Chapter 49: Writing on the Wall
Déjà vu ambushed Mystique.
Lying on the cold grass of a demon infested park? Check. Woman straddling her? Check. Same woman threatening to kill her? Check. Oh hey, look, and there was Vargas again, still swinging his sword like a guillotine. The demons? Still dying, despite scads of them charging at him.
“What did you say?” Tessa, Sebastian Shaw’s plaything, squeezed her thighs around Mystique’s ribs: if the moving wasn’t so damned sexy, it would’ve been scary. However, sexy or not, behind those sunglasses, Tessa’s dark eyes sparkled dangerously. The gun in her hand--and aimed at Mystique’s forehead--translated into trouble.
Confused? Well, here’s the instant replay of recent events.
After Tessa took the wheel of the Eclipse and hustled back toward Battery Park, Mystique had a question: why Battery Park? Why not the Empire State Building where Magneto had to be stopped, where Polaris did something wacky, and where every other X-Man seemed to be? Weren’t the X-Men the same mutants who emphasized teamwork and meshing abilities?
Why Battery Park indeed. Demon-filled and Vargas occupied, that few square miles of green lost its family appeal and Mystique herself wasn’t keen on going back. In addition, crinkles in her jacket, the smell of burnt fabric, and bruises on her skin dampened Tessa’s well-groomed, ice-cool image. A little corner of a singed playing card clung to the bottom of her pant leg.
Curiouser and curiouser...
And then things started making sense.
Battery Park. Belasco. The Cajun in New Orleans. Vargas chasing said Cajun. Dark Beast hiring Mystique. Magneto turning New York upside down. Planes crashing. Cerebra being broken. Bombs lighting the city ablaze. None of it was a coincidence. For so much chaos to happen at the same time required a devious blueprint executed by a meticulously organized entity.
Tessa fit the archetype. Sure explained a lot too, stuff like going to Battery Park (perchance to get back up from Belasco), the singed playing card (a fight with the Cajun), not backing the X-Men (well, helping the ones you wanted to hurt was pretty pointless), and flipping out when Mystique murmured, “Smells like a traitor.”
Of course, she didn’t mean to say it out loud, but like a lot of other statements, she couldn’t take it back. On the plus side, Tessa drove much more under control than Frost, so when she pulled up on the emergency brake and ejected both of them from the blown out front window, Mystique only screamed in sheer terror as opposed to cowering.
When she opened her eyes, Tessa straddled her, gun drawn and face frowning.
Stop rewind. Play.
“What. Did. You. Say,” the cyberpath carefully enunciated.
The gun didn’t compel Mystique to answer. Suffice to say, if the gun didn’t do the job, then the mean stare, hugging leather thighs, and surrounding danger didn’t fare any better.
“You heard what I said,” smirked Mystique, “I’m just feeling proud of myself for figuring you out before the X-Men did, Attrior.”
Didn’t put a face to the name till now. A traveling woman like Mystique heard many names in a day, especially when dealing with loquacious mutants. She filed away the information for a later time, and the “later time” was now.
“You are self-assured in your assessment.”
“The Dark Beast talked... a lot. He wasn’t the best choice of accomplices.”
“Now, I will have to kill you.”
The smirk never faded. “You can try.”
Before the hammer dropped, Rogue crashed into Tessa’s side and imbedded her into a nearby tree. Hard to lose smugness when a super strength daughter stood, or rather flew, at the ready.
“She hurt you, Mama?”
A witty quip prepared to unload itself, but before it did, the commotion of cold steel divesting others of body parts numbed all thought. Demons went unintentionally soaring, flung from their previous spot by a scratched but otherwise unharmed Vargas.
Sword still humming of death, he pointed the weapon at Rogue and declared, “You!”
Her DNA shifted itself, realigning and reconfiguring to match Vargas’ unique genetic signatures. She became stronger than ever possible and time slowed in her mind. Her body tuned itself to a point beyond bleeding edge. A sick sensation made itself known in the bottom of her stomach, the same feeling she got whenever she assumed someone else’s life and abilities.
“Destiny’s child,” Vargas mumbled. He dismissively slapped away the few stragglers not felled by his onslaught. “I couldn’t kill your lover, but I will not make the same mistake with you. Come, taste my revenge before your taste your own blood.”
Mystique grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Don’t let him get to-”
With reckless abandon, the stubborn girl lunged forward. Things about Polaris, psychic attacks, and fighting smart instead of hard never made it out Mystique’s mouth. Frowning replaced talking, and after this, after killing Vargas once and for all, she’d sit down and give the girl a long lecture about the shit-for-tactics the X-Men seemed to be peddling. Come on, in one evening, she’d witnessed the mansion’s destruction, the team’s capture, two crazy ladies driving through Manhattan like it was drag race, and no real organized attempt to stop any of the present catastrophes.
