Chapter 32: “Good Little Soldiers”
“There’s, like, 300 media trucks parked on your street,” Mike told him, sitting at the foot of the bed. Bobby sat cross-legged, back against the headboard, saying nothing. “Your mom talked to the big networks at first, but now the whole family’s in bunker mode.” Mike paused, and a silence thick as molasses poured into the vacuum. The whole mansion was silent, insensible with shock.
Jean Grey’s dead.
“Randy Blaggart was telling people at school that he saw you get into the jet with the other ‘mutant terrorists,’ but Ronny said he was full of shit, that you weren’t even in Boston.”
Bobby squinted in surprise. Was Ronny protecting him or his own reputation? It was hard to care. Jean’s dead. He got up and went to his closet. He pulled off his shirt and cargos and took down a pair of black ‘X’ sweat pants from a hanger.
In a half whisper, Mike asked, “What’s with your roommate? He always sleep this deeply?”
“He’s not here,” Bobby answered as he tied his sneakers. They both looked over at Derek’s sleeping form in the other bed. “He put his consciousness into his pet rat, Xeric. He’s hiding somewhere.” Because Jean’s dead.
“Whoa,” Mike murmured. “Hope Xavier keeps his cat locked up.”
Bobby crossed to his dresser, opening a drawer to pull out a clean ‘X’ t-shirt. Under the neatly folded clothes, he spied the stack of hidden papers — John’s last surviving poems, rescued by Bobby from the great Allerdyce bonfire back in June.
John’s gone.
He started to shiver and quickly pulled on the t-shirt.
Jean’s dead. John’s gone.
There was a quiet knock at the door, and Rogue stuck her head in.
“Ready?”
Without a word, Bobby closed the dresser drawer and he and Mike followed her out.
***
Jean’s gone, he almost said, but the man on the other side of the door didn’t need to know that yet. “Hank, open the door,” he said, and then, with his mind, *I feel your anger. Let me help.* He appealed to the man’s reason. “Whatever happened must be related to the global Cerebro pulse. Moira says mutants worldwide are experiencing secondary mutations. Perhaps you’re undergoing a fascinating —”
“grrrrrrrrrrFasssscnnnatnnnnnng??!!!!” The visceral horror of the growl from behind McCoy’s door made Xavier wheel himself backwards in atavistic fright. The hairs on his arm stood on end. Curious students appeared at the end of the corridor, but they didn’t dare come closer.
In the silence that followed, the quiet click of the lock was like a gunshot. “Children, please go about your business,” Xavier called, before moving forward and opening the door into the darkness.
The air was foul, the room’s furnishings disarranged into a sculpture of torment. The wardrobe lay on its side, contents spilled. The bedclothes were twisted into ropes of considered self-destruction. In the center of the floor, a space had been cleared where a hand, no longer capable of fine control, had scrawled illegible notes on scraps of paper.
Hank McCoy, lit mercilessly from the open door, had pulled himself, quivering, into a corner. His thick body was covered in blue fur. Shamed by Xavier’s piteous gaze, he covered his face with one clawed hand and his genitals (heavy and blue) with the other.
His broken voice struggled to form human words. “A sssshape with lion body an’ head of a mannnnn. A gaze blank an’ pitiless as the sunnnn…”
“Hank,” Xavier began, but McCoy’s voice rose higher in misery.
“And what rrrrough beast! Its hour come round at last… sssSlouches towards Bethlehem to be borrrrn?!”
***
Jubilee waited outside the gym for the rest of her team. Reliable Rasputin was already inside stretching. Unfair as it was, she sometimes resented him. Peter was the better student and a true level 4 mutant. What if Cyclops decided he deserved to lead the team more than her? Cyclops… in the plane… ragged with grief. Unbearable to watch.
Bobby and Rogue approached from down the hall, and shit! Mike was with them. She felt her stomach clench. She did not need this now.
“Sorry we’re late,” Rogue mumbled.
“Jubilee,” Mike said. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Come on,” Rogue said, pulling Bobby into the gym as he looked curiously between Mike and Jubilee.
Mike put a hand on her arm and she had to discipline herself not to jerk away. “Jubilee, you have to talk to me about what happened to you. I was so scared. I couldn’t stop imagining… horrible things. Please, won’t you —”
“Michael, I have practice now! I-I can’t just drop everything because you’re feeling freaked out!” She pulled away from him, and his eyes threatened to break her heart. “I’ll find you after. I promise.”
