“Yes, we have, actually, and that gun in front of you serves as proof. We went there to save lives. You can hover around in this vehicle like the god of espionage all you want. But we mere mortals were down there, getting our hands dirty to save a bunch of people who, God willing, won’t automatically be assuming that we’re exactly the same as the creature we saved them from. We can do a lot of good, and if we had people like you trusting us and working with us, instead of trying to figure out how everything that goes wrong is somehow our fault, then we could do even more good.”
“Trust you.”
“That’s right.”
“Trust a group that’s been known to give aid and comfort to enemies. Like your boy, Magneto.”
“What exactly makes him our boy?” said Scott.
“He taught at your damn school.”
“Back when he was a lot more stable. What makes you think we would knowingly harbor a dangerous criminal?”
“How’s Miss Frost?” said Fury.
Scott was taken aback.
Fury pressed the point. “We’re watching very close. That’s our job. Any further threat from your camp, we’re gonna know about it ahead of time.”
With cold, quiet anger, Scott said, “Duly noted. Should we be providing you the same service regarding the Black Widow? Former Russian spy. Now she works for you. Just in case you’re not staying on top of that, we can help out. Thirty seconds with ‘Miss Frost,’ and we can tell you whether you have a double agent in your midst. Because cleaning up after the messes that humans make is our job. And if you can’t see that, well, then even for a guy with one eye, your vision’s incredibly narrow.”
Fury glared at him. Scott suddenly started measuring relative speeds in his head, wondering if he could snap open his visor and fire before Fury pulled out his gun and put a bullet in Scott’s brain. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. This was Nick Fury. He could just gun down Scott Summers and make up the excuse later. Hell, by the time Emma and the others realized he was overdue, Fury could have weighted down Scott’s body and dumped it into the Marianas Trench, and disassembled the Blackbird into spare parts.
And then, his voice flat and even, Fury said, “I hear about this ‘Ord,’ I’ll give you a call. You know the way out.”
Inwardly, Scott let out a sigh of relief. He knew he’d pushed it about as far as he could with Fury. He’d said enough to make it clear the X-Men were not to be trifled with, but not so much that his photograph wound up on the side of a milk carton. He gave a slight nod, which Fury silently acknowledged.
Minutes later Scott was in the Blackbird, angling down and away from the Helicarrier. He continued to marvel at the massive airship’s size. He also realized he was bracing himself, anticipating that Fury might open fire on him and blow him to bits. Scott didn’t fully relax until he was a safe distance from the Helicarrier.
Then again, this was S.H.I.E.L.D. he was talking about. Their reach extended pretty damned far, and he wasn’t sure it was truly possible to escape.
FURY remained where he was until the Blackbird was long gone.
He didn’t have to turn around to know that someone was standing behind him. Fury was always hyperaware of his surroundings, including this woman who seemed to prefer shadows to light.
“You can come out. He’s gone now,” Fury said.
She did as he instructed. Light glinted off her black sunglasses, and her long green hair was tied back into a ponytail. The sharp red of her lipstick stood out starkly against the faint pallor of her skin.
“What do you think he knows?” she said.
“He told us himself. Right now he doesn’t know much. He’s got guesses, suspicions. That’s about it.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter. Even if he knew everything…who would he get to listen? Where would he go for help? If it came down to his word against ours, who would believe him?”
“You’re underestimating him, Brand. If ‘it’ came down to anything, he wouldn’t be looking anywhere for help other than to his teammates. Make no mistake, we can take them if we have to. But it ain’t gonna be fun, and it’s gonna end bloody. And that’s to no one’s advantage, including ours.”
“How would taking the X-Men out of the picture not be to our advantage?”
“Because,” said Fury, “some day, we might find ourselves in crap up to our eyes and sayin’ to ourselves, ‘Gee…might be nice to have a guy with force-beam eyeballs or a lunatic with claws in his hands helping us out. Oh, right…they ain’t available because we had to take ’em out.’”
He turned to face her. It was an unusual staredown, two people with only one visible eye between them. “And if this situation you dumped in our laps causes that to happen, well…I ain’t gonna be pleased. We on the same page, Brand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
“No chance of that, sir.”
Her voice was flat, inflectionless, like a machine’s. No. Not a machine’s, thought Fury. I’ve known machines that have way more compassion than Abigail Brand.
Brand said nothing as Fury walked away. Her thoughts were her own. They always were.
THIRTEEN
IF Hank hadn’t been quite so wrapped up in his analysis of the sample, he would have realized much earlier that he was in trouble.
When Logan entered Hank’s lab, he did so with a very light footfall. As preoccupied as Hank was, he was still able to perceive Logan’s arrival. He did not, however, connect the dots and realize that Logan was in hunting mode, nor ponder just who or what Logan might be stalking.
“How’s it going?” Logan asked casually.
“Fine.” Hank had his eye glued to a microscope. He was busy watching a drop of the serum interact with a drop of mutant blood, specifically his own.
“Got an answer yet? Been a few hours.”
“It’s not conclusive.”
Logan let the answer hang there for a moment. Then: “But the sample looks good?”
“So far it holds up.”
