Walkabout: Chapter Two

by Matt Nute

"Where is he?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"As in 'not here'."

"Can you scan for him, Betsy?"

"Yes."

"Well? Where is he?"

"I said I *could*, Alex. I didn't say I *would*."

"We've got to DO something."

"Alex, some would say you've already done enough."

**********

"What're y' drinkin', lad?" The balding, heavyset bartender barely glanced at Scott as he slid onto the bar stool.

"Mineral wa..." he paused, surveying the bar. Mounted hunting trophies and various grease-stained vehicle parts seemed to be the decor, as much as he could tell in the dim light. One small benefit of the ruby quartz glasses he was cursed to wear was that they tended to sharpen details, while blurring everything into shades of scarlet.

"...beer." Scott corrected himself. "Anything you've got." His throat was parched and choked from the dust of the road. When he'd told Gateway "Away", he hadn't meant into the middle of the early morning desert.

But the walk had given him time to think. He'd discarded his leather bomber jacket a few miles into the journey, without a second thought for the memories it had held. He wasn't of a mind for sentimentality anymore. Not for the X-Men, not X-Factor, not even Charles meant anything to him right now.

And especially not Maddie.

"'ere." the bartender slid the dark lager over to Scott, who pushed a handful of bills across the dust-covered bar. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at the wad of American bills, but said nothing as he pocketed the lot.

Scott took a long pull from the cracked mug. The bitter taste of the alcohol overwhelmed his senses briefly, then settled into a warm dampening feeling. Emptying the tankard in a few long swallows, he pushed it back across the counter, nodding to the bartender.

"More of the same." As he watched the bartender pull another draught into the mug, he focused on the sounds of the bar. Miners, in from the blistering heat for their lunch and a few pints, laughed and cursed back and forth. The clicking sounds of a billiards game punctuated drunken chuckles and a few asbestos-laden coughs.

Scott took another pull of his fresh beer. He closed his eyes, savoring the bitterness. Not that he didn't have enough of his own. The utter joy at discovering his wife, alive. The wrenching feeling of betrayal at leaving Jean behind in New York, and the look in her eyes when she'd told him not to return.

The same thing Maddie had told him, eighteen months ago in Alaska.

And then, walking in on her and Alex. His brother. With his *wife*. The mixed emotions of sorrow, love, disappointment, and not a little rage had hit him like a sucker punch in the gut. Or a knife in the back.

His only brother. And his wife.

"Oi! Yank!" came the cry from behind him. Scott turned slightly to see a tattooed local, weaving slightly on his feet, stumble up next to him.

"Y're not plannin' on buyin' up ALL th' beer in th' place, are y', mate?" His breath stank of whiskey and dust. Scott didn't meet his eyes, but shook his head.

"Just in for a drink or two. Then I'll be on my way." The last thing he intended was to provoke the locals, who obviously were a rather tight-knit community. The miner clapped a grease-stained hand on Scott's shoulder, producing a small cloud of road dust.

"Then y'wouldn't mind buyin' some o' us a round, eh, Yank? Spread th' wealth around, what'ya say?" Scott paused, then lifted his mug.

"Sorry. I'll be on my way after this one." As he raised the mug, he saw reflected in the glass distorted images of a few men behind him. Large men, who seemed neither overjoyed by his reticence nor enamored by his company.

"Sorry my arse, mate," A raspy baritone sounded from behind here. "This here's union grounds, say? Scrawny Yank like yerself wouldn' know nothin' 'bout man's work, say?"

"Yank buys drinks, what?" another voice chimed in.

"Yank don't wind up broke in the dust, right?"

Scott felt his shoulders tense. This wasn't what he'd intended to find, not at all.

Or was it?

Turning slightly, he smiled. "Sure thing, 'mates'." With that, he splashed his half-full beer into the eyes of the nearest man. As he backed away cursing, two more giants reached for Scott. Years of Danger Room training and field experience kicked in automatically.

Scott lashed out with a booted foot, catching the closest assailant right under the kneecap with his heel. He heard a wet crunch, and grinned despite himself. As the other lunged at him, he swung the mug in a vicious backhand, shattering it against the miner's skull.

Faced with half a dozen angry locals, Scott considered unleashing a wide-angle optic blast, weak enough not to kill, but strong enough to leave them with some nasty tales to tell later. He shook his head inwardly.