The door of the gym slammed behind her, and her teammates, stretching on their mats, turned and watched as she marched to the front. “Okay,” she said, putting on her game face. “Shit’s happened. We’re all dealing. But that doesn’t mean we can stop training, right? Now, more than ever, we have to be ready to face our enemies.”
She knew she had to make them believe in her leadership.
Peter said, “There’s only four of us now.” Bobby looked away. Rogue sighed.
“Five,” said a voice behind them and they turned to find Kitty standing at the wall, in X-sweats. “If it’s not too late to join…”
***
He wrapped the silken rope around and between his balls, wound it once, twice around the base of his erection, and pulled it taut. A sigh escaped his lips. He moved his ass in sensuous luxury on the deep pile of the rich carpet. The carpet was cream, his skin alabaster, his pubes pale gold, the rope white as new snow.
He looked himself over in the mirror, leaning back until he could see his asshole below the fine display of the bound genitalia. His wings undulated gently behind him, white as innocence. His cock twitched, fat and blood-darkened from the bondage. He picked up the scalpel and it gleamed in the bright morning sunshine that streamed across the expanse of carpet. Scattered around him on the floor were prints of angelic beings. Radiant sun, like that of this rare, cloudless San Francisco morning, lit the towering palaces of their Heaven. The perfect man and woman stood peacefully, hand in hand, wings spread. His eyes danced across the smooth mounds between their legs, devoid of the asymmetrical flap of awkward organs. As he jerked himself off, he tickled the scalpel along the hardness of his erection and the tenderness of his bound testicles. He imagined the jet of red across the cream and alabaster. He came.
“Warren?”
His father’s voice outside the door. Warren’s heart pounded; he was not allowed locks. Still, he knew his father would not just open the door. Trust had been restored.
“Yes, Dad?”
“We’re leaving in 15 minutes.”
He squeezed his wings into the harness that made him look like a hunchback — a sad but socially-acceptable flaw. The tailored suit came next, and finally the mask of measured enthusiasm. More than anything, he was bound by the name Warren Worthington. There was no escape.
***
“How were the…” Bobby waited in discomfort for his teacher to continue. The bedroom was dark, and when Scott lapsed into silence, it was as if he wasn’t even there. The man cleared his throat and continued. “…the security drills? Did everyone get to their stations quickly?”
“Uh, yeah. Not bad. A few of the younger kids kind of freaked out, like there might really be another attack happening.” He waited for a reaction which didn’t come. “And, um, Keller and Cruz were treating it like a joke, but I think it was ’cause they were freaked, too.”
Scott said, “I understand, but for everyone’s safety, we have to ensure 100 per cent compliance. If they do it again today, tell them they have detentions.”
“Yes, sir.” Are you okay? he wanted to ask. You don’t have to be in charge this week. Your girlfriend is dead. Instead, he said, “Listen, Scott. I just want you to know… whatever you need me to do, I’ll do. Okay?”
Nothing, but then Scott turned his face towards the curtained window, and in the dim light, Bobby could see the tears coursing down his teacher’s face. Yet, when he spoke, his voice was steady. “Thank you, Bobby. That’s good to know. And I will be relying on you much more this year. I want to put all the… problems of the past behind us.”
Bobby found Scott’s silent tears unbearable. It made him want to start crying, too, but he held it back. Whenever he cried, he was a mess — stammering, hiccupping. “I-I want that, too. To begin again. You’ll see you can trust me.”
“Yes, things are different now. Everything. Different…” He heard Scott’s breath catch. “I need you to go now, Bobby. But come back and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”
***
“When they took you, I’d thought I would lose my mind.”
Terry played with the fabric of the couch. She didn’t look up at Sam who was kneeling in front of her on the floor of the library.
“I’m sorry, Terry. I won’t let it happen again.”
She shook her head, clenched her fists. “You’re an idiot, Sam Guthrie. What could you have done?”
“Fought! That’s what I do. I fight for the people I love!”
“Love?!” She gaped at him in astonishment. Furious, she wanted to knock him to the floor and jump on him. And then never let him go.
Two floors above, Rahne counted her rosary, silently mouthing the prayers she knew better than her own heart. She was far from grace. She hadn’t been confessed in a year, hadn’t received communion. Her wolf’s soul endangered everyone she loved.
