Chapter 20: The Wrong Stuff
“Foolish girl! You broke one of the vials!”
Old sack of bones could still bellow with the best of them. Esme glared at Magneto--or Xorn when he had his mask on, like right now--and hissed, “I ran into Psylocke! She tore through the mansion like a bullet and all I could do was brace myself!”
“Did anyone else see you?”
“No,” she shook her head.
“Do you have your mental shields up, as strong as you can have them?”
“I told you already, yes, my sisters won’t sense anything from me.”
“I’m not worried about your sisters,” chuckled Magneto. “My daughter, she approaches.”
Not a moment later, the door opened to admit a euphoric Lorna, eyes bloodshot and body swaying to a silent beat. Her clothes, left over from Kurt’s party, smelled of beer and cigar smoke. The normally opulent green hair dulled and her skin held shades of gray. She looked like a ephemeral being about to drift away.
“Papa,” she breathed.
“Ms. Dane?” gasped Esme, temporarily bowled over at seeing one her instructors as high as a kite.
“Oh,” Lorna giggled at the girl’s stare, “one of the Stepford girls. Are you the bad one or the good ones?”
A brush against her mental barriers pulled Esme out of her shock. So innocuous the touch that if Esme wasn’t trying to look, she wouldn’t have caught the subtle--but nonetheless powerful--waves of emotion flowing from Lorna. Last she remembered, Ms. Dane’s abilities paralleled Magneto’s, but whatever she did now seemed more like an out of control empath’s. Emma Frost said a few words about this once, noting that some psychic energies could be indiscriminately exuded to influence those in the general vicinity.
She backed away and glanced at Magneto. “What’s she doing?”
“Helping us. I told you we would succeed, that mutantkind will rise and rule. Did you think I said those words in jest?”
“But... but... what about me?”
“You are the future,” the man said proudly, “You will be the shining example to all mutants who endure human oppression. Your actions will galvanize those who think they have no choice and spur them to our cause. You have the honor of being my first disciple.”
But Esme didn’t want to be a disciple. She wanted to rule alongside Magneto, not be his banner or pet project. The point behind this rebellion was empowerment, and she didn’t feel particularly empowered by standing next to two highly trained, well experienced, certifiably insane, and incredibly deadly mutants. Smart little Esme didn’t want to die either, so she kept her mouth shut. Deducing the best course of action, she played the role of glassy-eyed follower.
“What should this disciple do?”
Magneto threw an odd, green colored vial at her. “Eliminate Marvel Girl.”
The container might’ve garnered her attention, but Esme wasn’t deaf. “You want me to kill Rachel Summers?!”
“You’re holding a lethal variation of Kick. One dose causes the user’s powers to overload and their body to breakdown. Inject the Summers girl and the expulsion of her psychic remains will neutralize all unready telepaths in the vicinity. Then, our plan will begin in earnest.”
“Wait, I handed the last shipment of Kick to you. There wasn’t anything like this in it.”
“Do you think I rely on you and Toad for every aspect of my machinations?”
Ok, Esme had no problems going ahead with nefarious plans, double-crossing many of her instructors, and making life difficult for humans. Absolutely none at all. Her issues came when Magneto, Master of Magnetism, nemesis of the X-Men, tapped her to take out one of the most powerful telepaths on the face of the planet.
Back to her original contention. “You want me to kill Rachel Summers with a needle?!”
“She’s drunk,” Lorna butted in as she steadied herself on the dresser. “Kitty and Shan... the three of them are wasted. I checked on them at Harry’s. She’ll be too far gone to see anyone coming, let alone a innocent little student with a needle.”
“I... I...”
Magneto put his hand on her shoulder. “Esme, this is war. Killing is a given. The true soldiers have the fortitude to forge through the darkness and emerge with victory. Are you a true disciple?”
Only one correct answer to the question. “Yes.”
“Good. You learn quickly. Now go.”
Afraid for her life, Esme nodded and hurried out, presumably to do her task. When the door closed, Lorna laughed and shrugged at her father.
“Do you think she’ll do it, Papa?”
“Which one? Attempt or succeed?”
“Both.”
“Neither.”
“Then why did you tell her to kill Rachel?”
“My daughter, this mansion stands on its last leg--any disturbance will send it tumbling down. If Esme even attempts the deed, she will be the X-Men’s target, which leaves us alone to surprise our enemies. If she doesn’t, I will know her convictions and act accordingly.”
“You’re so smart, Papa.”
