Nil Desperandum

2

I woke up the next morning feeling like everything had rearranged itself. All right, I wasn’t exactly happy about my Danger Room workout at eight in the morning, but that was typical Scott. Fortunately, he wasn’t in the mood to run endurance drills, and my power read-outs weren’t up for measure, so I found myself toe-to-toe with Kurt, in a powerless hand-to-hand workout.

Not to brag or anything, but out of all the spandex-suiters in the joint, Kurt’s probably the only one who can outdo me acrobatically. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen Remy pull some awfully fancy stuff, but he’s still mostly just another dude. I mean, he has some extra long ligaments and tendons, and reinforced joints and all that groovy stuff, but he’s still a dude, and there’re cannot come quite to par with me, being a girl with hardcore, long-term gymnastic training. So when I met Kurt, I was surprised and delighted that he could actually manage all the stuff I can, only he puts all the force of male muscle behind it.

I was still a bit groggy, having spent a relatively sleepless night wondering what the hell was wrong with me, and why Wolverine had such a strange effect on me, so I guess I really deserved the solid thump Kurt gave me to set things off. Of course, he did only get the one hit out before I dodged, and you’d better believe that nothing gets your attention like a fuzzy blue elf with vampire fangs and yellow eyes kneeing you in the…well…kneeing you anywhere, really. In this case it was in the ribs. Toldja he’s bendy. My body sprang into overdrive, and I went on the offensive, delivering a series of kicks and punches that would probably have laid anyone else out. Well, they would’ve toasted Bobby’s muffin, that’s for damned sure. Kurt slid along outside my reach like a snake, and, belatedly, I remembered that he has a fully prehensile tail. I dodged just as it shot forward to wrap round my ankle, and I swear Kurt pouted. We dodged, and weaved, mêlée style, which, admittedly, neither of us was comfortable with, particularly on the field. I, personally, prefer sneaking up on and incapacitating, and though my hand-to-hand skills are formidable, my power allows me to throw both paffs and insults from a safe distance. Kurt is similar, in that he prefers the element of surprise to out and out brawling, and he’s also capable of teleporting to a safe distance if things get hair. Pun not intended.

We traded blows silently, focusing on the patterns within patterns, and I guess it was my lucky day or something, cause after fourteen minutes of gruelling duelling (w00t, w00t! Lee the poet!), I landed a roundhouse to his solar plexus that left him stumbling backward, clutching his stomach. Again, softie me, I gasped and rushed over. Not before securing his yield from Scott up in the controller room, of course, but I knelt down beside him.

‘Dude, I’m totally sorry. Are you winded?’ he nodded jerkily, and I helped him to his feet as he caught his breath. ‘You were awesome. My muscles hate you.’ I gave him a quick, one-armed hug, mindful that we were both dripping sweat. ‘You fuckin’ rule.’

‘Language, Jubilee.’ Scott’s voice boomed over the intercom.

‘Whoopsy.’ I grinned. ‘So, what else? You gonna grade us?’ I looked toward the hidden place where I knew the observation booth was.

‘I’m going to go over your video, yes. You’re both free to go. See me this afternoon at three, Jubilation.’

‘You got it, boss man.’ I nodded toward the booth. ‘It’s been fun, elf.’ I winked. ‘See ya, Kurt.’

‘Auf wiedersehn, liebling.’ He called after me as I made a beeline for the locker room showers. For those of you who are clueless as to why we have these, try clambering up a flight of stairs yourself next time you go through one of Scott’s lovingly crafted four-hour endurance sims. Yes. They last that long. Yes, he will tell you (in so many words) to eat a dick if you don’t last long enough. I’m convinced that somewhere deep down, inside Scooter’s straight-laced exterior, what he really wants to do is tie down some lucky woman and spank her, all the while making her count spankings and thank him for them. Boy oh boy, that’s not an acceptable way to think about the Fearless Leader.

As I swung into the locker, something, or someone caught my wrist. Their heat signature moved so quickly that I hardly had the time to register it before my body went into action. I twisted, bringing the heel of my free hand up hard into the chest of my assailant. Or I tried to. I hadn’t expected him to grab my other wrist in a vise-like grip. ‘Cool it, kid.’ My brain registered, about a nanosecond later, that it was Growly-Studly-Heart-Explosion guy.

‘Hiya, Wolvie.’ I managed. ‘What’s cracking?’

He looked surprised, then annoyed, and surprised again. ‘Look, kid—‘

‘And you can quit with the “kid” crap, too. I’m nineteen, okay?’

‘Whatever. Look, I owe you a solid for what you did for me last night. I’d like to make it up to you.’