In their room, Doug watched Jones blinking through the channels on the TV by his bed, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed. “We have to take responsibility, man,” Doug told him. “We’re not just spectators. We change the world by observing. You and I… we’re deep in the flow of the data.”
Jones licked his lips and sniggered at a toilet paper commercial.
“Things aren’t just a joke anymore, Jones! People are dying. Don’t you care? What do you feel? What do you feel about the attack? About the Cerebro pulses? What about Dr. Grey?”
Jones closed his mouth and looked at Doug as if he were stupid. “She’s dead,” he said. “She’s off the grid.” He turned back to the set, blinking, blinking.
“I know she’s dead, you robot!” Doug angrily wiped tears from his eyes. “I think you have no fucking clue what that means!”
“It means she’s not here to remind everyone I’m not a robot.”
***
Bobby was late, hurrying to dinner when Mike ran down the stairs, wearing his raggedy coat and backpack. He looked like bad weather coming in fast.
“Hey,” Bobby called, as Mike barreled toward the front door. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Home. This isn’t my place anymore.”
Bobby grabbed him by the sleeve. “But you got permission to stay the month! Why —”
Mike’s yanked his sleeve away. “Because Jubilee just dumped me, okay?!” He turned abruptly away, his forelock falling over his face.
“Oh, dude, oh shit. Why?”
“She’s too busy fighting for ‘our lives.’ And when she says ‘our’ she doesn’t mean this flatscan boy.”
Bobby wanted to say ‘No, you’re wrong. You’re one of us.’ But was he? Maybe they couldn’t trust someone who wasn’t a mutant… The thought made Bobby writhe with guilt.
Wolverine came down the stairs, duffel over his shoulder. “Mike, we’re taking the jeep. Get your ass out there. I have to talk to Bobby for a minute.”
Mike turned to Bobby, pushing the forelock aside. He looked broken. “Logan’s driving me to the train. I’ll be online tonight. We’ll talk.” Too shocked to speak, Bobby watched him leave. Only then did he wonder what Logan might have to say to him. The man stood too close for comfort, and though Bobby was as tall as him, Logan somehow managed to loom.
“I’m leaving on a mission; I’ll be gone a while. But here’s some friendly advice, Frosty: do not hurt Marie.”
“Hurt her? What are you talking about?!”
“In the forest. You and Pyro. No, don’t deny it. I hear. I smell. And I’m warning you, if you’re just using her to show everyone you’re not gay, I will kick your ass.”
And he left, Bobby’s mind going, But, but, but…
***
“What’s the big announcement, do you figure?” Clarice asked as they lined up for food. “Roberto, make up your mind, already.”
Roberto weighed two fruits in his hands. “Apple or orange? It is important decision. What announcement?”
Rogue, ahead of him in line took a plate of tofu macaroni. “Professor Xavier’s making some speech after dinner. Hey, Bobby, where you been? What’s wrong, sugar? You look like someone shot your dog.”
Terry called them over to sit with her and Sam. “Yo, Jubes, you too!” Jubilee shook her head and went to sit by herself in the corner. Terry leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know what? She just dumped Mike. Flea heard the whole thing” Everyone gasped except Bobby who dug his fork noisily into his macaroni.
“Are you serious?” Kitty asked from the next table. “She didn’t tell anyone! Since Alkali, she’s a total loner.”
Terry nodded. “Well, her number one confidant is gone. It was always John she talked to first.”
At the mention of John, everyone suddenly became intensely interested in their food. The silence lasted ten seconds before Sam said, “Goddamn Pyro. If that traitor shows his face here, I’ll smash it the fuck in.”
Bobby’s fork dropped loudly onto his plate. His ears turned bright red and he started to sneeze.
Clarice hissed, “Look!” They all turned to see Xavier enter the room. Scott was at his side, the first time he had come to dinner all week.
“He looks so broken,” Terry sighed.
The silence flipped into a beehive of whispering as a stranger entered behind them: a blue-skinned gorilla man, blue fur peeking out the neck and sleeves of his shirt. He cringed as everyone stared.
Roberto whispered, “Is he brother of Mr. Wagner?”
“Omygod,” Kitty gasped. “I know those eyes. It’s Dr. McCoy!”
***
Bobby couldn’t focus on Xavier’s words. His own head rang too loudly with denials: Not using Marie. Not gay.
