by Len Wein
“How could any group that can do all that still need so much training?”
He closed the door behind him and walked down the corridor, past the Danger-Room control booth and the computer room where Cerebro was kept, then through a second doorway, into the more normal part of the house, the living quarters. He regarded that as one of Xavier’s wisest decisions: to confine all of the scientific devices and testing materials to one wing of the house. When they had visitors at the school, they could maintain a façade of normalcy simply by locking that one door.
Cyclops liked the ordinary part of the house. It was, well . . . homey, and even a bit luxurious, in keeping with the mode for houses in the Salem Center area, like neither a classroom nor a training center. That was natural; the professor lived as well as worked here and so he made it his home. The rest of the X-Men might feel differently. Storm, for example, probably missed her beautiful jungle and Banshee his stone castle; Colossus would probably never consider any place home unless his parents were there. But Nightcrawler had lived most of his life in a traveling carnival, and Wolverine probably found the house a pleasant change from the government research center where Xavier had found him. For Cyclops, raised in an orphanage, this house was the one place he would ever think of as home.
Salem Center didn’t have much to offer those in search of nightlife. The grocery store and most of the shops closed promptly at five, turning the business district into a virtual ghost town. There were only three exceptions, places that stayed open after the genteel, self-imposed curfew. One was a small movie theater that specialized in afternoon children’s matinees and ran only the blandest of G- and PG-rated films for the adult clientele, in the evenings. Occasionally the people of Salem Center got to see box-office hits at their theater, but these were the rare wholesome successes that came to town long after playing to the rest of the country.
The only other places open in the evening were a combination restaurant and ice-cream parlor, heavily geared toward family trade, and a bar. This last depended heavily on the local student population for its customers. Without them, it might long ago have faded into oblivion.
Wolverine, of course, opted for the bar. He’d left the mansion right after dinner, still feeling tense from that afternoon’s Danger-Room test. He wasn’t sure what he was in the mood for, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be found in the house, or anywhere on its well-tended grounds. In fact, just getting away from the place for awhile might be enough. Coming upon the two limousines that belonged to the school—to the professor, really—parked in the driveway, Wolverine decided that the idea of a brief escape was extremely appealing. Without bothering with the formality of asking to use one of the cars or telling anyone else where he was going—not that he knew himself—Wolverine helped himself.
The nearest place to go, the only place in fact, was the town, and so, for lack of a clearer destination, he headed right for it. After parking the car and stepping out onto the sidewalk, he was distracted by a blast of noise coming from the bar. The door opened to admit two attractive young women. Convinced he’d come to the right place, Wolverine headed in that direction and followed them through the door.
It took his sharp eyes a moment to adjust when he stepped inside; his vision was blurred by the dim lighting and by cigarette smoke. Like everything else in town, the bar was on the small side. It wasn’t full either, although there were around twenty people inside, most of them younger than he. The noise he’d heard came from various loud conversations, the clatter of glassware, and from music, of a sort, blaring forth from a jukebox in the corner. He couldn’t distinguish any kind of a melody in it, just loud bass notes, an insistent drumbeat, and repetitive lyrics. The kids seemed to like it, although they found it difficult to understand one another over the din. Three or four of them, near the bar, added to the noise by playing a video game that beeped and buzzed as lights flashed across its screen.
Wolverine grinned and adjusted the Stetson he always wore when out of uniform. This wasn’t really his kind of place, but it was a change, a change from the Danger Room, from Xavier always snooping with his mental powers, from the garden-party atmosphere of the rest of Salem Center. He sauntered up to the bar, took an empty stool next to two encouragingly pretty girls, lit up a cigarette, and ordered a beer. While he was waiting, he shifted around a little to get a better look at the girls and to try to join their conversation.
“. . . wasn’t so much the bad grade I minded,” an earnest-looking blonde was saying, “even though I know it’s going to wreck my average. It was the way he spoke to me. He was so . . . so condescending, like he was some kind of high and mighty god, and I was just dirt under his feet.”
