A NEW DAWN

By James Jordan

Scott Summers sits on his bed. His back is slightly slouched; his arms are folded over his thighs; his legs rest firmly on the floor in front of him; his face is sober and passive in its scruffy, unshaven glory. He is a man lost, lost in mind and spirit. His eyes are fixated on the window in front of him that peers into the outside world. It’s a world that he can’t enter right now. It won’t accept him. It won’t take him by the hand and lead him back to what he has given up. It won’t lead him back to what he has lost. The world has never been kind to Scott Summers, and as he watches the sunrise, a new morning rolling in, he has one single thought: how can I sleep in this bed all day differently today?

A red-headed woman rolls over next to Scott. She lets out a snort. Scott’s thoughts, or lack there-of, are interrupted by the near silent inhalation of air by the woman he loves. He tries to let out a smile, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort to move the muscles in his face. He’s been like this for two weeks, physically and emotionally stagnant. He has reached a stalemate in the cruel game of chess he’s been playing with the world. All of his rooks, bishops, and knights are gone. All he has are a few pawns and a queen to protect his king.

The funeral was two Sundays ago. Scott and Jean both arrived gracefully, the two did not cry. Jean would turn around occasionally to compose herself, or bury herself in Scott’s beige tweed overcoat, but did not cry. The two arrived at the funeral to honor the son they never really had, and to rid their minds of the months of memories left behind. The two barely spoke after the funeral, and that unsolicited vow of silence has gone on since. Every time Jean rolls over in the bed, Scott wonders, ‘Is this the day that we’ll talk about something other than how great the food was for breakfast or how much of a shame it is that those public school kids in New York City can’t get their budget to pass?’

And he doesn’t blame her if today isn’t the day that they speak to each other. He’s a horrible father; his son wasn’t even born yet and he wasn’t able to save him. Scott failed his family… again. He can’t help but remember Nathan being torn away from him and taken into the future. It’s absurd and it’s ridiculous that all this had to happen to him, but it did. And to Scott, that speaks mounds and heaps of what kind of a father he is. A good father would never let any of those things happen to his kids. Maybe, somehow, all of this is just a parenting lesson. Some kind of sick parenting lesson. But no matter what, Scott can’t let that be truth. He can’t just let John be some kind of learning experience. He won’t forget the son he never got to know. He won’t forget the son he loved unconditionally.

He loved John even when he was just a tiny embyro growing inside of Jean.

He loved John.

He loved his son.

He loved him.

“Scott,” the voice of Jean Grey-Summers orates through Scott’s ears. Her voice is muffled and tired, yet she continues to attempt speech. “Scott, why are you up so early?” Jean rubs her eyes and grasps around her nightstand for a clock. “Its four-thirty, baby.”

“I’m just thinking, Jean. That’s all,” Scott says monotonously. “Just go back to sleep.”

Jean gets to her knees and stretches her arms. She yawns, and crawls over to her husband. Wrapping her arms around his torso, she massages his chest alluringly. “Scott, you can’t keep doing this every night. You have to get more than three hours of sleep. You just won’t be able to function with everyday life.”

“What life?” Scott retorts, “All I do is sit in bed all day.”

Jean shakes her head, before resting it on Scott’s shoulder. “Scott,” she exasperates, “I think today is the day that we talk about things more important than how great breakfast was.” Scott turns his head slightly to see his wife resting her head on his shoulder. She gives Scott a half-hearted grin, reminding him that their telepathic link has not disintegrated.

Scott replies defeated, “Where do you want to begin?”

Dear Journal,

It’s been quite a while since I’ve written in you, or put any pen to paper for that matter. I’ve long had some of the most advanced technology at my disposal, and you… you’ve been rather neglected in my desk drawer collecting dust. I suppose I had no need to write in you for the longest time, because for a while everything seemed to be going well enough. Now… now, it’s 4:38 in the morning and I cannot sleep.

I suppose you haven’t heard about the Legacy Virus being cured? Of course you haven’t. You’re just pieces of paper bound in cardboard and leather. I honestly don’t even know why I’m writing in you. Perhaps it’s because I can’t sleep, or it’s because I want the neat, orderly lines to come to life off the pages and put some order, and some happiness, back into my friends’ lives. Maybe if I hope for it with enough conviction, that will happen some day. Though with my luck, the X-Men would have to be called into action to stop you from destroying the human race or some such nonsense.

