X-Men: Dark Mirror

by Marjorie M. Liu

  "Now what?" he asked, to no one in particular.

  "You shouldn't have fallen asleep," Logan said, crouching beside him. "Then you'd know."

  Kurt smiled. "Then let me make some assumptions. First, we will disembark from this train, and then second, we will look for another that is headed farther east, and board it"

  "You're missing the part where we all get some grub and try to make some phone calls."

  "Is there anyone you can contact who would help us?"

  Logan shook his head. "I would try SHIELD, except their access number is secured by voice recognition. They've even got random automated questions so no one can pretape anything. If someone calls who isn't recognized, they're patched through to an answering service."

  "That is better than nothing."

  "Maybe, but SHIELD has got so much red tape and so many cranks who hack their number off the internet, I doubt they'll pay much mind to a woman who says she's Wolverine—or who tries to make any claims of knowing him."

  Just then Kurt spotted other trains, parked in the distance like large rusting bricks. He watched as their train slowed to a crawl and curved around the gravel lot. He glimpsed vehicles in the distance. White trucks. A lot of them.

  "We should get off this train," he said, uneasy. "Now, in fact."

  Logan peered over his shoulder. "Crap. They must have found that kid I clobbered."

  "We knew they would. He probably informed the authorities that we were on this train."

  "Crap," he said again, and looked back at the others. "We have to jump."

  "The train is moving," Rogue pointed out.

  "Yeah, and if we wait until it stops, that'll be too late. We've got maybe one minute tops before we round this bend, and after that, all those security guards are going to see us jump. It has to be now."

  Logan grabbed Kurt and pulled him to the edge of the platform. The slow-moving ground made him slightly dizzy; the gravel looked sharp. Rogue limped up close behind him. His own knee felt better, but he was not sure what such an impact would do to it.

  "Come on," Logan said, pushing on his shoulders. "Sit down on the edge and then push yourself out. We've done this before. I shouldn't have to explain the mechanics."

  "The last time was with aliens from outer space," Kurt said, declining to add that he usually teleported his way out of situations like this. He sat down and swung his legs out

  over the moving ground, took a deep breath, and jumped.

  He hit the ground hard—his knee protesting—and then Rogue was there beside him, staggering, her face pale with pain. Kurt watched as Scott and Jean jumped, followed closely by Logan, who held the plastic bag to his chest All of them hit the ground wrong, their legs and bodies forming awkward angles, and it was clear that knowing the correct way to jump from a moving object mattered only half as much as having a body that was fit enough to do it

  They picked themselves off the ground and hobbled between trains—narrowly avoiding security and other yard employees—until they reached the last of the rail- cars and gazed upon the edge of a business district that was pleasantly decorated with trees and painted murals.

  "Maybe we're overreacting," Jean said.

  "Maybe not," Scott said, looking around. Kurt glimpsed the wheels of a truck speeding quickly down the gravel pathway on the other side of the nearest train. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's not safe for us right now."

  "When is it ever," Logan muttered, but they jogged— as best they could, given their aches and pains—across the street. They hit the sidewalk, took a quick left, and disappeared down a wide clean alley that was breezy and lined with the colorful back doors of shops and restaurants. Tables had been set out; well-dressed men and women smiled and laughed over their drinks and food. Kurt's stomach rumbled. He forced himself not to look. He thought, from the corner of his eye, that people watched them. Subtle, yes; no one stared outright, but he felt the quiet scrutiny nonetheless, the dip in conversation as they passed.

  He could not imagine it was their clothes that drew attention; they still looked relatively clean, though Kurt knew that would not last. He wondered, too, if their faces had been on the news. That would be enough to cause anyone to look twice.

  Or maybe it was nothing at all. Kurt, however, felt as though he had blue skin again. As a mutant, it was rare that people stared outright. Those around him always ogled without looking, consciously making the effort to look past him—as though studied indifference did not count the same as rudeness.

  "Logan," he said quietly, "are people watching us?"

  "Yeah," he said. "We look poor. Our skin isn't the right color, either. Must be a bad combination in this part of town."

  "You cannot be serious."

  ''You mean, how people can still be that way? Why do you think mutants have a problem?"

  "But we look human."

  "Human ain't got nothing to do with it. We look different, Kurt. I'm not saying they're holding that against us, but difference always attracts the eye. In some parts of the country we'd be the most 'different' thing for miles."

  "I suppose I am naive," Kurt said, staring at his hands, those dark human hands. "I thought such things were past. When I think of what is said and done to mutants, anything else feels . . . archaic."

  Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't let it get you down, Elf. If it wasn't race, it would be mutants, if it wasn't mutants, it would be religion, if it wasn't religion, it would be something else. Just the way it is. And who was it giving Jean a lecture this morning about feeling good about herself?"

  Kurt said nothing. He could understand fear and ignorance of mutations because the physical distance was, on occasion, quite wide. It took time for people to become accustomed to the radical. But to be human and still be looked at strangely...

  Well, that was just wrong.

