Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Kid a Kidder ❯ Chapter 6 ( Chapter 6 )

[ 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 a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the “Minion” saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms!

Chapter 6

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When I stumbled out of that cargo hold more than ten hours later I was beyond tired. Due to the almost complete lack of soundproofing afforded between my accommodations and just about everything mechanical within the plane, I hadn’t gotten any sleep until I pretty much passed out due to sleep deprivation the last hour and a half of the trip. If the triplets were alive, I’d lock them and Magneto up in a metal-free room for ten hours, the Dweebs armed with wooden spoons, breakable objects, and all the toy drums and firecrackers their little boy hearts could ever want. Maybe he’d know half the pain I’d endured with that plane.

How I managed to get off without any security spotting me, I had absolutely no clue; then again, it’s amazing I was coherent long enough to make it to the hatch, much less out of it and away from the air strip. In any case, I conked out in some bushes about a hundred yards away from the edge of the runway.

The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake by a clawed hand.

“PIRATE DUCKS!!!”

“How infortuitious that I should come across one of my best students, only to discover she has gone mad with heat and dehydration.”

“Merg?” I blinked blearily, scrubbing one hand at the sleepies clinging to the corners of my eyes before slipping my glasses from my pocket and onto my face.

“Dr. McCoy?”

“Miss Kidder. Might I inquire how you came to be in this place at this time?”

“It’s more than a little crazy, and...Fudge it. There was a flash of light while I was writing in my diary yesterday--or with the time zones, was it the day before that?--and I found myself alone in the school, which was abandoned, critter-infested and disturbingly dirty. Blah-blah-blah, yakity-shmackity, Xavier finally returned my mental voice mail and asked me to get help because he’s dying, but Mr. Summers and...Miss Frost...didn’t remember me or him, so I ended up stowing away in a plane’s baggage hold from New York to...here.”

Dr. McCoy looked incredibly concerned. “The Professor is dying?”

I nodded. “I’m guessing neglect, starvation, and dehydration, with a possible side of not being able to relieve himself.”

Dr. McCoy nodded, his expression all-business as he offered me a hand up, which I took.

“If you will come with me, I’ve acquired transportation with which to hasten our journey.” Relieved at finally having a responsible adult to rely on, I followed him to an uncovered jeep.

Once we were on our way and I’d settled into my seat, Dr. McCoy surprised me with a question. Though to his credit, before the question he’d surprised me with a couple water bottles, citing that I was looking and acting rather dehydrated myself. I gratefully took a rather large gulp from the first bottle, then continued with sips to minimize my chances of making myself sick.

“I have heard some disconcerting things about your behavior outside of classes, Miss Kidder. That you’ve shown insubordination and disrespect toward the Professor. Is this true?”

I spluttered on the water, spilling some on my shirt even as I turned in my seat, shocked and angry and just about ready to proverbially bite his head off because of the many levels of irritation and annoyance and hurt that had built up ever since that meeting-gone-wrong. Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint--I got tangled up in the seat belt and partially strangled before I got myself back in order. While I worked to get my breath back, I calmed down a bit. Nobody, much less someone of Dr. McCoy’s intellect and experience, would take me seriously if I acted cheesed off, even if I had just cause to do so. He’d just dismiss me as a willful, stubborn, stereotypical teenager, which I wasn’t. My issues with Xavier were serious and sincere and important. That was far more important to get across than how annoyed I was with the world as of late.

Once I was as calm as I could get in such short notice--and back to sipping water between sentences--I explained what had happened between me and Xavier: how I’d had a good deal of initial mistrust toward him because I suspected his motives for getting me away from my family, how he’d basically given me no choice but to work with Miss Frost when Dr. Grey died, promising to talk to me about how I felt about her teaching methods, which he reneged on. How Miss Frost used our training sessions to be unduly superior and condescending toward me, blasting through my poorly-equipped shielding and rifling through my private thoughts and memories while taunting me about my lack of skill, never offering hints, clues or advice on how to get better. How she got even worse after the one time I spontaneously managed to kick her out of my head. How she continued her practice of going through people’s heads to make sure they were paying attention in History class, particularly mine because I was distracted due to my being able to sense precisely what she was doing to everyone else. And then, to top it all off, her presence at my meeting with Xavier, and the meeting itself.

