The Mall

EXTRAORDINARY

Executive Producer and Lead Novelist — Christian Butler

They were only two more kills from winning the match. Their opponents had talked a big game, but like all others, they proved far less capable. The imminent win would turn out more interesting given the money they wagered. Matt seemed against financial incentives, wanting instead for his raw skill to do the talking. But Roberto da Costa is disruptive. And there was not much more disruptive than taking money from affluent, American white boys who think they’re the best at something.

Roberto had tapped the mechanism at the bottom of his rifle-facsimile, his in-game avatar responding by reloading the clip. He had taken point down the hall and was rewarded with yet another kill. Near the end of this match, he was now with six unanswered kills, but the match set to twenty-five, his buddy Matt was at seventeen, also unanswered.

This shooter wasn’t his favorite — it was a far cry from Halo Six, but VR-cades had become the adolescents’ national pastime, the last couple of years. Roberto had lived in America long enough to see the transition and really couldn’t imagine much else more entertaining.

But he was glad to be Matt’s teammate and not opponent. The two rarely competed against each other except for private practice, but Matt seemed a natural at virtually every shooter. Roberto wasn’t sure how he did it, and wasn’t sure he understood when Matt tried to explain it.

“It’s, like… probability.” Matt had struggled to find the words. “Once I know a map, I can, like, predict where you are, based on just the knowledge of where you’re not. And that’s to say nothing of respawn mechanics.”

There was no sneaking up on him. Matt was always ready for you, no matter where you tried to attack him, whether high or low, front or rear. So for Roberto, it was all about meeting him halfway and communicating. After about a year of obsessive combat, the two had become an exceptional pair of battle buddies — MAD DOGS, as Roberto dubbed.

“They’re likely at the rear station, you take the basement lift. I’ll head up top and cut ’em off at the noob-tube. Don’t forget the grenades.”

Matt was almost a natural commander, the consummate professional. It was easy to trust he knew what he was doing, under such circumstances. But it was also a marked diversion from character. In the two years the two knew each other, Matt was never so authoritative. In fact it had come as a surprise to Roberto when the two started teaming together.

Matt was reserved. He had moved to New York and transferred to Brooklyn Visions a couple of years after Roberto had moved to the States. Matt didn’t talk much with the other classmates. But there had been something about him. He asked rather piercing questions in class, he almost always had the diverging opinion, positioning an astute observation using evidence and reasoning many of the other kids didn’t understand, even in this pricey charter school. And they almost never knew when to expect he might offer a suggestion or opinion. The timing had proved opportune, Roberto had long ago grown bored with his classmates.

On the surface, Roberto had “friends”, but he still felt isolated, a person whose true self remained to be seen. His classmates didn’t seem to understand what it was like, their own perspectives shallow and insulated from the real world. Roberto had come from the real world. He knew what it was like out there. And he remembered what it had been like when he couldn’t speak the language. With Matt, he saw a kindling of hope. Now, the two were best friends, as close as any friend Roberto had from his old life. Before America, before November.

The two were close for another reason. They hadn’t known it at the time of their first meeting, but they were different from the vast majority of people in the world. Roberto figured it was this secret that made Matt louco-boa at shooter games. Back then, Matt had yet to say anything, but Roberto figured it was no big deal. It wasn’t like he hadn’t also kept a secret.

“Berto, you in position?”

“Copy that, mano.”

“Alright, execute.”

Roberto tossed his grenades up the lift. He heard the dual THUMPS and saw the dots on his radar flee their position. Then he took the lift to follow after.

Two floors up, he had then chased them down a corridor. The rear opponent turned to fire on Roberto, who answered back, and they tried to take cover in an alcove. But then, BOOM.

“GAME OVER. Blue team WINS.”

The spectating audience erupted in “OH!”s and “Get some!”s. Roberto removed his headpiece and set it down on the terminal, some of the guys patting him on the back. Roberto surfed around the throng surrounding Matt, the MVP with a perfect match, just as he sat down his gun and headpiece. Roberto gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Good game, bicho.”

Matt gave a shy nod.

Their opponents shuffled over in shame, hands dug in their pockets. The crowd hushed in silence, waiting to see what the losers had to say, given their pre-game overtures.

But they said nothing. They reached out with their hands, each holding a Harriet-Tubman.

Roberto made to receive the spoils, but they retreated, leaving him to grab air.

“Wait a sec. We don’t reward cheaters, here,” one boy had said.

Roberto and Matt traded confused glances.

“It’s VR, chefe, how you figure we cheated?”

The first boy bumped his fist on his mate’s shoulder.

“Because you didn’t tell us you’re mutants,” the second boy replaced his twenty and then crossed his arms.

The crowd grew silent.

“Please. That’s your excuse? What, two little black boys can’t have a perfect match against you, so now we’re mutants?”

The crowd erupted.

“We couldn’t sneak up on you, even with power weapons. Your friend routinely hunted us down, even while crouched. He knew where we were. Ergo: mutie.”

“And mutie scum ain’t welcome here, puto.”

“Fuck you guys.” Roberto, ignoring they thought him hispanic, made to approach the two guys, but Matt grabbed him by the elbow. Roberto turned to him and Matt shook his head.

“Let’s just go.”

“Are you kidding?”

He looked at Matt again, and then recognized the expression across his face. It was almost like he could hear something, and then his eyes began to dart around the crowd. Roberto got the message.

Roberto turned from the night’s losers and put his arm around Matt’s shoulders as they shuffled through the crowd.

“That’s right, run away, mutie!”

Roberto flipped them off as they left the arcade.

They stood out in the main mall, and Roberto spoke in Matt’s ear. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Matt was looking toward one end of the mall, then turned towards the other, shaking his head. “I, uh . . . I — I don’t know. Like, we’ve got to leave, I know that . . . but it’s like…” Matt trailed off.

“Come on,” Roberto said. Across the wide hall stood a gray door marked with a glowing EXIT sign. Roberto, arm still draped across his friends shoulder led him across the hall and through the exit. They stood in a long hallway with concrete bricks and sterile, fluorescent lighting. Roberto made to walk down the hall towards the exit, but again, Matt grabbed him by the elbow.

“Wait,” he said, his brow furrowed in a scrutinous fashion.

Down the other end of the hall, a man with dark hair, glasses, and a white-checkered, long-sleeve shirt walked into the hall, his dark slacks held up by suspenders. There stood a vending machine, through which he swiped a card. There was nothing but silence as Matt watched him. Matt then pulled Roberto closer and back through the door into the mall.

“I don’t get it, it was just a guy — “

“I know, I know, we just can’t go out that way,” Matt said, adamant.

“Well there’s got to be a way we can get out…”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why it won’t go away.”

Matt’s hands were on his head now, his wide brow furrowed in the middle and his eyes squeezed shut. Roberto could tell he was trying to concentrate, but he was growing concerned. The look of fear on Matt’s face seemed legitimate.

“Think, mano: why wouldn’t we be able to leave?”

Matt was still shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know, it’s like nowhere is safe…”

“I don’t understand,” Roberto grabbed Matt, escorting him down the hall towards the crowded center. It seemed counter-intuitive, but Roberto figured maybe they could cut through the food court towards the front and —

“Wait.”

Matt pulled Roberto to a stop.

“You’ve got something?”

“I don’t know…I think so…”

Matt then led him into the food court. Roberto didn’t think it made much sense, seeing as that’s where they’d been headed anyway. The place was packed, so loud Roberto could hardly think to himself. Then Matt just stopped in the middle of it all. Matt turned round, pulling him close.

“What is it?” Roberto could see Matt’s eyes were searching for something.

“I’m not sure, yet.”

“Here? You’re saying we’re safe, in here?”

Matt hesitated before nodding his head.

“Why?”

Roberto’s question then seemed rhetorical, left unanswered.

“Look if we’ve got to get out of here, then let’s just go — “

Matt held him by the elbow, keeping him from heading out, and Roberto turned to him again. On the one hand, Matt’s hand has a welcome home in the crease of that elbow, he always grabs him there whenever he has something to say, and it’s become easy to feel reassured, knowing his friend had his six. But given the circumstances, Roberto had grown concerned — Matt had never been like this. And Roberto couldn’t understand what was going on. What could be this bad? Matt could always find it before, why couldn’t he find it this time?

Matt’s eyes were locked somewhere in the crowd, but he pulled him close again.

“…do you trust me?”

Roberto saw the reservation in Matt’s eyes, wherever it was he looked. Roberto tried to follow his gaze, hoping to discover the same reconciliation. But no go. He turned, then, to the rear exit, and then the front. And he considered the food court’s central position, the packed crowd. Fear had begun to set in, like some sort of animal — a predator — were chasing them. But he turned again to his friend and, still, found that stone-stoic look in his eyes.

“You know I do.”

Henry McCoy

“Dinner is served,” Hank dropped the pan of pizza in the middle of his three comrades, setting the extra to-go box to his side. Bobby was the first to grab a slice, fueled by his typical, unbridled enthusiasm, took a bite and let out an exasperated sigh. It marked Hank as curious how Bobby could stomach piping-hot cheese with little hesitation. “Finally! I’ve been dreaming of this for days,” Bobby said, mouth still full of pepperoni and sausage confection.

Jean and Warren, sitting opposite Bobby, placed their own slices on their plates, obliged to let them cool first. “You know we could’ve ordered delivery anytime,” Jean said.

Still chewing his food, Bobby conceded that Pizza Hut might’ve been acceptable, but still he was adamant, “I needed the genuine article.”

Hank harbors no particular pizza prejudices, but he understood Bobby’s contention. After four years, these excursions had become a sort of ritual for him and the others, ever since they first met as students. For Hank at least, the very smell of Jimmy’s Pizza, the Parmesan cheese and ranch-flavored crust, ignited chemicals and that particular combination of neurons that very much made the place feel like home: Jean, Warren, Bobby and Scott his burgeoning family. And that was to say nothing of the taste — Jimmy’s was far from New York’s finest, but the sentiment was profound, a sign of freedom and autonomy afforded them by the Professor every other week.

Which was why Hank was always sure to save some slices for Scott, who after all, was the first to get a license and without whom these trips would not be possible. Hank always felt a twinge of guilt, conjuring the image of Scott, sitting alone in the parking lot. He always figured Scott to be missing out, but he understood the method. The pizza might not be as fresh, but Scott was a brother, nonetheless, and appreciated the sentiment every bit as Hank.

“Okay, so I know it’s impolite to bring this up,” Bobby said between bites. Jean and Warren looked up from their meal, expressions of morbid curiosity carved across both their faces. “. . . but I just wanted to say, I’m glad to see you two finally together. The passive flirting and furtive glances were driving me nuts.”

Judging her mood, Hank shot a glance at Jean before looking away. With such acute observations, Bobby has a tendency towards the invasive. It was no wonder Jean just rolled with it, seeing as this was typical Robert-Drake.

“Well I’m glad we could make you happy,” Jean said with an almost regal conciliation.

But Bobby showed no signs of stopping, even going so far as stating the two made “a picturesque set”.

But then he revealed his true motives, in singling out Warren, “I feel a responsibility to warn you…” It was then, knowing Bobby as well as he does, Hank began to worry. “. . . enjoy it while it lasts, okay?”

Eyes bright with curiosity, Hank watched for Warren’s play, eager to see if he would take the bait — the two were always busting one another’s chops.

“And why do you say that, little man?” Warren showed not even the slightest hesitation.

Before swallowing his food, Bobby let slip a small choke of laughter, “I mean no offense, I’m just saying, y’know, you’re like . . . a rock star — I doubt you’d have any trouble getting any girl willing to give you a shot. But Jean…” Hank now felt Bobby was, not unironically, treading on very thin ice. Looking to Jean, Hank recognized the patient lilt in her demeanor as she waited to hear whatever bullshit Bobby had planned. “Jean’s a classy lady, y’know like… Julianna-Margulies classy.”

It was then Hank couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, now understanding Bobby was looking to cheer him up. After all, no one else at the table was like to get such an obscure and oblique reference.

Jean’s face was then screwed into confusion over whether to take offense, “Excuse me?”

“Uh, yeah, I second the motion,” Warren was offended, Hank could tell plain as day, even if it wasn’t clear exactly how.

Bobby took a sip of his soda and sat it down, raising a conciliatory hand to his now captive audience, “Look, I’m only saying, Jean’s just not the type looking for the ‘bad boy’ or ‘rock star’.”

Warren shook his head and turned to Jean, “Why am I the rock star?”

Hank found himself beset with laughter, likely serving as Bobby’s own, personal barometer for comic efficacy. And if that weren’t enough, Bobby was more than astute enough to long-ago discover Hank’s personal struggle with a healthy dose of infatuation in Jean’s regard. Hank endeavored for more academic pursuits, to not make his interests known, but he found Bobby enjoyed stoking that flame. Hank couldn’t conjure sympathy for his friends because Bobby could, at any moment, turn and joke at Hank’s expense, so he was glad not to bear the spotlight. Bobby ignored Warren’s inquiry, concluding his main point was that Warren wasn’t “the one”: “It’s not a judgment of character.”

Warren rolled his eyes and shook his head while Hank continued to laugh to himself, and Jean leaned towards Hank, “Who is Julianna Margulies?”

It was Bobby who then took offense, “Are you serious?”

Jean raised her shoulders, looking around the table for help.

Bobby mentioned an older television program, “Carol Hathaway? ER? Ran for fifteen years, took place in a hospital?”

Jean and Warren’s shoulders shrugged, still not getting it, and Bobby grew only more frustrated, even listing the actors, “Anthony Edwards, George Clooney, Sherry Stringfield? Come on, guys…”

Hank could barely even finish his own pizza, finding this apparent language barrier as more hilarious, however unintended, than Bobby’s poking fun at Warren and Jean’s romantic pairing. “Looks like you’re alone there, little buddy,” said Warren, taking the opportunity, however slight.

“You say that like ER didn’t speak to a generation.”

“Maybe not this generation…” Warren sipped his Dr. Pepper.

Bobby grabbed another slice, licking his fingers, “Speaking of the socially inept, are we ever going to get Scott out of the parking lot?” Bobby’s inquiry addressed the group. “I don’t know who I pity more: him or that Jeep.”

Hank understood the sentiment. Scott had been the Professor’s first student, and he lived at the mansion for a year before Hank’s enrollment. Even after all these years, Hank still knew little of his past. Scott was always reserved, even compared to Hank who speaks little to people he doesn’t know. He knew Scott to be decent, but he really only speaks up when constructive, and even Bobby has difficulty eliciting a smile’s hint. Just as routine as their bi-monthly excursions, Scott stays in the Jeep, reading a book. Though not a professional, Hank noted many of the classic signs of social anxiety disorder — such observations may be more than a mite invasive, but for Hank, they made Scott one of the more interesting of his classmates (aside from Jean, of course). Scott seemed driven by a sort of passion, of which Hank empathized.