  They walked for a long time, without much purpose other than to keep moving. Kurt's knee hurt; he did not think Rogue felt well, either. All of them were tired and hungry.

  Scott stopped at the first pay phone he found and dialed the Mansion. Waited. And then his face—that stranger's face, which was becoming not so strange—paled.

  "Hello," he said, and though his voice did not waver, his expression was so troubled that Jean reached out to touch him. "I'm a friend of Ororo. Is she around? No? Are you sure?" He paused, and then quickly hung up. He stared at the phone.

  Jean said, "Scott," and he looked at her, at all of them, and Kurt knew what he was going say, felt sick in his stomach with fear, dismay.

  "That was me," Scott said. "That was me who answered the phone."

  "Jesus," Logan said. "And he wouldn't let you talk to 'Ro?"

  "He recognized my voice. His voice. Whoever. He knew who I was. He said my name. Mindy's name, anyway." He closed his eyes. "They must be censoring the calls that come in."

  "What do they want?" Rogue asked.

  "They want to ruin us," Jean said. "Or even if they don't, that will be what happens. Can you imagine? The government and public already distrust us. If someone goes out, using our bodies with an agenda—"

  "We might as well shoot ourselves in the head." Logan clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palm. Kurt could feel his friend's rage grow strong, tight, and he touched Logan's shoulder.

  "Calm yourself," he said quietly. "You cannot afford to lose your temper." Nor did he have a healing factor to fix him if he tried to drive his fist through a wall.

  "Who said anything about losing my temper?" Logan growled. "I just want to kill someone."

  "Later," Scott said, and there was a hard quality to his face that was mirrored in everyone around him. Kurt wondered if he shared that intensity, that sharp resolve; all he knew for certain was he felt sick at heart, ashamed for deeds committed that were out of his control. With his face, with his body, with his power—the stain would be his to bear, as well.

  "We need to steal a car," Logan said. "Something, anything to get us moving again. Fast." />
  "And if we get caught?"

  "What do you think is more important right now?"

  Getting home. Kurt could see it on Scott's face. He did not like the idea of stealing—hated it, in fact—but he felt the same powerful urgency infesting his teammates.

  "So we steal a car," Jean said, taking a deep breath. "Fine. Go at it, boys."

  "You the new cheerleader for the poor and criminal?" Logan asked, walking away from the pay phone.

  "God help me, but I am," she said.

  They found a grocery store. Scott and Kurt went inside to buy food. They spent less than seven dollars and came out with two loaves of day-old discounted bread—as well as half-price doughnuts of the same age—peanut butter, one gallon of water, a tiny bottle of antibacterial hand gel, and a package of toilet paper.

  "I hate to admit it," Scott said, "but it's been a while since I had to pinch pennies like this. I used to be good at it."

  Kurt said nothing, juggling the water for a better grip. In the circus, everyone was poor, but no one minded because you always had as much as the person performing next to you. He missed that sometimes. Life had been much simpler.

  Logan, Jean, and Rogue sat outside on a bench, waiting for them.

  "Do we do this now?" Logan asked, and then in a lower voice, 'There aren't any security cameras in the lot."

  Scott looked at the sky. "It'll be dark in two or three hours. I would feel more comfortable waiting."

  "There's a gas station down the road," Rogue said. "I don't know about you guys, but I could use a bathroom."

  "I could use some clean underwear," Jean muttered.

  "Turn it inside out," Logan suggested. "You can make it last twice as long that way."

  "Gee, thanks," Jean said, giving him a dirty look.

  The gas station was large and well maintained. Not much business, though. Another station, just down the road, was filled with cars.

  When Kurt saw the clerk he understood why.

  "Hey," said the young lady, when they entered. She leaned on the plastic counter, a magazine in her blinking hands.

  "Hello," said Kurt, trying to keep track of all her eyes. Her face was covered with them, as was the rest of her body. Blue, brown, green—eyes of different colors and sizes, all of them staring in different directions.

  "Can we use your bathroom?" Jean asked.

  "Sure," said the girl. She glanced at Kurt and frowned. "Are you staring at me?"

  "Yes," he said. "I'm sorry. You have a fascinating face."

  "Hmph," she said. "Do you want to buy something?"

  "I'm afraid I don't have enough money."

  "Then keep talking."

  Kurt rested his elbows on the counter; the girl did not move. She stared at him. Really, really stared.

  He said, "It must be easy to hurt yourself. Eyes are so sensitive, after all."

  She studied his face. It was difficult to read her expression, partially because eyes covered it up.

  "Sometimes it's trouble," she finally said. "That's why I try to keep this place clean. You a mutant or something?"

  "No," Scott answered for him. "But a lot of our friends

  77

  are.

  "Oh," she said. "You must not be from here, then. There aren't a lot of us in town." "Trouble?" he asked.

  "People here don't cause trouble. They ignore it, sweep it under the rug. No, there just aren't a lot of mutants. Not many born, not many who come. I guess they feel safer in the bigger cities." "And you?"

