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in the Danger Room. Come to think of it, this was the only time I could remember seeing him not working. A stray beam of light glinted off of his red sunglasses as he took a sip from his coffee cup.
As I walked to him, the cafe seemed to brighten up a little, as a strange place only can when you spot a friendly face. Although friendly generally isn’t the first word I’d use to describe Cyclops. I found him a little intimidating. ’Course, if I had the power to kill people just by lookin’ at them the wrong way, I don’t suppose I’d want to make too many friends either. In many ways, the X-Men’ve never had as capable a leader as him. But friendly? Heck, he’s always been nice enough to me; just distant is all.
I shook his hand, always respectful of his authority as leader of the X-Men.
“Scott. What’re you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I suppose. Care to sit down?”
My eyes flicked to the phone. Scott sat within spittin’ distance of it. “Um, in just a minute. I have to make a phone call.”
Well, there was no way around it, sure enough. I didn’t want Scott to know about my momentary lapse in judgment. But I couldn’t leave that kid up on the roof to hurt himself or cause who knows what kind of trouble. Facing away from Scott, I placed the call to the police, trying to keep my voice as low as possible without sounding too suspicious.
So much for that. I pretended to cough over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of him, staring at me intently. Busted! I thought to myself. Not for nothing has he been the field leader of the X-Men since I was in grade school. He sussed the situation out pretty quickly. He had his lips
pursed and his arms folded, staring at my cup of Earl Grey across the table from him as I approached.
He didn’t apologize for eavesdropping. He didn’t need to. “You want to tell me how you know about this trespasser on the roof?” He asked, catching my gaze and (I think) looking me straight in the eye.
Briefly, and somewhat ashamedly, I told him what had happened with the pickpocket. Cyclops isn’t one to show emotion, but I did notice the corners of his eyes crease like most people’s do when they go into a deep frown. Boy, just seeing that made me feel lower than a Morlock in a cistern.
My head sank between my shoulders as I waited for a reprimand from my team leader. I knew exactly what Cyclops was going to tell me: that we should only use our powers in dire situations, that random displays of them only elicit fear in the general populace, that if the wrong person took a picture of me or even saw me flying that boy to the roof, it could seriously compromise my privacy and that of the X-Men as well. In my mind I pictured Scott and Professor Xavier calling me into the Professor’s office and telling me that I just wasn’t working out with the X-Men, that I’d made too many mistakes and would have to go back to X-Force. I braced myself, practically feeling my shoulders touch the bottoms of these big ears of mine. Scott aimed an accusing finger at me and opened his mouth to give me the lecture I deserved. But then he took a good look at me (at least I think he did; it’s tough to tell behind those red sunglasses of his), lowered his hand, and let out a long, low breath.
What came from him didn’t sound like a scolding. It came across as softer, more patient. “What you did wasn’t
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too smart, Sam. Someone could have seen you. I thought you knew better than that.”
“I know, sir. But I just haven’t been myself today. My brother’s leaving the family and my girlfriend hates me and I’m not measuring up and . .
Well, I try not to get to emotional in front of a senior X-Man. Shucks, I’d only just been promoted to the big team recently, and I still had to prove myself. But I couldn’t help it. It all came pouring out: my brother, my screwups in the Danger Room, my argument with Meltdown. I just couldn’t help but tell my problems to a familiar face. Scott listened to every word, brow slighdy furrowed about those ruby specs, his chin resting in the crook between thumb and forefinger, aiming the whole of his concentration at my tortured monologue.
I talked and talked until I ran out of things to say. Then I looked up at Cyclops, and caught him actually smiling. Or was it a smirk? It’s difficult to tell with Cyclops. He doesn’t smile much.
“Sounds like a pretty bad day.” His voice was even and calm.
