X-Men: The Last Stand

by Chris Claremont

  This was news to Logan and, by the look on her face, to Ororo, too. Neither took it well.

  Logan spoke for them both. “What?” he demanded.

  “The conscious Jean, whose powers were always under control, and that dormant side, a personality that, in our sessions, came to call itself The Phoenix. A purely instinctual creature, all desire, and joy and…rage.”

  He checked the monitors, made some notes.

  Logan had grown ominously still and quiet, in a way that would clear even the most roughhouse saloons the world over.

  Then, “Jean knew about this?”

  Ororo watched Xavier shake his head, so engrossed in his work that he missed the cues and warnings Logan was radiating. She shifted her stance just a little, but knew her options were limited. The infirmary was no place for lightning, and Logan was so quick that she’d likely have no time to stop him with her powers if things went south. Ororo knew that Logan was a creature of primal passions who fought to keep them in check with his own rigorous code of honor. Now, with Jean, both elements were in play—his feelings for Jean combining with growing outrage at Xavier’s revelations. It was a deadly mix, more volatile than matches and gasoline.

  “It’s unclear precisely how much she remembered,” Charles told them. “The more pressing issue is that I’m not sure whether the woman we see in front of us is the Jean Grey we know, or the Phoenix, violently struggling to be free.”

  Logan took a step closer, and Ororo tensed.

  “She looks pretty peaceful to me, Chuck.”

  “That’s because I’m keeping her that way,” Xavier replied, not rising to the bait. For all the attention he paid them, despite their ongoing conversation, it was as if Logan and Ororo weren’t even there. “I’m trying to restore those psychic blocks, and reenergize them, and cage the beast again.”

  Logan’s nostrils flared, and this time Xavier seemed to react to the subvocalized growl that issued from deep in the other man’s throat.

  “What did you just say?” Logan demanded.

  “Logan, try to understand—”

  “We’re talking about a person’s mind here, Charles, about Jean! We could be talking about her goddamn soul! How could you do this to her?”

  “She has to be controlled. She isn’t safe.”

  “‘Controlled,’ Professor, or cured? Because sometimes, when you ‘cage the beast,’ the beast gets angry.”

  “You have no idea what she’s capable of.”

  “No, Professor,” Logan spat with finality, and he made Xavier’s title sound like the most profane of epithets. “I had no idea what you were capable of.”

  After this last comment, Logan knew that, had Xavier still possessed the use of his legs, the professor would be right up in his face, probably challenging him to do his worst. Logan never denied the man had balls, but this was the first he’d ever considered that Charles Xavier might be lacking something essential in the way of a heart.

  “Damn it, Logan,” Xavier flared, “I want her back as much as you do!”

  Logan shook his head: “Not even close.”

  Xavier couldn’t stand Logan’s glare for more than a few seconds. It wasn’t that he lacked the strength, but—being a more intensely private man than even Logan—Charles couldn’t bear to reveal to them the depths of his own pain. Or the concern that walked with it hand in hand, growing with each and every step into a very real and present fear.

  He turned his back on Ororo and Logan and motored his chair towards the door, pausing at last to tell them, “I had a terrible choice to make, Logan. Hobson’s choice. I chose the lesser of two evils.”

  Logan wouldn’t—couldn’t, Charles knew—let him go. “Sounds to me like Jean had no choice at all.”

  Logan looked away from the departing form of Xavier, briefly to Ororo, and then once more rested his eyes on Jean. He had a hunter’s patience. He’d wait as long as he had to.

  And after that…

  …after that…

  He met Ororo’s gaze, then flicked his eyes towards the door, now closed, Xavier long gone, then back to Jean.

  More gently than Xavier’s touch, more gently than Ororo’s lightest breeze, he stroked his rough palm from the crown of Jean’s head back across her hair, and breathed in the scent of her. Not a lot of great things happened in his life, but he knew with certainty, this woman was one of them. Likely the best of them.

