And then, on the fifth morning of their pseudo- captivity, Scott drove up to the gate of their home. It was open, which was slightly unusual, but they pulled in and followed the winding driveway to the house. Everything was very quiet.
"Where are the children?" Jean asked, and they all had the same terrible thought, that one of them, all of them, perhaps, with their bodies, had wreaked some terrible harm upon the young people.
The school still stood, though, and Logan did not see any discernable signs of a firefight. Except for the dead roses—which, if he remembered correctly, had all been very much alive on the day of his departure—nothing seemed out of ordinary. The front door, however, was unlocked.
"I am worried," Kurt said.
"Yes," Scott said, and they entered the house. The security system was off and Scott punched in the code, reinstating the alarms. A warning, if nothing else, to give them time to prepare. Although, in Logan's professional opinion, if they were forced to go up against themselves—which seemed likely, at some point—preparation would not help them in the slightest. Only luck, only resolve. Those were the kinds of things that kept a man living through hard times, and even though they were home, Logan did not think their lives were about to become any easier.
Indeed, the more he walked through the Mansion, soaking in the unrelenting quiet, the unending lack of "presence," familiar or otherwise, the more he prepared himself for something truly horrible, the kind of thing that would create another anniversary, the sort that requires flowers on a grave to mark the passing of another year gone without a dear friend or lover. Logan was far too good about those anniversaries. He never forgot.
"It's like everyone picked up and left," Rogue said.
"I hope they just left," Logan muttered, and ignored the dirty looks his friends gave him.
The first place they found that indicated some kind of trouble was the gym, and there were two clues that made Logan's mouth go dry and his bowels loosen: a yellow leather jacket, and a spot some distance away that was covered in blood and bits of flesh.
He did not wait for the others. Holding the jacket tight against his chest, he raced down the hall toward the infirmary, and when he entered and saw who lay on the bed looking like death warmed over, who lay on the floor on either side looking not much better, a loud shout escaped his throat.
A thin layer of water covered the infirmary's entire floor. He slipped on his way in, falling hard, but crawled the last bit of distance. A quick glance showed him that Ororo and Remy still breathed, though the expressions on their faces looked like trouble had come knocking. He tried shaking them, but they did not respond. Their sleep was unnaturally deep.
Logan stepped over their bodies and sat gingerly on the edge of Jubilee's bed. It was difficult for him to peer into her swollen, beaten face, and he imagined what each blow must have looked like to make those marks. The attacker had been violent, brutal, and unrelenting. The attacker was also someone Jubilee knew, because the kid was too good to be taken down by anyone less than a friend, someone she would be reluctant to hurt too badly.
Logan looked at his hands, soft and round and female. He had a bad feeling about the person who had hurt Jubilee. Very bad.
"What happened here?" Jean asked, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at Jubilee. "My God. Did one of us do that to her?"
Logan said nothing and Jean gave him a sharp look. "Logan?"
He shook his head, still unable to give voice to his fear, his certainty. He might be wrong, but he doubted it. Things like this he had instincts for. He knew what the work of his hands looked like. Jean squeezed his shoulder.
Scott and Kurt crouched over Ororo. Kurt held a small cup of water.
"I do not know about this," he said.
"Unless you want to start getting physical, use the water."
He did. Ororo stirred. Kurt placed her head in his lap and gendy smoothed back her hair, whispering nonsense in German. Slowly, Ororo opened her eyes—
—and froze.
"Who are you?" she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, misused.
Kurt smiled, ever so gently. "I have been away too long, Storm. Maybe I am not blue, maybe I am no longer handsome, but how could you fail to recognize the twinkling light of my eyes? The eyes do not change, meine schoone Frau."
Ororo blinked. "Kurt?"
"The one and only."
She reached up with a careful hand and touched his face. Tore her gaze from him to stare at the others. She took a deep shuddering breath.
"These last days have been difficult without the five of you," she whispered.
"Have our bodies been here? Where are the children?"
"The children are fine, everyone except for... for Jubilee. And yes, your impostors have been here. You need to go after them. I do not know how long I have been unconscious, but the man controlling your counterparts mentioned the mutant-rights march. He is going there. I think he plans on having his impersonators do something that will damage us all." She tried to sit up and Kurt settled her against his chest. "He is a telepath. His name is—"
"—Jonas Maguire," Scott said. "Yes, we know."
"I have something of his," Logan growled. "Maybe a couple somethings."
"Logan?" she said, startled. "Is that you?"
"What? You can see the resemblance?"
She narrowed her eyes and Logan gave her a brief smile before turning his attention back on Jubilee. He felt her watch him and he knew she wanted to say something. He did not ask. He did not let her.
Rogue said, "Remy won't wake up."
"We don't have time to wait on him," Ororo said. "We must go into the city and stop Maguire."
Scott checked the clock. "It's after ten thirty. Isn't the march supposed to start at eleven?"
