Prologue: Alkali Lake
But you always find a way
To keep me right here waiting
You always find the words to say
To keep me right here waiting
If you chose to walk away
I’d still be right here waiting
Searching for the things to say
To keep you right here waiting
~Staind
The low rumble of the Harley was soothing in a way she had never understood. It trembled the aches away, kept the thoughts at bay as she concentrated on its masculine grumble. Like a man, she mused. The steel and leather caressed, demanded in a loving, almost tender way.
Her gloved hands gripped the handlebars tightly, using every ounce of strength she had left to steer the massive bike along the tree lined highway. Sunlight peeked through the thick branches, winking at her, tempting the rider to smile.
A low hum lay just beneath the telltale growl of the Harley. Tires swept over blacktop, carrying her away. Her bottom ached in the seat, scarcely noticed as she worshipped the bike under her. Something like homage, she thought. Taking the same trip, on the same bike. Maybe it was something she had to do, or just maybe, she had finally lost what little of her sanity the last month tried to strip away.
Dark eyes flickered over the road ahead, checking for signs of life, of danger. Perhaps her paranoia was unfounded, but it would not hurt to be cautious. Finding the road and tree line surrounding it empty, she turned the bike carefully, slowing to ensure she made the curve gracefully.
Her body lowered slightly, using the weight of it to help steer the massive vehicle. The crisp air was tinged with the aftermath of a good rain. Heady scents of wet earth tickled her nostrils, reminding her of the unbridled nature all around. She wanted to be lost in it, to strip bare and race into the forest like some wild thing.
Resisting the urge, she straightened the bike and downshifted. It purred to a stop at her urgings, the engine idling as she pulled down the sturdy kickstand. Her eyes refused to look to the side, to the terrible beauty she knew she would find there. She wasn’t ready yet.
Would she ever be?
Thick leather gloves were torn from her hands, stuffed into the pack behind her. A hand unbuckled the helmet, the other racing through mussed white locks confined too long. The protective headgear was settled behind her as well, balanced on the edge of her pack.
She unzipped the leather jacket enough to breathe, to feel the cool air on her skin. Her feet, covered by heavy black boots, flattened to the slick pavement on either side of the bike, knees weak from the long drive and uncomfortable position.
Why had she come here? Was she so intent on mentally flogging herself for mistakes? Had she become so lost in her own regrets?
Tired eyes bored into the symbol lovingly rendered into the polished chrome beneath the speedometer. Trembling fingers traced the “X” superimposed with the traditional Harley-Davidson logo.
“Scott.”
Ororo Munroe forced herself to turn her head. Dark eyes shot one fast glance over the mystical beauty of the destroyed base, the unfathomably deep lake that now covered so much evil. Her lids slammed closed, the punch of guilt and sorrow a physical pain inside of her.
After several deep breaths, she managed to pry her eyelids open once more. This time, she kept her gaze on that ethereal water. It reflected the clear sky, giving the impression that heaven and earth were one in the same. She felt the stab of rage and hatred with her sorrow now, tamping it down to be dealt with another time.
Swinging her leg over the side of the bike, she stood and stretched. Bones crackled and popped, muscles groaned in agony. She felt grimy and her stomach grumbled angrily, but she continued to stare out at that clear water, knowing what sins it had cleansed, what terror it concealed.
That first step was the hardest, or so she tried to convince herself. Each felt the same, difficult and excruciating. Ororo let her hands clench into fists and release as she moved toward the water. The surface of it was calm, so smooth it looked almost like glass. She stepped off of the road, eyes intent and shoulders squared.
There was a gentle outcropping just meters from where she had parked the bike. Made of solid stone, it looked to have been part of the cliff face before the valley was covered in water. Her boots made soft squishing sounds as she stepped onto it, the grip of the soles preventing a dangerous slide.
Alone with the breeze picking at her hair, Ororo stood upon the edge of the outcropping, wondering at the symbolism. It did, after all, somewhat resemble an altar. Something made from earth to accept sacrifice.
Did you stand here? She questioned nothingness, knowing he was finally too far for her words to reach. Is this where your mourned her? Where she killed you?
That punch of pain came again, a startling blow from the inside that reflected outwardly. A gasp left her lips, one of surprise and restraint. Clouds darkened the skies, echoing in the unbroken water.
Knees weakening further, she let herself crumble. This is why she had come here, after all. She’d known that the day she left the mansion. Ororo let that stinging of her eyes come, let her emotions churn in the angry heavens. Here she was utterly alone, without the strain and pressure of the children, of the legacy that should have been his.
Broken weeping ricocheted through the mountains as the final barriers around her wounded heart came down. Tears stained her cheeks, though she kept her eyes on that deadly water. The tranquil surface shattered beneath the cold fury of rain, reminding her of the soul so splintered inside of her.
“SCOTT!”
