X-Men: Dark Mirror (14 page)

Scott forgot subtlety. He ran down the hill.

At the first sight of flickering red and blue, Logan grabbed Scott's arm and made him slow to a walk. His heart pounded so loud he could barely hear the voices over the radio, the click of car engines cooling. He heard women talk, and thought of Jean when he heard that voice. He had to remind himself that she was a man now, and that the person talking had to be Rogue. Rogue, or some other woman.

"What happened?" Logan murmured, as they crossed into view of the U-Park. Scott forgot to breathe. There was an ambulance and a body on the ground beside their van. Scott could not see the face—too many people surrounded it—but the van doors, back and front, were open and he did not see anyone inside.

"They're gone," Logan said, and then: "Heads up, Cyke."

Scott tore his gaze away from the long legs stretched on the
ground—what was jean wearing, oh God, what was she wearing, why can't I remember—
and looked up into the blue eyes of a narrow man in a black uniform.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding at Scott, and then Logan. "I don't suppose either one of you saw what happened here?"

"No," Logan said, and his voice was particularly soft, and very much that of a girl. Scott did not think he was that good of an actor, but considering what he had to work

with, it probably should not have been such a surprise.

"You should move on, then. This really isn't pleasant to look at."

"What happened?" Scott asked, and then as an afterthought, "This is such a safe neighborhood."

The officer shrugged. "Like I said, this isn't something you want to be around, ladies."

"You're right," Logan said, grabbing Scott's arm. "Thanks."

He steered them away from the crime scene, and when they turned the corner and were out of earshot, hissed, "What were you trying to do, start up a conversation? Don't forget where we escaped from. They probably already have our pictures circulating."

"I wanted to know what happened."

"What happened is that someone got dead. All
that
matters is that it wasn't one of us."

Scott stopped walking. "Are you sure about that?"

"Jesus, Cyke. Don't you know what your friends
look
like?" Logan ignored Scott's answering scowl and said, "The dead guy had gray slacks on. All of us are wearing jeans or sweats."

Scott's hand hurt He looked down and found his nails digging into his palm. He tried to relax and foiled miserably. "Where do you think they are?"

"Must be close." Up one street were more residences, but here in this part of the neighborhood Scott saw
only
small shops and restaurants, most of which were
still
closed. It was a very upper-middle-class atmosphere,
with
not too many places for people to hide.

There was, however, a small green space down one block and across the street. Too small to be an actual park, but with enough flowers and greenery to be a pleasant place to sit and talk. Scott saw movement, someone tall and dark.

"Over there," he said, and led Logan across the street. He glanced behind. Shrubbery hid the police cars from sight, though Scott still feared being watched. No one followed them as they walked to the small public garden, and as they neared, Scott once again saw the tall figure of a man, hair large and wild with dreadlocks.

"Scott," Jean said, "we were worried about you."

"Worried about us?" He reached out and grabbed her hands, drawing her close. It was awkward, having to look up into her face, but he drowned his discomfort in the relief of finding her safe and alive.

He found Rogue and Kurt sitting on a bench. Near them were two other people: a heavily wrinkled man with silver hair, and another man, much younger, with bright blue eyes and a wry, twisting, mouth.

"These are the chicks he called whores?" said the young man, looking at Scott and Logan. "Dude. What an idiot."

"Sounds like we missed a lot," Logan said to Kurt.

"Ja.
A barrel full of fun."

"A smokin' barrel," Rogue added. "Some high-class pimp came up to the car and accused Je—er, Jeff—of sending you two out as hookers."

"In this neighborhood?" Logan frowned. "He must have been high."

"Nah," said the old man, running brown fingers through his hair. "Over here the girls don't walk the streets. They got cell phones now. Schedules they have to keep. Billy, he used to drop 'em off around here and then they'd go walk to their appointments. Didn't look like hookers, either. Sweet girls. Kind of like you two."

"But with way more flash," added his companion. "Nobody around here would hire you."

"Thanks," Logan said. "But who the hell are you?"

"This is Luke, and the older gentleman is his partner, Ed." Jean gave them both a small smile. "I think they may have saved our lives."

"Jeff is giving us way too much credit." Ed put his hands behind his back and stretched. His clothes were dark and raggedy, and his thick backpack overflowed with odd bits and pieces of material and plastic. There was an emptiness to his eyes that bothered Scott, but his smile seemed genuine enough. "All we did was provide a distraction."

"Yeah, we saw that gun and Ed here came out of the bushes where we were sitting and he was like, 'Hey, dude,' and then Jeff opens the door and steps out and these other two come out of the car, and Billy is all like, 'Stay back, assholes,' and then Jane and Renny do some weird shit and Jeff disarms him with some Jackie Chan move and a kung-fu kick to the nads. Dude fights dirty."

"I bet," Logan said, giving Jean an odd look. "That man back there. He looks dead."

Jean raised her eyebrows. "I didn't shoot him. I did, however, hit him over the head when he was down on the ground."

"Do you still have the gun?" Scott asked. Jean lifted up the edge of her shirt and revealed a .44 sticking out of her pants.

"That's a good way to castrate yourself," Logan said. "Safety's on, right?"

"Of course," Jean said.

Scott turned to Luke and Ed. "Thanks for your help. We can't offer much in return, though."

