Times They Are A-Changin': Aftermath

[x-legion.livejournal.com]

In the aftermath of yet another successful Xavier's fieldtrip, Terry experiences the dangers as being seen as a person in charge.


"His name is Michael Apfelbeck," a girl was saying, thrusting forth a cellphone that displayed a digital photo of a dark-haired boy. "Just tell us if he's hurt!"

The chaos of the inexplicable manifestations had tapered off, but it had been replaced by chaos of another sort. Now that the area had been secured and emergency personnel were on scene, those who had fled were beginning to return. For some it was a simple matter of curiosity. For others, like this girl and her friends, it had been the realization that someone was missing.

Now dozens of people were accosting anyone who looked as if they might be even incidentally in charge. Unfortunately for Terry, her FBI jacket made her an obvious target.

Terry had spun from one group to another, getting just enough information generally to point them in the right direction for help, but the process took a toll. Frazzled, sweaty and dirty, and with a voice showing raspy signs of wear, she stopped once again and turned to the cellphone waving group. "Where did you last see him?" she asked, feeling a bit like a broken record with the endless repetitions of the question.

Matt did not feel good. He was still a little unsteady and nauseous from literally being tossed around earlier combined with the mother of all migraines, but he was at least still upright. That was a start. He really couldn't help but overhear the distraught girl talking to Terry as she explained where she had last seen her friend. "It smells like butt there," Matt spoke up. "It's pretty distinct."

Terry's ponytail whipped around as she turned to look at Matt. "There's bound to be a number o' smells stirred up in the area. You think you could follow it?" she asked and looked him over as if to gauge his condition.

"I could go with him", Angelo offered from nearby, grubby and a little charred but still on his feet. "Make sure he gets where he wants to be."

Terry grimaced, not exactly thrilled with the idea of sending Matt out in this state, but this boy could be hurt, and if had managed to wander out of the area at all... She nodded once at the pair of them, then turned back to the group and pointed at another group of uniforms outside the area's barricade. "We'll look for him. You check in with those officers." Once they appeared to be moving, she lifted her hand to her earpiece and requested a few of the uniforms for herself, then turned back to Angelo and Matt. "Let's move."

Getting to his feet, Matt swayed for a moment, then stood on his own. "Okay," he took an experimental sniff then unfolded his cane. "Can I hold your shoulder?" He asked Angelo.

Angelo stepped in under his hand, guiding it to his shoulder. "Course. Anything you need."

Terry gestured for Matt to lead the way, falling into step after him once he did. Before they got too far, a pair of uniformed cops cross their path and joined the little parade at her instruction.

With a purpose, Matt was able to mostly ignore the pounding in his head. He knew he would be useless for a good long while after this, but he didn't care. He was helping now. "I wanna go to where he was and get a smell again," he explained quietly, "I remember it too."

"Okay, we can do that", Angelo said, twisting his head to look at Terry. "Did his friends tell you where they last saw him?"

Terry gestured at Matt. "He said he knew where they were talking about."

"It was right here," said the girl with the phone, seizing upon the sudden attention. She strode to a place that had formerly been a bus stop shelter, but had been reduced to a single panel of glass and half a bench. "We were talking before everything . . . before whatever happened." The girl was giving Matt and Angelo an uncertain look, but was worried enough to accept anyone under the direction of an FBI agent and two uniformed officers regardless of how young or grey they appeared. The officers, to their credit, had accepted Terry's brief instructions without question. As they were both covered in dust of the recently collapsed church and witness to multiple spontaneous manifestations, it was entirely possible that, at this point, they were simply too numb to question anything.

Letting go of Angelo Matt poked around for a moment, sniffing as he did so. "This way," he said, following, stumbling despite his cane to help clear his path. He wasn't really using it so much as holding it and swinging out of habit, but the last thing on Matt's mind was proper cane technique.

Angelo followed closely, ready to grab and steady Matt if he looked to be about to fall. "I'll be right here."

