Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Kid a Kidder ❯ Chapter 5 ( Chapter 5 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Don’t Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat


Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I’ll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa’s “Minion” and “Lady Doom,” which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I’m doing and she’s probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of last chapter this story has joined continuities with the “Minion” saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms!

Chapter 5

*~*

I ended up pulling off of the road about a mile outside of town and walking the bike off-road a ways into the woods, barely managing to get the kickstand down and the vehicle balanced before I collapsed to the ground. I admit I submitted to human impulses and did my best to cry myself out, since any slips with my shielding wouldn’t hurt much of anyone at this point and place.

Now I can freely admit that, looking back on things, I made some bad mistakes regarding my telepathy. I treated it like I would horseback riding, or singing. Riding came naturally to me; Grandma Kidder always said that I moved like a person “born on a horse’s back,” and varying forms to that theme. It’s one of my things, and until I came to Xavier’s I never had an opportunity to ride on a consistent basis. That wasn’t my fault; I was a victim of circumstance on that part. Singing is also something I’ve loved from a very young age; it was a way I felt I could connect with God and the world around it, something incredibly personal that could nonetheless happen in the biggest and densely-packed crowds. Something that I also brought a certain level of innate talent, but it’s taken years of choir--both church and school--to get me as far as I’ve gotten. More than one director, however, has commented that I’d be a lot farther along if I’d taken the time to practice on my own.

That was my problem with my telepathy: I haven’t put nearly enough effort into something that is so important to my own mental stability, something that should have taken top priority. I’ve been mostly running around doing quick patch-jobs when my rudimentary work--which I should be far beyond by now, according to just about everyone I’ve ever talked to about it, including Dr. Grey before she died--slips or fails or cracks.

Granted, poor habits aside, Xavier and Miss Frost definitely bear significant fault in my lack of skill. Xavier has taken little to no interest in my personal education regarding my telepathy, and he has failed to follow through on promised assessments of my instructor, Miss Frost.

I know the Bible says “love one another,” “bless those that persecute you,” and so on and so forth, but...Let’s face it, Emma Frost is a haughty, self-absorbed, image-obsessed, over-controlling BITCH. She’s what I have nightmares of Sophia becoming in ten years, quite frankly. Here’s hoping that girl gets a reality-check, and/or Gustave the Snake proves to be a calming influence; he seemed like rather sweet guy, for a cold-blooded reptile I can’t communicate with.

Once I’d worked out all of my personal drama as much as could possibly be reasonable at the moment, shoving the admittedly-wrung-out remainders back down within myself, I focused on breathing, calming myself, memories of Dr. Grey’s few lessons washing over me as the ragged edges of my psyche were smoothed, properly rewoven rather than patched over. I’d have to deal with all of the gobbledygook that was below the placid surface later, but it would have to be just that: later. Immediate survival was key; as soon as I’d rebuilt my shields and the underlying defenses, I’d start examining the problems they covered and protected from further psychic damage.

If I ever did get a chance to dig that deep, of course. I’m well-aware of what sort of person Magneto is; I’ve seen more than enough televised battles and stuff, heard enough mutant-supremacist crap spewed out of his mouth. Whatever happened, however it happened, whoever put these changes into play would probably not hesitate to smack me down at the first sign of a threat. The fact that I’ve had hardly any training probably would just make me that much easier a target. Thus, my decision that defenses were my top priority. The thing is, to my knowledge Magneto doesn’t have any great mental world-changing whoziwhatsis in his personal arsenal.

Just as I put the finishing touches on my shields, I felt a weak sort of probing. It was rather like someone took a limp noodle--long and thin, incredibly so: Angel hair pasta, perhaps?--and tried to poke my head with it. It was more annoying than anything else, really, and I would have cheerfully ignored it if it weren’t for the teensy detail that that thought-noodle felt familiar in a vexing way.

Yes, I used the word “vexing” in a sentence. It’s a weird word, “vexing;” I think people should use it more often--conversations would be more interesting, for one.

