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1X07 – El Chacal – Act II
“What you’re asking, Cecilia,” Jean paced a bit, “it goes against every fiber of my moral being.”
“I don’t want you to rewrite his mental landscape,” the doctor countered, “just get him looking in another direction, away from me. You can’t say you haven’t done similar before.”
“I may have… pushed people into a direction they were already going,” Jean crossed her arms, “but I’ve never changed their minds before. There’s a difference.”
“Cecilia,” Scott interjected, standing from the table, “are you sure this Detective Milson is truly going to investigate as he claims?”
The older woman frowned at him, “You mean will the cops bother with just another gang shooting in a black neighborhood?”
“That’s… not what I mean,” Scott glanced down like a boy scolded by his mother.
“The truth is,” Cecilia sighed, “normally I’m patching up kids because the cops don’t give a damn. This Milson is bucking for something, maybe a Captain’s shield, I don’t know, but he thinks he’s found it with me, a major bust or at least a headline.”
“And it’s not the kind of headline we wish to see,” the Professor said as he entered the room.
“I know I’ve not exactly been supportive of my mutant side,” Cecilia turned to Xavier, “my ability has always been this extra… thing I could do. I’ll always be a doctor first and a mutant last. But I understand the challenges you face and I am not going to be the one responsible for making matters worse.”
“We do appreciate your thoughtfulness,” the man nodded, then glanced over at the others, “and now we must decide what best to do with this situation.”
“We can’t go in and mess with his mind,” Jean spoke emphatically, “I refuse.”
“I’m all for ideas,” Cecilia didn’t push the subject.
“Bigger fish?” Theresa suggested as she downed a truffle.
“That’s not bad,” Scott gave her an appreciative look, “if Detective Milson is looking for a headline, it may not matter where it comes from.”
“I like it,” Cecilia rubbed her chin, “we give him a real criminal and we might actually be able to do something good for the community.”
“But it’s got to be big,” JP sat back in his chair, “’popular clinic doctor secretly a drug lord’ kind of big.”
“I don’t have enough of a life to be a drug lord,” the woman rolled her eyes.
“Why don’t I go by the precinct tomorrow,” Jean suggested, “I can poke around surface thoughts, see what might make a good headline.”
“I’ll come with,” Theresa stood up beside her, “we can go shopping afterwards. Love this exchange rate.”
“That’ll be fun,” Jean smiled at her.
“So,” Bobby raised his hand, “are we talking about being vigilante crime fighters?”
“I call Catwoman!” Jubilee shouted out.
“We’re not playing Batman,” Scott frowned at them.
“Indeed,” Charles said gravely, “we are not supporting vigilantism.”
“We’ll find some breadcrumbs,” Jean added, “evidence the police might not otherwise have access to, and let them do their jobs.”
“But we’ll still put a bad guy away in the end,” Bobby pointed out, “it’s like Kitty said before, we’re super heroes now.”
Everyone glanced at each other, their faces a mix of question and worry. Were they becoming super heroes? Was that necessarily a bad thing?
…
Rouge decided to get in a work out. Listening to her iPod she was boxing one of the hanging bags when Pietro appeared beside her.
“Where is everyone?” he asked before she had time to even realize he was there.
“Huh?” was all she was willing to give him, pulling out an ear bud.
“Pyro, Dom,” he gestured towards the living room, “you’re all supposed to be going through the information we downloaded from the Council’s watchdog.”
“Pyro went to burn something,” Rogue went back to boxing, “Dom drove, think they’re going to a bar afterwards.”
“I leave you an assignment,” their leader shook his head, “and this is what you do? Ignore it.”
“We’ve got a search program running,” she threw a few elbow jabs at the bag.
“That’s hardly what I asked for,” Pietro frowned.
Rogue stopped and stilled the bag, “Then maybe you should have stuck around to help.”
He crossed his arms, “I had things to take care of.”
“Oh,” she smirked, “I know what you were taking care of.”
