a hired assassin, and up until
recently, it had been a handsome one. Every since he crossed Etrigan
the Demon and a bizarre, spinal fluid-eating alien, however, Tommy's
life went from adventurous to far-fucking-out. Now Tommy could read
minds and see through walls, and he had drawn the attention of the one
man no criminal in Gotham seeks.
    The Batman.
    Tommy, cocky and perhaps overconfident, figured his new meta powers
would keep his ass out of jail, should the caped crusader come calling.
But that didn't mean that Tommy was going to go out of his way to call
down the wrath of the Batman on himself; after all, the Bat ran with
Superman and Wonder Woman. He was Big Bad News whichever way you looked
at it.
    So Tommy layed low, and planned on taking it easy for the
forseeable future. He was thinking about moving to New York. But even
the Batman couldn't chase him out of Gotham. There were too many
memories, good and bad, for Tommy to just up and go. Maybe sometime
soon he would leave, but not yet.
    On this particular morning, Tommy was on his way home from
Noonan's. Tommy took the scenic route through the Bowery, taking his
time and minding his own business. The problem being, it is difficult
to mind ones own business when one possesses telepathy and x-ray eyes.
     Tommy was crossing the street when he saw the flying man. He was
dressed in white -- odd enough for Gotham City -- and braced across his
shoulders was a mass of machinery that must have weighed several tons.
Tommy had a moment of panic, standing exposed in the middle of the
street, until he realized that the figure he saw was flying low, on the
other side of the buildings Tommy faced. Exhaustion and inebriation
caused him to lose concentration and look *through* the buildings.
     When he realized he was safe, Tommy let himself feel curious. He
checked the pistols hidden in his green duster, adjusted the dark
glasses on his nose, and decided to follow this guy. After all, Gotham
City wasn't Metropolis or New York. Flying people weren't exactly a
common sight. Flying rodents, yes, but not people.
     Tommy followed the guy down Broad Street, and watched as the meta
turned onto Havana Avenue. There wasn't much but deserted factories
and warehouses down that way, remnants of Gotham's forgotton industrial
base of the early 20th century. These days, the buildings were little
more than cool hideouts for guys like the Joker and Two-Face. If the
city wasn't so deep in the red already on public works, they would've
been bulldozed a long time ago.
     When Tommy was a kid, he used to catch hell from old Noonan for
playing in the old factory yards. He had some fond memories of those
places. Too bad that they had to be sullied by the Joker, the Penguin,
and flying guys in white tights. Tommy checked his guns again and
made his way down an alley so that he had clear access to Havana. Not
that he really cared all that much about a bunch of old, crumbling
buildings, but he wondered what this freak was doing with his old
haunts.
      His x-ray eyes watched the man pause over the old MacGillicuddy
and Sons place. They used to manufacture left handed rulers, notebooks,
and stuff like that. The Joker used the second level as a makeshift Ha
Hacienda in '87. Tommy wondered idly if there were any joy buzzers or
acid spitting flowers lying around in there somewhere, molded with a
decade of dust and grime.
      While Tommy's imagination ran away with him, the flying guy
descended through an opening in the roof of the MacGillicuddy place.
Tommy adjusted his sight accordingly, and saw a huge room inside,
snaking with cords and wires. In the center of the room, watching the
flying man and his load, stood a tall, powerfully built man garbed in
blue armor. He had a cape of feather-like strands of some thin,
malleable metal, and his skin was deathly white. A blood red diamond
was incised in the man's forehead.
      Something about the guy gave Tommy the chills in a way that even
Batman or the Joker couldn't. After all, when it all came down to it,
the clown and the bat were just guys; a little more violent than most,
but then, so was Tommy, so he could relate. But the pale guy with the
diamond on his forehead was something else. Something inhuman and
cruel. Hundreds of yards away from what was occurring in the factory,
certainly undetectable, Tommy made an involuntary step back.
       And then, without warning, the pale man shifted his gaze away
from the flying guy. He looked straight at Tommy, and Tommy looked into
the darkest, blackest eyes he'd ever seen. He tried to assure himself
that the pale man was almost certainly looking at something in that big
room, between himself and Tommy. He couldn't shake the feeling, though,
that his initial response was the correct one.
       A dry, clinical voice sounded in Tommy's head. It said, "GO
AWAY!" Tommy didn't need to be told twice. He turned and quickly made
his way out of the alley, heading home with as much speed as he could
muster. And he tried desperately to forget what he saw.