“A memorial service will be held on Sunday,” Xavier was saying and Bobby had a moment of panic that the service was for John, that John had died and no one had thought to tell him. But, no, X was talking about Jean. “…a chance to bid farewell…” Poor Jean. Bobby thought of her in the cold waters of Alkali. At peace. It didn’t sound so bad.
“…the resumption of classes on Monday. Mr. Wagner will be sharing his knowledge of gymnastics in your training classes. Our good friend and colleague, Dr. McCoy will be teaching biology and political science during his leave of absence from Washington.”
Fred whispered, “The whole faculty’s going blue.” Assorted snickering. What’s wrong with these idiots? Bobby wondered. Didn’t they understand that everything was fucked? Forever?
“…whom some of you know from last year. Ms. Murakami will be here twice a week to teach psychology and sociology.” Andi? Bobby blinked in surprise.
*I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to tell you, Robert,* Xavier said in his head. *Andi only just accepted my offer.*
“Additionally, Ms. Murakami will be running discussion groups with Mr. Drake.” Bobby automatically stood half way and then sat again in embarrassment as Xavier continued. “We have all endured… so much in the past week. I urge you to use these meetings to air your feelings. We must support each other through this difficult time. Now…”
Bobby again drifted away from the thread of the speech. He was back with Andi in the stuffy room on the third floor of the Midtown Youth Center, leading a support group for young mutants. John was there. Thinner, hair longer, smoking defiantly. So angry. Beautiful.
***
He was wheeling back to his office when he heard the urgent slap of rubber on hardwood behind him.
“Professor?” Bobby called. Xavier halted, waiting for the boy to catch up. “Can we talk for a minute? In private?”
They entered Xavier’s office and the Professor wheeled behind his desk, noting the blinking message light on his phone and the icon on his computer screen indicating 37 new emails. “Please have a seat, Robert.”
“Thanks.” But he remained standing, leg twitching. “Professor, I saw Logan before dinner. He’s going on a mission for you?”
“Yes.”
“To find Magneto?” Xavier didn’t respond. He looked at the boy and weighed again the balance of innocence and maturity. Bobby was a senior, in training to be an X-Man, but would he benefit from this burden of knowledge?
“We need certain information, Robert, which we cannot rely on the government to provide.”
Bobby paused a moment before saying, “’Cause if Logan does find Magneto… I thought maybe he could talk to John, too.”
Xavier took a deep breath. “What would Logan say to him?”
Bobby finally sat, pulling his chair close to the desk. “See, I bet John regrets his decision. We were fighting — him and Rogue and me. I bet he just —”
“Robert, whatever his reasons, John made his decision. I’m afraid we have to accept that he’s gone.”
“No!” Bobby shouted back and immediately lapsed into embarrassed silence.
Xavier leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows. “Before Eric Lensherr became Magneto, he was my closest friend. For many years, I harbored the hope I could bring him back to my side, that we could work together again. But now I know.”
“That it’ll never happen?”
“That the choice was his to make, Robert. That my desires were never relevant.”
***
“Let me go in first, okay?” she asked, unable to look him in the eye.
“Kein Problem,” he answered. Rahne slipped out the car without a word to either of the men, looking around to make sure she hadn’t been seen. She straightened her dress as she walked the block to St. Francis’ Church. She squinted at the sky, hoping for snow. These last weeks before Christmas were always special for her and, despite her anxiety, she was excited about returning to church for the first time in a year.
She found an inconspicuous seat in the back corner. The cool of the wooden bench, the press of the faithful around her — she felt at home.
Just before the service began, she heard the gasps, the anxious whispers. Ducking low in the pew, she turned to watch Kurt Wagner enter the sanctuary. He crossed himself and then walked with great dignity up the center aisle, tail swishing gently through the vent of his coat. He took a seat near the front, keeping his promise not to look at her. Even so, she felt exposed by his very presence.
But then, later in the service, the Reverend shocked her, initiating the Sign of Peace, descending to shake Kurt’s hand. “Peace be with you, my son…”
After the service, congregants gathered curiously to meet Kurt. Rahne took the opportunity to sneak out and hurry to the car.
“How was it?” Hank McCoy asked. He sat behind the wheel, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, pulled low on his brow.
“He’s so brave,” she answered. “I feel ashamed of myself.”