  He repeated to himself what he’d sworn the moment they met, what he’d failed to do at Alkali Lake.

  I’ll save you, Jeannie, he promised silently. Whatever the case.

  I’ll save you!

  When McCoy saw the room, the first thing he did was look for black curtains, finding none, of course, since there were no windows. But from then on, at the most irksome and inconvenient moments, he found he couldn’t get the lyrics to Cream’s classic “White Room” out of his head. Telling Ororo that would make her laugh, he knew.

  Hank didn’t believe Kavita Rao had that much of a sense of humor. He doubted she had any sense of humor at all. He was wholly the opposite, but so anarchic in temperament that he’d long ago learned to keep his acerbic wit on the tightest of leashes, lest disaster result. But what else could one expect, he supposed, from a guy who’d been big and blue and furry since college?

  He faced a modified Level Four extreme biohazard containment module, four meters by six, and three high. Every surface—walls, floor and ceiling—was painted white. One of the long walls was dominated by a mirror, constructed of transparent plastic that was stronger than steel in every respect. This was Hank’s vantage point, allowing him an unrestricted view of the room. As per protocol, the environment was kept at negative pressure—lower than the ambient pressure outside—so that in case of any breach, air would naturally flow into the room, thereby containing any stray bugs and preventing contamination of the installation outside.

  A door at the rear of the room led to the bathroom, where the walls were opaque, giving the illusion of privacy. But there were a score of minicams here, too, and the mirror was two-way glass. Every surface was sterile. There wasn’t a spec of wayward dust to be seen. On the outer door was etched the M trefoil, for mutant biohazard.

  It could have been a lab. It could have been a hospital room. It was a little bit of both.

  Most of all, though, it belonged to a child.

  Pretty much a normal boy, too, as far as Hank could tell, if the toys and the mess were any indication. Shelves had been provided, and bins for storage, but the kid used the floor instead. Books were strewn haphazardly about the place. No computer, just a desk with a keyboard and a screen, both connected to I/O ports in the wall. He was linked into the project network, so Dr. Rao could see what interested him and, if necessary, how the behavior modification was progressing and whether she needed to tweak it.

  The flat-screen monitor was big enough to double as the room’s TV. Jimmy was using it for video games, perched cross-legged on the end of the bed. He was working his thumbs to distraction as he blew the living daylights out of cars, trucks, pedestrians and just about an entire Cali city. He stole a muscle car and headed for the border—where, unknown to him, monsters awaited.

  As Kavita described the action, and Hank followed along on a convenient monitor outside, he couldn’t help wondering if the boy had any awareness of how close he was to real monsters.

  “You know, Dr. McCoy,” Kavita began, as they watched the play, “I wrote my thesis on your theory of genetic recombination.” Behind them a nurse in a modified biohazard suit entered the airlock.

  Jimmy was on the cusp of adolescence, but had not one hair on his head. He wore a white Houston Astros jersey and a pair of white boarder shorts, and white sneakers.

  Hank indicated Jimmy. “I never had a subject quite like this….” He paused, thoughtful. “What’s the lasting effect of the boy’s power?” Hank asked.

  Kavita shook her head. “None.” She pursed her lips, “He can only suppress the mutant gene within
a limited range.”

  “I’ve heard some of the staff refer to him by a nickname,” Hank noted, straightening to his full, imposing height. Kavita clearly wasn’t happy about this observation.

  “I’ve made my feelings clear, but occasionally these things take on a life of their own. I suppose it must have been much the same concerning your own soubriquet.”

  “That’s why I brought it up.” He’d never liked being called “Beast,” even by friends meaning it as a complement.

  “The staff are firmly instructed to never call him ‘Leech’ to his face, or where he can hear.”

  Hank looked Kavita directly in the eyes. “And you really think he’ll never know?”

  She looked at her watch. “I should head into the city, Dr. McCoy. If we’re quite finished here, I have many appointments.”

  Hank nodded. “I’m done here.”