“So you see, all I really wanted was to ask him about things that didn’t make sense to me, or concerned me at one level or another. It was the built-up frustration with him and Miss Frost that might have made him think I was being disrespectful or something, but everything I said and asked about was perfectly valid. He had no right to yell at me, much less threaten to take away my privileges!”

I stared at Dr. McCoy, hoping he’d understand.

He sighed, and was apparently getting his thoughts in order to answer me. “What do you know about the school’s history, Miss Kidder?”

I shrugged, “Not much, other than it used to be Xavier’s family estate or something, and that you, Mr. Summers, and Dr. Grey were among his founding students. Nobody really tells me much of anything at the school, outside of classes. I think Kitty for some reason expected me to already know, or that it never occurred to her that I might not know something.”

What he told me next was, on the one hand, simply and expansion of what I already knew, and, on the other, things that would’ve never occurred to me to ask about. He spoke of his own mutation--which had developed at birth as oversized limbs; the fur came later--how Xavier had offered him a chance to pursue an education without fear of his schoolmates’ horror or panic. The outright joy he found in the school, the camaraderie with his then-new friends, who became like family. He also finally cleared up my questions of funding for the school: while some wealthy alumni--such as Warren Worthington III, aka Angel--made donations, a good deal of the school’s budget had been, and to some level continued to be, bankrolled by the profits Xavier gained by selling various artifacts and treasures that had once decorated the Mansion/School.

Boy was my face red at that one.

Dr. McCoy was quick to reassure me that he understood why I’d been concerned about the funding issues, as he himself was from a family of predominantly blue-collared workers, but that I should have, and could have, been more tactful in my questioning.

Something that further soothed my battered ego--yes, I acknowledge that I have one--were his comments that he agreed, to some extent, with my views on the school as a super-hero production line of a sort. While he’d obviously participated in the teams and the fighting and all of the other crazy stuff Xavier seems to advocate, Dr. McCoy’s first priority had always been, he told me, his education and bettering himself mentally as well as physically. He also agreed that the startling lack of alumni entering the general workforce was disturbing, though he was not entirely certain how he might go about changing that. He approved of my plans to focus on my desired career, eschewing participation in the teams and possibly, he encouraged me, to keep observing the world around me and maybe keep an eye on politics. Educated and well informed, respectable people were most needed to speak on behalf of mutants in the public eye.

I made the blanket statement that I thought pretty much all politicians were greedy idiots. I think he covered a smile at that, but he could have been swatting a bug for all I knew.

Next thing I knew, however, I was clinging to the outer supports of the jeep and hoping not to get whiplash because Dr. McCoy was forced to engage in some evasive-maneuver driving due to the extreme application of laser bolts to the area around us. We’d come upon Magneto’s lair/palace/whatever while distracted by conversation, and apparently were paying for our lack of attention. At one point I could have sworn I saw the Silver Surfer flying around and trying to avoid the weapon fire too, with two people wearing what looked like in the distance Doctor Doom armor riding on back of his board.

Yes, we’ve established that my life is weird now. I think I’m getting disturbingly used to it, though, and that’s either a bad thing or a mental defense mechanism. Who knows?

In the split-instant between a bolt getting lucky and hitting the hood of the jeep and my finding myself sprawled in some tropical flowering plants, Dr. McCoy must have undone both of our seat belts and jumped us clear.

While I just wanted this all to be over and a crazy dream--not for the first time since this started--Dr. McCoy said, “You will have to continue to the Professor on your own!”

“ARE YOU NUTS?!”

“The security systems will judge me to be a threat, not you. Besides, I’ll be in good company, it seems,” he replied with a disturbing sense of calm despite his raised voice over the sound of blasts, gesturing to the assembled mass of super-heroes that included--to my perturbed amusement--Mr. Summers and Miss Frost. How that woman could possibly consider doing anything, much less fight, in that teeny-tiny skimpy travesty she apparently called a costume, I had no idea. She dropped that much further in my already-low opinion of her, the exhibitionist floozy.