*****************
Mystique never used front doors, never believed in them. Why knock when breaking and entering was so much more sophisticated and interesting? Nothing beat the surprised look on someone’s face when they came into a private sanctum and saw an intruder drinking their expensive liquor. Priceless stuff, and as much as Mystique loved Irene, the woman was absolutely no fun in that regard. Surprising a precognitive? Impossible.
But surprising Rogue was possible, so Mystique planned to pass up the front doors of the Xavier Institute and go straight for her daughter’s window. Seriously, what mother wouldn’t know which room her daughter stayed in? None, except for estranged mothers, and Mystique didn’t consider herself an estranged mother yet.
Key word, yet.
Another reason for breaking and entering: Rogue wasn’t speaking to her. Actually, Mystique wasn’t on speaking terms with any of the X-Men, least of all Chucky Egghead Xavier. With such delightful facts in mind, Raven Darkholme parked her car a few miles down the road, sneaked onto the premise, and went around back. In all honesty, the sudden rumble of jet engines and the Blackbird taking off scared her half to death, but she kept a solid lock on her reaction.
Oddly, when she got within a few hundred feet of the mansion, a well of anger sprung up inside of her. Damned X-Men and them keeping Rogue away from her. They didn’t raise Rogue, she and Irene did. Bunch of meddlesome, human loving cretins held her daughter in some kind of brainwashed state. She’d show them. She’d show Rogue who had her best intentions in mind. Ungrateful bi-
No, wait, timeout. Mystique breathed deeply and stilled her raging heart. Had to remember she circumscriptively sent Rogue here. Had to remember the animosity between daughter and mother was an act to keep Rogue safe, at least from Mystique’s own end. Had to remember Irene’s last words. Calling upon her masterful emotional control and whatever mental barriers she had, Mystique pushed the chaos away and refocused on her daughter. However, despite her best effort, each step continued to infuriate her, and the closer she got to the mansion, the more she just wanted to bomb the damned place and get everything over with.
“What’s going on?” she muttered to herself.
Xavier called this X-Men breeding ground a school, and by the oppressive air weighing on her, she gathered he wasn’t running a tight enough ship. Maybe another crazy mutant pet project got let loose. Wonder if she could take Rogue out of the school by citing the atmosphere as not conducive to her daughter’s well-being.
You know, like all those worried American parents out there.
“This school isn’t safe. My children aren’t safe here. It’s a terrible environment. The lunches make them fat. I’m going to have them home schooled.”
The image of her marching into Xavier’s office and demanding a tuition refund brought a smile to her face, lessening the negative emotions enough to get a handle on. She giggled to herself.
“Laughter chases away the anger,” she quoted from Irene’s diary. She tilted her head to the sky. “Always looking out for me and my temper, aren’t you?”
Mental note: stay away from Psylocke’s room, wherever it may be. The stuff about poles and chess Mystique could worry about later: Irene’s predictions always made more sense when the moment approached.
That’s it, think about Irene. Her playfulness. Her sweet voice. Her razor sharp wit. Her many... talents.
Didn’t take long to scale the wall up to Rogue’s window, and would you know it, the girl even left the window open a crack. Christ sake, it was the middle of winter, at least keep the window closed. Could catch a bad cold this way.
“Mystique?”
The woman in question envisioned this going a lot better. For one, saying “Mystique” instead of “Mama” cut to the bone, but it was a wound she’d silently bore for years. Second, she didn’t expect Rogue to catch her while sneaking in.
A nightlight turned on, bathing the cozy room in a warm glow. The combination of antiquity--old standing lamps, an oak dressing screen, a four large post bed--blended with down-home Cajun flair--brash colors, a fully occupied hat rack, pulp art posters. Rogue curled herself inside layers of down comforters and other toasty coverings, making her appear to be a large hot dog.
“Ah don’t care whatcha doin’, Mystique,” the brunette glowered, “Get out.”
First thing’s first. “Is Psylocke’s room nearby?”
Confusion. “Wha? No... Ah mean, get out!”
Mystique vaulted through the window and closed it behind her. “You’re going to catch a cold if you leave that thing open.”
“You... just... argh! You’re annoyin’, ya know that?!”
The metamorph’s eyes softened. “I’m here to help you, Rogue.”
“Help me?” she growled. “Help me with what?! Is this another one of yo plans to get rid of the X-Men?!”
“I’m here to help that boyfriend of yours, Remy LeBeau.”
“Remy ain’t even here! Don’t lie to me!”
Irene pegged Rogue in one word--stubborn. With the patience only a parent would have, Mystique said, “He’s in New Orleans on some kind of business.”
“How-”
“Irene told me. I... She...”