Breathing deeply, Matt did his best to focus and concentrate, letting everything else go, fading away into the background as he focused on the scent. His head was pounding, but it didn't matter as he focused on the one thing. Just like he had practiced with Kyle. This was just like powers training, except...not. The world flashed in his mind a jumble of lines and images as different sounds collided, reverberating through the air giving him both a more detailed and yet rougher picture of his surroundings, devoid of colour, only shape. He moved on.




Though help has arrived, some victims are particular about who delivers it.


The woman and her husband taken care of, Yvette slipped away as the ambulances arrived, not entirely comfortable with the thought of explaining just what she'd used to perform the emergency tracheotomy. Things were still chaotic, albeit beginning to calm down, and she kept an eye open for anyone else who might need her help.

The sound of footsteps caused Ron Koch to stir behind the ruins of the booth that had served as a temporary shelter.

"Help," he rasped, opening his mouth as far as he dared, hoping this person would hear him -- several had already passed without noticing. "Here. Help."

Fortunately for him, Yvette's ears were sharper than average, although not super-sensitive and she caught the hint of a cry for help. She veered towards the shattered booth, carefully picking her way through, until she caught sight of his feet. "I am here," she called out, shifting away a piece of tarpaulin so she could better see the man. "I can... oh." She stopped dead at the sight of him.

Lying in the wreckage was a man barely recognizable as such. Thick, black spines erupted from his skin, like those of a porcupine. But unlike those of a porcupine, these spines were completely incapacitating.

The man was spread-eagled, and the position was clearly by necessity. The spines along the sides of his abdomen, beneath his arms, and on his legs had grown to the point he could not move without stabbing himself. What had originally looked to be a beard was actually a mass of quills jutting upwards into the jaw or downwards into the neck, making every word spoken a risk of impalement.

"Help," the man croaked. His eyes were closed; his hardened eyelashes had curled downwards, piercing his own his own cheeks.

Yvette knelt by his side, already stripping off her gloves again. "Please to stay still," she instructed unnecessarily. The neck and jaw were perhaps the most important, so close they were to impaling the major blood vessels, so she immediately set to work shaving the quills away. Her focus on her task reflected in her hands, the fingers sharpening to flat-bladed knives, razor-sharp.

There was a gasp of relief as the pressure against the man's neck and jaw disappeared. He drew a deep, shaky breath.

"Thank you," he panted. "Hid here . . . then couldn't move."

"You are welcome," she said with a small smile, even as she focussed on shaving away the spines holding his eyes closed. It was not unlike shaving Cain, when she thought about it. "Please, do stay still. My fingers are very sharp and I do not want to cut you by accident."

Ron felt slight pressure tugging at the quills around his eyes. "Your fingers?" Ron began, wondering if it was the girl's English. He felt the hand pull away from his face and hazarded opening his eyes.

And immediately began to scream as he saw the red-skinned, blue-eyed apparition hovering over him.

Yvette jerked back, her own fright at the man's reaction causing her hair to spike out violently. "Please," she tried, holding her long-fingered hands up in a hopefully non-threatening manner. "Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you, I promise. I am only here to help."

"Get away!" The shriek was punctuated with a blind flail that barely missed Yvette's upraised talons. "You did this!" he screamed, eyes bulging with rage and terror. "Don't touch me, mutant!"

Yvette wasn't the only one whose emotional state was affecting their powers. The spines, previously quiescent, began to grow at an alarming rate. In his panic the man tried to sit, which compressed the muscles of his abdomen and brought his internal organs perilously close to the spines of his pelvis and thighs. The longest spines began to curve back like overgrown fingernails, the rush of adrenaline accelerating their growth until they threatened to spear the abdominal wall.

Yvette was torn. On the one hand, her presence was clearly making things worse, but on the other, there was no way he'd survive if she didn't do something. And she couldn't exactly sit on him and shave off the spines by force. She looked around, desperately hoping for a third option.

Megan stared at the gruesome scene unfolding before her. Still feeling a rush of excitement from helping Molly and Wade with the Strong Man, she rushed in after only a moment's pause.

"Yvette, I think I can help calm him."

"Your dust?" Yvette took Megan's sudden appearance in her stride. "Yes, please. He'll injure himself terribly if he does not be calm."

