Chapter 55: The Endsong
Doctor Strange. The name implied a familiarity to the outlandish and, well, strange. Over his long tenure as Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen had been privy to a bevy of mind-bending, unexplainable phenomena. Despite his vast experiences and categorical knowledge of the weird, a handful of happenings still eluded or confounded him.
Take Belasco as a perfect example. Objectively, the demon was gifted in every form of combat: he’d just as easily gut someone with a scythe as rot their insides with a spell. Vast training and experience allowed him to excel on multiple fronts at the same time. Why, Strange himself had once witnessed the magnus cut down a handful of warriors, telepathically fry another sorcerer’s mind, and summon a large demon to do his bidding all at the same time.
Talk about multitasking.
So when in the midst of throwing close range spells at each other, Doctor Strange got the surprise of his life when Belasco went rigid, clutched his bleeding ears, and screamed in unadulterated agony. The other demons looked at their master, concern and fear on their faces. The homing sword, the same one which made quick passes every few seconds to try and cut off Strange’s head, spun out of control into the hosts of violent Otherworld denizens.
Why the surprise? Well, because Strange did nothing to result in this turn of events. However, he saved the detailed analysis for later when said mystical twirling device of doom glanced off the side of a building and headed straight for him. Strange rolled his eyes and flew away, resigned to another round of evasion.
But the sword didn’t follow him. Instead, though wobbling and slowing, it came to a screeching halt half buried in Belasco’s skull. The entire area shut down, quiet as they gazed upon the sight. Eyes glossy and still, the Otherworld warlord dropped from the sky and into the murky darkness below, his body descending faster than the streaks of blood flowing from his fatal wound like miniature, gravity defying rivers.
Crash went his body as it collapsed the roof of a burnt car.
A great shrill drowned the night. Fury of the worst kind embraced the remaining demons. They became suicidal, charging as one and not caring to adjust their tactics. Somewhat battered, Strange couldn’t hold off the waves and waves of opponents, and eventually, two of them latched onto his legs and deemed it to necessary to either yank his legs off to send him on a one-way meeting to the cement.
Plummeting, the Sorcerer Supreme had a clear view of Brian Braddock being gashed from all sides. He looked tired, and every new set of marks staggered him further as he approached the limit of his superhuman endurance. Gambit did even worse: only the force of his dwindling kinetic explosions kept him alive and even then probably not for long. Emma and Betsy appeared dead already, the two lying atop each other in a picture still frame. Storm was on her way to joining them, the missing chunk in her side and the continued pummeling by the Magneto look-alike making her quieter by the second.
A spark broke through the demonic legions and lit up the night sky. Far away off in the horizon, a ball of fire hurled toward the Empire State Building at an unbelievable speed. On closer inspection, the figure wasn’t a ball but rather a bird, a huge bird composed of pure, awe-inspiring flames. Though he never saw it firsthand before, Doctor Strange guessed that this was the glorious Phoenix, the same one which confounded his friend Charles to no ends, the same force that could make--or break--a galaxy with a single thought.
The bird soared high above and increased its size, eventually taking up the entire Manhattan skyline. Every eye glued itself onto the divine manifestation, and for a moment, every one held their breaths. In the middle floated four people: X’ian, Rachel, Logan, and Jean. The eldest woman smiled at everything that was beneath her remarkable aura. She looked... peaceful, like one who knew and was comfortable with her fate.
The coming seconds, Doctor Strange decided, would be extremely interesting.
*****************
“Mom, what happened to Manhattan?”
“A great tragedy.”
“No shit, Jeanie. Never thought I’d live to see the day when the Big Apple would look a flamin’ lot like Tombstone. Place looks more fucked up than an aftermath o’ Cable’s fights with Stryfe.”
“Logan, watch your language. My daughter is standing next to you.”
“The kid’s heard worse, Red, tons worse. Now, you gonna fill us in on the cosmic details or are we just whistlin’ in the dark?”
