Inertia: In Constant Motion
I love this bike. This thing is incredible. One-eye really outdid himself, but you would never catch me saying that to his face...or to anyone with, well, ears.
I love the feel of the wind, slamming against me, blowing back my hair and drawing my lips in an involuntary snarl. That pressure is my favorite part, next to the danger. It's something to fight against, something I can cut through without ever popping my claws. That red button Scooter put in sure is handy, and I'm curious how he did it. Speedometer says I'm going thrice the speed limit, but who pays attention to those things? Besides I know trails up here where no cops ever go.
I'm making good time. The Professor said the compound was close to where Storm and Cyclops picked me up. It's crazy to think I was so near to it. But gas only lasts so long, especially when you're going 120 miles per hour. I've got one hundred dollars and a knapsack of clothing(half of which borrowed from Xavier) to my name, thanks to Sabertooth and the loss of my trailer. And it's cold. How could I have forgotten how freezing it is up here? Healing factor or not, I'll be an Popsicle if this motorcycle dies on me.
It's like a reflex, pulling into that parking lot. Rusting cars, loud music. This country tavern is like a thousand other's I've seen-brown, dirty, looks like it's gonna fall in on itself any day now. As rough outside as it is inside. I've been here a couple times before, on the fight circuit. How else is someone like me going to make a quick buck? I can earn some money here, enough to
(Alkali Lake. My past.)
keep going.
Why did I sit there? Puddles forming around my boots from the snow, watching pickup trucks and chipped vans pull in. There's an odd feeling of revulsion in my at the idea of that bar. Fighting drunken rednecks with swastikas on their necks and hearing the coos of women with badly dies hair, oily perfume. Even the thought of a beer is turning my stomach. It never changes, no matter what bar, no matter what town. Sickening repetition. Westchester was a break in that pattern, and maybe I'm worried that once I go inside, things will go back to the way they were before I found the kid under that tarp. Shit. What am I bitching about? A couple days in a mansion and I'm turning into a Scott. Time to stop whining.
I stand and swing my denim-clad leg off the bike, push it to the corner of the lot. The thought of someone trying to steal the bike crosses my mind(it's certainly better shape than the other decaying choppers around here) but I shake it off. Few people are that suicidal, and I would make them scream for a long time.
The bar's smell hits me with an embrace like a welcome son-beer, stale peanuts, piss, blood, and even less pleasing aromas. Way to fit the stereotype, guys.
And then I slipped back in to a role I'd been playing for fifteen years. After those first few moments, I felt no more reluctance.
And that is how my life went for awhile. There's not much to say, folks. I fight. I let shots of whiskey and cool beer(which, I have to add, was flat more often than not. Snow covers three-fourths of Canada and the fight bars can't keep the Molson cold. Go figure.) slide down my throat. I flirt with the women, because that's what I do. Not exactly keeping an empty bed just because of a red-headed doctor who likes to make her boyfriend jealous. I take them back to whatever grimy hotel room...or to a bathroom stall, or a quiet part of an alley, give them what they ask for and take what I want. In the mornings I get on the motorcycle and ride toward the Canadian Rockies.
You'd think I'd be excited. And I am. I am. This is what I've been waiting for, right? The anticipation is like a ball or static in my chest, a magnet drawing me forward
But I don't need to hurry. Canada's a big fucking continent; it's gonna take me a month and a half no matter how fast I drive. And....I can't quite get Weschester out of my head. I find it cropping up in my mind at random times, and it takes a little concentration off driving. I think of the mansion, steady meals and a clean bed. Storm, and what she said about choosing a side. Jean, and Scott with his arm around her. Marie. Her hair.
At a gas station in Alberta, as a young man with a rather pathetic goatee rings up my bill, I caught myself studying a rack of scarves. I wouldn't normally pay attention to stuff like that- why would I? But one was dark green, with lace flowers.
"This too," I tell the cashier gruffly. He doesn't look up.
I don't know Marie's last name. So I address it to Charles Xavier and tell him to pass it on to Rogue.
After mailing the package, things get easier. I pay more attention to the women under my hands, the road under my tires. At night, sometimes I fantasize about Jean. She's fun. I imagine Scooter's face if he walked in on her and me in the lab...in their room...on his bike....on that couch in front of the TV.
And when thoughts of Westchester become too frequent...when I remember how wide Marie's eyes were(i don't want you to go) -how I couldn't hear her heart on that statue-how Jean said she was taken with me-how I promised to take care of her...
then I find a gift to send. Girls like presents, don't they? A new jacket. A postcard of the mountains. A lighter. Some sun glasses. A stone carving of a wolf. It's selfish, I know. Sending shit to ease my guilt. How did I think I knew how to take care of someone? But I like the thought of her opening those packages. Her having nice things, even it they're simple. Xavier is giving her a home. I figure the least I can offer is stuff to fill it. Something beyond the Absolutely Essential. Because I know that's the rule she's lived by for so long. Like me.
And always, I keep going.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Hi. Whew. >wipes sweat off forhead.< This chapter is short, like the first, but the story is going to get longer soon. I'm almost done with the third chapter. Thank you so, so much for reading. I'm honestly grateful, and I hope you enjoy.
Chapter End Notes:
Once again: thank you for reading. Did you like it? If so, please review. Did you hate it? If so...please review. Oh, and I'm raising the reward for suggestions to twenty-two magical cookies and a poodle named Fred.