X-Men: Dark Mirror

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Jean sighed. Scott touched her hand, her cheek.

  "Come on, sweetheart. You know I'm right."

  "I don't know anything," Jean said, "but I'm too tired to argue with you. Go on, then. Go with Logan and be a cowboy for the night."

  "Cowgirl," Logan said, appearing beside them. It did not matter he no longer had his body or his mutant powers; he still moved silent as a ghost.

  "I keep forgetting that part," Scott said.

  "I can't imagine how," Jean said, shifting uncomfortably. Logan grinned, but Scott grabbed his arm and steered him away before he said anything inappropriate. Scott looked back over his shoulder and Jean tried to see her husband in that small feminine face, those large dark eyes.

  "Bye," he said. Jean did not respond. She turned around and climbed into the passenger seat of the van.

  "I hate this," Rogue said, but so quietly, so forlorn, that Jean could not bring herself to be irritated at her friend. "I don't like being left behind. I want to help."

  'Yes," Jean said, tapping her feet on the floor. "Logan made a good point, though. All of us together would draw attention. Two young women, though?" She shrugged. "Less threatening."

  "Really. Seems like a bunch of lousy stereotypes to me." Rogue pursed her lips; a familiar expression, much like the way she cracked her knuckles and then rubbed her arms, like she had something unpleasant under her skin. "I think Logan just likes playing it alone, but he's taking Scott along for the ride because he knows our fearless leader won't take no for an answer. We, on the other hand, are like a bunch of puppy dogs, sittin' pretty. Nice and obedient."

  Kurt stared. "You are truly angered by this. That. . . surprises me."

  "I don't know why," Rogue said. "Seems to me I got a right to be a little miffed. Some ... jerk... steals our bodies, takes our lives, and I can't participate in bringing him down? Not even a little bit?"

  "No one is holding you here," Jean said, too tired to talk reason to her, especially when she agreed with everything Rogue said. "You can still catch up with them, if that's what you really want."

  Silence. Rogue shifted in her seat and lay back her head, staring at the van ceiling. Kurt patted her hand, saying nothing, but adding to the atmosphere a quiet sympathy that was gentle and comforting. Kurt had that way about him, no matter what he looked like.

  jean thought about her own appearance, staring down at her hands as she leaned against the cold hard window. Dark brown skin covered large fingers and sinewy wrists, thickly muscled forearms that felt strong, and no doubt were; she felt her face, the bristles and thick jaw, the masculine features that were so utterly foreign. How strange, to know she was a woman, to feel like a woman, and yet be trapped in a man's body. She envied Rogue, and wondered just how Scott and Logan were handling their own displacement. Neither one had truly complained—not that they would—but it had to be just as strange and frightening.

  Jean listened to the sound of her borrowed heart, beating slow and sure inside the chest she wore. Like a costume made of flesh, one that she could never take off.

  Put inside this body because someone has a purpose for your face, your identity, and they cannot risk there being two of you.

  None of them talked. They sat and waited, lost in thought, until Jean noticed that the sky was beginning to lighten and that traffic on the street behind them had increased. Worry spiked her gut. She lifted her feet off the dashboard and got ready to leave the van. Maybe walk up the street just a ways, and see if she heard anything unusual. Police sirens, rushing to pick up her husband and his crazy companion.

  "Someone is coming," Kurt whispered. Rogue and Jean looked at him and he held up his hand. "Listen. There is a scuffing noise on the concrete."

  jean listened, and after a moment, heard that light brush of footfall, even and unhurried. Only one, though.

  Logan would be silent, she told herself, but she did not open the door. A shadow appeared on the other side of her window. A man peered in. He had a nice suit jacket on, and his face was hard and thin.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hello," Jean replied, wary of the look in his eye. He smiled, but it was cold, full of teeth. She could not see his hands.

  "I've been watching you for a while. There a reason you're parked here this time of morning?" he asked.

  "Is there a law that says I can't park here?"

  "Maybe. Depends on the why, and those girls you're waiting on."

  "Girls?"

  The man rubbed his chin. "I got a little something going on down the street. This is a high-class neighborhood, you know? Takes a certain kind of girl, a certain kind of connection and know-how. You're doing it all wrong; the car, the clothes your girls are wearing. Keep this up and you'll bring the cops down on us all."

  "We're not here on business," Jean said, finally understanding. "Those . . . girls . . . simply went to visit a friend."

  "Friend." The man laughed, low. "Right. We ail got friends we have to visit early in the morning, don't we? Thing is, I'm not the kind who likes to share my . . . friends. My girls don't, either. Which is why, right now, I'm gonna ask you real polite to move this ghetto-ass car of yours, and get the hell out of my neighborhood."

  "I can't do that," Jean said, not bothering to make any more denials. "I have to wait for my girls to come back. I'm sure you understand. I'll leave when they arrive."

  "Not good enough."

  "It will have to be." Jean felt Rogue and Kurt shift quietly behind her. She wondered how anyone, even in this, altered state, could mistake her for a pimp. She wished she could read this stranger's mind, or take over his body with nothing but a thought. Make him crawl back to the hole he lived in.

