Chapter 2…
One month later…
Renovations were taking longer than expected. At least a dozen contractors scurried through the mansion that afternoon, and as Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair in the foyer, he listened as furniture and appliances were being uprooted throughout the home like weeds yanked from a garden. In front of him, a burly man stood in an undershirt and jeans, the clothing stained as if he had spent his day underneath a car.
"Here's the problem, Mr. Xavier," the foreman explained with a cigarette wedged between his lips. "The roll-out drawers you need for your kitchen cabinets can't be ordered from my distributor. There's a company in Arizona that sells them, but the ones they have won't fit into your kitchen's layout. Now, we can make them for you ourselves. But we'd have to start from scratch, you see, and that'll take time, men and supplies, and well…" The man huffed out a breath of smoke.
Ignoring the acrid scent of cheap tobacco, Charles replied, "If I may ask, exactly how much are we talking for all this ‘time, men and supplies’?"
"At least a thousand more than the original estimate."
“That seems a bit excessive.”
“For a rich guy like you, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“That’s not the point.”
It was like a game of poker where the opponent kept peeking at his cards. The foreman knew Charles was well-off and knew Charles needed the renovations. Gold-digging, it seemed, wasn't just found in California.
On that thought, Charles placed his left elbow on his armrest, and brought his middle and point fingers to his left temple. “I believe I might have an alternative solution,” Charles said as he read the other man’s mind. “Why don’t you give Mulloy's Hardware and Supplies a ring, speak with your friend, Gary, and have him phone his distributors about some roll-out cabinets? I’m certain he can fetch a decent set.”
The man gawked at him, his cigarette dangling off his bottom lip. “How’d you know about Gary?”
“That should cut the costs a bit, yes?” Charles replied and dropped his hand.
The man blinked and then slacked his shoulders in obvious disappointment. "Yeah, fine. Whatever."
Sucking in another lungful of smoke and trying to hide his displeasure, the foreman was off. As he turned a corner, Charles lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. The other man was too tall. Gazing upwards from his wheelchair every time he talked to someone was cramping his neck like a set of hands constantly trying to strangle him.
It wasn't the first time Charles had a discussion with the foreman. He was one of several others, in fact. That day, they were gutting the kitchen, hauling out the old refrigerator and installing a new one with the icebox on the bottom instead of the top—custom-made, of course. Same with the oven. Charles couldn’t reach the knobs on the old one; he couldn't open the oven door without his wheelchair getting in the way. He required side-doors and knobs fitted on the front so he could use them.
Next week, another set of contractors would tackle the flooring, replacing most of the carpet throughout the mansion’s rooms with high-resistant hardwood floors. Electricians needed to install new, lower light switches and phones. Cords for the ceiling fans would have to be re-routed to wall panels. Doorways needed to be widened. The elevator Charles had wanted was still on the backburner; he hadn’t seen anything except the mansion's first floor in six months.
Things were getting complicated.
Pursing his lips, Charles grabbed the handrims to his wheelchair and pushed off. He preferred his motorized one, but his physical therapists insisted he still needed to increase his upper body strength. Using his arms to lug himself around would certainly gain him some.
Around the mansion, there was an endless hum of chatter, a constant presence of men and always the rancid scent of cigarette smoke. As Charles rolled down the hallway, he focused his mind on the only few people in the home he knew.
On the third floor, Sean was boxing up old, unnecessary items in the bedrooms where the student dormitories would eventually be constructed. On the upstairs balcony, Alex was leaning against the stone railing, taking a breather from all the racket inside.
Both young men had been working hard to help the contractors renovate the mansion for the last several months. They were sick of the mess, the noise and the smells as much as Charles, but neither complained about such matters.
It was the young man Charles sensed in the basement that had him concerned. Down below in the only area not overrun by workers, Hank McCoy was keeping busy. As Charles concentrated his telepathy on the large, blue man, he observed through Hank’s eyes that he was sketching a blueprint. Charles already knew what it was—a new design for Cerebro. Since leaving the CIA, Hank had lost access to his originals, and had been working to re-make them for months. Among other things.
Stopping close to the kitchen, Charles set his fingers to his temple again. Hank? he called. You’re growing tired, my friend. Why don’t you take a break?
There was a pause, and then Charles heard Hank’s mental voice, I—I think I’ve finally adjusted the right amount of voltage to correctly enhance Cerebro’s amplifiers through the motherboard’s interface.
Charles sighed. That’s marvelous, Hank. But how about I ask the workers to break early, and you see some daylight for a change?
I can see it tomorrow.
You can see it today.
Another pause and through Charles' telepathy, he sensed Hank’s irritation. You don’t have to keep checking up on me, Charles. You’ve got enough going on right now. I'm fine.
Charles sensed a jab of anxiety—Hank’s anxiety—and it soured his stomach. Worry—fear. But it wasn’t Hank fearing for himself. He was afraid for Charles.
