X-Men: Dark Mirror

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Jean cleared the glass away, shoving canvas out the window and covering the broken glass so that it was safe to climb out into the hospital's yard. She tried to be quiet, but it bothered Logan that her work was all he could hear, that there was nothing else, no layered sensations like he usually encountered: sounds upon sounds, blanketed upon one another so that his mind had to peel back and taste each individual mark of man or beast or object.

  His hearing, however, was still good enough to catch a muffled angry shout.

  "What was that?" Rogue asked, and Logan cracked open the door to peer into the darkness of the stairwell. Far above him he heard hinges creak, and then Suzy began raising hell with her voice.

  Logan shut the door and leaned against it. "We need to go. Now."

  "They shouldn't have found us this fast," Scott muttered.

  "They haven't found us yet," Jean said, and grabbed Scott's arm. "Up you go, sweetheart."

  "No," he said, but Jean grabbed her husband under his arms and lifted him up to the window. Scott did not fight her, but Logan saw the conflict on his scrunched-up face: embarrassment, anger, worry. He scrabbled through the window and Logan heard glass crunch beneath the canvas.

  Jean gestured at Logan. "Come on. Smallest ones go first."

  Logan heard a scuffling sound behind the door, followed by a quick attempt to push it open. Logan threw himself backward, digging his heels into the ground, bracing the door shut. Fists banged against metal, and he felt the vibrations through his body.

  "I could use some help here," he growled.

  Rogue slammed her shoulder against the door and said, "Go on now. I'll hold this."

  "You and what army?"

  "Logan!" Jean barked. She already had Kurt pushed halfway through the window. Rogue gasped as the door slammed hard against her body, opening; Logan stumbled. He turned and saw flashlight beams streak the darkness; the outline of a hand and head—

  —and then the door opened even farther and three men pushed through. Logan threw himself amongst them, fists out, kicking and punching. He bit an ear, tasted blood. Someone grabbed his waist and pulled hard; he heard shouting, Jean's deep voice, the high yell of the man bleeding into Logan s mouth.

  Rogue grabbed the man holding Logan and threw herself backward. Logan was carried with them both, but the nurse released him before they hit the ground and he rolled right up against another nurse, who grappled with Jean. Logan slammed his heels against the man's knees. He cried out, falling, and Jean moved with his head in her hands and she slammed him into the floor. Above her, Kurt scrambled down from the window, Scott hanging after him.

  There was one man left. Logan felt air move against his neck and he turned just in time to see the nurse swing a flashlight at his knees. Kurt pushed him out of the way but moved too slow; he took the blow and his gasp seemed like the clearest most ringing sound Logan had heard since waking up in this place.

  Logan threw himself on the nurse, wresting away the flashlight with a cool catch of his wrist. Several blows later—fast and brutal and infinitely satisfying—the man went still. Logan stared down at that slack face, breathing so hard he thought his lungs might burst.

  "Kurt," he growled. "You okay?"

  "Ja," he whispered, but his voice was strained. Logan stood up. The rest of the team, seen in the reflection of the flashlights, looked unharmed.

  "Jean," Scott said, hoarse. The upper half of his body hung precariously through the window.

  "I'm fine," she said, taking two long strides to the doors and shutting them. She grabbed Logan's wrist as she returned to the window, dragging him with her. She gave him no time to protest, simply grabbed him under his arms and pushed him up to the window. It was a weird sensation, being hauled off his feet that way. Scott pulled him past the edge of the concrete holding wall into the grass.

  Kurt was next, hissing only once as he passed through the window. Logan and Scott helped him crawl onto the grass. Rogue appeared behind him, though she had a harder time squeezing through. Breathing hard, casting nervous glances around the darkened yard, they waited for Jean. She did not come through the window.

  "Jean!" Scott whispered. She did not say anything, but Logan heard large objects moving, along with some thumping sounds. He imagined her barricading the door with bodies.

  Her dark hands finally appeared, grappling for a hold on the cement. Everyone reached down and pulled, struggling to get her through the window.

  "Come on," Logan muttered, grunting as he searched for a better hold on Jean's body. She gasped, wriggling hard. Behind her, distant, Logan thought he heard shouting.

  "They're coming," she gasped, and then screwed up her face as she writhed her way through the small opening and threw herself onto the grass. Logan and Scott grabbed her wrists and began running even before she completely had her feet under her. Logan heard a muffled shout from behind them.

  Trying to keep to the darkest parts of the yard, Scott led them toward the fence. Kurt did the best he could to keep up, but it was clear that the pain in his knee was near crippling. Logan stayed with him, pulling his arm over his shoulders and hauling him faster. He heard more shouting, distant but in transit, and then they were at the fence at a spot next to a tree and Scott fell to his knees, scrabbling.

  "She said it was here," Scott muttered, wrenching at the chain link. "By the tree."

  Logan looked up and down the line, but he did not see another tree. The yard was barren of anything but grass. He saw beams of light bobbing.

  "No time left," he said. "Scott."

