The Ultimate X-Men (9 page)

The lady who had finally caught my attention was older—forty or so, it was difficult to tell. She wore a white men’s oxford shirt over a black leotard. She didn’t wear any makeup and kept her dark hair, streaked with gray, pulled back in a ponytail. The tray under her arm tipped me off that she worked there. The one raised eyebrow told me that she regarded me with some amusement. I tell you, that’s the blessing and curse of being a mutant: I have this incredible power inside me, but on the outside, I still look like a gangly farmboy. To this lady I must have looked like I’d wandered in off the street, which, well, I had.

“What’s the Odyssey, Homer? You here for cheer or you just come to do the pet shop window thing?”

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What language was she speaking? “Um ... I, uh . . . is there a phone here?”

She eyed me coolly. “Smoke signals for paying Indians only. Buy a cup or take your dime elsewhere.”

I sighed. “Okay. Fine. One cup of Earl Grey, please.” She nodded. “Phone’s in the back next to the Che Guevara collage.”

I said thanks and made my way to the back of the cafe. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, incense smoke, and a couple other kinds of smoke I wasn’t sure I recognized. I caught snatches of conversation where words like words
classism, paradigm, Mugwump,
and
yage
stood out to my virgin ears. Also a name that I didn’t expect to hear. Mine. “Sam.”

I turned to see him sitting at a dark table in the far corner. Truth to tell, he was the last person I’d expected to see in a place like this (aside from me, of course). He had been in the first class at the Xavier Institute, back before my time. And while I’m pretty much the last X-Man to date, he’s the first, the best. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what he was doing sipping coffee in the back of a beatnik coffee shop.

He waved me over. I joined him. Even his clothes, while surprisingly stylish, seemed out of date. He wore a suit nearly the color of the wet pavement outside, with a thin tie, and while I hate to say it, he looked like a character out of those
Man from U.N.C.L.E.
episodes my friend Roberto likes so much. Mind you, it fit right in with the mood of the cafe. But it seemed odd not to see him in his traditional blue-and-yellow battle-duds, or in the sweatshirts and jeans that he wears when he’s fixing the planes or the machinery

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in the Danger Room. Come to think of it, this was the only time I could remember seeing him not working. A stray beam of light glinted off of his red sunglasses as he took a sip from his coffee cup.

As I walked to him, the cafe seemed to brighten up a little, as a strange place only can when you spot a friendly face. Although
friendly
generally isn’t the first word I’d use to describe Cyclops. I found him a little intimidating. ’Course, if I had the power to kill people just by lookin’ at them the wrong way, I don’t suppose I’d want to make too many friends either. In many ways, the X-Men’ve never had as capable a leader as him. But friendly? Heck, he’s always been nice enough to me; just distant is all.

I shook his hand, always respectful of his authority as leader of the X-Men.

“Scott. What’re you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I suppose. Care to sit down?”

My eyes flicked to the phone. Scott sat within spittin’ distance of it. “Um, in just a minute. I have to make a phone call.”

Well, there was no way around it, sure enough. I didn’t want Scott to know about my momentary lapse in judgment. But I couldn’t leave that kid up on the roof to hurt himself or cause who knows what kind of trouble. Facing away from Scott, I placed the call to the police, trying to keep my voice as low as possible without sounding too suspicious.

So much for that. I pretended to cough over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of him, staring at me intently.
Busted!
I thought to myself. Not for nothing has he been the field leader of the X-Men since I was in grade school. He sussed the situation out pretty quickly. He had his lips

pursed and his arms folded, staring at my cup of Earl Grey across the table from him as I approached.

He didn’t apologize for eavesdropping. He didn’t need to. “You want to tell me how you know about this trespasser on the roof?” He asked, catching my gaze and (I think) looking me straight in the eye.

Briefly, and somewhat ashamedly, I told him what had happened with the pickpocket. Cyclops isn’t one to show emotion, but I did notice the corners of his eyes crease like most people’s do when they go into a deep frown. Boy, just seeing that made me feel lower than a Morlock in a cistern.