“Thousands of lives have been lost today all in the name of one person’s revenge. Bright futures have been snuffed out and existence has changed in a fundamental way. After tonight, the mutant-human relationship will never be the same. After tonight, the Professor’s dream will be set back innumerable years. After tonight, the X-Men will be needed more than ever.
“The Phoenix has made its judgment. While the wounds run deep, they are only wounds: the world has the opportunity to heal and within that healing process, better itself. The journey will be difficult, but the bonds tempered in these trying times can become the foundation for a brighter tomorrow.”
“What don’t kill ya only makes ya stronger.”
“No, whatever doesn’t kill you only hurts a lot.”
“X’ian! That was really negative of you.”
“Sorry Rachel but it’s true.”
Jean beamed at her three companions. “From the ashes, another world will rise. The wrongs of today cannot be undone but they can, and must be, prevented from happening again. All of you have a role to play; all of you must work together to uphold the Phoenix’s judgment.”
“Us? What ‘bout you, Red?”
“I am the judge, Logan. I’ve already interfered too much because I love all of you so. I must leave the world’s destiny in your hands, otherwise, whatever comes to pass will be nothing more than a reflection of what I want it to be, not what it was meant to be.”
“Wait just a damned minute-”
“This is as far as the future goes. Every moment from now on will be a product of your hands, not Destiny’s, not Apocalypse’s, not anyone else’s. The future ends now and your present begins.”
*****************
They were losing Kurt. Hank tried his best with Forge’s futuristic first aid kit but nothing worked. Somehow, the inadvertent head-to-head contact with Kevin Ford had decayed a chunk of his cerebral cortex, the outermost region of the brain responsible for memory, higher thought, and sensory analysis. Due to the blow and decay, blood began stagnating inside Kurt’s cranium, exerting undue pressure on certain regions and robbing many areas of oxygen.
He slipped in and out of consciousness while Hank fussed and mussed. Though Forge equipped his kit with the best instruments, he geared most of it toward treating punctures and burns, not brain trauma. Then again, who ever heard of a brain surgery kit? Added to the lack of proper tools were Hank’s meaty, unwieldy hands courtesy of Tessa, her jumpstart power, and his own secondary mutation.
No one else had the expertise, not Scott, not Forge, not Jubilee, and not any of the students. Hank had the knowledge but not a means. As a doctor, he couldn’t gather himself to talk someone else through the procedure: the chance for failure was just too great.
Do no harm. Damn his fat digits, failing him again. All he could do now was hope, and when treating physical trauma to the brain, hope didn’t cut it.
“Jean.”
Everyone gathered in the dilapidated husk of the building spared Scott a glance. He seemed fixated on the windows despite strict instructions from none other but himself to stay hidden and avoid confrontation while Hank dealt with Kurt.
“Down with you,” said Forge, putting a hand on the fearless leader’s shoulder, “Jean might be out there but getting us noticed isn’t warranted.”
“No, Jean, she’s-”
The Phoenix illuminated the depressing night and chased away the shadows like naughty preschoolers. Flames wove into their sanctuary and touched every one present, some caresses, some pats, some formless smiles, and to Scott, a kiss, one passionate, loving, and sad all at once. While these X-Men gaped at the Phoenix’s power, a cocoon of energy spun around Kurt and burned.
Dead skin peeled away. Internal bruising scattered. Decrepit gray matter respawned. Where bone was once weak it now became strong. Blood flowed again, precious air bringing him back from the verge of a coma.
*****************
Warren feebly kicked at the hand holding his right ankle. His enhanced physiology gifted him with stronger but lighter bones fit for flight, but the iron grip crushed his leg like a tin can. Forward the demon pulled as it tried to fit a large Warren through a small hole. Small hole? Where did the small hole come from? Well, as hard as Bobby worked, even he couldn’t keep repairing his ice dome fast enough for it to withstand the combined efforts of Otherworld’s worst.
A strong armed individual punched a hole through the ice and the rest wasn’t far behind, at least according to their commotions.
