This is a work of fiction, call it fan, or slash, or even erotic. Well, eventually erotic. Don't read this if such material is illegal in your area or for your age. The X-Men, with its characters and locales, are copyrighted by Marvel Comics, Inc. This work is copyrighted by the author, and should not be reposted or distributed without express written consent. And finally, comments and constructive criticism is appreciated; direct all to the author at smplsguy79@yahoo.com.
EVOLUTIONARY LEAP by N.L. copyright 2007 CHAPTER ONE: THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE
It was the sound of his feet pounding the sidewalk in a staccato rhythm, even more than the yells and jeers behind him, that kept Ethan running. It was sort of soothing, the steady beat as each sneaker hit the pavement, and it almost allowed him to forget the shouting guys chasing him. Almost.
He hadn't even done anything wrong, at least, nothing that he could control. Ethan had just been minding his own business, walking home from a rough day of classes, when they'd stopped him. Four guys, rather tall, rather big and rather stupid, were standing on the corner, the corner where he normally grabbed the tube uptown. It was quicker than a bus ride home, and he preferred the Underground. Hell, the Underground was one of the reasons he'd come to London for college. Silly, yes, but he loved it. And now they were blocking his way.
"Fuckin' bender," one sneered, probably the leader of the group. He was the largest, anyway, and the ugliest.
Ethan ignored the comment and attempted to walk around them.
"Didn't you hear me, you queer arse?" the guy asked, grabbing Ethan's backpack and spinning him back to face the group.
Ethan felt his anger rising, but knew he didn't have a chance in hell if he just went off without a plan. Eyeing the group warily, he slowly moved a hand into his jacket pocket and kept his mouth shut.
"What, are you fuckin' deaf, you little shit? Or maybe the cat's got your tongue." The leader smiled at his own pathetic, cliched joke. The rest of the guys moved in behind him, creating a little gallery of supporters. They laughed, and Ethan got more angry.
"No, I'm not deaf, and I can speak better than you can, you stupid fucking Neanderthal." Ethan regretted his words almost immediately. These guys were all bigger than his measly five foot ten, all weighed more than his thin one hundred and fifty pounds. He lifted a hand to his buzzed brown hair, running his fingers over it, and let out a breath he was unaware he'd been holding. He was in deep shit.
The leader turned a bit to his group. "Hell, the bastard's fuckin' American!" He turned back, his smile twisting into an ugly sneer. "I don't let anyone talk to me like that, you piece of shit. And I certainly won't take it from a goddamn American pussy boy." He made fists with his hands, and Ethan knew it was now or never.
Without a word, Ethan pulled his hand from his pocket and sprayed the Mace he had hidden there directly into the leader's eyes. Without a thought, he gave a quick, hard shove to now screaming guy before him, pushing the leader into the rest of his gang and watching them all fall at the unexpected weight crashing into them. Then without pause, as his survival instinct kicked in and told him he wouldn't live through the fight coming if he stuck around, Ethan took off running.
His feet were beginning to hurt, each thumping step sending pain through his calves and thighs, and yet he continued to run, racing through streets he didn't know, hoping to find some way to escape the wrath following him. He didn't look back to see how close they were; he was afraid it would let them get close enough to catch him. Their yells were enough to let him know they were still behind him. His backpack thudded against his back in a regular tempo, and he considered throwing his off, throwing at them, but he knew the things it held were too important to lose.
The park had seemed like a good idea when he'd run into it, but now Ethan was having doubts. There was nowhere to hide; it was too open. It left too many ways to cut him off, So he made a quick turn onto the grass, bypassing the meandering path, and headed straight for the exit ahead of him. He didn't know where it would take him; hell, he didn't even know which park he was in. Three months in London hadn't given him enough time to fully learn the geography, and now he was silently cursing himself for not spending more time exploring. A sudden shout from behind him, closer than it had ever been, made him forget that, though, and he somehow found the strength to run even faster, bursting through the park exit and onto the street again.
Ethan's breath was coming in ragged gasps, but he knew that stopping wasn't an option. He had to find a place to hide, a place to escape the oncoming horde of scally shits trying to kill him. He had a sudden smile, thinking about his use of the word scally. He was even beginning to pick up some slang. Escape crossed his mind again. He began trying to find his bearings without slowing. A tube stop, maybe, or a shopping center. Anything he could use to get away. Then he saw it, a sign for a tube stop ahead of him and across the street, surrounded by a large group of people holding signs. He didn't take time to read them, something about mutants and stopping them. He didn't care. He'd found his way out, hopefully. He managed a deep breath and a quick look at the street, and then Ethan raced across.
