-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ X-Writers Presents ... Generation X #18 -- The Happiest Place on Earth -- Secret Doors to Realms Unknown by Lee and Jess July 29, 1997 -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Disclaimer: X-Writers is a nonprofit writing group who has taken the characters of Marvel Entertainment and used them in a fanfiction (a written story distributed over the net dealing with previously established characters in an original story). Marvel retains full rights and copyrights to all Marvel characters (including but not limited to Sean, Angelo, Jonothon, Paige, Jubilee, Mondo, Artie, Leech and so on). This story may be redistributed in its entirity via online archives but must retain all headers. No copyright challenge is meant or implied. Warning: This story takes place in Disneyworld, home and hell to many. The faint of heart are advised to use caution when reading the story. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Imagine, if you will, a setting like no other. A land in which a Mouse rules the cosmos ... in which human beings dress up like animated creatures designed to look vaguely humanoid ... in which sweetness and light is artificially flavored and produced ... in which stockholders and chief executives pay for their lifestyles by providing entertainment for the masses by appealing to the lowest common denominator. Imagine, if you will, a hell on earth. a paradise within reach. a park full of screaming kids. a place of peace like no other. a contradiction in terms, the alpha and omega, a true dichotomy. Imagine if you will ... Disneyworld -- The Happiest Place on Earth. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ It wasn't the sort of day that could make one wake with a smile and a whistle on her lips, she decided. Watching over the younger group of Generation X -- that being Penance, Artie, Leech and, in a way, Mondo -- Cordelia was beginning to realize that Disneyworld was less than it was cracked up to be. Sure, the candy rushes were great, and some of the rides weren't half bad, but if she had to stop and take pictures with one more dumb guy in a cartoon character set-up, she was going to scream. Oblivious to her dilemma, the youngsters in question were currently huddled about a very large map. Spread across a sickly green park bench, they peered over the contents with all the seriousness of postgraduate scholars. Penance perched on the back of the bench itself, one hand idly holding an apple, the other resting casually against the faded wood. Leech, the miniature general, was presiding over the whole affair from the front of the bench while Artie and Mondo sat on either side. From the slow nods coming from each, Cordelia hoped that it meant they were ready to finally pick a direction and go. No sooner thought than done. Leech grabbed the map and proceeded to fold it with meticulous care. By the time he was done, it was a tiny version of its previous self and easily stuffed in his inner coat pocket. Pulling his cap further down his head, he proceeded to walk -- no, march -- towards the chair into which Cordelia had fallen. One by one the others followed, with Penance -- munching her apple -- bringing up the rear. With no little trepidation, Cordelia smiled nervously. "All ready?" she asked with the slightly harried tone of a den mother at a week long Scouting trip. Leech nodded with exaggerated care and pointed towards something in the distance. "Leech and friends know where they want to go. They want to go there." They all turned to follow Leech's pointing, and smiles broke out on four of the five faces. Cordelia simply groan, albeit quietly. 'There' was the other side of the park. If they were lucky, through this crowd, it would only take them twenty minutes of walking. Well, no rest for the wicked, she thought in resignation. Moving to her feet, she started the ritual all over again. Leech came forward, and she helped him with his backpack, and then did the same for Artie. Penance took her own satchel from Cordelia's stack and slung it across her chest. Mondo picked up a shopping bag -- full of candy, not clothes or anything real useful -- and put his Mickey Mouse hat on top of his head. Cordelia put her own backpack on, grabbed two more bags -- one a shopping bag full of clothes, gifts and even more candy, the other a shoulder bag with useful things like bottles of water, jackets, and other odds and ends -- and headed off into the noon crowd. And despite her attempt to remain in a foul humor, a small smile crossed her lips as she watched her strange, diverse group of kids lead the way to the castle. Bouncing along with barely contained joy, even Penance was grinning at the world around her. Mondo picked up Artie and set him on his shoulders. Leech walked next to Mondo, urging everyone on. And Penance ... almost shyly, the quiet girl slipped her hand into Cordelia's. 