That thought-noodle was still poking. Keeping the defenses I’d managed ready for attack, I dropped the shields.

‘...Margaret...’

Okay, I was having a bit of an “Auntie Em” moment. ...Hey, that was an idea!

‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home...Damnit.’

‘...Margaret?’

The annoyingly-familiar voice seemed to be a bit confused now.

‘Kidder’s Pistachio Palace, which nut would you like to crack!’

What could I say, I’d had a crappy day and if I didn’t force out some levity I might have felt the need to run myself into a tree.

‘Margaret, please be reasonable; this isn’t easy at the moment.’

Ah, how I knew that put-upon tone.

‘Xavier. The entire world seems to have gone bonkers and my family is dead. I think I’m allowed to be less than calm and composed, and you didn’t answer when I actually called for help earlier.’

‘Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, is using her powers to keep me incapacitated, and directing my powers to her own ends. She is the one responsible for what’s happened; she’s changed the world to give everyone she loves their greatest desire.’

‘Who the HELL would want so many normal people dead and-!? ...Oh, right, her disturbingly-Nazi-like speciesist father. I reserve the right to kick him in the shin, though I probably won’t stop there. Hypocritical jerk.’

‘Yes, well, while misguided, Erik has on occasion done selfless things, and compassion-’

‘What he needs is to sit down and shut up, that’s what he needs to do. So why has the “Great and Wise Oz” decided I’m suddenly worth talking too?’

‘...I’m dying, Margaret. The caretakers Wanda has set over me are mental constructs that only seem to do their job when Wanda remembers it needs doing. I’ll spare you the details of my condition at the moment, but I need you to come here to Genosha.’

‘Oh yes, I’ll just tell Geeves the Imaginary Butler to have my Invisible Jet fueled and be their in a jiffy! Need I remind you that I’m alone and hey, I’ve only got about twenty bucks on me--it looks like it’s been through the wash so it’s probably the twenty for school expenses I thought I’d lost--and that’s just enough for, like, a train trip and a meal. Do you know how far it is to ride a bike to the nearest train station?!’

‘Margaret, if you could get to the City, would you be able to access further funds?’

‘...Yes. But I want a full refund when this is over! That money’s my personal savings towards college. But I don’t see what good it could do; I’ve never been further away than Connecticut, and I certainly don’t have a passport!’

‘Hopefully that won’t be an issue. I can sense that Scott and Emma are in Manhattan; you should be able to get help there.’

I knew this would sound whiney, but...I make no excuses other than it’s Emma-Biatch-Frost.

‘Do I have to? Miss Frost fills me with great loathing and an urge to hit something.’

‘Margaret.’

‘Damnit. Fine, I’ll go find Mr. Summers and the Wicked Witch who Butts In on People’s Brains with No Permission.’

‘...I’ll speak with Emma when I get back to the school, Margaret. Thank you.’

Coming out of my trance completely, I did one last check on my shields and defenses before stifling a cry of pain. My limbs had long-since gone numb, and were suffering from the hours of being stationary. As I slowly worked myself to a standing position, carefully stretching tired muscles, I took note of my surroundings. It was just after lunch when I started writing my journal entry for the day, and judging by the light now it was about five pm. I had two-odd hours of daylight left to make it to the nearest Amtrak station, and from there a half-hour to hour-long trip into the City.

I hoped that ominous feeling of dread creeping down my spine was in anticipation of the long bike ride ahead and not having to make nice with Emma Frost, however temporarily, but I doubted it.

~

Even as I did some last-minute stretches to avoid leg cramps in the middle of whatever sleep I might next have, working my way down the pretty-much empty train car toward where I’d stashed “my bike,” I reveled in the sight of the city lights. I was a true child of city and country, and I’d been rather city-deprived for over a month, even though I usually felt rather country-deprived most of the time when I lived back home.

Home. Was the city truly home, with no Mom and Dad or Triplets waiting for me at the apartment? I suppose I was about to find out.