Charles released the mental link. He appreciated the concern four months before, right after he returned home from the acute care rehabilitation clinic. Now, it was growing bothersome.
Charles peeked into his kitchen as the contractors continued ripping appliances from the wall. Even the sink had to be removed, a lower, more narrow one put in its place. No cabinets could be built underneath; Charles needed the space for his wheelchair.
Shooting one last glimpse at the workers in the kitchen, Charles wheeled away. At the end of the hall, he reached one of the large, octagonal windows that managed to hold the 18th century décor from when the mansion was first constructed. Outside, the day was sunny. The six hundred acres surrounding his home were waking from winter; emerald green had already started to bud on all the trees. Hints of yellow flowers were scattered across the lawn like gold coins tossed from a treasure chest.
In the distance, the large, white satellite dish at the edge of his property was the only contrast to the scenery. The bulky thing was angled away from the mansion now, back to its original position. Like nothing had happened to it. Like Erik had never been there.
Slowly, Charles removed his right hand from his armrest and rested it on his leg. The limb was warm—alive. But it didn’t respond to his touch; it couldn’t feel his hand on top of it. It was like he was touching someone else’s leg. His doctors insisted he would get used to the sensation. It would feel normal…eventually.
Lifting his hand away, Charles turned from the window, the sun’s rays warming the back of his head.
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Stealing government files was a federal offense, punishable by up to ten years in prison and a twenty thousand dollar fine. Deep in the CIA's headquarters, no one expected an intruder would be capable of sneaking inside and snatching up paperwork. But Agent Moira MacTaggert wasn't really stealing the file. She was simply borrowing it.
Tucked into her briefcase, the folder remained hidden as Moira flashed her CIA badge to security. They nodded and allowed her to pass. Exiting through the building's front entrance, Moira started towards her car, her short, black skirt swaying gently in the cool evening breeze.
Behind her, she heard the chatter of other agents, the deep voices approaching. Gripping the briefcase's handle, she continued to walk, keeping her stride casual and eyes straight ahead. Don't look back. She knew if she did, one of them would spot the anxiety on her face and realize something wasn't right.
Stealing government papers…she must have been losing her mind.
The men passed her, laughing to themselves as they strolled towards their cars. Moira held her chin high, and as she reached the driver's side of her Buick Skylark, she unlocked the door and slid inside. Tossing the briefcase in the passenger's seat, she started the ignition, and then got the hell out of there.
It took less than ten minutes to get to her apartment. As soon as Moira closed the front door, she hustled to her sofa, opening the briefcase as she went. She dropped the folder to her coffee table and immediately started sifting through the documents inside.
It was William Stryker's report from the Cuban Missile Crisis. Moira had already read her own report from that day, apparently written while she was in Florida. With Charles, in a hospital.
From her report, she had a vague understanding what had happened on the beach that day; as she skimmed through Stryker's, it appeared that his correlated with hers almost verbatim. Sebastian Shaw had been killed. There had been a mutiny. Erik, Raven and Shaw's mutants banded together. Missiles had been launched by both the American and Soviet ships. Moira had radioed from the Blackbird jet, urging the fleet to stop just seconds before, but it had been too late. Charles and Erik got into a fight.
And then…
Moira tried to keep her breathing steady. Charles' medical records had been attached to her report and even Stryker's. A gun shot wound to his vertebrae—laceration of the spinal cord. Compression. Inflammation. There were several X-rays and diagrams. It had been her gun that did the damage.
But she didn't remember any of it, at least not anymore.
Stryker's file made reference to her amnesia. She had handed her report to other agents when they arrived in Florida. Then, a few weeks later, Charles was transferred somewhere else…and the CIA lost track of them both. She had taken a leave of absence and didn't tell any of them where she went.
They could have fired her—probably would have—except, when she returned to HQ, she had no idea where she had been. She couldn't recall anything after travelling home from Moscow and the weeks proceeding it. After that, the CIA stopped hounding her.
Moira flipped through the rest of Stryker's report. She wasn't interested in his displeasure of including "untrained, unauthorized freaks" on her team or his tangents about what "these people" were capable of. No. What she really wanted to know was what had happened in the war room, just before everything went to hell.
Near the back, she found the transcripts. A single page, much of it dedacted—more black ink blotted the paper than words. Nonetheless, what remained on the page was enough:
"The Russians share our concern…"
"We'll never have another opportunity…"
"Fleet Commander, this is X-ray Bravo 7-0. Respond—over. The beach is secure—call off the attack…
…Hello? Hello?"
Her hands began to tremble.
They had known the beach no longer posed a threat. They had received her distress call.
They ignored it.
Looking away from the paper in her hands, Moira closed the file. Her vision began to blur, the focus fleeting away as if the world had just shifted one direction and she another. Sitting silently, Moira leaned her head back against the sofa, holding the page loosely in her grasp.
End of Chapter 2