So, the Legacy Virus. It’s cured – thanks to Cecilia’s unexpected expertise It was quite simple, actually, once we put ourselves on the right track. All we had to do was take… well, I suppose you don’t really care that much about the equations, nor would you be able to comprehend. And while it’s wonderful that this virus has been defeated, it seems that all this antidote has done is cause problems here at the mansion. Charles is gone, Scott and Jean’s son is dead… life is, simply put, miserable.

Perhaps not all hope is lost, though. I suppose Alex and Adam, Scott and Alex’s half-brother, have been bonding. Just the other day I witnessed the two practicing in the Danger Room together. You probably didn’t know who Adam was nor did you know that Alex was even alive; these things caught us all by surprise as well, but are tales for another time. All that is truly necessary to document for the moment is that the two are relatively happy and they are moving forward with their lives. I wish I could say that the same holds true for everyone else.

Another bit of good news – our two teams have finally reunited. It seems as though all that we needed to bring us back together was for our founder to come near death and then up and disappear on us. Tension is still in the air, but that’s to be expected when you have well over a dozen very different people living together. You’d be surprised at how small a mansion can be.

I wish that things could be the way they used to be. Less complicated maybe? As if our lives have ever been anything but complicated. Perhaps it just seems that now, after so many years and so much pain, suffering, and loss… it’s culminated to the point where it’s just too much. I almost miss those early days with the silly costumes; the world hated us even more back then, but regardless, life wasn’t quite so difficult as its become in recent months.

Well, it’s nearing five o’clock and the dawn is fast approaching. I must be off.

~ Henry

It is a sleepless night for Ororo Munroe, the first in weeks. Perhaps it is that she grows worrisome of her friends, or that she is constantly concerned with the whereabouts of her teacher and friend, Charles Xavier. The man may have had his faults, but at his core, at his heart, Ororo always knew that he was a good man. His shortcomings never overshadowed that.

It’s 5:00 a.m. and Ororo stands vigil in the garden outside the Xavier mansion. Even in Xavier’s absence, the flowers remain beautiful. Plants don’t feel the pain of the world. They don’t feel the pain that lives barely fifty feet beyond the garden in the Xavier Institute. It is soothing for Ororo just to be in the presence of unconditional beauty. She grabs a rusty watering can and begins to sprinkle droplets of water on a patch of red petunias. Ororo takes satisfaction out of caring for the mansion’s gardens, despite the fact that with her powers she could keep care for these plants with little to no difficulty. A light shower storm on Mondays to keep the roots fresh and a cloudy Wednesday and Friday to keep the petals and flowers from overheating and wilting. Yet here she is laboring her morning away with a watering can.

Perhaps it’s the simplicity of being able to just water a garden, the normalcy of protecting them from strong winds and storms. It’s the part of Ororo Munroe that isn’t Storm, the part of Ororo Munroe that cannot control the weather. It’s the Ororo Munroe that can pick up a watering can and a rake every once in a while.

A wind rushes past Ororo as she breathes in the scents of the petunias. They smell glorious; a treat to her nostrils and a revitalizing feeling for her body. Ororo closes her almond-shaped eyes and quietly inhales the scents of the garden. Yet, something is wrong. Amongst the smells of the petunias is another smell that is familiar. She opens her eyes carelessly as a gust of wind breezes past her. Her long white hair waves in the wind as she stares forward. A small silhouette of a man approaches. Ororo holds her hand over her eyes to shield from the bright sun of the new dawn as the man approaches. She can make out his figure and his face.

“Hey there, Goddess,” the deep, scratchy voice of Wolverine reverberates against the ear drums of Ororo Munroe. He looks better than the last time the weather goddess saw him – at least ten years younger, a feat that is strengthened by his hair line, which seems to have halted its recession, and a soft complexion behind an unshaven face.

“Logan,” Ororo says warmly, “Welcome back.”

Logan retrieves a cigar from his back pocket. He places it in his mouth before lighting it with a lighter that appears to have come from thin air. “So, what’s been going on in the lives of white-haired beauties like yourself?”

