X-Men: The Last Stand (29 page)

Logan had reviewed the specs. The old suits had environmental properties similar to the current ones, protecting the wearer from extremes of weather and environment. They were in fact body armor, proof against a significant array of projectile and edged weapons; they could even handle shots from directed energy beams. All told, they were remarkably efficient uniforms. They were just incredibly, unforgivably ugly. And as a chaser, in case he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it was clear that McCoy had outgrown the whole thing; the jacket looked like it was holding on for dear life, barely zipping over the Beast’s massive furry chest. The pants were so tight that a belt wasn’t necessary, and his huge blue feet protruded from the flared pant legs. Unfortunately, even Logan had to admit to himself that McCoy looked pretty formidable in his outdated uniform, despite the trouble he was having fitting into it.

“Christ on a cracker,” Logan exclaimed, still wondering how McCoy put the damn thing on, and also how he kept his fur from binding, “is that a joke?”

Hank actually looked offended. He’d apparently worn this proudly in his day. “My old uniform. Still fits…almost.”

“And I thought black leather was bad.”

He scented her, even though she hung back out of sight in the hallway. She wasn’t trying to hide from him—she knew better—just from the others aboard the plane.

“You almost missed the flight, darlin’,” Logan told Rogue, rounding the corner to join her. “C’mon, girl, get suited up, we’re on a clock here.”

She shook her head. “No, Logan, I’m not goin’.”

He looked down, having heard from Ororo what Bobby had seen in Manhattan the other day. But her hands were still gloved.

She smiled, like she’d lost something precious.

“Couldn’t go through with it,” she told him with a shake of her head.

“So,” he prompted, suggesting with the gesture that she head into the hangar.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Logan, to be afraid of your powers…afraid to get close to anyone…to know you can never go home again—”

He held up his right hand, showing it to her the way he had when they’d first met. She’d asked him then, “Does it hurt?” Meaning,
when the claws come out?
His reply, for the first and only time in his life, for reasons he still couldn’t fathom, allowing someone outside to see what this had cost him: “Yup.”

“Yeah, Marie,” he told her very quietly. “I do.”

“No,” Rogue protested, “you don’t. You can control your power.” She faltered, remembering the times she’d seen him go berserk, most significantly the night William Stryker’s mercenaries had attacked the Mansion. She and Bobby and Pyro had been cornered, and capture was certain. Until Logan leapt from the gallery above with a terrible cry she’d never forget. She never really saw how many soldiers confronted them—the hallway was dark, things happened so fast. There were a lot, that was certain, and heavily armed. With startling suddenness, they were all dead. Only Logan was left standing, his jeans and T-shirt and face splattered with lives he had just taken. Single-handedly, he’d more than decimated Stryker’s command. None of the casualties were wounded, and more than a few were in pieces. But the true horror of that moment came when he looked towards the children he’d come to save—and didn’t recognize them. They faced the very real possibility that he was so lost in his killing frenzy that he would do the same to them. But he hadn’t. The man in his soul grabbed hold of the monster and regained control.

“I can’t,” she confessed in a broken voice, barely more than a whisper.

“Logan,” she heard Bobby call from the hangar. “Aren’t we in a hurry?”

“But I can’t run away, either,” she finished, sounding a little bit bemused to discover something bright and indomitable amidst the desolation of her spirit, something that had set down roots too deep to be dislodged, that was determined to grow. “I thought that was the answer then”—she paused to look in Bobby’s direction as though she could see right through the wall—“and now. Not my brightest idea, I guess.” She’d never really considered herself particularly strong, or brave, and here she was evolving into someone that was both. It made her smile, just a little.

“Controlling the powers has nothing to do with bein’ afraid, Marie,” Logan said, acknowledging the change within her by deliberately using her real name again, instead of the one she chose for herself. “Of the powers themselves, of getting close to someone, or never going home. If it matters, you find a way. If this doesn’t work for you, find something better.”

She leaned up close to his cheek, sparing him a kiss so fleeting that he barely felt the thrill of her power grabbing for his, yet he’d never experienced anything more heartfelt.

“Workin’ on it, bub.”

“So I see,” he agreed, and added, “They’re a smart and sneaky bunch here, Marie. Give ’em a decent chance to prove it. Throw ’em a challenge.”

She gave Logan a lazy, lopsided, little bit sassy smile that reminded him just how much she’d changed—grown—from the adolescent river rat who’d hitched her way from the Gulf to Laughlin City, Alberta, the unofficial end of the road.

“I’ll get changed,” she assured him.

“I’ll tell ’Ro.”

But she surprised him by saying, “I’m still not comin’.”

Prompted, she explained, “Someone’s gotta look after the kids, don’t you think? Wouldn’t be the first time Magneto’s faked us out.”

“Figure you can handle trouble, if it comes?”

She tossed him a look she had to have learned from him. “Ain’t that what Rogues do best, sugar?”

“That’s my girl.”

“Always. Hey,” she called as he headed for the
Blackbird,
“you go kick the Bad Guy’s butt, Mister!” He nodded, but she wasn’t done with him just yet. “And you make sure you find a way to save the girl, hear? We’re countin’ on you.”

Come back with your shield, victorious,
the queens of ancient Sparta had told their kings when they marched off to war,
or
on
it.