"Okay, this might work," Megan said as she crouched down near the suffering mutant and brought the dust to the surface of her skin and wings again. It hadn't been very long since she'd last used it, and there seemed to be less this time.

"Just try to relax, mate. You're among friends. You're safe, in your own mind. Just close your eyes and focus on the patterns behind your eyes," she soothed in her airy tone. Megan released the dust after Yvette was a safe distance away, and took a few steps back herself, in the opposite direction of the breeze, so she wouldn't accidentally dust herself.

The spore-like dust settled all around the spiny skin, disappearing as it was quickly absorbed. A small bit of extra scattered into the air and dispersed.

Ron tried to back away from the pink-haired newcomer, but the spines caught and dragged at his movements. He knew there had been mutants here, but between the spiked girl with the glowing eyes and the other girl who looked like psychedelic Tinkerbell he had to wonder if he was hallucinating. If this wasn't hell, it was close. He cringed from her, not wanting to know what this one would do to him.

Then the dust took effect. At first Ron took the coolness on his skin to be numbness, then realized it was actually a sudden lack of pain. Muscles relaxed, and the bitter taste of adrenaline started to recede. The pounding in his chest began to slow. For some reason the four wings on the girl's back took on a special importance for him; he found his gaze drawn to them, and the shine of sunlight that caught them before spiraling into the sky behind her.

"Very good, Megan. Just like that, yes," Yvette murmured from her safe spot, although she was getting some of the wind-borne dust and it was making her feel rather relaxed and calm herself, her hair and face beginning to soften. "Please, sir, we are only here to help you. We will not harm you, I promise."

Megan exhaled deeply, relieved that the dust was working. She supposed there was no guarantee that the effects caused by her dust would always be calming. When she had first manifested several years ago, some people in the crowded train station had panicked. She had only recently begun to learn that her dust might be able to help people. "You're going to be alright," she soothed. The man was acting more calm - no more struggling or gasping - and the spines' growth was slowing down too. "What's your name?"

"Mm . . . Ron." It was becoming difficult to understand why he'd been so upset. Even the first girl no longer seemed so frightening. Shadows danced in the spikes while fractals drifted from her luminous blue eyes.

"We are here to help you, Ron," Yvette reiterated, smiling a little dreamily herself. "We will not hurt you." While she could still think, she turned to Megan. "Can you stay with him while I go for the ambulance people? You should be safe hidden away here." Also, she needed to get away from the backwash of Megan's dust.

Megan nodded. "I'll stay here with Ron." She hoped the EMTs would be able to help him, now that his spines had stopped growing. "We're safe here," she reassured Ron, turning back to him.

Ron nodded vaguely, the movement seeming to occur in slow motion. He felt safe. Relaxed. The concept of being tended to by what appeared to be a fairy with a Welsh accent no longer bothered him.

This was all just a bad dream anyway, wasn't it?




Garrison and Sarah attempt to do a good deed and completely miss the pricking of their thumbs.


"This is some deeply messed up shit." Garrison muttered as he surveyed the ruined mass of flesh and fat heaped on the pavement. Already, sticky puddles were coagulating, and the local bird population were dropping in to take bits. Any minute now, the rats, stray cats and dogs would pick up the rich scent of blood, and FBI investigators would be trying to work with a menagerie treating the victim like the world's greatest buffet. For the moment he was at loose ends. Terry had left to run down the stragglers, and SHIELD had pulled rank and taken over the scene. Most of the few agents where on their way back to the Field Office, to file reports and in one case, embark on a new life of strict veganism.

His last job was to see if he could identify the massive bloated victim spread out like a deflated hot air balloon. Considering he couldn't even tell if it was human lowered his chances of an ID.

Sarah was still there on the scene, mainly because the authorities were controlling the area now and locking down who could leave and who had to stay. Crossing her arms, she looked around at the scene before her, which was just completely horrible. Blood everywhere, things burned from the fires, just a mess. Her eyes came to rest on the bloated victim, squinting as she looked at it. It looked like there was something inside of it, something familiar like... she wasn't sure, so Sarah took a step toward him and took a closer look. "That's a cell phone, I think. Huh." She wasn't talking to anyone in particular, just thinking out loud. What a weird sight indeed.