He heard the horn before he knew anything else. Suddenly time slowed, and if it hadn't been happening to him, he would have laughed at the whole cliched act of it all. Ethan turned to see the double-decker red bus barreling down on him, lights flashing and screams all around him. He could make out the slurs from the guys chasing him, the chants of the protesters in front of the tube stop, the screech of brakes hit too hard to actually stop a car. He knew he was about to die, and all he could do was take in the sounds of it all. His heart beat suddenly began to pound in his ear as clear as a bell. There was no life flashing before his eyes, no thoughts coming to mind. Only the simple sound of his heart, thudding fast from his exertion and fear.
Then he began to move. Instinct told him this was right. Ethan, without knowing how, without knowing he could, began to take the sounds he could hear and bend them. He just knew it was right, knew that he could, and did not even try to figure out how he had this knowledge. His head began to spin from all the noise, and he simply raised his hands and funneled all that clamor into a barrier. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it, a shield that stood about five feet around him, surrounding him in a cocoon of thick sound. A thought about whether or not sound could be thick crossed Ethan's mind, but it disappeared when the bus, unable to stop for him, hit his barrier. He felt himself rocked to his core, the noise he was throwing out slamming against the tonnage of metal and plastic that made up the bus. Without an effort, but simply with a thought and a flourish of his hands, he suddenly shifted his shield and used the sound to encircle the bus, bringing it to a complete stop two feet in front of his face.
Time began to move normally again, and Ethan felt his grip on the noise around him slip and fall. He found himself face-to-face with a massive vehicle, and not a sound could be heard. The demonstrators were silent. Every car was stopped. Even the guys chasing him were quiet, standing shell-shocked on the corner. His heart beat had slowed, and Ethan felt his breath return to a soft inhale and exhale. The bus driver, eyes wide in horror, was staring at him. He turned to look around him, and everyone was staring at him. Ethan abruptly felt as if he were naked, the way people were looking at him. And he was, in a way.
Ethan was a mutant, and everyone there knew.
He felt cold. He hadn't even known he possessed this power. Hell, he didn't even really understand what his power was. All he knew was that there were guys standing there on the corner, looking as if they were about to start up the chase again, and protesters on the other corner, obviously unhappy about mutantism for whatever reason. And here he was, a mutant caught between them and staring down the face of a bus.
Sound began to return. The bus driver laid on his horn again as the protesters began to scream. The guys that had been pursuing him began to taunt him once more, though they looked reluctant to take up the chase. And Ethan took it all in. He could not only hear the sounds; he could FEEL them. He knew that, if he wanted, he could pick one out and bend it, use it for his will. Or he could take them all and throw them back at their source. He suddenly understood that he could manipulate sound to his will. And he felt powerful. He felt right in a skin he had never really felt at home in. He felt at peace. He was whole for the first time in his life. He felt like he'd never have to run again.
Slurs began to make their way to him. He heard words like abomination and freak. He didn't care. He was in touch with what mattered. And he wasn't going to take anyone's prejudice anymore. He put up his hands again, and felt the sound respond to his will. He pushed against the ground and felt himself rise up. He could use the sound to fly. And he could use the sound as a shield. He began to wonder what else he could use the sound for, as he felt himself float up to the top of the bus, coming to rest on its roof facing the front, looking out over everything around him. Reaching out to pull the sound to him, he felt it gather into two balls resting in the palms of his hands. He knew it would work, and more importantly, he knew he wanted to. With a twist at the waist, Ethan threw the balls in opposite directions, one at the gang, and one at the demonstrators. With a noise almost like a screeching missile, each flew towards their respective targets and landed square in the center of each group, exploding like a sonic boom.
Ethan saw blood, saw people flying through the air. And then he felt the waves of sound bombard him, the sounds of horror and devastation. And he knew that he was the one to cause this. He vomited, the pain making him sick. He couldn't bring himself to look at what he'd caused. The sounds told him.
People all around were lying in various states of injury, covered in blood and rubble from the detonated bombs of noise. The bus Ethan was standing on was quaking from the blasts, and he felt dust settling from the explosions. He could hear the moans and cries of the injured, and he felt the sounds of hearts beating, struggling to keep people alive. And when he felt the first one stop, when he felt the beat cease and actually felt the whisper of the last breath, he knew he was in trouble. He'd killed someone. The sinking feeling in his gut told him what he'd heard, what he'd felt, was right. And he knew he was in trouble.