Hank himself grew up in underserved neighborhoods and school districts. While many of his peers allowed such pursuits as athletics or drugs to drive them, Hank found himself intrigued by academics — first mathematics, and later the sciences, by way of physics and logical mechanics. His schools had insufficient resources, and devoid of any meaningful friendships, he pursued his own curiosities. The only thing that mattered to Hank was the way a machine worked. This was the engine that drove him to discover how he was so much larger and physically dexterous than the other kids, and it was this work that led to his self-edification on the matters of genetics, variation by common descent and bioengineering. He later came to discover a group of likewise-interested parties, dispersed across the “deep web”, using hidden TOR networks, and organized a freelance, open-source genome project.

Hank and this amateur “consortium” had grown convinced of the existence of a common genetic marker for the manifestation of these apparent, physical “deformities”. Of course after NOVEMBER 7, the general scientific community had become convinced modern science and human biology would have to be reinvented and retaught, but next to nothing was known or understood, regarding the more miraculous events surrounding the NOVEMBER Incident. As rare as such reported phenomena were, rarer still were those “afflicted” with some form of physical manifestation or deformity. In the eight years since, people had grown restless, ever more afraid of further mysterious accidents and blameless deaths, and the scientific community was no closer to an answer. Those like Hank had become easy targets for people’s rage and insecurities.

So it was only natural that Hank develop a personal, vested interest in finding answers, a passion shared amongst his consortium, who met on a privately hosted IRC server for regular discussion and speculation. In some manner or other, each had covered considerable ground, devising devious tests, collecting reams of data, collating the seeming-unrelated. Still, they were no closer to an answer. Until Hank McCoy.

Hank’s attraction to mathematic strictures left him uniquely suited to the task. As a high school freshman, he developed an obsession for hyper-dimensional geometry, which led to his developing a unique, brute-force algorithm designed to identify the geometric relationship within any given, Nth-dimensional precession of consequential sequences. The maths had been groundbreaking and unprecedented, but even amongst the consortium, the methodology was not well-understood. Upon his failure in explaining the principles, Hank instead encouraged them each to submit a DNA sample and run a comparative analysis using his algorithm. They would each host a private server and network them together as a sort of multi-threaded processor. Hank assured them that by the end of the analysis (estimated to take roughly a month’s time), they would at least know where not to look. It was this very experiment that led Hank to, what he might argue to be, the world’s most important, scientific discovery — an anomaly of unprecedented, statistical improbability.

Hank’s algorithm revealed an exact and alarming match in the arrangement of certain groups (or “chains”) of genetic markers. Though individual genes, themselves, did not show any matches, when the relationship of these genes (as well as chains of expressions) were abstracted into algebraic expressions, not only were these chains discovered in each of the group’s six samples, but none such expressions were found in the samples used in the original Human Genome Project (used as their control).

Hank was able to develop a model, even a preliminary white paper, but still he could not wrap even his own considerable intellect around the meaning of this discovery. Over time, his concerns had grown, so in order to protect what very well might become sensitive data, Hank devised a fractal encryption for the program results that his colleagues were not likely to hack. It was not so much that Hank found the others distrustful, he only found this impending model a potential danger.

Though little was understood about the November tragedy, Hank had feared his work might lead others to misuse it in finding or identifying others like him, and so he found it suitable to exercise considerable discretion. So after a few days’ consideration, he told the group over IRC that the results were negative, having convinced himself that such subterfuge would be temporary.

But in time, a sense of peril developed — such genetic groupings shared in a single pair of samples were an exceptional rarity: one in nearly a million, and usually only a single chain. Hank calculated the odds for the sorts of matched chains discovered by his algorithm in each of the six samples were one in a billion. When accounting for the variations of single genes, the rarity increases a thousand-fold. And the probability of such consistencies amongst six samples: incalculable — as impossible a discovery as science had ever revealed. Despite his curiosity, such a find proved more frightening than he’d ever imagined, and so began his assumed stewardship of this data, in case of the worst-possible scenarios.

But this only heightened his urgency. And were he honest, he wasn’t certain his work wasn’t also an indicator for another problem — that he and others like him might possess a genuine, genetic fault or even a disease. Hank had to learn more, but he simply lacked the resources. Thus began his search, an endeavor that would lead him to the Professor and his life at the mansion.

Scott and Jean were the first students, and the first “mutants” Hank met with energy-based manifestations. Their meeting proved invigorating, unlike anything Hank had yet known. The opportunity was prime and he was eager to investigate how human biology might allow for such marvelous abilities. It had taken an hour of idle and introductory conversation before Hank realized he invested more intrigue in their condition than he did their actual person. The three had sat at the bar in the kitchen, drinking sodas, swapping stories: how they met the Professor, how long they’d been at the mansion. It was only natural that Hank begin with his research, revealing how the Professor sought him out after an anonymous forum posting. But he then segued to the subject of the “mutant problem” and its manifestation.

Under such circumstances, many might find Hank’s probing invasive. Though polite and understanding, Scott and Jean were yet to know this new and incessant, inquisitive youth. And Hank often forgot how most folks were unaccustomed to him at first impression. Even at sixteen years, his frame was massive, nearly six feet tall, and as a kid, he spent a great deal of time playing street ball or touch football with the neighboring kids. So he wasn’t just tall, his shoulders were broad, almost shrinking the size of his head, his hands and feet disproportionate and large, all features becoming apparent and extreme, years before the November Incident, so most in his neighborhood and school had never made any association between him and the “mutant problem” (though Hank’s nascent curiosity would lead him to the possibility of just such a connection). Regardless, most people were taken aback by not only his size but the dichotomy of the spectacles, aloof conversational style and his coffee-black skin.

The combination of features were isolating, to be sure, and Hank had grown self-conscious of that fact from an early age. He came to feel like people didn’t expect much from him or assumed little until he opened his mouth. The initial stereotypes were most apparent during middle school, where he often found himself openly challenging those teachers unwilling to entertain his curiosity or unable to elucidate difficult concepts and methodologies. It wasn’t until later years Hank came to understand his natural iconoclasm.

But with Scott and Jean, he found an almost natural rapport. With Scott there was a sort of kinship, a likewise “subversive” black kid with lighter skin, much leaner, a few inches taller and glasses with lenses of deep-scarlet. Scott didn’t say much, but came to reveal an avid appetite for reading. Hank had been impressed, and sometimes envious, of Scott’s degree of focus and determination, imagining Scott to be as disruptive to black-youth stereotypes as himself.

Though treated as a pariah amongst his own peers, Hank often tutored or mentored some of his younger neighbors and classmates. Scott on the other hand gave an air or impression of a solitary life — he never elaborated or offered much insight, but there was something about Scott’s stoic expression and reticence that spoke volumes, despite the absence of emotion. Hank wasn’t quite astute with emotional cues, but he couldn’t help detecting notes of sadness with Scott, like an ever-present undertow. Hank, always passionate about open-inquiry, was inspired to dozens of questions, but knew their relationship too young to broach such personal grounds.

Jean, on the other hand, was an almost complete one-eighty, and he found her telekinesis fascinating, according to the Professor, the only known manifestation. His professional curiosity inspired numerous topics. Scott didn’t know much about his ability and, like all else, was reluctant to discuss or even display it. However, Jean seemed comfortable with the subject. She didn’t seem to know much about how her ability worked, the mechanics of it, but she was happy to humor Hank’s interrogations, perhaps in the hope of, herself, someday making headway (or so Hank surmised). On top of that, Hank was pleased to find a kindred spirit in Jean’s appreciation for academics. In fact, since he was always finding points of fascination with her, he was afraid of coming on too strong.

In this area, he was more than acutely aware of the danger in objectifying her as merely a romantic interest. Such considerations Hank found personally offensive, as though it were impossible for a heterosexual male to genuinely enjoy the company of a woman without sexual or even romantic pretext. But at the same time, he couldn’t help his attraction, and he kicked himself for it.

He had to tread carefully: as much as he’d like to indulge in such a relationship, it was far more prescient to develop a platonic friendship, to know Jean more for her true self and not some idealized fantasy. After all, so far she was the only female in the group and the two boys (later three) couldn’t risk sabotaging the professional environment over juvenile, misogynist overtures of romance. If Jean were ever interested, far better for her to make that choice on her own, and on the merits of the individual and not one’s facade.

Warren and Bobby’s enrollment over the next six months rounded out the roster. At the time, Hank was surprised at the small size — at first, he thought perhaps because the Professor didn’t feel comfortable taking on more kids on his own. It wasn’t long before Hank discovered it was due more to the difficulty in tracking down kids such as themselves, a dilemma the Professor (as well as Hank) would come to address in their own time. Furthermore, these original five would serve as a sort of pilot program for the Professor to determine a curriculum and methodology — or so Hank deduced.

Back then, it had yet to become apparent the sort of school they were to attend. Hank was fortunate, in that he exercised the luxury of autonomy over his educational decisions, his parents having long forgone any presumption as to the nature of his work or education. To them, the School was a preliminary step to Hank’s early enrollment into a magnet school or science internship, their presumptions landing not far from the truth. As for Warren and Bobby, their folks took some convincing of the unconventional variety, the school being exactly as the facade suggested. And according to the Professor’s obscure standards, they not only earned admission, but also full scholarships. Of course, such prestigious opportunities are difficult to dismiss.

And so assembled the inaugural class of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters (Hank found the vague reference not only amusing, but also apt, given the present climate). For Hank, so much has changed since those early days, especially the social dynamics. Of course Bobby, the youngest, was always pressing buttons, always without consideration.

Early on, Bobby found a frequent target in Warren, a wealthy heir and prep-school type. Hank saw Bobby’s instigations as like those one might observe in middle school boys teasing girls. Warren even called out Bobby on that front. Hank could remember looking to Bobby, eager for his, oft unpredictable, retort. So in what has since become classic form, the playful Bobby accused Warren that he wasn’t as attractive as he thought himself to be. “Admit it: homosexuals just make you uncomfortable.” Bobby had sipped his drink from the other side of the kitchen bar, watching over the rim of his soda can, eager to see Warren’s attempt to return the volley. And with little hesitation, Warren fired back, “I used to wrestle, trust me: homosexuals don’t make me uncomfortable, Bobby, just you.” Like a tennis match, Hank, Scott and Jean’s collective eyes had darted back to Bobby who, never skipping a beat, had rested his soda can on the counter. “Don’t worry, Worthington, you’re not my type. In my field, I’ve made out with plenty of guys better-looking than you.” The group let slip a collective guffaw, and to Hank’s eyes, no harm had been done.

For the first time, Hank had felt comfortable around a group of peers, and was surprised — even pleased — to find his “considerable” intellect played neither a constructive nor destructive role. He was just another kid, even in the midst of this, so-called, “mutant problem”.

The Professor, however at the time, had still been a mystery. Hank had no expectations for how pivotal a role he would come to play as both a mentor and confidant.

In the years following passage of the Registration Act, the national climate had grown tense. From day one, the Professor had been clear regarding his goals for this group and the school. He knew that someday, the world would respond to the growing population of “mutants” — a popular term derived by urban myth and exaggeration.

As far as the science was concerned, mutants were no different from other people, yet still, the general public had grown threatened and panicked after the November Incident. The Professor’s main concerns surrounded those most susceptible to such irrational fears and suspicions, and later, public dangers, innocent deaths or collateral damage.

The Professor became aware of his own “strangeness” many years before the Incident, devoting his resources to understanding and identifying this new discovery. Much like Hank, he too saw the potential ramifications, predicting children and young adults would become vulnerable, once knowledge of “mutants” became widespread, left to the whim and mercy of the scared and ignorant. So it was this common concern that set both Hank and the Professor on their mutual paths. The Professor had long-ago spear-headed private research on the “problem”, but was yet to discover any sort of genetic predisposition.

Hank, desperate to find others who might understand his work, published an anonymous sort of paraphrased version of his model, a sort of fish-net for finding those capable of understanding his discovery. Dr. MacTaggert, a geneticist and research partner of the Professor’s, found the model and implemented a crude and rudimentary version to her own data based on as best an understanding of the maths as was manageable. Though incomplete, the results were distinct enough to pique the Professor’s curiosity, who then reached out and found the young Hank McCoy. They now knew a genetic marker for mutants existed, but they were ill-equipped to observe or describe it. So Hank was brought on, not just as a student, but as a research fellow.

This was Hank’s very dream-come-true. This wasn’t some benign phenomenon or obscure area of study — his work had real-world relevance. He was to become a prominent member of the premier work on a subject that would forever change the landscape of the human condition. Hank, however, would be unable to share his discoveries, choosing to resign from the amateur, IRC consortium he helped found. But to Hank, it didn’t matter: this was an opportunity to illuminate the context of something novel and exciting, to fight ignorance and help guide the world to understanding. Despite the social volatility, this was too good to be true.

Again, much had changed since then. Hank was more than happy here, eating pizza in the mall with this new family. Nothing had been more familiar than Bobby’s more-than-slightly homoerotic jabs at Warren, now nursing a freshman relationship with Jean. Even Scott, isolating himself in the parking lot, had been a welcome presence, always willing to stand by Hank, even humor intellectual discussion. And Jean, as always, was the boldest of them all, outspoken, almost headstrong.

Hank had closed Scott’s to-go box, sitting back in his seat in quiet and bemused observation of his friends. These trips were so routine, it was hard to conceive of a better way to wile away the early hours of this mid-October evening.

The Professor had been preparing them for conflict, of dealing with those openly hostile to “mutants”. But so far, it had yet to prove necessary. So Hank wanted to enjoy this as much as he could, just in case.

“But, I figured, rhythm was junctional, y’know? And the guys were giving me a hard time, so I thought, ‘hey, let’s give it a shot, ask the guy out’, so I asked him out,” Bobby was going on with some story, Hank knew, and Hank was patient, listening. But Jean had been saying something to Warren. Hank couldn’t hear it, whatever she intimated, but Warren could, her having meant him to hear it. Warren had a casual arm draped over the back of her chair. Hank probably shouldn’t have been watching, only he couldn’t help but notice how comfortable the two looked and it drew his envy, the way Warren had exposed his ear, how he had her attention undivided.

But without warning, Jean looked up at him and Hank averted his gaze as innocent and unassuming as he could muster — Hank had forgotten himself, for a moment, forgotten that Jean could easily hear him. But still she looked his way, Hank noticed but now she wore wonder and worry. “Jean?” He asked, but she didn’t hear him. But then Warren looked up, as well.

“And he said ‘yeah!’ And I was like — hey, what’s up? Guys? Hello?” Bobby was looking to them now, too, noticing the sudden shift in atmosphere. Hank had looked to Bobby who met his gaze, the two wearing the same question, and they both turned in their seats.

Two kids, no more than a few years younger than them, had approached, seemingly from the far end of the food court. It seemed perplexing, kids their age never approached random strangers, and clearly they had never met.

The taller boy with dark-chocolate skin stepped forward, “Sorry to bother, my name’s Berto and this is Matthew.” His voice was thick with some Latino accent Hank couldn’t place.

He had asked if they might join them at their table, and without much a second thought, Jean pulled up a chair as she and Warren scooted round towards Bobby’s end. But Hank couldn’t help indexing Matthew’s body language. He was smaller and thinner than his friend, his brown skin several shades lighter, and his shoulders were hunched, and he drew shallow, quick breaths, his bright eyes darting around the food court’s rear entry.

