X-Men: The Last Stand (24 page)

Some folks called it Mutie Town. Some smart-ass in the city bureaucracy slapped on the label District X. Back in the day—which in this instance was a century and a half ago—Manhattan’s Lower East Side had been the tenement home to successive waves of immigrants to America’s shores, starting with the Irish, then the Italians, the Jews, all the polyglot variations of country and culture in Middle Europe, followed by the Chinese and most lately, the rest of Southeast Asia. The joke in the Big Apple was that you could stroll from the Williamsburg to the Manhattan Bridge and encounter the world in small, every nationality and ethnic group currently extant upon the globe. And probably a fair sampling of the ancient ones as well. It was
that
kind of city.

The newest to arrive sort of broke the mold, in that these folks were substantially homegrown. Here, among the mean streets and hardcore neighborhoods the city would rather forget, mutants gathered to make their home. And like every immigrant group that preceded them, once established they’d begun to extend their influence beyond those initial, confining boundaries, agitating over time for the same services and respect accorded everyone else. True, they lived in a ghetto, but they also believed acceptance was only a matter of time.

Here, in the media capital of the world, Warren Worthington Jr. and Kavita Rao had established their first clinic, promising an instant escape from years of struggle and hardship, offering the chance for mutants to rejoin the rest of humanity.

Rogue had waited on line all night to reach the clinic. She’d filled out all the proper forms and been assigned a place in the waiting room. And that was how she spent her day, from that point on: sitting, watching those around her, and waiting. Same as them.

Some of the mutants appeared excited, others conflicted. The first time they called your name, it was for a session with a counselor, who outlined the nature of the procedure, the potential ramifications. For example, special care had to be taken with those mutants whose life processes involved toxic substances or harmful environments. Reverting someone with gills without the means of yanking them out of the water, pronto, was a nonstarter. Likewise a mutant with sulfuric acid for blood. If you existed in multiple dimensions, Rogue mused to herself, how can you be sure you’ll end up in the right one?

The other aspect the counselor hammered home, returning to it again and again, was the fact that you couldn’t change your mind. Once applied, the reversion couldn’t be undone. You make the choice, you’re stuck with the consequences. Being a mutant, that was fate’s fault, or nature’s, or God’s; you could vent against those higher powers all you pleased. The cure, however, was all on you.

That’s why no adolescents were being allowed to participate in these initial trials. Accepting the legal arguments put forth by attorney Vange Whedon (herself a mutant, able to morph into a dragon), head of the Mutant Rights Coalition, the feds had conceded this was too big and absolute a decision to be made
for
someone, even by loving parents wanting only the best for their children.

Rogue had done her session this morning, returned to her seat, and patiently continued to wait her turn, wishing her power applied to inanimate objects as well as people so she could lay a hand on this chair and turn herself into a statue of plastic and metal. The longer she waited, the crazier she became, content with her choice one moment, frantic the next. She thought of all she’d done with the X-Men and wondered
How could she possibly give up such a life?

She ached for Bobby’s touch and wondered why she had to wait, and then worried what would happen if things didn’t work out—if he had only pretended to care for her? She had to admit there was a fundamental safety in her power. Her body was absolutely her own, and no one could lay a hand on her without suffering the consequences. Could she handle being vulnerable? Was the need that ate her up inside worth the price?

Oh God, oh
God,
what if she was wrong?

The inner door opened and a couple emerged. They’d been a mixed pair, she remembered from earlier—he a mutant, she not. Now, they were just a couple, very much in love, holding each other, cooing endearments, touching, stroking, marveling at this catalogue of new sensations that made them perpetually giddy.

The nurse overseeing the line consulted her clipboard and read off the next name.

“Marie,” she called.

The name didn’t register at first. Rogue was too used to being addressed by her code name. When the nurse called again, she reacted with a start, raising her hand and putting herself into a minor tumult as she gathered her gear and stepped through the indicated doorway.

Protestors lined the street, pro-cure and anti-, plus a group representing the self-proclaimed “Web-Nation”
Purity,
who called down a plague on both their houses, decrying the cure as a worthless smokescreen and holding fast to their core belief that the only good mutant was a dead mutant.

Opposite, and looking understandably anxious, was an unexpectedly thick crush of mutants, all apparently trying to get into the clinic at once. The police had started out by establishing and trying to enforce a line along the face of the clinic building, but the number and intensity of the protestors had gradually driven those prospective patients into a huddle of self-defense. There’d been attempts to move the protestors back, but again sheer numbers were a problem. The fact that two of the three groups consisted of individuals with every variety and degree of power didn’t help. Closing the clinic and sending everyone home was no option—that decision was just as guaranteed to start a riot as attacking the protestors.

The reality of the situation was that nobody had anticipated the sheer numbers involved, on all sides. Tomorrow, they’d hopefully have a better plan. For today, which so far had gone fairly well, they’d just have to keep their fingers crossed.

Bobby couldn’t believe his eyes as he had made the corner of Houston and found himself facing police lines and bodies galore. Talking really fast and using a lifetime’s quota of dumb luck, he’d managed to work his way up to the clinic. Didn’t hurt to bump into some friends among the cops, including the tactical commander on-scene, Inspector Lucas Bishop (a mutant and former student of Xavier’s) and his senior sergeant, Charlotte Jones.