‘What, like, as in, get me something nice?’

‘A beer or two, if you want.’ His smile was like, totally unnerving.

‘And where do you propose we share these beers? I assume you don’t want to drop them off in my mini-fridge.’

‘No. Wait, you have a mini-fridge?’

I giggled, the residual adrenaline beginning to peel away. ‘Nah. Just yanking your chain. So. You. Me. Beer. When?’

‘I’ve gotta box of Red Hook in the fridge. You still have kids hanging out on the roof?’

‘Hah. Yeah. Remy calls it “thinking.” Whatever, it’s totally brooding. But there should be a vacant balcony outside…outside Professor Xavier’s old office.’ I mentally chastised myself for slipping on his name. ‘Anyhow, if you have the stones to share your booze with me, you’ve got the stones to break into Baldy’s old digs. So I’ll meet you there after dinner, say, eight thirty? And I’ve gotta go, cause I totally reek.’

He let go of my arm suddenly, like he didn’t realise he’d been holding it in a freaking death grip for like two minutes now. He stared at the marks his fingers had left. ‘All right. Eight thirty.’

I nodded, and zipped into the showers. Huh. Con-fusing.

My day was packed full. Xavier’s had received university status a couple years ago, and I was busily engaged in both pre-med and child psychology for instructors. It’s not like I wanted to be either a doctor or teacher. No. I knew what I wanted to do, but being an X-Man would be full of both medical and educational emergencies. Along with all that, I was studying advanced German and painting, unofficially, with Kurt and Piotr respectively, and I participated by default in Scott’s military strategy lessons. Today we were studying fortification, particularly some castle in Albania that was reputedly impenetrable unless you bombed the holy bastard out of it. By the time I rushed to make my three o’clock with Scott, I was in desperate need of a coffee or something sugary.

Trust old Scooter to have all his campaigns planned. A caramel apple Danish and a cup of café au lait, with a slight aroma of mint were sitting on his desk. For a moment, I wondered what kind of trouble I was in, that needed such delicious padding. ‘Come in, Jubilee.’ He called, as I poked my head into the half-open door and knocked timidly. ‘Sit down. Help yourself. Hank said you sometimes crash halfway through the day if you don’t have sufficient blood sugar.’

‘You are God.’ I sighed, sinking into the chair. ‘Domo, dude.’ I reached for the plate and mug, too overcome with culinary ecstasy to notice that Scott was standing in Fearless Leader position three, that is, with his back toward me, examining his bookshelves with his hands clasped behind his (very firm and fantastic) rear.

‘Jubilee, I asked you here because it’s come to my attention that you’re…well, you seem to be special.’

I laughed raggedly. ‘Dude, this is Xavier’s Institute for the Gifted.’ I said, around a mouthful of apples and pastry.

‘Even among mutants. I spoke with Hank today.’

I choked on my gorgeous coffee. ‘Dude, Hank said it was cool. And so did Wolverine. And I totally aced it. Was nothing to worry about.’

He turned round. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but I’ll leave that to Hank’s discretion. I’m talking about your recent power readings. It appears as though you’ve been producing some very high-level readouts, and exhibiting remarkable levels of control.’

‘So. I’m learning to control my powers. That’s sort of the point. Kids do it every day.’

‘It’s not only that. I’ve spoken with some of our resident telepaths, Miss Braddock and Miss St. Croix among them. It appears as though you have a set of formidable mental shields which they have both been unable to penetrate, unless you are voluntarily broadcasting. Between this and the psionic nature of the control you have over your plasmoids, Hank is suggesting that you have not only Alpha Class potential, but the potential to develop a secondary mutation, most likely psionic in nature.’ He glob of pastry in my mouth (unchewed, thank you Scott) went down my oesophagus with a thud.

‘You’re not serious.’

‘That’s right, I’m telling you this just to wind you up.’ He replied, deadpan. Upon seeing my expression, he leant forward. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m cool, Scott. I just…gimme a second.’ I took a long swallow of coffee. ‘So, Hank thinks I’m a psi because I detonate my paffs with my brain. Sounds like a bit of a stretch to me.’

‘What about Remy? His primary mutation has to do with sympathetic kinetics, potential energy. And his empathy can only operate on feelings already present in some form. Essentially, he augments where you create.’

‘So what am I supposed to do about it?’

He smiled at me, the way he used to when I was in high school, and answered one of his dumb emotional intelligence questions correctly. ‘I knew you’d see it practically. Hank thinks the first thing to do would be the scan you pretty thoroughly. It’s a shame that we don’t have a psi on-staff with enough control to operate Cerebro, or it’d be a lot simpler.’