It was as the boys took their seat that Hank recognized what he was seeing: an absent look, an almost paranoid demeanor, definitely hyperventilation. It appeared to be a textbook anxiety attack. This led Hank to wonder and almost aloud — “Why is this boy so afraid?”

“Thank you, we really appreciate it,” Berto said. Hank took note of the way he looked after his friend, a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Something was definitely wrong, and Hank was having trouble identifying the variables.

There was definitely an elephant in the room, but that wouldn’t stop Bobby. “So . . . anyway, the guy said ‘yeah’, and now I was all like, ‘what am I supposed to do now?’” Hank would’ve been listening, he usually did, anyway, a fan of Bobby’s tales of utter bullshit, but his attention was understandably divided. Matthew was glancing all around him, and Hank was unsuccessful in ascertaining the source of the young boy’s concerns. Matthew then looked around Berto’s shoulder and whispered something to him Hank couldn’t hear, which was when Hank noticed a group of four adult men stroll into the food court from the rear entry.

Hank found the very visage striking — at this hour, in this place, it was unorthodox to find such a group of adults without children in tow. After over three years of regular, early evening trips to the mall, the food court was an almost-exclusive bastion for the youth of Westchester County. Never had Hank noticed just such a group, so immediately Hank wondered, why should this kid be afraid of these adults?

Following an intuitive spark of curiosity, Hank turned the other way, towards the front entry and spotted yet another group of four gentlemen cutting their way around denizens and chairs and tables. Enticed by the prickled hairs on his neck, Hank alerted his friends.

In response, Berto had looked up as well, following their gaze, and quickly asserted his innocence, “Look, we just came from the VR-cade.”

Hank was almost shocked when Matthew spoke, his voice laced with panic, “Please, you have to help us, we didn’t do anything.”

It was Jean who first looked up at Hank, the genuine look of concern difficult to ignore. Never had he known her to wear such an expression and he found it frightening.

Matthew had looked towards the rear group of approaching men, when Hank tried to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The boy about flinched out of his seat, striking Hank with as strong a sympathetic note as he had ever felt. Hank had turned to Bobby who, even now, ceased his typical antics, sharing with Hank the same level of concern as Jean.

It was that very moment that it struck Hank how real this was — whatever it was. “Matthew, you can tell us, what is this?” Hank asked, but Matthew must not’ve heard him, he only looked past Hank, jumping out of his seat, followed closely by Berto, the both of them taking cautious steps back. On reflex, Hank stood up as well, looking to call out to them, but his words were cut off by one of the men behind him.

“Excuse us,” the man said.

The others had each stood as well, forming as rough a barrier as the four could manage, between the boys and the unwelcome strangers, now on all sides a mere fifteen paces away. Hank turned, the first to speak up. He cursed himself for forgetting how physically intimidating most people find him, “Is there a problem, sir?” Hank affected as congenial a tone as he could, his heart thrashing in his ears.

The leading man flashed some sort of nondescript badge Hank didn’t recognize, “We need you folks to step aside, these boys are coming with us.” His demeanor was polite and unassuming. For Hank, it asked more questions than it answered. Unsure of what to say or do, Hank took a brief glance at Jean, noting the quiet defiance of her face. Warren looked quite a bit more concerned, and Bobby’s eyes were uncharacteristic, fixed on these men, as though invaders of the food court’s quiet comfort and in more ways than one.

Hank took a quiet step forward, “I’m sorry sir, but if you would please enlighten us as to the situation?” The lead man did not answer, but Hank registered a near-imperceptible flinch amongst the group of adults and Hank cursed himself again. He hated how easy it was for him to forget himself, and so, at a snail’s pace, raised his hands. “Officers, as you can see I’m unarmed — what appears to be the problem?”

Whatever this was, it was now crystal clear the men were law enforcement of some sort. It bothered Hank that they were plainclothes and, he was now certain, carrying concealed side-arms. Hank couldn’t help but wonder what Scott would make of the display, and to make matters worse, the food court’s usual and lighthearted din had died, the ensuing disquiet a now visceral perversion of the usual atmosphere. Whatever was happening was now sure to disrupt the evenings of more than just Hank’s and these two frightened kids.

Hank’s nervousness had never been so profound, especially with dozens of heads turned his way. Hank could even swear feeling down the back of his neck, the breaths of all the mall’s patrons. And that was to say nothing of all the smartphones trained his way. This moment was set to live on in his memory every bit as much as the discovery that led him here.

And still, despite himself and his adrenal gland working in overdrive, Hank’s brain seemed to be operating just as it ever did, calculating variables of probability, presenting possible options and outcomes. Whatever the case, the next crucial moments were now to be on permanent record, even streaming live on Facebook at that very moment. Hank couldn’t ignore that significance, and he couldn’t put from his mind the image of abject fear written across the young Matthew’s face.

The presumption of innocence was paramount, Hank knew, and the moments passed at a crawl, waiting for these officers. Despite everything the Professor had taught them, about standing in defense of the innocent, even of those who hate and fear them, he simply didn’t know what he was to do, what the best option was, or if he could even diffuse the situation without confrontation or arrest. And that’s what struck Hank the hardest: he and his friends are the only ones here willing to stand up for Berto and Matthew, and they didn’t even know why this was all happening. He thought himself ill-suited to the task.

So much of the Professor’s training was both theoretical and under strict control and safety — to say nothing of their exposure, Hank was most concerned about collateral damage. These officers, the mall’s patrons: they aren’t a simulation, people could get hurt.

Hank found himself wishing Scott were here. Hank doesn’t want to hurt anyone, doesn’t want the boys arrested without warrant or probable cause, and he didn’t want to be the one to explain to the Professor how he led them all into exposing themselves. This wasn’t exactly how Hank imagined the world finding out about them.

Scott would know what to do.

Scott Summers

“The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy.
To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.
Thus the good fighter is able to secure himself against defeat, but cannot make certain of defeating the enemy.
Hence the saying: One may know how to conquer without being able to do it.

Security against defeat implies defensive tactics; ability to defeat the enemy means taking the offensive.”
— The Art of War

The words were simple enough, but Scott always had trouble with the subtleties, especially when Sun Tzu was involved. The sun had yet to set, but it lay just beyond the Jersey and Staten Island skylines. The buildings were caught alight by the sun’s dying rays, their edges on fire like molten gold, providing just enough ambient light for him to read from his iPad whilst preserving battery. The others were inside, likely enjoying a fresh pizza. Once upon a time, he might have felt left out, but given his mutant “condition”, he couldn’t shake the anxiety he felt, being in small spaces with hundreds of people. And strangers made him uncomfortable, regardless.

He had grown used to the routine. The first to drive, he gladly acquiesced to shuttling his friends south to Manhattan. Despite the long drive and traffic, it was worth it just to see the downcast sun shimmer off the Hudson. As the rest of the gang made their evening inside, window shopping, loitering and eating, Scott took the time to catch up on his reading.

He was always reading. Before his time at the Mansion, it was difficult to find a decent book, or to find time away from the other kids (particularly a former roommate). But now, the Professor was never short a literary suggestion, and Scott had become accustomed to these assignments. Ever since the Professor determined Scott’s qualifications for team leader, the two engaged in lengthy and difficult discussions on the merits of ethics and morals, topics which, on occasion, distressed the youth. Though he would be loathe to admit so, he thought himself unqualified, unfit.

He was more than a bit unsure of what the Professor saw in him, almost like he was stubborn in trying to cultivate within Scott something he, himself, never felt existed. And it had always been that way, ever since the day the Professor first took him in. He found it easy to forget how long it’s been.

He had been used to a sort of invisibility. If not for his first, public accident, no one would’ve ever noticed him. But the November Incident made that sort of attention dangerous and destructive. And then the Professor came into his life. Though his trust in the Professor had become implicit, Scott still had yet to confide much to him, regarding his past, where he came from. But it never felt necessary, and Scott was thankful the Professor never pried, like he never had to — it would be another year before he came to understand why. None would ever hear Scott say so, but the Professor had become a surrogate father — or as close to one as Scott might imagine. The image of his real father had begun to fade from memory. Scott could never forgive himself for that.

As for having friends, Scott found the experience strange, the feeling a likely symptom of, for much of his life, never having any. And Jean had been the first. He could recall the way she saw him, how it struck him, like he was being seen by another for the first time.

Jean Grey came to the Mansion six months after Scott. He found her quiet, near as much as himself, but even he could tell there was something different about her, regarding her own solitude.

One particular day stuck in his memory — the library had become his favorite place, a private sanctuary. He spent hours perusing shelves, sampling unknown volumes, wiling away hours in foreign world’s and existential treatises. Days became weeks and months, he grew accustomed to a relative sense of safety and stability. He no longer had to think about the orphanage, or worry about strange men in uniform coming after him. The whole thing was almost too good to be true. So he hadn’t expected to find a girl there, sitting in a window sill, her stare aimless out into the manicured lawn below.

He wouldn’t have thought much of it, but it was the way the afternoon light caught her hair, as though it were ablaze, vibrant reds pouring and reflecting onto the stacks that framed her there. Later, he found a shelf and a book and a table, busying himself with CS Lewis’s Screwtape Letters. Later she found him, a book of her own held within the crook of her elbow. Quiet as a mouse, she asked if it was alright to join him.

Scott obliged, and he couldn’t think of much else to say. She didn’t strike him as talkative, and that didn’t bother him. In time it didn’t matter. Later she would come to tell him about her best friend who had died sometime before her enrollment. Once more, he hadn’t a word to say, obligatory consolation seeming rude, somehow. But he understood when she spoke of her abilities, her nascent telepathy, and how she had been “with her friend” the moment she passed. Afterwards, her parents contacted every professional they could find — her friend’s death had led her to catatonia. And it was the Professor who came to help her, who taught her about her abilities.

Even afterwards, Jean still found it difficult to adjust, to move on. Scott wasn’t too sure why she obliged to share such a personal story, but it reminded Scott of the night he somehow managed to blow off the roof of his room at the orphanage. The last time he was ever so scared was the day his parents died. He could only imagine what it must have been like for her.

He was the only one she told about her friend, and she never spoke of it again.

In the following months, the mansion became far busier. Even though Scott was once surrounded by dozens at the orphanage, he had always felt alone. But with Hank, Warren and Jean, everything had suddenly changed, and Scott found himself grateful for friends who bore no expectations of him, no ill will. Not long after Bobby’s arrival, the Professor began their formal “education”, explaining to them his concerns, the November Incident, and the emergence of “mutants”. Over time, they learned the nature of their abilities, engaged in theoretical discussions and intense historical study. It didn’t take long for Scott to understand their precarious position.

Scott hadn’t realized it as a young teenager, but they were all members of a new, dangerous sort of minority, one that might be subjugated and profiled in a way not seen in living memory or recorded history. The Professor’s worry and compassion didn’t escape Scott’s perception, and Scott was surprised — almost scared — of how he empathized with the Professor’s statements.

He wouldn’t understand this until months down the road, but the Professor meant for him and his classmates to stand at the front lines of the coming conflicts. And the imminent passage of the Registration Act seemed explicit proof of this. The Professor intimated that he recognized his words to be alarmist, even frightful, assuming bad faith and planning for the worst, but that he hoped to remain optimistic towards the future.

Scott would soon find himself standing resolute with the Professor and his dream. The idea that mutants might someday live in peace, side-by-side with the rest of humanity, that even he might play an active and relevant role, infused Scott with a sense of purpose he had never noticed was missing in his life.

Almost despite his reticence, Scott thought himself willing for whatever came next, but he wouldn’t deny his open anxiety.

To say nothing of the present circumstances, Scott had always been uncomfortable around people. He stands out in crowds, especially being three inches over six feet tall, and people have always perceived him as “exotic”, due to the muted brown of his skin. And due to his mutant manifestation and lack of conscious control, he was forced to wear lenses of ruby-quartz at all times of day, and could never escape unwelcome glances and unsolicited criticism for “wearing sunglasses at night”. At the end of the day, it was easier to avoid people altogether. After all, he had grown used to it.

There were times he missed idle strolls in the mall, he even imagined what it might be like with his friends, enjoying genuine New York pizza fresh out of the brick-oven. But he routinely put it off, despite Bobby’s frequent protests. Even there in the parking lot, Scott could hear himself offering these justifications, which took brief attention away from Sun Tzu.

The sun had set, lampposts now illuminating the lot, a gentle reminder of the drive back to Salem Center. It was that very moment Scott noticed three large, black-paneled vans park illegally, closer towards the mall’s rear entrance. About a dozen men dressed in dark gear disembarked, moving like shadows, skirting their way past dormant vehicles, but not making towards the entrance. Scott grew curious, clicking his iPad to sleep, leaning forward for a better look.

It took less than a second for him to recognize what he was watching: a sort of SWAT team, perhaps forming a perimeter.

The Professor had issued enough assignments for Scott to know exactly what this was, and his brain began the immediate task of ticking away at the principles of game theory and transactional analysis.

1. Historically, such mobilizations of law enforcement are rare, reserved mostly for terrorist or hostage situations,
2. The mall was large enough that, had such a situation occurred, at least a dozen patrons would’ve managed an escape, fleeing the scene in desperation,
3. Hardly any shoppers had left this rear exit, and for the better part of thirty years, there’s been no precedent for an established SWAT perimeter at a major pedestrian center without any apparent, criminal provocation.

All told, these considerations were cause for significant concern, and Scott couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. With his friends inside, he just knew they were in some sort of imminent danger.

Scott had recognized his strategic position, rear of the line. His first priority was to warn the others, so he dictated a quick message into his watch, forwarded straight to Jean. He next had to establish the possibility for a genuine threat, after all (he hoped to himself), he could be wrong, this might have nothing to do with them. But still, that didn’t preclude the possibility some other mutant might be involved, and there was no way for him to make that determination.

He kept ticking away his options, but still wished Hank were there, envying his superior skill for observation. Somehow, he’d have to make due, because the biggest risk was possible, unwarranted escalation. Scott has the element of surprise, which could play crucial for a preemptive, surgical strike. But his secondary concern was not only causing further, unnecessary conflict, but also being outnumbered.

He had assessed all the “angles” — there was no clear, “best” option. The unaccommodated variable was whether or not this looming threat had anything to do with mutants. Scott just couldn’t tell. But the Professor had been training them for just such possibilities, and everything seemed a textbook marker for what the Professor feared might someday happen. And what’s worse, these officers aren’t just abstract constructs, they are real people, with families and livelihoods.

Whatever his concerns, mutants untrained and unskilled do represent a possible threat. But he and the others were not unskilled, and most mutants simply do not openly antagonize law enforcement (despite conventional wisdom). Scott didn’t want to hurt anyone and this concern, above all others, is the primary engine behind his isolation.

His second accident, the day he met the Professor, almost resulted in the deaths of a about a dozen innocent bystanders. He had been out in the city when his ability manifested, just as he was watching a construction crane lifting some I-beams up to a high-rise. Everything had happened so fast, even Scott couldn’t have explained it back then.

There was a CRASH, like thunder, and a blinding bolt of light, and the crane’s supports were obliterated by some imperceptible force, the beams falling towards the unsuspecting citizens below.

