Subject: [X-Men] Change the World 4/? Date: Fri, 07 May 1999 06:07:49 -0500 From: Thomas Wilde Well, I've gotten death threats (you know who you are). It's time to get this next chapter posted. -- I would like to thank Dr. Robert Dewhirst of Northwest Missouri State University for his insight on the gubernatorial process. -- the Friends of Humanity and their van full of free goodies is a concept I kinda cribbed from Indigo's TCP story "Beach Blanket Bedlam". Indigo, if you see this and you mind, please let me know and I'll take it out; I'd have already asked, but it's four in the morning and I want to get this story out by sunrise. Thanks. ^_^ -- the previous three chapters can be found at: Ficworld: http://ficworld.com/authors/W/Wilde.html the Itty Bitty Cyke Archive: http://thundercrack.interspeed.net/cyke.htm Fonts of Wisdom: http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk/xmen2.htm#wilde Change the World Chapter 4: First Strike "No reason to get excited," The thief kindly spoke, "There are many here among us Who feel that life is but a joke But you and I, we've been through all that And this is not our fate Let us not talk falsely now The hour's gettin' late..." --the Jimi Hendrix Experience, "All Along The Watchtower" Nairobi, Africa July 7th, 1999 Rick Walker didn't wait for his jeep to completely stop before he threw himself out of it. As he had approached the village, so small as to not even have a name, across three miles of sun-blasted plain, his anger had grown to where it was now almost uncontainable. As he stalked towards the fields, he noticed a white woman--sort of; she had been in the sun long enough to turn beige--working with the villagers, wearing a Peace Corps T-shirt and bikini bottoms. She put her hoe down, wiped off her forehead, and walked over to him, smiling. "Hi! I'm Hannah Dupree. What's up--" "What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" Walker screamed into her face. "Do you have ANY IDEA what this is doing to our budget?!" "Are we overbudget again?" Dupree said. She scrunched up her face. "No, wait--I just balanced that. We're still about three hundred dollars in the black." "THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" Walker's fists clenched and unclenched. "Look. We're all very sad about the drought, Miss Dupree, but what in the HELL are you doing requisitioning a thousand dollars' worth of farming equipment and soil?" Dupree pointed a thumb behind her. "Planting crops." "WHY?!" Walker wanted to slap her. "There's no rain. The ground is damned near totally infertile. All you're doing is wasting our time and money on some agricultural product that'll never work." He stepped closer. "Do you have any *idea* what this will do to these people? They *trust* us, or most of them do, and when nothing happens after your little--" A drop of rain hit him on the nose. Walker stopped talking. A clap of thunder rolled across the African plain, and a woman in the fields stood up. She was black, but with a mane of white hair that billowed in the wind, barely held back by a headdress of some kind. She wore a simple loincloth and a Peace Corps T-shirt, both of which were stained with dirt and perspiration. Lightning flashed. Some villagers started tilling the soil faster, children running around the neat rows of soil to deposit handfuls of seeds. Others ran off, coming back moments later with clay pots to catch the rainwater with. Walker looked up. The sun was obscured by a layer of roiling clouds, which split suddenly as he watched. Water came down in steady sheets, as gentle as a torrential downpour can be. He sat down in the now-muddy dirt, his mouth open and eyes staring. The white-haired woman sat back down suddenly, her eyes closed and her shoulders trembling. Dupree turned to Walker just long enough to give him a told-you-so grin, and rushed over to her. Walker tried to say something and choked on a mouthful of rainwater. Dupree sat down next to the woman. "How you doing, Munroe?" "This... takes... considerable effort," Ororo Munroe replied through clenched teeth. "I believe... I may be doing... some harm to other... parts of the biosphere. I will... need time to repair... the weather systems when I am done." "Take all the time you need, babe," Dupree said. "You've more than earned it." She tied her hair back and wrung it out. "You sure you don't want to go back to the States? This