  But Scott made a low noise and suddenly there was a gap, tiny, and Logan shoved Kurt down on his stomach and pushed him through. He grabbed Rogue next, and then Jean, pushing on her feet to help her slither under. The flashlights were closer now, so close, and Logan dove through, scraping his body and face. Rogue and Jean grabbed his hands, pulling him the rest of the way, and then they did the same for Scott so that his small woman's body looked like it was flying beneath the fence.

  They ran. The nursing staff and security were so close

  Logan could make out the expressions on their faces, and somewhere near he heard sirens. The area around the hospital was residential; they disappeared into the shadows of a tree-lined street and then Logan whistled and made them follow him down a back alley behind a row of houses, running, running, the sirens getting louder, and there were lights on in the houses, all of them, people awake and doing things, and that was good because it served as sharp contrast to the quiet places, the still and silent, like one small home at the end of the block that was dark and had no car in the narrow driveway.

  The owner was a gardener, with a particular fondness for big bushy flowering plants that provided wonderful cover when one lay amongst them. Ferns tickled Logan's nose; he inhaled deeply, savoring what little he could of the scent. It was like smelling freedom.

  "What next?" Rogue whispered. Sirens blasted the air and then passed, two cars in succession.

  "We need to get back to the jet," Scott said. "That's our first priority."

  Logan grunted. "Sorry, Cyke, but I disagree. There's no guarantee the jet's still there. We need to go prepared. Different clothes, at the very least. We also need to lay low for a couple hours. Once the excitement has died down, it'll be safer to go to the park."

  "It's close," Scott argued. "One of us could go alone."

  "No," Jean said. "I think Logan is right. If whoever is responsible for this went so far as to take our bodies, we have to assume he took everything else as well. If not,

  then the jet will still be there when we're ready to find it."

  "The jet is our only way home," Scott said.

  "That doesn't matter if we lose each other," Jean said, and then, softer, "Don't do this."

  He sighed, and looked sideways at Logan. "Are you thinking about that house? They might have a security system."

  "Maybe," Logan said, though he did not think the neighborhood looked wealthy enough for that kind of adv
anced precaution. The hyperparanoid, the ones who had the money to spare on installing alarm systems, usually lived in more glamorous places. "Looks empty. It may be our best bet."

  Logan did not wait for approval. He slithered out of the bushes, keeping low to the ground as he ran the short distance across the garden to the back door. He felt someone behind him. Scott.

  "You'll need this," he said, handing Logan a little wire that had already been twisted up and primed. Logan grunted his thanks and used the pick to jimmy the lock until it clicked. Careful, holding his breath, he turned the knob and opened the door only enough to feel along the edge of the door frame. He found a loose chain, an extra dead bolt. It was a good sign that neither lock was in use.

  Logan crept into the house, testing the stillness with his senses, listening as hard as he ever had in his life. He moved from the kitchen to the living room, and from there to the stairs; slowly, painstakingly traveling up to the second floor. Scott did not join him.

  The rooms upstairs were empty. Three bedrooms, one of which had been converted to an office. Another evidently belonged to a teenage girl and the third was a master suite with its own bathroom. Logan returned downstairs. Scott stood by the front door, sorting mail that had been pushed through the slot.

  "There's quite a bit here," he said quietly. "At least three days old. Vacation?"

  "I hope they don't come back tonight," Logan said. "I'll get the others."

  Careful, watchful for witnesses, the rest of the team entered the house. Kurt immediately found a soft chair and sank into it with a sigh.

  "Take nothing but clothes," Scott told them. "Anything you think won't be missed."

  Logan's first inclination was to go for the husband's belongings, but Jean quickly steered him and Scott into the wife's messy pile, as well as the daughter's room.

  "I don't want to wear this bra anymore," Logan complained to Rogue, who pulled a long sleeved crew neck and some jeans from the closet.

  "You better wear it," Rogue said. "Girl like you needs one.

  He decided not to respond to that. He grabbed a blouse from the mother's wardrobe, but had to go to the teen's room for jeans and underwear that fit. He hated hying things on. It was miserable.

  They dressed quickly, and were soon presentable enough to go into any public place and not immediately be associated with a mental hospital. Or a hospital of any kind. They looked normal, like average people of middle income. Not rich by any means, but unthreatening in their lack of money. The kind no one paid attention to.

  They took turns using the bathroom. Logan did not enjoy the experience, nor did he care much for looking into the mirror. He could not avoid his face: the golden hair, the soft cheeks and full lips.

  When he left the bathroom he walked across the room to the window. He saw a police cruiser roll slowly down the street with its lights off. Past the house, the cop snapped on a floodlight, sweeping the lawn and bushes.

  Rogue joined Logan at the window and he felt her stop breathing for a moment.

  "This is going to be a hard night," she said.

  "Yeah," he said. "You got all the uniforms?"

  Rogue held them up for him to see. "Jean has the rest. We need to find a place to stash them."

  "Let me check out the basement," he said. The cruiser turned left at the end of the street, but Logan thought it would be back.

