X-Men: Dark Mirror

by Marjorie M. Liu

  "Um," she said. "We might have a problem."

  "How big a problem?" Scott asked, as Jean shoved him up into the boxcar.

  "The kind that has handcuffs and that would be highly motivated to arrest us."

  "Great," Logan muttered. Jean bent over to give him a leg up. He stared at her.

  She smiled. "Go on now, pretty lady."

  His scowl deepened. Ignoring her help, he attempted to clamber up into the boxcar by himself. It was awkward—embarrassingly so. Patty was not an athletic woman, and Logan—God bless him—had a mind that was far more willing than the body. Jean kept staring at his backside, and Rogue knew she was thinking about giving him one good push.

  "I think you met your match," Scott commented, as he finally wriggled those precious last inches onto the platform. "Beaten by your own body."

  Logan, feet still dangling out the door, scowled.

  "The police car is moving," Rogue announced, as the cruiser pulled away from the white security truck and entered the main train yard. "He's not coming in this direction, but he's definitely looking for someone."

  Scott pulled Jean into the boxcar. "Everyone get to the back. Logan, you said this thing leaves at noon?"

  "It wasn't even ten when we got to that office. We've still got some time yet. You need me to play decoy?"

  Scott shook his head. "I won't risk you getting caught."

  "One is better than all. You can spring me when you get back home."

  "When did you become an optimist?" Jean asked. "You're assuming a lot."

  "I'm assuming that we might need a Plan B to get out of here, and if it means that not all of us make the trip, I'm volunteering to stay behind and get the cops off your trail. I've handled worse."

  "We're sticking together," Scott said, more firmly this time. Rogue briefly wondered if Mindy had ever looked so resolved—so hard—or if the inner person really did mold the outer. Mindy's face was almost beginning to resemble the real Scott.

  For the next two hours they sat at the back of the boxcar. They did not speak, but peered through slits in the wall planking, keeping watch for any movement outside the train. Twice, they heard voices—engineers, employees—but those men and women did not linger. Rogue was just beginning to think they were safe when she heard the loud crunch of gravel, the growl of a car engine. She peered through a narrow opening in the wall and saw a white truck. A car door slammed.

  Logan moved. Scott made a grab for his arm but he was too slow. Rogue, after a moment's hesitation, followed him.

  They made it to the entrance of the boxcar at the same time as the security guard. It was the same young man.

  "Whoa," he said, startled. "What are you two doing up there?"

  "Research," Logan said. "We wanted to see what the inside of one of these things looks like."

  Rogue edged closer to the edge of the platform, blocking the young man's view of the shadowed interior. He glanced up at her for only an instant before focusing on Logan.

  "It's a good thing I stopped here," he said. "This train is due to leave in just a couple minutes. You could've gotten stuck up there."

  "Nah," Logan said. "We were just leaving anyhow."

  "Cool." He reached his hand out to Logan, who stared at it, unblinking.

  "Um," said the kid, blushing. "You need help down?"

  Logan opened his mouth. Rogue cut him off with a quick 'Yes." She ignored the dirty look he gave her. After a moment, Logan grimaced and took the young man's hand.

  Rogue jumped down on her own. The security guard still held Logan's hand and was trying to lead him back to his truck. "Come on," he said. "I'll drop you guys off at the front gate."

  "That's all right," Rogue said. "We can walk."

  "It's a long walk," he said, "and this time of day there are a lot of trains moving out. It's not that safe, especially for you guys. You don't know all the rules."

  "We know enough to stay out of the way of a moving train," Logan said, prying his hand loose. She halt- expected him to wipe it on his jeans, and sure enough, he did not disappoint. She almost felt sorry for the young man, who watched Logan's apparent disgust with flushed embarrassment. He glanced at Rogue and she gave him a small smile.

  "Yeah," he said softly. He began walking toward Rogue, and she stepped backward, startled.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  He gave her a strange look. "I need to check the inside of that boxcar."

  "We were just in there," Rogue said. "It's very... clean."

  "That's good. I still need to check, though. It's part of my job."

  So much for being a lousy security guard. Rogue blocked his path.

  "Before you climb up in there, do you think you could answer some questions? We're in a bit of a hurry."

  "So am I," he said, in a sharper tone. Rogue thought he was just beginning to process the sting of Logan's rejection. "This train is going to leave any minute."

  Rogue heard a loud metallic groan from down the line, a hiss and loud clack, like the tumbling of a giant lock. The young man swore, pushing past her. "That's just great. Now I've got, like, five seconds to check this thing out—"

  Rogue could not stop him in time. He hoisted himself onto the edge of the boxcar and peered inside. Swore loudly.

  "Hey!" he shouted. He looked over his shoulder at Rogue and Logan. "What the hell kind of game are you playing? There are people in there! Why didn't you tell me?"

  The train moved, a sharp rocking jolt, and the young man jumped off the platform. "I gotta report this," he said, reaching for the walkie-talkie belted to his hip. "God, I hate this job. And you two, don't move. I can't believe you did this to me."