“He’s had practice living as a monster,” McCoy muttered, averting his face as a family passed the parked car.
The first snowflakes fell like grace. “Even monsters are God’s creatures,” she told him.
***
“Fuck, it’s snowing,” Jubilee said. But then the news started and she looked away from the window.
“Bridge collapse!” Doug enthused, tucked into the corner of the couch. “Think it’s the Brotherhood?”
“You wish,” David Alleyne answered from the other corner. “Magneto and company have completely dropped off the map.”
Clarice, in the big armchair, took a thoughtful bite of her donut. “I bet they’re planning something big.”
Doug chewed on a thumbnail. “Remember when we used to hear earthquake reports and wonder if it was Lance?” They all looked his way. “Now it’s fires.”
Jubilee turned her eyes back to the screen, but she wasn’t paying much attention to the broadcast. She joined the headline club here every day, she trained with the new X-Men and studied with the other students; but really, she was alone at the school. She had dumped Mike Haddad, the student everyone admired. John, her best friend, had joined the bad guys. She clearly wasn’t trying to fill either vacancy, so people gave her the space she seemed to be asking for. Since Alkali, she had strived to be in control and independent. It had worked all too well.
She was about to get up and leave when a news item came on that caught her attention.
“In Los Angeles, Asian mob leader, Cassius Kwan, was released on $400,000 bail. His trial on 54 counts of racketeering, extortion and fraud is set to begin in May. State prosecutors had argued against any bail, calling Kwan a serious flight risk…”
“That your cousin, Jubilee?” Fred Dukes snickered as he entered the rec room.
“Cut the racist bullshit,” David snapped.
She should have kicked Fred’s ass. Sparked him good. But Dukes’ bullshit was a million miles away. She found herself suddenly haunted, defiled by dirty ghosts.
***
Hank cleared his throat. “Appropriately for February, today’s topic is hibernation.” Thankfully, his voice had returned to its former clarity, though he now spoke a half-octave lower than he had. “And no, despite my ursine appearance, I have no personal experience with the phenomenon.” The laughter of the class was cautious; everyone knew how sensitive he was. Still, they had to give him points for trying.
The school was deep in hibernation, blanketed with heavy snow, hushed with regret and unspoken longing.
Scott touched the weave of the crocheted blanket Jean had kept at the foot of their bed. He remembered it floating up like a crafty ghost to cover them on chilly nights. He cocooned himself in it and cried in the porous darkness, trying to drain himself of the morning’s accumulated pain before his afternoon classes began.
Jubilee had kept only one picture of her and her parents, and it was practically indecipherable. Only her smile seemed to be in focus; her limbs were tornados of eight-year-old energy, her parents beaming blurs. But there was something of the giddy, joyous day in the image, and Jubilee spent hours alone in her room exploring its depths. “You think this is a game?!” the man screamed at her parents in Cantonese. “Disrespect will be punished!” Jubilee peered through the crack in the door. Even then, she had felt the urge to fight, to scream, “Get out of our house!”
It was the closest to sex Rogue would ever be able to get — masturbating beside a lover. They kept the room dark and stifled their moans because, frankly, it was still kind of embarrassing. Bobby always fell asleep after. He slept a lot these days. She didn’t know why he stayed with her. He was too kind for his own good.
***
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Terry shouted. “Presenting: the Incredible Nightcrawler!”
Despite months of tension and an uncertain future, Ororo felt like a little girl seeing the circus for the first time. Bamf! Kids held their noses at the smell of sulfur, and there, in a red cape, in the center of the gym, stood Kurt Wagner. He jumped in the air, pirouetting, and teleported again, leaving the cape to drift to the ground alone. On the floor, walls and ceiling, he began a spectacular routine that left the room cheering.
In a few hours he was leaving for Washington with Hank to appear at another Congressional hearing on mutant registration. Then he was heading back to Germany. She would miss him.
Right from the day they had met, there had been a strong bond. Might a romance have blossomed? Maybe in a year when Scott wasn’t crippled by Jean’s death. Maybe at a time when the government wasn’t sending mixed signals on its support for mutant rights. Maybe if the school weren’t growing so fast. She resigned herself to fate.
“Und now,” Kurt called. “It is my pleasure to present ze most daring act of zis or any century… Ze Gargoyles of Vestchester!”