No, this wasn't Cyclops' fight.

This was Scott Summers'.

The punch came seemingly out of nowhere, rocking Scott's head back. He felt something in his nose pop, and he cried out involuntarily. Worse, he felt his glasses fly from his face. Instinctively, he screwed his eyes closed and rolled with the punch, flying into a nearby table.

"Bloody 'ell!" cried an unseen voice. "Bastard split Evan's head open!"

Scott pulled himself blindly to his feet. He heard the jibes and curses thrown at him.

"Wassamatter? Yank's lost 'is glasses?"

"Can't pick on a blind man, now!"

"Bugger that, we can't. Get him!"

Scott grinned to himself. *You think I'm blind?* he joked to himself, *I'm trained for this, and you're just drunken fools.*

Canting his head to the side, Scott heard the heavy lumbering of feet. He pushed a table forward roughly, hearing the thud as it collided with someone's midsection. He tipped the table, sending glass flying. Hidden from view, he turned his face towards the table and blinked his eyes open for a second.

Crimson beams of force lanced from his eyes, striking the table and propelling it forward like a freight train at the drunkards. Bodies were thrown about from the force of the charge, while Scott caught a glimpse of his sunglasses on the edge of his peripheral vision. Closing his eyes tightly, he slid across the floor, arm outstretched. His fingers closed over the smooth ruby quartz.

"Ruddy bastard!" came the cry from above. Scott heard the kick before it caught him in the chest. He heard the sound of a bottle breaking over the bar.

Blindly, Scott kicked a foot upwards. He felt the pain along his calf as the broken glass sliced his leg like steak. Pushing off the floor with his arms, he twisted, adding momentum to a blind haymaker that luckily connected with his attacker's chin.

With trained reflexes, Scott spun back, falling into a defensive stance with his weight off his wounded leg. WIth a snap, he replaced his glasses and slowly opened his eyes.

The bar was in shambles, with broken tables and glass littering the floor. The drunks that weren't unconscious were moaning, the others were either out cold or feigning it well. Scott didn't care. He glanced over to the bartender, who had barely raised an eyebrow.

Pulling out his wallet, Scott riffled through the bills inside, then withdrew all the cash he had on him, well over two thousand American dollars. He slapped it down on the bar and walked towards the door.

"The next round's on the Yank." he muttered as he walked back out into the desert.

**********

"You think he came through here?"

"It would seem so, wouldn't it?"

"Damn it, Betsy, do you have to be so cold?"

"As opposed to the 'heat of passion'? I think I prefer to remain aloof as I am. Wouldn't you?"

"I just want to..."

"Apologize? Would words fix this, Alex? Would anything?"

"I don't know, Betsy. I don't know."

**********

I don't know how long I've been walking here. Between the glare of the sun, and this heat, I can't even tell if I've been walking straight. This canteen's my last, and it's almost bone dry.

What the hell am I doing out here? Do I WANT to die?

I'm not going to die. That would be too easy. Then Madelyne could just go to Alex and...

And what? And screw him with impunity? Ride off into the sunset together?

My God. Does she LOVE him?

Maybe I did come out here to die. Maybe they belong together. Maybe I don't give a damn anymore. I can just keep walking, and never go back.

Don't bother coming back. That's what Maddie said. Jean too. And what the hell is there to go back to? Could I forgive Madelyne? Could she forgive me? Where does Jean fit into this?

God, is she still angry because I loved Phoenix, thinking it was her? Jean, honey, it was always you...

Not that it matters. I walked out on the woman I loved. Again. Wonder what she's doing now.

I wonder how long it'll take Logan to realize she's free. The little bastard. For all his talk of 'giri' and 'honor', he sat by and let Alex and Maddie rut like animals in heat. What about MY honor, Logan? Where was your precious 'duty' to your friend there?

Jean's yours, Wolverine. You're welcome to her.

I just wanted to see my wife. My wife and...

And my son. Oh, Christopher. You can't be dead. I refuse to believe it. I thought Jean was dead, and so I turned to Madelyne. Then I thought Madelyne was dead, and I went to Jean. I have to see you before I lose everything. I'll find you, son. I promise.

Promise. Just empty words here, baking in this heat. I promised to love Madelyne forever. I promised to Jean. What does a promise mean, anymore?