Kane pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and then knelt down near Sarah, carefully pulling the sticky broken phone from the puddles of gore. He tapped the power button but nothing happened. It had obviously been damaged in the fight. He could send it to the lab to see if they could salvage anything from the memory. His eyes flicked from the phone to Sarah and back.

"Sarah, come here for a second." Kane lowered his voice. "Do you think that you can get the information off this phone in this condition?"

Looking up at the sound of her name, Sarah raised her eyebrows and looked over at Kane. She looked around both of her shoulders before pointing at herself and mouthing the word 'me?' Which was silly because there was no one else around but she wasn't thinking the best at the moment with everything going on.

Walking over to Garrison, Sarah peered at the phone in his hand. "It looks pretty beat up but I can try." If its power source was intact then perhaps she could coax it back into functionality long enough to get some information out of it. She took the phone in her own hands, peering down at it and concentrating. "Power on. Come on, you can do it." After a few seconds and some sputtering the device flickered on, off, then stayed on, the screen wavering and not the brightest but still visible and readable. "There we go, it's on, for now anyway. What kind of info do you want?"

"See if there's any recent pictures or video recordings in the memory." Kane said. People recorded and YouTubed every damn thing these days, didn't they? Kane paused, the thread of an idea there. "Actually, Sarah, do you think you can do that with all the phones in the immediate area?" Someone would have pictures of the incident, probably even enough to identify the victims and the people responsible.

"Ok, can do." It was simple enough to get the phone to show her any recorded video or audio, as well as pictures. "If you've got a portable hard drive or a memory stick I can maybe copy them for you." She wasn't sure how long she could keep the phone up and running, after all, but transferring things would be easy enough. Sarah could copy that and any identifying information off of the phone in a matter of minutes. "Oh, yeah, I suppose I could. Shouldn't be a problem." Unless the phones were damaged or destroyed beyond any hope of repair she could handle that.

Kane handed over his phone. "Dump it all on there and we'll- Agent Brand. So nice to see you." He said, a forced smile coming as the woman appeared at the head of a cluster of SHIELD agents.

The green-haired woman smiled at Kane, her eyes taking in everything, or at least giving them the impression she had. "Agent Kane. Always a pleasure. And who do we have here?" Her eyes flicked to Sarah.

"This is Sarah. Sarah, this is Agent Brand. I wouldn't shake her hand. She might still be contagious." Kane said, earning a momentarily confused look from both of them. "Sarah is an Xavier's student who we're rounding up to send back to the mansion in light of what's happened. I see SHIELD was right on time again. Well done."

"Oh, that Canadian humour." Brand smiled, but her eyes remained cold. "Tell me, Sarah, why was Agent Kane giving you his phone?"

Sarah looked to Kane and then Brand before replying, not quite sure how to respond. "Well, ma'am, I was helping out. Just gathering information for Mr. Kane here, from people's cell phones, to help figure out what happened here." That was her understanding of it anyway, and she looked back to Kane to make sure she hadn't said anything incorrect.

Kane's smile didn't slip, but Rome burned behind his eyes as the triumphal look swept over Brand's face. "What Sarah means, of course, is that she's an expert on all these crazy new phones and she might know the model and who sells it, giving us a place to start on the puddle of John Doe over there."

"Kids do know all the latest tech, don't they?" Brand replied, her smile almost sweet. "Well, Sarah, it was nice of you to help Agent Kane here work out one end of a phone from another. We might just have another junior agent in the making. That school of yours is so public minded."

Looking back and forth between Kane and Brand at their exchange, Sarah just kept quiet and wasn't about to say another word unless one of them addressed her directly. Hopefully she hadn't put her foot in her mouth already, whoops. It was all a little overwhelming and she just wanted to go home, to go back to Layla to make sure she was alright.

"You know Xavier. Very big on public service. Speaking of servicing, shouldn't you be talking to the local authorities and piece together just what actually happened here?" Garrison was baiting her directly, hoping to keep her from thinking about Sarah further. Plus, it would be nice to know what they'd found out. It wasn't Kane's investigation, so he was out of the loop on the upper level briefing for this one.