The peel of sirens in the distance, so foreign in this city so far from home, brought him back to ground. Realizing he couldn't stay, Ethan drew the sounds to him again. He couldn't think of what he'd done. He had to get away. He used the sound to push off again, and he was in the air. He twisted once, getting his bearings by taking in the skyline, and then took off, flying towards home. And if he'd had the chance to see himself, he would have seen that he looked so small, so much like a little boy that had broken his bicycle on accident. And he would have seen the tears, glistening and streaming down his face, making his bright blue eyes glow with sadness.
Bobby Drake awoke with a start, his breath coming in harsh pants. The dream had been so vivid, so full of emotion that he could still feel the pain and sadness. And he felt so odd. He hadn't had control of ice in this dream; his mutation had been so different. He struggled to remember how, but all he could recall was the blood and injury, the devastation around him. And he remembered being the one to cause it all. He sat up in bed, finding the labor difficult with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, causing him to tremble slightly even now that the dream was over. Sweat covered his naked torso, and he shivered as the cold air hit his skin, causing his nipples to stand at attention. Reaching for the shirt he'd thrown next to his bed when he'd gone to sleep a few hours earlier, he slipped out of bed and padded toward his door. Shrugging into it, leaving him wearing his boxer briefs and the now-donned tank top, he left his room and went in search of the kitchen. Something to drink might help calm him.
The halls of the X-Mansion, as he and some of the others had started calling it, were quiet as Bobby padded his way down the stairs, his bare feet making almost no noise. It wasn't surprising, the hush covering the mansion, as it was four in the morning, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was a little off. Maybe it was just the left over emotions from the dream. Then he heard a slight buzz as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and he fell into a crouch, taking what little cover the banisters gave and feeling his hands freeze up as he connected to his power.
The buzz moved down the hall that ran perpendicular to the entrance hall, towards the kitchen, and Bobby fell in behind it, creeping as softly as he could. He saw the glint of something metal as it crossed through a beam of moonlight, and he froze. Was it a weapon? He couldn't tell. He quickened his pace, hoping to catch up to the intruder before he or she could cause any damage.
"Mr. Drake, don't you know it is unwise to sneak up on a telepath?" a voice asked, baritone and soft.
Bobby jumped in fright at the sound, and then felt the tension leave his body. A light turned on in the kitchen, and he found himself standing before Professor Charles Xavier, head of Xavier's School for Exceptional Children and of the X-Men, the covert group of mutants to which Bobby belonged, known there as Iceman.
"Professor. I didn't know it was you."
Xavier smiled, turning his wheelchair to face the refrigerator and opening the door. "I know, Bobby. If you had, I don't think you would have acted as you did."
Bobby smiled and stood, finally relaxing. "True that, sir."
The Professor pulled out a bottle of milk from fridge, the light from it gleaming off his perfectly bald head. "So, Bobby, a little warm milk to calm your nerves?"
Bobby gave a skeptical look toward his mentor and friend. "Nerves, sir?"
"It was not just seeing me in the dark that is making you upset, my friend." Xavier flashed Bobby a look full with knowledge and concern. "I can feel the turmoil in your thoughts."
Bobby took a deep breath, trying to let go of the emotions still lingering from his dream. "I'm all right, Professor. Just had myself a little bit of a bad dream. And warm milk?" he asked, a bit of good-natured scorn escaping into his tone. "I think I'd rather have a beer."
The Professor raised an eyebrow. "A beer? You know as well as I do, Bobby, that I do not keep alcohol in this house."
Bobby sighed. "Well, it was worth a shot."
Xavier gave a slight grin. "Besides, I do not think alcohol would be wise after the vision we had. So, it is warm milk or nothing."
"Sure, sir, I'll take some," Bobby said, sighing again. And then he actually processed the words he'd heard. "Wait, Professor. Did you say 'we' there?"
Xavier pulled out a pot and poured some milk into it, setting it upon the stove. "Would you be so kind as to watch this for me? The kitchen was not constructed with someone in my condition in mind."
Bobby nodded and walked over to the range, taking a large spoon from a drawer, and began to stir the milk now warming on the stovetop. Xavier wheeled his way around the island and positioned himself at the head of the table on the other side, facing Bobby.