Scott had been knocked off his feet, and then watched in horror, thinking nothing could be done. Like watching a train-wreck, he never took his eyes off the falling beams, when CRACK — another bolt of light, and the beams were pulverized, raining down, harmless, as a fine, metallic dust. Afterwards, Scott developed a major migraine not unlike the night a hole was punched through the roof of his orphanage bedroom.

At the time, he wasn’t sure of his own culpability, but the bystanders showed no compunction for chasing after him. They were hysterical, and the whole experience had frightened him like little else before. But as much as the flash-mob scared him, Scott couldn’t blame them — more than they feared people like him might pose a risk to innocent lives, Scott feared he might be responsible for just such an act, and he just knew he couldn’t live with that.

Agent Duncan had intervened, taking Scott into custody. He could remember the long hour he spent, sitting in an interrogation room. Duncan had assured him he was in no trouble, but still, with the one-way mirror staring back, the knowledge of what happened first at the orphanage and then with the crane, he couldn’t shake the guilt, the shame. He didn’t know — feared — what would come next. That was until the Professor walked through the door.

Even though he was grateful beyond words for the Professor’s hospitality, he understood why he had to follow him.

But there in that parking lot, all the old anxieties and insecurities were rushing back, and in open conflict with Xavier’s mission. Scott might have to willingly and openly attack these agents, and if he was going to do that, he had to be sure it was the best course of action. Despite their training, having to exercise this sort of judicious discretion un-simulated tied his insides into Gordian knots. But time was running out — he had to make a choice, he couldn’t waste it debating which choice best-suited justification to the Professor.

His visor sat secure in the glasses compartment above the rear-view mirror. He grabbed it and put it round his neck, then pocketed his custom-made training gloves in his dad’s old and brown flight jacket. Just in case, he left the Jeep unlocked as he climbed out and then approached the perimeter.

Whatever reservations he had were waived upon notice that these officers’ uniforms lacked any insignia or markings. These men either weren’t law enforcement or were violating the law, and Scott was unsure which worried him more. He had still yet to decide which course of action to take, but understood there would be no turning back, and so decided to take a page from the Professor’s book and exercise conservative optimism.

Once in earshot, he announced himself at a shout, three officers turning on their heels, hands placed on their holsters. Scott excused himself, inquiring as to the nature of their business. Who Scott assumed must have been the senior officer declined to reveal anything pertinent, trying with dispassionate professionalism to assure Scott “everything is fine.”

“Return to your vehicle, kid. You should head on home.” His tone was condescending, like Scott had interrupted important, adult business.

That was when his heart lodged itself in his throat — whatever this must be was what it had looked like, and Scott had thrown away the element of surprise. At the end of the day, he figured if there must be some major conflict, were this to be the day they exposed themselves as a team of trained mutants, far better for law enforcement to instigate any escalation of violence.

But Scott knew the only way this could be legitimate were if he exhausted every diplomatic effort to join his friends and leave the mall. As long as they gave no reason for conflict, this night could end like any other. So Scott notified them.

“I can’t leave without my friends.”

The lead agent grew visibly annoyed, offering glances to the adjacent officers.

“Look, kid,” he stepped forward, warning Scott that he step away and head home before they arrest him.

“No one is in any danger. Let us do our job.”

Scott didn’t buy it.

Everything about these officers, their body language and temperament, now screamed to Scott this was a mutant situation. It didn’t seem appropriate that Scott be unable to at least wait for the others, so he asked for a name or to see a badge and its number.

He received no reply. Which was when things turned for the worst.

“You’re just asking for trouble. Return to your vehicle. Head on home… or else.”

Blood was pumping in his ears, he was legitimately afraid, and he hadn’t handled this well, by any means. But he stood his ground.

“Respectfully, sir, I won’t leave until my friends leave.” He knew what he had to do and he didn’t like it, not by a long shot.

As quickly as the officer moved for his sidearm, there was a flash like a bolt of lightning, and in a soft clap like distant thunder, the agent was on the pavement, out cold. The other officers turned, weapons brandished, but not before Scott vaulted over a nearby SUV.

He pocketed his glasses and slipped the visor over his eyes, pulling the elastic strap tight around the back of his head and in a hurry put on his training gloves. Then took a deep breath.

He peaked out from behind the vehicle, and in three more POPs, three more agents were down. He could hear them scrambling, issuing hurried orders. This was his first, live engagement, but he was feeling good about his chances.

In training, he can take out five targets in the space of two seconds. With eight officers left, that meant he needed only less than four seconds out of cover from enemy fire. And despite himself, he found it thrilling to see his visor in action for the first time.

The past year, he experimented with its variable aperture (also of ruby-quartz), learning to attenuate the concussive force into concentrated, narrow emissions. At full force, Scott could kill a man, but if opened just enough, directing his force to the chest or cranium, he could deliver the equivalent of a heavy-weight boxer’s hail-mary, rendering any average man unconscious. Scott had a clear advantage, he need only prevent them from flanking his position.

The remaining agents did exactly that, vying for a double-envelopment. Scott ducked back another vehicle, popping off two more shots — two more agents down.

Scott was concerned of having lost track of the other officers, still outnumbered six-to-one. He found it especially odd they had yet to discharge their weapons, which made them harder to track, to determine whether his cover was sufficient. The skirmish was exhilarating, but still, there was no room for error.

He made to duck back another vehicle when three more officers moved to flank him. In rapid succession, two of the agents were down in another flash of light, but the third managed to fire a couple of rounds.

Almost on instinct, Scott threw himself to the pavement and seemed fine, but noted a strange lack in muzzle flash and combustion — these weren’t the usual firearms.

But he didn’t give the other guy a second chance, opening his visor and knocking his feet out from under him. He had little time, anticipating the remaining agents to move on his six.

But just as he rolled back on his feet, they made his position and fired before his next opportunity to move.

He felt a punch in his shoulder and fear struck him. He doubled back and somersaulted over the hood of a sedan. He had no time, but looked to his shoulder and, instead of an open gunshot wound or blood, found some sort of metallic slug, lodged through his jacket into the skin. His shoulder gave a faint twitching, the slug acting like a taser, but it was odd — the voltage was hardly enough to incapacitate.

Before he could remove it, another officer stepped out from behind cover. Another POP and he was down. But a large man grabbed Scott from behind, pulling his elbows taught behind him. Again on reflex, Scott threw himself forward in a violent thrust, but could not throw him over — the grown man, an easy thirty pounds heavier, overpowered Scott with ease.

The two remaining officers stepped out in front of him, holding their fire. Scott could tell they thought he was out of tricks. Perhaps they figured whatever it was he could do required his hands to do it. So the next few moments would prove crucial, and he still had one element of surprise left to his disposal, and all thanks to some ingenious engineering on the part of Hank McCoy.

They were on him now, and Scott had to be careful. Whatever their primary firearms, they seemed disinterested in lethal force, a clear advantage for Scott. Comfortable with their presumed-superior position, they forced Scott on the concrete to restrain him.

Once more his brain ticked away and in meticulous fashion. He was still frightened — this was easily the most extreme confrontation of his young adult life. But the Professor had designed simulations for just such circumstances, practiced with obsessive compulsion, over the past two years. But those exercises are generally redundant and predictable. Scott would know what to do, were this the Danger Room, but here were any number of variables Scott couldn’t accommodate, and that made him nervous. Room for error was narrow.

They zip-tied his hands behind his back, and with his head turned, he had a clear line-of-site of two officers, now calling in on their radio. The three even made mention of their weapons.

“These toys don’t have much range, do they?”

“They’ll have to check ’em out at base. No tellin why they didn’t work this time.”

“Fucker could move, though, couldn’t he?”

“This one’s not on the registry?”

“Nah, helluva a coincidence though, y’think?”

Scott could tell, they thought they’d won. It was then he found a moment, and everything had to happen at once.

Hank had fabricated his training gloves with pressure-sensitive fingertips. Hank mentioned they connected to his visor wirelessly through some sort of modulating bluetooth signal. If he pressed a certain ambidextrous combination of fingertips, the visor’s aperture would open to any of three pre-programmed settings designed for a non-threatening attenuation.

POP, two of the last three officers were down in the space of a half-second. He then rolled on to his side, the last agent attempting to discharge his weapon. But using a different combo of fingertips, his visor opened wider.

The air was still for a moment, quiet and charged. And then the space between Scott and the officer formed a bow shock around his optic blast, letting loose a deafening roar that shook the atmosphere in violent reverberation, setting off about a dozen car alarms in the lot. The officer was gone in a blinding flash of scarlet, soaring over five feet in the air and landing on the hood of a sedan about twenty paces back.

Nothing but the sound of his breath and the crushing flow of blood in his ears, it took a few moments for Scott to snap back to reality. His senses returned, the parking lot in a raging, dissonant song, he swung his legs back over his head, pulling his bound wrists from underneath his backside. In seconds, he pulverized the zip-tie.

After a quick scan of the parking lot, comfortable no more officers awaited in the black, Scott allowed himself to process this new reality. Worse yet, his friends were still inside, and if these twelve agents were meant to setup a perimeter, that meant the real threat — an organized offensive — was inside the mall, and so far, he was in no position to help. And not knowing their goal, couldn’t possibly know where to intercept them. And that was to say nothing of these strange weapons.

Scott pulled the metal slug from his right shoulder and examined it. It wasn’t a bullet, not quite a dart. He pocketed it, then bent down to pick up one of the officer’s weapons, pocketing it as well. Hank and the Professor might know what to make of it.

When he rolled an unconscious officer over, he noticed some sort of data pad fixed into a leather sort of gauntlet. The whole thing came free from the Velcro, and he held it aloft. To Scott it looked like a computer. He stuffed it in an inside pocket, then held up his watch to his mouth.

But right on cue, his watch gave a slight tap on his wrist — it was Jean, telling him to bring the Jeep round to the front. It became apparent — something was going down, and it was imperative they get back to the Mansion before things escalated beyond their ability to control.

Sun Tzu was going to have to wait.

Robert Drake

Bobby’s gaze remained fixed on the plainclothes officers standing before them. Hank was much larger than the others, and Bobby was always trying to remind him that most people, at first impression, find his largeness intimidating, so it was no surprise to Bobby, as Hank rose from his seat, to note these men’s reflexive flinch towards what must’ve been concealed firearms.

The whole thing made Bobby angry. Whatever was going on here was fishy. Berto and Matthew couldn’t be more than two years younger than him, the youngest of Xavier’s first class. So he figured it was easier for him to empathize. For all intents and purposes, they hadn’t done anything wrong, and in Bobby’s mind, didn’t at all adopt the demeanor of a kid caught in the act of something illegal.

The lead officer said to Hank that Berto and Matthew had been caught stealing. But Bobby smelt the bullshit. Mall cops don’t dress in plainclothes, nor do they carry firearms, concealed or otherwise. And it doesn’t take eight officers to detain two alleged thieves. But what struck Bobby most of all was that these two would seek to confine themselves in the food court, at the center of the mall and the furthest place from any exit. They could have ducked out through some side-exit and been on their way — no one the wiser to their theft.

Bobby’s no Scott Summers, but this still seemed suspicious, so it rubbed him the wrong way that Hank was so passive, willing to placate these men who clearly had no place here, disrupting the peace of this sanctuary. Given the circumstances (not to mention recent history), Bobby was glad to see dozens of smartphones staring back at them, silent, new-age chronicles of current events. At the very least, he hoped it would discourage these officers from jumping the gun.

But Bobby knows, all too well, Hank sees himself as a pacifist, always compromising, always arbitrating. Any other circumstance and Bobby would admire him, even applaud him, for that. The Professor always stressed diplomacy and optimism, to always presume good faith in these precarious situations. But he found the directive difficult, perhaps due to his age — as though he were prone to youthful defiance.

But there, in the food court, the four of them standing between two innocent kids and eight, ambiguously-dressed, grown men: Bobby was starting to take it personally.

Present circumstances aside, the Professor’s rhetoric always seemed alarmist. Bobby couldn’t tell you how they got here — he understood well enough why the Professor took them in, what they were training for. But after a couple of years, it almost felt like the Professor was blowing smoke. Bobby’s father talked about people like that: “liberal wingnuts”. Of course, Bobby didn’t take to heart much of his father’s ramblings, almost out of ideological principle. But still, the Professor’s concerns just seemed extreme.

He understood the Professor was only preparing for the worst-case possibility, so maybe Bobby had only taken things for granted, soothed at the idea that maybe nothing would change, even after passage of the Registration Act. After all, mutants were rare, “a statistical anomaly,” Hank had said, and difficult to identify, if lacking some form of physical manifestation. In the years since November, there seemed to be an uptick in the fledgling population, but still they had only just emerged from urban legend. If not for the November Incident, Bobby figured mutant registration would turn out as no more than a modern-day witch hunt or Red Scare.

Maybe Bobby suffered from youthful naïveté, Scott was always saying so. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what it was like to be different. At first glance, Bobby was the picture of all-American: ivory skin and close-cropped, sandy-blond hair. But he was also a bit of a troublemaker, and he was an average, academic performer. And things had always been troublesome, not to mention when dear old dad walked in on him making out with his first boyfriend.

In those days, Bobby’s dad would rail against “liberals” and “homos” and “punks”. Bobby never thought much of it because he never felt it applied to him. And the old man was always angry about something, it seemed, but it never seemed to matter. Back then, being gay never seemed an issue or possibility.

For a time, Bobby had even fooled around with a few girls. He looks back on those days with an undercurrent of shame. He had always felt guilty afterwards — not so much about sex in general. It wasn’t easy to understand at the time, it was like a white lie. He didn’t enjoy girls in the same way his other classmates did, and he felt guilty about it like when a child lies to a parent. He was “playing along”, not unlike an actor, and he didn’t have much of a stomach for it.

Junior high came along and with it, athletics, which meant “dressing out”. At first, Bobby found the notion unnerving, and had grown ever-more curious of the male form. It was a strange sort of envy — these bodies were something he wanted, but more for himself. He wished he was as muscular, as lithe, as some of his classmates had been, so that he could admire the form in the comfort and security of his own privacy.

At fourteen, Bobby came to his first kiss with another boy, Fabian, and found a confirmation he never felt during any of his fumbled fondles of females. Kissing him had been what he was looking for, all he ever wanted. And coming to terms with that threw into sharp relief all of his father’s bigoted ramblings. Bobby was ready to forge a defiant path, if it meant being honest with himself.

After November, and later the manifestation of his own abilities, people were scared. Bobby understood that, he he had been too, at first. Then other incidents would pop up on YouTube, of “mutants” out of control in parks or carnivals. The character of his fear had changed — “mutants” were dangerous. And when his father railed against “mutants”, his entire temperament would change. “Those freaks should be shot-on-site.” Or, “They should round up those muties and kick ’em out before they kill anymore children.”

There was a time Bobby agreed with him. He’s still ashamed he used to feel that way. And then his powers manifested and the home environment became volatile in a passive-aggressive way. He had grown self-conscious whenever his dad watched a reporter talking about mutants, or at the dinner table when he chose to speak on the matter, like all eyes were on him. Then, of course, he was always worried about accidentally freezing something, especially during the summer.