Brand shot him a look that told him she knew exactly what he was doing, but she replied nonetheless. "SHIELD has already started asking questions. It turns out that a number of the FOH members, none of whom have ever tested as being positive for the mutant gene, manifested. All at once, with no warning. How does that sound to you?"

"Like a lot of paperwork. I'm going to go put Sarah here into a bus home. Watch your step. The John Doe is slippery." Kane said as he ushered Sarah away, not stopping until they were well away from Brand. "Alright, get that information quickly, Sarah."

Sarah just nodded, still too afraid to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing. After another few seconds with the phone she handed them both back to Kane as discreetly as she could, the information now transferred over to his device. Speaking in a low whisper, Sarah kept an eye on Brand to make sure she wasn't coming over out of nowhere again. "What about the other ones?"

"Can you grab their data from here?"

She shook her head a little, again doing her best to keep it from Brand's eyes and ears. "Nuh-uh, I'd need to be touching the phones, and yours too." It was one of the bigger draw backs on her powers, she couldn't do it remotely. "I'm sorry." Because she felt like she should apologize for that, and for what she'd said before too.

"It's a start, at least. Go join the others, Sarah. You did good, eh."

Smiling a little at the praise, Sarah just nodded and turned to do just that. As she did, she put her hand in her pocket to touch her own cell phone, sending Kane a text message - which number she'd gotten from interacting with his phone - as she walked away which read: 'if you bring me more phones later I'll try to do more.' She figured she at least owed him the offer and would help out however she could.




Far from the maddening crowd, Matt, Angelo and Terry finally locate a missing boy.


The world was too loud, too bright, like moving through a migraine. And his body felt wrong. It was heavy, and hot like he was wearing layers of sweaters. Despite his inability to push himself above a walk he could barely catch his breath. He had to be sick. Belatedly, he realized he should have told one of his friends and asked them to drive him home.

It didn't matter, though. He was in front of their brownstone now, and soon he could fall into his bed . . . but something was wrong. Neighbors were staring at him. Some of them looked scared. Some looked angry. Sick as he was, he felt the slow creep of paranoia begin. He made for the door.

But in fumbling for his keys Michael discovered his fingers could no longer fit into his pockets. For the first time he realized they were barely fingers at all anymore -- they were foot-long claws at the end of shag-furred arms that nearly scraped the pavement.

His knees went weak. The boy flung out an arm to catch himself, and discovered to his shock that his new talons sliced through the doorframe to gouge brick.

"Hey!" someone snapped. It was Mr. Ramos, whose daughter he'd grown up with. His face was purple with rage and twisted in an expression Michael had never seen on him before.

"Get the hell away from there!" Ramos continued, and Michael could see that others were converging behind him. "Do you know what that means?" The older man thrust a finger at the FOH decal in Michael's own window. "It means we watch this neighborhood, and the police are on their way."

Michael tried to say something, but, like the nightmare this was becoming, the words wouldn't come.

And then his father arrived.

After the call about his son's disappearance Mike Apfelbeck Sr. was already in enough of a hurry to botch his parallel parking, but the mob crowded around his front door made him run the last half a block -- until the sight of the broad-shouldered, shaggy bulk cowering on his doorstep stopped him cold.

Michael saw his father's face twist in revulsion, and finally the boy found his voice. It was only a single word, a word that came out as a sob.

"Dad . . ."

His father's eyes widened. Disgust turned to shock, then disbelief. He took a faltering step back.

"But . . . we were tested . . ."

Matt couldn't tell if they had gone several blocks or several miles, he was too intent on the scent he was following, too wrapped up in his goal. His head was pounding and the world hurt, his clothes hurt, but he wasn't focusing on that. He'd worry about it later. "Really close," he muttered, cane swinging as he hit someone's ankle. What? People. Strange. Matt paused, forced to use other parts of his powers now, "Why're there people?" he finally demanded, confused and annoyed by the interruption.

"We're in a different part of town now", Angelo told him, glaring ferociously at anyone he caught giving him dirty looks. "An anti-mutant part, seems like. If the kid came this way, he could be in trouble."