               *    *    *  *   *   *   *  *   *

     Groaning, I rolled out of bed. It was Saturday morning, and time
to relax for once. I had two days to screw around, and then classes
would begin. The right way to start a September, any way you looked at
it. Yet, for the first time in my life, I would be on the other side of
the desk. No longer the learner, I would be the teacher.
     I wasn't sure if I had in in me. Before, I was able to subsume my
doubts and insecurities by concentrating on the day to day maintenance
and construction of the school. Build this, fix that, replaster over
there. Now, though, I could no longer hide behind a malfunctioning
control panel.
     So I had two days. Two days to worry incessantly if I had made the
right decision. Two days to second guess myself.
     Tasha reached out sleepily as I left the bed. I picked up my robe
from the floor and leaned over to give her a kiss on her perfect little
forehead. She "mmmmed" and stretched under the sheets.
     "What are you doing?" she asked.
     "I'm getting up, sleepyhead."
     She rolled onto her side and examined me through eyes hooded with
sleep. "Why would you want to do something like that?"
     I shrugged. "It is one o'clock. Do you want to lay in bed *all*
day?"
     "Yes," she said. She was beginning to wake up. I could tell
because she was grinning wickedly. She only grins wickedly when she's
fully concious. And it was a sure sign of trouble. "Besides," she
added, "who said anything about just laying here?" With that, she slid
out from under the covers.
     It was my turn to smile wickedly.

     While Tasha did delay me, I eventually did manage to get up and
out of bed. I took a quick shower, noting with again how little shampoo
I needed now that I had sheared off my long hair, and then shaved. I
don't know how Thor and Superman do it, but I have to use a low grade
laser to cut my whiskers. Hair is basically dead cells, but with my
phsyiology, I need something a little tougher than a steel blade. For
years I had resorted to using a hand held laser welder, of all things.
The temperature of the tool was enough to cut off my beard without
burning my cheeks, but recharging the batteries was more of a chore
than actually shaving. I was toying with the idea of buying a set of
adamantium blades. They would be expensive, and a great deal of my
family's money was tied into the school, but the razors might be worth
it.
    Tasha showered while I shaved.
    Natasha Hawthorne is the most beautiful, generous, funny, and
loving woman I've ever met. And I thank the stars everyday that she
loves me almost as much as I love her. For the longest time, I was
afraid to be honest with myself, and her, about my feelings toward her.
It was only recently that I was able to gain enough confidence in
myself to recognize how much I cared for her, and act on it.
    How does a six foot six, seven hundred pound superhuman lack
self-confidence? It is a long, sad story and one I would rather not get
into at this time. Suffice to say that a great deal of death and
destruction seemed tied to failures of mine. Those deaths, indeed,
still haunt me, but I realized that the manner in which I was trying to
put them to rest -- "adventuring," "superheroing," and so on -- simply
was not the right one.
    But I was talking about Tasha, not myself. It is actually harder to
discuss Tasha without mentioning me simply because she and I have
shared so much history together. We were best friends in grammar
school, all the way from kindergarten to eighth grade. Our parents were
good friends as well, so I've actually known her most of my life. When
our fathers died in a terrorist attack, I told her about my powers. She
was the first person outside the family and my teacher who I felt I
could trust with that knowledge. Even so, I was half-afraid she would
run screaming when I told her I was a mutant.
    She didn't of course. She's too good for something like that.
    You know, I was just beginning to realize how much of my strength
comes from Tasha. She was always there for me, helping me cope with the
terrors and problems of life as a mutant. She is much more resiliant
emotionally and psychologically than I am. And when I failed my team,
an dthey died, I pushed her away, thinking that I could lead her to her
death as well. After that, I became a wreck. Second guessed everything
I did. Without Tasha to lean on, I was worthless.
    Lucky for me, Tasha is the forgiving sort. She help salvage my soul
from the morass I let it sink into. She helped me wake up.
    So it is with complete honesty that I can tell you: I love Natasha
Hawthorne as much as any man can love a woman. And someday, perhaps in
the nearer future, I will propose to her.
    God, I hope she accepts.

