Continuity Note: Written before Genosha got wiped out. Assume that particular storyline never happened. Otherwise, accept whatever fits.
Feedback Note: If I didn't get an ego trip off feedback and reviews, I wouldn't post stories. That doesn't mean I'm against negative feedback, though; I can always use constructive criticism. It's [email protected], if you'd prefer to use E-Mail. And I'm really not sure if I'll continue this, or just leave it to stand as it is.
Title Note: I write slowly and painfully, but that's a brisk stroll compared to thinking of titles. Not to mention the horror of thinking of a tag line. Hence the crappy titles on this and most of my other fics. This one is a Kipling reference.
The Knight came home from the
quest,
Muddied and sore he came,
Battered of shield and crest,
Bannerless, bruised, and lame.
Fighting we take no shame.
Better is man for a fall.
Merrily borne, the bugle-horn
Answered the warder's call.
"Here is my lance to mend (Haro!)
Here is my horse to be shot!
Ay, they were strong, and the fight it was long;
But I paid as good as I got!"
"Oh, dark and deep their van,
That mocked my battle-cry.
I could not miss my man,
But I could not carry by:
Utterly whelmed was I,
Flung under, horse and all."
Merrily borne, the bugle-horn
Answered the warder's call!
"Here is my lance to mend (Haro!)
Here is my horse to be shot!
Ay, they were strong, and the fight it was long;
But I paid as good as I got!"
My wounds are noised abroad,
But theirs my foemen cloaked.
Ye see my broken sword -
But never the blades she broke;
Paying them stroke for stroke,
Good Handsel over all."
Merrily borne, the bugle-horn
Answered the warder's call!
"Here is my lance to mend (Haro!)
Here is my horse to be shot!
Ay, they were strong, and the fight it was long;
But I paid as good as I got!"
My shame ye count and know.
Ye say my quest is vain.
Ye have not seen my foe,
Ye have not told his slain.
Surely he fights again, again;
But when ye prove his line.
There shall come to your aid my broken blade
In this last, lost, fight of mine!
"Here is my lance to mend (Haro!)
Here is my horse to be shot!
Ay, they were strong, and the fight it was long;
But I paid as good as I got!"
Broken Blade I
I'm one of the few people on the planet to have derived any benefit from the Gene Rot.
Australia is still quarantined – nothing comes out, only medical supplies go in – and will probably stay that way until they find a cure. They've had two hundred years to find one so far. I've been watching throughout. I'm the only person to reach stage two of the disease and survive – I'd reached stage four, and was practically dead, before they cured me, in an unrepeatable, DNA-specific deal.
I sometimes wonder how Hank felt. He helped beat Legacy, and five years later along comes this new plague, only this one goes for everyone, and kills inside a week. I watched the tapes once, showing him working on it as his fur and teeth fell out and his digestive system began to literally liquefy. I don't know what he was thinking, but I know exactly how he felt. I'd been there, after all.
I can't have children, but that has nothing to do with the disease – my internal organs rebuilt themselves completely. Outwardly I look just like I did before the disease hit – even my teeth grew back – but the cure left me incapable of pregnancy; foreign bodies are destroyed the moment they appear, and that includes foetuses. Even so, I could live with that one.
No, the real price of the cure was the cure itself. Six pints of Wolverine blood, because mine had all decayed and he was the only living organic left in the base to serve as a donor. Anyone else it would have had a similar effect to the disease itself, the healing factor destroying their DNA and attempting – unsuccessfully – to replace it. Me, though – I'm a high-level Alpha Mutant. My genes were strong and, once Logan's healing factor had destroyed the disease, they managed to re-establish themselves, incorporating his DNA into them and dominating almost every aspect. Logan never was the most fertile breeder, and a lot of mutations are recessive anyway, and suddenly there I was; perfectly healthy and possessed of a high-powered healing factor, while around me one tenth of the world died.
So now that's me, possessed of a power that means I can't age, or get sick, or die of any injury short of a major industrial accident in a sawmill, or have children, or get drunk, or use drugs. It's been two hundred years, and I'm no longer sure which is worse, the loneliness or the boredom.