“Hold on, Warren!”
A cold, white beam streaked into the hole and blindsided the demon who had its hand on Warren. The thing let go: one crisis adverted but the time spent on the split second diversion weakened the already weakening dome, allowing those outside to shatter a good sized opening in the top.
Ugly. The word spun around in Bobby’s head like a child after a case of Mountain Dew. If having rotting fangs, unsightly bulges, and puss spewing warts weren’t enough, this... this... personification of ugly had a hunchback, brown and green slime all over him, hairs where hairs shouldn’t be, blacked nails, old people’s skin, and a second mouth on its forehead. On its forehead! And the little mini-mouth gurgled and hissed even more than its big brother!
What an ugly son of a bitch. Or was this a woman? What an ugly bitch? Did it have a gender? Crap.
Bobby felt the urge to upchuck his dinner. Fortunately, he realized that the only thing he had for dinner was Tessa so he didn’t have to taste his typical repast of tacos, applesauce, fried rice, and rainbow sherbet Gerber-baby style.
Yeah, fried rice wasn’t too good half digested, but rainbow sherbet and applesauce, whew, that tasted good even after hanging a u-turn on the esophagus expressway.
That’s it, think about the culinary viability of vomit instead of looking at vomit given life. Bobby blasted the newly christened Ugly in the face and while watching he, she, or it tumble out of sight was fun, watching Ugly’s inbred siblings--Fugly and Scrambledeggwithsteaksauceface--come up to the batter’s box wasn’t.
They lunged, he blasted, more of the dome collapsed. Ugly’s extended family crashed the party, and for once, Iceman didn’t have enough ice for them all. As he augmented his body to drive back these things as much as possible, a cool fire wrapped around the dome’s remains and painted the surroundings with an orange tint. Every demon the fire touched got snuffed out of existence, and this wasn’t the normal, physical snuff out of existence: this was a gone-from-earth-without-a-trace-not-even-a-chance-to-scream snuff out of existence.
In his interesting life, Bobby had only seen this kind of fire once, and that one time ended badly. “What the fuck?”
The fire, after twirling around Warren, spoke to him like God speaking to Moses. “Calm down Bobby, I’m right here.”
*****************
“Mama!” Rogue called out again as she flew in the air. The ruins of Battery Park stared back at her, unwilling to give up any information. Everything was so dark after the portal closed, like a desert ghost town or dried up oasis.
Mystique didn’t make finding her easy: her dark blue skin blended into the night and unintentionally hid her... assuming the portal didn’t suck her in.
Rogue shook her head to get rid of the terrible thought. She was there for lots of the Illyana’s troubles and though she had problems with many people in her life, she wouldn’t wish the younger Rasputin’s fate on anyone else.
Hence the attempts to embrace Betsy. Hence the mounting dread in the pit of her stomach. Always the story with Mystique: here today, gone tomorrow, though not always of her volition. Last thing Rogue wanted now was to have her mama gone again. They had things to discuss, concerns to resolve, and if all went well, a relationship to salvage.
The little bit she read of Irene’s last diary painted her parents as loving and compassionate, a huge departure from their apparently hostile, uncaring façade. She hoped... actually, hoped was too strong a word. She wanted the diary to be true.
However, true or not, it wouldn’t make a difference if Mystique was missing or dead.
“Mama!”
When her voice died down, the Phoenix--the PHOENIX!--hugged the city like a mother hen. The few times she witnessed the manifestation, bad things happened: worlds ended, nefarious plans hatched, and Shi’ar got all up in arms. On the plus side, the sudden brightness reveled her mother below. Even high up here Rogue saw the wounds on her mother and cringed.
“Go to her.”
That voice! “Jean?”
The Phoenix’s glory touched her hand and gently pulled her down, down to the motionless Mystique. “She needs you.”
*****************
Alex got Sam breathing again but the elder Guthrie didn’t stir.
“He ain’t dead!” yelled Paige as she wriggled in her bonds, “Sam! Say somethin’!”
