Subject: [OTL]: [OTL] (Whit, D., & X-Gang) Following the Daisies 3/3
Date: Sat, 21 Oct 2000 15:35:33 -0700
From: JumpTB@aol.com


Following the Daisies
by Omega
part 3

"So you were born and your genes still mutated. Then what? Were you adopted
or something? How did you find your way here?" Jono asked. "What happened to
you?"

    She turned her unwavering eyes to him. "The same thing that happens to
every government funded experiment," she said, a hint of something in her
voice - resentment? sadness? irony? regret? "If it doesn't do what it's
supposed to, find something else for it to do."

    " 'Every government funded experiment'?" Jubilee repeated. "As in there's
a lot more like you or as in projects to make better subs that end up sinking
and are used to grow coral on for a reef reconstruction? What do you mean?"

    Damia shook her head. "I can't mention specifics. Just trust me - it's
the way our government works. Always has. They have to make it look like
something productive has come out of a project, even one that flunked."

    "So anyway - then what?" Jono asked again.

    "One of the scientists, a middle-aged single black female who had
previously worked for the genetics department of the CIA, raised me, in a
manner of speaking. She gave me a roof over my head, food in my body, clothes
to be in, and all the encouragement and support she could without ever loving
me. I was still, and still am, the result of a botched experiment, and as
fond as she was of me, she was still a government employee whose interest
lay more in my potential than anything else. There's a certain branch of the
government that is split into many others, and one of these 'others' has a
department for spotting possible future government employees at an early age
and seeing that these children are provided with the adequate training and
education to become government employees. I am not at liberty to specify,
once again, and I apologize."

    "You're some kind of a CIA agent then? Or FBI?" Rogue asked.

    "I belong to neither the CIA nor the FBI." Damia didn't say what she did
belong to, however, and for the first time her expression showed a hint of
mild amusement. "I am still underage for both."

    "How old are ya?"

    "Seventeen."

    She didn't look it. She was hard and cool and unfazed by anything,
seemingly. "Shakespeare's Julius Caesar," I said suddenly, having my second
revelation. "Act IV, scene III. That's what the project was named for. Brutus
is in his tent, and everyone is asleep, and Caesar's ghost visits him. JC -
Julius Caesar - 43 - act IV, scene III - B2CG - Brutus to Caesar's ghost.
JC43B2CG. The project name. Also called the Ghost. The ghost of Caesar scared
the shit out of him when he was all alone and saw it, and the ghost said they
would meet again in battle. Maybe Dad didn't tell anyone about the project
because he was apprehensive about it and thought it would be the forebearer
of worse evil, like the ghost was to Brutus."

    Jono creased his forehead and curled a lip slightly. "Only an English
major," he muttered, looking at me.

    "English and Native American studies," I frowned back at him. This
meeting wasn't doing good for anyone's nerves; it was a stupid thing to be
quibbling over.

    Damia was silent, but one toe began tapping a bit erratically.

    "A female secret-agent clone of the man who I was going to marry,"
Jubilee said, her eyes wide, shaking her head. "Unbelievable."

    "Not a clone," Hank said. "Clones are exact replicas. She is most
definitely not a replica of him."

    Damia tilted her chin a bit, looking over us again. Rebecca was starting
to squirm in Jono's lap. "When can we go?" she asked her father in a soft,
pleading voice. "Soon enough, punkin," he answered, snuggling her a bit. She
gave a martyr-like sigh, resting her head on his shoulder.

    "So you've found us. Now what?" Xavier asked.

    She shrugged. "It's up to you. I didn't really have a purpose in tracking
you down except to give you notice as to what Kelly Thrahtan did. You
deserved to know, since, according to files, you were the people he
considered family and spent as much time as possible with."

    "Are ya goin' back to you secret service now?"

    "I was granted an expenses-paid six month leave. I wasn't sure how hard
it would be to find you, since everyone had a hard time locating the X-Men.
Since the association has dissolved, however, you are remarkably easy to
track."

    There was silence for a moment. Xavier cleared his throat. "Well, I would
like to offer you all the hospitality I can. The Mansion is open to you at
any time, as it was to your father."

    I winced at that title; Kelly had been MY father, my dad, my parent,
turning from "Kelly" to "Dad" sometime before I even turned four. Not hers.

    "He was not my father," she said, and I was guiltily relieved when she
said that. "A father or a dad is someone who goes to your dance recitals and
pays for your prom dress. He was my genetic donor, and true, I was the
offspring of his experiment, but that is all. I doubt he really knew what he
was getting in to."

    "Even so," Xavier protested. "The Mansion is open. There are plenty of
unused rooms at this time, and physical activities abound here. Our libraries
and classes are also very good."

    "Thank you for your offer. Very gracious."

    Jubilee said, "If you stay in New York, I live in the city and would love
to sit and chat with you for a while. I was going to marry Kelly earlier this
year. We'd spoken of having a child, or adopting . . ." her voice caught just
the tiniest bit. "He had a wonderful son, and had longed for a daughter."