Her friend, a pretty, though somewhat overweight brunette, agreed. “A lot of the teachers get like that. They go on some sort of power trip when you put a grade book in their hands. They suddenly think they know more than us mere mortals, still struggling along trying to learn.”
“Well, I don’t care how much smarter than me he is, I don’t like being talked down to. And my term paper was okay, no matter what he said. That old . . . creep!” the blonde burst out, after groping for a severe enough description.
“Hey, Doll,” Wolverine admonished her, sipping his beer, “you’re makin’ your real mistake when you believe a teacher’s line. You probably are a lot smarter than he is. Like you said, all he’s got goin’ for him is a grade book and a nasty tongue.”
Both girls turned to look at him. “Sometimes I think so,” the brunette agreed. “Hi. I’m Cathy, and this is Janet.”
“Name’s Logan,” Wolverine replied, stubbing out his first cigarette.
“Do you go to school around here, too?” Janet asked him, eyes narrowed as she tried to estimate his age.
“Yep.”
“Isn’t it just awful sometimes?” Cathy exclaimed. “They say you need a degree to get ahead in life, but sometimes I wonder . . .” Nodding agreement, Wolverine noticed that one of the young men who’d been playing the video game was wandering in their direction. “You work so hard, and they treat you so awful, and what’s it all for? What thanks do you get?”
“Yeah, it’s really the pits,” the young man agreed, settling down next to Cathy. “Hey, kids, who’s your friend?”
“Oh, hi, Greg,” Cathy greeted him. “This is Logan. He goes to school around here, too. We were just talking about what creeps teachers can be sometimes.”
Wolverine, pausing to light a cigarette, looked coolly at the newcomer. Somehow, this clean-cut, supercilious kid reminded him of Scott Summers. “Yeah, most o’ the profs are jerks, an’ of course, you always get the teacher’s pet . . .” He scowled, remembering that afternoon’s training session. “Man, in my class, we got this one guy . . . No matter what you do, it ain’t good enough, an’ then he starts riding me, like he an’ the professor are better than I am, smarter . . . Sometimes, I get so I’d just like to take ’em both on . . .”
“ ‘Take them both on’?” Greg repeated, amused. “What course are you talking about, anyway?”
Wolverine hesitated. What could he say about the Danger Room? Survival training? No, that sounded too military. “Uh . . . phys. ed.,” he replied finally.
“Gym class?” Cathy repeated. “That sounds awful. Ooh, Janet, if we went to a school that had mandatory gym classes, I think I’d just die.”
“It does sound awful,” Janet agreed. “Why do you go to a school like that?”
“Oh, all that physical fitness stuff is a big part o’ the curriculum at this school,” Wolverine assured her, beginning to enjoy the importance his story was giving him. “Not just anybody can go to this place, either. You’ve gotta be special . . . tough an’ smart both.”
“Hey, just where do you go to school, anyway?” Greg asked, intrigued.
Wolverine turned back to his beer and muttered something unintelligible.
“What?”
Wolverine mumbled again, a little louder.
“Hey, co
me on, Logan, speak up. You can’t give the place a big buildup like that and then just leave us in suspense.”
“Xavier’s School for . . . Gifted Youngsters,” Wolverine answered reluctantly. “I go to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.”
Greg had no way of knowing that what he did next was the worst thing he could possibly have done.
He laughed at Wolverine.
Banshee, puffing on a clay pipe, sighed contentedly. Evening at the mansion was the best time of day, the time he looked forward to when the X-Men weren’t out on a mission. Classes were over, the professor usually retired to his study, and the mood was pleasant and leisurely—especially after some of their housekeeper’s excellent cooking.
“Sean, me boy,” he said to himself peacefully, “it’s lucky ye are to be leadin’ the kind o’ active life that lets a man enjoy his food an’ not be gainin’ weight.”
The house was comfortable, too—and quiet, since Wolverine had slipped off somewhere without trying to start any trouble. Colossus and Nightcrawler were sitting at a table before the fireplace, heads bent over a board game. Storm stood nearby, watching them.
