X-Men: Striking the Balance

Disclaimer: Characters portrayed in the following are not mine and I did not create them.

*

Striking the Balance:

(No Country For Old Men):

The past:

We were somewhere around Tindouf, on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I was holed up in one of the Sahrawi tents overnight, suffering from burns and the delirium was upon me. I think it was a chemical explosion; our retreat from the Atlas Mountains a narrow escape and I myself the only casualty -- unexploded ordinance wedged in the Ziz riverbank going off with a bad fall.

While we were only able to cross over the border into Trans-Algeria so far, it was enough to evade the New Canaanite landspeeders until our fuel depleted. It was the season of nuclear sandstorms and the whole of the Sahara was under a blanket rendering sensor-radar useless. Tetherblood was in control, leading us further from the Moroccan border and into the blindness of the wastes. It was harsh and unrelenting, the winds whipping my tagelmoust and delivering it into the clutches of the hurricane. We later emerged from the dunes scored and bloodshot, feet run red and ragged. The chase was over but I was feverish and unable to vomit, our water having run out a day before.

Finding seclusion against boulders amongst the flats they kept me warm and hunkered down for the night. There were no settlements and we were going to die from exposure if not dehydration. I told them I was proud of them and that I would lead them into the River again if I had to. The dam was not only plunging Neo Sijilmasa into drought, but was a localised source of power for the North African Canaanite outposts. The whole of Morocco was in their chokehold.

A chill soon developed and by dawn we had been drowned in fresh sandfall.

Tetherblood sent out a flare. It was better to get captured than die. But the Kel Tamasheq found us; pastoralist Sahrawi wandering the desert from oasis to oasis. They took us in, bathed my skin and filled the wound with dried herbs and maggots. I slipped in and out of consciousness for three days, Boak never leaving my side. I had dreams of chaos and spires, rocky outcrops bursting like the Icelandic geysers and the spray coating me head to toe. I awoke periodically, the glare of the sun permeating a new tagelmoust hood. The earth shook, but I realised I was being carried, bound. My voice called out, I had no sense of direction, I was scared.

'Rest easy, Nate,' Tetherblood said 'we're on our way out of here.'

The movement was jerky, my weight treated with care. A rocky surface, the wastes adjacent to the dunes. I tried to reach out with my telepathy, my performance clumsy at best in those days. Thoughts I couldn't interpret were intercepted. Closeness, unity. Formation. Friendship. I didn't want to relax but the fever came in fits. The scent of cloves and oil, the smell of lighted embers and the wisps of fire and smoke dancing to the sky.

I slipped into dreams once more.

The fever broke a day later; I stepped out of the tent into a small settlement. The rush of children spun me round and I saw the voices rioting at a fresh delivery of water. A lone dog, probably stolen from its mother months ago yipped by their feet, the men manoeuvring the nozzle from the back of a rusted landspeeder into cloudy jugs and bowls. They shouted excitedly, jostling with one another and letting a pool develop from spray. I could see it glistening in the sun, like a mainline pipe bursting and for one day all the world gathering at that one outlet to bask in the glory of Allah's fortune.

Tetherblood greeted me, one of the English-speaking Sahwari by his side.

'This is al-Baqeq, an elder in the tribe. He's told us of the Iron ore expressway still operating in the Sahara. The trains come through every week delivering mined ore and supplies to the Dakar coast.'

'Does it stop here?' I asked.

'No. No stop at Tindouf.' The elder said.

'They're a camel-herding tribe, Nate. We maybe out one landspeeder and our air transport trashed but if we could catch that train on camelback we could shoot through the borders and past the Sahara to the coastal ports.'

'What about resistance,' I asked 'New Canaanite outposts?'

'Area controlled by Kel Tamasheq.' The man was smoking an old pipe. 'No fighting in Senegal.'

'Fine.' Then, to Tetherblood 'what's the window on this? I'm still not a hundred percent.'

'It passes through today, Nate. We can make it in five hours! The best thing is we've got lots of opportunity. The train is over two kilometres long.'

I stared at the kids slipping in the mud, the dog wild.

Upon a stony hill we stood, the sun high in the afternoon sky and the winds abated for the moment. Camels spat and scuffed, several members of the tribe present.

They spoke in Berber to one another, smoking and clutching at their old bullet-rifles. The borders were zones of conflict amongst the tribes, years ago the Polisario taking control before Apocalypse bombed Niger and Mali and obliterated an insignificant populous.