“I told you that in confidence,” the speedster was not amused.
“No,” she poked him in the chest with her index finger, “I saw it in your memories cause they were so damn loud I didn’t have a choice, and I’ve had to live with it.”
“I tried not to think about it when I knew you were going to absorb me in Kolkata,” he argued.
“Which only made you think about it harder,” she shook her head and went back to boxing, “and the boys know you’re up to something, they keep asking about your disappearing act.”
“Youhaven’tsaidanythinghaveyou?” he replied quickly.
“What do you think?” she made a face and kept punching the bag, “but you know, one of these days, Magneto’s gonna figure it out.”
“I know,” he sighed frustratedly, “I know.”
…
Later that night, Dom and Pyro sat at a table in the back of the bar somewhere in New York. Dom was drinking beer and flirting with two women sitting three tables over while Pyro was flipping his lighter open and closed.
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell us,” the Australian frowned.
“Perhaps she was ashamed,” Dom suggested.
“Maybe,” he flicked the lighter a few times, “but we’re friends, no, we’re family, and she still won’t even tell us her name, or her birthday, or anything.”
“It is her right not to tell us,” Dom visually flirted again with the two women, it looked like it was going to be a promising night.
“I know…” Pyro sighed, “but between her and whatever Quicksilver is hiding, I’m starting to feel like we’ve become the B-Team.”
“B-Team isn’t so bad,” he replied as it looked like the women were going to come over, “less of a headache to deal with.”
“Maybe,” Pyro left the lighter open this time, the flame flickering perhaps a tad unnaturally to anyone who might be noticing, “we used to really be a family, I think everyone is forgetting that.”
“Pyro, my friend,” he directed his attention to the girls who were now coming over to join them, “I think you’re the only one of us who isn’t trying to forget their families.”
The Aussie frowned but said nothing more on the subject as they were joined by the two pretty girls who took the other seats at the table. Dom had attracted the attention of the blonde while the black haired girl had her eyes on Pyro.
“I’m Cassy,” the blonde said, “and this is my friend Linda.”
“Dominikos,” he replied, “and this is St John.”
“Sin-jin?” Linda creased her brow at the strange name.
“It’s an uncommon pronunciation of a typical English surname Saint John,” Pyro filled her in, “my parents are hipsters, but the cool kind.”
Linda’s eyes lit up, “Oh, you’re British.”
Pyro frowned, “Australian, actually, just outside Melbourne.”
Linda tried to smile but was obviously embarrassed, so her friend turned to Dom to distract from the awkward silence, “And you’re from?”
“Crete, off the Greek coast,” he told her.
“The Mediterranean is so beautiful,” Cassy smiled at him.
“But it does not compare to the beauty of a good woman,” Dom had a pretty good feeling about tonight.
“We were thinking of going to that dance club that just opened up a few blocks over,” Cassy was definitely interested in him, “do you guys want to come with?”
“Sounds like fun,” he could brave a few hours on the dance floor, “you up for it St John?”
“Let us read and let us dance,” the pyromaniac quoted, “two amusements that will never do any harm to the world.”
“That’s so deep,” Linda was amazed.
“That’s Voltaire,” he informed her.
“Is that like Louis Vuitton?” she asked.
Without saying a single word, Pyro systematically moved the beer bottles away from him, then unceremoniously dropped his head solidly onto the table. Linda and Cassy both reacted by sitting back in their chair, unsure of what just happened.
Dom rubbed his forehead and sighed, it was Chelmsworth all over again.
…
The next morning saw two bright-redheads walk into a police station, the young man at the reception desk eager to help.
“My name is Jean Grey,” she introduced herself, “I’m here on behalf of my father, Councilman John Grey. I’m to pick up some dossiers on crime statistics.”
“Oh, right,” the policeman nodded, “I think Captain Beems is working on that, I’ll give him a call.”
As he did so, Jean glanced around, reading the surface thoughts of everyone in the immediate vicinity one at a time.