Ororo didn’t know what to think as the cloaked figure entered. Kurt jumped down to meet his partner, and she threw back her hood to reveal the head of the wolf. Ororo gasped. Rahne!
Together, Kurt and Rahne, in half-wolf form, performed what amounted to a five minute acrobatic ballet. The act was frightening, passionate, inspiring. The audience was spellbound. In the final tableau, demon and wolf stood proudly together, daring the world to judge them, and to reconsider archetypes.
Ororo hugged Rahne afterwards. “You’re beautiful,” she told the girl. Over Rahne’s shoulder, Kurt smiled sadly and sweetly.
***
Hank sat cradled in the oak beams high above the foyer. The students were leaving Kurt’s performance, and their excitement — well, it rankled. Blue Scrooge! he berated himself.
Bobby entered with Rogue. They were the undisputed King and Queen of the mansion, always surrounded by a small cloud of the adoring and envious. To his shame, Hank envied them, too.
He watched Bobby carefully. The smile, the confident posture — there was something subtly manufactured in the persona.
“I’ll see you at dinner, honey,” he told Rogue. “I love you.” The routine was practiced. As the boy leaned in, her hand moved over her cheek and he planted the kiss on the black glove.
A boy, maybe 13, ran in. “Bobby! The practice launcher won’t fire the target disks! I have to do 12 rounds, but I can’t —”
“Chill, Kevin, I’ll meet you on the firing range in 10 minutes and we’ll make it work.”
“Bobby!”
“What’s up, Andi?”
“I need your help to reschedule the student interviews.”
“I’ll check their class times. Don’t worry.”
Alone at last, the boy seemed to deflate. He moved to the window and leaned heavily on the sill, looking out as through the bars of a prison cell. Hank dropped noiselessly to the floor.
“Any signs of Spring, Robert?”
Bobby straightened and put the starch back in his smile. “Hey, Dr. McCoy. All ready to hit the road?”
“That’s what my itinerary indicates.”
Bobby put a sympathetic crease in his brow. “I know it’s been hard. But I guess you’re feeling… better now?”
McCoy tried to smile back, but he couldn’t beguile the artifice. “No, not really. Sometimes, Robert, we just have to be good little soldiers and carry on.”
Bobby’s smile disappeared. Were there tears in his eyes?
“Yeah, I know.”
***
John could only just spy the sky through a small window in the impenetrable exit of the Brotherhood’s new underground fortress. Springtime. Twittering little birds fucking other twittering birds in the budding trees. Flowers breaking free from the earth, butterflies busting out of cocoons. Everyone was free but him. Happy fucking eighteenth birthday, Pyro.
No one went out without Magneto’s permission, and permission only came if you were being sent on a mission. You couldn’t even sneak out to get high for an evening, to get laid, because the two ton metal bars that held the six ton metal door in place could only be moved by his grand excellence himself, the Master of Magnetism, the presumptive father of new mutantkind, the liberator of the soon-to-be master race. John knew he would be a lot less bitter about everything if he were actually being sent on missions more important than glorified grocery runs. That was Mystique’s fault. She was making him train and train, but in the end, she kept telling Magneto that he wasn’t ready yet. Bullshit. He was way more ready than half the clowns in the Brotherhood.
He turned and began walking down the thousand steps to the core of the complex. It was an old, abandoned mine that had been re-imagined as high-tech paramilitary center before Magneto had even been imprisoned. Xavier and the X-Men would have been shocked to know that the Brotherhood now numbered more than 40, though most of them were low-level mutants. Why then, did the blue bitch not let Pyro, a level four, show off his stuff? Jealous, he thought.
Magneto had liked him from the start. The old man could see his potential, his fire. John imagined standing beside Magneto and letting loose all the rage he had inside him to benefit his new leader’s dreams. But Magneto’s dreams were a two-sided thing. Half the time, he was consumed with real plans and practical strategies, but the rest of the time, he seemed to live in fantasy, drawing blueprints for the great capital city of his future empire. John watched Mystique encourage both kinds of dream, like she was the best judge of where he should be spending his energies and when. Maybe that was her way of loving him. In any case, she didn’t want any new favorites getting too close.