“Aha!” Nightcrawler exclaimed triumphantly, as he made his move, “I have you, my friend! I get points for ‘verbosity’ and a double-word score for ‘bureaucrat’!”
Colossus groaned good-naturedly. “Kurt, this is not fair! You know more words than I do. English is not my native language.”
“Nor mine,” Nightcrawler reminded him cheerily. “It’s your turn.”
“Don’t feel bad, Peter,” Storm comforted him. “Kurt has the advantage of knowing the alphabet. And,” she added, smiling at her eerie-looking teammate, “I think he would get points for verbosity in any language he spoke. Excuse me, now,” she added, turning away. “I’m going upstairs to water my plants. They must be thirsty.”
“Vas . . . ?” Nightcrawler muttered blankly, looking after her.
“What she was tryin’ to say, Lad,” Banshee explained kindly, “is that ye got a gift for blarney.”
“Would you like to join us, Sean?” asked Colossus, looking up from the board.
“No, thanks. I’m more in the mood for a game o’ chess. I think I’ll go see what the professor’s up to.”
Still puffing on his pipe, Banshee wandered out of the room and down the hall. There was no sign of Xavier anywhere and no answer when Banshee tapped lightly on the door of his study. “Charles? Are ye in here? I was wondering if ye might enjoy a game o’ chess.” The unlatched door swung slowly open into the empty room. Sean shook his head, then decided to try the wing of the house where they kept the equipment.
When he got there, the main door was already unlocked, and the lights were on. Xavier was sitting in his wheelchair behind Cerebro’s main console. His eyes, intent on the world map before him, were watching the telltale blink of lights across its surface, indicators of mutant activity across the globe.
“Evenin’, Charles.”
“Good evening,” Xavier replied perfunctorily, still intent on the computer.
“What’re ye workin’ on there? It looks important.”
“It may be important—very important.” Xavier looked at Sean now, his expression still distracted. “Banshee, I really haven’t got time to talk to you,” Xavier told him. “I suggest you go try Scott. He’s in need of company.” He went back to his work without even waiting for Banshee’s reply.
Philosophically dismissing the notion of a chess game, Banshee made his way out of the mutant-research wing, up to the second floor of the house. He could hear the sound of thunder, although the night outside was clear and cloudless. Storm, in her attic room, must be watering her indoor forest plants.
The door to Cyclops’ room was shut. Banshee knocked on it and received no answer. Remembering Xavier’s advice, he turned the doorknob and went in anyway. Cyclops was sitting in an armchair, leaning one elbow on the armrest and his chin on his hand, staring moodily into space. Like the rest of the X-Men, he’d changed into civilian clothes, and in place of his visor, he was wearing sunglasses, their ruby-quartz lenses containing his deadly eye beams.
Banshee walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, next to Scott’s chair.
“What is it, Sean?”
“Nothin’ too serious, lad,” Banshee assured him, puffing on his pipe. “I just thought ye might like a little company. Ye disappeared very quickly after dinner.”
“Maybe I just want to be alone.”
“Maybe,” Banshee conceded, “but I doubt it. The X-Men are supposed to be a team, Scott. That’s what ye’re always tryin’ to drum into us, but teamwork doesn’t end at the door o’ the Danger Room. If we’re gonna stick together, it’s got to be all the time, and not just when ye decide it suits ye. Maybe talkin’ about what’s botherin’ ye might help ease your mind.”
“Sean . . .” Scott looked at him, prepared to say “thanks, anyway,” but he hesitated, and smiled in spite of himself.
Banshee grinned, looking suddenly like a leprechaun. “Come on, Scott. I doubt yer problem’s as bad as all that.”
Cyclops sighed, frowning again. “I guess I’m overreacting. It’s myself I’m bothered by. Myself, and what happened in the Danger Room.”
“Don’t let it worry ye so much . . .” Banshee began, but Cyclops silenced him with a wave of the hand.