Bishop had a better idea. “Havok, release us so we can be of assistance.”
Before Alex could answer, an orange light wrapped around their eyes and separated them visually from each other. Fires burned away the dreaded mutant collars, pitiful ashes of synthetic material and circuitry rolling onto and off of their shoulders like loose lint. Ice pooled at their feet and metal unwound itself: total kinetic control, and Jean exerted a miniscule fraction of the ability. With nothing but a dismissive thought, she freed the three and proceeded to save the fourth.
“Wake up, Sam, it’s not your time yet.”
*****************
A mouth bit through her sword arm. Screaming, Amanda struck the monster in its head but the stubby little think kept its powerful jaws clenched. Others saw Limbo’s mistress in trouble and drooled to be the one to strike the killing blow. One of the opportunistic vultures, a demon with a single, sharp horn, lowered his head, closed its eyes, and charged into Amanda. The soft tearing of flesh and the crackle of brittle bone satisfied its ears.
When it opened its eyes, it expected to see a human impaled on its horn. What it found instead was its mouthy ally dead, teeth still clenched through Magik’s arm. The wily magician had used her attacker as a shield! The horned one recognized this fact too late: a brick red fist came from the side and pulverized its face.
Mikey smiled smugly. That arrogant lady owed him now. While he never proclaimed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, Mikey noticed clot when he saw it. Some weak person would never be the focus of so many of these “demons.” Hell, some weak person would never be able to fight off these things. Her sure strides pegged her as a woman who got her way all the time whether by coercion or force.
Yeah, Mikey knew power when he saw it and these superhero types were the same: headstrong and honor bound. He had a get out of jail free card now; whatever he did thirty minutes ago didn’t matter anymore. With a word from this lady, people would probably be calling him a hero too.
Well, that’s if he lived, which at the moment wasn’t a guarantee.
Not used to these kinds of massive fights, Mikey thought himself safe While the bulky, brick red bruiser gloated, demons moved. A pair of them crashed against the back of Mikey’s knees. Once brought low, others piled on top of him. Mikey’s mutations--enhanced strength, thickened skin, and the cool color pigment--allowed him to cast aside his first few attackers. They kept coming, attracted by the prospect of death and food.
And Amanda tried to save Mikey, she really did. Not her fault she had trouble keeping herself alive. What was that line from that movie, Shawshank Redemption? “Sudden, serious trauma causes the victim to bite down hard. In fact, I hear the bite reflex is so strong they have to pry the victim’s jaw open with a crowbar.”
Amanda didn’t have a crowbar handy--teeth brushed against bone. The world got lighter, slower, and her soulsword, wielded in her off-hand now, became heavy. Demons, demons all around and she couldn’t fight them off anymore. A quickly mumbled spell sent a conical blast of mystical energies around her, enough to push back the masses but not enough to hurt them in the slightest.
The demons pushed away from Mikey. Blood covered his brick red body, missing chunks and gleaming white bone showing through. Terror overcame Amanda: that was going to be her in a few seconds. These things draped themselves on the mutant for mere moments, and in that time, they chewed him into a half-consumed snack.
She’d seen it happen before but she never thought she’d be in a position for this to befall her. As she wove another spell, a small, doll-like creature jumped at her neck. She backhanded the bouncy fellow away, delaying her spell and letting others close in.
Had she been less of a heroine, Amanda would’ve teleported away to Limbo and healed herself. However, she understood that she was the only line of defense between these cannibalistic misfits and the scared survivors upstairs. She couldn’t leave not because she wasn’t able but because her conscience wouldn’t allow it.
Being the ruler of Limbo, she expected a fate like this one day. Fighting in the Otherworld wasn’t exactly simple or beautiful. Didn’t like it, but the thought rooted itself in the back of her mind. The innocents had no inklings of this grizzle death, and as long as Amanda still breathed, they didn’t need to know about it.