Ororo smirks at the mannerisms Logan has fine-tuned during his time away from the mansion. She has grown to love them and it is always a pleasure to hear them again. “I suppose we are doing fine, Logan. And how are you, my friend?”

“Eh, I could be better,” he replies before blowing smoke out of his mouth. With a wave of her hand, Storm allows a gust of wind to blow the smoke away from her newly watered petunias.

“Please, Logan, away from the flowers.”

“Sorry, ‘Ro, forget that I have to have inhibitions and an inner monologue when I come here.”

Ororo grins, but she knows something must be wrong with her friend to have returned the mansion. After a brief pause she asks, “So how could one like yourself ‘be better’?”

“Me ‘n Elektra split up,” Logan replies begrudgingly. He shrugs and takes a drag of his cigar. “I guess it was bound to happen. No one really thought it was going to last, now did they? I know I didn’t.”

“I always thought you two had a chance. You have to fight for a marriage, and you two are both fighters,” Ororo states. She looks at Logan sympathetically. While she has never experienced anything like a divorce, she has had her fair share or break-ups and they are never fun. “What are you going to do about your children?”

Logan turns away from Ororo to take a look at her garden, “Yeah, well, ‘Lektra miscarried a while ago. We ain’t havin’ any kids.” Logan turns around to face Ororo, “But that’s okay; I’m not really the parenting type. It might get weird when little Chachie and Lizzy are ninety years old and their old man looks like he’s thirty-five.”

Ororo places her hand on Logan’s shoulder for comfort, “I’m truly sorry my friend, I know how much they meant to you.”

Logan places his hand on Ororo’s, “Thanks Ororo. The past year hasn’t been kind to me.” Logan gives Ororo a half-grin, “Well, I did get my powers back, so I guess this year wasn’t all that bad.”

“I suppose not,” Ororo says smiling at her friend. “How long do you plan on staying?”

“I’m not quite sure… maybe a couple days. I’ll be in and out for a while,” He pauses and looks to his friend with sincerity, “I don’t want people to know about the babies or me ‘n Elektra for a while. I don’t want anybody’s pity.”

Ororo nods, “I understand.”

The two stand in silence for a moment, attempting to stay away from the tragedy that has plagued Logan’s life recently. “So what’s been up at the mansion?”

Ororo widens her eyes and begins to walk. She drops the watering can on a nearby bench and places an arm around Wolverine’s waist. The two walk synchroniously, side by side. “Well, Logan, I think you’ve missed quite a bit here. Let’s go for a walk and I’ll fill you in.”

‘Is this what it is to be an X-Man? Sleeping in a room with two other women that snore and talk in their respective sleep? Preceded by a slumber party; I almost expected someone to bring out a bowl of hot water.’

These are the thoughts of Chyna, the X-Men’s newest resident. The two X-Men she is thinking of are Danielle Moonstar and Cecilia Reyes. The three are currently roommates at the Xavier Institute, and while Moonstar and Cecilia have drifted off into lands with flying horses and singing porcupines, Chyna lays wide awake staring at the ceiling of her newest home.

It’s not as though she isn’t used to a rooming situation like this, she was once in a similar group to the X-Men although, admittedly, that group had a much different goal. They were called the Marauders, and for a time they were her family. They were partners, or rather minions, of Sinister. And despite the negative connotation that comes with the term ‘minion’, it is the only possible way to explain what she was before becoming an X-Man.

And that is where she is lost. How did she become an X-Man, or is she even an X-Man at all? She thinks she’s an X-Man. She is sleeping in a room with two members of the X-Men, after all. And she did help them defeat Sinister. But even if this question of affiliation is answered, the answer only opens up other questions. From the general ‘what do the X-Men do?’, to the superficial ‘what do the X-Men wear?’, and finally to the fiscal ‘what do the X-Men make?’; it opens the proverbial can of worms, and all she wants to do is have a safe place to sleep. But still, she can’t even do that.

“No, no! Don’t touch me you silly porcupine…” Cecilia yells out before drifting back into her dreams where communication with animals is possible. Chyna turns her head to see Cecilia sleeping almost sweetly in a ball in the corner of her bed. Her arms are wrapped around a blue cotton comforter, and her legs are huddled close to her chest.