  "It was easy," Logan said, and slammed his fist into the young man's face. The young man's breath escaped in a rush and he hit the ground hard. He did not move. Rogue, watching him, felt her stomach twist painfully in her gut. She remembered her hands around a man's head, pounding his skull into the floor with all her strength because she was human—and human was not strong enough to kill—

  She ran to the young man and fell to her knees on the hard gravel. She checked his pulse. It still beat, slow and steady. She remembered how to breathe again.

  "Come on," Logan muttered. "Help me get him in his truck."

  "We don't have time for cleanup." Rogue looked at the train, the boxcar inching ever farther away. Scott, Jean, and Kurt leaned out the door.

  "Make the time." Logan lifted the upper half of the young man's body and with Rogue's help carried him to the truck and shoved him inside, very much out of sight unless one stood right beside the truck. Logan slammed shut the door—

  —and then they ran.

  The train had picked up speed. The gravel was difficult to run on. Rogue pushed hard, reaching back to grab Logan's arm and haul him with her. He was having even more trouble than her, and that was unacceptable, impossible, because if Rogue got on that boxcar Logan was going with her, or else she would just stop running now. She refused to leave him.

  They reached the boxcar door; Jean, kneeling, stretched out her arm. Rogue grabbed Logan and shoved him in front of her. He protested, but Jean grabbed the back of his shirt and threw herself backward, hauling him off the ground. His kicking foot clipped Rogue in the shoulder and she stumbled to one knee. Pain shot up her leg into her hip; gravel cut her palm.

  Someone shouted her name. She forced herself up. The boxcar had moved impossibly far, but she started running anyway—fast, fast, she had forgotten what it was to be human and slow, and what she wouldn't give to fly again—

  Somehow, miraculously, she ate up the distance between herself and her friends. She did not feel her knee anymore; the pain in her hand was distant, feint like the sounds of those voices calling her onward, drowned out by the rumble of the moving train, those tracks, and then Rogue was close enough to reach out an arm and brush Jean's fingers, and Jean shouted "Closer! Just a little closer!" and Rogue threw herself forward, gasping, and Jean's hand closed around her own
and pulled, pulled so hard she flew off her feet and slammed into the edge of the platform, her legs dangling close to the moving wheels, the grind of steel on steel, and then someone else grabbed the back of her pants and she was flying again— flying and landing hard on a vibrating floor that swayed and swayed with the rocking of the rail. She lay there, clutching at that floor, gasping for breath. Parts of her body felt burned from the inside out

  Rogue heard low muttering by her ear. She flopped onto her back and looked up into Kurt's concerned face. He crossed himself and said "Amen."

  "Yeah," she breathed, closing her eyes. "I'm with you on that one, sugah."

  12

  The train moved through the city like a slow- rolling caterpillar, following street bridges, crawling toward the Lake Washington Ship Canal, where Kurt got a nice view of the water and the boats. Later, passing through a pleasant neighborhood of small well-kept homes, he watched a green park shimmer on the edge of Puget Sound, and smiled as kites fluttered high in the blue sky, children screaming and laughing below them.

  Kurt thought it might be nice to go to a park such as that one, looking as he now did, and just ... be. Be a man, be anonymous, be something other than a mutant. Not that he minded what he was. Everything was part of God's great plan, including him, and to regret his circumstances, to wish himself different, would be to go against that which God had meant for him, and him alone. Every living person was blessed with individuality. Kurt was simply more individual than others.

  And yet, still, that wistful wonder. He could not help himself, even if it was something he did not indulge for long.

  The train increased its speed. Kurt stopped watching the view—Puget Sound and clay bluffs, great blue herons perched on rocks—and focused instead on Rogue, sleeping nearby. He tried not to imagine what would have befallen her if she had not made it on the train. He thought he might have jumped off to be with her. His sister.

  It was not something they ever really discussed, though the knowledge was there—had been for years, ever since discovering that Mystique had mothered them both. Sometimes he wished they could talk about it, but his few attempts had accomplished nothing. Rogue was not ready to speak of their mother. He did not take it personally. Only, it was times like this that he wondered if she thought of him in the same way, as blood.

  Jean sat down beside him. Long dreadlocks hung past her broad shoulders; her skin looked very dry and her lips were rough. Her eyes, though, were light with intelligence, and he could not help but smile when he looked into her borrowed face.

  "That's one of the things I like about you," Jean said. "I can always count on you seeing the sunny side of any situation. I can always find a smile."

  Kurt shrugged, studying his dark human hands. "I grew up in the circus, Jean. You learn how to smile through anything. You learn how to smile and mean it."

  "I didn't take you for a cynic."

  "A cynic is one who believes the worst of people. I believe the best. Only, we are not always faced with the best."

  "Like now?"

  "Oh," he said, and felt another smile creep close. "This situation is not entirely bad."

  Jean studied his face. After a moment she said, "I can tell you believe that."

  There was a peculiar tone to her voice, as though the importance of that statement depended more on her own ability to read his face, than on his sincerity. He understood, and was not hurt. Jean had lost her telepathy; he could not imagine the difficulties she faced adjusting to this new—and no doubt, isolated—life.

