Change the World: Part Three

by Thomas Wilde

Chapter 3: Opposite Reactions

July 6th, 1999

[Trish Tilby, in reporter chic, is reporting live from Westchester, New York. Behind her, a number of reporters are making the same fundamental report; her cameraman has purposefully framed her in the same shot with CNN and MSNBC news vans.]

"Since Scott Summers, a mutant and former member of the 'superhero' group known as the X-Men, declared his candidacy for New York governor, it seems like no one in New York can talk about anything else.

"Summers is reportedly campaigning on his own dollar, most of which is inherited from the late Professor Charles Xavier, headmaster of a private college in the suburbs as well as noted pro-mutant rights activist. He has also received a fairly massive donation from the notoriously pro-mutant Worthington Foundation; as that charity is run by Warren Worthington the Third, also known as the X-Man Archangel, it doesn't seem likely that this is an attempt to gain political favors. Lobbyists who have attempted to visit the candidate in his home in Westchester have been turned away at the door without the opportunity to be heard. His platform includes such moderate stances as hate crimes legislation, term limits, and campaign finance reform, but, naturally, Summers' political platform centers around mutant rights legislation and reform; specifically, if he is elected, he promises to spearhead a political effort to demilitarize, if not abolish, the Mutant Rights Registration Act.

"When interviewed outside his home earlier today, Summers had this to say:"

[Cut away to a scene of the candidate, standing outside an old mansion. The mansion itself has seen better days, but it's still obviously the house of a rich man. Summers himself is wearing his ever-present red-tinted wraparound sunglasses, a flannel workshirt, and jeans; unlike Lamar Alexander, however, Summers has the build and the lack of pretense to pull a look like this off. He is leaning quite heavily on his walking stick. He is accompanied by his bodyguard, an unidentified woman in her early twenties.]

"I do not want to be known as the 'mutant candidate'. That would undermine the entire point of my candidacy; namely, that all men and women in the United States of America have a right to be treated equally under the law, regardless of genetic, sexual, or religious orientation.

"Thank you. That's all I have to say."

[Summers withdraws into the mansion very quickly, his shadow flickering madly in the light cast by a couple of dozen flashbulbs going off at once. The press corps tries to surge forward to ask him a few questions, but his bodyguard--who is already rumored to be a mutant herself--stops this by grabbing the reporters in the front and simply not allowing them to take another step forward.]

Flashback: September 17th, 1998

Bethany, Missouri

In 1979, two hundred college students were each paid a hundred dollars. Each of them was then given a pill and some water to wash it down with, and were then asked to hang out at their campus' medical center for the next seven hours so the side effects of the drug could be measured. The medical center had a TV, some new magazines, and some board games, so the students weren't *too* bored. Besides, for a hundred bucks, most of them would've sat in an empty room for those seven hours.

The drug was found to have a mild hallucinogenic side-effect, which ruined an otherwise promising pain-killer; in a world with Timothy Leary scaring the living bejesus out of worried parents, it seemed actively suicidal to release something like that as a headache pill. The drug was discontinued, the students were paid, and life went on.

Roughly 90% of those students went on to get married, and most of those students had children. Now, as the lion's share of those children reached puberty, they were encountering problems. One of those was that the children were, down to the last boy and girl, low-level mutants, with powers that affected the brain's ability to perceive sensory input.

The other was that Mr. Sinister took offense at their existence. The children were kidnapped within days of their powers manifesting, by a small group of unidentified assailants. Several police officers and, in two cases, the children's parents, were injured or killed in the process of the abductions. The modus operandi of the attacks fit the pattern of the Marauders.

It took Henry McCoy about fifteen minutes and the X-Mansion's almost ridiculously powerful computer system (Shi'ar technology, of course; it makes a Cray mainframe look like an Apple IIe with an axe sticking out of it) to discover the medical experiment, another five minutes to find that a "Dr. Essex" had been a consulting physician at the experiment, and a final five to discover the pattern in which the children were being attacked. If the pattern continued, the Beast deducted, the next attack would be in a rural town in Missouri, north of Kansas City.