Chyna rolls her eyes, and focuses her attention back to the ceiling. It’s a flawless light shade of blue, which compliments the four dark blue walls that make up the room. With first glance it appears white, but, as Chyna has discovered, if you stare at it long enough, its true colors are all but invisible. There aren’t any cracks in the ceiling, and what it lacks for in dust and dirt it makes up for in its sheer nakedness. The nude ceiling is only one part of the mansion that makes her feel out of place.

“Are you awake?” Chyna turns her head to see Dani peeking her head out from the covers. Moonstar giggles as she realizes the answer to her question is yes. “Oh. My. God. Why does she keep talking about the damn porcupine?”

Chyna sits up in her bed and shrugs, “I have no idea, but I really wish the two of them would stop singing ‘Midnight Train To Georgia’.”

Dani lets out a loud chuckle but immediately places her hand on her mouth for fear of waking up Cecilia. Once she has contained herself she places her hand down to reveal her large smile. She then pats her hand repeatedly on her bed, signaling Chyna to come over and sit next to her. “Come on,” she whispers to Chyna who complies with Dani’s request.

“This is why I HATE being her roomie,” she pauses and looks around nervously, “When I first joined the X-Men, I had to room with her and…” Dani chuckles again before continuing, “And, and she would get up in her sleep and walk to the bathroom with her bed sheets and after, um, finishing her, um, business… she would just leave them there.”

“Where?”

“Like right next to the toilet. Totally gross. But the worst part about it was that when walking there, she would stumble and hit things and I would always wake up.”

“Like I am right now?” Cecilia grumbles as she lifts herself from her bed. She grabs her glasses and slides them on. “If you girls are going to talk about my sleeping habits you could at least do it a little bit more conspicuously and maybe a little bit more quiet.”

Dani widens her eyes and clenches her lips, “Whoops! Sorry Cece. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor could I,” Chyna says, “We’ll go back to sleep if you want.”

Cecilia rolls around to let her legs hang like threads from the bed and yawns. “No that’s okay. What were you guys talking about? Besides me and sleeping. I really don’t want to talk about that damn porcupine. All he wanted to sing was freakin’ Gladys. Bastard.”

Dani begins to laugh and Cecilia smiles at her joke’s reception. Chyna looks at the two at first not knowing what to do, but eventually comes to laugh. Maybe being an X-Man isn’t so much about the things she thought. Maybe it’s about being with people that will accept her and like her for who she is.

Maybe Chyna is an X-Man after all.

“Shhh, Becca baby… go back to sleep.” These are the cries of mother Alison Blaire to her infant child. This is the fourth time this week that young Rebecca Blaire has woken up at 5:30 a.m., and the new pattern isn’t particularly pleasing to the mutant known as Dazzler. “Oh, Becca, what am I going to do about this?” she questions her child, even though she knows that Becca won’t respond with more than a few cries and screams. It’s times like these that Alison wishes she had someone to help her.

A long time ago, Alison told herself that she could do this. She could be a single mother. She could take care of a baby by herself. She could resist dating. She could live with not being able to fit into the size two jeans she has stacked away in her closet. She could live with waking up at 5:00 every morning. But what Alison never anticipated was being so damn lonely. She loved Rebecca, and she loved being a mother. But she missed the carefree nature of her previous life, and she missed above all things being able to talk to someone about anything. Like about how she doesn’t want her daughter to grow up without a father. Or how sometimes when she looks into her daughter’s eyes, all she can see are Longshot’s staring back at her. Alison Blaire is lonely.

“Baby, why won’t you sleep?” The baby lets out another wail, prompting Alison to rock her back and forth. She hushes her child silently as she moves her arms from side to side. “Shhh….” She whispers one final time. Alison begins to cry with her child. It isn’t necessarily a bad cry, but it isn’t a good cry. It’s one of desperation. Alison lives in a mansion with literally dozens of people, and not one of them understands her pain. “Baby, please,” she pleads one final time before collapsing into her rocking chair. She stops rocking Becca and removes one of her hands from holding the small baby and places it on her forehead. Alison doesn’t want to throw herself this pity party, but at the moment, it feels so right. She closes her eyes, and wails with her child.