Apparently I was being too slow in my shock, because a second later my Chemistry teacher hauled me out of the foliage and shoved me in the direction of the main building. After stumbling a bit over my own feet, I regained my balance and tore off across the courtyard, absently noticing that Dr. McCoy was right: I wasn’t being targeted by the lasers. Whoopee.

I skidded to a stop once I made it inside, my mind frantically searching for Xavier’s even as I doubled over, hands on my knees and frantically gasping for air. I found him, but apparently not quite fast enough because some guard was tearing down the corridor toward me, looking rather large and scary. All I can say on the subject is “Thank God for adrenaline and the fight or flight instinct,” because those were the only things that kept me from keeling over in my already-considerable exhaustion. I had the random thought, as I dove into a waiting elevator and smacked what I guessed was the right floor button, that maybe I should take up swimming in my free time instead of horseback riding if I was going to keep getting into crazy situations between now and graduation June after next.

In the time it took for the elevator to reach it’s destination I’d both regained and calmed my breath and had to deal with some nasty leg cramps. Ow.

Thus I ended up limping out of the elevator, already casting around for Xavier again. Just my luck, I’d underestimated his position by a floor! Growling, I hauled myself over to the nearby stairwell and started climbing. I stopped grumbling and started thanking any angel that was listening, however, when I heard the guard that had been after me earlier double-time it up onto the recently-vacated-by-me floor. I’d just missed running into him. That sent me up the stairs all the faster, careful to keep my tread as light as possible in the situation. He didn’t follow me.

I found the room Xavier was being kept in just in time to see what I think was the soon-to-be Mrs.--Lady?--Doom forcibly remove the doorknob and lock from a door down the hall and enter the room it led to. I wondered what that was about, and why she was wearing what looked like her fiancée’s armor, but that wasn’t nearly as important right then as what I was there to do. The door I had to go through was also locked, and unfortunately I didn’t have a strength-enhancing doohickey to get me through. I scrambled around, finally settling on a potted plant sitting in the hallway, which I chucked at--and through--the floor-to-ceiling glass window that made up a good deal of the wall next to the door. The blinds that had cut off my view into the room served the purpose of keeping glass shards from flying too far into the room, which was handy. Ducking and keeping my arms tucked in at my sides, I sidled into the room through the hole left by the plant, glass crunching under my sneakers as I did my best to avoid slipping. When I pushed aside the blinds and stepped out into the room proper, I got my first look at Xavier in days.

He looked awful; worse than awful, disturbing and scary and like death warmed over. And the smell was like baby diapers and sweaty guys just out of gym class times a thousand; that’s the best I could manage for a mental description, though the reality was even worse, so far beyond my experience I truly was at a loss for words. He was skinny and gaunt, and I could see open, festering sores on what visible skin there was, of which there was more than there should have been because his blanket had apparently slipped down to his waist.

I forced myself to move forward and start checking him for anything I could correct or help. The best I could do was start cleaning him up a bit, because if I tried to give him water or something else to drink while he was still unconscious, he might choke or accidentally inhale it and that would leave him worse than he already was. I reeled away at the first sight of his bedpan, which was full to overflowing, and probably the only reason why it wasn’t swarming with flies was because the room had been locked up tight, with nobody in or out in days. After some frantic searching I located the biohazard trash can and just dumped the entire thing in there, replacing it with an unused clean one from a cupboard I raided while looking for bandages and cleaning supplies. I didn’t have the first clue what to do with the obviously full catheter, so I decided to stick to what I knew.

Two or three or a million--I was tired, and time seemed to lose meaning in that room--minutes later I threw myself into the visitor’s chair, disgusted and dejected. I’d cleaned and applied gauze and medical tape to the sores I could see on his front, not willing or really capable of becoming detached enough to deal with what was--in my mind--no-man’s land. I was glad I’d washed my hands before sitting, because I could feel tears welling up as the emotions I’d been holding in check for the past two days came roaring loose. I curled up in that uncomfortable plastic chair and just let myself be as dejected as I felt. I didn’t know what I was doing! I wasn’t a trained anything; I knew some first-aid, and some low-level Red Cross training from a baby-sitting class I took when I was twelve, and what I’d been taught in Biology class and learned already for Chemistry, but that was nowhere near what level of care Xavier needed now. He needed professional help, but Dr. McCoy was blatantly busy at the moment and I had no idea when he’d be free to take over here.