Summers guy... you and he were pretty close, right?" "'Close'... does not begin to cover it, Hannah." Ororo tied her hair back with a strand of twine. "Scott can handle himself... without me... well enough. This is more important." Ororo opened her eyes to see a pair of children laughing, throwing clumps of mud at each other. Above her, the storm, formed from Pacific wind currents, gently expended itself as the sun burned back through the clouds. Steam that smelled of dirt rose from the ground all around them. "It may not... be done in my lifetime, but this is... far, far more important." "Yeah, but who gets this done after you're gone, Munroe?" Dupree said. "My children, perhaps?" Ororo said with a smile. The storm was almost over, and she could afford to relax. "Or their children's children. Or so on, until this place is once again beautiful. I think I should like to die knowing I set that in motion." Dupree shrugged and stood up. "Whatever you say. Shall we get back to work?" "Of course." They shouldered their hoes and continued the planting, while Walker watched the sky. Westchester, New York July 7th, 1999 "Place looks the worse for wear." "Actually, Cajun, it looks just the same as it ever did." Logan and Remy lounged around the tables in the living room, smoking. "We just ain't had to rebuild it in so long that it's had time to start looking old." "Point." Remy leaned forward. "You seen Rogue?" "'Course I have." Logan was sitting with his head leaned back and eyes closed; now, he opened one eye to look at Remy. "She'll see you when she's good and ready, Cajun, and not a moment before." "Marvelous." Just then, the doorbell rang. Logan and Remy looked at each other, then both got up. Logan headed straight for the door, while Remy paused to get a handful of toothpicks from the kitchen. There'd been a fair number of incidents in the last few days, according to Rogue, and innumerable death threats. It didn't hurt to be prepared. When Logan opened the door, he halfway expected to see a man with a gun. Peter Rasputin, his hand raised to knock again, smiled at him. As Peter opened his mouth to speak, Illyana ("HiWolverineHiGambitNicetoseeyouWhere'sKitty?") shot past him and between Logan and Remy, disappearing down the stairs to the basement. Remy pocketed the toothpicks. "Rasputin." "How are you?" Peter seemed a little nervous. "Have I come at a bad time?" Logan shrugged. "No worse'n' usual. You here for a visit?" "Actually, I am here to see if I may be of any help. I heard of Scott's campaign." "I think we can fit you in," Logan said, contemplating it. "How long ya here for?" "As long as I have to be." Logan started to open his mouth again, then noticed, behind Peter, a car on the street with its windows rolled down, moving far too slowly. Instinctively, he dropped and yelled, "GET DOWN!" When Peter did not move fast enough, he reached out, grabbed a shin, and pulled, sending Peter to the ground amidst his falling luggage. Three gun barrels appeared from the car's windows, and someone inside yelled "MUTIES--!" Whoever the gunman was, his sentence was interrupted by a charged toothpick detonating against the side of his head. Remy stepped over Logan, and the suddenly much-bigger Peter Rasputin, his hands a blur; a sixth toothpick was in the air before the second impacted with the car's windshield, cracking it into an opaque spiderweb. The gun barrels exploded soon afterwards, their wielders shouting in pain and shock, and there was a slight, muffled explosion from the rough vicinity of where the driver's face would be. Remy's aim was, as irritatingly usual, precise, and the car immediately banked right and spent all its forward momentum against the front fence of Xavier's mansion. As it did, the horn went off, long and loud, as the unconscious driver's head slammed into it. "You done showin' off yet, Cajun?" Logan muttered. "You just jealous, Logan." Remy dusted off his hands. As they approached the car, one of its doors spilled open, and a kid wearing a Empire State University sweatshirt and a Friends of Humanity baseball cap tumbled out in a cloud of white smoke. He coughed weakly, tossed the twisted remains of his gun to the ground, and looked up to see Colossus bearing down on him with Remy and Logan right behind. Logan's claws were unsheathed, Remy's last toothpick was glowing in a flashing synchronicity with his eyes, and