xp_logs | When It All Goes Wrong Again

At a rest stop in Nogales, two wayward travelers meet and make a startling connection.

Julio sighed and thanked the teller at the bus station. How was it possible that there was no buses available for California for the next two days? That was just...stupid. But this was America, Americans were always figuring out ways to mess things up.

He wandered outside into the bright Arizona afternoon. Crossing the border had been surprisingly easy, considering he only had his birth certificate and a Mexican passport. He'd also been half-expecting his father to be there waiting for him at the border crossing to drag him by his ear back home. But that was stupid, his father couldn't go within sneezing distance of the border without getting every police officer within a fifty-mile radius after him. Still, nerve-wracking.

And tremendously stupid, why was he doing this anyway? There was beach back home, what had possessed him to travel cross-country to San Diego, a place he hadn't been since he was a baby? Only a certain unquenchable anxiety and a strangely hollow feeling keep him going. He had to see the place for himself, had to.

He sat himself on a bench in front of the convenience store across from the bus depot with a sigh. There had to be another way to California, he could always try hitchhiking.

John crushed another empty can of Red Bull, tossing the refuse over his shoulder into a trash bin while he perused the large map at the bus station. "This is stupid," he mumbled to himself as he habitually plucked another can out of his backpack, popping the top and taking a quick drink. "San Diego, what the hell? Few more hours drive and I'll..."

A thought suddenly crossed his mind -how long HAVE you been driving, anyway? It had to have been at least a day, didn't it? He'd stopped for gas... at some point. The Versa DID have awesome gas mileage, after all. Maybe his parents had been right, maybe he WAS drinking too much caffeine.

Chugging the rest of the drink and wiping his mouth on his hand, John chucked the empty can over his shoulder again.

Julio watched as the can sailed over his shoulder and bounced off the trash can, falling to the sidewalk with a clatter. He rolled his eyes, "Gabachos." he muttered, and kicked the can when it rolled near him. Oh yes, this was such a dumb idea.

Raising an eyebrow at the familiar Spanish epithet, John turned around to look at the young Mexican on the bench. "Hey, you habla Ingles, man?" he asked. "You know how to get back on the interstate from here? I am tired of all these damn flat highways with these low-tech no-internet-having goddamn... nineteenth-century fucking adobe huts for rest stops!" Angered, he kicked the metal pole next to him, then hopped up and down on his other foot swearing more under his breath.

"Yes, I hablo Ingles," he mimicked the American's Texan drawl. "Sorry, I cannot help you there, I am just traveling through." he nudged his backpack with a foot, and looked back at the boy with an annoyed expression. "Tell me, is it all of America that runs this badly, or is it just here? There is no bus to California for another two days."

"Welcome to the middle of nowhere," John replied, shading his eyes from the sun. "Taking a bus to California? What, you don't drive?"

"No car," the other boy replied with a shrug. Plus, taking one of his father's vehicles would surely make him much easier to track, and make the eventual grounding for life that much worse. At least he'd had the sense to leave behind his cell phone.

"Sucks."

John paused for a moment as he turned back to the sun-faded map behind the plastic. In the glare and reflection, he could see the young Mexican's face clearly. He didn't look familiar, but something was oddly trustworthy about him.

Ah hell. Every road trip movie has the sidekick, doesn't it?

He turned around, walking towards the bench. "Hey, if you're headed to San Diego, I'm headed that way."

Julio sat up, looking the American in the eye. "That is actually where I am headed, yes." he considered him suspiciously, he'd seen enough American movies to where accepting a ride from a stranger would probably lead to his brutal and untimely death. However, Julio was pretty sure he could take the boy in a fight if it came to that. "If you do not mind," Julio said. "Since you are headed that way."

"Could use something besides the Red Bull to keep me awake. Name's John. John Forge." John stuck out his hand towards the younger Mexican. He didn't know if this guy was an illegal trying to hop the border, or some kid running away from home, or what -all he knew was that they were headed the same direction, and this felt right.

"Julio Richter." He accepted Forge's hand and the world went white.

It was something like watching a movie in reverse, with two films playing over one another and then splitting apart. Two sets of memories, of another world were things were very very different.

Morning soccer practice, the man in the red helmet backhanding him, working up the courage to take Emilia's hand during the movie, Angel's infectious grin, his father next to Mendoza at the funeral, running through the snowy woods outside the school...

Julio dropped Forge's hand like it was made of fire. "Holy shit," he breathed. "Forge?"