“Yes, sir. It sure is.” I said, unsure. Here I’d poured out my heart to the man—the leader of my team—and he responded by smiling? I wasn’t rightly sure whether or not he was mocking me. And like I said, he wears those ruby quartz sunglasses all the time, so it’s almost impossible to read his face. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He raised his hand to signal the waitress. “Zelda! Another espresso, please, and refill my friend’s tea. And some biscotti. ’ ’
Zelda smiled and nodded across the restaurant to him.
“You got it, Slim,” she called back as she stepped behind the brass espresso machine and began to pull levers.
Neither of us said a word as we waited. Scott folded his arms again and stared straight ahead at me. I noticed that he’d clenched his jaw and hadn’t said a word for what seemed like a full two minutes. The whole effect reminded me of the sort of expression one makes when trying to plot a course on an unfamiliar road map.
I didn’t say anything either—heck, I didn’t have nothing left to say. I looked at Scott’s glasses and thought of the power behind them, how his optic beams could flare out and tear the head from my shoulders before I could blink. It’s not easy living with the X-Men. As many times as they might save your life or you theirs, there’s always a possibility in the back of your mind that Wolverine might snap, or that you might accidentally touch Rogue and lose your identity. I’ve been with ’em in one capacity or another for some years now and I still find that hard to shake.
Zelda came over with a tiny coffee cup and a larger tea mug, each with an Italian biscuit placed in the saucer. “ Uno espresso a-go-go, bello—with nutmeg and cinnamon, just how you like it. And some more Earl Grey.” I reached for my wallet. Without looking at me, Zelda said, “Keep it in the holster, cowboy—if you’re a friend of Slim’s, the bevvies’re on the casa. Enjoy.”
Then she fixed Scott with a mocking smirk. “And as for you, Slim, how’s it I hardly see your pan these days? All this time and you’re too good for the A-Go-Go?”
Scott’s manner, while unsmiling, was easygoing. “Come on, Zelda. You know it’s not like that. It’s just that after the last time, we wanted to spare you the ruckus.”
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Zelda’s eyes turned upward. “Don’t remind me! The last time you people showed up, Drake brought some walking, talking Mighty Joe Young-looking thing in here—and I don’t mean Topo Gigio, shatz. He nearly caused a riot in here with that animal.”
I realized that Zelda was talking about the Beast. I don’t know how, but I could tell Scott was holding back a grin. “Now, Zelda, no harm done. Didn’t Bobby promise not to bring pets in anymore?”
“Yeah, and I haven’t seen his carcass since. What’s he doin’, starting the next ice age early?”
“Something like that. I’ll let him know he should come by soon.”
“You do that, Slim. Tell him all is forgiven. Don’t think I don’t remember how he used to be warm for this form back in the days.” Zelda patted her hip, winked at me and sauntered back to the counter, tray nestled under her arm.
She knew Iceman and—in a way—Hank too? Had they come here before—and often? Why hadn’t I ever heard about it? I couldn’t wait to hear the story. But even above that, one nagging, burning, tantalizing question tugged at my curiosity above all others.
I couldn’t bear not asking. I cleared my throat, turned to him, and, with as much tact as I could muster, I asked, “Slim?”
“Old nickname. I know Zelda from way back.”
Way back? My mind instantly rang with question upon question. How in the heck does the stoic leader of the X-Men know this strange bea
tnik woman? It made me want to imagine Scott before the X-Men. I couldn’t.
Scott could tell. He leaned toward me and said, “I take
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the train in to New York fairly often, when I have time. Sometimes I come with Jean, sometimes I go alone. The mansion’s a great piece of land, but it’s not the best place to take your mind off of your problems.” I nodded my head in agreement and took a couple of sips of my tea. I realize that anyone who actually knows Cyclops would have trouble believing that he’s anything but businesslike, stoic, and, well, cold. But I swear to you, sitting in that coffeehouse, sipping from that tiny cup, he was downright gregarious. For him, anyway.
Scott looked around the cafe and continued on. “This cafe has a special place in X-Men history. Bobby and Hank discovered it years ago, when we were just starting out at the school. After a while, we all started coming here. As important as our training was, we tended to lose track of the real world. Coming here, we could let off steam—as people—and feel like we had a part in the real world too.