They make a big fuss at Hammer Bay Passport Control, but the thing is valid, and there is no way the human airport staff can make trouble about the rights of a mutant. Sometimes I hate this entire planet. Magnus and his heirs made a safe haven for mutantkind – vital in this modern atmosphere of Pogroms and the blame culture; there are no labour camps in the English-speaking world, yet, but most of us reckon it's just a matter of time – but at the cost of a lot of freedoms for the Flatscans. It's the same the whole world over; it's the weak that get the blame, though numbers count for a lot everywhere.
Business or pleasure, they ask me, and I tell them business. That usually means attempting to gain citizenship, and the immigration officers nod knowingly. Like I care. I don't intend staying here any longer than I have to; Genosha sickens me almost as much as most of the rest of the world.
Guthrie worked in intelligence for Magneto on and off in the early twenty-first, and bought himself a retirement pad out here. He told me all about it during our affair; live long enough, and sooner or later you sleep with every immortal friend you have, or so I'm told. I've never been here before, but I find it easily. It's a nice place, a beach house a few minutes outside Carrion Cove – not the most poetic of addresses, but great scenery. As I draw up – no security perimeter, but then the kid is immortal – I can see surfers. None of them have blonde hair, but then he always was handy with a dye job.
The house is empty and silent, and I turn aside to leave, before a sense of efficiency leads me to head down to the beach. I promised I'd do my best to find him, so I'm damned if I'm not going to at least try. Promises don't mean anything these days, of course. They haven't meant anything since the sixth of October 2017, the day Scott died.
As I get closer I see that none of the surfers could be him, and then I really do start to leave, but he was sitting on a rock watching the clouds – he could go and fly with them, if he chose, but one thing immortality is really good for is honing your brooding skills – and he calls out as I turn.
'Looking for me?' His hair is black again, but he's clean-shaven. He looks healthy – but then, he's hardly going to be anything else, is he? He also looks dangerously sexy.
'Cannonball.' I start, but I don't know what to follow it with.
'Not for a long time.' He replies, but I can sense a moment's uncertainty. 'You know that, J.'
'Guthrie.' I try again.
'Social call?' His forced breeziness is getting to me.
'Business.' I say. 'Betsy asked me to talk to you.'
'Oh? And what does the all-powerful Captain Britain want with a mere immortal such as I?' I scowl. Psylocke was always mysterious, and a lot of people were upset when Brian and Strange refused to explain how they brought her back, but she was one of my first friends among my fellow X-Women, even if not my best. I can forgive a friend a lot, especially when she comes back from the dead (been there, of course, more or less, though they never buried me).
'She's not the Captain any more.' I tell him. She did that job for six years, almost a century ago. On the other hand, the latest one is another tall, athletic woman, so maybe he made an honest mistake. 'She wants to see us.'
'You and me?' And I can tell he's already half guessed the answer.
'All of us. Those who are left. After you I'm going to see the Cajun, and then head over to Washington, have a word with the current Captain America. She's doing Antarctica and Chicago.' He nods. He understands. 'Braddock Manor.' I tell him. Where else? 'Eleven days from now.' He nods again.
'I'll be there.' Now I can go. I'm getting in my car when he calls after me.
'Want some company?' I shake my head. I don't want him interrogating me. I respect him more than any guy since Cyclops, even if I don't like him any more, and I never could keep secrets from people I respect. As I drive away, I hear him add something else.
'Good luck, Jubilee.' It's the first time he's used my full name since we started sleeping together, seventy-six years ago.
Gambit is easy. I just tell him the invite list, and he says 'Remy, he think about it.' He'll be there. He won't abandon New Orleans, though; it's the richest of the Free Cities, and he's effective ruler. On the other hand, it might make a handy headquarters; far enough from New York and Washington to be fairly safe, but near enough for easy access.