“Even when they confess it’s a crap load of paperwork,” an officer who was sitting at his computer lamented.
“I wonder if I can get James to take my shift,” thought another.
“I’ve never seen a house fire behave like that,” thought the officer standing at the coffee station, “there had to be an accelerant or something.”
Theresa lightly tapped her shoulder to draw her attention back to the policeman.
“The Captain’s not quite done gathering everything,” he told them, “so if you’d like to wait in the meeting room,” he pointed to a glass door and a room beyond with a nice table and chairs, “then he’ll be with you in just a few.”
“No worries,” she said politely and the two women went into the meeting room as asked.
“Found anything useful yet?” Theresa asked as they sat across from each other.
Jean sat with her back to the door so they couldn’t see her pretty much staring blankly into space as she tried to listen, “No, but I think I found Detective Milson.”
“Ballistics said they never seen anything like it,” the man thought, “it was almost as if the bullets hit bullet resistant glass but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Is he as charming as Cecilia made him out to be?” Theresa said dryly.
“That so-called do-gooding porch monkey is up to something,” he continued to think, “ain’t no way someone like her doesn’t have her fingers in a gang. They all do, one way or another.”
“He’s a deplorable example of a human being,” Jean frowned, “and he’s not giving me anything else to work with, he’s focused on Cecilia.”
“Well,” Theresa tried to be supportive, “maybe you can nick someone else’s case?”
“I’m having a look around,” she rubbed her temple as she expanded her search, trying to find something of use, “there is a murder one of them is looking into.”
“Well known person,” Theresa asked, “or especially heinous?”
“No,” she shook her head, “looks like business partner quarrel.”
“Not big enough,” the woman said, “which is a sad thing to say.”
“Yeah,” Jean concentrated harder.
“The thieves got in by blowing the doors,” some guy was thinking, “but the techs can’t pinpoint what explosive was used, it didn’t leave any trace.”
“I think they may have stumbled onto another mutant,” Jean realized as she listened to the details of the case.
“Oh,” Theresa’s eyes widened a little, “got a name?”
“No,” she pursed her lips, “but I’ll give what we have to the Professor, maybe we can locate the mutant on Cerebro if we narrow down the search parameters.”
“Good idea,” the Irish red head nodded, “and we want to keep Milson away from that case.”
“Indeed,” Jean agreed and reached out again.
There was a lot of background noise, then she struck on something.
“The ATF and the Feds aren’t having any better luck on this than we are,” a detective on the second floor was downright pissed, “somehow the El Chacal gang is getting their drugs shipped in from Columbia and no one can figure out how.”
“What about a drug bust?” Jean was pulling what information she could from the man without truly invading his privacy, “Take down a real major drug lord that everyone is after?”
“Oh,” Theresa smiled, “that’s a career making bust, if the telly is to be believed.”
“The leader is Ty Issacs, at least we think it is,” she pulled more thoughts, “witnesses and informants have had a nasty way of disappearing, usually in the block radius of…”
Theresa tapped on the table and Jean straightened up as the door opened.
“Miss Grey,” she turned her head to see a man walk in, holding a thick folder, “I’m Captain Beems.”
“Captain,” she smiled and stood, shaking his hand.
“I have everything your father requested,” he held up the folder, “though I am curious, our precinct is out of the Councilman’s jurisdiction.”
“It’s just for comparative purposes,” she assured him as she took the data, “general research, looking at ways to improve his district.”
“Ah, well,” Beems was a little more reassured at that but it still troubled him that a Councilmen would be bothering him for such information, “it’s all a matter of public record anyway.”
“Thank you then for compiling it for us,” Jean smiled, “your station has been very helpful.”
…
Later that afternoon, Jean and Theresa were driving through the city with shopping bags in the trunk. Theresa was fiddling with a new pair of sneakers as Jean drove.
“The mark up on a good pair of trainers is ridiculous back home,” Theresa said as she put them back in the box, “couple that with the exchange rate and I should do a shopping visit more often.”