Which was why she stood tall and faced those lunging demons with a staunch, quiet determination. There were worse fates than dying for others, though few quite so painful, gruesome, and just overall disturbing. Morbidly, Amanda wondered if anyone would be able to identify her remains when all was said and done.
A fiery, rolling cloud crested the earthen barrier Meggan created. Everything it touched it wiped out of existence, the demons not even getting a chance to gutturally voice their protests. The destructiveness radiating off the flames gave no comfort to Amanda. Probably one of Belasco’s impressive spells, cast in annoyance to kill everyone not himself.
When the fire hit her, the dead demon on her arm melted away. Bone reknit itself while veins stretched, connected, and pumped. Muscles covered the bones, themselves covered by growing flesh. Where she expected nothingness, she got a warming peace.
Meggan, who Amanda lost sight of mid-battle, was the only other person not burned away. “What is this?” the blonde gasped, a child’s wonder in her eyes. “It’s so... so...”
“Hello Meggan, Amanda.”
“Oh, it’s Jean! Hi Jean!”
*****************
Fantomex started. His jaw creaked like something awful and a bad case of double vision stalked him. Lower front teeth felt loose, too loose for comfort. Hung over--if he had to sum up how he felt, that’s how he’d put it. All he wanted now was a shot of morphine and a two month vacation but that was asking too much.
Probably couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the vacation after almost getting his head knocked off.
Right, head knocked off. One of the marks almost put him six feet under with a wallop. And why was his surroundings swamped? Double vision notwithstanding, a good bunch of people made their homes up here. What happened to the X-Men prisoners? How about Magneto and his flunkies? Shit, where was Magneto? Fantomex had express orders (not to mention a significant part of his payment) to protect Magneto at all cost.
His employer wouldn’t be happy, no sir, not happy at all.
The words “pay cut” rang through his stuffed up head. Two other words quickly followed: “imminent doom.” Upon closer inspection, everyone on the roof who didn’t have decaying flesh, rancid body odor, mean-looking teeth, or glowing red eyes was up shit creek without a boat or paddle.
Ororo Munroe--better known as Storm, leader of the globetrotting Xtreme X-Men--hung limply on a guard rail, her snow white hair splattered with dark blotches and streaks, probably blood. Monsters converged on a muscle bound man, the same man who punched Fantomex into next week. Through he looked well off compared to Storm, he tired, his strikes skipping half a beat after every few seconds.
Yup, imminent doom, and if anything caught Fantomex sneaking peeks here and there, he’d be facing it too.
Time to blow this joint.
E.V.A., dormant till now, opened a hatch and let a small package slip to the ground, unnoticed. In it was a premium blend of Weapons Plus’ newest explosives. Though diminutive, two pounds of the classified, experimental material could carve away an entire New York city block. Whoever said great things couldn’t come in small packages?
Sensing his chance, Fantomex crawled to the ledge. He watched as two women--a diamond Emma Frost and a screwed up looking Elisabeth Braddock--both lying on the ground, stirred and snatched the attention of their enemies. Perfect diversion to cover his own escape.
Up and over the ledge he jumped. E.V.A. took off and dove down, her speed aided by her greater mass. Spreading his arms out slowed his fall, enough for his vessel to swoop in under him and pick him up before he became the newest menu item at the Roadkill Café.
“Get me outta here,” the man bit out, jaw sore and swelling. “The job’s gone to hell.”
There went his payday; stood to reason he required payback. From his pocket came a remote control, the detonator for his Weapons Plus special delivery. The large red button lit up showing that the device was indeed armed.
He hated failing. Showed he was human, but damn it, he wasn’t human. He was better than human, better than mutant. Failure reminded him of his shortcomings and the superiority of others.
With a growl and a fury all to its own, Fantomex pressed the red button...
... just as Kitty Pryde, baby and camerawoman still in tow, phased onto the roof of the Empire State Building and straight through the present Fantomex left behind. The electronics, disrupted by Kitty’s ghostly passage, fizzled and frazzled, emitting smoke as it short circuited.