Bobby had no clue what to do with his life, which seemed melodramatic, all things considered, not unlike a young-adult drama or something. He was determined to rise above it, but found himself running out of steam. The Professor came to him with a lifeline. Bobby saw it as freedom. And now, for better or worse, mutants were his brothers and sisters to him — family — in a way his father never was.

At the mansion, Bobby was late on the scene, but Scott, Jean, Hank and Warren were quick to adopt him to their circle. Bobby wasn’t new to friends, but back in public school, he never felt the old crowd were interested in his “true self”, the part he hid under a mask of conservative conformity. Hank and Jean, at least, were congenial and welcoming, and seemed interested in knowing him. And Bobby saw this as a fresh start to “the new you”. And now, a fresh part of the world’s most exclusive community (and one held in a harsh and negative light, no less), Bobby felt an obligation to a sort of stewardship of humor.

Scott was always woefully solitary, Hank obsessed with books and numbers, and Warren was an intense and handsome distraction (as much as he would be loathe to admit), but a worthy, sarcastic adversary. Jean was an inspiring figure, and as warm as a big sister, who seemed never to tire of his almost-incessant dialogue. At first, Bobby was a sort of lone wolf, youngest of the group and less-inclined to academics and science, but it was he who brought them together, more or less establishing their dynamics. Even Scott warmed up to him, though, Bobby figured, he was begrudging to do so.

It also took Bobby a bit longer to appreciate his newfound minority status. It took discussion on the Stonewall Riots to bring him full-circle. As much as he wore a pleasant facade, all the history and discussion on the matters of bigotry and discrimination hit him harder than the others, and what happened at Stonewall hit closer to home than he’d like to admit. Hank and Scott and Warren had been isolated from much of American society, whether by their own actions or those of others. But Bobby never had that luxury.

Faggot might never have had any weight to him, when heard from his father or a classmate, but personal attacks and resentment directed to others brought him quick to anger. From there, it was easy to adopt the Professor’s mission as his own. He might never have expected the “mutant problem” to escalate much further, but he told himself if it did, he’d rise to the occasion. But even here, it wasn’t safe, and as the years passed Bobby began to see just how prescient the Professor’s concerns really were. After Fabian, after November, after the rise of his own gifts, there was this latent fear, the kind that bubbles beneath the surface, that threatened to erupt and shatter everything he knew. Bobby remembers that fear, and he saw it stricken across the faces of the two kids who interrupted their ritual pizza.

It was the bone-chilling quiet that struck him most. The food court was full of, easily, two dozen guys and gals, each having devoted their attention to devouring their choice of prime-time public cuisine. But when the adults walked in, when Hank stood up, when the adults flinched and Hank raised his hands, all eyes were on them. And watching Hank, a giant black man to any random stranger, pleading for reason and mercy, the imagery was striking, evocative of turmoil inherent to America’s very foundation — even Bobby had recognized it. That was what drew the smartphones. Bobby couldn’t recall a more self-conscious moment. But he also felt something new, a roiling anger like a tropical storm.

“To my knowledge, mall security don’t have jurisdiction to take patrons into custody, especially without probable cause,” Hank was using his five-dollar words again. “Clearly we have some sort of misunderstanding.”

The lead officer didn’t seem to care for Hank’s intercessory efforts, and Bobby wanted to keep a weather eye. Though infuriated with Hank, he was still Bobby’s closest friend, and he’d be remiss if he allowed these men even a moment to plug his friend with bullet holes.

Hank told them no harm had been done, “These boys have no merchandise on their person”, that the six of them could leave and be on their way.

But the officer would have none of it, even threatening Hank.

“Son, if you don’t step away, we’ll take you in as well for obstruction of justice.”

Bobby looked to Matthew again, and the fear across his face was palpable in a way Bobby was just not prepared. This just isn’t right, he told himself. He was pleased to find Jean shared his sentiments, just from the look on her face. But then she reacted to something unseen and looked to her watch.

The food court had never been this quiet, the air charged with nervousness and fear. All eyes were on this stand-off. But Hank was backing down.

“Do what you must,” he had said, before pledging, “I simply cannot standby and let you arrest two innocent teenagers.”

Bobby might have abhorred the tactic but he admired the testicular fortitude.

Two of the other officers moved around the lead and approached Hank, with zip-ties hanging loosely from their wrists. Hank had refused to move, so they each grabbed one of his raised, massive arms and turned him round, tying his hands behind his back. At that point, Bobby began to breathe harder, his chest rising and falling in patient rhythm.

Two more officers from the rear approached Matthew and Berto, who both began to protest and cry out.

“What are you — I didn’t do anything!” Matthew struggled, trying to pull away but to no avail.

One of the officers made to grab Berto by the shoulder, pushing him down to his knees.

“I wouldn’t do that, chefe.”

Both boys were on their knees now, trying to resist but unable to overpower the grown men.

“Why are you letting them do this?” Matthew was shouting, as if in utter disbelief. To Bobby’s ears, he was overwrought, he could hear it in the waver of his voice as it echoed high into the terraces above, and it made Bobby’s eyes burn hot with anger. He felt his arms shaking.

“We didn’t do anything wrong!”

Faces were even crowded at the railings two and three stories above, doing nothing, watching the travesty unfold. Bobby felt ashamed.

The Professor once had them study the Freedom Riders of 1961, to pull a page from their historical playbook. As a young white kid, Bobby was moved by the risk and devotion paid by not only the black patrons of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), but also its white members, who as “race traitors” seemed to incite even more wrath, for allying with their black brothers and sisters. Taking in the present atmosphere, Bobby wished the other kids there in the food court might be inspired by their example, that they too might stand for the rights and dignity of their peers. Instead, they were obliged to let Matthew’s desperate pleas reverberate and die in the vault of perpetual silence.

Bobby wanted no part. But without backup, what could he do? His rage was inconsolable, he was itching to stop this — he knew he could. His own abilities made him suited to just such predicaments.

“Why don’t you tell your friend to quiet down, you wanna make a scene?” The second officer said. He grabbed Berto’s bare wrist, zip-tie in hand, when suddenly he cried out, looking at his palm. The air almost froze, all eyes on Berto.

“Told you, guess I run a little hot.” The young Berto was smug under fire, the officer pulling his sidearm and pointing it at Berto’s back.

Hushed gasps ran the course of the chilled mall as the other officers followed suit, weapons brandished. Things had escalated and Bobby wasn’t sure he understood how — what had just happened? He shot a hurried glance to Jean who reciprocated his bewilderment. In a fury the officer brought down Berto’s other arm by the sleeves, tying them up.

Eyes darting back and forth between Hank, Berto and Matthew, Bobby saw in Hank’s face: Now is not the time. But Bobby disagreed — if not now when? Jean and Warren looked every bit as taken aback as Bobby. Was it because this had nothing to do with mutants?

Matthew must have seen the glance shared between them because he cried out again, as if in response, “Please, we’re mutants! You have to help us!”

Berto, breaking through his zip-tie, elbowed the man holding him and his weapon misfired, hitting Matthew in the shoulder, who then fell to the floor, convulsing. Berto gasped in horror, then turned and punched the man square in the chest. The man went soaring back, ten feet easy, knocking over a table right into a crowd.

And then the mall erupted, people scrambling and screaming into a bubbling throng. The officer holding Matthew drew his weapon and fired a couple of rounds into Berto’s back, who like Matthew, convulsed and collapsed down onto the tile.

Everything had happened so fast, and the food court was so chaotic, Bobby forgot himself as he took a moment to register the craziness. He also forgot Hank, turning to help only to see two of the front officers beat feet towards the exit, Hank in tow, swallowed by a sea of panicked pedestrians, there was not a thing Bobby could do to stop them and he cursed himself.

Bobby turned again to find the agent escorting Matthew had instead restrained Berto holding him by the arm.

But then suddenly he froze in mid-step, hunched over. It took just an instant for Bobby to recognize Jean’s handiwork.

Her hand as a gestural emblem, she pushed forward and the officer flew into his cohorts, but he was still holding Berto, who flew with him.

Two agents now on each side of their table, trained their weapons on Jean, and Bobby stretched out both hands. The air crackled as it expanded, massive sheets of ice shifting like tectonic plates, Matthew on their side of the ice, the agents and Berto on the other.

Bobby could barely hear the metal “clink” of rounds colliding with the ice over the roaring shouts of the chaos around them.

“Well, I guess if we’re doing this,” Warren pulled off his coat and tied it round his waist, and the hidden bulk of his mass expanded into a majestic pair of wings, feathers dark as a falcon’s. Bobby tried to keep his attention on more pressing matters.

Jean told Warren to grab Matthew and head for the third-floor terrace, “We’ll meet you at the front entrance.”

Warren pulled a metal slug free from Matthew’s shoulder, then grabbed him by the crooks of his elbows, “Hold on tight, kid.”

“What about Berto?” Matthew said in a hurried breath.

“Don’t worry, we got this.”

Bobby watched as Warren took flight, laden with Matthew, limp in his arms. The ceiling was vaulted, four stories high with a glass canopy, more than enough room for Warren’s wings to carry him up to the third terrace. It was enough to inspire envy.

Jean ran up to Bobby, “They got Hank?”

Bobby was kicking himself. “It was crowded, I didn’t have line-of-sight.”

“Well we’re in it now, go after him, I’ve got your six.”

Given the commotion, the officers had little space to clear the wall of ice. Turning towards the forward sheet of ice, he clapped his hands together. The wall precipitated into a small flood, and then he shot his hands forward and the water rose up from the ground, encasing the legs of the two officers in front, rooting them in place as they fell back.

“Adios,” the playful Bobby patted one of the men on the head as he ran past.

Water under his feet, Bobby froze it in place, forging a make-shift column that propelled him over the chaos.

Despite the circumstances, Bobby took small pride in the “ooh”s and “aah”s bellowed from the bewildered faces below as he catapulted over the second-floor terrace. He conjured a soft pillar of ice to slow his fall, and rolled to the ground into a graceful run.

He knew there was only one exit this direction, and the second-floor traffic was far thinner than the frantic crowd below. He hoped to catch Hank at the mid-level escalator.

He shouted as polite a pardon as was manageable, ducking and diving around shoppers unaware of the prior predicament. All pretext to anonymity abandoned, he froze the escalator’s center banister, sliding down the ice on his back.

The bottom of the ice sheet was lipped so that it launched him into a lateral dive over the crowd of shoppers. He was flung towards a wall where it met the ceiling, and froze the air alongside it, hanging there with his hand secured within the sheet.

“Hey! Assholes!”

Hank was easy to spot in the dying crowd. The two officers eventually found Bobby, secure in his make-shift nook. They drew their weapons, but not before he collapsed the sheet into water, converting it into a slide that whisked him past their shoulders.

Hand outstretched, he froze the gun of one of the officers, his hand stuck to the grip. The second, however, was a crack-shot, placing a round just under Bobby’s arm.

His slide collapsed into a puddle as he convulsed, in free-fall just over six feet in the air. He hit the ground hard and slid a few paces, wincing in pain. Eventually he found the metallic slug and pulled it out, but before he could act, the officer was standing some feet back, weapon trained on him.

But the officer’s hands started to shake. The gun wrenched free and shattered, its constituent pieces falling like rain.

“Respectfully, sir: back off.” Jean was standing behind the officer, who turned on his heel ready to punch her. But his fist collided with something that wasn’t there, then she returned the maneuver, punching him in the chest. The officer hit the wall with such force its tiles cracked, and he fell to the floor, an unconscious heap.

“You okay?” Jean offered Bobby a hand, which he took, and pulled himself to his feet, holding his side.

Bobby grunted, “Well, my ego’s okay. I appreciate the assist, Ms. Independent.”

“Assist?” Jean put her arm under Bobby’s as they made their way towards the exit, “Did you see Hank?”

“Yeah, they were headed out, I froze the guy’s hand but I guess they got away…”

“Bobby…”

“I know, I’m know, let’s just go get him, already.”

“Guys!” Warren was running down the escalator, Matthew struggling to keep up, in some sort of stupor. The front of the mall clear of pedestrians, his wings flowed free behind him before folding in on themselves. He looked to Bobby and then Jean, “Where’s Hank?”

Bobby rolled his eyes.

“They got Berto, too,” Matthew seemed unable to bear his own weight. Jean turned to his back, managing to snap the zip-tie without even touching it.

Matthew brought his hand to his head, something was wrong. Bobby could feel it too. Whatever those slugs were, they seemed to pack a wallop.

“Scott’s bringing the Jeep around, we’ll figure it out on the way.”

“You’re not joking?” Bobby said, almost excited.

“Come on, let’s go.” The three of them — and newcomer in tow — jogged out the front entrance.

Bobby was pleased to note much of the lot was deserted. But Jean fretted.

“We won’t get far if we don’t know where they went…”

“Over there,” Matthew was pointing towards a parking garage the next street over, Bobby could just make out a black-panel van hurtling past a stoplight.

An engine roared, a white Jeep skidding to a stop not four feet in front of them. Scott was leaning towards the passenger window.

“Let’s go! Where’s Hank?”

Bobby shrugged his shoulders as he climbed in the passenger seat. Then Scott noticed the stranger, “Who’s this?”

Bobby gave another shrug.

Jean got in the back. “We’ll explain on the way, but head towards the intersection, now!” Her urgency seemed enough for Scott, who floored the engine as soon as the doors closed.

After a few moments, blood pounding in his ears and his adrenaline still going, Bobby heard Warren as he leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Say ‘so long’ to Jimmy’s Pizza…” Despite the circumstances, Bobby sighed. If not for Warren, the thought wouldn’t have even occurred to him…

…it’ll be nothing but Pizza Hut, here on out.

Jean Grey

Jean’s heart was racing. She had never punched a real-live person before, let alone a grown man and law enforcement officer. She was almost shocked at how natural it felt. There was a time she would never think of such a thing. All things considered, if the man hadn’t made to punch her first, she might have otherwise hesitated. Perhaps she was angrier about the night’s circumstances than she realized.

Had they gone too far? Jean felt the same as Bobby — these two kids had done nothing wrong, that much was obvious. Had she and Bobby done nothing, who knows where’d Matthew and Berto would’ve wound up, come tomorrow. The whole thing just stank. But then to find out they were mutants? It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Hank was the one always talking about the “statistical rarity” of the mutant manifestation. As tragic as the November Incident was, it was much more an outlier than anything, but conventional wisdom didn’t reflect that. Jean understood all too well how people were so afraid of another accident like that. Far be it for Jean to downplay the tragedy, but where would they draw the line — arresting and shooting innocent kids who are no danger to anyone? Was that what it came to? The thought people would accept such actions made her neck rife with goose-pimples.

Jean would be lying if she said she weren’t frightened. Back at the mall, Bobby had rushed too far ahead of her. His youthful penchant for the dramatic left the both of them open, like he forgot their training. She couldn’t help but imagine what would’ve happened if she had gotten to Bobby a second too late. Of course, the officers weren’t firing live rounds, but she hadn’t known that. The image of Bobby on the ground with a gun pointed at him made her face hot, and she couldn’t strike the image from her mind. What was going on?