Washington is the big one. These days Captain America doesn't give interviews, or make scheduled public appearances. It wouldn't do to let the press know that the symbol of nonexistent liberty for all North America is five foot three and pronounces 'about' 'aboot'. I find him, though; I always was more agile, and when he gets on to the roof, the terrorists are all neatly handcuffed, and I'm waiting for him, smoking a Marlboro filterless.
'You shouldn't smoke, darlin'.' He tells me.
'I got a healing factor.' I remind him, and behind the mask he winces. 'So… Wolverine is Captain America. Which maniac had that idea, and who did they have to threaten to kill to make you do it?'
'I help.' He says, the simplest statement.
'Logan, look at yourself. You're dressed up like a big flag, and you're not even American.' That gets one of his old trademark savage grins. Maybe not totally tame yet.
'That all you came here to say?'
'Nope. If you feel like wearing something a little more stylish, drop by Braddock Manor. Four days time. Some of the others will be there. Maybe all.' I don't wait for an answer, just turn and stalk away dramatically. I always was a little too theatrical.
I get back to Britain before Betsy. Britain is safe – probably the best place outside Genosha – and doesn't normally upset me, until I think about why it's safe. Let me explain.
In 2112 the European Court of Human Rights ruled in the case of Dutrec vs. Deveraux. The ruling stated, in effect, that all the laws made by individual countries – especially France and Germany – about Mutants being no different before the law than anyone else was pure hogwash. From then on, mutants were presumed guilty until proven innocent. Half of Europe protested, but for economic reasons they went along. All except Britain. The government that pulled them out of Europe was voted out a few months later as the United Kingdom hit its biggest economic depression ever. Since it became a second haven for metahumans it recovered quite nicely, although now a lot of the GNP comes from hiring out UK-based troops as mercenaries (of whom, statistically speaking, an average of one in twelve has powers of Beta level or better). For a time, though, it was a third world state. There's been loads of speculative history on why the Prime Minister of the time, Sir Warwick Moseley, made the move, but since he died of a cerebral haemorrhage a year after the event, no one ever got to ask him.
Here's the answer. Elizabeth Braddock, formerly Psylocke and Captain Britain, turned out to have been an Alpha-level telepath ever since her return from the dead. Of course, in a hundred and ten years she never thought to mention this to any of us; she only brings it out when she wants to take control of an entire country and then explode a man's brain. This isn't the only reason most of us don't talk to her, but it's a big one.
My hundred and ninety year old Life Passport causes some more problems until they run it through. It's amazing, the computerised planet; if it is in the files, it must be so, and the drones at Heathrow couldn't think past the fact that the computer said it was fine. At times like this I almost prefer Genosha.
I'm staying in Braddock Manor, because it's luxurious rent-free accommodation, and it'll be convenient for the meeting. Some of the kids are out front, training; if things don't go like we planned they'll end up in the SAS or possibly the Patriots. Jackie Bishop is on the door of the conference room, but she lets me in on sight. Anyone else I'd object, but this girl scans distinctive biosignatures; there is no way to disguise yourself from her short of a full body transplant, and even then she could tell if she peered in your ears. She's good security staff, too; that must run in the genes.
Inside the conference room I slump in a chair and enter the details of my meetings in one of the terminals there. I've wound up, and I'm playing some classic Lemmings Gods IV, when the shadows by the drinks cabinet just swell a little, and suddenly she's there. She doesn't ask how it went, because she knows everything I'm prepared to tell her is already in the computer. Instead, she just sits and reads for forty minutes while I complete nine levels, then asks if I have anything to add.
'Gambit won't leave the Big Easy.' I tell her.
'Not even for…'
'Skunk Girl? Like she'd abandon her momma.' She looks up at me.
'Mystique died four months ago.' She announces, and I'm kind of numb. I hardly knew the woman, but she was one of us, one of the old wearers of the X (the first X, the one that meant something more than slavery and death) who was still alive.
'What of?' I ask, and see the stupidity of the question even as I ask it.
'Old age. She wasn't immortal, just ageless. Her cellular structure started to break down, and she sucked on a plasma rifle. Rogue is still suffering.' So callous. I'd say it was typical of her now, but these days it's typical of all of us, of the entire world.