Colossus was, well, Colossus. "I surrender!" the man said, throwing his hands in the air. "Are you *sure*, bub?" Logan stepped past Colossus to jerk the man up on his feet. "Don't you want to take a swing at us 'mutie scum'? C'mon. Right here." The man spat in his face, and Logan started to visibly shake with rage. As he did, Colossus reached past him and tapped the man on the side of the head with one finger, knocking him out. Logan turned to Colossus. "Ask next time, kid." "Of course." Colossus put the man back in the car and picked it up, carrying it back onto the road. Gambit lit a cigarette and watched Colossus do it with a half-grin. "You know, Logan, I never get used to seeing him or Rogue do t'ings like that, you know?" "Sure." Logan held up what was left of one of the guns. "LeBeau, you ever seen anything like this before?" "I don't know anyt'ing 'bout guns, Logan. I am de best t'ief alive because I have rarely had to make their acquaintance." "Then we got a problem." Logan sighted along the gun. "This thing is state of the art. Last time I saw somethin' like this in the hands of a kid like that was probably in Hong Kong about thirty years ago..." He put the gun into his coat. "Call the cops to clean this up. I got some 'phone calls to make." London, England July 7th, 1999 The communications screen was chiming incessantly. Sinister looked up from his work in irritation. Prism, lying on the table, screamed, and Sinister forced his mouth shut with his free hand. He had finally gotten around to his experiment on increasing Prism's molecular density so he was actually *difficult* to shatter, and it was a nuisance to have it interrupted. He hit the switch. "What?" The screen displayed the smiling face of Henry McCoy, twirling a pencil between his toes. "Good morning, Doctor Essex. I trust you're well?" Sinister didn't let anything show on his face. "How did you get this frequency, McCoy?" "It was really quite simple, Doctor." McCoy was obviously enjoying himself. "I have exhausted the resources of modern science trying to find even one of your multitudinous hideouts. You have hidden yourself away admirably well. However, as a man of science, I had forgotten that we live in a world where the supernatural is just a phone call away, and thus, I have found you through the talents of one Doctor Stephen Strange. I am truly impressed by your ratlike ability to fade into the woodwork." "Get to the point, McCoy." Sinister's mind was already on this new puzzle. How did you hide yourself from a mage? Etheric vibrations? Dimensional shifting? "The point is this, Essex." McCoy leaned forward in his chair. "You've been trying to get to Scott for decades. Now that he is in the public eye, I feared you might decide to try something else again. I'll give you a gentleman's warning, as I am giving to many of the X-Men's old foes: don't." "Henry, really. You're far too paranoid. Besides, what could you do to me if I did?" The Beast smiled. Sinister's proximity alarms began going off, signifying a major-level security alert in conjunction with an assault on the laboratory itself. Each indicator on Sinister's viewscreens was tinged with red, indicating that someone or something had already caused a fair amount of damage, enough to compromise the structural integrity of the building they were hidden under. All over the complex, power was being bled off from damaged areas, minimizing the threat of an explosion, and titanium-steel blast doors slammed closed, sealing the complex's areas off from one another. With a hissed curse, Sinister hit an emergency switch, shutting off all unnecessary functions and diverting power to the main security systems, only to find that those security systems were no longer intact enough to function. A second impact shook the laboratory, and his main computer helpfully informed him that the west wing--where the most recent batch of Marauders were resting up--was no longer standing. As Sinister turned to leave, to confront this invader, the far wall of his laboratory bulged in suddenly, like a firecracker in a trash can, and burst outward. Steel and plastic wiring flew the length of the room in a shimmering rain as something tore through the wall and into his cloning vats, rupturing them one after another, dousing the floor with a foul-smelling combination of formaldehyde and liquid oxygen. The luckless Prism, strapped to the