Everything was cold, hard, echoing, unforgiving here in the fortress. The routine was strict and the rewards few. He hated to admit it, but a year at Xavier’s school had broken his habit of solitude. He longed for the kind of friendships he had given up, and which just weren’t available with the Brotherhood’s band of maladapted malcontents. John probably would have gone crazy months earlier if he hadn’t discovered Magneto’s library. In this prison of black stone and shining steel, the small room was an oasis in red, blue, ocher, green. There was a threadbare Persian carpet, still bright with the promise of exotica, and, more importantly, well-thumbed tomes whose vivid cloth and leather bindings contained the balm of fiction. While Xavier’s library was thick with poetry, Magneto’s was a compact shrine to the majesty of the novel. As the Winter whipped by outside, John sheltered underground, reading his way through Forster, George Elliot, Tolstoy and Faulkner. He was almost afraid of the tickle that had begun deep in his chest — the familiar scratch of words and stories, looking for a way out.
He swung by his bunk, grunting a greeting to his lizard-skinned roommate, who sat meditating in the upper bunk, and grabbed the copy of Conrad’s Sea Stories that he was returning to the library. The inside cover had been neatly pasted over with a sheet of white, obscuring the handwritten dedication beneath. John had spent an hour holding it up to the light from one angle or another, until he finally concluded that one obscure smudge might be “Charles” and another “love”. Xavier had given this same book to Bobby, but John had never gotten around to reading it while he lived in Westchester. He would be glad to get it off his hands; he craved clarity and didn’t need any ghosts haunting his life. Besides, Sinclair Lewis’s “Elmer Gantry” was calling him.
The metal staircase clanged beneath his feet as he trudged further downwards, his hunger for the new book growing with each step. He reached sublevel four and turned the corner, where he came across the unwelcome figure of Flayer.
“Turn around, Pyro,” the tall, skeletal man with the long black hair said. “No one’s going this way today.”
“Says who, fucker?!” Pyro let his belligerence ramp right up. Living with the Brotherhood, he had quickly revived the instincts he had developed in Keever’s Gang. Here, all his Westchester “pleases” and “thank yous” only got him laughed at.
“Mystique said. She don’t want no one near the communications room.”
“Then move, I’m going to the library, not the communications room.” He marched forward defiantly, but pulled up short as the tall man’s force field sprang to life with a sibilant crackle. John knew better than to go closer. He had seen the way the field sliced flesh and bone like the blade at the deli counter. “Fuck you, Flayer! I’ve been using the library all winter. The boss doesn’t mind.” He knew he sounded too desperate, but he really wanted to get his hands on the book and he couldn’t believe this know-nothing lout was standing in his way.
“What’s it worth to you, punk?” Barter and bribes. Just like Keever’s gang.
“I got nothing for you, okay?” He wanted to reach for his lighter, but an actual fight would land him in serious shit with Mystique.
“Aww, really?” Flayer teased. “Not even a little blow job?”
John shot him a threatening look. But… Sinclair Lewis… “Fine, whip it out, asshole.”
Flayer’s mouth dropped open in shock. He looked from side to side nervously, weighing options and opportunities. “You serious, man?”
John dropped to his knees. “Come on, I haven’t got all fucking day.” Flayer fumbled awkwardly with the belt of his costume (half of the Brotherhood were into the costume thing, the other half emphatically not), pulling out a thickening, uncut piece that was as long and thin as the rest of him. John got to work with practiced cynicism. Slave to literature, he berated himself. But then…Motherfuck, this little stunt was actually getting him horny! He had to be desperate to be turned on by Flayer, but then three months of celibacy and a bad case of cabin fever could broaden a man’s taste.
Truth was, it felt good to have the smell of arousal, the hair, the flesh in his face. And as his throat remembered how to open up (just like riding a bicycle, he thought) he had to undo his own pants and take out his hungry boner. He almost bit off Flayer’s dick when he heard the man’s force field erupt around him. He pulled the cock out of his mouth and shouted, “What the fuck? You trying to kill me?”
“I can’t help it! When I’m turned on… But it’s cool! You’re inside the field.” Flayer whimpered in his need. “Do it man, it’s fucking awesome.”
Fucking awesome, Pyro thought. That’s me. He was finally showing off his skills in the Brotherhood, just not the ones he wanted to. He could feel the dick swelling in his mouth. It would all be over soon. His own hand flew against his crotch. Just a few more seconds…
“Well, isn’t this a charming tableau!”