Terry was on the verge of suggesting they call for transportation when they turned a street corner and Matt spoke. His cane hit her ankle and she yelped a little and jumped back. "Nothing more dangerous than scared neighbors," she muttered darkly. "We had better be hurrying." She gestured the uniforms to spread out a little further, creating a perimeter of sorts.

"He's here," Matt was certain,"These people need to move. He's here," he began to push through using his cane, uncaring and unconcerned about the other peoples feelings or anything. He was here with the feds and he was tracking the smelly guy. He wanted to find him. It was a test of his powers and damnit, this migraine wasn't for nothing.

"What the--" One of the bystanders, caught by surprise by the cane, turned on Matt. The look of slight confusion on his face rapidly transformed into distaste as his eyes fell on Angelo.

"What is this, a convention?" he asked, the tone sour.

"Back off", Angelo snapped at him, body language reading only too ready to fight. "First person to lay a hand on me, this kid, or the other one loses fingers."

Terry pulled a badge out and flashed it around. That, along with the uniforms, gave her an edge of authority when she said, "Everyone back off. We're here to take care of things." The petite redhead bullied her way through the crowd, pushing through to the front along with Matt. The scene was heartbreaking, but hardly new. She left the kid to the others, and turned to the father to say lowly, "We can take him with us. For testing and safety."

Matt took a seat on the steps, not giving a shit about the other people. He was a little annoyed at Angelo phrasing things how he did, but he had a lot of other things to worry about. That didn't even matter in the grand scheme of anything. "So, look," he said conversationally. "I've got a migraine and just tracked you down anyways because I don't want you lynched. Uncool and this isn't the south 40 years ago. So, I vote you come with us, get this whole thing worked out, then you know, all is fine." Was it a horrible argument? Yes. However, it was about all he could do since he felt like someone was attempting to turn himself inside out, brain first.

It was not so much the word "lynch" coming so casually from someone his own age that made Michael recoil, but the expressions on the faces of his neighbors. Some of them were scared, or angry. They wanted him out, but he didn't think they would hurt him to do it. But one or two of them . . . he could see it.

So, it seemed, could his father.

Eyes wild, Apfelbeck pushed past Terry and charged up his front steps, bumping Matt's shoulder on the way. He placed himself between his son and the crowd, shaking hands resting on the boy's shaggy shoulders.

"Take care of things?" he snapped, voice quavering. He looked from Terry to the uniforms she'd brought with her, then at Angelo and Matt. "Work things out?"

"Mike," said a thin-faced woman who looked little happier than he, "let them do their jobs--"

"Which is what?" Apfelbeck demanded. His face twisted, pained by the regurgitation of arguments not his own, but his hands tightened against his son's coarse fur. "It's . . . it's genetic, isn't it? So we -- we'll deal with it."

Restless murmurs had started when Apfelbeck had gone to defend his son, and as he argued the angry undertone began to swell.

With his final words, someone hurled a thermos of hot coffee at the stoop.

Angelo had pushed his way forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Terry, and his reflexes were quick enough now. He caught the thermos before it could strike anyone, and looked back at the boy and his father. "Sir, we're here to help before this gets really out of hand. We don't mean any harm or to take him away, and you're welcome to come with us too." It was quite possible the father would be in just as much danger, now.

Terry put a hand on Angelo's arm and glanced at him in thanks for his reflexes before adding to the father, "Aye, you will be dealing with it, but right now, what we are having to take care of is getting you both to safety. I promise, we will be figuring this out." Terry poured a thin tendril of power into her voice, trying to enhance her persuasiveness. To the crowd at large, "We will have none of that. The faster you go home, the faster we can be getting this resolved."

The murmurs didn't entirely stop, but they did begin to quiet. A few of the less passionate spectators even began to drift away. The two officers that had accompanied them were visibly relieved; one riot had been enough for them.

Michael's father swallowed hard, his eyes on the thermos in Angelo's hand. "I don't understand what there is to figure out," said Apfelbeck, though his voice was softer now. "Where are you taking him? What's he done?"

"Nothing," Michael croaked. He pressed a taloned hand to his head. "I just got sick . . ." But then he remembered the gouge across his front door. Had someone called the cops because they'd seen him? Or had he somehow hurt somebody and not even realized it?