My mother would know what to do; she was a RN, a Registered Nurse, and had worked in a hospital for years. But she was dead; no help was coming...

-Pop!-

“Meg?”

My head snapped up, eyes frantically searching the room. I froze at the sight of the room’s new addition.

“Mom?”

“Meg? What’s going on? Where are we, and how did we get here?”

Questions didn’t matter in that precious instant. My mother was ALIVE.

“MOMMY!” I flung myself into her arms. Pick on me if you want, but right then I wasn’t Meg Kidder, future doctor, or even Meg Kidder, reasonably powerful--to my knowledge--telepath and mutant. I was just a girl who really, really needed a Mommy-Hug after a really bad day. Or two days, really.

For a small eternity it was just me and her and the love between us, and all was well and right in the world, because she was there, and nothing could be completely wrong or bad as long as I had her.

Finally I pulled back only to settle against her shoulder, rubbing my cheek comfortingly against the familiar worn cotton of my mother’s favorite attitude shirt--it said “Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, because, like, you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.” I think I’m the only person in my entire family, extended and immediate, that gets her sense of humor. I’m tempted to ask for a t-shirt I saw in a shop a while back that says “Caution: cape does not enable user to fly” for Christmas. I think the kids at school would get a hoot out of it.

Mom broke the silence by saying, “What’s going on, munchkin?”

I explained everything that had happened since I’d last spoken to her on the phone as quickly as I could, ending with my lack of ability to help Xavier and the ensuing depression at that fact.

Mom instantly went into what the Dweebs and I have long ago agreed, ratified and proclaimed to be Mega Mom mode, though in this case there was a great deal of Super Nurse thrown into the mix. I only really knew the difference due to a couple “Take Your Daughter to Work Day”s spent at the hospital watching her in action. She was soon puttering around authoritvely, raiding the supply cupboards for things that it wouldn’t have occurred to me to use, directing me to assist her in things she needed more than one pair of hands for, and generally being in her element. I learned quite a bit during that, and my already-hefty respect and admiration towards this woman who gave me life increased dramatically. I helped her get Xavier turned on either side, as well as flipping him completely over onto his front, though I refused to look at some points, which got grins at my embarrassment from the mother peanut gallery.

I’d have glared at her for that just about any other day, but I was too giddy at having her there and alive right then.

After quite a bit of time spent working on cleaning and bandaging--as well as emptying the catheter, which was gross, and putting in a new I.V. drip--Xavier surprised us both by waking up, blinking groggily. He ended up dropping back into what Mom assured me was a far more natural state of sleep, exhausted. We were just finishing up changing his sheets and moving him back onto the bed from a gurney when Magneto barged in, the steel lock automatically snapping open at the door before he even reached it, which is when my now-more-alert mind registered that the entire door was steel. It was just as well that I hadn’t tried to kick it down movie-style in my desperation earlier; I’d have broken my foot, at least.

“What in the world-?!”

He was cut off by Mom lobbing a tongue depressor at his head, where it pinged off of his helmet. My mom is so cool.

“Would you please be quiet? He just started sleeping normally, and it makes our job easier this way.” She gave me some last-minute reminders about moving the injured, which largely applied in the situation, and with a simultaneous heave from both of us moved Xavier back over. Mom stripped off the latex gloves she’d been wearing after double-checking the various monitors, tubes and cables connected to the man before making her way professionally over to Magneto. At that point she basically ripped into him verbally for letting anyone’s physical condition degenerate so badly, and wasn’t he ashamed of himself, etc., etc., etc.

Meanwhile, as I took off my own gloves, cleaned up and tidied the supplies, I kept noticing out of the corner of my eyes that Magneto seemed to be giving Mom and I odd looks, back and forth between us. What was particularly weird about his looking at us was that there was something to it that made me think he was bordering on some sort of epiphany, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He finally left when he threw up his hands and stomped out of the room, Mom leaning out the door and throwing a few last zingers. I’d already ascertained that whatever fight had been going on outside was now over, so I’d asked Dr. McCoy telepathically if he might come and double-check our work so we could get Xavier out of here, and all of us home.