    Before Damia had a chance to respond, I cut in. "Why didn't you contact
Dad while he was still alive? If you'd done this six months earlier, you
could have met him face to face."

    "I wasn't given clearance to the files regarding the project until four
months ago. I'd known that a mutant had planned the project and donated most
of my genes, but it wasn't until then that I learned who it was. And I was .
. . not in the country then. Things did not clear up until a few weeks ago."
She gave me the same challenging look I was giving her.

    No one really said much of anything for the next few moments. "Well, this
doesn't really concern me," Jono said at last. "Becs and I are going to take
a walk out back, you know?" he asked, raising one meaningful eyebrow. All of
us, save Damia, understood. Hank also stood, as did Rogue. "I think I'll
accompany Jonothan, if no one minds," Hank said, and Rogue muttered
something, agreeing. The four exited, and I wished I could go with them, trek
out to the graveyard surrounded by wrought iron and see how Dad was doing.
Instead, Jubilee, Damia, Xavier and I all eyed each other. Poor Damia, I
thought with some regret. She must feel as though we're all out to get her.

    I could like her, I thought. She was attractive in a powerful, almost
intimidating way, her independence as obvious as a stop-sign. The
defiantly-masculine traits she'd inherited from Dad only emphasized her other
traits, the subtle, genuine, feminine ones, like the delicate cheekbones and
the graceful, long-fingered hands.

    "How much do you know about Kelly?" Jubilee asked softly into the
uncomfortable silence.

    "Not much. I wish I knew more, but all I've got is some cursory
information he filed for the funding on the Ghost project. I know he was born
in London, adopted by an Englishman and his American wife, and when they
moved to the United States he became a U.S. citizen. His parents both died in
an arson, and he was unheard of for quite some time, then he showed up in New
York City as a tutor for college students. He filed for government funding,
and then disappeared again. For the next several years he showed up under a
wide array of aliases, and finally moved to New York City again, this time
with a son. Then he was killed this winter by terrorists that had been
systematically hunting down the former X-Men."

    Xavier nodded solemnly. "I think, to truly appreciate who Kelly was, you
would need more information. The most solid information, the facts that made
him Kelly, aren't recorded anywhere. You should talk to Jubilee. And his son
. . ."

    Damia moved over to one of the now-empty seats, gliding across the floor
and slowly lowering herself into the brown leather armchair, crossing her
legs. "I have six months to find out where I came from and what I'm doing
now. Please . . . enlighten me."

    Jubilee, her hands clasped tightly on one knee, smiled fiercely. "Trust
me. We will." And the evening turned into deep, dark night.


The next morning I was awakened by a gentle knocking at my door.
Fuzzy-minded, I stumbled out of bed and went to the door, groping the wall
where the doorknob should be . . . where the hell was my door? A dull
lightbulb was flicked on in the back of my mind, and I remembered that I was
in my old bedroom, not in my Albuquerque apartment. I lumbered in the
opposite direction, found the door, and pulled it open, blinking.

    "Nice hair," she said, lowering her hand. She'd been about to knock
again, it looked like. Either that or break it down with her hands, which I
didn't doubt she could do.

    I grumbled, knowing the way my hair stuck out like I'd had an encounter
with an electrical socket. I glowered, and she looked slightly repentant. "I
was wondering if you'd take me down to the grave," she asked. "Most of the
other people have disappeared, and I'd figure you'd be the best candidate.
He's buried here, right? Somewhere on the grounds?"

    I looked at her, repelled by the way she was neatly dressed in the same
outfit she'd worn last night. "What time is it?" I finally got out.

    "Seven-thirty."

    I groaned. "I only got seven hours of sleep? I need nine, minimum," I
griped.

    "Look, I haven't been to bed yet. Just do this, real quick, and we'll be
back in enough time for both of us to go to bed. Okay?"

    I dully thought that I should have known she'd get that nocturnal gene
from Dad. "Lemme get dressed," I said, giving in, and closing the door in her
face while I scrounged for something besides the pair of running shorts and
grungy T-shirt I wore to bed. I was just barely coherent enough to find the
shunt in my leg and push in eighteen milligrams' worth of iron into my
system. Five minutes later I opened the door again to find Damia still
waiting. I presented my glamorous self to her, rumpled jeans, plastic-rubber
flip-flops, crazy hair, morning-breath and all. She followed me without a
word, down to a small back door that opened into an expansive lawn and some
formal gardens, still tended to carefully, even now that Storm was gone,
living in Seattle with her rain clouds. We went down a small path that wound
about lazily, branching off here and there, rambling down to the woods and
to the lake, and the path that we took disappeared into some trees and then
emerged in a small clearing. I held open the wrought-iron gate for her, and
her eyes quickly found the gravestone she was looking for, and she angled
towards it.