My mouth was sandy and dry, head dull and drowsy still.

In the distance, surfacing through mirage and vapour a worm of steel and wheel ploughed its predestined trail. We heard the grind of axles. The roar of its horn. We mounted and I lowered my telescope. 'Are you ready?' I asked.

The three of them nodded. The train was already through the membrane of mirage and speeding toward our interception point: the tracks a hundred and fifty meters directly ahead. Tetherblood thanked the Sahwari and I led the charge, the camel jerky but light-footed. Close to the chain of open-topped carriages and the screech of rails we galloped parallel, the worm at least twice as fast as us. I hadn't bargained on its locomotive inertia being so powerful. The winds picked up and flew down lee side, scattering loose gear and tossing our headscarves like leaves. Loose surface pebbles and desiccated roots made the camels falter and I heard Tetherblood shout above the roar: 'Nate we've got to ride faster! There's no way we'll get onboard otherwise!'

And I wondered if the beasts had it left in them. We were added weight, racing against the chain looking for handholds. I heard a scream, and watched as Boak's mount buckled under the strain. It gave a horrible weak cry and he was knocked clean off. I didn't know whether we could keep going. What if the Sahwari had turned off leaving the camels and we would be stuck out in the desert again, abandoned to the winds of fate?

I couldn't leave Boak. He was a relic from my guardian's time. He could take care of himself, off-line and hibernate until we found him again. Quickly, the camel dodged a boulder and I saw the three of us swerve in a line, Dawnsilk's camel with its mouth slack, saliva trails and beating manic animal eyes. The futility of it all.

'Nate! Boak's got a hold back there, but we'll all be stranded if we don't get on now!'

Somehow the beast marshalled its strength and propelled me toward the flashing corrugated steel of the nearest carriage. A ladder found a way near me and I grabbed hold, the camel lagging and then free of my weight, the transfer breathless and all the blood rushing in my ears as I gazed at the others trying the same. Boak ran back to my point, his arms long enough to have saved him earlier and to help me up into the basin of the open-top. The wind buffeted me for a second before I set myself into the grain of the clumpy ore and lifted Dawnsilk up off her ladder. Tetherblood, still galloping but losing much ground was near but not near enough. I looked beyond at the endless stream of coaches, and saw in the distance atop that stony hill the muzzle flashes of celebration.

'Nate! Gimme a hand here!'

Forget them that part is over, I launched myself over the space between carriages and into the pit of the next one, empty at the bow and a slope of fine dust at the aft. A thick, loud bong! rang out rattling the inside of my brain. I shook it off, Tetherblood was going to be out of range soon enough and his ride would tire in a matter of seconds.

'Come on Nate!' Dawnsilk screamed.

I ran up the dust, sinking feet slowing me down but I had to get to the top to rescue my friend. Each step drew energy out and I felt sick with muscle ache when I finally reached the pinnacle and met the ferocious crosswind head-on. Tetherblood was mere metres away, grabbing for a handhold. I threw myself to the edge of the steel carriage and offered him my arm.

He missed.

He missed again.

'Come on!' I yelled.

He grabbed hold!

I yanked, my back bending unnaturally and he tightened about the bionics, gripping with both until he slid his feet off the camel's back. The beast groaned and was swallowed into the distance. Tetherblood sat exhausted on the ridge of the coach, having to shield his eyes from the dust and sand in the wind. Over my shoulder, Dawnsilk was jumping up and down.

'Made it!' I said. He grinned, red in the face.

***

The present:

Warpath crept along the side of the carriage, his strong hands able to support himself at right angles whilst keeping low. The wind sheer at this velocity would have blown him off, but he kept stable by wearing nothing but his batwing chaps and a grappling hook. Above him the night sky sparkled with absent pollution, him hurtling through somewhere along the Arizona basin. He took in a mouthful, cheeks billowing and ducking in to manoeuvre backwards along the carriage wall and away from the porthole until the wind turned to fight him from above. He turned to look behind, making sure no-one but Meltdown was there, a short blonde head poking out the skylight for a second and giving him the okay. Nodding, he plunged the grappling hook into the rounded camber of the train carapace, needling a tiny hole into which his fingers could squeeze. The metal was jagged, he bore the scraping. If he got thrown off he was hitting the pebbles and boulders at over three hundred and seventy miles per hour. He had challenged these daredevil stunts in the Yavapai County Bradshaw Mountains, always John and he leaping from crevice to crevice and jamming pegs into holes no bigger than a hairs width whilst upside down. That was why he was the perfect man for the job; the train rattling away on its sleepers faster than the TGV v150.