Suddenly her arms feel lighter as her child is lifted from her embrace. Alison opens her watery eyes to see the image of a blue man with wings cradling her baby. She stands immediately and rushes to the nightstand to grab a tissue. “Oh, God, Warren… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She wipes her tears away and brushes her hair back with her hand. “I think I’m just going to take her for a walk outside. I don’t want to wake anyone else up.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ali,” Warren replies as he coos the tiny being in his arms to sleep. “It’s not your fault, I understand.” He lifts his head and smiles at Alison, “Besides, I love kids.”

Alison falls straight onto her back onto her bed. She sighs and massages her head with both of her hands. “Oh, thank God. You really are an angel, Warren.”

“I’ve often thought so,” he quips with a grin. The child’s cries slowly get softer and softer. Warren continues to smile and coo as the child ultimately becomes silent.

Alison sits up in the bed upon realizing her child is finally silent. “Oh my God,” she exclaims with widened eyes, “how did you do that?”

Warren shakes his head, nonverbally answering her question. He hands Becca back over to her mother, and Alison subsequently places her baby back in her crib. She then returns to her spot on the bed. She sighs and laughs. Warren sits next to her and asks, “What’s so funny?”

She lets out a quiet cry and shakes her head. “You must think I’m a terrible mother. First my baby’s crying wakes you up… then I can’t put her back to sleep… then you catch me crying,” she laughs at the situation between her cries. “I am a terrible mother.”

Warren looks at Alison and wraps his arm around her. He pulls her closer to him and she places her head on his chest. “I don’t think you’re a terrible mother.” He rests his head on Alison’s. “I’ve seen you with Becca. You’re a great mother.”

Alison sniffles her nose and wipes her tears. “You know, it’s just that every time something goes wrong… I can’t help but think that it’s the worst thing in the world.” She pauses as she motions her head to look into Warren’s eyes. “I know I can do this, I know I can be a good mother. I just wish I could get confirmation every now and then, ya know? It’s not like a job where you get a bonus every year for being a good employee.”

“But you get so much more out of Becca,” Warren explains. “You get to watch her grow up into a beautiful, young woman.”

Alison laughs, “Well let’s just see if I can get her past three years old. If I keep letting her get kidnapped-”

“That wasn’t your fault. Don’t do this to yourself, you deserve better than this.”

“But-”

Warren shakes his head, “No, don’t say anything. I know you. You’re going to raise Becca, and she’s going to be something important. Just like her mother and father.”

Alison releases her arms from Warren and looks away from his eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” Warren looks at Alison staring into the bed sheets. He lifts her head up with his hand and smiles at her. She gives him a half-grin. The two sit for a moment just looking into each other’s eyes.

Alison places her hand on Warren’s. “Do you want to go for a walk outside with me and Becca?”

Warren nods his head, “I’d love to.”

“Scott, you can’t go on living like this,” Jean whispers to her husband. She sits at the edge of the bed in her red cotton nightgown, which is now draped in the forest green of her bathrobe. Between words she finds herself playing with the tie that wraps around her waist. It’s a way to avoid Scott’s eyes. She’s looked into them before, but never has she had to look into his eyes when there is so much pain inside of them. She notices Scott’s back to her and shrugs carelessly, mumbling, “You’re not even listening to me, anyway.”

Scott turns around to face his wife. “I am listening to you! I hear everything you say,” he mutters. He turns his head away from his wife and focuses on the world outside his window. He’s been standing before the window for the past twenty minutes looking for something comforting out in the environment amongst the trees and squirrels. He’s looking for something that will sedate him through this conversation, but he hasn’t been able to find it. “Jean, I hear everything you say. But I don’t want to. I wish more than anything that I didn’t have to listen to what you’re saying,” he pauses to bite his lower lip, “because I know it’s true. Everything I’ve heard, everything you’ve been explaining. It’s all true.”

“Then why can’t you just get out of bed and live life, Scott?” Jean asks of her husband. “He wouldn’t have wanted this. I don’t want this.”

Scott shakes his head, “How can you tell me to just live life? You’re not living yours either! You have your mother and father in the guest bedroom consoling you at your every beck and call.”

Jean clenches her teeth together. “How dare you throw that in my face! I’m trying to be strong.”

“Be strong for what, Jean? Because it seems to me that since we found out… since we found out that Jo… that he was gone, you’ve done nothing but go through the motions. You may be walking around this mansion everyday, but your mind is always off somewhere else. I don’t know where you really are. You’re not being strong for anything.”