The X-Men flew to Bethany minutes later. Gambit was not with them, because Rogue was not with him. He had done the gentlemanly thing, and bowed out a week before, heading back to Lousiana.

As it turned out, it would've been helpful to have had him along.

Now, Cyclops carefully picked his way through a pile of rubble, trying to listen in every direction at once. About fifteen minutes ago, the wreckage had been a modest two-story house, right down to the tire swing in back. Fourteen minutes ago, three X-Men had been in it, and Arclight had taken offense to that. The house had had a gas stove, and only Rogue's sixth sense had gotten them and the family out in time.

"Give it up, Scalphunter!" Cyclops called out. "Your 'friends' are dead or in custody! This one's over! Don't make me come after you!"

He never saw the shot coming.

Thankfully for him, Wolverine, moving towards the two of them like a shadow, did.

A shoulder tackle hurts. An Adamantium shoulder tackle hurts like hell. Cyclops' right shoulder dislocated with a loud "pop" like a champagne cork; at the same time, his right leg exploded into a cloud of red mist. A moment ago, it would've been his chest cavity. Scalphunter reflexively fired off the rest of his clip in their general direction, but Cyclops was already falling and Wolverine was only annoyed.

By the time he was moving backward and reloading, he had already been spotted. Iceman emerged from over the trees a moment later and hit him with everything he had. Winter came early to Bethany that year.

"Omigod," Iceman said, sliding down next to Cyclops. "Is he..."

"He's dyin', Drake. His femoral artery is spread across the flamin' grass," Wolverine growled. "He needs a hospital, if we can find one in this podunk town. Who's left that can fly?"

"Warren's okay, I think. Rogue's still pretty wobbly, and Storm's not in any shape to--"

"Worthington will do fine! Get a compress on this, and I'll go get 'im!" Wolverine broke into a dead run, sniffing the air for Archangel's scent, as Iceman gently applied pressure and ice to Cyclops' leg.

"We'll take care of you, Scott!" Iceman yelled into his face. "Don't pass out! C'mon, man! C'MON!"

July 6th, 1999

Westchester, New York

Scott shook his head as he came back into Xavier's--his mansion. Flashbulbs made him think of Scalphunter's muzzle flashes. There was a moment there, frozen in the back of his skull, where he staggered to a sitting position and looked down at his leg, almost invisible underneath a thick rime of Bobby's ice. There was not a lot of his leg left.

He had thought, *What will I do now?* and come back to himself in a hospital bed.

He snorted. There would be time to think about it later--not that he hadn't done enough thinking about it already. He had a campaign to run.

He limped into what had once been the X-Men's ready room, knocking over an elaborate pyramid built entirely of soda cans. Lockheed, who had been lying peacefully on top of them, glared at him as he flew to safety.

The clatter didn't even make Bobby Drake twitch. He was fast asleep, hunched over in a pile of receipts and legal documents, his sleeves rolled up and his glasses hanging off of his hand. When he'd volunteered to get Warren and Scott's assets in order for the campaign, Bobby hadn't known what he was getting into. It showed.

Kitty Pryde looked up from the monitor screen as the soda cans hit the floor. She was wearing a leotard, jeans, and a backwards baseball cap with the FBI's logo on it. As she pulled her glasses down, she popped her gum. "Sorry 'bout that, Scott."

"You realize, of course, you'll be cleaning this up."

"You don't respect the fact that I'm a computer goddess, do you?"

"Kitty..."

She sighed. "All right."

Scott came over and looked at the screen. "Is that the webpage you're setting up for my campaign?"

"This? Oh, no. That's Amazon. There's a new Cat's Laughing album out." Kitty opened a new window as Lockheed crawled into her lap. "*This* is your campaign's homepage. Go ahead and poke around; it's just about done."

"Already?"

"I'm damn good."

"I guess so." Scott reached over Kitty's shoulder and scrolled down the page. There was a picture of him in a good suit, trying to smile without looking phony without a hell of a lot of success, over a collection of links to his history, background, qualifications, policies, and various links to sites dealing with mutant rights, as well as a small banner stating the page had been created by Shadowcat Designs, at http://www.shadowcat.net. Underneath the links, a small line of text stated that Scott was the--

"Kitty, how long has this page been up?"