‘What about Monet? She’s powerful. And she has…some control.’ I recalled a particular incident during which she had caused Everett to synch onto her power, and he carried it round for the next couple hours. The sex was incredible.

‘She’s very young, with not nearly enough control to handle Cerebro. I’m not willing to risk either yours safety or hers. Hank and I were actually thinking of starting with something as simple as a CT scan.’

‘But when I came here, I had one of those.’

‘And you’ve undoubtedly gone through some significant changes since then. We’re not going to make you do anything, Jubilee, but we both think—and Ororo, too—that it’s in your best interest to put a label on this possible secondary mutation as soon as possible. I don’t personally think you’re in any danger of incurring any psionic trauma, but this could be really exciting.’

‘Yeah. All right. Can I have a talk with Hank about it before this goes down?’

‘Of course. He’s your consulting physician and primary care provider. I’d expect you to consult all the tests you’re going to take with him.’ He looked really closely at me, like he was expecting me to suddenly grow a second head, or maybe start bawling my eyes out. No such luck.

‘All righty. Is that the whole deal? I get a rockin’ cuppa and a pastry just for growing an extra mutation? I should totally do this more often. Thanks, Scott.’ I was fully aware that I was technically supposed to be calling him Professor Summers, but to be honest, I think it makes him feel old. Also, to be more honest, as much of a dickwad as he can be about training, he’s got a really good heart. As the song goes, he just can’t catch a break. At least he doesn’t whinge about his tough cookies, or go brood on the roof, even if he does bitch at me for eating sweets in class.

‘Yeah. That’s pretty much it.’ I was about to abscond with what was left of my pastry, when he said my name.

‘Yeah, Scooter?’

‘You’ll let me know if you’re…I don’t know…weirded out by anything.’ He gave me the doofiest smile as he said ‘weirded out.’ My little heart went out for him, trying to get jiggy with the teenagers.

‘Sure thing, Scooter. Whatever you need.’

‘It’s actually whatever you need. So…yeah. Let me know. Please.’

‘You’ve got it, man.’ I threw him a cheeky wink as I headed out, and I think he bought that. It’s not that I don’t trust Scott. Far from it. I know the dude has my back on any given Sunday, out on the battlefield, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he didn’t really need to be dealing with my teenaged angst (which I am totally well equipped to handle) while still recovering from the death of his one-and-only. Jean was some kind of lady. I remember the first time I met her, or saw her, anyhow.

It was back in LA, a mall in Beverly Hills, and I was a scared eleven-year-old mallrat orphan, dodging the rent-a-cops and making fireworks displays for tips. She came breezing through with Ororo and Dr. MacTaggert, who’d been staying at Xavier’s at the time. They were pretending to be shopping, but I could tell they were special. And probably not actually interested in the clothes hanging from the racks. I followed them, watching carefully and then, all of a sudden, Jean turned and looked straight at me. I was a bit thrown. I could feel her probing my shield, even though I didn’t know what she was doing at the time. Didn’t know that I had natural psi-shields. Matter of fact, the only way they’d found me was from some skeezy blogger who’d gotten my picture on their mobile and decided they’d do a little write up about itinerant performers. The Prof figured I was a mutant, and, on strength of a hunch, sent his ladies for me. Turns out they showed up just in time. The mall security had been getting fed up with me for a while now, and I’d not been thinking about them while following Jean, Ro, and the Doc, and they were about closing in on me. I realised it just a hair too late, but Jean was already on it.

‘Oh my God!’ she called sharply, ‘Honey, it’s you!’ her face crumpled into a mask of emotional distress. She ran toward me, arms open. ‘Oh, sweetie! You gave your father and I a heart attack! We’ve been looking for you forever!”

‘I…I’m sorry, mum.’ I stammered. ‘I…my temper got away with me.’ I played along, and we presented a suitably convincing image of a runaway daughter and panicked mother, though I don’t pretend we could have gotten away with it if she hadn’t telepathically convinced the security that she was a middle-aged Asian woman. The rest is history. They were cool enough to convince me to give Xavier’s a shot. It meant three square meals a day, anyhow, and a warm place to sleep, and, also, an explanation as to what the heck was going on with my body.

Eight years later, there I was, leaving the office of the man who’d loved her, at a school that had no Moira MacTaggert, no Charles Xavier, and no Jean Grey. Yeah, it hurt. Whatever.