  He found the basement door by the living room and felt his way down into darkness. Cobwebs brushed his face. A lightbulb chain banged against his forehead, but Logan did not turn on the light. He could not be sure that the basement was fully enclosed; he did not see any light coming in from outside, but the risk was not worth it. He used his feet and hands to feel around the damp room and finally found some boxes beneath the stairs. There were clothes inside. Logan picked up the box and, stumbling, made his way back to the kitchen.

  Quickly, silently, the X-Men packed their hospital clothing at the bottom of the box. The clothes inside smelled like the basement and seemed particularly old. Logan hoped that would be enough to keep the family from digging too deep into the box. One day, maybe, someone would find these uniforms. Hopefully by then they would have their bodies back.

  When Logan returned from the basement, he found everyone seated in the living room but Scott. Logan went into the kitchen and found him leaning against the counter. He stared at the phone hanging on the wall. Logan said, "Not here. The number will show up on their bill."

  "I know, but the longer I wait, the worse I feel. Like I'm not going to get another chance."

  "You'll get one, Cyke. I want to contact them as much as you, but it's going to have to be a pay phone—and not one in this neighborhood. We'll have to go farther out." That, or risk being picked up by the police.

  Scott shook his head. "Someone went to a lot of trouble, Logan. I don't know where our bodies are, but if we're not in them, I don't want to know who is."

  "The people we're inhabiting, I'd guess."

  "But why put mentally unstable individuals inside us?"

  Logan had an immediate answer to that question, but it was too disturbing to speak out loud. Instead he said, "It might make them easier to control."

  "By Maguire?"

  "I don't know as much about this guy as you do, but sure. Why not?"

  "I don't know what a mental health specialist would have against us."

  "Hell, man. Even our mailman doesn't like us. It could be any reason."

  "Thanks for your help."

  Logan snorted. "You know where this guy lives? We should go to his house and see if he's there. Even if he's not, I bet he'll have stuff around that can tell us what he's up to."

  "We broke into his office at the hospital. Kurt stole his address. He lives in a neighborhood called Old Victoria."

  "Ritzy," Logan said. "The man must have money."

  "You familiar enough to get us there?"

  Logan wanted to laugh. "Cyke, I'm familiar enough with the Seattle area to run some of these streets blindfolded."

  "How's that?"

  He shrugged, not particularly inclined to spill his guts about some of the work he'd done for Nick Fury. The jobs had been long and drawn out, requiring a native's understanding of the city.

  And Logan was always good at going native.

  Scott and Logan rummaged through the cupboards and found boxes of cookies, pretzels, and Ritz crackers. Careful with crumbs—and mindful they should not finish everything—they sat in the dark living room and munched on snacks. Several times the police car drove slowly past, but the cop never stopped. After several hours of taking turns sleeping and watching, Logan said, "He hasn't been back for two hours. I think it may be safe to move."

  "Let's wait one more hour." Scott studied Jean, who lay curled beside him in a heavy sleep. Rogue and Kurt had their eyes closed, too. Logan was not entirely sure how deep into la-la land they were, but any bit of rest would help them when they started moving.

  Logan slept for a time, with images of wolves and straitjackets and a long sharp fence filling his head—and then stayed awake while Scott stole several minutes of his own rest. The cop never returned.

  "It's time," he finally said, shaking Scott awake. "We stay here any longer and we'll be walking with the rising sun." An exaggeration; it wasn't even two in the morning, but time would move fast once they left the house.

  They used the bathrooms one last time, and then left the house through the back door. Logan led them down the backstreet until they came to the main road. He did not see many parked vehicles; none of them looked like a police cruiser. Logan did not have the time or patience to check for unmarked vehicles.

  They cut across backstreets and took shortcuts across lawns, always watching, always listening. Only once did they hear a car and they hid out behind a detached garage. It was nothing more than a little Jetta, but it made Logan more cautious as they emerged from the shadows.

  When they reached the park—a multiacre spread of sandboxes, soccer fields, and
grassy picnic mounds— Logan made them wait inside the tree line as he studied the open field for movement. Everything was still except for the light brush of wind across his face, lulling leaves into a soft music.

  "I'll go alone," Scott said. "It's safer that way."

  Logan did not disagree. Jean also said nothing. They watched him leave the cover of shadow into a lighter dark, a small figure walking quickly across the grass to a spot in the center of a field. Scott stood there for several minutes, staring at nothing.

  "Crap," Logan said.

  "I'm not surprised," Jean said. "We'll just have to be more resourceful."

  "It's one of the things I do best, darlin'."

  "I know," she said, and her smile was small and wry.

  Scott did not say anything when he returned from the field. He examined his hands and then their feces, looking each of them in the eyes. He saved Jean for last, and if Logan had been at all sentimental, he would have felt a twinge of sympathy for the sorrow and apology in that man's gaze.

  "No one knows us," Scott said, quiet. "We don't have our powers, we're wanted by the police, and we're dead broke."

  "Right," Logan said. "Survival time."

  8

  They walked quickly, keeping to alleys and side streets as they crossed from residential neighborhoods into industrial parks. Night in the dead zone between Tacoma and Seattle was quiet, filled only with the occasional rumble of a car engine or the shout of some drunk making friends with a bottle.