God, this was too hard, too soon. She couldn’t do this now, not after losing what little she had left of Irene. She couldn’t lock horns with Rogue like this. Any other kind of distress at any other time she could block out, but when it came to Irene and losing her, Raven couldn’t help herself. Rogue pushed all the memories of Irene to the forefront. At least back then she still had Irene’s diaries, still had a shard of her love to hang on to, but now, nothing. Nothing and her obstinate oaf of a daughter wouldn’t even listen to her.
This was too much.
Rogue had never seen tears on her mother’s face. The woman was so strong, her defenses so thick, her personality so evanescent that crying never figured into Rogue’s perception of her. The mere act brought the brunette out of her suspicious manner. Mystique might’ve been difficult to read, but right now, she looked crushed, no two ways about it.
Though Rogue had her misgivings, she wasn’t heartless either. Balancing family or friends, parent or enemy--hard stuff, but Rogue called upon her better judgment. She scooted aside, made room on her bed. In a small voice, she asked, “Ya wanna sit?”
“I made a mistake,” said Mystique, recovering as best she could, “You wanted me out, I’m out of here and out of your life for good.”
The honesty in her voice brought back Rogue’s childhood memories. For the adoptive daughter of two infamous mutants, she led an incredibly normal life. Irene walked her to school, always knowing when to pack her a lunch or when to press a few dollars into her hand in the case the cafeteria cooked up something good. The three had picnics in the park, often punctuated by Mama playing various pranks on other picnic-goers while she and Irene watched from behind some bushes. She had the usual growing-up experiences--Mama and Irene made sure of it.
But everything changed when her powers manifested. The three of them drifted apart emotionally. Irene and Mama involved her in their plans, which for a normal girl raised as normally as possible, didn’t sit well. Hell, Mama became outright hostile. The tenderness left her voice, and that’s when Mama turned into Mystique.
And this woman climbing out her window didn’t sound like Mystique.
“Mama?”
Mystique stiffened. The last whisper sounded so much like her young daughter she wanted to turn around and embrace her. But her young daughter grew up and the woman her daughter became didn’t want her here.
“I’m sorry, Irene,” Mystique quietly whispered, “I can’t do this.”
“What did you say, Mama? I couldn’t hear ya.”
Mystique jumped and rolled with the fall. The unforgiving December cold bit at her, but she got up and ran. She ran from Irene’s memory. She ran from Rogue. She ran from her destiny. The desperate idiot in her thought that if she didn’t follow through on Irene’s words then nothing would happen and she would still have the last page of Irene’s last diary to relive every day.
Branches slapped her. Recently fallen snow slowed her. Wind pelted her. Closer the mansion walls came. Closer, then freedom. Freedom to live every day like today and never face tomorrow.
An arm wrapped around her waist, and before she could yelp, she found herself flying into the night sky. Her turmoil lessened, but the sadness still lingered. At least she had control of her voice.
“Put me down, Rogue.”
“No, Mama, not till you tell me why you cryin’.”
“Now I’m suddenly Mama?!” she snapped, unable to hold down her bitterness. “Where were you when Irene died?! She loved you, Rogue! She gave everything to you! I GAVE EVERYTHING TO YOU! Where were you?!”
“Ah was here! Ah didn’t do nothin’ cuz ah didn’t want you rippin’ off ma face! If ya forgot, ah wasn’t ‘xactly on yo Christmas list back then!”
Everything changed when Rogue’s powers manifested, and still to this day, Mystique chaffed at not being able to protect her daughter on her own. The X-Men, ever a source of conflict between the two. As if two minutes and a bowl of tears would heal every hurt. Wishful freakin’ thinking. Those furious exclamations about Irene probably confused the poor girl more than they placated her.
“Ya never cried like this. It... it’s scarin’ me.”
Mystique gazed into her daughter’s eyes. Strong, beautiful, confident, compassionate--the scrawny little girl grew up well. What parent wouldn’t be proud? The heartache, the lies, the separation, and the battles distilled down to this rock who supported her mother. Somewhere in the tears for Irene, a scant handful joyfully rolled out for Rogue. Now, clutched in the arms of her baby, Mystique felt old, every one of her long years grating on her like a pestle on a mortar.
A parent once said life is only as fulfilling as one’s children.
The bone weariness didn’t seem so bad anymore. A woman could get used to this sort of thing, the feeling proud part at least.
The sadness slowed. “I’m a wreck, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be like that, Mama. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong? Rogue, that will take the whole night.”
“Ah got the time.”
“But that boy of yours doesn’t. Let’s deal with him first, then we talk.”
Rogue shivered, perhaps of the cold, perhaps in worry. “What kinda trouble Remy into this time?”
“In a word? Vargas.”
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- To be continued...
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