X-Men: Through a Scanner Uneasy

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

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Through a Scanner Uneasy:

When I got there, Lorna was reading. Her knees were raised, blanket on and Hemingway in hand. A lamp at the bedside was illuminating the room, yellow soft light just enough so her eyes weren't straining. She looked sad, her brow furrowed, chewing on the corner of her bottom lip as if she were mulling over the blunt force trauma of Colonel Krebs. I have read those short stories, and I know how affecting they are. The primal mixture of despair and rage, aggression and lust, all the emotions the stunted Hemingway founded his ideas on. They were the basis of his designs, his feelings about human life and human death.

Much like young Nick Adams I was on a journey. Magneto dispatched me because I am the fastest. I have recently developed the ability to traverse distances through power lines and reside within electrical circuits, something I have been on the path toward ever since puberty. I fear that much like Amelia Voight I am destined to become a bioelectrical charge, and that my corporeal body as it exists now will dissipate into so much static and lightning. Even now I find in times of stress I have to focus on holding myself together, the transition from flesh to current the easier of the twin states. It seems my lot in life is to be in a shifting struggle, a permanent flux from one extreme to another. Am I passive or aggressive in my pursuit of genetic harmony? Does my straightforward association with what the world sees as a terrorist organisation negate my attempts at balancing the bloodthirsty tendencies of my peers? Do I follow Magneto because he is god-like or because he's a haunted man, pushed into action through the inaction of others, always afraid his kind shall wake up pooled together in the lime pits? I want to save mutantkind from extinction, but no-one else offers and provides the same unity that Magneto does. He is a great man, but do my feelings change when I see that greatness perform acts which are horrific in their own right? His dissolution of the Magistrates in Hammer Bay was one such example. Hundreds dead, the dissenters all dissolved because he wanted it that way. There must be a fine line between being a forceful isolationist and fascist totalitarian. In this way too am I on my journey. Unlike me though, Nick Adams was not asked to spy on his father's subjects. He travelled the great outdoors, capturing the epic wonder of the American mid-west and after the First World War came back to attempt a healing process. I suppose that is a parallel to me and the rest of the Acolytes too. So much of our adult lives have been consumed with war and treachery and the ideals pressed upon us. Now we have Genosha it is difficult not to think the wars are over. But with every enemy struck down, Magneto seems to have more dragon-heads grow in place.

One of these days I ought to get out of this place.

Lorna moves, settling further into the pillows. Her expression has changed. She looks concerned now, I wonder to myself which story she is reading. Behind her eyes I can see a breaking up of emotion. There is a shattered mirror in her head, shards swallowed down into her windpipe, heart bleeding. Havok disappeared. I know they were an item; perhaps Magneto wants to make sure she hasn't gone mad, killed herself or something. I had heard she was a lot more sensible than that, but maybe this reconnaissance is just a check-up. A loose cannon with the powers to rival Magneto...? I don't know what I'm doing here, she is fine, clearly. I can see it in her eyes. There's pain, yes, emotion threatening to boil above the surface maybe; it hasn't been that long since Havok was lost, but going completely mad? The components are there. Besides, there are plenty of other things I could put my efforts into: monitoring the United Nations Security Council mutant affairs correspondent Alda Huxley who we all think in the event of Magneto's sovereignty collapsing, will make a play for power. And that's only if Genosha falls apart, which it won't as the U.N I'm sure has taken note.

But then I realise this entire time Lorna has been staring at the television in the corner of the room, the vessel within which my bioelectric essence is stored. She is watching me like a fish in a bowl... or is her attention simply focussed on what she is reading?

Her attention isn't diverted, how could she possibly see me, I flow through chips and wires, it would be like a doctor watching the synapses in a person's brain. If she doesn't know I'm here, why would she look for me?

Her eyes are directed back down; whatever thoughts circulated in her mind were probably those of Hemingway and Havok, Nick Adams and Krebs and all the bullfighting. She sighs, resting her head against the wall above the backboard and shutting it all out for a moment. The book closes and is put on the nightstand. Her legs go down, she tries to relax.