My head sank between my shoulders as I waited for a reprimand from my team leader. I knew exactly what Cyclops was going to tell me: that we should only use our powers in dire situations, that random displays of them only elicit fear in the general populace, that if the wrong person took a picture of me or even saw me flying that boy to the roof, it could seriously compromise my privacy and that of the X-Men as well. In my mind I pictured Scott and Professor Xavier calling me into the Professor’s office and telling me that I just wasn’t working out with the X-Men, that I’d made too many mistakes and would have to go back to X-Force. I braced myself, practically feeling my shoulders touch the bottoms of these big ears of mine. Scott aimed an accusing finger at me and opened his mouth to give me the lecture I deserved. But then he took a good look at me (at least I think he did; it’s tough to tell behind those red sunglasses of his), lowered his hand, and let out a long, low breath.

What came from him didn’t sound like a scolding. It came across as softer, more patient. “What you did wasn’t

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too smart, Sam. Someone could have seen you. I thought you knew better than that.”

“I know, sir. But I just haven’t been myself today. My brother’s leaving the family and my girlfriend hates me and I’m not measuring up and . .

Well, I try not to get to emotional in front of a senior X-Man. Shucks, I’d only just been promoted to the big team recently, and I still had to prove myself. But I couldn’t help it. It all came pouring out: my brother, my screwups in the Danger Room, my argument with Meltdown. I just couldn’t help but tell my problems to a familiar face. Scott listened to every word, brow slighdy furrowed about those ruby specs, his chin resting in the crook between thumb and forefinger, aiming the whole of his concentration at my tortured monologue.

I talked and talked until I ran out of things to say. Then I looked up at Cyclops, and caught him actually smiling. Or was it a smirk? It’s difficult to tell with Cyclops. He doesn’t smile much.

“Sounds like a pretty bad day.” His voice was even and calm.

“Yes, sir. It sure is.” I said, unsure. Here I’d poured out my heart to the man—the leader of my team—and he responded by smiling? I wasn’t rightly sure whether or not he was mocking me. And like I said, he wears those ruby quartz sunglasses all the time, so it’s almost impossible to read his face. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He raised his hand to signal the waitress. “Zelda! Another espresso, please, and refill my friend’s tea. And some
biscotti.
’ ’

Zelda smiled and nodded across the restaurant to him.

“You got it, Slim,” she called back as she stepped behind the brass espresso machine and began to pull levers.

Neither of us said a word as we waited. Scott folded his arms again and stared straight ahead at me. I noticed that he’d clenched his jaw and hadn’t said a word for what seemed like a full two minutes. The whole effect reminded me of the sort of expression one makes when trying to plot a course on an unfamiliar road map.

I didn’t say anything either—heck, I didn’t have nothing left to say. I looked at Scott’s glasses and thought of the power behind them, how his optic beams could flare out and tear the head from my shoulders before I could blink. It’s not easy living with the X-Men. As many times as they might save your life or you theirs, there’s always a possibility in the back of your mind that Wolverine might snap, or that you might accidentally touch Rogue and lose your identity. I’ve been with ’em in one capacity or another for some years now and I still find that hard to shake.

Zelda came over with a tiny coffee cup and a larger tea mug, each with an Italian biscuit placed in the saucer. “
Uno espresso a-go-go, bello
—with nutmeg and cinnamon, just how you like it. And some more Earl Grey.” I reached for my wallet. Without looking at me, Zelda said, “Keep it in the holster, cowboy—if you’re a friend of Slim’s, the bevvies’re on the
casa.
Enjoy.”

Then she fixed Scott with a mocking smirk. “And as for you, Slim, how’s it I hardly see your pan these days? All this time and you’re too good for the A-Go-Go?”

Scott’s manner, while unsmiling, was easygoing. “Come on, Zelda. You know it’s not like that. It’s just that after the last time, we wanted to spare you the ruckus.”

THE UlIIIUTE X-HEH

Zelda’s eyes turned upward. “Don’t remind me! The last time you people showed up, Drake brought some walking, talking Mighty Joe Young-looking thing in here—and I don’t mean Topo Gigio,
shatz.
He nearly caused a riot in here with that animal.”

I realized that Zelda was talking about the Beast. I don’t know how, but I could tell Scott was holding back a grin. “Now, Zelda, no harm done. Didn’t Bobby promise not to bring pets in anymore?”