It was a gamble coming down here, but try as he might he couldn’t think of where else Rogue might go. He understood that he was a large part of the reason why she might consider taking such a step, but he really couldn’t comprehend why she’d go through with it; he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up his power for anything. Until, thinking hard on the train ride into Grand Central, he had asked himself how
he’d
feel if their powers were switched. If he couldn’t ever touch the woman he so desperately loved. He understood as well that he could promise to be faithful on a stack of Bibles, and
mean
it, and she’d still have doubts. Because, as she’d said, he was a
guy.

But he had to believe there was another way. Or—if she was truly determined to go through with it, he would join her. Would he hate her for that, after? Would she come to resent him, in the belief that he hated her for it? Suppose things didn’t work out—what then?

His head was splitting and his heart was pounding. He couldn’t think anymore. The more he tried to find a way out of this maze, the more tangled and crazy he got.

In desperation, he had boiled it down to one immutable element: he loved Rogue. He would search until he found her. Everything else could wait until afterwards.

As the crowd condensed more and more into an immovable crush, Bobby wished he was much taller.

Then, he caught a familiar flash of emerald green exiting the clinic. He didn’t need to see her distinctive stripe to know it was her, just knowing the way she moved was enough.

Yelling her name did no good. She had her head down, and he felt ice form around his heart at the thought she’d actually done it.

But thinking of ice gave him an idea. If he couldn’t reach her with his voice, he’d deliver a message
made
of ice, writing her name between the buildings in great big letters.

He lost sight of her and tried to bull his way forward, realizing that his brilliant idea wouldn’t be of much use if he put the signal up on the wrong street.

Bobby was making decent headway—when he ran into Pyro.

“Johnny?” he asked foolishly. “What are you doing here?”

“What are
you,
popsicle?” Pyro sneered back at him, making it impossible for Bobby to believe they’d ever been buds. “Getting ‘cured’ so you can go home to mommy and daddy?”

“Fuck you.”

Pyro noticed Bobby still searching the crowd and snapped his fingers.

“Oh, I get it. Looking for your girlfriend. Figures she’d be here.”

You really are an asshole,
Bobby thought. Without consciously realizing it, he’d clenched his fists, his power coating them with a sheen of ice.

“Same old Bobby,” Pyro chuckled, and it wasn’t a compliment. Bobby wanted to wipe the smirk off the other mutant’s face but there were too many bystanders, packed too close around them. “Still scared of a fight.”

Bobby heard the faint click of Pyro’s Zippo and saw a small ball of fire appear on the flattened palm of an out-held hand.

Oh my God,
he thought, and made a grab for his former roommate as Pyro headed for the clinic.

“Stop!” he cried uselessly, knowing Pyro wouldn’t listen. “John,
stop
!”

He caught at the other’s sleeve, but John sidestepped between some other people, breaking the hold and using them to block Bobby’s path while he worked his way closer to the building.

Bobby heard him yell, as if this were a treat,
“Fire in the hole!”
and then, Pyro let loose a sphere of fire the size of a soccer ball, arcing it through the air like a goalie clearing the net. Perfect aim, right through a ground-floor window.

It detonated like a bomb, flames punching out every door and window along that corner of the structure, casting forth a shockwave of blistering heat that knocked those nearest flat to the street and set the rest of the crowd to panicked, screaming flight.

Bobby was among those dropped by the force of the explosion, and the only one to react properly. A score of people were burning, clothes ignited by the outrush of flames, and even as he started to move towards them, a series of sharp secondary blasts shattered windows on the upper floors, sending a cascade of glass shards towards the crowd like searing-hot shrapnel.

His response was just as quick—he generated cocoons of ice to extinguish the folks who were burning, plus a wall to shield the rest from the flying glass. He could hear screams from inside the building. The fire had spread with fearful speed along the ground floor, covering the elevators and stairwells, trapping everyone who was upstairs. It was a low-rise building, the fire department could reach the upper windows and roof with their ladders—except that the blaze was growing too quickly. Pyro’s fireball was composed of superheated plasma of such intensity it created an instant firestorm inside the building. Quick as New York’s Bravest could possibly respond, even if it was only a matter of minutes, they’d likely find nothing but a gutted shell.

Bobby iced the roof and worked his way down from there, intentionally keeping the coating thin enough that it would almost instantly melt. It wasn’t easy—he had to provide enough ice to create a constant deluge of water that would check the advance of the flames, enabling him to advance gradually upon the hyperhot core of the firestorm. Dumping ice directly on top of it would create a disaster all its own. The near-solar heat would flash the ice directly to steam, proving just as deadly to anyone it touched and doing nothing to eliminate the threat.

At the same time, he created a pair of ice slides at the other end of the building, as far removed as possible from the fire itself, allowing those trapped a means to escape.

His head quickly began to pound—he wasn’t used to this much exertion. The more ice he generated to douse the fire, the more it demanded. He felt like he was trying to fill an ocean by himself. The air around him grew tinder dry, and lashes of pain laid themselves across his back and chest as the effort of channeling atmospheric moisture through his body grew exponentially.

Then, dimly, far off in the distance, he heard the grumble of thunder, and a gust of air swirled around him, as heavy with moisture as a fog. He remembered the phalanx of cameras—the day’s events were being carried by every local channel and the 24/7 national news feeds. When Pyro threw his bombshell, they must have gone live globally—which he’d bet his life was exactly what Magneto had planned. At the same time, though, it must have allowed Storm to see his predicament and realize what was needed. She’d upped the humidity in the air around him to the level of a tropical rain forest, giving him more than enough resources to finish the job.