Made Mystique wonder what she did wrong to constantly lose to these people.
The woman sighed and moved to assist Rogue, but the distinct sound of a gunshot zipping by where she was a second ago put her on high alert. Her eyes shifted to source of the disturbance.
Tessa.
“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“My life is complete. Every additional moment is a bonus.”
Shit, not another one of those suicidal types: one a day was one too many. Not wanting to be a target for another easy shot, Mystique dove into the foliage before another two came her way.
Tessa gave chase.
*****************
“Please sir, put the gun down.”
“No way, lady! Get me outta here and people don’t get shot!”
Meggan raised her hands in an unthreatening way and hoped he didn’t snap. The man was determined and that maddened gleam in his eyes disturbed her. With a gun in his grip and a child in his grasp, Meggan dared not risk a surprise maneuver. Should he kill the child, everyone here would probably go ballistic, which was the last thing she needed.
She tried the peaceful approach again. “Can I do something for you that will make you stop?”
“Yeah.” He waved the barrel of his pistol at the crowd gawking at him. “Tell ‘em to get out of my way and I’ll be gone. I don’t wanna kill no one, but,” and he pushed the barrel against his young hostage’s temple to highlight his statement, “I ain’t above it neither.”
“You do know that if the demons see you, they’ll eviscerate you and follow your scent back to us.”
Key words--“eviscerate” and “demons”--put the occupants of Frost Tower on edge. A ripple of murmurs rose over the oppressively warm air, and if possible, the stress level went up to the higher stratosphere. The man’s resolve faltered, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and pointed the gun at Meggan.
“You’re fuckin’ with me, lady. I don’t appreciate people fuckin’ with me!”
Meggan didn’t appreciate people pointing guns at her but she quashed her complaint. “Why do you want to leave? Don’t you realize how dangerous it is out there?”
“Don’t matter. My son’s down at Times Square and I just felt an earthquake or something. All these fuckin’ mutants can go to hell! I gotta find him!”
A desperate father, huh? The blonde sighed and closed her eyes. No decent human being refused such a request, but at the same time, his reckless devotion to his son put the greater community in danger. Undying love or selfish folly--whatever she chose to label this act as, Meggan couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that many lives and much happiness rested on her shoulders.
Already mutants and demons breached Frost Towers. If Brian didn’t hurry, they’d have to seek shelter elsewhere, and to walk out into the street in a large group of obvious humans meant certain doom. Was she really saving this man’s life for very long? Did this man even want to be saved?
Problem: if he left, others would want to leave too. Eventually, separate voices would degenerate what little order remained, and like that, everything would blow away.
Problem: if he stayed, he probably wouldn’t put the gun down. Bad things would happen and people would run out into the streets, screaming and crying like the wrecks they were.
Meggan hated moral dilemmas which were unfortunate consequences of the superheroine lifestyle. “Does your son have a cell phone?”
“Yes,” the man snapped, “Don’t you think I’ve tried? He’s not answering!”
Looking around, she lifted a phone from one of the people surrounding her. The woman didn’t seem to notice or mind. “Call him again,” offered Meggan. “Maybe he just didn’t have reception.”
Suspicious, the man shrank away and tightened his hold on the silently sobbing boy.
Meggan turned her charm on: smile comforting, eyes compassionate, shoulders relaxed. “Please? If you call him and no one answers, I promise I’ll let you go to Times Square.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” the blonde nodded.
She stepped closer to him, arm out and holding the cell phone. The sweating, gun totting man reached for the device, but he never made it there. When their fingers got close enough, a jolt of electricity passed from Meggan to the man--nothing powerful enough to kill him, but enough to make him lose consciousness for a short second or two. The gun, man, and boy all went their separate directions, and in no time, the policemen in the crowd stepped in to cuff the prone hostage taker.
Crisis averted, time to feel proud, but somehow, the stares many of the older people gave her chilled her bones. They questioned her decision, and for the first time, Meggan went face to face with an unadoring, skeptical public.
She didn’t know what to make of it. Everyone in London was so... so... grateful, but these Americans scowled and frowned like she stole their money clips. She helped them all, and if they lived to tell about it, they’d be thanking her in their stories. For now, they made her feel so small and petty, their questions and quiet outrage penetrating her already thin emotional armor.
Brian would’ve stood taller and descend down the stairs. Betsy would’ve spun on her heel and left. Meggan retreated, her posture devoid of her usual joy.
For better or for worse, she wasn’t used to rejection.
******************
- To be continued....
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