It wasn’t like anyplace we’d ever seen before. It was so free and accepting.
“You should have seen it then, Sam. Wall hangings and Picasso prints, the whole place filled with smoke and wild performances. On any given day you could find poets, dancers, musicians . . . the place looked like, well, much like it does today. The credit goes to Zelda for bringing back the look of the place. She was just a waitress at the time. Now she owns it.
“Eventually, the four of us graduated, and the new team of X-Men came in, and the place was bought by new owners and turned into a diner. Then, when Jean . . . came back and we started X-Factor, we returned to the old spot to find. _ that it had become a sushi bar, of all things. A year ago,
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that place went out of business. God bless her, Zelda got some money together, bought the place herself, and restored it to its former glory. Jean and I’ve both been coming back ever since. As you heard, Bobby and Hank haven’t been here in a while.”
That was the most I had ever heard Scott say at one time—to anyone. I was flabbergasted. I think I was a bit too obvious about it, as usual, because Scott looked a little taken aback, and a little embarrassed, probably for having gone on like he did. He cut himself off with a bite of his biscotti, and gave me that road-map look again.
“But let’s see what we can do about your problems. The first one’s easy: Fastball Special.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The next time an opponent tries that on you, use your shoulders to sort of sidestep it in the air. ’ ’ He made a swinging motion with his shoulders to illustrate. “Quickly grab your opponent and ride his momentum from behind. Then he’s yours to drop or do with what you will.”
Of course. “Gee, Scott, you make it sound so simple.” “No. You and I both know it takes hard work. I also know that you’re no slouch. Schedule extra Danger Room time and practice. You’ll get it. Let me know if you need help and I’ll have Warren work with you.”
Now his voice started to fill me with confidence. This was the Cyclops I knew. He was truly the best an X-Man could be. For a moment, I couldn’t believe I was sitting in Greenwich Village drinking with him.
He chewed and swallowed another bite of biscotti. “Second of all, forget about making your brother change his
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decision. If my experience is any indication, you have no hope of telling your brother what to do.”
I’m not one to argue with someone like Scott, but what he said just didn’t seem right. “He’s making an absolutely wrong decision! This—this Nashville thing—it’s idiotic! As the eldest Guthrie male, it’s my responsibility to talk him out of it. And I’ll tell you, Scott, I’m not the only member of this family who—”
He shot me a look that I could feel through those ruby quartz lenses of his. “No, Sam, you’re not.”
Hearing him say that shut me up and made me feel like a wet sack of feed. Ysee, I know about Scott’s past from the computer records. And it’s just plain sad. He grew up in an orphanage, not knowing he had any family to speak of. He only found his brother after ten years, and his father and his grandparents after twenty. And that’s it. ’Cept for his in-laws, that’s all the family Scott has, unless you count the X-Men. And Scott’d had more than his share of trouble with his brother. His brother ended up discovering mutant powers as well, powers even more dangerous than Scott’s.
“What you’ve got to understand, Sam, is people aren’t going to change just because you want them to. My brother’s spent half his life running around the world, trying to figure out his place. And there wasn’t a single thing I could do to change that. He’s doing a fine job heading up the X-Factor team now, and I’m proud as hell of him. But if he decided to leave tomorrow, nothing I could say or do would change that. Sam, if you love your brother, the best you can do is stand back and catch him if he falls. If you’re lucky,
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he’ll make the change himself, or ask for your help. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s made the right decision after all.
“Look at Magneto. How may times has Charles tried to reform him? Wolverine? Sabretooth?”
He raised an eyebrow above its ruby lens.
“You?”
He was right. When I first discovered my powers, I threw in with Donald Pierce, an old enemy of the X-Men, because he paid well and I had to support my family. But when the Professor uncovered what a rat Pierce was, the Prof invited me to his school and welcomed me with open arms. He’s helped my family and me out ever since, and the farm’s thrived besides. I made the best decision of my life when I joined the Xavier Institute. And here I was trying to stop my brother from making his own decisions.
