X-Men: Dark Mirror (10 page)

"It's close," Scott argued. "One of us could go alone."

"No," Jean said. "I think Logan is right. If whoever is responsible for this went so far as to take our bodies, we have to assume he took everything else as well. If not,

then the jet will still be there when we're ready to find it."

"The jet is our only way home," Scott said.

"That doesn't matter if we lose each other," Jean said, and then, softer, "Don't do this."

He sighed, and looked sideways at Logan. "Are you thinking about that house? They might have a security system."

"Maybe," Logan said, though he did not think the neighborhood looked wealthy enough for that kind of advanced precaution. The hyperparanoid, the ones who had the money to spare on installing alarm systems, usually lived in more glamorous places. "Looks empty. It may be our best bet."

Logan did not wait for approval. He slithered out of the bushes, keeping low to the ground as he ran the short distance across the garden to the back door. He felt someone behind him. Scott.

"You'll need this," he said, handing Logan a little wire that had already been twisted up and primed. Logan grunted his thanks and used the pick to jimmy the lock until it clicked. Careful, holding his breath, he turned the knob and opened the door only enough to feel along the edge of the door frame. He found a loose chain, an extra dead bolt. It was a good sign that neither lock was in use.

Logan crept into the house, testing the stillness with his senses, listening as hard as he ever had in his life. He moved from the kitchen to the living room, and from there to the stairs; slowly, painstakingly traveling up to the second floor. Scott did not join him.

The rooms upstairs were empty. Three bedrooms, one of which had been converted to an office. Another evidently belonged to a teenage girl and the third was a master suite with its own bathroom. Logan returned downstairs. Scott stood by the front door, sorting mail that had been pushed through the slot.

"There's quite a bit here," he said quietly. "At least three days old. Vacation?"

"I hope they don't come back tonight," Logan said. "I'll get the others."

Careful, watchful for witnesses, the rest of the team entered the house. Kurt immediately found a soft chair and sank into it with a sigh.

"Take nothing but clothes," Scott told them. "Anything you think won't be missed."

Logan's first inclination was to go for the husband's belongings, but Jean quickly steered him and Scott into the wife's messy pile, as well as the daughter's room.

"I don't want to wear this bra anymore," Logan complained to Rogue, who pulled a long sleeved crew neck and some jeans from the closet.

"You better wear it," Rogue said. "Girl like you needs one.

He decided not to respond to that. He grabbed a blouse from the mother's wardrobe, but had to go to the teen's room for jeans and underwear that fit. He hated hying things on. It was miserable.

They dressed quickly, and were soon presentable enough to go into any public place and not immediately be associated with a mental hospital. Or a hospital of any kind. They looked normal, like average people of middle income. Not rich by any means, but unthreatening in their lack of money. The kind no one paid attention to.

They took turns using the bathroom. Logan did not enjoy the experience, nor did he care much for looking into the mirror. He could not avoid his face: the golden hair, the soft cheeks and full lips.

When he left the bathroom he walked across the room to the window. He saw a police cruiser roll slowly down the street with its lights off. Past the house, the cop snapped on a floodlight, sweeping the lawn and bushes.

Rogue joined Logan at the window and he felt her stop breathing for a moment.

"This is going to be a hard night," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "You got all the uniforms?"

Rogue held them up for him to see. "Jean has the rest. We need to find a place to stash them."

"Let me check out the basement," he said. The cruiser turned left at the end of the street, but Logan thought it would be back.

He found the basement door by the living room and felt his way down into darkness. Cobwebs brushed his face. A lightbulb chain banged against his forehead, but Logan did not turn on the light. He could not be sure that the basement was fully enclosed; he did not see any light coming in from outside, but the risk was not worth it. He used his feet and hands to feel around the damp room and finally found some boxes beneath the stairs. There were clothes inside. Logan picked up the box and, stumbling, made his way back to the kitchen.

Quickly, silently, the X-Men packed their hospital clothing at the bottom of the box. The clothes inside smelled like the basement and seemed particularly old. Logan hoped that would be enough to keep the family from digging too deep into the box. One day, maybe, someone would find these uniforms. Hopefully by then they would have their bodies back.

When Logan returned from the basement, he found everyone seated in the living room but Scott. Logan went into the kitchen and found him leaning against the counter. He stared at the phone hanging on the wall. Logan said, "Not here. The number will show up on their bill."

"I know, but the longer I wait, the worse I feel. Like I'm not going to get another chance."

"You'll get one, Cyke. I want to contact them as much as you, but it's going to have to be a pay phone—and not one in this neighborhood. We'll have to go farther out." That, or risk being picked up by the police.

Scott shook his head. "Someone went to a lot of trouble, Logan. I don't know where our bodies are, but if we're not in them, I don't want to know who is."

"The people we're inhabiting, I'd guess."

"But why put mentally unstable individuals inside us?"

Logan had an immediate answer to that question, but it was too disturbing to speak out loud. Instead he said, "It might make them easier to control."

"By Maguire?"

"I don't know as much about this guy as you do, but sure. Why not?"

"I don't know what a mental health specialist would have against us."

"Hell, man. Even our mailman doesn't like us. It could be any reason."

"Thanks for your help."

Logan snorted. "You know where this guy lives? We should go to his house and see if he's there. Even if he's not, I bet he'll have stuff around that can tell us what he's up to."

"We broke into his office at the hospital. Kurt stole his address. He lives in a neighborhood called Old Victoria."

"Ritzy," Logan said. "The man must have money."