    I came and stood by her, looking down at the rough-cut gray marble,
reading again the words I knew by heart. "Kelly Michael Thrahtan," it said,
followed by a quote of his. "'Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.'" Once again, Shakespeare's Caesar.

    Damia read the words and sighed, sitting down on the well-tended grass,
stretching her legs out in front of her, neatly crossed, and her hands
splayed in the grass behind her, propping her up. "I'm sorry about last
night."

    "What?" I sat down on the opposite side of the grave, feeling the warm
sun beginning to break over the line of trees.

    "Last night. I was acting all snobby and self-righteous. I can't help it,
once in a while, it just comes out, especially when I'm under stress. You
have no idea how hard it was to walk in there last night. I almost didn't."
She plucked up a blade of grass, turning it in her fingers. "I'm not
necessarily stubborn or snotty or full of angst. You have no idea what the
reputation of the X-Men is like . . . I remember hearing them called the
Angst-Men when I was growing up. I don't feel like that. I'm, if anything,
very content with my life, and it was hard to come here, knowing that things
would change somehow." She turned to look at me, her eyes searching my face
for understanding. "Forgive me?"

    "Of course," I said, giving her a genuine smile. "You attitude last night
. . . don't worry about it. It's probably genetic and you can't do a damn
thing about it."

    "That's the way he was?"

    "It's the way he was and tried not to be. There were a lot of things he
was and tried not to be." I laid down, crossing my arms under my head,
looking up into the sky, remembering. Damia continued her examination of her
grass shoot. "I think he would have been proud," I said.

    "Of what?"

    "Of you. If he knew about you, anyhow. He'd be happy that you didn't take
after him. I know he told me that he was glad I didn't get my genes from him."

    "Really? I know some about him now, from last night - so how are you
different? Besides genes, of course."

    "I'm just happy to waste time. I'm not terribly ambitious, and I just
like to take things as they come. I don't fret, but I'm given to intense
bouts of worrying over little things, like how to turn a package of frozen
hotdogs, a bag of carrots, and a jar of spaghetti sauce into a suitable
dinner for Isa when I had told her I'd cook." I was rewarded by a snort of
laughter from Damia, who laid down as well, one hand under her head and the
other twisting a lock of her already-twisty hair. The sun reflected off her
spurs. "Are your spurs poisonous?" I asked, curiously.

    "No, are they supposed to be?"

    "Did Dad have plans for editing out any parts of his genes from the samples
before the experiment?"

    "I don't think he planned to, but I know that there was some editing
done. That's what Lacey said, anyhow. There were two traits she said had been
cut, but I don't know why."

    "Do you know which ones?" She shook her head, so I made a guess. "The
poison and the leg strength. How high can you jump?"

    "Not high enough," she said with a trace of regret. "I'm like an elephant
when it comes to jumping. Skipping rope was hard for me." She turned a
lopsided smile my direction.

    I began ticking things off on my fingers. "You're nocturnal, and have
night vision. You have spurs. You can alter your visibility factor."

    Her eyes darted my way. "Is that what you call it?"

    "That's what Dad called it. He rarely used it when we came here, when I
was little."

    "Huh. Yeah. That about sums it up."

    "What kind of schooling have you had?"

    She seemed to struggle for an answer. "Mostly home-schooling type stuff.
I know about what any high school senior knows, but I'm lacking in some areas
because of what I do now. The, er, organization I work for has taught me a
lot of things, but none of it would ever get me into college. I'm not a great
student, book-wise. I hate studying and can't add without a calculator, but
I've got other skills." She sat up, a smile playing on her lips. "See that
tree? The oak with the scars about four feet up its trunk? Can you see the
little knot, right at the top of that one scar?"

    I sat up, squinting and barely making it out. I nodded, and she reached
a hand into the top of her right boot, pulling out a black object from her
boot. With a quick flick, it proved to be a switchblade, and with a barely
perceptible movement, she threw it. It hit the trunk, piercing the knot in
the trunk. It had happened swiftly, in one fluid movement, and there it was.
"Wow," I breathed. "The organization must have good teachers."

    She grinned, laying back down. "Yes. Remind me to get it on our way back.
That's my favorite knife."

    I sat for a moment more, looking from the knife buried in the tree to
her. "So you won't kill me or anything if I paid you another compliment,
would you?"

    "I doubt it," she said, looking happy.

    "He would most definitely be proud of you."

    "Thanks." She smiled, closing her eyes. I gazed at the knife, wondering
how fast Xavier would try to throw her out of the Mansion if he knew that
she could probably kill him, all of us, so quickly and efficiently. For a few
minutes more I contemplated what everyone would think of her if they'd seen
her demonstration, and when I looked back at her, opening my mouth to tell
her that someone would be cooking breakfast right about now, she was asleep,
her chest rising and falling gently. I closed my mouth, regarding her, and
got up slowly, trying not to wake her. I shook my head in amazement, glad
that Hank had called me to fly out, and left my father's daughter - what else
could I call her? - sleeping by his grave.

FIN