"About an hour. Why?"

"According to this counter of yours, my campaign homepage has received a quarter of a million visitors."

"What's the problem?" Kitty scratched Lockheed under the chin. He was appropriately grateful.

"People shouldn't even know this page is here yet, Kitty."

"I called the Daily Bugle last night and gave 'em the URL. Also, I went around and registered it with a few search engines..." She turned away from Scott and started fussing with a notebook, but Scott could still see her face.

"Why are you blushing?"

Hesitantly. "...with the keywords 'free porn'."

Scott stared at her, then began to laugh.

July 6th, 1999

Moscow, Russia

The nation needed statesmen. Leaders. Businessmen. The former Soviet Union was poor, and faced threats from every side and direction. They had emerged from Communism and the Cold War into a new world, where the rules were very different, and no one was yet sure where Russia fit in.

But the nation also needed poets and artists, to shape the way that the nation would *feel*, going into a new age. It needed new voices, to tell them where to find beauty again, and in that beauty, the hope to keep going.

A lot of people said that Piotr Rasputin was one of those voices. He didn't think so, of course. He was somewhat notorious for his modesty.

But just the same, when Rasputin put on an art show, art critics and collectors from across the world showed up. His admirers included Tony Stark and a number of movie stars, as well as a small army of businessmen and wealthy heirs, to buy, look, or simply donate money to his various charities. A lot of farmers and field workers had new equipment this year that was bought with Rasputin's dollars, which meant a better harvest, which led to shorter lines. He was a very popular man.

It was rumored widely that Rasputin had once been an American super hero. This rumor was usually followed hard upon by another, that the KGB had forbidden Rasputin to return to the Soviet Union and help his people, otherwise he'd have fought in Afghanistan or with the Soviet Super-Soldiers. Rasputin said nothing, as he often did, and the rumor-mongers continued to talk.

The night of the 6th, Piotr himself, who had taken his sister Illyana as his "date" for the most recent of his shows, was sitting by himself in a corner of the hall he had rented. His drawings covered every available surface, from the simplest line drawings to the most delicate workings of light and shadow. One drawing depicted an apple on a plate, and was little more than a sketch; another, a full-body depiction of a nude woman embracing an equally nude man, took up about two hundred square feet and had taken him three months to complete.

Piotr had a sketchbook in one hand and a pencil in the other. As his patrons walked by, they were incorporated into the sketch on the sheet, which was beginning to be crowded with blurring figures. He barely noticed Illyana walking up behind him, and she watched him draw for a solid fifteen minutes before clearing her throat.

"Hey, big brother. I don't mean to interrupt you, but people are starting to talk." She spoke English, with an American accent, to keep their conversation as private as possible.

"Let them, little snowflake. I never know what they want me to say." Piotr chewed on his eraser.

"Piotr, you could turn to steel and tear this building down if you tripped. Why are you scared of a bunch of artsy types?"

"It is an entirely different kind of fear, Illyana. I am not a sophisticate. They are. I feel clumsy next to them." He looked up, saw a supermodel eying him like a side of beef, and looked down just as quickly. "My powers cannot help me here."

Illyana blew her bangs up in irritation. "Whatever you say, Piotr. By the way, have you read the papers lately?"

"The show has occupied all of my attention. Why?"

She produced a copy of Pravda. "Scott made the news, even here."

Piotr looked up so suddenly that he dropped his sketch pad. "Scott Summers?"

"Who else? Read it."

He snatched it from her hands and read as quickly as he could. "I think that I must go to America, little snowflake."

"Piotr, your agent will throw a fit. You've got another show in two weeks."

"Then I shall not tell my agent. May I borrow a stepping disk when this show is over?"

"I *suppose*."

Piotr smiled. "Thank you, little snowflake."

"Maybe Kitty will be there, hmmm?"

Piotr winced. "Perhaps I shall be lucky and Magneto will attack."