'Hi ho, hi ho,' the older girl thought, merrily, closing her own hand around that of her friend. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ His hand traced over the surface of her hair, a cupped palm recording the shape of her head for cartographic and future reference. There was a pulse of silence in which both members of the peculiar couple were aware singularly of sensation. "Jono," said Paige Guthrie after the moment had departed for more epic shores, "they're gone." Indeed, what had been the high-noon shadows of the most average jocks in the universe had melted into the distance, into the swarming crowd. << I know. >> the boy replied, but he took a second to release her. She stood awkwardly before him, straightening the cuffs on her shirt. Her wide blue eyes were upturned, and with that the tilt of her chin, and her nose, and most importantly her mouth. Caught in the needle's eye of fantasy, he moved to lick his lips before moving in to kiss her. His image obliged. His back stiffened. He was, after all, quite as lipless as any chicken (and without the benefit of a beak, at that). He ran a hand over his chin and turned to face a railing, which had far more straight lines than she did. "Jono," Paige prefaced, her voice stopping and starting like a stuttering motor turning restlessly in mechanical sleep. "Thank yuh." Her voice was rough and soft, a kitten's Southern tongue. She lifted herself on her toes, quite aware of the fact that her language-cover had slipped around her ankles, and planted a kiss square on his cheek. Jonothon Starsmore's image reddened considerably. << 'twas all m'pleasure, luv. >> The truth felt somewhat funny in his mouth. He hadn't been previously sure if he remembered the way to speak it. Suddenly, he was aware of the fact that Paige had begun talking again, and his 'voice', louder and deeper, was overriding hers. He crossed his arms over his chest oh-so-casually and leaned back, listening to her halting soliloquy. "... 'cause, honestly, Jono, yuh're mah best friend, th' ... er, the one ah ... I feel the deepest connection with. Angelo and I can play around, but there's somethin' about you ... " she was saying. It was not a good day for Paige Guthrie and expository speeches, though, rare as they were from her mouth. From the bowels of the carousel behind the pair, a figure had arisen, and it too had to get the last word in. "Whatchoo sayin' 'bout me, amiga?" Angelo queried, pushing a mop of sweaty dark hair back from the sides of his face. He allowed himself a space to breathe, and then he glanced around nervously. "You seen any cops? This cholo's on th' run." Paige planted her hand on her hip. Her sweet blue eyes glinted dangerously, like a sorceror's blade in the moonlight. "Ulp," noted Angelo seriously. This was his eloquent way of expressing the sandstorm of worry, dread, high-pitched nervousness, and absolute jealousy spinning in his stomach and threatening up his throat as he glanced about the wreckage of the moment he had so skillfully -- and so unknowingly -- interrupted. "You know better than t' go 'round interruptin' others' private conversatio -- !" Paige nearly screeched. (Jonothon, in the background, appeared halfway between mortified and amused, the corner of his 'mouth' lifted just slightly so, if the beautiful blonde harpy turned, he could set it back down.) Unfortunately, the proper conjugation of the word 'conversation' never made it to anyone's ears. It was overridden, in perfect synchronicity, with a "There he is!" straight out of a Saturay morning cartoon. The teens barely had time to look at eachother; some primary intense emotion drove each of them through the crowd at high speed, marking out the others simply by the pace at which they were going. Paige had enough righteous anger for two, mixed and salted with the proper dash of embarassment; Angelo, we have already mentioned; and Jonothon, Jonothon ran on pure and total confusion -- unleaded. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Clearing his throat, Sean held up his glass to the others at his table. "I'd like to propose a toast. To the School -- may it's students outshine even the brilliance o' its allumni." Tilting the glass forward, a delicate chime rang out when it connected with two other glasses. "Here, here," Bobby added, taking a sip of his water. "Overdramatic, but appreciated," was Mallory's response as she took the requisite sip of her Chardonnay. Her relaxed smile took any sting out of the words. "Aye, overdramatic," Sean said, "But ye remember, 'tis up to us to get them all in line. And considering the talent we've brought together -- both instructors and students -- this class is bound to be the best one yet." Bobby watched the byplay with only a corner of his mind, the other part roaming as it often tended to. The veranda in which they were