I think I'll just keep walking. But it's so damn hot.

It's ... so ... hot...

The canteen is empty. The horizon's tilting in front of me, just like all those years ago, looking out the front of the Cessna, feeling Dad push me and Alex into freefall.

I'm falling, Dad. I tried. Believe me, I tried.

I cough up dust. I'm not going to die out here. I'm going to die right here.

I don't care anymore...

**********

A white face swims into focus, blurred, as if through tears. Not pale-white, but chalk-white, the color of the grave. A gloved hand prods, and words are spoken, all gibberish to his ears. He blinks, clearing the tears from his eyes. He inhales to cry, but for some reason, does not. This place makes him feel safe. Light blue walls instill calm, while soft linen beneath him cradles him delicately.

The white face calls him Nathan, but he only coos in response. He is hungry, and so he is fed. His hands clutch, seeking the embrace of Mother, but only grasp onto cold leather. He does not understand.

And so he begins to cry.

**********

Scott Summers sat bolt upright, crying out. His hands flailed around, trying to pierce the darkness he suddenly found himself plunged into. He had been dreaming. Dreaming of his son.

"Ah, you awaken." The rich, melodic voice startled Scott. He turned toward it. feeling the pain all over his body. He cried out, and sank back into the... hammock?

"You lucky I find you, Yank. Only crazy white feller travel the bush alone. You lookie to die, Yank?"

"Not dead... yet.." Scott rasped out, throat feeling like he'd swallowed a thousand razors. The words were more question than statement, answered with mild laughter.

"No, you not dead yet, Yank. Uluru lead me to you, dry as a bone out there. I figure you car break down trying travel shortcut through the bush. I bring you here. Fix you up. Let you sleep. Give you water when you not choke on it. You sleep three day, Yank."

Scott swallowed, wincing at the pain. "What.. what day is it?"

"Day is today."

"It's today. Of course it is." Scott chuckled, despite the pain. "You... found me out there?"

"Uluru find you. I just see you body. Not see you car, pity." The voice seemed to be moving about, and Scott heard the clang of metal together. Pots?

"I... I didn't have a car. Where am I?"

"Where are you?" the voice made a soft hissing noise. "You here. Sun fry you brain, Yank, you ask so many question. And say you have no car. What, you walk 'cross whole bush?" Scott felt a cool metal cup pressed into his hand. "You drink, Yank. Drink, make well."

Scott sipped at the water. Tepid and stale, it was nevertheless like ambrosia to his lips. He raised a hand, feeling cloth over his face. Instinctively, he screwed his eyes tighter shut.

"I had... glasses. Did you find them?" he prayed his ruby quartz goggles had not been broken, or worse, left behind. The thought of being alone, blind in a strange land, chilled him.

Relief filled his body when he felt the familiar weight of his glasses pressed into his other hand. His fingers closed over his host's. He felt wrinkled, callused skin under his own.

"Thank you." he breathed, too full of relief to speak. Silence hung in the air for a few moments, until his host pulled away.

"I know you, Yank. I see telly when I travel city. You big American hero, ride big parade. So I bring you here. Figure, save American hero, maybe he save a few folks, and remember Tuckey hospitality." Scott rotated, feeling for the floor with his feet.

"Tuckey? That's your name?"

"Is. You got name, Yank hero?" Scott sighed deeply, closing his eyes. He pulled the cloth bindings away, wincing as the adhesive bandages tore at his skin.

"You be careful, hero." Tuckey chided. "You sunstruck mighty powerful out there. You eyes pretty messed up, likely."

Scott slid on his glasses, only then daring to open his eyes. The glare was astonishing, even through the crimson-tinted filter. He held up a hand to shield himself from the light coming in through the window. He turned to where he'd last heard Tuckey's voice.

He almost did a doubletake. Before him sat perhaps the darkest man he'd ever seen. Kinky salt-and-pepper hair framed a wide, expressive face, with a grin that was almost as bright as the noonday sun. Then he glanced down, and actually let his jaw drop.

Tuckey sat in a rickety wheelchair, missing both legs at the knees. The dark man raised one grey eyebrow at Scott.

"You never see a cripple before, Yank?"

Scott flushed for a moment, then stepped hesitantly forward, a smile crossing his face.

"My name's Scott. I think we'll get along fine, Tuckey."

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