"You just don't get that lucky, bro."

July 6th, 1999

Westchester, New York

"Rogue."

"Magnus."

"Sensors picked ya up. I decided to give 'em the night off."

"Thank you. I am, as usual, not here to fight."

"Good thing. What are you here for?"

"To visit Charles' grave." He landed gently on the grass in front of the gravestone. "I would speak to Scott, if I thought that I could speak to him on pleasant, equal terms."

"Ya tried to kill him about six million times, Magnus. That's not something that will foster trust."

"'Foster trust'?"

"Ah may be a bayou rat by birth, but Ah lived with Hank McCoy for a couple years. You're dodgin' the question."

"I know that Scott has every reason to distrust me, but... what does he hope to accomplish with this, Rogue?"

"He wants to change things. We couldn't do it by fightin', but Ororo, and Piotr, Betsy, Warren, Bobby... hell, even me... we've all done more good as just folks than we ever did by bein' superheroes, Magnus. Scott missed out on a lot of that, with physical therapy and the breakup with Jean, and he thinks he can make a difference."

"They will try to kill him."

"They've *always* tried to kill him."

"That is true." He placed a rose down in front of the gravestone. Only the reflection of moonlight off its petals gave it away; the rose was carved from stainless steel. "I shall be watching to see how this plays out, Rogue."

"So will I."

He hesitated. "Do you ever..."

"...think about you and me? All the time. All the time. But I think about Remy and me, too, and that brings me up short. Ah won't be forced to choose between you, Magnus. It'd wind up like a Greek tragedy, and Ah've had too much tragedy in my life already."

He nodded. "As you wish, Rogue."

"I do."

He nodded, not without pain, if anything he did was without pain, and rose into the night sky.

Rogue watched Magneto go, and slowly flew back to the mansion. She wasn't sure whether she was crying or not.

July 7th, 1999

Westchester, New York

Logan and Remy were already in the old briefing room when Betsy and Kurt got there.

Betsy dressed like the stereotype of her new profession, which never failed to get Bobby singing the theme song to "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" whenever she walked by. The long trenchcoat's hem settled at her ankles, and the matching fedora hid most of her face.

"How do you get detective work done in that outfit, chere?" Remy asked her as she walked in. "You look like you trying to hide something."

"I don't need to do detective work. I read people's minds." She removed the hat and placed it on the table. "My clients don't need to know that, and the outfit gives them what they usually expect."

Logan nodded. "Good to see ya, Betts."

"And you, Log--"

BAMF!

"Mein herren!" Kurt appeared in the middle of the table, wearing his costume. Of all the old X-Men, he was the only one who was still a superhero. He enjoyed it more than most, but Britain was a far better place to be a superhero than America. "It's good to see you!"

"Beer?" Logan asked.

Kurt sighed. "In the cab."

"How *much* beer, elf?"

"All seventy-three cases, Logan."

"That's what I like to hear."

Remy and Betsy looked at the two of them strangely.

"The elf owes me beer, and the elf was just in Germany, so the elf brought me real beer." Logan's smile was as beautific as it got.

"You wouldn't be smiling if you knew how much it cost to cart this through customs," Kurt grumbled.

"Business, Logan?" Betsy prompted.

"Right. We're security, people. I figure, between the four of us, we can probably take out anything an' anyone who wants to put a bullet in Scotty, and we all know how to work. Betts, you stick close to him an' keep us psi-linked. Kurt, you an' the Cajun stay out of sight and keep yer eyes open. I'll be around. Any questions?"

"Seems easy enough, mon ami," Remy said. "Are we gettin' paid?"

"Same deal as when you were an X-Man, bub. Scotty buys everything."

"Except the beer," Kurt grumbled.

"That's right," Logan said. He was still grinning. "Now, let's go up there, and crack into some of that. I'll even let you have some, elf."

"Oh, danke."

July 6th, 1999

Long Island, New York

"...you'd better have the stuff, pal."

"Mr. Faraday, it is not our business to steal or make false promises. When you buy weapons from HYDRA, satisfaction is guaranteed."