  As he turned to go, it seemed as though his movement attracted Jimmy’s attention, which of course should have been impossible, since there was no way for the boy to know he was there. Jimmy grinned, and Hank allowed a small smile in return, even though the boy couldn’t see it. His mind was racing with possibilities, both good and bad, and he half wished the boy would wander over, and bring Hank within the activation threshold of his power. The scientist in him was fascinated to discover how the gene-neutralizing process would work on him. The man in him wondered what he would look like now, without the effects of his mutation. Was he handsome, was he aging under the blue fur? Would he like the boy he was when the mutation took effect? He couldn’t remember what it had been like to appear “normal.” He didn’t even look at old photos anymore.

  But Jimmy could bring that boy in Hank back to life.

  For as long as they stayed close.

  Worthington’s “cure” would make the reversion permanent. Now, that was an interesting development.

  “Is Secretary McCoy going to be a problem?” asked Worthington Jr. a few hours later, in his office atop the San Francisco lab facility. A few stories below, a line of mutants stretched around the block. The street was cordoned off, with a group of SFPD squad cars forming a barrier right down the middle. Across the road, almost as many mutants gathered, as vehemently opposed to what Worthington had to offer as the others were desperate to partake.

  Kavita Rao shrugged. “Hard to say. His political views seem somewhat at odds with his…personal issues.”

  “I imagine we’ll be seeing more of that.”

  “Quite.”

  He leaned forward until his forehead touched the glass, trying to direct his line of sight as close to the base of the building as possible.

  “I never really imagined there’d be so…many,” he said at last.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It makes one…think. It’s one thing to consider the mutator gene an aberrant quirk in the human genome—but to see it in such a broad spectrum of the general populace….”

  “There is no consistency to the manifestations, either in terms of who possesses the gene or the power they manifest. If this were indicative of some species-wide evolution, we would see a common element.”

  “The only-pizza scenario.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Basically, you throw pizzas at the ceiling, to see which one sticks.”

  “Which would tell you what, pray tell?”

  “Metaphor for the creative process, pizzas as ideas, that sort of thing.”

  “I stand with Einstein, thank you. God does not play dice with the Universe, nor does he throw pizzas.”

  Worthington certainly hoped so, but he also had to confess that the notion appealed to him. He used to think of God as having a sense of whimsy.

  Until he saw how his son was changing. Then he’d decided he’d be better off without a God at all.

  “Mr. Worthington, sir,” announced a technician. “He’s arrived.”

  Train of thought almost prompted Worthington Jr. to ask if the technician was referencing the Almighty. But he shunted the notion aside and said instead, “Good. Bring him in.”

  Rao touched his arm. “Are you sure you want to start with him?”

  “I think it’s important, yes.”

  She pulled on surgical gloves and selected an appropriate vial and syringe from the tray.

  Two orderlies brought in Worthington’s only child, his son—his heir.

  Warren had wholly fulfilled the promise of his youth, with a face and form that belonged on a movie poster—a leading man capable of breaking every heart alive, and jump-starting a few that weren’t. Tall and lean as ever, with hair a burnished gold swept messily back from his face, he was more handsome than a young Brad Pitt. He wore an overcoat, and there was a strange hump between his shoulders that made the coat ride up tremendously. To call the hump a deformity wasn’t right, because he carried himself far too easily, so Worthington could only hope that people assumed his son was wearing some kind of backpack underneath.

  It was clear he didn’t want to be there. He wasn’t fighting the orderlies, but he wasn’t cooperating either, and they had to gently but firmly pull him forward to face his father.

  “Hello, Warren,” Kavita said brightly. She was ignored; if that bothered her, she gave no sign.

  “You okay, son?” Worthington asked, like a man biting a bullet, or a boy slugging down medicine. He got a shallow nod in return, from a son that seemed unsure how to answer. “Did you sleep all right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You know I’m proud of you, for doing this.”