Once I got my bike hauled out of the train and out of Penn Station, up the stairs and on the sidewalk, I had to stop and stare a bit. There were hardly any “normal-looking” people walking around, and I suspect those were simply like me--mutants with non-physical mutations--plus the normal ebb and flow of the city was...diminished. Of course, the logical reasoning behind that finally hit me and pointed out that the rest of the city’s inhabitants were dead. That thought finally knocked me into some action, throwing my leg over the bike and heading off, stopping briefly at a phone booth to look up Mr. Summers’ address. Surprise, surprise, it ended up being listed under the name Frost-comma-Emma.

Whatever.

I was so tired and fed-up when I finally got to the Frost-Summers residence that I didn’t bother yelling at the servant who answered the door, and then tried to shut it in my face. I told them I was a former student of Miss Frost’s, and I needed to speak with her and Mr. Summers on a matter of an emergency. Or something to that effect, I was too tired and annoyed with Miss Frost to fix that particular memory in my mind, I guess.

Thus when She sauntered into the small sitting room the servant had led me to with a warning not to sit on anything, I was less than inclined to mince words.

With a haughty sneer creeping up on her lips, my Least Favorite Person In The World At The Moment said, “Who are you and what is your business here?”

In the back of my mind I noticed two things: the whole way here my shields had been thickening, strengthening as fear of being rejected for whatever reason and my lack of trusting Emma Frost escalated. The only reason I was here now was because I couldn’t live with myself if anyone--even Xavier--were to die and I could have done something to prevent it, even though I couldn’t trust Her further than Grandma Kidder could throw her. The second thing I’d noticed, however, were Her powers scrabbling at my shields, trying to barge their way in. My eyes narrowed.

Never Again.

“My name is Margaret Kidder, and I’m here because Charles Xavier is dying and needs your help.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name; go away.” My, she sounded pissy.

“What name, Emma?” Mr. Summers walked into the room! Huzzah!

“Oh, no one of consequence, Dear...”

“Charles Xavier,” I piped up. “He taught you along with several others--including your *wife*--how to use your powers. World’s most powerful telepath? Ringing any bells?”

Mr. Summers smiled apologetically, genuine confusion on his face as he said, “I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken, Miss. I hope you find what you’re looking for, though.”

He showed me to the door, though in an admittedly-kind fashion. Unfortunately, once the door was closed and I’d walked down the steps to the sidewalk, I noticed something rather important.

The bike had been stolen.

“CRAP!!!”

~

I ended up wandering around until I found an ATM for my bank, at which point I withdrew five hundred dollars. I wouldn’t be able to withdraw any more until tomorrow, and I had no idea what a plane ticket to Genosha would cost. What was most worrying for me in the long-term was my lack of a passport; I’d need one to leave the country, after all, and it wasn’t like Omi or my uncles have ever been the sort to offer my family free plane tickets or all-expense-paid vacations to Europe or something, so there wasn’t any point in my having a passport before this. About sixty dollars paid for a room in a motel for the night, and a sparse dinner for myself. After I ate and took a shower with the motel-supplied shampoo, conditioner, and soap--there was some painful drama when some shampoo slipped into my left eye, setting me scrambling to rinse the remainders off my hands so I could flush the annoying stuff out with shower water--washing my underwear in the sink and blow-drying them into a wearable condition, I curled up on the hotel bed, wanting more than anything to wake up and have today be nothing but a disturbing dream.

Instead I was woken at--according to the battered alarm clock on the nightstand--four in the morning by Xavier’s annoying and still-weak thought-noodle. Peachy.

‘I don’t want any; go away.’

‘Margaret, really, must you persist in being obstinate in all things?’

‘I’m not obstinate in all things; just the people and ideas that annoy me. Your plan didn’t work, by the way. They didn’t know me, or remember you. And the bike I borrowed from the school’s garage was stolen--which I’m not going to pay for, by the way.’