experimentation table, could not even scream as he--again--shattered into sand. Sinister took a step backward, towards McCoy's face on the monitor, onto the upraised diadem of his main computer array, just as the puddles of preserving fluid reached towards him. Another shallow boom announced the abrupt destruction of another chunk of the wall, this one holding a considerable portion of the power supply to the building. A live wire fell onto a sheaf of notes, one of which fell, blazing, into the spreading ocean of preserving fluid. The room was, shortly, ablaze. Outside of Sinister's lab, Thor caught his hammer and spun it once more, flying back towards the United States. "Are there any more questions, Nathaniel?" the Beast asked, over a signal that was beginning to lose cohesion. "No," Sinister said, almost snarling. "None." "I'm glad to hear it." The Beast ended the transmission. Westchester, New York July 8th, 1999 "So you're leaving, then?" Jean turned around suddenly, her concentration broken. A folded blouse fell to the floor. "How did you sneak up on me like that?" Scott smiled thinly. "Trade secret." She picked the blouse back up, this time with her hands, and folded it. "Yes, I'm leaving." "Jean, it was just a bunch of kids. They're going to be in jail for a very long time." "Scott, be serious." Jean put the blouse down and turned to him. "I'm a telepath. I've fought gods on alien worlds. I've seen the end of the universe. Hell, I've died three or four times now. A drive-by shooting is actually refreshing." "Then why are you leaving?" She didn't answer with words. Slowly, Jean walked towards Scott, towards a man she loved more than any other, and tenderly--chastely--kissed him on the lips. When she pulled back, Scott had the grace to look shocked, and she spoke, slowly and gently, as she did to children. It was a voice for the truth, and nothing else. "I love you. "I still do, even after the divorce. That's why I left you, and part of why I am leaving now. "I have tried to talk to you about this, Scott, but no one can. Your mind is made up. I don't think you're doing this for the right reasons, and I don't think that you really have a chance of being elected. I love you, and I believe in you, and I know you believe in yourself..." Her throat caught. She picked up the blouse and put it inside an open suitcase before continuing. "...but don't ask me to watch you commit suicide, Scott. Don't make me watch you turn yourself into a martyr. Ask me for anything else, but don't ask me that." "Jean, I..." Jean's face was full of sadness and love. She smiled, a tear running down her cheek. "Scott, do you honestly think there's anything left to say?" "No," Scott said. "No, I guess there isn't." He turned and left the room then, his eyes burning with whatever approximated tears for him. After Scott left, Jean sat down on her bed, heavily, and did not move for a long time. Empire State University Lecture Hall, New York City July 8th, 1999 [Trish Tilby once again shows up on the television screen, looking like she hasn't had any sleep for a few days. She stands in front of one of the bigger ESU lecture halls. It is already jammed with people.] "Good evening. I am Trish Tilby here tonight covering the 1999 race for New York governor. In a recent surprise showing in the polls, independent candidate Scott Summers--who shocked crowds here days ago by revealing both his candidacy and his identity as the mutant hero Cyclops--has actually registered with a respectable nine percent. His two opponents, Democrat Peter McCline and Republican Daniel Chamberlain, split the difference between them, but still, this has political commentators in an uproar." [A small mob of people with placards run by behind her. The protesters for both sides, as well as a couple for completely different issues such as abortion (Summers made the mistake of claiming to be pro-choice on CNN a couple of days ago), are here, and things are getting slightly ugly. Tilby is trying to ignore them, but they're shouting at each other loud enough to make her have to shout as well.] "Tonight here in Manhattan is Scott Summers' first official press conference, and the crowds are already getting excited. This is Trish Tilby, reporting!" [Before her camera turns off, Tilby turns around to glare at the mob. One or two of them are deliberately trying to get on-camera with their signs, one of which