    About a half hour later, washed, refreshed, and feeling more
energetic, Tasha and I headed downstairs. Though Tasha had already
spent a week in the city, she was working the whole time. And since I
was cooped up in the mansion the whole week, we decided to go into
town, get a late lunch, and maybe do a little shopping.
    As we headed down the stairs, the keys to the jag clinking in
Tasha's hand, I saw Michael Hawkins cross the foyer with a bowl of ice
cream in his hands. he was heading for the tv room, presumably having
come from the kitchen.
    He looked up as we came down the stairs. "Hey, you too finally
surfaced." I don't think I blushed at all, and Tasha managed to keep
her face straight. I don't know how she does that with such fair skin.
I gave Mike a meaningful look which he ignored. Of all the students,
Mike showed the least amount of respect for the authority figures at
the institution, myself included. On the plus side, he wasn't afraid of
me like Jo Cassel seemed to be. But he could be damn annoying at times.
    "You guys going out?" he asked.
    "Yes," I said. Tasha chimed in as well, saying, "We're getting a
late lunch in Seattle, and we'll maybe catch a movie." Movie? She
didn't mention a movie. I was momentarily distracted by this current of
thought, as I tried to come up with a film that I wanted to see, and I
missed my chance to lay down the law.
    "Really?" Mike asked. "Would you mind if a few of us came along?
We haven't had much chance to see anything but the grounds..."
    Tasha looked at me, and I blinked liek a deer caught in headlights.
Part of my brain was still thinking about films. Deciding that my
silence signified approval, Tasha turned to Mike and said, "Sure. But
we're leaving in *exactly* five minutes, so make sure everybody
who wants to go is outside and ready by then." She wagged the keys at
Mike while she talked.
    Suddenly I realized what was going on. But before I could say
"NOOO!" Mike had bolted, shouting at his friends that there was a
roadtrip. My quiet afternoon with Tasha was ruined.
    I grabbed her hand, and prepared to complain, but she pressed a
finger againts my lips. "This is the perfect oppurtunity to get to know
them better," she said. "Besides, they must be more stir crazy than you
are." I doubted that last bit, but nodded at her reasoning.
    So we took the van instead of the jag. And Mike, Alissa, Louise,
Simon, Sandra, and Dana were coming with us. They wanted to see the
city, do some shopping, and otherwise just stretch their legs. Some of
others no doubt wanted to come, but stayed behind for various reasons.
Most of those who remained suffered from rather visible physical
deformities; Parker most of all. As for Liberty... with her ability to
fly, I had no doubt she already explored the city at some point this
week.
     We had our team. We had our mission. I just hoped I would survive.

NEXT: Dick makes a phone call to the states, Tolken has an adventure,
and Sam and Rogue meet Dr. Strange. Be here in thirty! Or whenever I
can get the next chapter done...
***********************************************************************
I apologize for taking so long. It took me a while to slip back into
the groove. But once I got Tolken talking again, it became much easier.

Excalibur are (C) Marvel Comics. Even though they don't know how to
treat them properly.

Nightwing, Hitman, and Gotham City are (C) DC Comics

Everything else -- characters, plot, story, and editorial decisions --
are mine. I hereby give permission to transmit the story electronically
so long as no money changes hands and nothing in the document is
altered.
(C) 1996 James M.G. Cannon

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