"You familiar enough to get us there?"

Logan wanted to laugh. "Cyke, I'm familiar enough with the Seattle area to run some of these streets blindfolded."

"How's that?"

He shrugged, not particularly inclined to spill his guts about some of the work he'd done for Nick Fury. The jobs had been long and drawn out, requiring a native's understanding of the city.

And Logan was always good at going native.

Scott and Logan rummaged through the cupboards and found boxes of cookies, pretzels, and Ritz crackers. Careful with crumbs—and mindful they should not finish everything—they sat in the dark living room and munched on snacks. Several times the police car drove slowly past, but the cop never stopped. After several hours of taking turns sleeping and watching, Logan said, "He hasn't been back for two hours. I think it may be safe to move."

"Let's wait one more hour." Scott studied Jean, who lay curled beside him in a heavy sleep. Rogue and Kurt had their eyes closed, too. Logan was not entirely sure how deep into la-la land they were, but any bit of rest would help them when they started moving.

Logan slept for a time, with images of wolves and straitjackets and a long sharp fence filling his head—and then stayed awake while Scott stole several minutes of his own rest. The cop never returned.

"It's time," he finally said, shaking Scott awake. "We stay here any longer and we'll be walking with the rising sun." An exaggeration; it wasn't even two in the morning, but time would move fast once they left the house.

They used the bathrooms one last time, and then left the house through the back door. Logan led them down the backstreet until they came to the main road. He did not see many parked vehicles; none of them looked like a police cruiser. Logan did not have the time or patience to check for unmarked vehicles.

They cut across backstreets and took shortcuts across lawns, always watching, always listening. Only once did they hear a car and they hid out behind a detached garage. It was nothing more than a little Jetta, but it made Logan more cautious as they emerged from the shadows.

When they reached the park—a multiacre spread of sandboxes, soccer fields, and grassy picnic mounds— Logan made them wait inside the tree line as he studied the open field for movement. Everything was still except for the light brush of wind across his face, lulling leaves into a soft music.

"I'll go alone," Scott said. "It's safer that way."

Logan did not disagree. Jean also said nothing. They watched him leave the cover of shadow into a lighter dark, a small figure walking quickly across the grass to a spot in the center of a field. Scott stood there for several minutes, staring at nothing.

"Crap," Logan said.

"I'm not surprised," Jean said. "We'll just have to be more resourceful."

"It's one of the things I do best, darlin'."

"I know," she said, and her smile was small and wry.

Scott did not say anything when he returned from the field. He examined his hands and then their feces, looking each of them in the eyes. He saved Jean for last, and if Logan had been at all sentimental, he would have felt a twinge of sympathy for the sorrow and apology in that man's gaze.

"No one knows us," Scott said, quiet. "We don't have our powers, we're wanted by the police, and we're dead broke."

"Right," Logan said. "Survival time."

They walked quickly, keeping to alleys and side
streets as they crossed from residential neighborhoods into industrial parks. Night in the dead zone between Tacoma and Seattle was quiet, filled only with the occasional rumble of a car engine or the shout of some drunk making friends with a bottle.

"It's a good ten miles between here and downtown Seattle," Logan said. It was difficult for Jean to listen to him when he sounded like a woman. Or maybe a better word was "eerie." If she did not look at him, if she pretended hard enough, she could almost convince herself that Logan was still a man and that his voice, with its same gruff growl, was the product of some terrible helium accident.

With Scott it was different. She could not yet pretend with him.

"That will take us all night," Kurt said. Rogue walked close beside him; Jean thought it was in case his leg gave out. He was trying not to limp, but she remembered that blow to his knee, his high cry.

"Yeah," Logan said, and Jean knew there would be no discussion about whether Kurt could handle the distance.

They had to keep moving; first, to locate Jonas Maguire, and if that proved unfruitful, then somehow to find a way home, and fast.

Scott brushed up against her side. She glanced down at him—and oh, that was strange, being taller than her husband—and said, "Hey."

"Hey," Scott said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she said, sensing his discomfort. Her voice sounded loud in the quiet of night, and she slowed her pace, creating some distance between themselves and the others. "How about you?"

He smiled, grim, and ran his fingers through his hair. A familiar gesture, one that made her heart jump, her stomach twist. She reached out and touched his face. Just a slip of her fingers against his cheek. Her hand was large and dark against his pale skin, but it was becoming her hand, her body, and though startling, she could breathe now when she looked at herself. She could accept her new form, even if she desperately wanted her old one back.

Scott's breath caught. Jean said, "Close your eyes," and he did. She brushed her fingers against his lips, running them across his throat, and he swallowed hard.

"It's still me," she whispered, aware they were falling even farther behind the others. She did not care. She had to make sure he understood, that whatever else happened, he could live with the changes between them. She hoped it was not permanent, but if it was . . . oh, God, i
f...

Scott opened his eyes. Brown eyes, rich dark eyes. Not
his
eyes, though. Jean wished they were. He grabbed her hand, held it against his face, and said, "I know."

Do
you, really?
Jean wondered, aching for her powers, that sweet comfort of knowing his thoughts. A burden, too, but now that she was without the ability, she knew better than to take it for granted. She was appalled, too, at how vulnerable she felt without her gifts. Surely, she was stronger than this. She had to be.

A smile flickered across Scott's mouth. Jean said, "What?"

He shrugged, and tucked her much larger arm against his side. "It's ... funny. There's no way in the world anyone could mistake you for my wife—"