Title: Requiem for Hopes and Dreams 1/1
Author: Maia (squirrel@enteract.com)
Category: Gen X, Emma POV
Rating: PG-13 for angst and mild language
Summary: After the school closes in Generation X #75, Emma darkly
reflects on past and current events
Spoilers: Generation X #75,  and a look back through #1

Disclaimer:  Generation X and its characters belong to Marvel Comics,
not me. No profit is made from this story – its all in good angsty
fun, no infringement intended.
Archiving: Yes, please let me know if you'd like to use a copy
Author's Notes: Beware – major Emma angst ahead. I normally don't
write such dark pieces, but in light of all the missing, unspoken
parts that were the final days of Gen X, I felt it had to be written.
What became of that once promising title called Generation X? I don't
know. I mourn for it, but at least we have back copies, and always,
fan fiction.

Feedback – Always, at squirrel@enteract.com  (Flames will be used to
make toasted marshmallows, however) Like this story? Email me for
more Emma/Sean related fic. Coming soon, "Unexplained Phenomena" the
complete work.

"Just tell me of passionate strangers who rescue each other from a
lifetime of care."
Joan Baez, Love Song for a Stranger

*********************************************************

Requiem for Hopes and Dreams
By Maia

`There was a dream once that was Rome. . .' Why do I have lines from
some melodramatic sword and sandal flick starring Russell Crowe
popping into my head now, at all times? I consider as I blankly stare
out of the helicopter window.  Below me, now some hundreds of feet
away, lies the remains of the dream that was once my school – my
home. Why can't I help but feel like some power-suited version of mad
Caligula, fiddling while Rome burned?

I wonder if that's how Charles views me now. *Emma, I trusted you –
how could you stand idly by and watch as the empire that was my dream
for the next generation crumbled all around you?*  Crumbled,
crumbled. . . nothing remains of that life in this moment. Even now,
Sean has left, the children are gone and the school lies in ruins,
along with a large part of my soul. Nothing now but shadows of
memories, and the dust of regrets.

I'm not a woman of regrets, normally. I've always prided myself in
the ability to never look back, never second guess. Self-doubts were
for lesser mortals and fools, and I was neither.

That was before I let them in, my first group of students, my
Hellions. Oh, I tried very hard to always keep the upper hand, to
stay in control and not get too sentimental or attached to their
teenaged boisterous addition to my life. I really did. But life had
other plans, and threw me for a curve, sent my arrogant, pompous
white ass kicking and screaming into the dark abyss. It was only when
I awoke, and learned the sickly truth that even to this day still
haunts me with dusty breath from the grave, only then did I come to
understand regret – and knew deep in my soul that *I* had been the
fool, to underestimate it's power. It wasn't an emotion for a fool,
or a coward, it as an emotion for the truly damned.

I'm not sure if what I feel as we fly back in silence to New York is
regret. I'm not sure if I'm capable to feeling anything anymore, not
even sure if I have anything left.

Looking back, I have to believe most of what I called a soul, that
nascent, delicate whisper of a conscience and a heart I had developed
over the last few years, died along with Everett. I had promised
myself since the first loss that it would never happen again. Never
again. But I never was much of a woman of her promises, even to
myself. Perhaps it had been a foolish promise to make – to think that
this new batch of students, this second lease on life, this second
chance – would never be hurt, or grow up and leave, or die. Foolish.
Life is hard, the world cruel and uncaring. Promises and dreams never
do come true. I know this now, even as I disregard the cold stares
from Xavier's minions.

Yet somehow, in the beginning, hope-filled dreams did seem possible.
He made me believe it, damn him, with his eternal optimism and his
promise of the future. I'd been content to end it all, trapped in
Drake's body, heart and mind as frozen on the inside as my outward
persona. He carried me away, in his arms, in his hopes and dreams,
and by the time we'd worked together to save the children, he'd won.
And the grand experiment that was the Massachusetts Academy was born,
Frost and Cassidy presiding.

Oh sure, I'd complained and argued with him in those early days,
tried my best to not let this new batch of students and this man, in.
Somehow it happened – when I wasn't looking, when I'd let my guard
down -  they'd gotten in, especially him. Always him. Another regret.
We had started something interesting, for a while. At one time, it
seemed that we were closer than I could have thought possible, for
me, for us. It could have been nice, perhaps.

Now, too many corpses filled the chasm between us, loved ones,
students, as well as the desiccated remains of our own souls, and our
hopes and dreams – washed away in too many silent tears shed alone,
and too much booze. I never thought I'd  take to drinking again, too
harsh on my waistline, too costly to my sense of self-control. I did,
though, after Everett died. I passed the months away in a fog of good
brandy, only one day to realize Sean looked no better – he'd taken to
the bottle himself after Moira's long-time-in-coming demise. He was
never the same, nor was I, and what we had between us died the
cruelest death of all.

I wonder what he thinks of me at this moment, as he's making his way
to Boston for his trans-Atlantic flight. I wonder if, like me, he's
devoid of any real emotions at all. It wouldn't be like the Sean I
once knew – no – but then he is not the man I once met years ago, and
neither am I.

I can't think about the children either. I needn't wonder what they
thought of me in the end, I always could read their minds like open
books. A hundred different negative emotions swirled among them, and
above that, equal parts relief and dismay that I didn't say good bye
or see them off in the end.  They ran away quickly, afraid of my
wrath – as they should have been.

The part of me that once studied psychology knows I displaced my
anger at myself on them, in the end. I know this. And my hatred of
myself for letting myself care, for letting it all go to hell, for
letting them go in the final act was so great, it was best they ran
away while they still could. The anger was really the final straw,
the last real emotion I had left, after too much time spent giving
and hoping and yes, loving in my own way. Too much time, too many
real emotions for one icy heart to hold. Those kids and that man took
it all, every last emotion I ever had. I found in the end, in the
final chapter, I had nothing left. Nothing at all.

I don't care what Charles has to say. I can only imagine the
conversation we will have after the helicopter lands. I don't care, I
can't. Nothing remains of the woman who agreed to help him live the
dream, who dared to have hope and dreams.  Nothing. The Queen is
dead, long live the Queen.

*****End*****