"He hasn't done anything wrong", Angelo assured them hastily. "But he's going to need some help adjusting to this, you both are." He flicked a glance at the dispersing crowd. "And I don't think here's the best place to do it. You might want to grab anything from your house that you couldn't replace."

"It's just temporary, and if you don't want the help, we will turn around and walk away right now. But we can offer a place with people who understand, people you can talk to, ask those questions of. Start t' think of the future," Terry said quietly, splitting her attention between the father and the crowd. She gestured to the uniforms who started to subtly work the crowd back a step, then two.

Apfelbeck's eyes passed from the redhead to the grey-skinned man, then to the police officers gently directing his neighbors. For the first time he realized they and the officers were not only filthy and battered, but visibly exhausted. Yet here they were, standing between them and the people he'd thought they knew.

He looked to the boy who said he'd led the group. He was still hunched on the stoop, pale-faced and ill-looking. A mutant, too, who could have been any one of Michael's friends.

Apfelbeck took a deep breath. "Okay," he said, "Let's go."

And he moved aside to let his son pass, his hand never leaving Michael's shoulder.



As the dust settles, Layla is finally found.
TRIGGER WARNING: Aftermath of child fatality.


Why was she so tired? It was like she'd been skating all day and wiping out and running around like a wild thing or something. But she'd just been sitting here, freaked out and holding a dead kid. Tears had cut trails down the dirt and dust that had clung to Layla's face while she had rocked back and forth.

The boy had begun to quietly whimper but Layla hadn't heard it over the noise of everything else going on. Then he moved a little, mumbling something she thought was maybe "Mommy?" but she couldn't be sure.

"Kid? Kid? You're...?" A wave of nausea hit the blonde full force and she just barely missed both her and the kid when she turned to throw up. "Fuck."

The more the kid recovered in her arms, the stronger he got and the more conscious the weaker Layla felt. She'd gone from exhausted to nauseous in a matter of moments. The dizziness was already setting in when she sat back up.

"Where's my mom?" The kid asked, moving of his own volition as if nothing at all had happened to him. But he must have pulled at the burnt skin on his back because he cried out and froze.

"Dunno," Layla whispered back. "I think...I think I need help." Her voice was getting weaker and she seemed to be almost falling asleep. She didn't even realize the kid had gotten up out of her lap, put her coat on and start walking off. "Kid?"

Jim remained alert as he continued his sweep of the area, but there seemed little cause for concern. The inexplicable manifestations appeared to have tapered off within minutes of one another, and by the time most of the emergency responders had arrived the scene had downgraded itself from riot to mere disaster area. SHIELD, too, had arrived, and Jim was glad. He'd heard a few of Garrison's descriptions of Agent Brand, many of which managed to convey the spirit of four-letter-words despite not being phrased as such, but without SHIELD he'd have had no idea what to do about the affected FOHers. As it was, SHIELD was prepared for both clean-up and containment, which left him free to do other things . . . like locate missing students.

He was just beginning to consider invoking his telepathy when he saw movement by the port-a-potties. A young boy, not one of theirs, but on the ground -- a blonde. Jim burst into a jog.

"Layla!"

Barely conscious at this point, Layla wasn't sure if she was hearing or imagining her name. It didn't feel like last time when she'd brought that dog back. This felt worse. This was like having everything drained out of her. It was what she imagined death was like when people just died of old age, when their bodies just gave out. She tried to open her eyes more but they were so heavy and her vision blurry through the thin view she had. Where'd the boy go? Wait, why was she moving? Her head bounced off the ground when she slumped over and landed on her side on the ground. "I'm...I'm Layla," she eventually muttered, trying to raise her hand just in case she hadn't imagined that voice.

Jim dropped to his knees beside the girl and touched her neck. He could feel a pulse, but slow. No visible injuries, but that didn't exclude head trauma or internal damage. Her skin was ice cold.

"Layla, can you answer me?" His only reply was a vague murmur. Jim lay a hand over her forehead and reached out.