"Yes, Mr. Drake," the Professor began, "I said 'we.' That was quite the channeling we experienced, As far as I could tell, it was almost like a cry for help. There was an urgency in it that I don't usually get when I connect to a mind. It was being sent out, like a distress call."
Bobby thought back to his dream, so vivid, and he shivered. His nipples went back to attention, and he ran a hand over his pronounced pectoral muscles to warm them. He tried to recall the events, but time was starting to erase them from his mind. He knew that it had been real, suddenly, even if he couldn't remember all that had happened. Someone was telling him something, and that person had put Bobby in his shoes to do so. "But, Professor, how? And why me? I mean, I get why they'd tell you, but why was I in on it? I can't read minds."
Xavier shook his head slightly. "I am not exactly sure, Bobby, but from what I can tell, this mutant's power resides in the control of sound. Perhaps he is broadcasting his thoughts on a frequency only we can pick up. Or perhaps we're not the only ones that have received his transmission. I cannot fully answer those questions right now."
Sound. Bobby could suddenly remember everything that had happened in the dream. Or rather, transmission, as the Professor called it. He remembered the chase, the fear, the bus, and then the connection to power that he'd felt. He remembered the use of sound to stop the bus, to fly. Then he remembered the act of revenge, of vengeance pure, that had caused all that damage and agony.
"Yes, Mr. Drake. It was horrible."
Bobby looked at Xavier, a look of alarm on his face. "I saw it all. I saw what he did. And I saw it through his eyes."
"He is simply transmitting what he knows, and what does anyone know but that which we see and feel." The Professor looked pained, as if he was also reliving what he had seen. "I am not even sure he knows that he is showing us his experience. All I know is that he is in pain, and he needs our help."
Bobby turned back to the milk and saw that he'd nearly let it scald. He pulled it from the stove and then swiveled on his foot to a cabinet, where he took out two mugs. "But how can we help him, Professor? After what he did? And we don't even know where he is." He poured the milk into the mugs, set the pot into the sink, and then walked around to hand one of the cups to the Professor. He sat at the table with the other and took a sip.
Xavier smiled softly. "Well, we may not know exactly, but we do have a general location."
Bobby's brow crinkled in thought. Then he remembered. "The bus. That's British. The double-decker red bus, and the driver was on the wrong side. And the Underground sign. He's in London!"
Xavier nodded. "Yes, it would appear we have a Yankee in the British court. And I am sure, with a little time in Cerebro, that I will be able to pinpoint his actual location with little difficulty."
Bobby stood suddenly, almost knocking over his chair. "I want to be the one to retrieve him, sir."
Xavier looked at him quizzically. "Bobby, you know that Ororo and Jean are usually the ones I send on these missions. They have experience with this sort of...action. It is a delicate matter, especially after the events he has shown us."
Bobby nearly shook with excitement. He didn't care about what this boy had done; he HAD to help. "I know, sir, but I feel really strongly about this. Something about him, something that I felt in that dream, tells me that he'll respond better to a guy. And hell, I'm the one here talking to you about this, not them. Let me go."
Xavier sighed, and he seemed to relax resignedly. "Perhaps you are correct. All right, Bobby, you can go. But you'll be going with Storm and Jean. They will be in charge of this mission, and if they feel you are not in control or helping in any capacity, they will be under orders to send you home."
Bobby took this in. "Of course, sir. Thank you." It wasn't exactly the way he wanted it, and he didn't even know exactly why he wanted to go in the first place, but he was being allowed. That's what mattered.
"Now, off to bed with you," the Professor ordered. "You will be leaving early. I want to resolve this and help this boy before he causes damage to anything--or anyone--else."
Bobby took a final sip of his milk and set the mug down on the table. "Yes, sir. Until the morning." He nodded at Xavier and then shot from the kitchen, leaving a blast of cold air in his place.
He reached his room in record time, practically running through the halls. He was going to London. He didn't even know why this was so important to him, only that it had suddenly become the most important thing in the world. He'd have to tell Marie what he was doing, pack some stuff and organize his homework. All that seemed insignificant, though, when compared to the pain he'd felt from this boy. He didn't care why; he simply had to help this boy. Bobby shucked his clothes and crawled into bed naked. Snuggling into the covers, he felt himself harden in that familiar way, but ignored it for thoughts of that boy. The name Ethan floated across his mind, and he wondered if that was the boy's name. It seemed to fit, so he latched onto it and fell asleep with the name resting lightly on his tongue. Ethan.