'She's not coming, then.' I say. Yep, typical.
'No. Rogue is, though. She was trying to get drunk when I found her. I think she'd been trying for weeks.'
'Let's hear it for Wolverine's healing factor.' I mutter.
'Iceman will be here, too.' She says. 'He won't be much use with us, but I was thinking we could send him to Canada. The Northwest Territories are the proposed testing ground for the new 'Community Camps' the government's Metahuman Advisory committee has proposed.'
'You reckon he can manage alone?' I have to ask, have to hear her say what I've believed for so long.
'Bobby Drake died in Australia, Jubilee, the same way as Jonothan Starsmore. There is only the Iceman now. He'll manage.' She's right. The Gene Rot killed a few more people than were ever buried. 'I reached the living flame, by the way.' I look up at that. He and I are the last of Generation X. 'He's not coming.' I nod. He was always an unlikely one, anyway.
'So… Iceman aside that leaves LeBeau, Logan, Rogue and Guthrie. Plus you and me. That's pretty much an entire team, huh, Betts?'
'Pretty much.' She says. 'With the children, we should be able to eventually make three. A couple more years training and Scanner and Brightlance will make adequate field leaders.' This is important; only Guthrie and LeBeau have any real experience of leadership, and they're the least likely to join.
'Have you told them?' I ask.
'No, but they're eager.'
'So was I, once.' I answer. 'So were all of us.'
'Not Logan. Or LeBeau.' I just stare at her. The meeting kind of breaks up.
IIThey're good kids, the newest lot. They aren't just mutants, not this time; Swansong is the heir to Earth's magic, for instance, and Lin-Var is a Kree. The main ones are mutants, though; Asgard is still cut off from Earth, and the Olympians and Inhumans aren't talking to us. Probably something to do with them being unprotected by any human law. Scanner is probably the best. She's also the only one that we're sure is related to one of the old crew; she's Bishop's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter. We're fairly certain that the new Phoenix is a Summers, mostly because he's a TP/TK, and Nightstalker may or may not be the son of Nightcrawler; Amanda was never an X-Man, and it's any idea when Kurt was born, considering he was brought up in Limbo. We still haven't got to the limits of his powers yet; they're subtle, but devastating.
Everybody knows about the twentieth century X-Men. Even my name is in most of the history books – one of the reasons I don't normally use it. Our new X-Men, though (and will that be their name? After all, the US has it's own X-Men, attached to the FBI, and they might not like sharing), are really new – no one will have heard of any of them. If they're to do what we intend we need some of the old names, not to mention some experienced people other than Betsy and me (Besides, she's not the Psylocke who fought with the X-Men; a creature of Fay flesh and shadow magic, mutant powers merely an adjunct to her other abilities; even without the Captain Britain costume she's one of the most powerful beings out there, and as good as me or Logan in a fight). They start arriving three days early.
Rogue looks like she flew herself all the way from Chicago, and wasn't paying much attention to her grooming even before that. Somewhere along the way she managed to get herself drunk, which I'll have to ask her about soonest, and now she literally flies in through the window. Glass goes everywhere and Grace leaps up to snatch her out of the air before she wrecks the far wall. Unfortunately he doesn't know he's dealing with Rogue, and promptly passes out; she stands up from where he dropped her, and stares around wildly. It's anyone's guess what's going through her head right now, but luckily Grace has always been friendly and open-minded; main reason he's so popular. Before she can sort her minds out, I grab her and drag her off to her room, where I take a risk and detonate the contents of her stomach, just to be safe (I have to do this in private; most of the students don't know I have any powers yet). Betsy arrives after a minute, and is clearly distressed by Rogue's condition. I'd like to say that it's because she's still a kind person, but of course Rogue drunk, draggled, and, to be brutally honest, stinking and filthy, is not likely to attract Gambit back to us. She leaves me sorting things out, and heads off to call her personal beauticians, who do a seriously good natural look. I cook up a particularly virulent hangover cure, wait till I'm fairly certain her digestive system has regenerated itself and she's stopped vomiting blood, and pour it down Rogue's throat. She throws me through the wall.