Without guidance, the charges didn’t explode. Without an explosion, Fantomex frowned at his remote. “The hell’s wrong with this thing?”
He banged the little black device against his knee once, twice, and-
The sky lit up as if someone pulled the sun into position.
“Unidentified presence,” E.V.A. squawked, “Brace yourse-”
The Phoenix snatched the bug-like ship into its massive talons. Here today, gone tomorrow--when the Phoenix stretched its appendages again, nothing remained. Oh no, it didn’t stop there though, not by a long shot. It raked its massive limbs across the top of the Empire State Building, dealing help and harm with impunity.
In one stroke, Storm’s empty eyes regained its glassy awareness and the false Magneto perished in a self-contained bonfire. The cracks in Emma’s body fused together, missing shards of her suddenly finding themselves back where they belonged. Remy stopped bleeding not because he couldn’t bleed anymore but because the healing fire filled his deep gashes and made him fine again. Doctor Strange stopped falling when the edge’s of the Phoenix’s manifestation curled around the demons dragging him down and disincorporated them. As Brian swung his fist into another one of his opponents, it puffed away in a cloud of ash and almost caused him to stumble onto his face. Being superhero material, he got away with looking like a drunken idiot but remaining on his feet. The Professor, struggling with his collar, found it missing and his vast powers returned to him.
And Betsy... the Phoenix had something special for dear Betsy, burning away her demonic appendages and whisking her off into a nowhere framed by the distinct fiery bird and accented by two red heads nestled in its bosom, Rachel and Jean.
“Geez, you look terrible.”
Reinvigorated by the cosmic forces at work, Betsy self-consciously ran a hand through her hair and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks Rachel, I needed to know that.”
Torn clothes mended and dirt disappeared, leaving Betsy appearing--and feeling--much more at ease. Where gaping wounds once showed like badges, immaculate skin took its place. Jean flashed an apologetic smile for both the oversight and her daughter’s comment. “Feeling better?”
“Not really. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Since when has it not been complicated?”
A chuckle escaped Jean. “Emma is already rubbing off on you.”
The knowing tone behind her sentence stirred a reflexive defense. “She calls it business acumen and women’s intuition.”
To that, Rachel scrunched her forehead. “Doesn’t she mean sarcasm and cynicism?”
“Now, now,” calmed Jean in a most motherly way, “Time is running short and I still have to finish my goodbyes.”
Goodbyes? The significance stopped Betsy in her tracks. “Jean, this is not time to be joking around.”
“I’m not joking, Betsy, and that’s why I brought both of you here. The Phoenix finished the task it set out to do and is about to leave. It’s giving me the chance to impart some last words with those I hold dear, so I’m making the most of it.”
“Mom, you’re talking to other people at the same time? How many?”
“Too many,” sighed Jean, “I don’t have the time to say everything I want to, but at least it’s more than what many others get.”
Confused, Betsy asked, “What’s going on? What happened to you?”
“Betsy, only you and Rachel have ever felt the true vastness of the Phoenix. I... I... I can’t explain it adequately to everyone else who hasn’t wielded its strength. To borrow from Plato, the Phoenix is a Form given substance. It is justice, its concept and its execution. It is rebirth, and with it, all the associations of life and death. While the Form itself will always be everywhere, the substance can only reside in one place, there to reinforce its Form wherever it is weakest.
“Like I told Logan, the Phoenix has reached a judgment about this world. Now, it is needed elsewhere.” She paused to massage the bridge of her nose. “I am needed elsewhere. I cannot remain here any longer or I will risk turning everything I’ve come to love into a twisted idealization of my basest desires. My presence along has already put a strain on the world and it doesn’t need any more.”
Tasting the Phoenix--the memory seemed like one in another life. However, no matter how long it was, Betsy could never forget the searing, all-consuming power that threatened to passed on to her. Its very presence almost warped her mind. Come to think about it, its very presence had warped the minds of others, others like the Hellfire Club’s own Mastermind. Just a touch of the essence connected him to the cosmos and made him insane, not that insanity was a long stretch for the man, but still.