Ethan awoke slowly, still feeling a persistent throb in his groin. It had felt so real, the conversation he'd dreamed of, the excitement he'd experienced. He couldn't figure out why he'd dreamed what he did, but he didn't want to think upon it too hard. He was having a hard enough time holding himself together without worrying about some dream he had. He shook the thoughts from his head and crawled from the sheets, taking a quick survey of his surroundings.
The room was dark, dingy, and small. Perfect for someone down on his luck or hiding out. He seemed to fit both bills. He'd found it when he left his flat yesterday, a small bag packed and all the money he could find shoved in his pockets. A quick stop at the ATM, or cash point as the Brits called it, had verified he had enough money to last a month or so. Then he was screwed. But he had decided to worry about that later. First, he had to get out, change everything about himself, get away from the people now surely looking for him. So what if the news had reported that the culprit of the tube bombing--and yes, they'd called it a bombing--was unknown. The people interviewed by the reporters had given strikingly different descriptions of the suspect, and if he hadn't been the one being searched out, Ethan might have actually laughed. But there were enough posters plastered around London asking for infornation--and they seemed to have popped up unbidden overnight--that any normal person would feel anxious, and Ethan was the person to actually commit the crime. If what people were telling the news was the same as what they were telling the police, they'd never find him. But he couldn't take that chance.
So he'd found a small hostel in an awful corner of the Victoria neighborhood and hunkered down for the day. He tried to order food in so that he wouldn't have to go out, but soon realized that no one in London delivered food anywhere. So he'd rushed to the corner to find something to eat, afraid to go further, and settled on a Tesco's. Shopping at a grocery would give him the ability to buy food for several days at a time, so he could limit his exposure. He brought it back to the room and settled in with the only book he'd brought with him, his iPod turned up full so that he wouldn't have to hear the sounds of student sex and violent drunkenness.
And now he was awake. He must have fallen asleep, though he hadn't planned on it. He cursed silently at himself, thinking of all the time to plan his next move lost. He wondered if he should leave the country. His student visa was still good, so he had a good nine months before he had to leave Britain. But that meant nine months of hiding out. Was it wise, to lay low? And what about school? Or should he grab the next plane out, putting as much distance between himself and his crime as he could? Would the police be checking the airports and train stations? Probably. He seemed to remember some movie telling him that the London police usually watched all exits out for at least seventy-two hours after a major crime. Was that correct? Well, it seemed reasonable. So, at least two more days before he could go anywhere. He thought about changing hostels, but decided against it, thinking that too much movement would bring notice to him. And he didn't want to be out and about any more than he had to be. He didn't trust himself.
Well, so he had a plan of sorts. Do nothing for a few more days, and then get himself the hell out of Dodge. He's figure out the hows later. So, that meant nothing to do. Ethan looked at his book, wondering if he should read some more, but he really didn't feel like it. He checked his iPod, and realized he'd plugged it in while he was listening to it. Full battery. So he popped the buds back in his ears and sat down on the edge of the bed. He lost himself in the music, an oldie by Simon & Garfunkel. The words and chords washed over him, and he suddenly felt his power flare up. He hadn't touched it since last night, hadn't allowed himself to. He began wondering if he should. Maybe a little practice to get himself some control. A shield wouldn't be a bad place to start. It would be the least likely of his discovered abilities to cause any damage, and maybe the music playing in his ears would help him find some control. It had a soothing quality, even if it was sad.
Ethan took a deep breath and positioned himself comfortably on the end of the bed, sitting cross-legged with his hands resting palms up on his knees. He tried to clear his mind and focused on the music for awhile, letting himself simply feel the sounds running through him. The song switched, this time to an old Paul McCartney & Wings song, one of his favorites, and he took another deep breath. Then slowly, very slowly, he channeled the music around him, feeling it create a small bubble around him. He concentrated on keeping the shield small and stationary, trying to keep it steady. His breathing became very rhythmic, and he felt himself relax into his task. Soon, he was able to maintain the shield without effort, and so he leisurely began to expand it, trying to make it happen without exerting too much energy . He was afraid that if he tried too hard or too fast, he'd lose control and destroy the whole building. He sensed the noise moving through him, and it felt as if it was consenting to his control. So he expanded it more, and the shield grew, forming to the confines of the room. He opened his eyes, unaware that he had even closed them, and looked around him. He couldn't see anything different, but he felt the shield around him. He wondered what it was keeping out.