"Julio?" Forge replied, completely incredulous. "What the hell are we doing in... where the hell is Nogales?" He turned to point at the sign, and immediately fell to the ground. Blinking in surprise, he stared at his feet, then down at his hands and groaned. "Oh fuck, not again..."

"Again? What do you mean again?" Julio stood but made no move to help Forge to his feet, instead pacing back and forth. "I remember, I remember everything. We were at the school, on that field trip to the museum and then...I was home, and it was like the last year had not happened. At all, and...and...I am all." he gestured, looking for the right word. "Numb? ...Dude, what are you doing?"

Forge was sitting in the dust by the bench, straightening a paper clip and poking at his left leg and arm, muttering "Ow" occasionally. Finally, he stood up, wobbling slightly. "Well, we're not where we expect, so we need to figure out where we are. We know that the last thing we remember was the field trip to the museum, right? And for some reason, we both remember..." He closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly. "Ow. It's like a double exposure. I know I've been at Xavier's for the last two-plus years, but I also remember... never going there. I never..."

He snapped his eyes open, looking at his hands. A slow sudden realization came over him, followed by a look of concentration, then futility. "Julio. Try and shake the ground."

The other boy paused and closed his eyes, and then frowned deeply. "Nothing, there is nothing there." Julio sighed, frustrated, and then opened his eyes to look at Forge. "It is like I said, I am feeling all ...empty? Hollow, numb." He had never really considered just how much his power was normally "on." The sense of connection he usually felt to the ground he hadn't even registered after those first few weeks at Xavier's. And now that he couldn't feel it anymore it was ...devastating.

"Deduction based on empirical data, then." Forge's voice had gone flat and cold, the same way it did when he was rattling off scientific facts in his lab. "Our memories have been tampered with. We can't use our powers. I have my leg back. And for some reason we both want to get to San Diego. There's a significant probability that whatever is behind this confluence of improbable occurrences, it starts in San Diego."

"Uh...huh." Julio said, looking out towards the freeway. He squinted and shielded his eyes in the bright desert sunlight. "Whatever is driving us has a sick sense of humor," he said dryly. "San Diego. It had to be San Diego, didn't it?"

Blinking, Forge realized what Julio meant. Quickly, he walked over to the bank of newspaper dispensers, finding one and shoving a handful of coins in to produce the day's paper. He flipped through the pages rapidly, before holding up the front of the sports page, the photograph showing football fans celebrating outside a stadium. "Guess what's still standing. Another improbable anomaly to add to the list. So not only are we here without our powers - the past is different."

Julio grabbed the paper out of Forge's hands, staring at it. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Of course," he handed the paper back to Forge. "I have no powers, so of course it would still be standing." He ran a hand through his hair. "So we are here, and we were not remembering until now," he said, thinking out loud. "Is it just us or is there anyone else? And how did you decide to go to San Diego? Did the tv talk to you too?"

Forge nodded. "I even have a car and... oh MAN, do I have a shitty job. I mean, gyah, my life sucks. I am not getting stuck in some menial clerical working job with no hope. We're going to get to the bottom of this. Have you run into anyone else?"

"No..." Julio said. "But I have been on a bus crossing Mexico for the past several days. My back hurts from sleeping upright." He stretched, and his back popped loudly.

With a smile, Forge hit a button on the remote, and the blue Versa in the parking lot beeped twice, lights flashing. "Screw the bus, man. To hell with the speed limits, to hell with Nogales, to hell with the bus stop. We're solving this mystery in style."

Julio snorted. "Does this make me Shaggy and you Velma? You are the short one with glasses, after all."

Forge's hand immediately went to his glasses, taking them off and squinting into the distance. "Aw, sonofabitch!" he swore, kicking up dust. "Now we've really got to get back to normal. I hate these things..."

"Get in the car, Velma." Julio scooped up his backpack with one hand and took the paper Forge had bought in the other and followed the other boy to his Nissan. He looked again at the picture on the paper. San Diego wasn't destroyed, wherever the hell they were, and he had to wonder, why exactly was he doing this? What was stopping him from getting on a bus and going back home?

Because wherever we are, it's a lie.

Forge sat behind the driver's seat, buckling his safety belt fastidiously. "We're four hundred and seventy-two miles from San Diego. Someone's screwed with our memories, our powers, and reality as we know it. We have no idea who or what has caused this, or how many of our friends are involved. This? This could be what is technically referred to in the manual as 'certain doom'." He paused, then cranked the ignition.

"Hell with it. Sounds like a party."

Julio put on his sunglasses. "Hit it."