Power so strong couldn’t be fully contained. When a mere thought could alter the fate of civilizations, remaining anywhere too long spelled trouble. Anyone who never brushed against the Phoenix would find the sentiment preposterous; after all, god-like power meant god-like control too, right?
Wrong.
Jean could control the Phoenix but the Phoenix couldn’t control Jean. It was a presence molded into the body and spirit that was Jean. It conformed to the red head’s desires, not the other way around. Whatever the host, the temple for this awesome power, wanted, the Phoenix made into reality. Look at Rachel and what happened to her even when she did possess the cosmic entity: Ahab, her slaver in the distant and extinct future, imposed his will upon her to command the Phoenix.
Not to say it had no will of its own, but what it did depended mainly upon its host. The potential for abuse? Extraordinary. The potential for good? Likewise. Feast or famine hinged on the host.
And it couldn’t have picked a better host than Jean. Self-sacrificing, benevolent, intelligent, wise, responsible, fair--the woman had her weaknesses but her strengths far outstripped her shortcomings. This woman would give up everything for the ones she loved, and right here, right now, though she could disregard her altruistic leanings, she was about to leave so others would have a chance to lead their own lives.
Betsy didn’t understand the intricacies of the Phoenix; she understood its power. She respected it, rightfully feared it, and Jean called upon her to drudge up the understanding.
“I won’t pretend I know any of this as well as you or Rachel,” said Betsy, “but what can you say to me and her that you can’t say to everyone else? And in private no less?”
“I need to ask a favor, one from each of you.”
Rachel, who stayed oddly silent till now, folded her arms and stared at her mom. “You don’t need to even ask, Mom. Bad enough I’m watching you go, I’m not going to make things worse by telling you no.”
“And you, Betsy?”
“Between our friendship and my personal debt to you, I can’t refuse.”
She let out a small breath. A woman who felt the universe’s pulse was anxious? Huh, imagine that. Jean faced her daughter first.
They shared many of the same features, attributes, and mentalities. Though their lives diverged, the bond between mother and daughter couldn’t be denied. Pearly white fingers framed a flushed face like an artisan examining her masterpiece for one last time before parting with it. Jean loved her children with a scary fierceness, but of them all, she demonstrated that love to Rachel the most.
It wasn’t favoritism but rather an apology for past mistakes. There was a time when Jean didn’t even acknowledge Rachel because she had no part of her upbringing. Those days, however, were long gone, but Jean still felt the tiniest pin pricks of guilt. From this guilt blossomed a relationship stronger than either anticipated--it wasn’t an unwelcome revelation given the older woman’s maternal instincts.
Jean pulled her daughter into a strong embrace. “I need you to look after your father, Rachel. The two of you have never been very close, but you have to put that aside. He is a stubborn man who retreats into himself to deal with his emotions, and if no one is there to pick him up, he’ll stay in his misery. I’m asking you as your mother and his wife: follow him when he retreats and try your hardest to let him know he’s not alone.”
“He’s not alone though,” Rachel insisted. “You’re still here. The Phoenix won’t cast you away like that. I know it doesn’t work that way. It’ll protect you!”
“I may observe but I cannot interfere. No matter how much pain your father is in, I can’t even whisper into his mind that I’m watching over him. To the world, after tonight, I will be gone--that is the best way. In some aspects, it allows others to move on. If I leave a possibility of my return, those like your father will always live in this moment and never let go.”
“You want me to lie to everyone so they’ll forget about you?”
“No, I want you to be there for your father.”
“And what about telling people you’re dead and gone?”
Kissing her daughter’s forehead, Jean whispered, “You’re a grown girl. Do what feels right and I’ll approve.”
“But Mom-”
“Do what feels right.”
Then she turned to Betsy. “I’m afraid the favor I’m asking of you is more difficult than Rachel’s.”
“Worse than dealing with Scott’s self-pity tantrum? My, how am I going to survive?”