  "Lived here all my life. Married my high-school sweetheart. This is our place."

  "People don't treat you differently?" Scott asked. All her eyes narrowed. "Why would they?" Rogue and Jean came out of the bathroom. Scott said, "All I meant—"

  "I know what you meant. And no, people don't treat me differently. If they do, they're not the kind I want to know, anyway."

  "Are you causing trouble?" Jean asked her husband. She looked at the clerk. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my . . . wife ... gets a little too nosy."

  "Sure, no problem." The girl looked down at her magazine. She did not talk to them again.

  "Smooth," Logan said, when they left the gas station. "Your skills as an X-Man really shone through back in there."

  "I didn't notice you saying anything," Scott said. "Exactly. Why would I? Any idiot could tell that girl's doing fine."

  "She's a mutant."

  "Not everyone feels persecuted," Kurt murmured, but he knew that would be difficult for his friend to take as truth. Scott's experiences told him otherwise. Of course, as difficult as it was to be the persecuted, even the hunted could be guilty of the same sin, in another form.

  Scott shook his head. "Fine. Let's move."

  They walked to a nearby park and sat on the grass where they opened up the bread, dipping it into the peanut butter jar. They did not speak, but dozed in the waning sunlight, waiting for night. Kurt watched children play. No kites, but Frisbees and baseballs. He liked listening to their laughter, which was happy, unrestrained. They were not yet old enough to know about holding back, the disease of self-consciousness. Kurt had experienced it briefly in his teens, but the circus had no patience for shyness. At least not in public.

  When it grew dark they went back to the grocery store and sat in the bushes on the edge of the parking lot, watching who went in and out. Ten minutes of doing this, and a beat up little Corolla pulled into a nearby space. The driver, a young man who looked barely out of high school, wore the store uniform. He never noticed his watchers; he had headphones on, and strutted his way into work.

  "Bingo," Logan said. "That one's not going to be out for hours."

  It did not take him long. The boy had forgotten to lock his door and everyone clambered into the car.

  Ten minutes later, they were on the freeway headed east.

  13

  The way Logan drank his beer was not the first indication that something was wrong, but it was the most significant, and Jubilee could not help but consider it a minor sign of the apocalypse when she sat beside him and watched his little pinky lift off the can. It was very slight, barely noticeable, but it was that subtle delicacy that made her antenna go boom-boom. She watched him take a long swallow of beer with the same startled interest reserved for particularly nasty cases of foot fungus, dudes dressed as Klingons, or old white guys who thought it was okay to run around with their shirts off.

  She said, "Hey, are you feeling all right?"

  "Peachy," he said. "Why do you ask?"

  "Nothing. You just seem a little ... different... since you got back from Seattle."

  "Just your imagination."

  "Right." She scooted a little closer. "So, remember that talk we had before you left?"

  He never looked at her, just drank his beer. The sports channel was on, but he switched it to the news.

  "Wolvie?"

  "I heard you. Remind me."

  "Oh," she said, disappointed. "You were going to take me to Japan this year. When you visit Mariko."

  Mariko, who was dead and gone. Jubilee still remembered a rainy night, years past, when Logan had huddled over her grave, sobbing his heart out like he could bring her back with tears or pain. Every year he visited her, every year on a special day. He always went alone. He always left without telling anyone. This time, Jubilee wanted to go, too. Not to intrude, but to be that friend she thought he needed.

  And besides, traveling with Logan—no matter how sad the circumstances—was always an adventure. She needed one of those right now. Bad.

  "Mariko," he finally said. "Sure thing, kid. It'll be nice to see her again."

  Jubilee blinked. Logan picked up the remote control and changed the channel. Gunshots filled the air and he grinned.

  She stood up and left the room. Logan did not say good-bye.

  Jubilee found Remy in the garage, stretched out on the ground beneath his car. She grabbed his ankles and yanked hard. Something thumped, she heard him swear, and then he rolled the rest of
the way out, holding his head.

  "Make this good or else I'm cuttin' your new jacket."

  'You're evil," she said, "but not as evil as Wolverine. Dude is not the same."

  Remy sat up. "Tell me."

  Jubilee resisted the urge to hug him. Things like this were why she liked Gambit second-best only to Wolvie. He took her seriously. He always listened. She scooted close, and in a low voice said, "First of all, he's holding his beer like a girl. Like, not a real girl, 'cause he's not all dainty and stuff, but there was some pinky action going on, like, a real honest-to-God pinky lift, and then he needed me to remind him of this conversation we had, which never happens because Wolvie always remembers everything—no exaggeration—and this was big, Remy, real big, because I asked him to take me to Japan with him this year, you know, when he visits Mariko's grave, and when I said that—when I said that, do you know what he told me? He said, 'It'll be nice to see her again.' And I was like, holy crap. Nice to see her again?"

  Remy frowned. "Maybe he meant to say it a different way. Maybe it just came out wrong."

  "It came out wrong like a fifty-pound baby, Remy. Wolvie doesn't do wrong like that. He says what he means."