is an incredibly crude comment involving Tilby's relationship with Henry McCoy and unpleasant places to have blue fur. Before the cameraman is able to turn his camera off, he gets a very good shot of Tilby putting her fist through that particular sign.] ***** "I think they're rabid. Look at 'em foam," Bobby Drake observed, peeking out the window. "I could..." "...cause trouble?" Warren Worthington muttered. "No snow, Bobby. Not now." "Just a little--" "No." "Man, I can *see* the FoH merchandise van from here--" "NO." "You're not much fun, Warren." "Deal with it, Bobby." Nearby, Kitty Pryde and Illyana Rasputin were fussing over Rogue's hair, Kitty mostly doing so so she wouldn't have to talk to Peter Rasputin, standing off in the corner by himself. Both he and Rogue were wearing a gray suit and tie, which had arrived in the mail earlier that day. The package, which also contained a black suit in Scott's size, came with a note that said, "For added protection. Good luck!" The note was unsigned, but was on Fantastic Four stationery. The rest of Scott's crack staff were nearby. Elizabeth Braddock was wearing a leotard and cargo pants, with no gun in sight; she was to stand offstage and keep Logan, Remy, Scott, and Kurt Wagner (who was crouching on a light fixture above the stage, invisible in the shadow behind the klieg lights) psi-linked. Logan wore a suit of his own, but was in the audience, and Remy was... somewhere. He'd arrived with Logan, but had managed to vanish somewhere between the parking lot and the building. Scott himself was going through note cards obsessively, memorizing his stands on the issues. He was remarkably nervous, and he kept telling himself he shouldn't be. *How about the M'Kraan Crystal? Or Broodworld? Those were actually dangerous. Or fighting Magneto in Russia? He had a couple of nuclear weapons. Next to that, a lecture hall full of reporters is nothing, right?* "You're on, Scott," Warren said, coming up behind him. "We're behind you and to the left, buddy," Bobby added. As Rogue and Peter led the way out onto the stage and the audience started to react, Scott swallowed. *Nothing. Right.* ***** *He looks terrible,* Kurt thought to Betsy. *I wouldn't have thought this would make him nervous.* *It's a different kind of fear,* Betsy replied with a mental shrug. *Anything yet?* *There was a photographer from the Daily Bugle named Parker up here. Nothing serious.* *Did he see you?* Kurt scowled. *Yes, and I don't know how. It's irritating. I told him to leave, and he did without argument.* *Are you getting old, Wagner?* *I'll show you "old", _fraulein_. If you were not Herr Braddock's sister...* *Prude,* Betsy thought, smiling. *Keep your eyes open.* ***** "Yes, you, in the blue suit." "Joy Mercado, Now Magazine. What are your thoughts on term limits, Mr. Summers?" "They're a good idea." The reporters waited patiently to see if he would go any further. When he didn't, they muttered to themselves, made some notes, and erupted into another clamor of questions. Scott surveyed the crowd. "Um... you, please, in front. No, I'm sorry, not you. You." "Ben Urich, Daily Bugle. Mr. Summers, in light of your career as a vigilante and 'superhero', what do you feel about the legislation in Congress to require all superpowered individuals to register with the government?" Scott rubbed his eyes. "Well, Mr. Urich..." There was a moment where they all pressed closer, tape recorders and microphones held towards him, and Scott had a sudden mad impulse to take his glasses off and sweep his optic blasts across the floor in front of them, like he would if the Juggernaut were charging him. He repressed the urge and put his glasses back on. "...I don't believe it's a good idea. It looks like a good one on paper, but it would be too easily exploited by certain elements," he thought of the Friends of Humanity gathered at the back of the hall, but did not look at them, "for the purposes of discrimination. It also makes it that much more difficult for those superhumans who just want to live in peace to be left alone." "But, Mr. Summers," Urich continued, "gun owners are required to register their weapons with the government. Why shouldn't a superhuman be put under the same stricture? Powers can be far more dangerous to the public than any gun." "Gun owners are not typically systematically hunted down and slaughtered by bigots, Mr. Urich," Scott