The kids don't know who I am, or even if I have any powers, but they know that I'm closer to being trusted by Betsy – their boss – than any of them, or anyone they've ever met. Rogue, on the other hand, is just some Meta who flew in and hasn't even been introduced. As far as Rogue is concerned, they're just a bunch of mutants and others who are suddenly reacting badly to her. A fight breaks out very rapidly, but fortunately Betsy arrives and breaks it up before anyone can get really hurt. By that time I'm pretty much recovered, so I head to my en suite to spit out teeth and blood and pick lumps of building out of my hair.
Scanner knocks on my door. She wants to know if I'm all right.
'Peachy keen.' I tell her. 'I just got thrown though a wall. How's your day been?'
'Well, I guess now I have some idea what your mutant powers are.' You can't hide the presence of mutation from Scanner – she can look at a crowd and tell you exactly who is carrying the X-Factor Gene, one of the reasons I'm so glad I killed Sinister – but you can hide it's nature. She pauses, lingering in the doorway, and for a moment I think she's about to put the moves on, but instead she just asks, 'Will… uh… super woman be joining us for supper?' I tell her yes, and she goes.
Supper is quieter than normal. Betsy never eats with the rest of us – I've a feeling she might not eat at all, seeing as she's not even remotely human these days – so I often eat out, but this time I'm playing the good host to Rogue, who's feeling – and behaving – a little better. Our presence quietens the kids, who spent most of the meal whispering – probably speculation about who we are, but I didn't get Logan's hearing. I don't know about Rogue.
She's on my right, and Kurt – Nightstalker – is on my left. Kurt is Amanda's son, brought up in Limbo, and except when he uses his powers he looks like a normal guy, though kinda saturnine. He's trying to draw us both out – as usual – but Rogue's too depressed and I'm too cautious to tell him anything, even her name. Even Blockade's blunt, 'Who are you really?' just gets ignored. Afterwards I hand Rogue over to Betsy's beauty staff, and head in for another conference with the lady herself.
The essential thing is to fling Rogue and the Cajun back together. Provided we can keep Rogue depressed, but sober and attractive, this should be fairly easy; she'll become dependent on him, and he in turn will become dependent on us. As we talk about this plan I don't try to hide the periodic sips I take from a glass of water to clear the bile from my throat; Betsy is aware of my dislike for this scheme – to a certain extent she feels the same way – and knows that I understand the necessity.
Scott's the only person I ever knew who could really balance compassion and pragmatism, and do it right.
Logan is the next to arrive. A taxi drops him just outside the front gate, and he walks up the drive with a duffel bag hanging from one hand, no other luggage. Betsy's taken Rogue out shopping with Swansong and Flashfire, so I get to greet him alone.
'Darlin'' he says.
'Wolvie.' I say. We use the old forms. We're acknowledging our old relationship, affirming our friendship. We moved apart long ago, but he's still the closest thing I've got to family.
Lin-Var is watching. He's got enhanced senses, among other things, and after Scanner he's probably the best sentry we've got. He doesn't ask questions; Betsy ordered that I was to be left alone, and Logan is on the guest list. They were warned, though vaguely. I lead Logan past him, and inside to find a room. He travels light – most of us do – and I actually watch him as he unpacks in five minutes, settled for a long stay.
'Who's the bad guy?' He asks.
'Just about everyone.' I tell him. Sometimes it seems that way. After all, the Government's X-Men and Avengers are run, respectively, by the FBI and the CIA, and we're fairly certain that Selene is dominating their policy. Then there's the Dark Beast, still out there somewhere (and we still don't know how), plotting away, and the Xtreme is pretty much a Fascist, not actually an enemy, but someone to work on. There's always risk from the Richards Corporation, too; their troopers actually wiped out an entire squad of SAS including two Alphas only last year. I even heard a rumour the Red Skull was still knocking around somewhere – although everyone on the planet is against him – and I've got a nasty feeling that Swansong's going to have to claim her birthright before someone rather nastier does.