He tossed her a farewell salute and a nod that was both jaunty and deadly serious.

And within the minute, as Rogue pulled her leather uniform from its locker, the complex shook with the rumble of the
Blackbird
’s huge engines, quickly fading to silence as the plane rose into the air and sped away.

All the lockers around her were empty, all of the X-Men were gone. She didn’t mind being alone, but she’d count the seconds until their safe return.

Jean Grey hated her dreams.

They were full of fire and passion, of a violence as primal and lasting as Creation itself. They took her to places beyond imagination, that somehow she knew were as real as her own life. Because, perhaps, they were aspects of her own life.

Xavier had been a frequent guest that fateful summer when he recruited her, but after the first meeting, she’d rarely seen Erik Lensherr, sensing a growing sadness in Xavier’s relations with his old friend. Something was not right between them and the passage of time only made the breach wider and deeper. She was aware of it even though outwardly he was as charming and relaxed as ever. He and the ’rents would talk for hours, about a multitude of subjects, as he helped Elaine cook, or shared an afternoon ball game on the tube with John. He had no great love for baseball but he faked it well, and he actually learned some new recipes from Mom. Of course, whether the subject was history or art, current events or philosophy, it was really all about Jean. To learn about her, he was determined to learn about the forces that shaped her, her home and her parents. Moreover, since he’d be taking her out of that home, away from those parents, they had to know they could trust him absolutely.

This, she understood then as now, was where he and Magneto parted company. Magneto might have experienced a momentary pang of regret at the sundering of familial bonds, but for him such a sacrifice was necessary for the common good. Xavier wanted—needed—her parents to share the journey of her life, so none of them would be afraid.

For Magneto, fear was the defining element of his world. For Charles, it had always been hope.

He had always viewed Jean as the embodiment of that hope.

Yet she had slain him. And Scott.

And she had slain the ones she most loved.

To anyone looking, which was basically just Magneto, she appeared utterly normal. Yet the core of the Brotherhood kept well clear of her. Even John Allerdyce, who’d been her student, and Callisto, who professed to fear nothing. She made them nervous. Especially penned together in the plane carrying them westward to their final destiny.

She smiled to herself at the thought of Callisto trying to take Mystique’s place by Magneto’s side. Mystique was the closest thing to fearless Jean had ever encountered, this side of Logan. As likely as not, she’d have simply sidled up beside Jean for a gal-chat, spiced along the way by the occasional metamorphosis into whatever form would get most irritatingly under Jean’s skin. Mystique’s nature was to push everything to its limit; the greater the danger, the more she enjoyed it. Jean envied her that freedom and wondered if losing those powers would make a difference.

Jean had been all alone in that big, empty house at the beginning, although she quickly found herself irresistibly intrigued by all the work being done belowground as Xavier and Magneto built the hidden complex where much of the real work of the school would be accomplished. Later, as the rest of what would become the founding class trickled in, she made new friends.

At first, they numbered but four: herself, Ororo Munroe, Henry McCoy and Scott Summers. Despite herself, she discovered in Ororo a kindred spirit to fill the aching void left by the death of Annie Malcolm. In Hank, she found someone who could make her laugh, no matter what, who could challenge her intellect as no other, and best of all, who taught her how to attempt the triple somersault on the trapeze. She never succeeded—her personal best was a perfect double and an “almost made it”—but the work taught her how to delight in her physicality. And not to be so scared.

She fell a lot, and that’s why she wore a harness, but with practice, as her telekinesis grew stronger, she discovered she could slow her plummet with a thought so that she landed easily on her feet. And later still, to stop herself in midair. And finally, to push herself back up to where she started, so she could try again.

Ororo taught her how to fly, sustaining herself aloft with a combination of her own telekinesis and her friend’s winds.

As for Scott…

…he taught her love. Which she thought was enough.

Until Logan came along.

She’d told Logan bad boys were for dating, for a fling, for being naughty, but you
married
the good guy. And he’d said in a way that thrilled her to the core that he could be the good guy. Scott was love, Logan was passion.

Just thinking about him made her heart race, which set their plane to trembling just a little, prompting startled glances at the little trickles of fiery energy that popped into view along the periphery of everyone’s vision, like the monster forever lurking
just
beyond the campfire’s glow.

They were right to be nervous.
She
was terrified.

Had Magneto pinpointed the rational reason for her being here? Probably, and he’d no doubt concluded in his arrogance that it was worth the risk and that when the time came he could properly manage her. But she still had too many ties with the X-Men, and she’d already struck them two blows to the heart, without meaning either. To see Ororo or Kitty, Hank or Logan—
Logan
—fall the same way…

She shook her head violently, the plane bucked, and the pilot warned them they were entering a field of turbulence, telling everyone to strap in.

Better, she’d decided, to be a potential threat to Magneto. Serve him right if things went wrong.

She covered her eyes, liking less and less the patterns her thoughts were falling into. She was a doctor, and she’d sworn the Hippocratic oath to “do no harm.” She was a scientist, whose absolute province was the
rational
mind.

The events since her resurrection sure had blown both those views of herself all to hell.

Resurrection.

Even by X-Men standards, she was dancing
way
out on the edge.