“It’s just that . . . the professor reprimanded Wolverine, but I got the feeling it was me he was really disappointed in. I let him down, Banshee. I’m supposed to be helping all of you, setting a good example. Instead, I let Wolverine get to me, started wrangling with him like we were a couple of kids. The professor may not have said anything, but the reproach was there, all the same.”
“Scott, maybe I’m the wrong one to be advisin’ anyone,” Banshee told him. “I’m not a priest or a psychiatrist, an’ I’m certainly not Charles, but I do know this: ye’re not helpin’ anyone by being too rough on yourself. If ye get too far out o’ line, ye know ye’ll hear about it. Till then, why don’t ye just forget it?”
“Maybe you’re right . . .” Scott said.
“Of course I’m right,” Sean assured him. It was beginning to look as if he might get his chess game after all. “Now why don’t ye come downstairs an’ join the rest of us? Leave yer frowns up here for the night.”
Attention, X-Men!
Xavier’s mental summons cut off Cyclops’ reply.
All of you come to the testing wing of the mansion at once. We have urgent business to discuss.
Scott rose, smiling. “Maybe tomorrow night, Sean.”
“Aye,” Banshee sighed, doing likewise. Both walked toward the door of the room, but before they went through it, there was a “bamfing” sound, and Nightcrawler appeared in a sulfurous cloud.
“Scott, where is Wolverine,” he asked, not bothering to apologize for the abrupt entrance.
“I don’t know, but wherever he is, you can talk to him at the professor’s meeting.”
“I hope you’re sure of that,” Nightcrawler replied, uneasily. “Listen. Peter and I were playing Scrabble, and he wanted Wolverine to join us. We’ve looked all over the house. He’s not here.”
“What do you mean, ‘not here’?” Cyclops demanded.
“One of the cars is gone,” Kurt explained unhappily.
“Oh, that’s just great!”
“When Herr Professor finds out . . .” Nightcrawler muttered.
“He isn’t going to find out,” Cyclops interrupted him grimly. “Come on, Banshee. There’s still another car.”
“You mean we’re going after him?” asked Nightcrawler.
“Not ‘we.’ Just Sean and I. If Wolverine’s gone into town, we’ll have to follow him and bring him back as unobtrusively as possible. The last thing we need is to have someone get a look at you and start asking questions. Just go down to the meeting and act as if you don’t know a thing.”
“But, Scott, if Herr Professor asks me . . .”
“He
won’t. Come on, Banshee.”
“Good luck.” Almost before the words had left his mouth, Nightcrawler vanished in another puff of brimstone.
When they were in the car and on their way, Banshee ventured to ask the question that had been bothering him. “Cyclops . . . what if the lad ain’t in Salem Center? What if he’s gone for good. He may have just had enough . . . up an’ left us.”
“No, he’ll be there,” Cyclops assured him. “Auto theft isn’t Wolverine’s style, and neither is sneaking away without a word to anyone. I think he just borrowed the car, intending to bring it back after he’d cooled off a little.”
“But what if he ain’t here?” Banshee persisted, as the car drove into town.
“Where else could he go?” Scott almost smiled. “Besides,” he added, pointing ahead of him, “look.” They were drawing near to the bar, now, and from all indications there was a fight going on inside. A chair came flying out one window, shattering the glass. A moment later, the door flew open, and three girls ran out through it, screaming.
“Oh, no,” Banshee breathed, staring at the scene of destruction as Cyclops parked the car. “The little maniac . . . he wouldn’t . . .”
“Of course he would. I just hope he had the sense not to use his claws.
“Come on,” Cyclops added, getting out of the car. “Let’s get him out of there before the police arrive.”
It was difficult for them to enter the bar, since most of the clientele was trying to get out of the door. As they came in, a full stein of beer whizzed through the air between them, smashing with a splatter on the wall. In the center of the room was Wolverine, claws still safely retracted, trading kicks and blows with several students, all of them taller and broader than he was.