One spoon of Betsy, one spoon of Emma, and mix well--that was the recipe to the woman half-smirking, half-tearing up in front of Jean. The red head hated to do this to her friend and dump her from one fire to the next, but of all the X-Men, she was the best suited to the task at hand.
What task, you ask?
“I need you to keep the X-Men together.”
Betsy wasn’t so sure. “Me? Jean, it’s only been a week since I figured out I wasn’t lying in a coffin. I can feel it in people’s mind when they look at me: they’re doubtful at who I am. Keep the X-Men together? I can barely keep myself together.”
“You are the only one who can.”
“Why not Logan? Why not Emma? Why not Ororo? What about Rogue? Did I forget about the Professor?”
“Logan will take my departure very... difficultly. The Professor has his own demons to slay before he can feel confident in himself and his dream again. As for Emma, Ororo, and Rogue, those three represent the diverging philosophies of the mansion.”
“What’s wrong with a little diversity?”
“Emma is the consummate teacher who wants to shelter young mutants until they can protect themselves. Ororo is the problem-solver, there to take on the threats to mutanthood on a global scale with a small team she is familiar with. Rogue is like Ororo except she, because of her background with Mystique, is much more open-minded to diplomacy, at least with former enemies. Ororo and Rogue’s approaches put the mansion and students in danger which annoys Emma who believes they are being irresponsible. Rogue’s willingness to let others into her trust--those like Joseph and Sabertooth-- irks Ororo’s growing jadedness with the world. There are divides in the ranks, and if left unchecked, the X-Men will splinter into meaningless pieces.”
Betsy caught the subtleties of Jean’s observations. With Scott, Logan, Charles, and Jean herself gone or preoccupied, no one could mediate the drama and strained lines of communications. There wouldn’t be enough instructors at the school or enough well-trained people to fill the rosters of two teams. The X-Men had to stick together and Jean wanted Betsy to be the that glue.
Ororo trusted her. If not, she would’ve never made it, however abrupt the stay was, onto the hunt for Destiny’s diaries.
Rogue trusted her. Their lone conversation in the week showed a relationship born of mutual respect and camaraderie.
Emma? Well, Betsy was the only one who could even claim a smidgen of sway over the former White Queen.
Everyone else fell into one of these camps: the teachers, the globe-trotters, and traditionalists. It was like Generation X, X-Factor, and the old X-Men all stuck under one roof.
Just a train crash waiting to happen. Just like old times.
While Betsy didn’t fully understand what Jean was going through, she was also the only one with connections to the three budding mentalities.
“You want me to play peacekeeper?”
“I can’t interfere anymore. I must let go and watch this world decide its own fate, but I love it too much to leave it adrift without some semblance of help. You understand that I’ll be here, if only in spirit. You understand that while I love all of you, I must leave for the greater good. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know one thing: a world with the X-Men is much better than a world without it. For all of our faults, we continue to improve the lives of both humans and mutants. For all the troubles we’ve caused, we’ve also stopped more than our fair share and saved the masses from certain doom too many times to count. I’m asking you as your friend to keep Charles’ dream alive.”
“You’re talking like he’s not going to be here anymore.”
“After what happened tonight, few will listen to him. Emotions are running too high.”
They didn’t need to say anything about Scott and Logan. The men would deal in their own private ways.
To help or not to help--that was the question. Devoting herself to the Cause again... so soon... Did she have the fortitude? Did she have the ability? Most importantly, was she abusing Emma’s trust? Was she manipulating her to fit into Jean’s goals, goals that didn’t even guarantee a better tomorrow?
Was it too late to back out of her promise?
Only one way out of this. “I’ll try my best, Jean.”
The words left unsaid: “Don’t blame me if my best isn’t enough.” It was a page straight out of Emma’s most shifty annals which promised nothing but had shades of a job well done.
The twinkle in Jean’s eyes showed that she acknowledged the stipulation. “That’s all I can ask of you or anyone else, Betsy.”
*****************
- To be continued...
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