Unusual for me up until this point in regards to Xavier, I was actually feeling rather worried for him. His presence, for lack of a better word, within my mind felt even weaker than when he first contacted me a few hours back. Despite my lack of respect toward the man, I certainly didn’t want him hurt, much less dead.

I sighed to myself and, unable to keep my concern from my mental voice, said, ‘Do you have any other ideas?’

‘Unfortunately no. Wanda hasn’t sent her construct-caretakers to me in a few days and, while distracted by her sons--who are also mental constructs of hers--it still is not easy for me to get past her notice to contact you.’

While that whole “mental construct kids” bit had me more than a tad intrigued, what really got my attention was the qualifier of “a few days” in regards to Xavier’s lack of care. As interested as I am in being a doctor some day, of course I’ve always paid attention to any references as to what the human body can handle. A person can go quite some time without food at all, depending on how much fat and muscle mass they have. Downside number one: Xavier’s rather lean and fit for a man his age--heck, for a man several years younger than him!--which makes sense considering how much work his arms would have gotten back before he got a motorized wheelchair, but his build and his disability leaves him with a low percentage of body fat and already-atrophied muscles in his legs. His body doesn’t have much to feed off of. Downside number two: as long as the human body can go without food, it is incredibly limited when it comes to water. Without water to drink--or in Xavier’s current most likely case an I.V.--a person will die after three or four days without fluids.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the nastiness that could happen if his catheter wasn’t replaced regularly. Face it, we pee to get rid of toxins our bodies produce. Don’t let a person pee for long enough, and either their bladder will burst or the toxins will poison them to death. Eww. On the positive side of that particular spectrum, a lack of water would slow down the process of a catheter filling and minimize the chances his bladder bursting, but up his chances of being poisoned because the toxins would be more concentrated.

‘Wait, hold up! Define “a few” there!’ I needed to know how long I had until the man was as good as dead. I’d have to think of something incredibly drastic if he was almost at the point of no return, after all...

‘...I’m not entirely certain. A day and a half, I suppose; two days at the most.’

Okay, well then. He wasn’t in immediate life-threatening danger, but we were getting close to the borderline.

Borderline...Boarders...Boarding...Carry-ons...Luggage...

‘How long is a flight to Genosha?’

~

Three hours later found me crawling under a rather raggedy chain-link fence that surrounded the grounds of JFK airport. I was quite certain that I’d never have gotten away with what I was planning on doing in a million years if the world was normal--as normal as it ever got, really--but as it wasn’t, I had hope.

After finishing my conversation with Xavier--pointedly not giving him any hints as to what my plan was incase his jailer decided to take a look at his thoughts--I’d double-checked I had everything of mine, checked out of the motel, made one last withdrawal from my bank account, and caught a bus to the airport. There I’d done a careful job not to be noticed, checking the Departure screens for any likely flights. There weren’t really many options as far as destinations, I noticed: three to Israel, which got a raised eyebrow from me, a couple to LA, and one to Latveria. Everything else--though there weren’t nearly as many flights heading out as I suspected was normal--was for Genosha. I memorized the gate numbers for the flights leaving within the next hour or two, then nonchalantly left the main check-in area.

And that was how I’d gotten where I was now: slinking around the inside edges of the fencing, darting from scraggly bush to overgrown shrub as I made my way toward the waiting planes. Once or twice I’d had to throw myself to the ground as a plane roared over me in either takeoff or landing, wind buffeting and dirt, gravel, dust, etc. pummeling me. Finally I made the last dash from fence to the shadowed side of the terminal building. I was rather lucky that there were so few flights they only needed to use one terminal; otherwise this would take forever.

I finally hit a snag, however, when I made one last sprint, this one for the conveyor belt leading up into the cargo hold of a soon-departing Genosha-bound plane.

“HALT!”

I tripped over my feet and went tumbling, glasses flying off my face. I could hear the skittering sound of the stainless-steel frames against the tarmac, and I sent a fervent prayer that, should I survive long enough to get them back, that the glass wouldn’t be scratched too badly.