In the confines of my plastic prison I push up against the glass. Electrons and transistors are my transport, the mains the means of arrival. I turn to go, my time here is done.

'...Alex...' She whispers, and I look in once more, my form on the threshold of the wall socket. Something about the quiet desperation captivates me. The poor girl. I don't know whether I have ever felt about anyone the way she does about Havok. I'm not sure if there is any time left.

Her fingers rest on the frame of a picture. Her eyebrows press together, a frown. I make the journey to her bedside lamp, the bulb flicking off for less than a split-second. She doesn't notice.

I strain to see the picture. It's not a good angle, the way she's holding it, and now her fingers on the glass. When it recedes I make out what looks like a pylon. The scribble comes into view as she puts the frame back next to the lamp. It reads: Mt. Diablo, with love xxx and in it she looks content. He looks happy too. But he is gone. She sobs a little, throws back the covers and goes to the wardrobe. It is past time I am gone, but again there's a pull inside as I see her tug out a black shirt, I know it's his.

What am I waiting for?

She holds it to her chest fiercely. Nobody has ever done that to me. She inhales its scent, the smell of Alex lost and denied for too many nights. He is dead; I know that, the rest of the world knows that. Time to let go, woman. Her tears are absorbed into the collar, into the sleeves, she buries her face into it. I wish that I could get out and comfort her. But it wouldn't be a good idea. I would be discovered, and the reception I want to provide would be disastrous. The fibre of her being pours into that shirt, her crying freely and loudly, the kind of heaving the bereaved do. I've heard it once before, from Sally when Rusty Collins died. The gravity with which two people orbit each other is surprising. Then, her shoulders went up and down, her face red, she screamed, I left. This sort of emotion... I can't handle it. I didn't know what to do for her, just like with Lorna Dane. She seems so alone, so isolated, padding this empty apartment grieving for someone she doesn't know whether he's alive or dead or what. How do you deal with that? How do you get by, when all the weight in the world that used to be supported by two gets shifted onto just one? I guess that's why I'm here. Magneto is looking out for her. She hasn't gone insane, she hasn't committed suicide; she's just vibrating with all this pent-up sorrow and grief that only has a chance every so often to pour out. I feel privileged. I feel like I wish that just once that is what could happen to me, because then I would have known an emotion so sacred the absence of which would reduce me to this. I want to feel a love that in its wake I devote myself fully to something, even if it's grief. Then, and maybe only then would I be able to say: yes, this is what I believe in. I believe in love and without it I believe in mourning that love. That love that was pure and undiluted from outside influences and interferences.

I would give all of myself to one thing.

She is prone on her bed now, the shirt draped on top. Her eyes have closed. I think she has cried herself to sleep.

I decide that I am an unlikely partner in her unhappiness. She wouldn't have wanted me here, but here I am nonetheless. I disperse my electric form from the wires in the apartment and materialise through the receiver in her telephone. This is not what Magneto sent me here for but I cannot stand idly by while Lorna simply collapses in on herself.

So I pad along the wooden floorboards and circle around the bed, wary that I might wake her. Cheeks puffed and red, eyes sensitive, I think how awful this must be. I have to do this, to help in any way I can. After all, Cyclops helped us after the fall of Avalon, and Havok was his brother, and Lorna his girlfriend, so I am returning the favour (in my own way).

Gloves off, I touch her forehead lightly, my bioelectric form channelling through into the depths of her mind and further, deep into the reality of dreamtime. Here, I can command. Here, I have a presence, and I can help Lorna.

Dreamtime:

She sits on a bench in a park, a significant place in memory.

The wind blows; leaves off the trees in autumn fits. Spray from the fountain stream splashes the concrete by her sandals. She gasps, shifting before the space is filled by new feet. Black polished leather and thin laces. Her eyes travel upward past the steamed trousers with a sharp seem, up past the edge of the black blazer, up to the open white collar -- the same I saw in her room -- and into the smile of the man she was waiting for. His teeth show, a prominent jaw, stubble and rugged, not the way his brother is. He has longish hair, floppy but not eighties or anything.