I headed off to my last class of the day, an unofficial painting class with Piotr. He was too young to be an official teacher, only two years older than me, but he’s really good. Knew his technical stuff, too. Anyhow, I guess he was doing some kind of concentration test, cause he had Remy standing buck-ass naked on a little dais. There were about twelve girls that I’m pretty sure didn’t belong there. It’s not that Piotr didn’t draw a fair crowd, but then again, he’s not a notorious womaniser, being pretty much attached at the hip to Kitty. Whatev. I unpacked my drawing board and paper, and set up at my usual easel. I think I might’ve been the only one there not blushing. Remy, for his part, was doing a really ace job of pretending to be a statue. I wondered idly whether he’d done modelling before—the naked kind. Then again, the dude is always a shameless exhibitionist. I guess if I had a body like that, I would be, too.

I tried to concentrate on my sketch, but my mind kept wandering. It wasn’t wandering to Gumbo’s naughty bits, either. No, I’d seen those. Don’t look so shocked. The man has a penchant for skinny dipping in Breakstone in the middle of the night. So what if a certain sparkler, who shall remain unnamed, also likes her midnight rambles? It’s a free country. But like I said, it wasn’t Remy I was thinking about. That was just the problem. If I had been concentrating on his lean, sculpted physique, I probably would’ve had no trouble translating it into light and shadow. Instead, it was all the new developments that had sprung up on me over the past several hours.

I couldn’t say I didn’t want to be a psi. It was a rocking mutation, sure. But two of the world’s most powerful telepaths had just bitten the dust in a magnificent way over the past year, and I knew there was a host of other little problems that came along with telepathy that I just wasn’t sure I could deal with. Most people don’t think about it, but have you ever met anyone whose powers were psi-based who wasn’t something of a hard-on? Really, think about it. They have finer motor control (except maybe the Prof), a tighter handle on their temper, their rooms are neater, they dress more fastidiously than almost anyone else. No kidding. Think about Jean. She was a soft-spoken, mild-mannered woman, a conservative dresser (if you didn’t count the skin tight leather uniform), with regular and strict habits. She was a doctor, which takes years of committed study. She was a teacher. A good one. That means putting up with rowdy, hormonal teenagers for most of the day, five days a week. More, because Xavier’s is a boarding school. Monet, my roommate, is so controlled that she pauses before she does anything. A lot of people think it’s just that she’s being a priss cause of her aristocratic upbringing, but it’s her telepathy. I’m not good friends with her or anything, but she’s got the old ‘path paranoia. I think they’ve got it worse than anyone. Yeah, potentially, a pyrokinetic can blow up a building, but telepaths have the potential to change people, in ways so subtle even the person changed can’t usually tell. And they might do it by accident, without knowing. A telepath needs always to be in control. You may have noticed that I’m not exactly that girl.

Buy the end of the half-hour allotted to sketching Remy, I’d managed a gesture of his arms, a teeny-tiny fig leaf over his bits, and a cross-eyed cartoon face. Piotr nearly grinned at me, but caught himself and shook his head. Remy toured round, flirting with everything (I think he even gave bedroom eyes to a book case), lazily pulling on a robe. When he got to my easel, he mock glared.

‘Dat’s not exactly accurate, is it, petite?’

‘It was based on memory.’ I grinned back.

‘Well…’ he shrugged. ‘So Breakstone is cold, even in de summer, hein? It’s okay, chat, Remy knows y’ secretly mad for him.’

‘Well, I’d better go talk to this “Remy.” Tell him all about my feelings.’

‘Oh. An’ what kind of feelings dose be?’

‘You know, the standard. I want to make mad monkey love to him and bear his sons. That kind of thing.’ His eyes went momentarily crossed. Yes, just like my picture.

‘I’ll…be sure t’ tell him so, petite.’

‘Ain’t your petite, Gumbo.’ I packed away the last of my pencils and detached my drawing from the easel. ‘Here. A gift. When I’m rich and famous, you can sell it for millions.’

‘Or when I’m rich and famous,’ he countered, snatching it up, ‘maybe I’ll send it back t’you, along with a couple chile support payments.’ He shouldered me playfully on the way out.

‘Repent!’ I called after him. ‘The curse of God is upon you!’

‘From a heathen chink, no less.’ He replied.

‘Watchyer mouth, swamp rat.’

‘In case y’ decide t’ bear my sons?’

‘Or something.’

‘Oh, one t’ing.’ He paused, and turned round so I could catch up with him. ‘Y’wanna shoot some pool after dinner?’

‘Don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll page your room.’

‘Kay, petite. Stay safe. Dere are dangerous predators in dis world, dat would like not’ing more den to eat up a belle little heathen like you.’

I watched him saunter away, confused. Could he have picked up on my plans for the night? Or was he just being his usual ridiculous self? Either way, I wasn’t sure it mattered.