Jean stands to her feet. “I’m being strong for us!” Jean looks around the room, and then looks at the back of Scott. Her lip quivers as she remarks, “I need to be strong for us! Because if I’m not, then… then who’s going to make sure that we’re going to be okay?”

Scott turns around to see his wife. She’s been carrying their burdens, when she wasn’t ready for them. Scott’s voice breaks into a hushed plea, “I don’t want you to be strong for us. I want you to just-”

“To just what, Scott?” She asks, cutting him off. “You want me to lie in bed with you all day, crying about how horrible my life is? I can’t do that. This world is much bigger than me. It’s much bigger than us. I would love to just cry, Scott. I would love to just cry for a minute.” Jean wraps her arms on her shoulders. “But I can’t. I can’t do that to you. I can’t do that to Rachel. She needs me.” Jean pauses and approaches Scott. Her eyes are filled with frustration and resentment. “She needs you too, you know.”

Scott reaches a hand out to his wife, but she abruptly pushes it away. “I’m sorry-”

“No,” Jean responds. “You can’t do this! You can’t just lie around and… oh, God, Scott.”

“I just… I just can’t believe that he’s really gone,” Scott stammers, “I can’t believe it, because it just isn’t fair! He didn’t get to live! He didn’t get to know how much I loved him.” Scott pauses. “Jean, what if he didn’t know that I loved him?”

Jean shakes her head and relieves her hands from her neck. Her arms fall limp by her sides and she gives a shrug. Her voice is still stained by her frustration, but it has grown more silent and defeated. “How could he not?” Jean paces toward her nightstand and opens the first drawer. She retrieves a piece of paper, which she reads aloud. “Dear John,” she begins. Scott looks to his wife and immediately knows what she’s doing and what letter she’s reading.

“Today you turned eighteen, but it only feels like yesterday that I held all eight pounds and seven ounces of you. For years, you and your sister were all that I ever wanted. When I found out that I was going to be a father, it was the happiest day of my life. My wishes and your mother’s wishes had finally come true. We were receiving the greatest gift we could ever be given: a family,” Jean pauses to look up to her husband. Her eyes have become watery and a slight smile has grown across her face.

“The first time you held my finger in your tiny hand, I remember looking into your eyes and seeing the world. The future. I imagined you on this day – becoming eighteen, becoming a man. I imagined you growing up to become the amazing person I always knew you could become. And that’s mostly what has inspired me to write this letter.”

“I wanted to give you the world, but in that moment when you cooed and giggled just because you could hold my entire finger with your tiny fist… I knew I couldn’t give you the world. I could only give you my love, and it was up to you to take the world. I have no doubt that you can do whatever you set out to do, and I know that you’re going to make a difference in this world. As you embark upon new journeys in life, I only want you to know one thing.”

“I love you, my son. I always have, and always will. Take all your opportunities and all your love and find what your heart desires. Find your happiness. I know I’ve found mine. Happy Birthday. Love, Dad.” Jean wraps the letter up and clutches it in her right hand. She shakes her head and folds her arms. “Scott, he knew.”

“John’s dead,” Scott mutters shaking his head.

“But Rachel isn’t. And I’m not. We love you and we need you. Now, more than ever.” Jean takes Scott’s hands in her own. She glances up into his eyes, and kisses him lightly. The sun has risen behind them and the morning has finally arrived, casting a shadow on the two as they kiss. Jean relieves her lips from Scott’s and rubs her hand gently through his dark brown hair. “Please come back to us.”

Scott looks at his wife and brings her closer to him. He holds her closely to his chest, hoping to never let go. He feels her heart up against him, and he feels her breathing against his naked torso. He strokes the back of her head, and lets out a final cry for his son.

Well this series has had some really long delays, but at long last another issue is here! Though I’m sad to say that this will likely be the last issue for a while.

James Jordan, who has written the past several issues of this series, is MIA at the moment. At the very least there are going to be three more issues to this series to finally bridge the gap between Genetic Eclipse and Uncanny X-Men #17 once and for all, but when those issues will be done and even who will be writing them is still up in the air. I will tell you this, though – they WILL be written.

So that’s the deal, for everyone who’s been wondering what the heck is going on.

~Ryan