Inside the runaway worm, Domino was held hostage, knife to the jugular. Her forehead was damp from beads of sweat. She was bound and gagged, thin plastic biting into her wrists like a torturous friendship bracelet.

The train lurched one way, then the other, the tracks avoiding a hillock and Warpath clung on, slowing his progressive crawl. He flipped onto his back and dragged a blade up from his chaps. In his teeth and waiting for the train to stop its pitch, he ran through the details.

1) He could creep down to the control car's portholes and pop through, knife in hand, and up-against-the-wall the driver, slitting Domino's bonds and letting her kick some back;

2) He could go on his haunches and tin-open the ceiling -- assuming the knife wouldn't dull -- then tear apart the carriage, simultaneously pant-wetting the driver and giving him an aerial view of any combatants, with a head start in anticipatory disarmament and kill technique;

3) Tabitha could make her way through the doors, blasting them off one at a time and then right on the point popping the last one and then the ceiling and he could drop through and they could double-team everything and everyone; suddenly time to make a decision every second wasted maybe lifeblood down the sinkhole and Warpath got onto his belly and launched himself off the top of the carriage hitting the full brunt of the wind and smashing through the driver's windscreen, knife in hand and snarling like an animal, he shook off the shards of imbedded glass and took in the situation. The attacker was in the front car. He did have Domino with him. She was bound and unconscious. Meltdown was not here. The whole cab was in emergency light, slightly harder to define quick movements of which many were being made for even though Warpath had superior reflexes, Cable, the attack, had faster ones because he was familiar with the inside of the cab and could reach across to Domino and yank her head back and with a flick of his wrist spill the blood packet across her chest indicating a casualty before Meltdown burst into the room and then Warpath and Cable were grappling Jujutsu the hostage dead and Meltdown, surprised, shot in the belly with the driver's paintball gun who stood behind her.

Warpath cursed and Cable suckerpunched him in the solar plexus putting the Apache on his rear.

'Stop the simulation!' He shouted, and the background, foreground, the very fibre of the air digitally dissolved into nothingness, desks, levers, light bulbs, doors and wreckage, glass shards and the little furry dice dispersing into ether and code.

'Stop the simulation.' He repeated, the two X-Forcers with their heads down.

'Why'd you hit me?' Warpath demanded.

'Because you're an idiot! You both screwed up and if that had been in the field your leader would have exsanguinated before you'd even got a damn bandage out.' He noted their dress. 'Either of you carrying any medical equipment?'

Meltdown and Warpath looked at each other.

'Disgraceful. Absolutely pathetic. You always remember that your opponent knows his territory better than you do. No matter how well thought out your tactics are, always count on the unexpected. Count on him playing his hand as heatedly as you play yours. He's got everything to lose, just like you, he's reactionary, just like you, he's lethal, just like you. The only thing he doesn't do is lose like you.'

'Give it a rest!' Warpath shouted. 'We weren't prepared for you to just go ahead and kill Domino!'

'Why not? I could have killed her ten minutes before you came in through the window and you wouldn't know about it until you saw it. The reasons behind the situation are second to the situation itself. You anticipate that.'

Domino spoke up. 'Can someone untie me?'

'Tabitha...' Cable massaged his temple with his metallic fingers.

Warpath got up to go, taking the knife in his hand angrily.

'James -- come here.'

Warpath stopped. 'What?'

'I saw you thinking it over on top of the carriage. Why didn't you think of what it was like inside the carriage? The reasons behind the situation are second to the situation itself. Your entry means that you are there, present, in the situation. Don't concern yourself with how you will get in there, because it only kicks off once you're in there. The situation takes priority. Use those instincts you have, those reflexes and make them count. You know what the right thing to do is, so do it. Make it second nature and act on it.'

'You make it sound easy Cable. It's not. Not when you're fighting someone like you.'

'Don't think of fighting me. Act like you're fighting yourself. If you were going to kill Dom, and I was attempting retrieval, you wouldn't think twice about cutting her throat. On that train, your entry was the catalyst. I reacted immediately. If it was the other way around, you would have reacted faster even than that. Treat the situation like you're the one reacting. I didn't think: "Hey, there's Domino, is she okay? -- where's Meltdown -- have I cut myself on the glass -- can I see properly? -- will I be fast enough? Oh, oh" No, I looked at the situation and acted on it. You do the same. You do the same or someone dies.'