The guards roughly flipped me over onto my back, and I couldn’t hold back a few tears at the pain of my already-bruised body being pressed into the unyielding ground. They were obviously mutants, despite the fact that all I could see were some grayish blobs, because those blobs had smaller, brightly-colored blobs attached to them, and I could hear the crackle of energy and smell lightning. I was as good as dead. I didn’t know why I’d ever thought I could succeed at something crazy like this; it wasn’t like I was some hero from an old B-movie or something. I wasn’t the Dread Pirate Roberts; heck, I wasn’t even Princess Buttercup. I was just a bit-part extra in someone else’s story.

So imagine my surprise when the colored blobs winked out and one of the guards whispered in an oddly-scared voice, “Is it Her?”

“No, it can’t be Her; she’s too young!” whispered back the other guard, his voice alternating between nervous and condescending.

“But--but look at her! They’re so alike!”

“No, it isn’t Her.”

“What if they’re related? What if ...?”

“Right, this wouldn’t do, then. Forgive us, Lady, but we didn’t recognize you from a distance! We’ll be right back with help for you!”

And both gray blobs bolted off as if all the fiends of Hell were on their heels.

That was just plain weird.

I scrabbled about for my glasses, signing in relief when the heel of my left hand came in contact with them. I made a few swipes at the lenses with the hem of my t-shirt, then put them back in place perched upon my nose, glad that they hadn’t been scratched. The guards undeniably gone, for what reasons I did not know or, at the moment, care, and so I picked myself up and limped my way up the now-still conveyor belt. The guards, as I’d thought of them, were probably doubling as baggage handlers or something, because nobody else was around. I did my best to secure myself in place amongst the luggage as far from the hatch as I could get and, once that was taken care of, I set to work assessing the damage.

My legs had taken the brunt of my fall, so I fortunately didn’t have any scrapes or cuts, but my jeans were torn in more than one place. Plus, the back of my button-up shirt--worn over a plain white t-shirt--had some kind of grease smeared over it, so I shucked that off, rolled it up with the grease on the inside and tucked it between my knees for the moment. I could use it for a pillow during the flight.

As I set to work re-tying back my ponytails, I wondered what had spooked the guards. There wasn’t anything particularly scary about me, or stunning. My mother was undeniably beautiful, something that I think still gets to--used to get to--Daddy on occasion, but I have the Kidder facial structure, as near as I can tell: round. Despite years of lean meals, I still have baby fat lingering around my face, so whether or not I end up keeping my facial resemblance to old pictures of Grandma, or angular cheekbones and chin show up, will determine which side of the family I look most like. I stared blankly at a lock of my hair. It really was the only defining feature on me, as it was a dark blood-reddish, with brownish highlights. I’d inherited it from my mother, who got it from Omi. I don’t know where Omi might have gotten it from, as she says her entire family--though at one rendition of the Family Story she said clan, for some reason--was killed by the Nazis. Considering she spent years in Auschwitz, it also isn’t surprising that she doesn’t have any pictures of them. The only thing that sets my hair apart from Mom’s and Omi’s is that it’s straight as a pin, where theirs are naturally masses of curls. Omi wears it Old-Lady short, but Mom wore hers long, because it minimized the amount the family had to spend on hair cuts. Daddy and the boys are easy because Mom could just give them all buzzes at home with a hair-trimmer attachment on Daddy’s razor, but Mom and I still had to get our hair trimmed every month or two--sometimes three if money was tight. Omi goes to her “Hair Dresser” every week! I think she’s nuts and oddly-wasteful for someone who’s been through what she has, but whatever floats her boat.

In any case, whatever those men saw in me didn’t really matter, other than it’d gotten them away from me, and I was now on my way.

I burrowed further down into the pile of duffle bags I’d settled in as I heard and felt the plane start up, the hatch thumping shut and plunging me into darkness.

Genosha, here I come.

*~*

Author’s notes: My that was a long one. I hope you all enjoyed it!

Good? Bad? Confusing? All will be explained in time.

Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa.

-- Rosy the Cat

3/30/06