"Yes, I—" She stopped talking. "I can't move."
'Your spine—" Kurt began, but Ororo shook her head.
"No, he did something to me. My body won't listen." Tears leaked from her eyes. "You need help."
Kurt shook his head. He gave her a quick hug. "As you said, we have no time. We will be fine."
Logan agreed. They were going to be fine because they were too pissed off for anything less. Maguire was going to get stuck on a stick, and roasted like a marsh- mallow.
Plus, it would be one more for the road. The five of them, finishing what they had started.
Logan did not think that was such a bad way to die.
20
It was good being in a piece of technology not acquired by anything other than cold hard cash. Jean, while she might miss the train ride, did not think she would ever recall those moments of vehicular theft with the kind of fondness that would make her go back for a repeat performance. She also much preferred flying to driving.
"You're thinking dramatic, aren't you?" Scott said to her, when she took her seat beside him at the controls of the mini-jet.
"I'm thinking big," she said. "Epic."
"That's good," he said. "We're going to need something epic in order to get out of this whole and intact."
"Pessi—" She stopped, sensing those fingers in her brain, light and full of fire. So familiar, so—
Jean shut her eyes. Scott said her name, again and again, and she lost the connection in the sound of his voice. The fingers disappeared. So close ... she had been so close to figuring out what was in her head.
"What is it?" he asked, and he looked so concerned she could not bring herself to be mad at him for interrupting her concentration. They could not read each other's minds anymore, which was a loss that Jean thought they had overcome during the journey. For most of her life she had relied too much on her mind and not on words, not paying attention to the subtleties of an expression or the clear quality of a gaze. Not anymore. Even if she somehow managed to regain her body, she was not going to let herself forget.
They entered the city and Scott put the mini-jet in stealth mode. They found the mutant-rights march without much difficulty. It had been in the works for al
most a year, planned for by a coalition of people whose one common bond was that they believed mutants and humans could coexist in respect and peace, each side helping the other in mutually beneficial ways. It was a goal that Charles Xavier supported wholeheartedly, and the X-Men had agreed to be present at the event, both as security and as role models.
"Is this what our body-snatching has been all about?" Rogue wondered out loud. "Just as a means of destroying our reputation?"
"It won't just be our reputation. If the X-Men are seen going wild, it will reflect badly on all mutants, including Maguire." Scott frowned. "Somehow, I don't think he cares,"
"We must have burned that guy something good," Logan said quietly. He had the teddy bear in his lap and was staring at it with the same intensity he usually reserved for really good beer, the Super Bowl, or a beautiful woman. Jean smiled. She had seen the teddy bear several times on their trip; Logan occasionally removed it from the sack to stare and prod. Jean thought he and the bear had developed a special language; it told him things about Maguire that it told no one else.
The sun disappeared behind the clouds and the air coming in from the vents smelled sharp, like rain. Jean closed her eyes, drawing in that scent She summoned up all the strength left to her, everything she would need to fight, and she imagined sharing that strength with her friends. The odds were against them. Only human now, out of shape and exhausted—while their real bodies, those they had been born with, were both gifted and at the top of their form. Jean knew why Ororo was concerned for them, but she also knew that this was their job, to do or die.
We are going to die, she thought, but for some reason, the idea did not frighten her. The past few days had soothed her soul in ways she could not yet describe— only, she knew now what she was made of, and though her hardships had not been as great as she thought they would be, it was not strife or fighting that made her feel so polished on the inside. It was living human, being with her friends and seeing how far they could go on so little, and realizing that in her life, they and her husband were all she needed.
And even if she did not have others, she had herself. Herself, stripped down to nothing, no distraction of power, until she could see her spirit clearly. It was a good feeling, that self-knowledge. It made her feel strong.
The heart of downtown came into sight and Scott flew the mini-jet like a sport's car, bending around buildings at breakneck speeds that would have made her sick had she not been concentrating so fiercely on finding their counterparts.
"There," Logan said. "Down below on that rooftop."
Jean looked, and sure enough saw six figures standing on the rooftop edge of an office building, gazing down upon the main core of the parade. She did not know why they were there, rather than on ground level with the other participants, but it made their lives easier. Jean preferred to fight out of the public eye. Too many people could get hurt that way.
Logan said, "Come on, Cyke. What are you waiting for?"
"Nothing," he said, and flashed Jean a quick grin that still managed to warm her toes. "We're going in. Everyone, hang on tight."
She appreciated the warning. A moment later the mini-jet dived toward the earth, streaking past the noses of the impostor X-Men and their handler, winging them in the face with their tail wind. Kurt grinned.
"I am going to enjoy this," he said, "even if it is the last thing I do."