“You know you’re welcome at the school any time,” Jean said as she put on her blinker and checked over her shoulder to take an exit, “you, your dad, everyone from Muir Island.”
“I know,” Theresa threw the shoe box in the back seat, “but the work keeps us busy. Moira is working really hard, she’s close to a breakthrough, we can all tell.”
“You two getting along then?” she asked cautiously.
“Yeah,” the girl slumped a bit, “I mean, I’m happy for da, I’m glad he’s found someone again, but I miss my mum. I know it’s been years now…”
“It’s okay to still miss her,” Jean told her friend, “it means she’ll never truly be forgotten.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly, then shifted awkwardly in her seat before saying, “So, I see Scott still hasn’t made a move on you yet.”
Theresa was changing the subject and she let her, “I’ve given him plenty of chances.”
“Then why don’t you ask him out?” Theresa said with a note of mischief.
“Scott’s… complicated,” she frowned as she turned a corner, “he doesn’t let people in, and I’m not going to force my way in.”
“You could at least bang on the door,” the woman pointed out.
“Maybe one day it will come to that,” Jean sighed, “but it’s also possible that it’s just not meant to be. Office romances can be the worst, just look at you and Jamie.”
“Oh, don’t bring him up,” Theresa sunk in her seat, “and I still have to work with him, every one of him.”
Jean laughed, “Alright, are you seeing anyone new then?”
“Sorta,” she frowned, glancing out the window at the run down neighborhood, “it’s complicated, and where are we?”
“I thought we might check out the El Chacal gang,” Jean answered as she went down another street, the houses older and showing wear, old cars littering the driveways and street, “it was on our way back and I really want more to give the team.”
“You have a plan?” the woman asked, “can’t rightly knock on the leader’s door now can you.”
“No, I can’t,” she pulled into a convenience store parking lot, “but I can find out where he is.”
“Always helpful,” Theresa laughed.
Jean sat in the car for a moment, eyes closed, sensing out across the area, but eventually gave a frustrated sigh, “There are so many people around, which wouldn’t be so bad if I knew who I was looking for or had something more narrow to work with.”
“Worth a shot,” the woman shrugged.
“Come on,” Jean undid her seat buckle, “let’s take a walk around.”
“Sure that’s wise?” her friend said even as she undid her seat buckle, “This is a high crime neighborhood apparently.”
“I am a telepath/telekinetic and you’re a regular Banshee,” Jean smirked as she got out of the car, “I think we’ll be fine.”
“Point taken,” Theresa followed her around to the front of the parking lot and started to walk down the sidewalk with her.
As they went, Jean peaked into the individual houses, just getting a sense of what was going on.
“Boss grabs my butt again and I’ll break his hand,” a woman thought, “oh, who am I kidding, I need this job, I can’t afford to quit.”
“Pizza counts for all the food groups, right?” came from the next house.
“Crap, he’s drunk again,” this came from a kid across the street, “need to stay out of his way, still have bruises from last time.”
“What is the point of school anyway?” his neighbor thought, “I’m just going to be a runner for El Chacal, not like I got many other options.”
“Okay,” said the lady in the next house, “one more episode and then I do the dishes, just one more, that’s it.”
“Another funeral next week,” sighed another, “sixth one this year.”
“You okay there?” Theresa asked as they continued down the sidewalk, “You look a little peaked.”
“I’m fine,” she said and she realized just how hollow it sounded, “no, that’s a lie. I’m… troubled. There are so many people on this street alone that could use help, yet all we’re doing is going after one drug lord this one time, just to protect from the possibility that we might be caught out.”
“What are ya saying?” Theresa asked as the two stopped. “You wanna be a crime fighter? Like Bobby said?”
“Vigilantism isn’t the answer,” Jean spoke emphatically, then broke, “but it sounds really good, doesn’t it, especially when you don’t have to be a mutant to help some of these people.”