This night played out far more extreme than anything they’ve ever studied or simulated. The fact these people showed no hesitation to fire their weapons surrounded by patrons made her uncomfortable. It was almost like they didn’t care. It was one thing that everyone else in the food court was content to just watch it happen, it was quite different that those officers didn’t care about the likelihood of firing on innocent civilians. Had things really gotten that bad?

Things had escalated so quickly it made her dizzy. She wished to herself that Scott had been there. He’s the most practiced of the group with such situations, but she could also tell something had happened in the parking lot. He hadn’t worn his gloves and visor when they left him before, and he hadn’t said a word since leaving the mall, not even to ask what went down at the food court. That meant he was stewing over something, calculating scenarios like a mathematician at his chalkboard. Now, chasing after Hank and Berto, was not the time to distract him.

Her thoughts wandered to what the Professor might think, but that worried her, too. This night she proved herself a hot head, a moniker oft-reserved for Bobby. But she almost couldn’t help it. The fear on Matthew’s face, the way his voice shook, the way he pleaded, it was all so genuine, surreal even. After all, the officers did fire on both him and Berto. They fired at her too — if not for Bobby, things might’ve turned for the worst. She began to wonder if it was a mistake to give the two boys a seat. It was almost juvenile to assume safety-by-numbers. She quickly rejected the thought, had they ignored or rejected the two, they would have been alone, never knowing what lay in store. Jean couldn’t abide even the possibility, the thought seemed cruel.

What shocked her was the speed with which she had empathized with Matthew, on body language alone. It was the space of a mere moment, for her. Of course, it was Berto who had spoken for the both of them, but Matthew’s face said volumes. He didn’t seem the type much for talking (not unlike her first impressions of Scott). The two had come to their table seeking sanctuary, almost like they somehow knew who they were, how the Professor had trained and guided them. Jean hadn’t cared they were strangers. That they were kids, that they both seemed bothered by some unseen threat, was enough for her to have pulled up a seat. But she had to admit, there was something strange about Matthew, though she couldn’t put her finger on what.

Now, Matthew sat between her and Warren and it was easy to tell something was wrong. He was holding his head in his hands and groaning to himself, almost like he was working through a fog, trying to accomplish something he was not fit to do.

She wished to know what was going on in his head. Jean was a freshman telepath, after all, but far from the skills of someone like the Professor, but she could at least read emotions in a room. The sensation is strange, similar to invasive or commanding thoughts. At first it was difficult for her to delineate her own feelings from those of others — a dilemma that ultimately led her to Xavier’s school. And the Professor had only just recently begun her training with her telepathic skills.

Being a telepath was often confusing, she sometimes couldn’t tell who’s emotions she felt, inadvertently vocalizing what Bobby or Hank were actually thinking. Telepathy proved weird in that way, and not exactly what one might expect. She rarely heard words or voices, but instead felt “shades” of emotions, like the faint and subtle brushstrokes of a painting. Sometimes those thoughts condense and crystallize into words without her even thinking it, and like a song stuck in her head, she can’t escape the thoughts without verbalizing them. But this was only in the last couple of years.

The Professor had assumed a duty of care over her. Telepathic manifestations weren’t especially uncommon, as far as mutants were concerned, but she was only the third or fourth telepath he had met. As one himself, Jean figured he felt a responsibility to help nurture her into an efficacy with the skill he had never experienced at her age.

It all began when her best friend had died. Jean had felt like she was the one who passed. She found herself sitting in the hospital, listening to the antiseptic whine of the heart monitor, as her friend’s family stood by. They were all crying and speaking, consoling each other, but she couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t feel them. She couldn’t feel anything. She wasn’t even sure what had happened. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

She had been like that for weeks before her parents ever even heard of Charles Xavier, whom they come to invite into their home. For the first time in a month, she could hear another’s voice. She knew it wasn’t her own, but it was in her head, somehow. At first she thought it her own monologue, like she was thinking the words but couldn’t tell from where they came, what inspired them, like her monologue had become its own being. When it registered that the man kneeling before her was the owner of these foreign words, she thought to herself, is this hell?

He looked at her as if to say, not at all.

Am I dead? she thought again.

Far from it, the voice gave back.

He reached out his hand, “My name is Charles Xavier.” Jean looked at his hand with longing, unsure if she could even move. But eventually she took it.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jean Grey.”

Her parents hugged each other and collapsed into tears, thanking the Professor. He sat them down and explained her condition and what had happened. Under “normal” circumstances, Jean wouldn’t have believed it. But he had offered her a chance to join his school, to learn how best to control her ability and to protect herself. It took her a couple of weeks, but she was back to her regular self, unafraid by the notion of connecting with people.

She met Scott not long after. The two had formed a natural relationship. Jean had been sixteen, just a few inches taller than the average girl, and she wore her red hair down just past her shoulder blades. She had grown self-conscious because she stood out, especially for guys. But Scott never saw her that way. He never presumed that she owed him conversation or affection, and that made him stand out from virtually every other boy their age she had ever met. It had been obvious to Jean, Scott was an old soul.

At first he didn’t offer much in the way of conversation, but he was always willing to lend a sympathetic ear. Before Hank’s arrival, the mansion was quiet, and Scott usually had his nose in a book, holed up in the library. Eventually, she decided to pull from the shelves. Scott proved well-read, more so than her initial impressions, and so became one of the first people with whom she could share intellectual conversation.

In a week’s time, she mustered the courage to ask him about his manifestation. They sat at a long table, nestled back in the library at a junction of stacks. She would never forget how he had looked away. The sun had lit his eyes which then seemed to glow behind his scarlet lenses. For whatever reason, the subject of his abilities was sensitive, so instead she offered to talk about her own, how she could move heavy objects, about how she was angry one night after losing a soft ball match and punched a hole through her bedroom wall. Scott had perked up, perhaps intrigued at the idea that she might have “super strength”. She would later come to understand that her increased strength was merely a manifestation of what the Professor had called telekinesis — “mind over matter”.

When lifting heavy objects or playing softball, it was a simple matter of willing herself to lift heavier or hit harder. She hadn’t understood the way she would sort of “reach” out, propelling objects further than she was physically capable, otherwise. It was like instinct. And then she told Scott about her best friend, one of her teammates — he was the only one to know that story. When she told it, he began to talk about himself, how his parents had died, how it had been a number of years since last he saw his little brother. Scott thought of him, often, that much had been obvious. And then he told her about the night he woke up with a migraine and then somehow annihilated the roof of his bedroom.

Scott still doesn’t talk much, but Jean knew that he sees her now more as a sister, his first best friend. She’s long admired him, these past four years. With the arrival of Hank, and then Warren and Bobby, the atmosphere had changed for the better. Jean was thankful the three boys had unspokenly agreed to the rule of zero fraternization — she couldn’t imagine how frustrating it would have been had all the boys begun to fight over her attention. But still, that didn’t keep them from their attractions.

Hank was actually sweet about it. He’s bad at hiding it, and she doesn’t know if he knows she knows, but he’s a gentleman and professional. She found Warren attractive from day one — as did Bobby, she was amused to learn. It was those wings, plumage dark like shadows peppered with streams of silver — he seemed almost a renaissance sculpture, a work of Michelangelo’s come to life. But she wasn’t interested in romance at the time. They only even started dating after having come to a mutual understanding — neither was the “property” of the other. If one became bored or disinterested, the other was not to take personal offense. Jean was proud of the arrangement, having personally negotiated the terms. She hoped to mitigate any testosterone-fueled presumptions, regarding her autonomy (Bobby would often offer to play home-wrecker, if ever their coupling needed breaking).

Warren was a decent guy, even living up to the evocative imagery of an angel. His playful flirting was merely an attempt at humor more than a statement of intent. Given his family situation, she doubted he had any real interactions with “regular” kids his age, let alone girls, and she was sure that must’ve been harder once his wings had sprouted.

Bobby was probably the classmate she related to most. He was a year and a half younger, youthful and spry, and they had much in common. He proved a bit of a hothead, which they all found to be ironic. Jean relieved her own frustrations and impatience through sports, so she understood the sort of enthusiasm he displayed that none of the other guys had. She even offered to participate in his training regiment — Jean takes particular enjoyment from a sort of batting practice where they substitute softballs for snowballs, but with the purpose of his trying to actually hit her. She got to hit something, and he got to throw something. She soon found herself a role model for him, a relationship she’d never had before. She was unsure what it was he saw in her, but the proposition flattered her, so she promised herself to live up to the expectation.

Which was what ate away at her — this situation was her fault, and she knew it. It was she who pulled up the chair, who antagonized the officers in trying to protect Berto. And to make matters worse, she assumed leadership in Scott’s stead, sending Warren and Bobby on their own with either little or no cover. Scott was more the tactical genius, Jean lacked the finesse. She was intelligent in her own right, but this was new territory, and the conflict was so precarious, she was unsure of what the “right” action was to be.

But something was different with those boys, it seemed to scream at her. And she just couldn’t watch their arrest play out before her. Her feelings were validated when she read Scott’s warning from her watch: We’ve got trouble. It couldn’t have been a coincidence, Scott had known nothing of their situation. And so she took it upon herself to do something, to stand up — wasn’t that what the Professor expected? But she had failed somehow, and now Hank and Berto were being hauled off who knows where.

It was Matthew that puzzled her. When first they met, him standing before her, he was visibly frightened, plain as day. But when she tried to extend forward her own feelings, to try and decode his temperament, she got nothing, like a darkness, a cast shadow. And it was magnetic. On instinct she had pulled back, something about his devoid aura both enticed and frightened her. The experience was novel and she had no idea what it meant. It seemed to reinforce her concerns, no more so than when the officers arrived.

Their subterfuge bothered her. In all their studies, law enforcement dressed in plainclothes was a consistent red flag. The Professor had said the very tactic “is tantamount to domestic espionage.”

“Any time law enforcement deem it necessary to conceal their motives from the public is legitimate cause for concern,” the Professor’s very own words.

Despite knowing this, she couldn’t shake the fact that she blew their cover. Their flashy antics were likely streaming on news feeds that very instant. Even after November, after all the amateur YouTube videos, no one had seen anything like their display in the food court.

The Professor once said that what people would eventually come to fear was the day mutants might organize, rise up, “to take, simply because we have power they do not.” It had yet to occur, but he found it the foundation of their fears, the unspoken expectation.

When Jean replayed the events in her mind, the image of the three of them fighting back was the very picture people would come to fear. Now in hindsight, she felt personally responsible for deviating from their mission.

This whole debacle was her fault.

The traffic was thick, Jean could tell Scott was trying as best he could to maneuver his way forward. It occurred to Jean they were fortunate these officers didn’t know or expect they might be followed. But they proved difficult to track. Jean consoled herself with the idea that, if traffic was thick for them, it might mean the van must also be having trouble, wherever it’s headed.

And yet, every other street, Matthew was feeding Scott directions, just as he had ever since they left the mall. He had said he was a mutant, if this was his manifestation, how did it work? Was it psionic? Jean marveled at how he seemed to find them at every turn.

Matthew had looked up at her, and just as quick, averted his gaze. Once more, he was doubled over in pain. “Take the next left!” He was strained, somehow. They weren’t sure what sort of weapons the officers had used but the adverse effect was apparent.

Jean placed a soft hand on Matthew’s shoulder, “How do you know that?” The black van was not in sight, but that didn’t stop him. For a moment his eyes met hers before he looked away, shrugging his shoulders.

Scott spoke up for the first time since the parking lot, “As long as he can get us there, I’m good.” He almost seemed angry, but Jean knew better. Scott’s level of focus made him intimidating. He wasn’t exactly practiced in dividing his attention once devoted to a task. She learned this early in their friendship.

“Jean, I’m going to need you, once we catch up to them,” Scott was indelicate and straight to the point. “We’re going to try the Jones maneuver, can you handle that?” His intent was obvious, an immediate image in her mind. The name was arbitrary, but it was the principle that mattered.

In practice, Scott would displace an object and Jean would hold it aloft. The problem here, however, was that both they and the target were moving in speeds excess of forty miles an hour. She also had to account for surrounding, obstructive traffic, to make sure she didn’t grab the wrong vehicle.

For Jean, telekinesis was almost an extension of her own body. There was much she could do, when it came to physical augmentation or moving small objects. When concentrating, she could feel a whole object, almost like a part of her own body. This was how she shattered the one officer’s firearm — she felt every mechanism, the grip and trigger, the slide and hammer, even the spring and tiny screws, then forced it to explode. Like a muscle, the more she practiced, the more adept she became.

But it was not without its obstacles. Since she was used to thinking of it a certain way, she had to sort of reframe her practice and mindset. The van, carrying at least two officers, Hank and Berto, was easily over three tons, which a person could never budge. And with cars on either side, if she tried to grab the van like a toddler might reach for a toy car, it would be all too easy to side-swipe innocent drivers. This particular application of the maneuver would require more than the usual finesse.

“Bobby, I’ll need you to reach over and hit the pedal and grab the wheel, you got it?”

Bobby acquiesced with glee.

“Jean?”

On cue, Jean reached out. She could feel the van, the undulating pistons of the combustion engine, the casual cavorting of its wheels at several thousand revolutions a minute. She could even feel the five people inside, Hank and Berto bound in the back. With it in constant motion, the van tugged at her, pulling away. She had to concentrate to keep it in her “hands”.

“Ready when you are,” her eyes were closed, as if doing so eased the effort.

She heard Scott give Bobby the go-ahead, who then reached his leg over the center console and grabbed the wheel with both hands. Scott asked if he had it, before hoisting his upper body out his window.

“On my mark! Three! Two! One!”

A blinding flash, a deep roar, groaning metal: in a violent tumult, the van reached over backwards and, in her hands, Jean could feel it careen towards the left. But she held it there and slowed it down, keeping it aloft, vertically, such that it’s rear end was a mere three feet off the ground.

“Sweet,” Bobby let slip, despite himself.

Back in his seat, Scott slowed the jeep to a halt. The cars around them had also come to a stop, smartphones reaching out through the windows to record the modern marvel before them.

The van didn’t feel quite as heavy at first, but still, Jean could only hold it for so long. Knowing this, Scott jumped out of his seat at a sprint towards the van. Another flash of scarlet and the rear doors came free, depositing its bound captives and a lone escort, who could barely get to his feet.

Scott was back to the Jeep helping Berto through the door while Hank squeezed his large frame into the back. The group hightailed it out of there, Jean leaving the van to sit on its rear end.

“Everyone okay?” Scott looked back as he reversed the Jeep.

Berto called out, thanking them for the rescue. Matthew tried to speak up but his words were slurred. Jean turned to him, turning his face towards her own for a better look. His eyes had almost rolled back into his head.

“We’ve got a problem here,” Jean held Matthew as he began to convulse. He went on like that for a hellish thirty seconds. Frightened, himself, Berto cried out to his friend, reaching over from the back seat to touch Matthew’s shoulder. Eventually he went slack, leaning against his seat belt.

“Matt? Matthew! Oh my god, is he alright?” He tried to shake the boy awake, “What’s wrong with him?”