  Again, that cold smile. The man stepped away from the van and finally Jean could see his hands. He held a gun.

  "Oh, darn," she said.

  9

  It had been almost ten years since Logan walked these streets, and like most old neighborhoods, nothing much had changed. The houses still had their irregular steep-pitched roofs with patterned shingles, the lawns were still immaculate, and the view of Elliot Bay and Lake Union still managed to take his breath away. Or maybe that was just his body. Patty, whoever she was, had terrible endurance, and these hills were the steepest in the city.

  "I don't like leaving them," Scott said. His breathing seemed far more regular; Logan envied him for that.

  "They'll be fine," Logan said, still trying to grow accustomed to the high squeaky tones of his voice. "You seem to forget that you're dealing with X-Men here."

  "Powerless X-Men."

  "Gimme a break, Cyke. You think Jean's telepathy or Kurt's teleporting are all that makes them strong?"

  "Of course not, but it does give them an advantage."

  Logan shrugged. He couldn't argue with that. Then again, there was no use crying over things that might never be changed. You just picked up the pieces and kept moving. Did the best with what you had.

  And what he had was the flabby misused body of a twenty-something woman who looked far too cute for his taste, and who was pierced in several areas that should never know the touch of hard steel. Two of them were rubbing against his shirt.

  Kid really was crazy. It had taken a legion of scientists to stick metal in Logan's body. He didn't understand anyone who would do it voluntarily.

  They passed only one other person during their walk, a bespectacled older man with a golden retriever, who smiled at them both, but made eyes only at Scott. Logan did not mind in the slightest. Scott give him a hard look and said, "Don't even think about it." "What?"

  "You know very well what."

  "Aw, hell. You need to get in touch with your feminine side, Scott. Ain't no time like the present."

  Scott grunted. "Doesn't it bother you at all that you're a woman?"

  "Would bother me more if I was still in my own body and missing certain ... parts."

  Which had been his first thought upon awakening in the hospital. A bad place to go, if you were a man. Very b
ad. Discovering his young perky breasts, seeing that unfamiliar face reflected in the glass of his window, had made him feel immensely better because this was clearly not his body. And if this was not his body, then somewhere out there he—Logan, Wolverine—was still a whole, healthy man.

  "Okay," Scott said. "I see your point."

  Logan grunted. "We're getting close."

  "Thank God. My thighs are killing me."

  "Don't complain too much. You want to stay toned, you know. Keep those legs smokin'."

  "Logan—"

  "Why do you think Jean gets on that StairMaster every day?"

  Scott sighed. "You are totally out of control."

  "You say that so much it's practically habit. Gotta find a new line, Scooter."

  "Right. Is it possible that becoming a woman has made you even more obnoxious?"

  "That's just you. Must be PMS."

  "Bad joke," Scott said, but Logan did not give him a chance to say more. He stopped walking, gazing from the numbers on a gray mailbox to the house behind it, perched like a fine diamond, one of many, in the crown of Old Victoria Hill.

  Jonas Maguire's house was a large white Victorian set off the street and surrounded by trees. Perfect cover. Logan and Scott walked up the front sidewalk like they owned the place, which in his experience, was the best way to act when you were trying to set up a con. A little confidence went a long way, especially in the city, where no one paid much attention to the private lives of their neighbors, and odd comings and goings at night could be ascribed to some quirk of behavior, rather than any criminal wrongdoing.

  "He must have a security system," Scott whispered, as they stepped on the wide front porch. Hanging pots bobbed with the outlines of geraniums and ferns. Rocking chairs sat at the very end of the porch, and over the antique mail slot was a wooden carving of a fat cow. It was all very innocuous and country.

  "Yeah, this one's a real mad scientist," Logan said. "Wonder if he knits."

  Scott peered around the edge of the porch. "The garage is detached, so no go through there. Do you think he has a house sitter?"

  "I could knock and find out."

  Scott actually seemed to think about that. "We could always say our car broke down."

  "Forget it. I was joking. You do that and someone will be on the phone to the cops. We won't have time to do anything." Logan examined the lock. It was simple; looked like the original, even. "I need something to pick this with. Do you still have that wire?"

  Silent, face devoid of expression, Scott reached into his pants. Logan stared. He began to ask, but Scott shook his head. Yeah, he was probably better off not knowing— but it still wasn't easy touching that wire.

  While Scott watched the street, Logan bent over to work. It was difficult to see—he missed being a mutant— but he slipped the wire in the lock and jimmied it around until he heard a very satisfying click.

  "Security," Scott reminded him again.

  "I know," Logan said, but without more time or the tools to do a proper examination of the property, they were going to have to wing it anyway. Alarms or not, that door was coming open.

  And when it did, when Logan pushed his way into the house, he heard not a sound. He looked around for a security panel, some blinking red light that would give it away, but there was nothing.

  "This Maguire is a real trusting guy," Logan said, stepping sideways so that Scott could enter.