Her expression lights up as he says hi. Why has this memory surfaced?

She hugs him and gives him the most intense kiss I have ever seen. Children run past laughing and are followed by a dog.

Her hair blows in the wind, she drags a finger down his chest, investigating the open button at the top. They exchange words. He laughs. He has nice teeth.

The scene alters. They are in a café, on those tall stools, black leather seats to match his get-up. They are at the bar, it's a fifties noir thing, paper hats and an old coffee maker. She sips through a straw at a milkshake. Her legs are parted and she rests both palms on the seat, leaning provocatively inward. His eyes keep shifting over her.

Waitresses, plump and hair-netted waltz about, percolators in hand, notepads and thick-rimmed glasses. It is quite busy and it appears to be late in the day.

She suckles noisily at the bottom of the glass and licks her lips. He blushes. I don't expect that. For him to blush, he doesn't seem like the type. Maybe she said something rude.

His demeanour has changed, he seems relaxed. He stretches and I catch sight of a beer. They must serve alcohol there too. What is the time? Seems a bit early. She kisses him. It's arousing. Young kids, teenagers are in the same place, do the two of them not care? He prizes her off, and she giggles. She looks very happy. He turns to drink his beer, but I see her attention never wavering. No wonder she is such a wreck now. I wish that was me, almost. He is a big man, tall, burly, rugged. I wonder where this is leading.

She grabs his coat and tosses it to him, he leaves some money. I can see it's a lot. Hand in hand, Lorna leads him out of the café and once outside they kiss long and hot under a street light. It's dark all of a sudden.

Before I know where I've taken her mind, Lorna and Alex reappear in an apartment. It's not this apartment; at least I don't think it is. Alex walks toward my perspective, I realise it's a studio. He is then gone, and I watch Lorna in the corner of the kitchen. She takes a lingering look and then roots about in the fridge. Her hair is longer in this dream than it was out in the real world. It is curlier. Her face isn't as lined, as worried and upset as I saw it. This must be many years ago, when they were young and in love.

Alex returns, he has something in his fist. She laughs, clapping. The ingredients are out of the fridge, onions, peppers, mince, a packet of rice from the cupboards above. She mouths a few words and they both look at the object. I wish I knew what it was. He makes a quick motion, and the bin wobbles with the impact. She braces herself against the counter and he presses in, a crush they clearly need.

I look away, the rest private.

Five minutes later she is back on her feet and wipes her mouth. He slaps her on the bottom and starts to undress. She turns back to the counter and then the stove and lights the gas.

Time passes.

He re-enters with a towel around his lovely shoulders. His skin is fair; he would go quite red in the sun. She has a wok over a flame and a spatula in the mixture. She says hello and grins and he snakes his arm around her and to the bottle of vodka she has opened. He takes a swig and then exchanges it for a bottle of wine next to the oil and the spice rack. He splashes some in the mixture. I can see his lines and features through the towel. His hand clasps about her lower back, travelling down. She looks dizzy and sways into him, warm hands surrounding his chest, his own flowing through her hair and resting on her chest. I think I am about to see something happen.

She abducts the wine from his hand and gulps down a mouthful, followed by the vodka. He does the same and her hands become more forceful. She is excited, her face flushed. Strong arms lift her onto the counter; she has to duck to avoid the jutting out of the top cupboards. Her attention is diverted, so he deftly flicks the gas down low. She kisses him in little hits each more feverish than the last, her tongue coming out to lick his. She makes a stiffening motion as he paws at her breast, roughing the thin material of her purple and black flowered top. Her jeans become a nuisance, Alex pulls her off the counter and she grabs his hand half-running out of my perspective. She yanks off a sandal on the way and it flies through my ghostly presence.

I am in two minds.

I wanted only to help.

This is... voyeurism.

But this is what I came here for.