said smoothly. He was proud of how easily the answer came. The reporters muttered to themselves and made a few more notes before launching back into their questions. ***** "This ought to be easy," Larry Tate said to himself. "Real easy." He didn't believe himself, necessarily, but he kept saying it anyway. The two guns Faraday had given him were not metal, but instead were made of an elastic polymer that was, inch-for-inch, stronger than steel. They were manufactured in Genosha for the exclusive purpose of getting through metal detectors, such as the wands the security at the door were using to scan for weapons. They were also very small, very light, and folded up, clip and all, into two four-inch squares that fit neatly into Larry's oversized steel-toed boots. After a visit to the bathroom, Larry was ready for action. He walked down the aisle, the guns ready in his pockets. Larry also had a minature tape recorder and a forged press pass from USA Today. He intended to shove to the front of the crowd and open fire, taking out as many of the people on the stage as he could before they brought him down. Larry was halfway to the stage when something, very quick, like a sharp whisper, cut through both of his jacket pockets. He only realized that it had happened because the weight of his guns was suddenly gone. "Huh. 9mm Shadows," a voice behind him said. "Expensive. Very illegal." "Hey, pal, what the--" Larry turned around, his press pass held up by reflex. "Shaddup, bub." Larry recognized the man from the briefing Faraday had given him, and from a television broadcast he had seen once. This man was supposed to have died in Dallas a few years ago, but had somehow come back. Now, Wolverine was standing in front of him, holding his only guns, and looking mildly pissed off. He tried to run. Wolverine grabbed him by both lapels and slammed his forehead into Larry's nose, breaking it and knocking the man unconscious. Slowly, he left Larry in the seat he had just emptied and went towards the back of the theater. That was one. Logan knew there'd be others. ***** "Yes, sir?" "Neal Conan. Mr. Summers, how do you answer to charges that you don't know anything about how ordinary people live? Some people are saying that by living in your mansion all day, you don't have any idea how the 'real world' works." "Who said that?" "Your opponents, Mr. Summers." Laughter, from both Scott and the reporters. "Well, Mr. Conan, I don't know what to say to that. I used to be a pilot for my grandparents' company, up in Anchorage, and I lived like an 'ordinary person' for a few years. If you're wondering, I know how much a gallon of milk costs, and I've seen a bar code scanner before." The reporters laughed again. Scott picked another hand, and the questioning continued. ***** Nightcrawler heard a soft clank, followed by a sharp crack, up in the rafters. *I may have trouble, fraulein.* *Be careful, Kurt.* He realized what he'd heard when he found a man relatively nearby, lying in an unconscious heap on a maintenance catwalk. A rifle lay near his outstretched hand, complete with a complicated-looking scope. It was neatly broken in half, and the clip had been ejected. The man was covered in a gray, sticky substance, with a small note attached to it. Nightcrawler pulled it free, read it, smiled, and went back to his perch. *Kurt?* Betsy "said", over the psi-link. *Is there a problem?* *Not anymore.* Kurt read the note again and shook his head, still smiling. *He's always got to show off.* *Who?* Kurt put the note in his pocket. *Our "friendly neighborhood Spider-Man".* ***** "What about your family life, Mr. Summers?" "Miss Leeds, I hardly think that's an issue--" "You have a son, Nathan, by your first wife, and are recently divorced from--" Scott stared at her for a moment. "During the course of this campaign, have the words 'family values' even *once* left my mouth, Miss Leeds?" "Sir, all I'm trying to ask is--" "Miss Leeds, I am running for governor, not Pope. I have had my share of marriage problems, none of which effect my ability to perform the duties of a governor in any way, and quite frankly, I'm offended that you felt the need to ask that question." Scott chose another reporter at random, still glaring at Betty Brant-Leeds. ***** Betsy, mentally arguing with Kurt, wasn't paying much attention to the world around her. When Remy dropped an unconscious man in a