#Layla, it's Mr. Haller.# His presence fell across the girl's mind like a warm blanket. #What happened?#

At first she only registered something warm and comforting. She didn't think it was something she felt, exactly, but she swore she did. #Hiiiiiii, Mister Haller,# she greeted with a mental voice that sounded more like a happy drunk than anything. There was a sense of a smile in her mind as well. #There was a lightning man hiding in the dirt in the air. I found him and we hid but I didn't see the lightning dude. And I wanted to get him somewhere safe but lightning dude got him and then he died. He left with my coat. I liked that coat. Am I dying? I probably don't need the coat if I'm dying. Talking is so hard. You're never gonna hear any of this.# Layla pouted, though her facial muscles barely moved.

#It's okay, I can hear you. And you're not dying.# Though he lacked Jean's skill with physiology, he felt no major warning signs that would indicate the brain reacting to some hidden injury. There might still be something smaller, but nothing that couldn't wait for the paramedics. Relieved, Jim brushed the hair from her eyes and started shucking his own coat.

#And since you're not dying,# Jim said, trying to smile as he began to tuck it around her, #you can use mi . . .#

". . . left with my coat."

The telepath went very still.

Her loopy delirium and his relief at her safety had almost eclipsed her actual words, but they were sinking in now. The boy. The boy he'd seen walking away from her. Small, thin.

"He died."

Layla, almost unconscious . . . and that boy, wearing a girl's coat.

"Layla," Jim croaked, aloud this time. "You said . . . someone died?"

#The boy.# A hand twitched vaguely in the direction he'd walked off in. With some effort she actually heaved her arm up and it flopped over to indicate the direction. #The boy died when the lightning man hit him, I think. See I was on the other side, the side in the alley and I was looking this way and when I turned around he was steaming but he wasn't alive anymore. So I took him here. And his back was all bloody and hot and gross. But...but I think maybe it's okay. Because he took my coat.#

Oh my god. Jim struggled not to jump to conclusions even as his brain grimly began to line up the facts. He'd seen her wiped out like this once before -- back in January, after she'd raised that stray dog. It had left her fatigued for weeks. And a child was so much bigger . . .

She couldn't . . . but why couldn't she? A mammal was a mammal. The dog was still alive because it hadn't had any physical trauma that would have irrevocably damaged its vital systems. If Layla had seen the electrokinetic he'd heard Scott send Jean-Phillipe to . . . if the death had been caused not by burns, but by sudden cardiac arrest . . .

Jim swallowed hard and forced his attention back to Layla. He took her hand, small and cold, and squeezed it between his. Years ago, he'd held another hand like this.

And, just like years ago, the dead walked.

"It's okay," Jim whispered, fighting back the cold in the pit of his stomach. "I saw him. I'll check on him once we find someone for you."

#Okay.# Even her mental voice got all high pitched and woozy when she thought the word. #I'll just hang out here. All...you're sure I'm not dying? 'Cause...'Cause this isn't like before. Can I sleep? I wanna sleep, Mister Haller.# Focusing even enough to simply think at Haller was taking all of her attention. Layla had a very clear image of the boy walking off in her coat and crying when he moved when he woke up. But beyond that everything was just sort dim and growing steadily darker. Just like they say death is like.

The counselor tightened his fingers around hers. Her exhaustion bled through the link like a poison. #Sleep,# he told her. #I'll keep an eye on you. A lot has happened. It took a lot out of you.#

#Ooooookay. I promise I won't steal your coat.# Her mental voice trailed off as she spoke. All the effort she'd put into trying to get awake or stay awake was simply exhausted and Layla blacked out. It was the best thing she'd done all day.

The current of her thoughts slowed, then fell into the quiet calm of sleep. Reluctantly, the telepath disentangled himself from the girl's mind. First he had to flag down some paramedics. Then he could think about tracking down that boy and his parents. Through Layla's memories he'd seen and felt and smelled the sticky char of the boy's wounds -- he wouldn't get far without someone taking him in for treatment.

Regardless of the evidence, Jim resolved not to say a word to anyone until he was sure. The situation was chaotic enough without the addition of unsubstantiated rumor. Once he had confirmation . . . they'd see.

With a shiver, the telepath rose in cold February morning and sought help.