The song changed, a slow one by a favorite band, The All-American Rejects. The words hit his ears, and he suddenly bowed under the weight of what had happened to him. He was a mutant. It was something he'd never even contemplated, much less thought possible. And he'd used his new-found power to cause destruction and chaos. He seemed to remember that as an argument for mutant registration, something Congress had once tried to pass in the States. He'd left before the outcome of that battle, but he thought he'd heard that the measure had failed. He was what humans feared. And he felt his heart break. He couldn't go home. He would endanger his family, being the mutant he was. He couldn't stay in London either, for he was in danger of being arrested and tried, hell, possibly even jailed for life. The sadness of it all filled him, and without warning, his power flared. He saw the air shimmer as the sound in his control spiked and expanded. He could feel the sounds of the walls cracking under the pressure of his shield, and he quickly pulled the phones from his ears, cutting off the music. He felt his power quickly cut out, and the shield dropped.
Ethan looked around. He didn't think he had caused too much damage, but he was no construction expert. He listened carefully, trying to hear if the walls were still buckling, or if anyone had noticed what had happened. Nothing. No shouting, no cracking, not even a whisper that suggested that anyone knew what had almost occurred. He gave a sigh of relief. No more practice for awhile, obviously, not until he could decipher what would cause him to lose control. He couldn't risk being found out.
He picked up his book, wishing he'd been able to get a place with wifi so he could pull out his laptop and do some internet surfing. But any place with that was too high profile for his taste at the moment, so he settled for some good, old-fashioned paper reading. It would have to do for now. He couldn't believe he had two more days of this.
The speaker of the comm system crackled, and Professor Xavier's voice filled the cabin of the X-Jet. "I was able to find him more quickly than I anticipated. I could sense his power spike briefly while I was connected to Cerebro, and I was able to zero in on his location. I cross-referenced the coordinates with a city map of London for you, and he is in a hostel near the Victoria train station. I do not know if he is going to keep his place, however, especially being that close to transportation, so I suggest you hurry. I am sending the exact information to you now." The computer of the plane beeped briefly, and a complete map of London popped up, a position highlighted with a small 'x'.
"Thank you, Professor," Storm answered, her eyes flashing briefly as she maneuvered the jet into a landing sequence outside of the city. They had debated trying to land closer, but decided that drawing any attention to themselves might scare off their quarry and might have consequences with the authorities, as well. So they chose a place as close to the city as they dared, a small field near a major thoroughfare. However, Storm still thought they should disguise their presence; hence the use of her powers as they landed. "We'll contact you again when we've located the boy. X-Jet, over and out." She cut the comm.
Jean Grey turned in the co-pilot's seat, looking back at Iceman sitting in the seat behind her. Her red hair caught the flash of lightening from Storm's handiwork. "You might want to go prepare our transportation into the city."
Bobby nodded and unstrapped himself. He carefully made his way back into the cargo bay, holding onto whatever was available as the jet rocked in the storm. A smile crossed his lips as he opened the bulkhead and stepped into the bay, his eyes falling upon one of the most beautiful cars he'd ever seen. He couldn't believe Cyclops had allowed him to borrow it for the mission, but he was fairly certain that the Professor had something to do with it. Maybe his teacher had thought showing up in some style would make enticing the boy back with them somewhat easier. It didn't matter to Bobby, though, as long as he got to drive. And boy, was he going to drive. He wasn't going to let Scott's little nagging threat of death if anything should happen to the car bother him. Hell, he was going to get to drive an Audi TT.
The plane touched down with a soft bump, and he heard the engines' whine recede as they powered down. Hitting the controls for the cargo bay ramp, Bobby crawled into the driver's seat and started the car. The engine purred to life, and his smile grew until he was nearly beaming with pleasure. Ororo and Jean stepped through the bulkhead door, and he strapped his seat belt on as they climbed into the vehicle.
"You couldn't have picked a slightly larger car?" Jean complained from the back seat, also putting on her belt. Bobby simply bobbed his eyebrows into the mirror for her to see and threw the car into reverse, spinning it down the ramp and quickly shifting gears as he sped through the field's gate and onto the road. A touch of a button, and he saw the jet's ramp retract through the rearview mirror. Another button, and Madonna flooded the sound system.
Ororo laughed. "Could you possibly pick something gayer to listen to?" she asked.