“You don’t want to lose your brother, Sam.”
“You’re right, sir. Point well taken.”
He drained his espresso cup. “Third: Meltdown. Apologize to her.”
That suggestion set me aback. What did he mean, “apologize to her”? Didn’t he realize all the neurotic trash she was talking to me? Obviously he didn’t, so I related the rest of our argument—or should I say her argument—to Scott, point by point, and I really would have gotten my dander up if Scott hadn’t raised his voice just enough to cut me off and say,
“Sam.”
I heard a bit of irritation in his voice. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you love her?
I let out a sigh or resignation. “Yes, sir.”
“Does she love you?”
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“I believe so.”
“Then apologize, dammit. Life’s too short to waste your time with laying blame and pointing fingers. You’re an X-Man, Sam. Live your life the best you can with no regrets. When you go on the kind of missions that we do, you can’t afford those luxuries.”
I hate to say it, but he made a brick of sense. I really did care for Tabitha, and when it came down to it, none of that little stuff should’ve mattered. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to find her and tell her. Scott must’ve picked up on this because he was already standing up and pulling money from his wallet for the tip jar.
“C’mon. If we catch the six-thirty, we can make it back for dinner. Gambit’s making gumbo. Bobby’s doing dessert.”
Zelda waved us out with a wink and another reminder to bring Bobby the next time we came. As we stepped out into the crisp fall air, I felt just a little bit different. Nothin’ to scream about. But I had learned a lot about myself, and more than I’d ever hoped about the man whom I’d always passed off as the most dispassionate X-Man.
We walked the thirty-odd blocks back to the train station, talking all the way.
We missed the 6:30 and had to catch the 7:05 local instead, but it was okay. That’s what happened to normal people. And for once, there were no emergencies, no problems. No superpowers. Just a couple of friends killing time. And feeling every bit as human as we had a right to.
Anif Lane & Rebecca Levene
Iogan’s car was like Logan himself: brash, aggressive, and powerful. Bobby Drake could hear it thundering along the drive toward the Xavier Institute long before he could see it. There was no doubt in his mind that it was Logan. Who else would drive a car like that?
As he stared out from the window of Professor Xavier’s study, a sense of foreboding weighed Bobby down for a moment. Of all the X-Men who could have returned to the fold at that time, it had to be Logan. There would be no sympathy for the ordeal Bobby was about to go through. No understanding. Just sarcasm and a continual barrage of jokes. Jean would have understood. So would Hank. But not Logan.
There was a fine mist of rain in the air outside. Without thinking, Bobby reached out through the window and felt the shape of the water molecules, caressing them, altering their energy levels until they sought each other out for company. Snow began to fall outside the window, each flake unique.
Just like mutants: each cursed with his or her own singular abilities.
The car finally cleared the treeline and raced toward the mansion, belching smoke from its exhaust. Crimson and yellow flames had been painted along its sides. Logan had the top down, despite the rain, and his abundant black sideburns were whipping back behind him like a scarf as he drove. He was smiling ferally, and Bobby could see the glint of his too-white teeth in the morning sunlight.
“Bobby, you’re worried,” said a calm voice from the room behind him.
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“With respect, Professor, it doesn’t take a telepath to spot that,” he replied. As he turned away from the window, the last thing he saw was Logan’s car slewing to a halt, throwing up an arc of gravel, and the man himself vaulting over the side and loping towards the door to the mansion. “I just don’t see how I can do this and keep the X-Men out of it. I’ve lied once already. If the authorities find out—” “I understand your concerns, Bobby,” the Professor said. The light from the roaring fire in his study gleamed off his hairless scalp, making him look like he had a crimson halo. “But remember, you will be serving your country.” “Professor, I’ve put my life on the line for my country more times than I can count. I just—”
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