It was the last fucking voice John wanted to hear. Busted by Magneto himself. John let go of his dick and tried to pull his head away, but Flayer’s strong hands held him firmly in place as he thrust himself painfully into John’s throat.
“Flayer, drop your force field immediately!”
Okay, that voice was even worse: Mystique. And Flayer going, “Fuck fuck can’t fuck oh God oh Christ” and the force field growing brighter until he exploded, flooding John’s mouth and throat with some of the most acrid jism he’d ever had the misfortune of guzzling.
The force field winked out. John pushed the man away and jumped up, stuffing his junk back into his pants and turning, humiliated, to face Mystique and Magneto. The former’s yellow eyes blazed in fury, the latter’s twinkled with amusement. The old man, with cruel joy, tapped the side of his own face, indicating that Pyro had something to clean up. John reached up and hastily wiped the blob of cum from his cheek, blushing hotly.
Flayer ran up to his bosses. “It wasn’t my fault! That faggot made me do it. I’m totally straight!”
Mystique’s hand flew out and struck the side of his head. “I don’t give a shit about your pathetic little tryst. You were supposed to be on guard duty, not getting your dick polished! You are on latrine duty for a week. Get out of here!” Flayer all but ran from the room. “As for you, you little skank —”
“One moment, my dear,” Magneto said and John’s insides twisted uncomfortably in the pause that followed. “I think young Pyro’s talents may offer just the solution we’ve looking for.”
Mystique seemed to consider this for a minute before a cold smile drifted across her face. “What an excellent suggestion. Boy! You will accompany us now. And do up your fly!”
John had never been in Magneto’s chambers before. It was the only place inside the old mine that could truly be called beautiful. A myriad of pin lights picked up the faceted wonder of the exposed natural crystals, and the reflections and refractions lit and colored the cold metal surfaces of the furnishings. Magneto sat behind his huge steel desk while Mystique sat on its front edge, handing a folder to the abashed John who occupied a cold, low metal chair. He opened the folder and found himself looking at an 8x10 glossy photograph of a man in a suit. He was handsome enough, mid-30s, though still with something boyish in his wispy dark blond hair and smiling eyes. The photo of the man leaving his low-rise apartment building was of the kind taken by detectives, catching adulterous husbands in the act.
“He is Taylor Kincaid, a consultant working with Congressman Dolan Kemper of Idaho. Kemper’s secret committee is charged with creating practical responses to future mutant threats.”
Pyro looked at the papers behind the photo. Committee schedules, addresses, phone numbers. A smiling studio portrait of Kincaid with a wife and two young children.
Mystique continued “We lost a lot of time last year trying unsuccessfully to disrupt the work the committee has doing with the military. Several brave mutants lost their lives. Now it’s time for a more covert strategy. You will be sent to Washington to insinuate yourself into Taylor Kincaid’s life and extract his secrets.”
John looked up, confused. “I’m not a spy. How am I supposed to —”
Magneto pulled his cape over one shoulder and leaned back in his chair, like he was posing for a portrait. “Mr. Kincaid has a weakness for pretty, young men. Young men such as yourself. While his wife keeps the family home running smoothly in Boise, her husband has the occasional, discreet dalliance in Washington. I believe that, with your charms and talents, you could become important to him, and therefore useful to us.”
John stood and placed the folder back on the desk. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Mystique moved uncomfortably close. “We aren’t offering you a choice, boy. These are your orders.”
John stood his ground, staring back at the cold, yellow eyes. “I’m Pyro! I’m a level four fire manipulator! I’m not a fucking whore!”
With startling speed, she reached out and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor. On my fucking knees again! “You will do as you’re told or you will be deemed a traitor to Magneto’s cause. And you know what happens to —”
Magneto held up a hand. “Please, let us remain civilized.” John’s shoulder was on the point of dislocating, tears stung his eyes. His teeth were gritted in fury. “Pyro, my dear boy, no one ever promised that duty was easy or pleasant. Yes, I’m sure you would like to be of service in other, more dignified ways, and you will be. Later.”
“Tell her to let go of me,” John snarled.
“Mystique…”
She let go so abruptly, he fell forward on his hands. He stood slowly, shoulders and knees aching, glaring at the woman who had resumed her seat on the edge of the desk. He turned back to face Magneto. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
The old man smiled. “That’s my good soldier.”
In his mind, for just one awful second, John saw Bobby shaking his head in disgust, turning away from him.