“Yeah, and I haven’t seen his carcass since. What’s he doin’, starting the next ice age early?”

“Something like that. I’ll let him know he should come by soon.”

“You do that, Slim. Tell him all is forgiven. Don’t think I don’t remember how he used to be warm for this form back in the days.” Zelda patted her hip, winked at me and sauntered back to the counter, tray nestled under her arm.

She knew Iceman and—in a way—Hank too? Had they come here before—and often? Why hadn’t I ever heard about it? I couldn’t wait to hear the story. But even above that, one nagging, burning, tantalizing question tugged at my curiosity above all others.

I couldn’t bear not asking. I cleared my throat, turned to him, and, with as much tact as I could muster, I asked, “Slim?”

“Old nickname. I know Zelda from way back.”

Way back? My mind instantly rang with question upon question. How in the heck does the stoic leader of the X-Men know this strange beatnik woman? It made me want to imagine Scott before the X-Men. I couldn’t.

Scott could tell. He leaned toward me and said, “I take

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the train in to New York fairly often, when I have time. Sometimes I come with Jean, sometimes I go alone. The mansion’s a great piece of land, but it’s not the best place to take your mind off of your problems.” I nodded my head in agreement and took a couple of sips of my tea. I realize that anyone who actually knows Cyclops would have trouble believing that he’s anything but businesslike, stoic, and, well, cold. But I swear to you, sitting in that coffeehouse, sipping from that tiny cup, he was downright gregarious. For him, anyway.

Scott looked around the cafe and continued on. “This cafe has a special place in X-Men history. Bobby and Hank discovered it years ago, when we were just starting out at the school. After a while, we all started coming here. As important as our training was, we tended to lose track of the real world. Coming here, we could let off steam—as people—and feel like we had a part in the real world too.

It wasn’t like anyplace we’d ever seen before. It was so free and accepting.

“You should have seen it then, Sam. Wall hangings and Picasso prints, the whole place filled with smoke and wild performances. On any given day you could find poets, dancers, musicians . . . the place looked like, well, much like it does today. The credit goes to Zelda for bringing back the look of the place. She was just a waitress at the time. Now she owns it.

“Eventually, the four of us graduated, and the new team of X-Men came in, and the place was bought by new owners and turned into a diner. Then, when Jean . . . came back and we started X-Factor, we returned to the old spot to find. _ that it had become a sushi bar, of all things. A year ago,

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that place went out of business. God bless her, Zelda got some money together, bought the place herself, and restored it to its former glory. Jean and I’ve both been coming back ever since. As you heard, Bobby and Hank haven’t been here in a while.”

That was the most I had ever heard Scott say at one time—to anyone. I was flabbergasted. I think I was a bit too obvious about it, as usual, because Scott looked a little taken aback, and a little embarrassed, probably for having gone on like he did. He cut himself off with a bite of his
biscotti,
and gave me that road-map look again.

“But let’s see what we can do about your problems. The first one’s easy: Fastball Special.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The next time an opponent tries that on you, use your shoulders to sort of sidestep it in the air. ’ ’ He made a swinging motion with his shoulders to illustrate. “Quickly grab your opponent and ride his momentum from behind. Then he’s yours to drop or do with what you will.”

Of course. “Gee, Scott, you make it sound so simple.” “No. You and I both know it takes hard work. I also know that you’re no slouch. Schedule extra Danger Room time and practice. You’ll get it. Let me know if you need help and I’ll have Warren work with you.”

Now his voice started to fill me with confidence. This was the Cyclops I knew. He was truly the best an X-Man could be. For a moment, I couldn’t believe I was sitting in Greenwich Village drinking with him.

He chewed and swallowed another bite of
biscotti.
“Second of all, forget about making your brother change his

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decision. If my experience is any indication, you have no hope of telling your brother what to do.”

I’m not one to argue with someone like Scott, but what he said just didn’t seem right. “He’s making an absolutely wrong decision! This—this Nashville thing—it’s idiotic! As the eldest Guthrie male, it’s my responsibility to talk him out of it. And I’ll tell you, Scott, I’m not the only member of this family who—”