“I’m not sure, it looked like a seizure,” Jean put a finger to his throat. “He’s got a pulse, it’s erratic, I think he blacked out.” Whatever it was, to Jean, felt like the fault of those weapons. After all, somehow he was able to direct them towards the van, even when it was totally obscured. Were the metal slugs disruptive?

“Oh my god,” Berto hid his face in his hands. “Oh my god… What are we supposed to do now,” he said, a rhetorical inquiry without hope of answer.

The Jeep was silent. Jean traded glances with the others. She felt the weight of the young boy’s plea, but found herself at a loss. The path before them was not just foreign, but one bare and untread. They were trained, sure, but the night’s diversion came out of the blue. It even occurred to Jean, they might have to stay out of Manhattan for awhile.

Berto’s words still echoed, his face still hidden. The air was still, nothing but the hum of the engine and buffeting wind to comfort them. None knew him, least of all how to comfort him. And if strange men were after them, could’ve found them in the late-night bustle of a public mall, they very well couldn’t go home. Jean could only imagine how Berto felt, to say nothing of watching, helpless, as his friend was in trouble. It was Hank who had words to offer.

“Don’t you worry. We’ll take you someplace safe. We’ll help you figure this out.”

Jean had so many questions: who were those men? Were Matthew and Berto profiled as mutants? Questions without answers.

She still couldn’t believe it, the sudden precipitation of it. And now they were exposed. It was all she could think about. Almost like, despite years of training and study, they were still unprepared for this new reality. How could this have happened?

Their world had changed, that much was certain.

Warren Worthington, III

The drive back to Salem Center was quiet. Most times Scott would at least have the radio on, or Bobby would connect his phone and rap alongside a playlist. For Warren, the atmosphere was uncomfortable, which in turn, made him feel selfish. After all, a kid was passed out right next to him. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling. This was all-new, and he just didn’t know what to think, what to make of it. The Professor had tried his best, but the universe had found a way to subvert their efforts, to throw one hell of a curve ball. He wasn’t without compassion, though. He just felt impotent.

Warren stole a glance at Berto. He was hunched forward, his fingers steepled over the short stubble of his hair. Warren wished he could empathize as well as Jean, wondering what must be going through his head. His eyes caught Jean’s as he turned back towards the front. She cradled the unconscious Matthew, perhaps to keep him as comfortable as possible. As usual, he admired her for her compassion. Which was fair, seeing as that’s what drew him to her.

She puts on a front, maybe because she wants to be seen as strong. But Warren felt like he saw through it. He was still getting to know her, but the one consistency he saw was her willingness to love people. She inspired him, in that way.

Bobby leaned his head in his left hand, fidgeting in his seat. It was so unusual, all of this, surprising because Bobby always has something to say. This might be usual for Scott, but the Jeep was a funeral march. They may have made it out of there in one piece, but something had died back there. It was the only thing that made sense to him.

Warren hated this. Why did he feel like this? It was like they had failed, somehow, but he couldn’t figure out how, almost like everyone else was in on some joke he didn’t understand.

The feeling wasn’t as foreign as he’d prefer. He had often been left out of the joke, especially before his time at the Mansion. Of course, it would be like that, coming from a wealthy family. After all, he had come to terms with that several years ago. He had never been without friends, but the experience had been very different. As a kid he hadn’t known much better, he just accepted the world as it had been presented to him. “Wealth” had been as foreign a concept as “the price of tea in China” (or whatever the phrase was). He had never heard his parents speak on the phenomenon, so it never entered his thinking. So when it came to childhood friends, his circle went as far as his parents’. And once he started school, many of his friends didn’t go. It had taken a bit longer for him to understand it was because they couldn’t afford it.

Those years had been conflicting. He had tried to maintain those early friendships, but that got harder. And eventually those old friends had come to resent him for it. And at school, it was no better. Warren had once invited an old friend, Riley, to a party at a classmate’s. It was then he came to understand what it was like to miss out on a joke. It hadn’t helped that the joke had been at Riley’s expense. The two had fought about it, later that weekend, Riley had warned him, after all.

“We’re not the same, anymore,” he had said.

Warren hadn’t understood, and it made him feel ashamed, just like at the party. But he liked Riley, and he was desperate to understand his pain. But everything had changed, and Riley wasn’t a friend for much longer after that.

Warren understood wealth, after that — when someone has what you don’t, whether that be the point of a joke or a real friendship. His classmates cost him his old friend, and Riley understood something about poverty Warren never would. Warren never trusted his classmates after that, and every encounter had become begrudging (if not at the behest of his folks).

The early years remained tense. Warren’s had been isolated for too long and he resented it. He became ashamed. It hadn’t been fair, he was convinced of that. He didn’t want what others didn’t have, and he grew envious of people he didn’t even know. The feeling became more pronounced when he understood the full force of his name — the third. He was not the first of his name. Everything that was his father’s, that was once his grandfather’s, everything that was the Worthington name, would become his.

Inheritance — the great accident of destiny, of birth. He hadn’t asked for that anymore than he asked for his name. At school they would call him “Trip” and he hated it. Like he was the shade of a shadow.

Little had changed in his world after November. He had been sent to the family boys’ school, and they didn’t have closed-circuit television, so they hadn’t learned about the Incident until later that evening when the headmaster held an emergency assembly. Warren could remember sitting in that stuffy cathedral in his uniform, the headmaster droning on. He hadn’t cared. A hundred kids had died and it seemed a world away, a different universe. He had yet to learn it, but he was still selfish, wallowing in it, only in a different way.

In his world, “mutie” was a pejorative like any other, the next, memetic evolution of “nigger” and “faggot”, of the poor, the impoverished. Warren knew what it meant. Different — he was intimate with the concept.

Though he didn’t like to possess what others lacked, he had come to appreciate his physique. He had become an athletic prodigy. Muscles developed quickly for him, and his endurance was uncanny. He could run for miles, never getting sore. And he was much lighter and leaner than most, which proved advantageous in his wrestling weight class. None of his opponents could hold him, he could break any hold by sheer force, alone.

He may have been a loner, he might’ve concealed much of his true self, but he was revered as an athlete, excelling at every sport (swimming had been a favorite, a natural at the breast-stroke). And he was proud to be the envy of his more pompous classmates.

Things had begun to change. His classmates began to see him as “Warren”, almost like he had earned his own name. One night, after careful consideration, he decided to make a change, to affect change, to use his advantage to make things different, better.

And like another cruel joke, he found himself sick with a crippling pain like nothing he had yet known. He remembered how convinced he’d been that he was dying. His insides were coming apart. He could feel something tearing him wide open. All his hopes had been dashed.

When the doctors couldn’t figure out what was the matter, he was sent home on medical hiatus. He had never felt more dejected.

He awoke one night, screaming, feeling as though a creature had torn right through his back. When he saw what happened, everything had finally made sense. In a way, he had felt relieved. Even the physical trauma had subsided. He made the mistake of assuming his parents would share in his enthusiasm — after all, he wasn’t dying. But he had been wrong.

Warren had single-handedly brought home the “mutant problem”. At first, they had been insulated from it, had no need to even discuss it. Warren had, himself, even given it zero thought. He hadn’t seen it as a problem. And he’d be lying if he’d ever said the wings weren’t a little awesome. But despite the facade, he could tell his dad was somehow embarrassed, a likely result of not finding a way to explain it at the country club. It was enough for him to almost hate his father for that. For once, Warren had an unsolicited gift, for which he was grateful.

At first, he wasn’t sure, so it was natural to wonder if he could fly. He had been cooped up on their property so he had little else to do. Their manor had an antique bell tower five stories up. He knew he’d have to make his way up there if ever he were to test out these new toys. But fear was natural. Obviously he had never flown before, so he read up on the principles, the necessity of “lift”, the pattern of winged movement appropriate for the type and span of his wings. He would spend nights out on his balcony, flapping his wings until he felt confident he had the movement just right.

It had been a month until he got the nerve to try it. And in that time, his wingspan had matured to an astonishing fifteen feet. If not for his years swimming and rowing crew, he might have never had the traps and lats to support or maneuver them.

His parents had been out one night for some form of fundraiser. He climbed the rickety ladder up the bell tower. He held himself over the railing, arms behind him, wings lax and in position. But he couldn’t do it. He had choked on his heartbeat, fearing what might happen if he failed, if his wings were not load-bearing. He could remember chuckling to himself about the difference between the African and European swallows — just then getting the joke.

Eventually he told himself, he was already enough of a disappointment. There, five stories up, he had reached his lowest point. He was ready for a change. What use were his wings, his shame and disappointment to the Worthington name, if he couldn’t fly? So he made himself a promise. He let go.

That night had been the most exhilarating of his life. In his manifestation, in his loneliness, he had found freedom. At last, he had found real wealth.

His family hadn’t known what to do with him. It mattered little to him, since at night he was free to soar above the clouds. Flight had come so natural to him, the air passing over him like water. It was like he belonged up there — “Cloud Nine” had taken new meaning. In little over a month, his parents had called him down to the foyer, they had invited over a guest. Warren found it strange. Though he was made to wear a duster around the manor grounds, he still thought it odd they’d wished for him to meet someone. They had mentioned he was a headmaster at a new school in New York.

At first, he felt offended that his father sought to ship him off. The Professor had told them his “ailment” would not be an issue. The school enjoyed a sort of privacy. Warren was displeased at the thought of having to reestablish a likely confrontational dynamic with more rich kids.

He had never been happier to be wrong.

The first student wore sunglasses at night. The second was soft on the eyes and unafraid to speak her mind. And the third was massive, hands and feet especially. And none of them had the familiar bearing of snobbery or wealth. Aside from Hank, they had never even heard of his family. His father may have sought to hide him away, but he couldn’t have been happier there, more at home. Of course he wasn’t sure of what to make of Bobby, but he too became like a brother.

Warren had learned so much, since then. And he still was. He saw his wings as an obligation, a way to fulfill the dream he lost, back at the boys’ school. He wanted to live up to the imagery of his angelic figure. He had been tired of hating himself for what he was given. The Professor had given him direction and purpose, and he was still figuring out what it all meant, how he fit into the grand scheme. Which was what bothered him, during the drive back to the School. He couldn’t piece together what this all meant. And he wanted to talk about it. There was no one to blame — he knew that. It just sucked, was all. The Professor, even his own father, had feared the very treatment given Berto and Matthew. For the first time, this was striking home for him. Maybe his father might not have been as ashamed as he once thought.

After awhile, Warren was content to stare out the window, at the twinkling skylines, and the moon as it waned above. Nothing would be the same after this night.

Warren had pulled Matthew out of the Jeep and carried him into the Mansion. There had been some noise in the Parlor room as they passed, likely some of the younger kids playing XBOX or PLAYSTATION. Kate Pryde had called out after them when she noticed Jean pass by, but they had busied themselves with the crisis before them.

Hank had led the way down into the basement labs. Berto followed behind, a silent and watchful guardian. Warren noted how it didn’t seem to phase him, the sophistication of this new place. Of course, he had reason not to notice. Hank went about his duties tending to Matthew after Warren laid him on a bed.

“Will he be alright?” Berto stared with such intensity, as if to decode his friend’s condition by sight alone.

Hank was as meticulous as ever, “We can’t know for certain until he wakes, but I assure you,” Hank placed a compassionate hand on Berto’s shoulder. “We’ll do everything in our power.”

Warren, Scott, Jean and Bobby stood past the doorway, as if reflecting on their work. There just were no words.

This time it was Warren who spoke first, “Hey, without your friend, we’d’ve never found you. Or Hank. We owe him.”

Berto looked up at him with his shoe-button eyes. “Really?”

Jean shook her head in response.

Berto held his hands over his mouth. Warren noticed the contrast from the display he had given the officers. Even Warren couldn’t ignore how real this all must’ve been. The image of Berto’s face after Matthew was shot erupted in Warren’s mind, and then he understood — he blames himself.

“Is it… can I stay with him?” He had looked to Hank.

“Absolutely.”

Some of the medical machinery began to beep, an image of rhythmic patterns writhing on the display above the headboard. Scott was the first to move, turning to the side, looking down. Then the next moment he was walking away, back to the staircase. Jean followed close after, then Bobby. Warren got the idea, chasing after.

“What’s going on?” Warren received no reply.

Scott strolled into the parlor, his presence commanding. The bustle quieted for a moment as the students registered his body language.

“Can we have the room?”

His request was a formality, the kids setting down controllers and remotes, filing out silent and foreboding. Kate lingered for a moment before Sam Guthrie turned and pulled her from the room by the elbow. Warren wondered if she were astute enough to guess what must’ve happened.

“What are you thinking?” Jean kept her eyes on Scott as he fumbled for the remote.

“I want to know what happened.”

Scott had turned the TV from the input to CNN, his gaze fixed on the LCD. It was that moment Warren realized Scott was wearing his visor, making him extra-difficult to read.

The newsroom was in full gear. Amateur video at the mall was playing at half the screen, shots from multiple angles of the young Bobby in mid-flight over crowds, water instantly shifting states, weapons firing, people screaming. Warren hadn’t remembered it seeming so chaotic. He thought maybe he began to understand the weight of Scott’s concern. Warren could hear him breathing from flared nostrils.

“…entirely unprecedented. As you know, mutant phenomena have proved rare. We have very few sightings, maybe less than twenty live videos of mutant activity since the November Incident.”

Warren’s gaze turned to the screen as well. Some “expert” contributor on the subject spoke live over the phone, a commentator for the footage now playing full screen.

“Can you tell us what we know about mutants so far?”

“Very little. As you well-know, the November Commission Report failed to turn up any evidence as to the nature of the tragic events of that day. And scientific authorities have made scant headway since then. This footage is really the most comprehensive picture we’ve ever had, as to what these people are truly capable of.”

The lower third read, in block letters:

MUTANT ATTACK IN LOWER MANHATTAN

Warren looked to Scott, whose gaze now pointed downward. Even he could tell, this wasn’t looking good.

The reporter returned to the screen, “If you’re just tuning in, the video now on your screen was recorded, live, much of it streamed on social media. Preliminary reports confirm that law enforcement were attacked by a group of mutants, and that shots were even fired in the crowd. This took place in a local mall not two hours ago…”

Scott muted the TV and, in exasperation, tossed the remote towards the entertainment center. Warren watched as he sighed, looking up to the ceiling and then the floor, running his right hand over his head.

“Well, all things considered, I think we look good.” Bobby took one of the chairs and turned it round before taking a seat, leaning forward against the back.

“Bobby…”

Bobby looked up at Jean, “What? I’m just looking at the silver lining.”

“What were you thinking?” Scott came off a little strong, even to Warren.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I want to know what you were thinking.”

“You want to know what was going through my head?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“Well, I was thinking, ‘gee, I sure hope somebody saves my friends’ — “

“ — because you weren’t thinking about your training, that’s for damn sure.”

“…and you’d’ve been thinking the same, had you been there.”

The two were talking over each other, now. Warren didn’t think one was at all interested in hearing the other.

“Because this!” Scott gestured to the TV, “looks like show-boating.”

“Well, you can thank me for for saving your girlfriend.”

Warren and Jean shared glances. This was escalating almost worse than the mall.

“That’s not what this is about, and you know it.”