Logan made a little “hunh” noise. And then, sounding concerned, he said, “Looking a little disheveled there, blue boy. Fur’s kinda sticking out.”
“Haven’t exactly had time to run a brush through it.”
“Could be a sign of ill health, when an animal neglects his grooming. No offense.”
“How could I possibly take offense at that?” Hank said lightly, still not looking at Logan.
“Maybe you should, y’know…take a break. Have a lie-down. Catnap. Whatever. The sample’ll keep.”
It was at that point that the warning bells began to sound in Hank’s head. Slowly, very slowly, he looked up from the microscope at Logan, mentally noting Logan’s frozen posture.
Unmoving.
Ready to pounce.
Keeping his voice carefully neutral, Hank said, “And will the sample still be here when I get back?”
Silence. Silence that spoke volumes.
Logan tossed aside any pretense of concern over Hank’s health or personal grooming.
“Get rid of it. Get rid of it now, or I’ll go through you to do it.”
Hank stared at him, saw the way Logan was studying him. This isn’t just about the sample. I can see it in his eyes. The way he’s looking at me with judgment, condemnation. As if he knew what was on my…
…mind…
“Emma,” Hank said. His eyes hardened with a sense of betrayal and violation. “She had no right to—”
“Said she couldn’t help it. She said you were like a billboard. Like neon. Big neon sign flashing.”
He’s taking a step toward me. Trying to make it look casual. It’s not casual. He’s repositioning himself to allow a better angle for attack.
“And you know what she said it was flashing?” Logan continued. “Sure. Of course you know. ‘I wanna get off.’ ‘I wanna get out.’ Is that how it goes, McCoy? You’ve had enough? You wanna see how the other half lives their half-lives?”
Ma
ke no sudden movements.
Hank remained in his rolling lab chair. Slowly, casually, he pivoted so as to counter Logan’s stride, spoil the angle of attack. It was like a chess game. Anticipating an attack, being ready for it, was half the battle.
The other half was, of course, the battle itself.
“The truth is that I don’t know what I want. And that it is none of your damn business.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. His eyes became slits. “Wrong answer.”
He lunged. But he wasn’t going for Hank. Instead his trajectory was taking him straight at the test tube with the remainder of the sample in it.
Hank had anticipated that. He whipped his chair around, brought his oversized feet into position, and thrust them upward. The move caught Logan broadside and sent him crashing up into the ceiling. The acoustical tiles crumbled from the impact, and he landed atop a counter, debris falling down around him.
“Don’t push this, Logan,” Hank said, working to maintain his calm even as something inside him roared to be released.
“I ain’t letting you—”
“I don’t know what I am!”
It was a painful admission, torn from the sense of shame Hank lived with constantly and could never bring himself to acknowledge. He looked down at his paws. Three clawed digits and an opposable thumb, trembling with mortification. “I used to have fingers. I used to have a mouth a woman could kiss. I would walk down the street and…” He fought to control himself and only partially succeeded, his voice growing husky. “Maybe this is the second stage of my mutation. Or maybe I’m devolving. My mind is still sharp, but my instincts, my emotions…” He forced a coarse, bitter laugh. “You, of all people, should know what it’s like to be out of control.”
Logan nodded ever so slightly.
The tension began to ebb out of Hank. “What am I supposed to do, Logan? Wait until I’m lying in front of the students, playing with a ball of string? I am a human being.”
“Wrong,” was the guttural response. “You’re an X-Man. We’re supposed to stand for something.”
He stopped as if he, too, was fighting an urge to attack. He sounded desperate to get Hank to understand. “Don’t you get it? One of us caves, and it’s over. You’re over. Nothing good that you’ve ever done in your life’ll matter, cause all you’ll ever be is the guy who fired the starting gun for the mad dash to mutant genocide. You’re one of Xavier’s first students. You really wanna be on the wrong side of history? Is that what you want?”
“So this isn’t about what you want,” said Hank sarcastically. “You’re just watching out for my best interests and my place in the mutant history books.”
“You know what I want. So either flush that junk down the john right now,” and Wolverine’s claws snapped out, “or I’m gonna turn you into a throw rug.”
Hank unleashed his own claws, protruding from the tips of his fingers, sharp, ready for blood. “Little man,” he said, and the polished, calm scientific voice of Henry McCoy was gone. “Enough!”
They leaped toward each other, two male lions battling for the future of the pride.
They crashed into one another, each of them twisting in midair to avoid the other’s claws. Hank knew the importance of keeping out of the way of Logan’s pigstickers; he was no slouch in the self-healing department, but he was hardly on Logan’s level. When they hit the floor in a tangle, Logan was on the bottom. But with a twist of his hip and a fast upward thrust, Logan sent Hank tumbling backwards.
Hank allowed the momentum of the backward roll to carry him a short distance away, then sprang to his feet. But Logan was ready for him and charged. Logan was too close, the assault too quick, and there was nowhere for Hank to dodge. Logan crashed into him. The impact carried them tumbling into the hallway. Hank regained his footing first. Then, before Logan could counter the move, Hank seized the shorter man by the scruff of his neck, like an angry cat scolding a kitten, and thrust Logan’s head through the opposing wall. Chunks of wood flew everywhere.