“You canna save everyone,” her friend pointed out.
Jean frowned, “Should that stop me from saving at least one?”
“No,” Theresa took her arm and they started back down the street, “no it shouldn’t. And I have a feeling you’ll save more than one when you take down El Chacal.”
“Which we’re only doing to get that jerk of a policeman off Cecila’s back,” Jean shook her head, “we’ll be doing him a favor.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” her friend frowned, “we could always ruin his career, maybe plant evidence. Oh, we could take him and El Chacal down together.”
“Why does that make us any better than the criminal?” Jean let out a long sigh, “Is it the end justifying the means? Who decides when that’s okay?”
“I don’t know what to tell ya,” Theresa shrugged and gave a sorrowful frown. “Humans are a fickle lot, they believe in law and order and are against the death penalty, then someone does something especially heinous and suddenly lynch mobs are forming.”
“I think that’s one trait humans and mutants both share alike,” Jean mused, then frowned, “and why Magento feels the need to do what he does.”
“We get the shipment on Thursday,” a voice caught her attention, “we can have it cut, bagged, and on the street by the weekend.”
“Wait, I’ve got something,” Jean said and stopped at an intersection, looking right towards some houses that were very closely spaced together.
“I’ll have Breaker run point,” the thoughts continued as she headed towards the person, “he’s proved himself enough.”
“This way,” Jean headed down an alley between two houses, “I think they’re in a storage hut or something.”
Quietly the red heads made their way around the garbage cans as they came to the back end of the houses, pausing at the edge of the brick structure. They leaned cautiously around and spotted the large wooden workshop at the back end of the next house over.
“Is that it?” Theresa asked.
Jean concentrated, “Not their hang out, but their major storage hub.”
“Good place to start,” the girl said.
“Exactly,” she made a mental note of everything she saw and was picking up, “let’s go.”
They pulled back and went to return to the sidewalk, only to find their path blocked by three large men. One was wearing a wife-beater that displayed some seriously ripped muscles, another was holding a crowbar.
The leader in front smirked at him, “Little city girls must be lost.”
“Must we?” Jean replied dryly and focused on the garbage cans which started to shake just a little as she mentally grabbed a hold of them. Beside her, she could hear Theresa take in a long, deep breath.
“Hiyah!” the battle cry sounded right as a bat cracked across the back of the thug with the crowbar.
The other two men turned towards their attacker, only for one to get kicked solidly in the stomach and the leader got an elbow to the face. That didn’t take them down, but when the woman brought the bat back around to snap the leader on the knee, then round kicked the last one, they all went to the ground.
“This way,” the tall dark skinned woman said, jogging past them to head behind the house and down another alley.
Jean and Theresa didn’t argue and followed her, getting a little turned around but trusting the woman in the red leather jacket and matching red leather pants with black knee-high boots. She stopped at the edge of one of the houses, then after a quick look, led them across another alley and into the back of a house that looked like it was built in the 50s and hadn’t received any significant remodeling since.
“We’ll lie low for a little bit and then get you two back to your car,” the woman said as she went to the fridge and grabbed some bottles of water, “got someone watching it, otherwise it might not have been there when you got back.”
“Ah, thank you,” Jean took the offered water.
“You’re lucky I saw you,” the woman admonished them, “couple of upscale white girls walking around like freaking tourists, were you trying to get yourselves killed, or worse?”
“Well, to be fair,” Theresa said in her Irish lit, “I am a tourist.”
“No kidding?” their savior raised her brow.
“We we investigating the El Chacal,” Jean told the woman, she could tell by her surface thoughts that she wasn’t part of the group, the opposite in fact.
“Oh, you’re not tourists,” the woman blanched, “you’re escapees from the loony bin.”
“Quite possibly,” Jean sighed, “my name is Jean, and this is my friend, Theresa.”
The woman regarded them for a moment, then shook her head lightly, “Name’s Misty, Misty Knight.”
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