Scott and Cain, Sunday morning

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Cain finds Scott trying to find some fresh air and quiet while he waits for the SHIELD officers to arrive and pick up the body.


Scott closed the door of Charles's office behind him and stood there for a moment in the hall, re-gathering his composure. Not that he'd lost it or anything in the office, but he was definitely feeling unsettled. I'm not sure I like it when Charles is proactive, he thought somewhat inanely, turning and heading down the hall. Possibly it was better strategy on the Professor's part, but it would have been nice to have a little more time to think up answers to Charles's questions before he wound up in the hot seat.

He really needed some fresh air. Thankfully, the back porch was unoccupied, and Scott sat down on the steps, taking a deep breath and rubbing his eye for a moment. There'd been a distinct lack of sleep last night, and he was feeling it this morning. Everything seemed a little surreal.

"Summers." Cain's gruff greeting seemed to come out of thin air as the groundskeeper sidled up on Scott's blind side. "You look like shit. Talked to Chuck?"

The big man leaned against one of the railings, an oversized mug of coffee clenched in one fist as he looked out over the brick walkways and the slowly-trickling fountain on the north lawn. "Suppose you probably did, from that 'stunned puppy' look. Tough break yesterday."

Scott managed to cover the twitch at Cain's approach, only to have another slip out at the other man's last comment. For a minute he didn't know what to say. Finally, he gave a very slight shrug. "He wanted to hear my version of what happened. I-" Scott stopped, stared at the fountain for a moment, and finally went on. "SHIELD's sending someone over today, for... well, I guess he wanted to make sure I had it clear in my head what happened before I talked to them."

Cain just shrugged. "Remember... shit, three years gone now, ain't it? Out in Utah when you, me, Hank, Nate, and Bobby had to try and bring in that kid that was blowing shit up everywhere? She just about crashed the Blackbird and there wasn't nobody else could get close enough to take her down but me."

Although he was managing to maintain an even tone, Cain had to set the mug of coffee down as he felt his hands tremble slightly. "Siena Blaze," he said quietly. "That was her name. Girl wasn't barely sixteen, seventeen? I had to take her out before she made the whole damn desert go nuclear, and she's still in a coma. Three years, and they still don't think she's gonna wake up."

He picked up the coffee to take a long drink, frowning at the sudden coldness. "Sometimes shit just happens. But damned if I still don't see her face every time there's some other kid losing their cool out there."

Scott was silent for another long moment. "I remember her," he said finally, his voice as low as Cain's. "It's hard to believe it's been that long." He caught his hand going up to rub the scars on the side of his face, and forced himself to lower it. "We don't even know this kid's name. It seems like such... a stupid thing to be bothered about, but I wish..."

"Try wishing that he hadn't gone after whatsername," Cain interrupted. "Or that whoever got it into his head that all he was good for was cannon fodder, that they'd never gotten to him. If wishes were horses, we'd all be eating steak," he summarized with a loud crack of his knuckles. "Fact is, this ain't likely to be the end of it. Shit, I remember when people protested the draft taking kids right out of high school, making them soldiers. There was a war on, what were you gonna do? This? Some people obviously think it ain't no different."

He ticked off points on his large fingers. "Nate gets picked up as a kid and turned into Mutant GI Joe. Bill Stryker did god-knows-what to Logan, or how early he got him. The folks that screwed with Gibney's head. Hell - Remy got turned into a weapon by people who thought it was okay to use kids as soldiers. It ain't just those camps in Africa, Summers. There's a war right here, and both sides are drafting soldiers."

Oddly, Cain's words got a tiny, very strained smile from Scott. "I know," he said, looking down at his hands. "I'm not planning on sitting out here brooding and being useless, Cain. I just... needed some air." He was quiet for another long moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was heavier. "I always figured something like this might happen at some point. That I'd... there's only so careful you can be. If there's something I've learned over and over again the last few years, it's that you can't control combat."

"No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy," Cain quoted. "We used to call that Murphy's Law of Tactics. "Thing is, Summers... they got kids out there following whatever cause they've got, and following it blindly. So lemme ask you something - how old were you when Chuck put you in a uniform and strapped that visor on you, huh?"

The smile came back, turned crooked. "Young enough that I ought to have more sympathy for some of our trainees..." Scott stopped, shook his head. "I was thirty-one this month," he said, almost helplessly. "God. Fourteen years? Since we started training - Charles didn't let us out of the house to do anything until we were of age."

"That you remember, anyway," Cain half-accused, holding up a hand to forestall any protest from Scott. "I know, I know. Saint Chuck wouldn't put ideas in your head. But what I'm sayin' is that you gotta stop thinking of this like... I dunno, some baseball game where everyone's gonna play by the rules and go home afterwards with a few bumps and bruises. It's war, and people - sometimes kids - are gonna come home in a black bag. Or did you think that Jeannie getting a free pass means everyone does?"

Scott was silent for a long moment. "Is that really how you think I see things?" he asked, finally. "There's a difference between fighting for the best possible result and actually being naive. People have died because of the decisions I've made often enough that I don't think I really have any illusions anymore." A flash of Garnoff, running towards the car in the instant before the explosion, and Scott banished it - maybe a little too easily. "The kid's dead," he said, more harshly, "and I killed him. I wish I hadn't, but I can't change it. But I'm not the only one responsible for it, and I'd rather focus on finding them."

"You ever think they're trying to find us?" Cain replied quickly. "I mean, we put kids in these uniforms, let them play soldiers without any idea of what it's really like out there. You wonder what it'll be like the first time they have to see one of their own come back wrapped in plastic? You, me, even Charles - we ain't got no illusions left, Scott. Shame these kids ain't gonna get to hold onto theirs much longer."

"You're not telling me anything I don't think about on a daily basis, Cain," Scott said flatly. "I just don't know what to do about it. Tell them no, they can't fight with us, and if they want to fight at all, they have to find another way? I'd rather try and help them do it right. Or, well, as right as possible, since I'm sure as hell not infallible."

The big man just shrugged. "Hit 'em until there ain't nothing to hit any more. That's my plan."

"It's as good a strategy as any," Scott said, pulling himself back to his feet. "I should go. Get ready to meet the SHIELD officers when they get here. I think it would be nice to avoid the kids seeing them take the body out."

Cain nodded. "Bring 'em in the back of the garage, through the west gate. I'll run interference, make sure no one's wandering." He turned towards the mansion, then paused and turned back to Scott. "It happens, Summers. And no, you never get used to it. The day you do, well. You'll know."