He takes all this in without a murmur, then asks about the kids. I tell him codenames, identities, powers, personality traits; he listens again, asking questions this time. Then he asks about me. It's good to talk. It's been a long time, and we haven't really been close since Scott died, but this evening we get our old relationship back. It's good to be friends.
Over supper I tell him about Betsy. All the words I say are perfectly reasonable, and I don't give anything away to the kids, but there's a lot I don't say. Rogue listens, but unlike Logan she can't spot the missing info. I'm wondering whether I should fill her in: after all, Betsy's not here to hear me. In the end I let it slide; I don't want the kids having conflicted loyalties this early on.
One day to go, and LeBeau and Guthrie arrive together. They caught the same flight, they shared a taxi, and it couldn't be more obvious that they planned this trip. Obviously there's been some talking behind my back. Funny, those two really never had anything in common. Except respect for Scott, of course. He always was everything, when you got right down to it.
Betsy greets them, and if she's surprised they came together she doesn't show it. She could have asked – have had me ask – either of these two to bring potential recruits, but she didn't – doesn't want anyone on the team that she doesn't know. Doesn't want anybody that she can't control.
She's got Rogue with her, of course, and LeBeau is caught in an instant. She's as beautiful as ever, with pain in her eyes, and he never could resist that. Horrible though it is, I've got a feeling – and a reason to believe – that Betsy's plan is going to work.
Ice is the last to arrive, turning up the morning we arranged for the meeting. Betsy and I haven't been telling anyone anything about the agenda. What with them and us and the kids they've all figured it out, of course, but they don't know the details yet, and we aren't sharing. Ice, though…
He comes out of the pool right behind me, wearing the face and skin of Bobby Drake, saying something about enjoying the view of me in a bikini. I don't mind; he's seen me naked a couple of times, although usually in extremely unromantic, downright violent, circumstances (and, once, seeping colourless blood from every pore, my internal organs trickling out of me, unable even to scream as he waited to see if the blood transfusion would help, waiting because Logan was still unconscious from blood loss, and the rest were dead, or dying, or just not allowed near me in case they caught the thing that was killing us all). Then he goes serious.
'What's going on, J?' I hesitate – it's been a long time, but I've always trusted Bobby, even if this is only a part of him.
'Betsy is starting a new X-Men.' I tell him. 'With us – what's left of us – as the backbone.'
'Has she bought her hoverchair yet?' He asks, and he's grinning. 'Seriously, Fire, I'm no good on a team, not the way I am.' I nod.
'She's going to ask you to look after Canada. The cold bits.'
'Great. The place where people will be best equipped to beat me.' We smile together, and I know that, with Ice at least, everything will be OK.
III
The meeting goes… reasonably. Logan and Guthrie pull up lots of objections. LeBeau supports Guthrie when he's not mooning at Rogue (plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose as he would say). Rogue and Ice are compliant, Bobby because he's my friend, and because he thinks it's a good idea, and Rogue because Betsy briefed her – I have no idea what was said, but it worked. Then Guthrie asks to see the kids. Betsy calls them in.
They've got no idea what's going on.
Fourteen of them, none past their late teens. Out of training uniforms, they could almost be normal kids (except Lin-Var and Blockade, of course). They look at us, and we look back. LeBeau and Logan are already smoking, and I light up to hide my nerves. Guthrie stands up and walks round them. They're ranged in a rough line, and I can tell that he has guessed that Betsy left them out of costume deliberately, so he and Logan would see them simply as kids, needing our help. The simplest ploys are often the best.
'Who is your field leader?' He asks them, no trace of hayseed in his voice. Paige used to hide her accent in much the same way, but it's best not to think about that.
Scanner and Brightlance step forward.
'And you are?' He sounds very East Coast, like a male Emma Frost. She might have treated them like this – cold and harsh, but she would have just been hiding the emotions. Don't think about her.
'Scanner.' Says Scanner.
'Brightlance.' Says Brightlance, and he smiles nervously. He's got a wild streak, but good self-control, and he always likes to understand what's going on. Scanner is the adaptable one; Brightlance likes to plan.