I turn to watch.

Lorna is on her ass on the sheets, Alex's hands pulling at her jeans while he lies beside her. She is mouthing a noise, I can't hear it. There is such raw lust in his face. He worships her, and I get the feeling she's about to remember how.

Her underwear slides off, damp and in the way. He caresses up her thighs, inhaling every smell smoking out of her agitated body. She is trying to get a hold on him, but he wiggles out the way and attacks her intimately. His fingers find the right spot, stroking intently and her entire being lights up. She goes tense, facing away from him and holding her hands firm next to his head.

His tongue flits out in bursts, licking at her clitoris and sucking it into his mouth, gnawing at her pussy. She shakes. She whispers through clenched teeth.

He attempts to remove his trousers with one arm while the other works and digs into her. Legs trembling, she is spread eagle, welcoming as he crawls up to her and then about-faces, his knees either side of her head. He makes downward motions, each flick of his tongue driving her higher. She takes his erection in her hands and jerks viciously, a tight grip before she comes. He doesn't let up -- she has to swallow him in to stop herself screaming. A momentary pause of disbelief his side, then again with the attack. Her thighs thrash, her toes curl, I think she is about to come and she looks so happy, so excited so alive I think she is almost there and he is shoved onward, her being so violent with him, and he gives out a cry as she clamps down with her mouth and her hands squeeze around his balls and her legs clamp him in place his tongue shooting over and over and over her most intimate of parts her clitoris stiff and filled with blood and then she is bobbing her head furiously and her tummy moves in waves as her legs go limp and his lashing slows. He pulls out of her and she jumps on him immediately, him on his back now bending over the corner of the mattress and her back on her knees like before, stroking the sides of his erection with the tip on her tongue, saliva everywhere and her throat working to accommodate. He runs his fingers over his eyes, wiping away the tension, he is trying to hold off and then suddenly he doesn't want to end it like this, he places a hand at her cheek and she pants letting him go, cock glistening and crawls nearer and then straddles him, feeding him into her silky depths as if she were born to do it.

He places both hands on her breasts, and she sinks him in, all the way to the hilt before using her calves as leverage and going back upward repeating the motion. She shouts, and even though I can't hear anything, I can read what came out and it is filthy.

Her fists enshroud his and she is guiding his movements, all the while going a few inches up and down, his lower body so stiff now but all the blood rushing to his head as he bends back over the mattress. Lorna goes with him, suckling on his neck and leaving a mark and grating herself over his hairy chest, backing up and up and further all the way in, deep and snug and wet and warm and then off and then on and in again and faster and all the while harder and more extreme the two of them so much in love and then she is going faster and faster, holding onto his shoulders really pressing in and him massaging her clit again and then a quick kiss and her bouncing and then he throws the two of them back and is on top and she wraps her legs around his waist the angle so deep and sweet and her closing her eyes in thick foggy hard concentration and his ass working to drive his cock deeper and deeper into her she is shaking hard crying out his movements frenzied the lust dripping off them her fucking off rhythm against him, instinct taking over and then they both shudder. And he is orgasming into her pussy with short sharp thrusts and her thrashing her head side to side and she is coming she is coming and coming and the entire world crashing down around them the two sole lovers the only beings in the universe.

Only them together, sexual and passionate and just me in the corner watching them do it and feeling the pain of remorse that I do not know what it is like.

She strokes his back, legs still wrapped, and kisses him repeatedly, licking the sweat off his neck, caressing and massaging him, kissing and more kissing. Her mouth comes out with three words again and again, and he cries into her shoulder, her hair wet and the pillow damp.

I go out and look in the bin. A badge with a big X on it lies at the bottom.

The dream is at its end.

I am sucked back out into the real world.

Lorna lies there, exhausted. I cannot say what I have just experienced. I am in shock and must escape. I unplug the television set from the wall socket and place my finger at the entrance for the pins.

She sighs in her sleep. I hope I have done a good thing for once. I need to have a future. One of these days I ought to get out of this.