Eventually we got out of there, Xavier loaded on a gurney again and we made it to the ramp up into the X-men’s Blackbird jet. It was very...big. And shiny.

Unfortunately, Miss Frost decided to throw her weight around and basically have a one-person “I’m So Great” party, picking on me all the while and not noticing that Xavier had woken up again. I had, and furthermore I’d noticed that my mom was equally as unimpressed with Miss Frost as I was.

At the first significant pause for breath, Mom struck.

“Margaret Ruth, would this be the teacher you told me about that has been mentally abusing you?”

I quickly stifled the slow grin that wanted to spread across my face as I realized what my mother was doing. This was going to be too good to cheapen with witty repartee.

“Why, yes, Mother Dearest, she is.”

Mom walked right up to Miss Frost, almost in her face, and said, “Give me one good reason why my husband and I shouldn’t sue you for child endangerment.”

“You’re bluffing.”

In that one instant, my mother became a hell of a lot scarier than Miss Frost could ever imagine being, Dominatrix Chic clothes and all. This was a Mother on the Warpath, and everybody knows that you never want to get between a Mama Bear and her Cub.

“Emma, this is nowhere near the first time I’ve had student or parent complaints regarding your teaching methods. I’m afraid you’re both no longer on the team, as well as no longer welcome in my school.”

That was Xavier. He’d just earned his first Cool Point in my books.

“WHAT?!”

The whiney bitch-fest continued all the way back to the school, whereupon it turned out that time had reverted to that day this whole thing started on. Miss Frost packed up her things and left with Mr. Summers--who gave the excuse that he needed some time away from the school, but it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that he’s totally whipped--in tow. Mom called home to check on Dad and the guys, who are fine, and Miss Munroe offered to drive Mom back into town.

Now, here I stand in my dorm room, staring down at my diary on the floor by my bed. Carnation is happily curled up by my pillow, feeling a lot better than I think he was back before, but I can’t be certain. Plopping to the ground, I open the diary to the last entry:

July 16th, 2005:

Dear Diary,

I spent a good chunk of the morning talking to Mom on the phone. My parents can only afford to call me once every two weeks, so we had a lot to catch up on. We talked about lots of things, but the main issue is that I’m going to have to pay for Carnation’s Vet bills out of my allowance, which stinks. I wish Daddy’s job’s insurance covered medical bills for pets, and for what the Vet’s work is going to cost me, Lockheed had better keep away from me or declare a truce with Carnation, because going without book money for more than three months will have me cranky beyond belief.

Anyway, Mom found the story Marie told me about Magneto’s latest fight--apparently she overheard the rest of Magneto’s rant with Xavier after I left, or somebody else did and told her--with Doctor Doom weird. I don’t know why, personally; the soon-to-be Mrs. Doom sounds wicked smart and resourceful. And, best of all, she doesn’t wander around covered in spandex--sorry, “unstable molecules”--like so many people I seem to be around of late. I’ve seen the economic statistics on Latveria--one thing Xavier’s is good for is 24-hour internet access, which my parents can’t afford and I only got during school hours at my old school--and they’re doing quite well. Genosha will be far better off economically if they let Latveria help them out, though they’d be a heck of a lot better off politically if President--or whatever his political title is--Lensherr aka Magneto would shut up about mutant superiority. It makes him sound like a Nazi. Besides, I know having to hear other people’s thoughts every time I put my shields down doesn’t make *me* feel superior. More like I’m being invaded. The man has no idea what he’s talking about, honestly.

And Xavier really shoul

What to add? How to sum up my entire experience in writing?

I clicked my pen on, and finished with this:

I have undeniable evidence within my life now that it isn’t what you can do that matters in life, but rather what you actually do, to the best of your ability--ALL of your abilities--that matters. That, and no matter how weird things get, I can always depend on those I love best.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

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Author’s notes: Yay! I finished the House of M arc!

(breaks into the Snoopy Dance!)

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

-- Rosy the Cat

4/5/06