The man Faraday was meeting out in the middle of the beach was carefully and cosmetically nondescript. He needn't have bothered. His hardware attracted all the attention, leaving none for him.

The Friends of Humanity had deep pockets. They would have been outraged that a man acting under their authority was reaching into those pockets to buy illegal weaponry from a terrorist organization, but Faraday was a realist. These were the X-Men. The conventional definition of "best" was simply not good enough.

"Now, sir, I believe it will be best if you leave your payment on that rock there, and I shall retrieve it. Then, upon my return to my boat, you may come forward to obtain your new items."

Faraday nodded. "No problem." He walked forward and tossed the grocery bag filled with used, non-sequential hundred-dollar bills onto the rock. As he walked back, the man deposited a pair of heavy suitcases next to the rock, picked up the bag, and returned to his boat. Without another word, the man left, leaving a trail of churning water behind him as he skimmed into the ocean.

Faraday picked up a suitcase in either hand, and walked back towards his car. He had an assassination to plan.

July 6th, 1999

Washington, D.C.

"Sebastian, please come in. And Dr. Gyrich."

"Robert."

"Senator Kelly."

Kelly made sure both Gyrich and Shaw had a drink before sitting down himself. "What brings you here at this time of night?"

"I wished to tell you of a recent development in my laboratories, Robert, and Mr. Gyrich wanted to be here when I told you about it. I'm sure you've heard of Summers, in New York."

Kelly's mouth thinned. "I've heard of it, and him. I'm sure the voters will disabuse him of that notion."

"Perhaps they will, perhaps they won't." Shaw leaned forward. "Do you remember the conversation we had the night of Sharon's... murder?"

"Yes... your special project." Kelly hesitated a moment. Sharon had been his wife, before she was killed in a battle between a group of mutants and a giant robot. She had pleaded with him not to hold them responsible, but he hadn't listened. The Nimrod Project operated under his sponsorship. "Is it finished?"

"We've recently produced a prototype model, yes." Shaw lit up a cigar. "Mr. Gyrich?"

"The Nimrod model is a quantum improvement over the previous generation of Sentinels. It's almost fully sentient, and is programmed with a miniaturization technology akin to that of Dr. Henry Pym's. It is 'aware' of every molecule of its being at all times, and can repair them instantly upon their being damaged, as well as use this capacity to disguise itself. It also comes equipped with a full arsenal of energy and projectile weapons."

"I'm not sure I understand where you're heading with this, gentlemen," Kelly said.

"Senator Kelly, it is the belief of my department that the American people need not deal with a nonhuman political candidate in these scandal-ridden times. While Summers is, nominally, an American citizen, we do not believe it is a good idea for this nation for him to be allowed to reach the campaign trail."

"You're talking about assassination, Mr. Gyrich."

"I am talking about removing an obstacle to the safety of this nation, Senator Kelly. While I do not support extra-Constitutional measures, Summers, in his identity as 'Cyclops', was and is a suspect in any number of crimes throughout the world, including treason, murder, unbelievable amounts of property damage thought to total well over ten billion dollars, theft, arson, and a host of lesser charges as long as my arm. He was issued a pardon in '88 when he was in X-Factor, but he's racked up a fairly impressive tab since then.

"I am proposing that the Nimrod unit's maiden mission be apprehending Summers and bringing him to justice on these charges. If he is arrested, that will end his candidacy, as well as send a clear message to other 'genetically advantaged' individuals that they should, perhaps, keep their heads down for a few more years. That will give us time to manufacture more Nimrod units, should they prove necessary. I don't want to face the possibility of the mutants rioting a la Los Angeles without a clear method in place to combat them."

Kelly nodded. He was suspicious--Gyrich had a reputation--but there was a picture on the table next to him, of Sharon, taken a month before her death. She was smiling happily, his grandmother's ring on her hand. That ring was still on her hand. He made a decision. "I... suppose that seems fair. Can you have the paperwork on my desk tomorrow morning?"

"Easily, sir."

Gyrich stood and shook his hand. Shaw watched the two of them reach their decision, and smiled to himself, thinking private thoughts.

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