“Then what’s your problem, Slim? That I did your job for you?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, now that doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“This isn’t about me, this about you, showing off.”

“What, because that’s what it looks like to them?” It was Bobby’s turn to mention the coverage. “Because that’s not the whole picture, alright? Do you see Hank?”

Scott didn’t reply. Warren could see his chest rise and fall.

“That’s right: you don’t. Because the resident wunderkind got himself arrested.”

“That’s not what this is about — “

“ — I did the right thing, and you act like that’s a bad thing — “

“Either you’re not listening or you forgot what we’re here to do.”

“Please: enlighten me.”

“Non-violent, peaceful, protest, Bobby. Not escalation.”

“Oh, oh so you’re blaming me, now, for that?”

Again, Bobby gestured for emphasis, “Because, as you so conveniently ignore, I didn’t start that fight.”

“That’s not what it looks like.”

“Yeah, well ask your girlfriend.”

“Bobby!”

It was Jean’s turn, Warren had never heard her so forceful.

“First of all — I’m nobody’s girlfriend. I love you, Bobby, you know that, but you better stop making your point at my expense.”

Bobby looked away. Warren looked back to Jean, who shot him a knowing look, before turning to Scott.

“And Scott: Bobby’s right — “

“Thank you!”

“Bobby! Look, Scott, it was my fault. I was the one who — “

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But you don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter what you did, because they didn’t get it on tape. Yes, Bobby, it matters what they think. Because if it didn’t, we wouldn’t be here. This is always about what they think, because they don’t know better… not until we show them otherwise.”

Bobby didn’t respond, and wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

“You’re always hot-headed. And concerned with looking cool. And you left on your own, without cover. You left Jean, without cover. And you got hit — “

“What, and you didn’t? You can whoop up on some guys and it’s okay?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Oh, it never is. Because I’m always the fuck-up — Bobby the Fuck-up.”

The room went silent.

“That’s not what I’m… look, you could’ve died — we, could’ve died.” Scott’s tone didn’t seem as strict as he started.

“But they weren’t firing live rounds — “

“We didn’t know that.”

“Well, look: we’re standing, they’re not. What more do you want?”

“For you to stop bull-shitting for five seconds and actually take things seriously!”

Silence.

Warren was more uncomfortable here than during the standoff with the officers. The whole night had been surreal, but Scott was displaying a unique talent for bringing it home.

“Look…” Scott was letting up. “I’m not… I’m not saying this right — “

“You’re damn right, you’re not — where were you? You weren’t there!”

Warren hadn’t seen this Robert Drake before. He almost felt naked somehow, ashamed for himself to see Bobby like this. Like it was his fault he hadn’t noticed it before — Bobby had been scared.

“You weren’t there. And you can’t get pissed off at me for not doing what you’d’ve done, since you weren’t there.”

Bobby pushed himself out of the chair, which fell to the floor, and he brushed past Scott, walking out the glass door to the patio.

“Bobby…”

Jean stopped him, “Look, give him a minute.”

Scott put his hands on the back of a chair and let out a long sigh.

“I’m just not saying it right.”

“Well, if you’re going to go after him, then at least figure it out first.”

Her counsel must’ve worked, because he looked back to her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“It’s what I do.”

Scott then turned to Warren, “Look… I’m sorry about — “

Warren stopped him, “You heard the lady, she’s no one’s girlfriend.”

Jean nudged him with her shoulder. Scott did an about-face and went after Bobby. Jean then nestled her head under Warren’s shoulder, resting her weight on him, and he put a nonchalant arm round her shoulder, taking the moment to breathe in the smell of her hair.

“Sorry about that,” she had said.

“Hey, you don’t owe me a thing. I don’t own you, remember? I know what we got.”

“That’s why I like you.”

Warren gave her a small peck on the top of her head.

Feeling her arms under his coat, beneath the tufts of his wings, was all he needed. And yet, he felt selfish again. Everything had fallen apart, and yet somehow it wasn’t his fault, it didn’t affect him. Somehow he still found a home in this, the craziness of it all. But he vowed not to feel guilty. He’d make do.

After all, he had a promise to keep.

Charles Xavier

“For in spite of all that rationalist materialist science has implied since the Scientific Revolution, mankind as a whole has not, does not, and perhaps cannot relinquish his fascination with some human type of relationship to a greater and wholly other, some mysterium tremendum…something necessarily indefinite and unclear, to be approached and felt in awe and wonder and almost speechless worship, rather than in clear conception…and so what in our time can be more truly felt when least named, a patterning of self and numinous other from which, in times of our darkest distress, none of us can escape — even as the infinitely milder distress of decision-making brought out that relationship three millennia ago.”
— Julian Jaynes

The night had proved long. But Xavier is known as a patient man. He sat in the bed-side chair, reading, and thinking on prior events. He doesn’t normally watch news media so Scott had filled him in after things had settled. He found the circumstances harrowing, and now knowing they had been exposed to the public, now knowing that some form of law enforcement had escalated their anti-mutant efforts, he had been proud of what his students had accomplished. And now there was much to consider, dormant plans that must now see fruition.

But that was for tomorrow. They needed the night to rest. Considering the officers had engaged in plainclothes, he figured they had at least a week before the remote possibility of reprisal. The fact they didn’t want to be recognized in public suggested that, whatever the nature of their intent, they were not known to the public or endorsed by policy. Scott had mentioned their lack of insignia and refusal to cite justification or identification. He figured he might expect a call from agent Duncan.

For the time being, Xavier sat in the downstairs lab, turning pages in a book Hank had referred: The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (a mite antiquated, but the boy had been right, the material was placed firmly up his alley). The young boy’s vitals had stabilized but he was yet to regain consciousness. He heard of the help he gave in reclaiming both Hank and his friend. Xavier’s curiosity (both professional and personal) had been piqued, so he took an interest in watching over him. Xavier felt a sense of responsibility, as he often does over his charges. Given the circumstances, it didn’t seem likely either boys might be able to return to their homes in the foreseeable future. He felt sad for them. To Xavier, they were the picture of innocence, every new youth reminding him of his first five students at their youngest, their most naive.

Xavier had seen the world change much in his time. None more so than the failed terrorist attacks of September 11. Despite the tragedy, that all passengers aboard all four hijacked planes sacrificed themselves to save the innocent had so moved him to serve in the ARMY as a medical officer. It hadn’t been long before he found himself deployed to Afghanistan once word had come out of the Taliban’s involvement. Many of his friends and colleagues were shocked at his decision to subvert his promising, academic career. Xavier hadn’t seen it that way. His own abilities left behind a naive optimism about people. So when he heard of the slain 9/11 passengers, he felt a sense of duty, an obligation above that of mere patriotism. He saw it as an opportunity, however small or fleeting, to bring something compassionate or ethical into an already-deteriorating situation. Of course, almost twenty years later he knows better, but at the time, he figured he had to try. He owed at least that much.

His injury had come not too soon after his disillusionment with the war effort (as most soldiers are destined). He was hit in the left side of his hip by friendly fire, during Operation Anaconda. Damage to the left side of his sacral plexus left him unable to bear weight on that leg, forever relegated to use of a cane. Just thinking about it startles him at how long ago it was. The trusty companion leaned against his chair that very moment, a constant reminder of what most might call his “sacrifice,” though he seldom saw it that way.

Afterwards, he saw a fresh opportunity to revitalize his mission of good will, to apply some miles to his conscience before returning to an academic career. In many ways, his own youthful naïveté and a damaged nerve cluster set him down the path that lead him to the very chair in which he now sat, watching over a remarkable young boy.

From a very young age, Xavier saw himself apart from the world. The time his own telepathy came in to bloom had been troublesome and disturbing. For a time, he thought he had grown crazy. Then when he came to understand himself, how he seemed to feel, to understand what others felt, that he could bring to words the unsaid of others, he thought it normal. After all, he had been young, to think on it now brought him amusement. Of course he couldn’t have known better. In some ways, he had been on the search for others like him for well over half his life. For so long, he had given up on the possibility. Again, if not for his years abroad, it might never have happened.

But Xavier felt last night would prove pivotal. When he had returned stateside, he had felt reinvigorated, devoted to a new mission. Only, he was unsure how to get started. There were an impassioned few who helped set him down the path, only he didn’t know how to find those like him — he didn’t even know what it was that made him different. So at first, he resumed his studies, even began work with his old friend, Moira MacTaggert. But he felt things were going slow. He long-feared what might happen without him, that ready or not, mutants would rise from obscurity and the world would respond.

He and Moira had long discussed his reserved plans for starting a school, taking in those he could find and helping them better to adjust, to learn about and control their abilities. But manifestations were difficult to discover. He had only learned of Scott when agent Duncan had tracked him down for consultation. And it proved even more difficult, deciding to keep their work private.

They had gained little ground, in those days. It was fortunate that he proved telepathic, much of their more recent discoveries, namely that of the psionic wave pattern, were based on studies of his own ability. They had developed a crude model by the time of the November tragedy.

It had been too soon to know whether a young mutant had been involved, but the Incident still cut deep. Xavier had felt responsible, as if his reservations and timidity delayed him from the possibility of saving those innocent lives. As sad as he had been for the slain, he felt as though he had failed whichever poor child had been at the center of it all. So in affect, the decision had been made for him. And so began his quest, anew.

The task proved arduous, but eventually he came to his first five students and began work in earnest. Hank’s recruitment had also proved a major boon. Not only had they discovered a genetic anomaly of incomparable rarity, but he had also helped them discover that psionic wave patterns were present in virtually all people, not to mention mutants with energy-based manifestations. The work set the foundation for a brand new mechanism for identifying and locating mutants.

Though the rest of the world knew little about mutants, Xavier, the Moira’s Mutant Research Center, and the young Hank McCoy were finally able to get out a step ahead. They were able to identify manifestations and recruit students before any damage could be done. But present resources were still limited. Xavier had plans to expand, maybe even build new facilities. Now, given the night’s events, he figured he might have to accelerate some of those ideas. After all, it seemed that maybe somebody had been catching up to them. They still had much to learn about those officers, their weapons, and how they came to find this boy and his friend. Xavier had so many questions, and each day there seemed to be less time.

Xavier continued to turn his pages. The young man remained stable throughout the night, Hank assuring him they had done all they could.

After a brief debriefing, the team had retired, or so he assumed. Hank had retired once the boy had been stabilized. It was easy to tell that Scott was awake in the library, leaning against the window. The youth was meticulous. As a pupil, Scott proved a prize. Even now, his mind was working on the night’s events, torturing himself over old, and presumed, bad habits.

Bobby was up as well, drowning out his frustrations with some hip-hop ballad, Xavier could almost hear the refrain — I ain’t never did this before. The child was brash, but he had focus, he was so absorbed in his music. Xavier was still working on a solution for translating such focus into more practical matters.

Xavier then found a prickling on his skin he couldn’t place. It took him another moment to locate Warren, sitting on the Mansion roof. It was the outside breeze Xavier had felt. He wondered what it must feel like, for Warren, his wings flowing back, each feather caressed by the gentle gale. And Xavier could tell that Jean had been practicing — he couldn’t find her at all.

All things considered, the Mansion had grown calm. The younger students had been engrossed in their XBOX festivities and missed most of the news coverage. And only just last week, Xavier had issued a temporary moratorium on Facebook activity while on the grounds. He knew there would be questions and he preferred the news spread at once and not through the rumor mill. Otherwise, things would be changing very soon, word would get out and there was little he could do to stop it even if he wanted to. All that could wait. The young man before him remained his primary concern.

The boy remained a strange case. It’s Xavier’s personal policy to not invade someone’s thoughts without approval, but he found the circumstances extenuating and wished to determine if any permanent brain damage had been suffered. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been more than a bit curious. He didn’t think he’d be out for so long.

The monitors ticked away at a patient pace, a medical metronome. Xavier looked up at the display and then down at the boy. There was a moment when something struck Xavier as familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Almost like having a word at the tip of his tongue. His curiosity was back, stubborn and academic. His instincts had pushed him to pursue it, to dive deeper. And almost like a child, he couldn’t help himself.

But there was nothing.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t read the boy. It was more like he wasn’t there. And yet there was that sensation, like something forgotten. Xavier knew he could remember it, but it was like a missing card in the catalog. And it was enticing, almost magnetic, and he wanted to search for it, to learn more.

The display gave a beep, bringing Xavier back. And he looked at it to check.

The boy gasped. He was waking, fighting against someone unseen. Xavier leaned forward, trying to ease him.

“It’s alright. You’re okay, son.”

“Where — where am I? What happened?”

“You’re okay, son. Everything’s fine.”

His breathing returned to normal, the frantic beeping of the machines subsiding. He let out a groan and made to touch his head, his arm caught on the blood pressure cuff.

“Let me.” Xavier undid the cuff, turning off the machine, the wall display fading to black.

“My friend — is he?”

“Berto is upstairs in the kitchen.”

The young man let slip a sigh. He seemed to relax at the news.

“He’s a good lad, your friend. He was by your side all night. He was hungry, I insisted on watching over you so he might eat.”

Xavier sat back in his seat, grabbing his cane to fiddle with the handle.

The boy rubbed his hand across his forehead, his prominent brow creased in either pain or concentration.

“Do you trust that you’re safe?”

He made to look Xavier in the eyes but averted his gaze. He offered a shy nod.

“…what happened?”

Xavier leaned forward, resting his forearms over his knees. “We’re not entirely sure, just yet. I was told you may have suffered some sort of seizure during your flight from the mall.”

The boy looked down at his hands, as if to check that everything still worked.

“I don’t know what happened. I thought I was shot. I thought I was…”

He still wouldn’t look at Xavier. Xavier tried to study him as best he could. It was still strange, in a way it was like the boy were mute. Not even broadcasting enough for Xavier to predict his diction. Most peculiar…

“Where are we?”

“You’re in my home. We’re in Salem Center, across the bay from Manhattan.”

“We’re still in New York?”

Xavier nodded. “I ought to thank you, young man. I was also told without your help, Dr. McCoy would likely still be in custody.”

The boy was still silent. Xavier wondered what distracted him, so.

“I’m sorry, I… I’m not sure what I — how I… I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s perfectly fine. All in due time. We’ll do what we can for you, and hopefully get you squared away, try and keep you safe.”

For a moment there was only the sound of the overhead air system.

Xavier made to stand. “If you like, I could bring your friend back down?”

The boy nodded. Xavier didn’t want to push too hard so soon. Already, he had so many questions. But the boy’s night had been rough. Xavier knew there would be time, of course. It was better to let the boys relax for a change. He began to feel himself imposing.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, while I’m upstairs?”

The young man considered for a moment. “Some water, please?”

Xavier nodded his head, hoisting himself up from the seat. He moseyed over to the doorway, his cane tapping every other step, then stole another glance at the peculiar boy. Still, he seemed so distracted. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the mystery of a genuine stranger. He then turned on his heel to leave.

“Um, sir?”

“Yes?” Xavier leaned his weight on the cane.

“I, uh. You’ve been so kind. I, uh… I never asked your name.”

“I’m Professor Charles Xavier. It’s been very good to meet you…”

“Matthew,” the boy said, completing the thought…

“…Matthew Malloy.”

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