A scream. Ororo rarely raised her voice, but she did so now. Turning her face to the heavens, she allowed grief to rule, to destroy what had been a beautiful day. Slumping forward under the awesome weight of her grief, she slammed both unprotected fists and forearms into the wet stone. It was so consuming that she fought for breath. The weeping, the screaming, the might of her unrestrained powers stole what little air she could retain for herself.
Raising her arms, she lifted herself with the entreating winds. They tore at her clothing, whipping it with her hair around her until she could lose herself in the simple fury. High above the earth and water, she spun in her element, mourning and hurting in a way that no other could dare understand.
Oh, how she had loved him. Admitting it now, to herself, to the elements, she felt nothing of the shame she carried while he lived. She screamed again, letting it echo in the gale that surrounded her. The water kicked up under the fingers of her powers, spraying her face and mixing with the freezing rain.
Though he belonged to the woman known as Jean Grey, Ororo had loved Scott Summers for more than half her life. She adored, respected that pride and confidence he carried with him. She could remember the light in his smiles, the low timbre of his voice.
She hated herself for it.
No matter how she told her heart that it was hopeless, that he had been married in theory if not law since the tender age of sixteen, her torch burned brightly. Ever considerate of his relationship with the red haired beauty, Ororo never told him. She never told anyone, locking it away as her little secret.
Charles had known. He mentioned it one time, so long ago it was likely forgotten before his death. She denied, he did not press. She wished he had. Perhaps he could have broken the vicious cycle, convinced her aching heart that there was nothing to pine for.
Of course, that had not worked either. The same unruly beast that thieved the light from Scott’s eyes took Charles Xavier, father, mentor, friend. Jean Grey. Ororo thrust herself higher into the air, hating even the sound of her name within the vaults of her mind.
She yearned to stop thinking about it, tried in vain to push it all aside.
Ororo, spinning above the water, grieved. Unchecked, unchallenged by the presence of human life, she let the elements loose. Tapping into her mutation, she hoped the emotional purgation would take with it some of her pain. Perhaps if she let herself feel it, all of it, she would wake one morning able to breathe.
But thoughts came back. She could not feel without them. Wondering if he was still there, lost beneath the water without his family, she let her hands drop.
The winds died. Ororo’s body fell like a stone above open air, plunging into the frigid water like a knife through butter. The temperature should have stolen her breath away, freezing her human body almost instantly.
Immunity to the cold prevented any of it from stopping her. Ororo dove for the murky depths, hands searching for any signs of him. Part of her knew this was a symbolic act, that she had no chance of actually finding him. She had to try.
But the water felt like her life now. Dark, deep, keeping her too sluggish to move on. She was lost in it, drowning and fighting as it pulled her deeper and deeper still. Nothing gave her light or life. She was trapped with grief, with hate until she was certain it would kill her.
When at last her lungs demanded breath, Ororo pulled in her mutation once more and thrust herself from the depths. She landed in a heap, abandoned by the shaking winds, upon the stone outcropping.
There, wet and aching, she lay upon the cool rock and wept.
~**~
As the Danger Room deconstructed the holographic program, Logan led the team through the open doors and into the hall. The younger mutant fighters known as the X-Men were battle worn and weary, muttering under their breath at the harsh training.
Logan, known also as Wolverine, ignored the bellyaching. After the events of the last month, he wasn’t letting anyone wear the X-Men leather uniforms without knowing how to fight. If he had it his way, they wouldn’t be fighting at all.
Fate and Life, however, seemed to have other plans. He knew it was necessary, that in a world filled with enemies on both sides of the proverbial fence they were the last line of defense. Though it went against his instincts, he continued to train these children to make war against those that would rather see them all dead.
Ushering the teens toward the upper levels of the mansion, Logan himself headed into the War Room. He gave the locked door of Cerebro barely a glance as he eased through the smooth metallic halls. A cigar found its way into his mouth, pinched between sharp canines and lit with an old Zippo lighter.
Storm hated his smoking, though she rarely called him out for it. She tolerated it, just as she handled everything else.
The wayward thought of their resident Headmistress and weather manipulator made him pause. She had been gone since early Friday morning, when she’d woken him from dreams of being the only male lost in a harem to brow beat him into watching the children while she was gone.
Clever wench had one-upped him, he admitted. Half-asleep and extremely annoyed, Logan had agreed to her request without really knowing what he was getting into. Storm merely said she was taking a weekend away. She offered not one word of explanation as to where she was going or why, nor had Logan thought to ask in his sleepy state.
It was Sunday evening and still no word came from their absent leader. He would have worried had it been in him, but he had so little left to give. She was stoic and steady, Storm wouldn’t abandon her responsibilities.
At least, he hoped not.
Once inside the office in the War Room, Logan tapped the computer screen to life and plopped heavily into the chair behind the desk. Storm usually let him have this space to himself, content with the upstairs office that had been Xavier’s. The entire mansion was linked by an intricate communication system, complete with video panels so they could speak without traveling the several floors between them.
Logan thought that they liked it that way. Neither of them wanted to be closer than they had to, tortured and consumed by their own thoughts and feelings.