  "Maybe he has a reason to be."

  "If he's a mutant, you mean."

  "The evidence suggests that he is."

  "But why us?" Logan sniffed the air; a reflex. He felt only slightly foolish. The house had no discernable odor; perhaps, only, a hint of some flower, perhaps a rose. He listened, and though he heard nothing, wondered if that was only his own weakness, whether there was something he was missing, something escaping his notice, all because he was human now, and weak.

  Not weak. Not for one minute, don't you tell yourself that.

  Because he was only as weak as his spirit, and he refused to let this—his new body, these circumstances— break him.

  "I think this is his office," Scott said, peering into a room off the main entry. The woodwork was old, classic, with fine carved flowers in the dark trim and shining hardwood floors that smelled like lemon. A large desk faced the sole window. Its surface was clean except for a computer, a thin sheaf of paper, and one framed picture of a dark-haired woman with a lovely smile and amazing cheekbones.

  "Wife?" Logan asked.

  "Could be," Scott said. He glanced around the room. "Check upstairs. I can handle this."

  "Yes, ma'am." Logan flashed him a grin and ducked out of the office. He examined the kitchen first, a quick walk through, and then headed up the stairs on light feet, listening for any movement, any sign they were not alone. Everything was quiet. No life here. Nothing except for them.

  All the doors stood open. Logan perused the rooms, taking in the complete lack of furniture or personal items. No paintings, no soft chairs; Maguire had a bed, but it was only a twin, covered in a threadbare quilt. One pillow. One closet half-full of dress shirts and suit jackets. One dresser, with only one drawer filled with underwear.

  And one drawer for a teddy bear. Very soft, very worn, and missing both its eyes. It had been placed carefully inside the dresser, sitting in the center with its little mournful face turned up. Logan picked up the bear, holding it gingerly in his hands. He sniffed its fur. It smelled clean, like detergent.

  He heard footsteps in the hall. Scott entered the room, stopping when he saw what Logan held.

  "Does this mean anything to you?" Logan held up the bear.

  "It's the only personal item I've seen in the house, other than the photograph downstairs."

  "Which means it's important, because this guy doesn't have crap. Looks like he moved into this house with a suitcase and set up shop."

  "A temporary living space? Something that gives the appearance of permanence?" Scott pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. "I found this on his desk."

  Logan took the paper. "An e-ticket receipt for a flight to New York. The good doctor left last night. That's convenient."

  "Very. I'd say the evidence against Maguire is getting stronger."

  "I'd say you're right. I'd also say that our bodies went with him, but probably in our jet."

  "That requires specialized knowledge to fly, Logan."

  "Cyke, if the man really did do a mind switch on us, then he's probably strong enough to pull some information out of our heads while he's at it." Logan hesitated, staring at the teddy bear. "Here's what I don't get. This is a man who has no life. Or rather, the life he does have has been built around a specific purpose. My guess? To screw us. I wanna know why."

  "You're assuming a lot. We don't really know him. His goals might not be to hurt us, but to use us."

  "Don't get technical on me, bub. Your wife is a man and the both of us have boobs. I'm not feeling the love."

  Scott rolled his eyes. "Fine, I agree that his intentions aren't exactly noble. In fact, I'll even go so far as to say he has it in for us—"

  "—thank you—"

  "—but that doesn't answer your question. Why?"

  Logan gazed around the room. The teddy bear felt soft and warm in his hand; he was reluctant to put it down. "Did you find out who the woman in the photo is?"

  "No," Scott said, "but she must have been special."

  "Yeah. This isn't a man who owns a lot. Which makes me wonder why he would leave without the picture and the bear. They're easy to pack and they obviously mean something to him."

  "He's traveling light."

  "Not good enough."

  "Because he thinks he's coming back?"

  "Or because he knows he's not."

  "As in what? He thinks he's going to die? He plans on committing suicide?"

  "Maybe. It doesn't seem like he has much of a life, anyway."

  Scott shook his head. "If I was going to kill myself, I would want
my most precious mementos nearby."

  "As a reminder of your misery?" Logan waved the teddy bear in Scott's face. "Does this really say why, God, why'?"

  "Maybe to Maguire."

  "Or maybe he's left the trappings of his life behind, so he can be free to do what needs to be done. He's going out as a man of resolve."

  "That still doesn't explain why."

  "I don't think we're gonna get that why' until we catch up with him, meaning we need to find some way of getting back to New York before he finishes what he started. Whatever that is."

  "Infiltrating the X-Men?"

  "As a start. He has something bigger in mind, that's for sure." Logan shook the teddy bear. Quiet, almost to himself, he murmured, "What the hell is going on here?"

  "That's what we're going to find out." Scott folded up the receipt and stuck it back in his pocket. "Come on, Logan. Let's get out of here."

  Two things happened before they left Jonas Maguire's house.

  The first was that Scott made a phone call. It was almost 8:30 in the morning on the East Coast. Plenty of time for everyone to be up and about and ready to answer phones.