Ed shook his head. "Wouldn't ask for nothing, anyhow. I'm sure you folks would do the same."

Scott nodded. The X-Men would do the same, though in the past their interventions had involved only mutants. Violence between humans was something they did not often get involved in, if only because the mutant issues always seemed more pressing. More ... timely.

Of course, when one considered that mutants were still a minority, and that most reported day-to-day violence was between regular nonpowered humans, Scott wondered what else they could be using their gifts for. Was it enough just to help mutants?

You don't
just
help mutants
, he reminded himself. True enough, but it seemed like that was all he
ever
thought about Other heroes, like the Fantastic Four and Spider-Man, certainly did not "specialize." Or at least, they did not seem to.

"We have to get out of town," Logan said. "Heading east to New York. You guys know if Balmer Yard is still the best jumping station out of Seattle?"

Ed grinned. "You another train mnner? Never met a girl so young who rode the rails. It's a dying art."

"Yeah," Logan said. "But it ain't dead yet."

The old man laughed. "Baylor's still good. Watch out for the bulls, though. They're getting more careful about surveying the empty cars."

"Bulls?" Scott murmured.

"Security guards," Logan said. "Old hobo lingo."

They waved good-bye to Luke and Ed, both of whom wanted to sit a while longer in the garden, or maybe—as they said—scrounge up some breakfast from one oi the local cafe owners. It was tempting to stay with them and try to do the same, but the cops were still down the street and it was a miracle that none of them had come over yet to ask any questions.

"Actually, they did," Rogue said, when Scott voiced his concerns.

"You must have told some kind of story," Logan said. "I'm surprised they didn't take you guys in just on principle."

"You are such a pessimist," Kurt said, limping beside him.

"Yes," Logan agreed. "But I'm usually right, too. What gives?"

"We talked real pretty," Rogue said, giving him a sly smile.

Kurt placed a hand over his heart. "I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire! The day is hot, the Capulets abroad—"

"And if we meet," Jean interrupted in a deep baritone, "we shall not scape a brawl, for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." She smiled. "I think I like saying those lines in a man's voice. It adds dramatic heft."

"You quoted Shakespeare at the police?" Logan asked disbelievingly.

"No," Rogue said, "but we started spouting it as soon as we saw them coming. Acted like we were some poor actors out for an impromptu morning rehearsal. You should have seen the looks on their faces."

"Right," Scott said slowly, "because what kind of criminals spout the great Bard?"

Jean shrugged, still smiling. "People see what they want. We gave them something different from the outset, and so they were less inclined to believe we were capable of violence. Illusion, sweetheart. Dreams and illusion."

Rogue stumbled. Kurt touched her arm and said something low that made her smile—a smile that did not reach her eyes.

"We're all tired and hungry," Jean said quietly, watching Rogue.

"Logan found some food in Maguire's house."

"Temporary measure," Logan said. "We need money. We also need to get to New York as fast as possible."

"Which is why you asked about the train station?"

"Ain't no station, darlin'. It's the tracks."

"I'm not comforted. There must be a better way."

"Jeannie—" Logan began, but Scott held up his hands.

"Unless you want to keep stealing cars—which I suppose is an option—and unless we can find enough money for bus or plane tickets, I think this is our best choice."

"Have you tried the school?"

"Everyone we needed was gone. Shopping."

Jean blew out her breath. "If we wait here—"

"Personally," Kurt called back, "I would prefer
not
to wait. At least let us be moving
somewhere.
The longer we are in this city, the greater our chances of being ... collected ... by the mental hospital. Surely we can find pay phones along the way. We will have other chances to contact our friends."

Rogue stopped walking and turned around to look at them. "You haven't told us what you found at the doctor's house."

"Someone who is seriously lonely," Logan said. He reached into the shopping bag and pulled out the teddy bear. Scott tried not to show his surprise. "This and a photo were the only personal items we found in his house."

"As well as a plane receipt for a flight to New York," Scott added. "He left last night."

Rogue nodded, her mouth settling into a hard white line. She looked especially dangerous in her new body, which Scott found curious. Despite the impression she usually gave—which was that of a soft-spoken Southern beauty—Rogue was one of the most formidable mutants in the world, and Scott had always judged her as such
because
of her powers. As a normal human, though, he was beginning to realize that she was just as intimidating.

That was good. He hoped all of them proved to be so strong. Because if they had to confront themselves—their bodies, their powers—and it came down to a fight, they were going to need every ounce of hard resolve to simply stay alive.

And even that would require a miracle or two.

Ororo Monroe, though she might never admit
it, was a suspicious woman, and so when she entered the Worm Way nursery on Fifth and Tucker, and discovered that her special order of rare Gemini roses had mysteriously died during transit from South Carolina, she took it as a very bad sign. Roses never simply died. They had to be killed off. And in this case, she thought the murderer might just be Fate.

The reason was simple enough. As of this morning, every single rose in her carefully tended garden was dead or dying. Which, probably, had less to do with Fate than some irresponsible teenager who was going to end up paying for the death of her garden with some comparable sacrifice—like some hard unprotected labor on a bed of thorns.

Still, it stretched even her belief that someone she knew would go so for as to kill off a
shipment
of roses—because really, when people disliked her they went for the larger gestures, like kidnapping, torture, fights to the death.

And that brought her back, again, to signs and portents. Some mysterious message that could not be good.