Victor Borkowski and Paras Gavaskar looked on in amazement, while the other students ran like mad.
Logan’s head was momentarily stuck in the wall, but he managed to bring a foot around and kick Hank aside while he struggled to free himself.
Hank let the last vestiges of his mental control lapse. It was Hank McCoy who landed cat-like on his feet, but when Logan extricated his head and turned to face him, it was the Beast who made the charge. They went at each other again, and when they collided, the Beast’s superior weight made the difference. Logan went down. The Beast’s head thrust forward, roaring, saliva dripping from his bared teeth, and the only thing that stopped him from ripping out Logan’s throat was the steady, determined pressure that Logan applied to push him back. As he did so, he fought to bring his Adamantium claws closer, closer to the Beast’s face, hoping to inflict whatever damage he could…
Break.
The word sounded in their heads. It was not simply a message or communication. It carried with it the full weight of an irresistible order.
Instantly, unable to do anything other than obey, Logan and the Beast separated, stood up, and faced each other stiffly, their shoulders square, their hands at their sides.
And bow.
They did so, bowing deeply at the waist as if they were two martial artists who had just finished sparring. As that happened, Hank’s consciousness slowly slid back to normal.
Now, continued the implacable mental commands of Emma Frost, get into the Danger Room before I make you bloody tango.
She allowed her mental dominance to lapse ever so slightly, just enough for them to regain control of their bodies. They glanced quickly at the students who still stood there, gaping. Then, without a word, the two men did as Emma had commanded and headed for the Danger Room.
“So…what—the teachers spend all their time here trying to kill each other?” Victor asked Paras in a low voice.
“Looks like.”
Victor grinned. “This place is so cool.”
LOGAN looked around the new environs of the Danger Room and said, “Oh, this is really pushing it.”
Despite their recent altercation, Hank had to admit that this time he agreed with Logan.
The interior of the Danger Room had been transformed into a gigantic doll house, with Logan, Hank, Emma Frost, Scott, and Kitty the proportionate size of the dolls. The wallpaper was pink with polka dots. A tea setup on the table, with two little chairs, seemed ready for doll-sized participants. Several Brobdingnagian stuffed toys lay scattered around the room: a purple teddy bear, a blue monkey with a cheerfully stitched mouth, a cheap knock-off of Raggedy Ann, and—of all things—a Bill the Cat plush from the comic strip Bloom County.
“Aack, pbthh,” muttered Hank. Logan looked at him oddly.
“I didn’t program it,” said Emma Frost. Hank wasn’t entirely sure he believed her, but he didn’t press the matter. “But I happen to find it perfectly appropriate. I am clearly the only adult on this team.”
“She’s a teacher,” said Kitty. “Ethics and all.”
Emma didn’t deign to respond. Instead she continued, “As you can see, our fearless leader has returned. Apparently he was having a nice little chat with Nick Fury.”
“Cyclops to Cyclops?”
“You’re a riot, Logan,” said Scott. He turned his attention to Hank and Logan. “Emma’s brought me up to speed on your little…”
“Teachers’ conference?”
“Oh, Logan’s in rare form today,” said Emma. Logan tipped a little salute toward her.
Scott ignored the exchange. “Yes. On that. And on what she perceives to be your state of mind, Hank. I’m not comfortable discussing this, because I can’t say I approve of the way Emma acquired this information. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“As I told you, Scott—” Emma began.
He didn’t let her finish. “It should not. Have happened. Is that clear, Emma?”
She appeared slightly taken
aback, but then reacquired her sangfroid. “Well, it wasn’t at first, but since you broke one sentence into two and removed the contraction, that certainly clarified it, yes.”
“I appreciate your understanding, Scott,” said Hank diplomatically. “Emma claims she couldn’t help it. I believe her. What’s done is done.”
“Good. So, first things first. Hank, is your sample of the serum still viable?”
“I think so.”
“When we’re done here, finish your analysis. Let’s not be tearing each other apart over a fake.”
“And if it works?” Logan looked at him sidelong, his gaze filled with suspicion.
Hank wasn’t inclined to answer.
“If it does,” Scott said, “then I’m trusting you not to do anything till you’ve spoken to me. I have to say I’m with Logan on this. But I’m just asking that we talk. Is that fair?”
Hank didn’t reply, but he couldn’t keep the feeling of betrayal out of his eyes. Scott Summers was one of his oldest, closest friends. They’d been together since the beginning. Back in the days when Hank had been so insecure that he felt compelled to show off his intellect at every occasion, always using polysyllabic phrases instead of simple words. Back when they were young, and Professor X was running the show, and Jean was alive, and everything seemed possible. Back when he wasn’t a furred…
…freak…
“What did Fury say?” asked Hank.
Scott’s fleeting expression showed that he was perfectly aware Hank had sidestepped his question. Choosing not to pursue it, he outlined in broad strokes the specifics of his conversation with the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. “Long story short,” he concluded, “we’re on our own. Either Nick Fury has joined the ranks of the mutant-hating masses…or he’s hiding an agenda. Either way, we shouldn’t expect any help from the government.”