  Rogue stirred, mumbling in her sleep. Kurt said, "I am the same man you have always known, Jean. Haven't I always believed what I say?"

  She flushed. "I didn't mean it that way, Kurt. I just..."

  He touched her hand, and for the first time in his life—because he did not count his mother—his skin looked the same as the person sitting beside him. It did not matter to him, but he noted it because it was new and different, something to remember.

  "It is all right," he said softly. "I simply want you to remember that even if you cannot hear us," and he tapped his forehead, "you are not alone. Nor have we changed. Be confident in that, Jean. Besides, it is not as if you went around reading our thoughts before you lost powers."

  "Of course not," she said. "But I could feel something, whether or not I wanted to. Energy, maybe. I suppose ... I suppose that even though I never acted on it, just knowing I could was reassuring."

  "Because it meant that no one could hide from you." Kurt smiled. "It will be all right, Jean. Look upon this time as a lesson."

  "In humility?" She gave him a wry smile.

  "I was thinking in terms of learning new skills, but I suppose yours is the more profound thought."

  She shook her head. "My powers didn't emerge until puberty. Up until that point, I was just like everyone else, and when I first went to Xavier's I told myself that would never change. That I would never forget what it was like to be ... normal. But... this... all of us ..She looked down at herself, touching her flat chest. "I forgot, Kurt. I got so wrapped up in being other' that I forgot what it was like to be just... regular."

  Kurt was far too polite to belittle her feelings, but he said, "I suppose that depends on your definitions of normal and regular. I, in my original state, do not look normal or regular, but I feel like I am those things."

  "So what you're saying is that I need to change my point of view."

  Kurt heard a sound on his left. Logan, rolling over. His eyes were open and he stared at Jean.

  "No, darlin'. What he's trying to say is that you're full of it."

  "Hey," Scott said, from his place in the corner.

  "It's true," Logan said, "and Jeannie knows it. Being a mutant may have given her different life experiences, but she's the same damn person she always was, with or without them. She's got a better heart than ninety-nine percent of the world around her, and that kind of thing doesn't depend on mind-reading or lifting objects or shooting cosmic flames up someone's rear end. Don't you feel sorry for yourself, Jeannie. Your powers don't make or break you. Right, Kurt?"

  "I suppose," he said, though he would have chosen different wording. Logan's approach, however, was more effective, and it was something Jean needed to hear. Having a strong sense of identity—knowing the heart of ones self apart from gifts and powers—was essential to staying sane during such hard times. Better than moping, at any rate.

  Then again, perhaps he was asking too much. Kurt had been bom different—had grown up different—but the circus had raised him as an equal, a valued friend and son, and had never treated him as anything else, despite his appearance and powers. Jean, on the other hand—like most mutants—had lived her life a certain way, and then overnight been forced to change. No smooth transition, no lifetime spent learning how to be comfortable in one's skin, apart from one's skin—simply, a transition that seemed more like a violent rite of passage into adulthood than like the blessing of some extraordinary new ability.

  Under those circumstances, Kurt was not surprised she was having trouble adjusting. She had been conditioned to live one way, and now that conditioning was being shattered and she had nothing to fall back on but ideas and memories and notions of what was normal and human.

  None of that mattered. At least, not to him.

  "Logan." Scott stood up.

  "It's all right," Jean said. "He has a point."

  Rogue cracked open one eye. "Are we fighting?"

  "Just a little," Kurt said, patting her shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

  "Actually, don't." Scott crouched beside them. "We need to plan."

  "Plan what? How long we're going to ride this train? What we're going to do for food or money? How we're going to contact the Mansion again? Don't know if that requires a plan so much as finding opportunities and acting on them." Logan leaned on his elbow. His shirt rode up his ribs, revealing a great deal of skin and the hint of a breast. Kurt did not think he noticed or cared. Still thinking like a ma
n. Which ... was probably a good thing.

  Jean tugged his shirt down. He gave her a questioning look and she said, "It's nothing."

  Kurt participated in the planning discussion, but not for long. He had little to contribute, and like Logan, believed that events would play out as they must, and that the road home would be won by taking opportunities, by living bold.

  So he sat and watched the train roll through the limits of a gray city that smelled like chemicals, pulp and paper manufacturing, past that into green trees, the Snohomish River valley. Farther, through the Cascade Tunnel under Stevens Pass, where the agricultural valley shone bright under the sun, lovely and peaceful. Kurt felt as though he was dreaming with his eyes open, such was the beauty.

  Then he closed his eyes and dreamed for real, and when he awakened he saw mountains capped in snow, rivers rolling past small hamlets lost in evergreen forests, and then he closed his eyes again, lulled by the rocking of the train, and when he opened his eyes once more, some time had passed because the mountains were gone, far behind them, and the train was arriving at its destination.

  "We're in Wenobee," Logan said. "Right on the edge of the Columbia River."

  In the distance, Kurt saw a large arching bridge crossing the wide blue river to connect one cityscape to another; monotone suburbs surrounded by parks, and deeper, toward the city heart, brick and steel and glass. The train moved quite slowly.