Warpath scowled in Cable's face.

The two students left. Domino stood and threw off the bonds, examining her top. She stepped over to Cable and watched them go out of the danger room and into the mansion halls.

'...You think I'm being too hard on them.' He said. 'I don't care. They need it.'

'I'm thinking: why'd'you have to coat me with this stuff?' She said pawing the red stickiness. 'And why you punched James in the gut back there.'

'Because he can't afford to botch a job like that in the field. That's how friends get killed.'

'You can't win them all, Nate. You know that.'

'Yes you can win them all; it just takes a lot of skill and using your damn brain.'

He marched out and down the hall.

'Tell that to Grizzly and Dawnsilk and Kane and all the others then!'

But she was alone.

***

(Tentativism):

The past:

Dakar was a hive of multi-cultured freebooters and hustlers, rogues and traders, investors looking to buy into seclusion along the deserted flats of African anonymity and refugees looking to evacuate the nuclear hotzones.

But when we reached the coastal town for a ride across the Atlantic I saw a man die. He was taken by street urchins and dragged into a mud hut on the fringes of town. We leapt to his aid, people seemingly oblivious to another man's struggle. Goliaths and runts circled us, we the strangers blown in from the dunes. I raised my weapon, motioning them to put down and leave; take the currency and not harm him. They didn't listen. We were too slow, our concentration, my concentration -- having faded along the journey that should have replenished it. They goaded us. We were exhausted and hot and thirsty. Our guns were coated in sand and iron grain, filthy and bent out of shape. We had barely survived the last several days.

But the urchins held a knife to his throat -- I shall always remember the way the man's eyes twitched, like he had something in them that wouldn't go. They were panicky eyes, flitting from one side of the hut to the other, the low level sunlight barely shining through the clouds and masking our view of the situation. He shuddered in fear. Shaking, cold, unhappy. And all for what, a few coins from a weedy crate stacker on his break, whimpering in French to spare his life.

The look on the knife-wielder's face told me otherwise. He was missing teeth, his tagelmoust faded and brown, facial hair scraggy and uneven. He was the filth of the gutter. All his companions shuffled noiselessly around us, the presence heart-speeding but completely silent. They crept like zombies awaiting a fallen corpse, each afraid of the first move because we held so tight to the iron and plastic in our hands. In those days I was paranoid about my telepathy, unsure of its capabilities especially under duress. I would have been able to tell, if I was confident enough, that the knife-wielder fully intended to kill his hostage and us as well, not because we were witnesses but simply because we might be carrying something of use. To feel so dehumanised amongst the roots of humanity when all the world burned around us was a disgusting truth. Dakar, the closeted remnant of a continent hardly dealt with, and here we were scrapping amongst ourselves.

'Drop it,' I said.

'Give us your money.' He croaked, a voice of decay and malnutrition.

'We're not carrying any, so drop your weapons and leave the man alone.' Tetherblood shouted.

'Nate, I think they won't hear.'

'I know Dawnie. But we got into this for a reason. We've got to see it through.'

'Give us your money.' And he drew a thin line with the tip over the man's windpipe. The man struggled but a desperate grip is enough of a grip to make you desperate.

'We kill him!' The urchin shouted.

Then without warning they did, because at the end of the day it wasn't worth their time to bargain. They either got the money and got their food and drugs without a fight, or they didn't and stole the food and drugs in a fight anyway.

In a fit the man crumpled, eyes bleating and hands grabbing at nothing, but then resigned himself and lay still and quiet.

I shot the urchin clean through the forehead for that. The flesh cauterised on impact. We heard the sizzle of cooking meat.

Tetherblood was stabbed in the kidneys. Dawnsilk blew apart his attacker, staining the walls. And in a frenzy of hunger, addiction and desperation the rest jumped us. Big goliaths, long gangly arms pincushioned from drug use. I saw my friend buried beneath a pile of them, a trickle of red oozing out from behind his chest plate ceramics. I was all rage and spit and I knocked them off, my telekinesis bubbling up to the surface like magma. They spilled onto their backs kicking in the air and screeching; speared pigs. The man had died despite my efforts. His poor destitute forlorn life over in seconds of action from a man not fit to lick his boots. I pitied the man. I pitied his innocence in all of this, yet I so wanted to hold onto that innocence in hope that I might forget the hardship of reality. But you can't do that. So I also pitied the thieves because the cosmic balance was not weighed properly. I unloaded from the plasma chamber until the scales tipped.