It was easy to keep a woman like Storm at arm’s length. He just wished she would come home so he could escape the confines of the mansion for a few hours.
As if by unspoken agreement, one of them was always on the property. Though there were other adults, other teachers, either Storm or Wolverine was on hand at all times. Period.
Bringing up his Danger Room monitoring program to the computer screen, Logan revised the evening’s session and made several mental notes.
Iceman was getting cocky, but the kid was good. He looked out for his teammates, kept a cool head even when things started getting sticky. Shadowcat was excellent, her talents ranging from martial arts to complete control of her mutation. She worked well with Colossus, using his invulnerability and strength as assets.
All in all, the little team was pulling together. Even with the loss of Cyclops, Jean, and Rogue, they could hold their own. Logan was proud of them, not that he’d ever admit it.
Finished with his “work” for now, he headed back upstairs. The kitchen was filled with children fighting over dinner; the circus presided over by a watchful Colossus. Piotr Rasputin was patient with them all, ensuring students got something to eat. He nodded to Logan as the elder mutant walked by.
Cigar smoke trailing after him, Logan checked on the remainder of the children. Many had already eaten and wiled away the time doing homework or playing in the Rec Room. He waved to a few of them, acknowledging that some needed to see him, as though his presence were calming.
Once his rounds were complete, he moved to the outdoors, heading easily toward the gardens. He did not need to tell his feet where they were going. This daily ritual had begun with the day they’d put her into the ground, it was habit now.
Walking through the pristine gardens, Logan puffed on his heady Cuban. Mist lingered over the mansion and grounds, dusting everything that stood still long enough with a gentle spray of clean rain. Clouds were thick and heavy in the sky, looming with the easy threat of downpour if the conditions were right.
There was a sort of anticipation to that kind of thing, he thought. Before the true storm, the waiting and wondering was a sort of sweet torment. Part of him wanted the clouds to burst, to drench the world below. The other side wanted the gentle mist and fresh scent of a coming storm. The dueling sides were interesting, giving him brief pause before he rounded the corner of the garden.
Marie was crouched in front of the gravestones, cleaning off the thick stone slab that bore Scott Summers’ name. She hummed quietly, her delicately pale hands brushing at moist earth and windblown leaves.
Logan took a moment to smile at her turned back, wondering what she thought of when she hovered so near a place of death. Did she see hope in a place he could not?
“Hey.” The easy greeting was customary from the gruff mutant to his young friend.
She turned those soft hazel eyes on him, the white stripe in her dark hair seeming to glow in the fading light.
“Hi.” Marie replied in her thick Mississippi drawl.
Though she was no longer a mutant, having taken the Worthington cure during the attack on Alcatraz, she remained with her friends at Xavier’s. Though he knew the decision had bothered Storm, the leader of the X-Men had agreed to let Marie stay on.
He knew she was struggling to find herself, to salvage what was left of her relationship with Iceman, but she took it all in stride. In fact, he had rarely seen his friend happier.
“Thought I’d say hi,” she continued, turning back to Cyclops’ headstone. “I haven’t been out here much.”
“I don’t think they mind,” Logan said quietly as he stepped up beside her.
Crouching with Marie, he reached over to clear away a smudge of dirt marring the engraved name. He might not have agreed with Scott on many things, but he’d grudgingly respected the proud X-Man.
“I keep thinkin’,” Marie was saying as he focused on her again. “Bout that day they found us in Canada.”
“Huh.” Logan grunted for lack of anything else to say.
“You were knocked out, but I was awake,” she chuckled. “Cyclops talked a lot, trying to set me at ease, I think. He said that he knew a place we’d be safe, you an’ me. He wanted to help us.”
“He did,” her companion replied, his fingers touching her hand gently. It was a sign of affection to anyone, but touch had become important to Marie. Though it could make him uncomfortable, he tried to oblige her whenever possible.
“I know,” Marie nodded. “I still expect to see him in the garage, tinkerin’ with the bikes.”
With a pang, Logan admitted he did as well, just as he expected to hear the hum of the Professor’s wheelchair or catch the flavor of Jean’s perfume on the air.
Thinking of her, he glanced to the stone that bore her name. The grief and guilt came at him still, making the vice in his chest tighten and tighten. He couldn’t remember feeling this way in what few memories he had.
He hated it. Logan was somewhat certain he would give his adamantium to not feel it anymore. The pain was consuming, aching, worse than he felt when Jean had “died” the first time at Alkali Lake. He thought that the guilt had done that. He took her life and now paid the price for it.
“Any word from Storm?”
Bringing his thoughts back to the present at Rogue’s words, he shook his head.
“Nope.”
“Weird,” his friend replied, tossing a long auburn lock over her shoulder. “I’m worried about her.”
“She’s fine,” Logan assured her, squeezing her shoulder.
“No,” Rogue shook her head, looking back to the tombstones. “None of us are fine.”