"Might be," Logan said, but he was smiling, too, and Jean knew that his agenda involved a mighty punishment upon himself—or rather, his impostor. Jean did not know how to resolve the paradox of hurting their own bodies as punishment for crimes others committed while using them. It was like hurting themselves—literally—and if they ever were transferred back into their own selves—
That doesn't matter now. The only thing that matters is keeping these people from hurting innocents, keeping them from ruining the X-Men with their actions. There is more at stake than your lives. You have to do what must be done and don't look back.
The mini-jet rattled, swinging wildly. Scott muttered, "That's it. Chase us, you arrogant little jerks. Come on."
Again, that wild rattle, turbulence so severe Jean thought the jet might come apart. It was her, she realized. Herself, Jean Grey, using telekinesis to rip them apart. Her method was clumsy, though; Jean sensed a lack of any true focus. Only a generalized intent that reminded her of when she had first started using her powers for real and found her mind a clumsy and unwieldy tool.
"They don't know how to use our powers," she said in wonderment, as Scott struggled to find a place on the roof to land. "They have some superficial knowledge, but they're learning about themselves as they go along."
"You sure about that?" Scott asked.
"Yes," Jean said. "Otherwise, I would have disintegrated this jet by now."
"I'm sold," Logan said. "Land this thing, Cyke. Let's end this."
Scott landed on the rooftop, less than a hundred yards from where their counterparts stood, their attention temporarily off the parade. It was a bad area to fight in, but Scott had not wanted to take the risk of trying to lure them away, only to have the impostors stay behind to continue with their plan of discrediting the real team.
Of course, if these men and women were as unskilled as Jean thought they were, the small fighting space would work to their advantage. The real X-Men were a team of friends and family, and they worked like one. Maguire might have spent the past year prepping his patients to make them more malleable for time in their bodies, but Scott doubted he had taught them other skills. He doubted he had taught them trust.
Trust, which could only be learned through hard experience and shared suffering and joy—things that served to strengthen the bond between his teammates, to turn them into something more than their parts.
Logan was out first, teddy bear in one hand. Rogue followed close at his side, with Kurt beside her. Jean went next, but Scott caught her hand before she left the jet and drew her close for a long hard kiss.
"We'll do that again when this is over," he said.
Jean smiled, caressing his throat. "We'll do more than that," she promised.
The air smelled cold and wet; strong winds whipped their bodies, gusts that threatened to spin Scott's small body end over end. He eyed the competition. Funny, he had fought all these people more than once in Danger Room simulations—and in the flesh—and though he believed he knew their every weakness and how to exploit them, he felt as though all those exercises had to be thrown out because the minds inside the bodies were different, and the psychology of these men and women was even more different than the normal.
Ororo had called Maguire a telepath. A telepath of remarkable strength, if he was able to transfer minds or souls into different bodies willy-nilly. Was he also strong enough to force a mentally disturbed individual into a kind of healing? Temporary or fixed, that was the only way Scott could explain how five individuals with such difficult consistent problems, could stand before him looking competent, ready to fight, like soldiers.
Scott looked at Maguire, but found that the man was focused entirely on the teddy bear in Logan's hand. A look of such haunted despair passed over his face that, for a moment, Scott forgot why they were there. The expression disturbed him; it felt like a reminder of all those times he thought he had lost Jean, and had suffered through the gamut of unbearable pain, mourning the loss of the only woman he had ever loved.
Of course, Jean always managed to come back from the dead. It was a gift of fate that had served her well over the years.
"Where did you get that?" Maguire said to Logan. His voice was low, cultured. "You've been in my home?"
'Yeah," Logan said, hugging that bear to his chest. "Funny, your home. The only two things in it that seem to mean something to you are this bear and the photograph on your desk."
"Give me the bear," he said quietiy.
"This bear and I have gotten to be real good friends," Logan said, ignoring Maguire's request. "Real good. Looks to me like it u
sed to be someone else's real good friend. I'd say that someone was a sight smaller than me, though. I'd also guess that the woman in that picture was your wife. And I think I might also guess that something very bad happened to those two people, something that involves us, that created a connection you just couldn't get out of your hair. You couldn't let go. Am I getting close, Jonas? Does any of this ring a bell?"
Scott stared at Logan. Everyone stared, including Maguire. He wore the face of a broken man, but even as his throat worked, his fists clenching tight against his thighs, Scott saw his face go as hard as he had ever seen a man look, and Maguire said, "That would be accurate. You . . . you and your team had a fight with some . . . some renegade mutant. Some idiot. My wife and child got in the way. Innocent bystanders. I couldn't save them. I tried. I tried so hard to find bodies to place them in because that's what I do. Just like wrapping a gift, wrapping up my wife, all of her, everything, her soul— and then doing the same to my baby, holding them all inside me, stored so carefully, until I could find them a place to live." He shook his head. "They were too close to death when I got to them. I put them inside me but there was not enough time and they ... trickled away. I could feel them inside my head, just like sand, and I couldn't save them."
"So you go after us?" Scott said. "You ruin our lives?"
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