black suit and sunglasses to the floor in front of her, she flinched, then turned towards him. Remy lit a cigarette, ignoring her glare. "This one, he thought he could draw a bead on Scott from a closet in de lobby. He got scopes an' t'ings I only heard of from science fiction." "Where's his gun?" He pulled a handkerchief out, then reached under his duster with it and produced a slightly dented rifle. "He try to hit Remy, chere. I defended myself with the first t'ing that came readily to 'and, sad to say." "That's all right, then. I just wanted that for the police's benefit." Betsy knelt in front of the man and turned him onto his back. "Wake up, you bloody--" Logan appeared from backstage. "There ya are, LeBeau. You caught one too?" "I did indeed. 'Pears I in the lead on assassin-catchin', Logan. Soon, you owe me some beer." "I'll catch up, bub." Logan watched the psionic butterfly appear in front of Betsy's face. "He got anything for us, darlin'?" "...give me a..." Betsy's mouth narrowed to a line. "...yes, he certainly *does*..." ***** "Look, I'm pro-choice for a reason. I don't believe that anyone has the right to tell anyone what to do with their body. Colin Powell had it right when he said it was a decision between a woman, her lover, her doctor, and her God, and that's all I have to say about that." Scott was starting to get the hang of things. As he lifted his hand to pick another reporter, one of the ones in the front suddenly fell over, convulsing. From the way he hit the ground, he had been unconscious before he hit the floor; Scott knew a telepathic assault when he saw one. He wasn't terribly surprised to see a gun fall out of the unconscious man's jacket pocket, but the assembled reporters certainly were. "I think this press conference is at an end, gentlemen and ladies," Scott said, stepping back from the podium. Peter and Rogue immediately stepped in front of him, trying to look in every direction at once. "Thank you for your time." He left the stage then, ignoring their shouted "Mr. Summers!" Suddenly, Scott felt like his legs had given out, and his mouth was very dry. "How do you feel, _tovarisch_?" Peter asked. "I have to do this *again*?" Scott muttered. ***** Faraday turned off his television. He considered, briefly, kicking in the picture tube, but decided against it; these men were expendable, and morons besides. Passarelli had gotten close enough that Faraday had almost shrieked in frustration when he'd passed out, but still, there were more where they'd come from. He looked at the stack of crates in the corner of his apartment. Yes, sir. There were plenty more. ***** As the reporters filed out of the lecture hall, one of them slipped into an alleyway, unnoticed. He entered it human. As he left, he was not human in the least. Nimrod Mark One, as it engaged its cloaking field and flew towards its base of operations, analyzed what it had learned. Its onboard detectors had indicated that least six, and perhaps more, Alpha-class mutants were working with Summers, which was well within Gyrich's expectations. It had much to study before it attempted to apprehend the mutant, it seemed. There were many variables to consider. Westchester, New York July 9th, 1999 Jean, her bags over her shoulder or levitating nearby, took one last look at her room and stepped out into the hallway. When she did, she found Logan leaning against the wall, a cigar in one hand and a broken gun in the other. She stopped, her mouth open. "This ain't anything you think it is, Jeannie," Logan said. "Good." "You saw Scott's press conference on NBC, right? Live feed." "I saw the assassin Betsy mindshocked, yes." "You see anything like this before?" Logan held up the broken gun. It was a rifle, streamlined and narrow, with a wire stock, and did not look like it was made of metal. Jean shook her head. "It was loaded with Glazer safety rounds, darlin'. Man-killers. Little shotgun rounds that go off on impact. They kill on a near-miss. They usually don't make 'em for a rifle, because it'd cost too much and ain't necessary. This could've fired 'bout thirty of 'em in a second, right through Scotty's chest. Somebody wanted to make damned sure Scotty died. This kinda thing, I'm not even sure Rogue could take for too long, and even Petey might feel it." "What are you getting at, Logan?" "The only people who make this kind of gun are bad news, darlin'." He lowered