Free X-Men: The Last Stand by Chris Claremont Page B

has neither interest nor real aptitude, not for this.”
    Having nothing to say, Ororo kept silent.
    “Things
are
better out there, Ororo—and certainly much better by far in America than in other parts of the globe. But you of all people should know how fast the weather changes.” He offered a playful grin and surprised her with his next comment. “What’s that Mel Brooks line, from
The Twelve Chairs
? ‘Hope for the best, expect the worst.’”
    She’d shared popcorn and wine with him and Hank McCoy and Scott and Jean, watching those classic comedies, and had damn near split her sides with laughter. She completed the couplet: “‘You may be Tolstoy, or Fanny Hurst.’”
    Then, more seriously, responding to the undertone beneath the banter, “Charles, you know something you’re not telling.”
    He opened the door and she found the answer rising from one of the big, comfy chairs in front of the desk.
    “Hank,” she said in greeting, following Xavier into the room.
    “Ororo,” McCoy replied.
    The hug she gave him matched her strength to his and was filled with very real affection from them both. It was like snuggling with a lion, and she grinned wide, wondering if he knew how many girls at the school wove their fantasies around his silken coat and romantic hero manner. Not for nothing were DVDs of
Beauty and the Beast
among the most popular in the library.
    She gave his side whiskers a tug: “I just
love
what you’ve done with your hair.”
    He gave hers a flick. “You too—what there is of it.” What once had fallen most of the way down her back now barely touched her shoulders, and she was considering cutting it back farther still. Seasons change, so could she.
    Hank and Xavier shook hands, and Ororo’s eyes were drawn to one of the photos on the wall, of the original class of students. She couldn’t help noticing the sight of herself sitting so stiff and formal beside a girl whose hair looked like it had been dipped in blood-hued flame. Jean in her Goth phase, which had lasted barely a semester before she got bored;
she got bored so easily back then,
Ororo remembered. She was so desperately hungry to learn—they all were.
Know the world as the key to knowing thyself.
Had they ever truly been that young? And what could have possessed them to wear those dreadful costumes in public? Thing was, and this she had to admit to herself, back then they considered them the height of cool. New millennium, new attitudes, something else that had changed.
    “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Charles,” McCoy told his mentor.
    “You’re always welcome here, Henry. You’re a part of this place, as much as anyone.”
    “I have some news.” This wasn’t a social call.
    “Erik?” Xavier asked, obviously fearing the worst.
    It was the right impulse, just in the wrong direction. And again, Ororo thought:
Everything changes.
    “No”—McCoy shook his great, shaggy head—“although we’re making progress on that front. Actually, Mystique was apprehended last week.”
    “They caught her?” He sounded so certain, but Ororo had her doubts.
    Xavier took him at his word: “The question is, how will they keep her?”
    “For the moment, that’s Bolivar Trask’s problem, thank God,” Hank said. “I—”
    “Who’s the furball?” challenged a new arrival, from the doorway.
    McCoy bristled. Storm knew he hadn’t been fond of the nickname when he was a student here. But he’d also learned manners. “Henry McCoy. Secretary of Mutant Affairs.”
    “Right,” Logan acknowledged, “the secretary.” The way he said Hank’s title, it wasn’t a compliment. “Nice suit.”
    Hank held out his hand. Logan ignored it. Xavier sighed, mainly to himself. Not a great beginning.
    Xavier said: “Hank, Logan is—”
    “The Wolverine,” Hank acknowledged. “I read the file.” To Logan directly, “I hear you’re quite the animal.”
    Logan sniffed. “Look who’s talking.”
    Ororo was done watching