Bobby was tempted to argue, and was about to throw the Rogue defense out when he saw the twinkle in Storm's eye. So he simply shrugged. "I thought it was fitting. An American living in Britain. Something to kinda put us in his mindset." He pressed the gas pedal harder, and his grin grew even more, if it were possible. The car jumped like a cheetah running for prey, and they picked up speed, racing toward London.
Ethan heard the car approaching before he saw it. It was as if getting in touch with his powers allowed him to hear better than ever, but really, he knew it had more to do with feeling the sound rather than actually hearing it. He was peaking out the window surreptitiously when the car finally pulled up in front of the hostel, deftly parallel parking into a spot by the entrance. It wasn't what he had expected, since he didn't think the authorities would drive an Audi TT. Especially not one made for the American market, with American plates, New York by the looks of it. But maybe this was CIA or something like that. He couldn't take the time to find out. He knew they were here for him.
And then Ethan saw the guy climbing out of the driver's seat. He had sandy brown hair, styled just so, and a build that his clothes seemed to accentuate rather than hide. His t-shirt was drawn tightly over his chest, and his low-slung jeans let the band of his underwear peak out of the back. He stretched, and his shirt rode up, letting his well-developed stomach peak out. Flat, and not over-muscled, from what Ethan could tell. The boy's black leather jacket, cut in a biker style, clung to his shoulders in just the right way, and Ethan felt his breath quicken. He didn't know who this guy was or what he wanted, but suddenly Ethan knew he wasn't running. If being captured meant being near this guy, then that was what was going to happen. The guy looked up, surveying the windows, and Ethan thought about retreating. But their eyes met, and it was too late. Ethan got swallowed up in the green pools. He saw the boy smile, and Ethan's stomach did flip-flops. Then with a wink, the guy was gone, followed by the two women accompanying him.
Ethan cursed himself silently. He was sure that he looked like hell run over. He hadn't taken a shower since his brief stop at home, and he'd picked his clothes more on function than style. He looked into the cracked mirror over the small dresser, and he was glad he kept his hair cut so short; it would be a disaster from sleeping otherwise.
Then he remembered where he really was, why he was here, and what the guy he had seen was most likely after. This wasn't some date. Ethan was in trouble, and that trouble was the boy and his companions. No time left to run. He took a deep breath and braced himself, drawing the sounds around him to his body like armor. If it came to it, he would fight his way out. They wouldn't take him that easily.
But they didn't break down the door like Ethan expected. Instead, there was a soft knock, and then silence. They were waiting for him politely, as if they were on a social call. He started to get the door, but momentarily paused, confused. What if they were ready to grab him when he opened the door? So Ethan stopped and took position in the center of the small room. They'd have to come to him. "Come in."
The door opened slowly, and one of the women peaked her head in with a look of concern. Her red hair seemed on fire it was so vibrant, and her eyes were glowing with knowledge. She stepped into the room, and Ethan thought it seemed she took care not to get too close to him. "Hello, Ethan."
He jumped, hearing her speak his name as if she'd known him for years. "How do you know that?" he asked, cautiously pulling even more sound to himself.
"First, let me introduce myself. I am Jean Grey, and I have brought a couple of friends with me. We're simply here to talk." She smiled, and something about her seemed comforting. Her other friends walked into the room, and Ethan turned to them.
The first was the other woman, and Ethan's breath caught at how striking she was. Her carmel skin, flawless and almost luminescent, was offset by snow white hair, which seemed odd. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five years old. She smiled warmly and stood next to Jean. "Hello, Ethan. My name is Ororo Monroe."
"And I'm Bobby Drake." Ethan turned from her and came face-to-face with the sexy boy he had seen on the sidewalk. He exhaled sharply, as if a ball had hit is gut. Their eyes locked again, and Ethan couldn't prevent the smile creeping onto his lips as he stared into the green depths. Bobby grinned at him, and Ethan felt his knees buckle. "And what Jean said is right. We're just here to talk with you."
Ethan looked from Bobby to Jean again, and he was able to get his bearings. Maybe if he avoided looking at the guy, he'd be fine, so he focused on the girls and took another deep breath. "Fine. We'll talk. Starting with you. How do you know who I am, and how did you find me?"
Jean smiled. "You're not the only one with powers, Ethan." She lifted a hand, and Ethan watched as the book he'd been reading flew from the bed and into her hand. She read the cover. "You're reading 'House of Leaves'? Is it any good?"
Ethan didn't respond but simply looked at her warily, unsure that he'd actually seen what he'd witnessed.