the gun. "Your usual stupid kids ain't a problem, but this is from AIM, maybe, or the Secret Empire. Might even be one of Tony Stark's old munition designs, before he got out of the business. I already put in a couple of calls. I got some leads, but I need a telepath t'help me follow 'em up." "Ask Betsy." "Betsy's watchin' Scotty's back, Jeannie, and I ain't about to take Emma Frost or that Starsmore kid into the kind of places I need to go." "I told Scott, Logan--" "I know. You're leavin'." He took a drag off the cigar--he knew how much she hated the smell--and let it out. "You're leavin' 'cause you think he's tryin' too hard to live up to Xavier's memory, and he's doin' it in a way that's gonna get him killed. I agree." He took another drag. "I don't think you're leavin' for the right reasons." "Listen, shorty--" "Jeannie, he's a stubborn kid, and he lost the closest thing to a father he ever had 'round the same time he got crippled. Yeah, you tried to bring him out, but he didn't feel like it, and now you're runnin' away? This is beneath you, Jeannie, and we both know it." "You don't know *anything*, Logan!" She dropped her bags and shoved him against the wall. Logan let her. "You don't know about sitting up with him, night after *night*, trying to get him interested in *something*, *anything*, other than his leg or Xavier! You don't know about holding him as he woke up in a cold sweat every night, dreaming about getting shot! I'm a damned *telepath*, Logan, I read minds, I feel emotions as if they were my own, and he was in absolute despair, and he would *not* come out! I *had* to leave, Logan, or he'd have dragged me down with him..." "You loved him too much to see him like that." "*Yes*!" "D'you want to see him dead, Jeannie?" "NO!" "Then come with me." Silence. "Where?" "Around. Might take a couple of weeks." "With who?" "Pryde's comin' with. Maybe one other. He didn't say whether he'd be comin' or not." "..." "Pack light, Jeannie. We're leavin' in the morning." "You know what I'm going to say." Logan put out the cigar. "Yup." Westchester, New York July 10th, 1999 "I'll get it!" Kitty, wearing travel clothes, put down her bag and answered the door. On the other side of it, wearing the same white shirt and black tie he'd apparently been born in, was Peter Wisdom. "Peter," Kitty said, her jaw somewhere between the floor and her head. "Pryde," Wisdom said, not sure how to feel. "Wisdom?" Peter Rasputin, hearing the voice, came into the front hall. For his part, he sounded shocked. "Wisdom." That time, he sounded slightly homicidal. "Rasputin. Just bloody *marvelous*--" Logan came down the stairs, his bag over his shoulder. "Rasputin, take a step back. I called Wisdom." Wisdom took a step into the house, tossing his cigarette butt into the bushes. "Somethin' about guns, you said?" "Yeah." "He's going with us?" Kitty said. "Yeah." She put her head in one hand. "I'd just gotten this straightened out..." "Imagine how I feel," Logan muttered. Behind him, Jean Grey came down the stairs, telekinetically levitating her bag. She deliberately avoided looking at Logan. "Our plane leaves at noon. Let's get goin'." Manhattan, New York July 10th, 1999 "This is my headquarters, Warren?" "You don't like it?" "No, no, it's great." "You're damned right it is, Summers." Warren sat down at one of the desks. "Office space in midtown is the kind of thing people have sold their souls over." Scott thought of Doctor Strange, suddenly, and shuddered. "Don't joke about that. For all we know, that's possible." Warren smiled, then frowned, and was about to reply when a tentative knock came at the door. Both of them turned to see a young couple standing in their doorway, looking uncertain. "Um... hi, Mr. Summers?" the man said. "I'm Todd... this is Mary. Is this where we volunteer for your campaign?" Scott slowly smiled. "Yes... I guess it is." July 10th, 1999 "...in the wake of the peculiarly unsuccessful assassination attempt during last night's press conference, where the would-be killer apparently passed out spontaneously just as he was about to pull a gun, Scott Summers' poll ratings have shot through the roof. Before, he could be dismissed as just another third-party nobody, despite the controversy, but now, for whatever reason, Summers would appear to be the dark horse contender for the year 2000. This is Trish Tilby, reporting." ***** To be continued.