Guthrie studies them both.
'Original names.' He says, and I'm not completely sure he's being sarcastic. I wish he was still Cannonball, the polite, kind young man I fell in love with over shared grief, and who never resented me for surviving what killed his sister. Hell, I wish we were all what we used to be. Especially Betsy, and what she used to be is a corpse.
'Can they fight?' He's asking her now.
'Barely, but they're learning.' She says, and when Scanner starts to object, Guthrie drops her with two hits. At a nod from Betsy, the other kids pick her up and carry her out.
LeBeau breaks the tension with some wise-ass quip in his weird French accent. They go back to arguing about whether they should join.
'Darlin'?' Logan's just asked for my opinion.
'I think it's a bad idea.' I say, which surprises everyone except Betsy. We've had this conversation already. Four times. 'I also think it needs to be done, and we're the best people to do it. With the world the way it is, we need someone to change the way metahumans are viewed. We're genuine heroes, we've got old names and faces…'
'Remy t'ink you look pretty young from where he sittin', petite.' He doesn't. He's like Mystique, not actually immortal. There's the Elixir, but that's already losing its grip. I'd give him another fifty years, max.
'We ain't been heroes for a long time.' Logan adding his three cents.
'But we were.' I say. 'And we…'
'Can be again, if we just remember the inherent nobility of our fellow-man and do not give up, for any dream worth having is a dream worth fighting for?' Killing for, he means. Dying for. When did Guthrie get so bitter?
'No, Samuel.' It's Betsy. This is the moment. 'When you fight for something, it cannot be a dream. Win or lose, it becomes tainted by reality. You cannot own a dream, but you can attempt to improve what is real.' I wish she believed what she's saying.
'Yeah. I remember your methods of improving reality.'
'Hadn't you heard, Samuel? The good die young. Those with blood on their hands live long and painful lives.'
'You died.'
'So did we all, at some point, except possibly Gambit. As I said, the good die young.' Guthrie winces; he knows what she's referring to.
'Much as I'm loving the reiteration of a cliché,' I say, 'can we get back to business.' They all look at me again. 'We've got the kids. If necessary, Betsy and I can run the show. We hope it won't be. Rogue?'
'Huh?' She's been the least active. Even so, this should work.
'Are you with us? The kids need someone to look after them. We're eventually doing three teams, but we need to finish training them first. Someone who knows a little about almost every power in the book would be handy.' She pauses. She's been thinking it over, these last four days, while Betsy worked on convincing her. I played Devil's Advocate, a little – just enough to make sure she thought she was getting a balanced view, hopefully not enough to turn her against us.
'Ah think y'all could use me.' She says, and smiles.
[She's doing this for you, Jubilee.] Betsy says in my head. [She thinks you need to be protected from me.]
[Not arguing with her.] I answer, and then shield, hard.
'Wolvie?' I say.
'I ain't got nothin' better to do, darlin.' I don't need Betsy to tell me his motivation is the same as Rogue's, and I suddenly realise that she's using me as much as anyone, that I've only been privy to half the manipulation. Get Rogue on board and we should have LeBeau, but with me she knew she was almost guaranteed Logan.
'Ice?'
'Sounds good.' I can't guess. Rogue and I used to be his friends. Beyond that, I don't know.
'LeBeau?'
'You know I ain't gonna be leavin' ma chere alone wit' you.' Foregone conclusion, really. That just leaves…
'I'll join.' Says Guthrie. 'I think you might need me.'
'More than anyone, Cannonball.' I tell him, and he doesn't object to the codename. He can't. Because that's who he is now.
That's who we all are, Psylocke, Wolverine, Iceman, Cannonball, Rogue, Gambit and me, Jubilee, and with us, one day, the kids – Scanner, Brightlance, Grace, Lin-Var, Swansong, Moonbender, Decibel, Golem, Weaver, Echo, Phoenix, Blockade, Nightstalker and Flashfire. We haven't discussed what to call ourselves, but whatever we decide on officially, some things you never leave behind. One thing the seven of us never stopped being. We are the X-Men.