  Warren took off his overcoat, revealing an open shirt, and underneath, a complex leather harness reminiscent of a straightjacket, only the young man’s arms were completely unrestrained.

  “The transformation can be a little jarring,” Kavita cautioned. Sweat popped on Warren’s brow, suggesting that wasn’t an altogether helpful thing to say.

  “Dad,” Warren asked pleadingly, the sheer desperation in his tone catching his father’s heartstrings, taking him back to the nights he’d sat with his boy after lights-out, staying with him until he fell asleep to protect him from the monsters under the bed. “Dad,” Warren repeated with more intensity, displaying more overt fright. “Can we…can we…talk about this a second?”

  Worthington took his son’s hand. “We talked about it, son. We agreed. It will all be over soon.”

  But Warren wouldn’t stop squirming. Things got worse as he tried to wriggle his way loose from the orderlies, from his father.

  “Wait,” he demanded. “Just wait a minute!”

  Worthington Jr. tried his “dad” voice: “Warren, calm down!”

  “I…no…I can’t do this!”

  “Just relax, son,” Worthington Jr. tried in a more placating tone. The orderlies were having an increasingly harder time holding on.

  The young man’s struggles had loosened the harness to the point where Warren could actively strain against it. The orderlies were built for the job—they looked a match for pro linemen, twice Warren’s size and change in every which way.

  But he shrugged them off as if they weighed nothing, and they smacked against the walls of the spacious office.

  He showed no interest in the guards as he tore at his shirt, yanking it open to the sound of popping buttons. He flexed his chest with a great outcry…

  …and the industrial-grade belting leather shredded like tissue paper, reminding Worthington Jr. of an article he’d read when he was younger about the wings of large birds. The wings of a goose propel that great bird through the sky for thousands of miles. A swan’s wing, that thing of poetic beauty, can break a man’s arm.

  How much more powerful then, those of a man, capable of lifting him from the ground and hurling him through the air? How strong were the muscles required to sustain that flight?

  Beholding his son, Worthington Jr. couldn’t help but think of the flights of angels he’d seen depicted in catechism class, and of all the representations of doomed Icarus.

>   The fantasy paled in comparison to the reality.

  Warren’s wings stretched twice his height and more, tip-to-tip across a back that suddenly seemed much broader and indecently muscled than his father remembered. They were a pristine white that was almost radiant. The orderlies were so dumbstruck with the incandescent beauty of the man and the moment that they almost forgot their purpose.

  “Warren,” the father tried when words came back to him, “it’s a better life we offer. It’s what we all want!”

  Looking down at his father, Warren replied with a harsh and unforgiving scream: “No!”

  The orderlies had withdrawn to the doorway once Warren’s wings had opened, and they’d summoned reinforcements. There was no escape that way.

  “It’s what you want!” Warren yelled. Seeing guards in a phalanx at the door, he ducked towards the windows.

  “Warren, don’t,” cried his father. “No!”

  And just like that, with a resounding crash, he was gone.

  On the street below, warning cries rose from the crowd as they scrambled for protection, covering their heads as the broken glass came raining down. Some instinctively used their powers—telekinesis for deflection, and invulnerability of all shapes and sizes to cover themselves and those around them.

  Only a few actually saw what happened, and most of them didn’t believe it. Afterward, they would certainly be reluctant to tell. Just because they were mutants, too—and a few resembled the next best thing to a gila monster crossed with a Mack truck—didn’t make them all that eager to boast that they’d seen a bona fide angel soaring over San Francisco.

  Warren noticed none of this, and if he had it wouldn’t have mattered. All he was aware of was the metronomic beat of his wings as they grabbed great gouts of air and thrust out behind him, and the feeling of climbing ever higher, rushing ever faster, through the afternoon sky. The wind rushed across his face, flushed with the unaccustomed exertion and the terrific demands he was placing on his system. He’d have to eat soon and rest. Wouldn’t do to black out from hunger at this altitude.