The woman calling herself Ororo spoke next. "We are also mutants, Ethan. Jean and I are teachers at a school in the U.S. for people like us. We teach the basics, yes, but our focus is on helping mutants learn how to use and control their powers so they can find a place in society. We hope that our work can help bring an end to the division between mutant and human, to bring an end to the fear and prejudice that our kind experiences."
"And me," Bobby spoke, but Ethan refused to look. He couldn't. Bobby shrugged and continued. "Well, I'm a student there. I just finished high school, and I'm now taking college courses while I focus on training and harnessing my power."
"That still doesn't answer my questions." Ethan crossed his arms, and they all heard a soft whisper, almost melodic, as he strengthened the shield around himself.
"We're not here to hurt you." Jean's voice was soothing. "We're just want to show you what we have to offer, and to invite you to come with us if you so choose."
Ororo sighed, and Ethan could sense her apprehensiveness. Did she know he'd brought up that shield? "We work with a very powerful telepath, perhaps the world's most powerful. He's the head of the school, and when he heard you calling to him, he sent us to find you so that we could offer our assistance."
"Me? I didn't call out to anybody, much less someone like you guys."
"But you did," Bobby whispered, stepping closer to Ethan but still keeping a comfortable distance. "I got your call, too, and I'm NOT a telepath. So the only way for me to have heard it is if you were the one to send it." He smiled softly, with eyes full of concern. "You showed me what happened the other night, in front of the Underground."
Ethan inhaled deeply. "What?"
Bobby took another step. "I saw what you saw, Ethan. You let me. I don't know how, but you did. And I know you don't really live here. You left your apartment yesterday and came here. You told me that, too. You told me a lot about yourself. i didn't realize it right away, but when I was able to concentrate on the dream you gave me, well, I remembered more of it than any dream I've ever had before."
Flabbergasted, Ethan stepped back. "What? I didn't do that."
Bobby sighed. "Then how do I know you have two siblings, a sister and a brother? How do I know you came to London to study art history?" He took another step closer to Ethan.
"You could have gotten that information anywhere." Ethan took another step back, panic rising in his throat. "Hell, enough time on the internet could have told you all of that."
"True," Bobby responded. Another step nearer. "But how do I know you're gay, and that you've never told anyone, not even your best friend, George? And how do I know that night at the Underground was the first time you even knew you were a mutant, much less being the first time you used your powers?"
Ethan felt the tears, and his vision blurred until Bobby was nothing more than a mass of colors before him. "What?" he asked, his voice a murmur.
Bobby felt the shield fall, felt it through the emotions that Ethan was broadcasting even now. A quick glance at Jean and Ororo told him that they were leaving this to him. He had wanted to come for this reason, and they seemed to understand that. He moved forward and put a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "It's all right. That's why I'm here. Let us help you. Let ME help you."
Ethan watched the room swim before his eyes, the pain cresting in waves, threatening to drown him. "You can't know that."
Bobby pulled Ethan to him, putting his arms around the crying boy. "But you told me. That's how I know," he whispered soothingly.
Ethan felt his power mounting as his tears increased. He couldn't stop himself. "I didn't tell you! I don't get this!"
"Shhh." Bobby didn't know what else to say. "It'll be okay. Really."
Ethan stiffened, and he couldn't help crying out. "IT'S NOT OKAY! NOTHING WILL EVER BE OKAY AGAIN!" And his power connected with his words, creating a shock wave of sound the reverberated out of him, throwing Bobby, Ororo and Jean into the walls of the room with a crash of breaking furniture and cheap drywall. He sobbed, his breaths racking his lungs. "See!" Ethan collapsed to his knees, and his power faded as the tears took over, leaving him weeping in a heap on the floor.
Bobby pulled himself up, brushing off dust and cracked paint from his clothes. He watched as Jean and Storm got up, and a look between them told him they were all fine, just slightly shaken. He spun to face Ethan, surprised at the boy's outburst, to find him sobbing on the carpet, his back quaking with the tears. Bobby's heart broke a little at the scene, and he found himself sitting on the floor, pulling Ethan to him.
Somehow through the tears, Ethan managed to croak a quiet "Help me."
Bobby pulled Ethan's head to his shoulder and began to rock the crying boy back and forth. "Shhh. Of course I will. I'll be all the help you need." And he continued to rock Ethan as he wept, leaving the room in silence.
TO BE CONTINUED.