seated offered a beautiful view of the park. From this vantage point, very little of the noise and unpleasantness filtered through, leaving only the joy and happiness it tried to portray in overdone ads. It wasn't the happiest place on earth because of the place itself, Bobby thought, but because of the people in it. The adults, the kids, the adults acting like kids ... everyone who put themselves into the mindset and left the 'real' world behind could experience the happiness here. He was nearly lulled by the peace of the place. Smiling contently, he startled slightly when his ears picked up mention of his name. Glancing between the others, he said, "Huh?" Laughing outright, Mallory leaned back in her chair and covered her mouth with one nail-bitten hand. Sean, more subtle, just smiled with constrained amusement. "Uh ... what?" Bobby cursed his fair complexion as he realized he was beginning to blush. Feeling stupid for letting his thoughts wander during the conversation, he wondered if he was the butt of some joke or another. "Just mentioning yuir habit o' stoping to smell the roses, lad. 'Twas nothing important." "You mean, his habit of ignoring what's around him," Mallory supplied cheerfully. "I'm surprised he's lasted this long." "Aye, well, Bobby's best talent so far has been his ability to get his arse out o' trouble and keep one step ahead o' it all," Sean said. "It's a talent I've developed through hard years of goofing off and procrastination. But, hey, if you want a few tips and pointers, I'm sure I could help you out." Bobby smiled a bit easier, becoming more comfortable again. The three were still unused to each other's quirks, and Bobby had always been sensitive to being teased by the older members of the group. Of course, he learned, quick, to hide it all, but it didn't mean it still wasn't felt. "I'm sure you could. Now, who's up for desert. I want to see just how far we can push this famed 'Platinum card' of Emma's," Mallory said with unholy glee. "And so easily she slips into the role of overpaid professor," Bobby commented to no one in particular. "If ye've the resources, use them, as the card's owner is so fond o' saying." Sean lifted his hand and gestured for a waiter. Several minutes and three large orders of dessert later, the professors of the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters -- "Now that's a mouthful," Mallory said, as she tried out the name of her new employer -- turned to discussing their current charges. "I haven't really spent much time with any of them," Mallory said. "Just Cordelia, really. On the way down, everyone was so hyped up that I couldn't've gotten a word in edgewise if I gagged and bound them." Bobby grimaced and nodded. "Were we ever so hyper?" he asked, only to be met by a patronizing smile from Sean. "Nevermind," he answered himself with a low chuckle. "It's just different seeing it from this perspective." "Always is, lad. It always is. O' course, unlike ye, I've the benefit o' having seen several classes go through the School." Sean smiled. Who would have thought that he'd become so involved in his headmastership? He felt like a surrogate father to this group, including the other two at the table. "Each class is a reflection o' the times, and ours is no different." "Hyper society. Hyper kids." Mallory toyed with the stem of her wine glass, rolling it between her fingers. "Everyone's on overdrive nowadays." Shrugging, Bobby commented, "Maybe it's the whole twentieth century coming to an end thing. Who knows? After Prince sings '1999', maybe everything'll start chilling out again." "Aye, well, we can hope so. I'm getting a wee bit too old for all this running around." Mallory turned her sharp eyes onto the older man beside her. "No offense or anything, Sean, but just how old are you?" Grinning brightly, he asked, "How old do ye think I am?" Mallory glanced at Bobby from the corner of her eyes, then refocused on Sean. "Um ... I don't know. Thirty five? Thirty six?" she asked, guessing politely. Bobby snorted. "That's unlikely. Sean's been around way longer than that." Sean sniffed with hurt pride, then answered, "I'm only thirty-nine. Soon to be forty." He looked faintly disturbed when he added the last. "Time's catching up to you, old man," Bobby said. Shaking his head, Sean smiled again. "I'll still be around to see a few more classes go through the School. Though, I'll admit, it'll be nice to finally get this group working as a team." Mallory nodded. "They're not there yet. You can almost see it starting to gell, and then they just bounce off again in random directions. Like a highspeed electron slamming into an atom." "Like the chaos theory," Bobby added, not to be outdone. "Like the sort o' kids who aren't used to having someone guard their backs," Sean said. A silence fell over the table as they thought on that. "Yeah. I guess that takes some getting used to. Knowing that you'd do things for others and that they'd do them for you, too. It's got to be scary. This stage of the game, I mean. I remember how I used to feel when I first met Scott and Hank and Warren. And then, later, with Jean," Bobby said. "We knew we were all different, but we didn't know if that'd make us all cool with each other, or if it'd just drive us further apart." "It's something ye can only learn with time." Sean noticed the return of their waiter and smiled. As the man deposited several plates of chocolate concotions on the table, Sean said quietly, "Luckily, we've a bit o' time to work with. We'll make sure o' that." "Here, here," Bobby echoed. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Out of a millisecond's worth of nothing came an indefinite absence of color, and then quick on its heels the kind of pure white that has edges. Eventually, these opposite worlds collided, producing a thick shade of ash-grey that bubbled like film burning. Monet St. Croix opened her presence and glanced around the innards of Disney, Incorporated's mainframe. She was greeted with sweeping, jewel-toned lights, humming on and off in seemingly random patterns as if they were adjusting to this alien in their midst. Beyond the LEDS lay intricate circuitry, bundles of neural wires following their own paths. It was silent and absolute -- albeit never completely still. Monet could not recall a time she had been this simple and complete. She drifted forward into the synaptic gap, smiling, suddenly and ravagingly curious as to the exact nature of each component. This world was now hers, a tiny Gestalt dreaming. She was overwhelmed by the beauty of it. Lovingly, she reached out a probe and tugged a brilliant green cord to see the answering whip down the line, to see where the trace would lead her. The cord yielded, snapping in two to reveal a kinked copper wire. It lay, cracked open and discarded like wrapping paper in the wake of childhood Christmas gifts. Monet's first instinct was to recoil in anticipation of the coming slap. Her presence retreated into the depths of the microcosmic motherboard, hiding in a connector where she could be peacefully cradled by the ebb and flow of opposing currents. Her body, still seated in the control room chair as rigid as a board, whimpered and coiled up so its head became invisible. She had made a misstep, and they would find her now. They would hunt her down. The vision was jackrabbit-quick; she could see the army of faces, reaching out disembodied hands, palms open to scream her name in chorus. She had made a mistake. They would find her. In this world, she was not invincible. "Papa," her corporeal form whispered, "No." -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Several stories aboveground, parents herded their children quickly through the darkened room, grinding their teeth musically in order to drown out the constant, surrounding assault. The most cheerful robotic UNICEF poster kids on the planet swayed and creaked, emitting in tinny yet harmonious voices the words it was impossible not to know, imprinted in saccharine on the American consciousness. "It's a small world after all .. " A shriek interrupted the monotony. Perhaps it was a laugh. It was most likely both. The observers unfortunate enough to be in the exhibit at the time pivoted, searching for the cause of the faulted noise. (Many of them were grateful for the interruption.) All eyes at once fixated on what must have been the source of the now-silent person's outburst. Several children burst into immediate tears. Mary Dowling, mother of four (with another on the way) covered her mouth with a splayed hand and muttered something that sounded like "Oh, sweet *banana*." It was definitely an invocation of some sort. A teenaged couple swung their linked hands, exchanged a glance, and began laughing; merriment arose in their eyes and considerably mussed their matching eyeliner. It mixed into Noh-theatre grey with the rice powder on their pallid cheeks. For once, they didn't care. "This," said the girl, who became practically indistinguishable from the boy while they had the same expression, "is beautiful." Her boyfriend nodded agreement, and in a moment of perfect true love, they took a mutual moment to wipe the saline from their eyes. Every single international mechanical child was doing a three hundred and sixty degree imitation of Linda Blair (sans projectile vomit), heads rotating like ambulance sirens. "This is *beautiful!*" the girl repeated, with real enthusiasm this time. Someone had brought joy to her life, which had been previously only filled with suburban angst. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ That Someone had begun meekly to crawl from her hiding place, realizing that to stay in one spot would mean certain death. She lifted herself from her prostrate position and flung herself headlong down the mainframe's corridors, virtual and physical bodies blended at the edges into charcoal fear. She was running and spinning and tripping and falling and beginning the cycle all over again, knowing all the whole that to look back would be to understand the center of the paranoia -- that they really were chasing her. She was better off pretending it was all in her head. At this point, what wasn't? She paused before a skyscraper of data, the ever-mutating strings of ones and zeros comforting her in constant, graceful, and encoded motion. She poked her head round the corner -- nothing but this urbanality forever. Her gaze followed the tower to where it disappeared into perspective, leaving her but one way to go. She found a foothold on an executable file and lifted herself up by the corner of a batch file; so the ascent of the sheer wall began, sponsored by one hundred percent adrenaline. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Timothy Liekweig pressed The Button, sending an immediate pulse of information tumbling upstairs from the sub-basement, his lair. His answering call came in the form of Sandra Kline, his boss, and the clatter of her heels against the metal treads of the stairs -- clang, clang, *pop* as she reached concrete. He had not-so-secretly been hoping that she would be out of the office and Mr. Edwards would have responded, instead. Luck and Timothy, however, didn't even rent in the same apartment complex. "We have a *hacker*?" Sandra fairly spat, her manicured claws tightening on the top of Timothy's chair. (He was simply glad at the moment it was not her head she was constricting.) She was the kind of woman that could have been pretty under other circumstances; beauty and danger often accompany one another. However, Sandra Kline was not dangerous. She *was* annoyingly melodramatic. The two are often confused to the naked observer. Timothy bobbed his bleached-blond head in affirmation of her statement. "Yup," he said, just in case she had forgotten about the compelling power of body language. She scowled, proving that she remembered quite well. "What's he doing?" Tim's fingers skidded across the keys, and a report sent wild and pixellated numbers wheeling across the overly large screen. "Other than a broken wire -- which prolly isn't his fault, how could it be? -- it looks like he's just playin' around in the garbage files. From *inside the system.*" His brow furrowed. "I don't get it." Utterly mystified, he regarded the screen as if any minute a stripper was going to jump through it and squeal "Happy Birthday!" Sandra's fingers meted out a careful rhythm against the handle of her briefcase. "Hell," she said, with an airy sigh of pre-emptive defeat. "That would explain the Small World Incident." "Huh?" said Tim, who was dead to the outside world even on a good day. Sandra shook her head. Tight curls bounced across her line of vision. "Never mind. Just get him out of there." Tim scooted forward in the large, wheeled chair that made him resemble a treaded arachnid, his Hawaiian shirt and lei ensemble aside. He leaned forward, prepared to indent the keyboard with a careful panacea of a touch. Instead, he lifted up a callused hand and ran it over the curve of his skull, nervously caressing the shaved bits. "Um, Miss Kline, ma'am, he's already gone." -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Exactly one word scanned across Monet's semi-consciousness as she awoke to her limbs being manhandled by three of her classmates, all of whom were considerably too close to her face with their self-absorbed concern: "LOGOUT." "Please," she said, still shaking with the flickering of inner and natural electricity while maintaining a certain prim edge, "remove your hands from my extremities." Jono, Angelo, and Paige backed off accordingly. "You were just completely catatonic," the latter noted apologetically, shifting her weight from one foot to the other with the aplomb of an extreme type A personality. Monet's glance shifted like time across the flushed faces. ( How, ) she wondered privately, within her most secret of locked boxes, ( do you tell three someones thank you for saving your life? ) She simply dusted her shoulders off, the uneasiness creeping into her features with considerable subterfuge. She nodded warily. "It's .. fine," she managed. "Just as long as you don't do it again." In their triple aspect, they nodded. "Look, M," Paige began, her tone halting. "We don't have much time. Some guards are chasing Angelo and so Angelo grabbed *us* and now we're *all* running and I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be down here either so will you come with us?" It was part plea, part threat, all leadership. As it was, there was no reason for such a lengthy sentence, as the Algerian girl was but a memory in that room's consciousness. She emerged changed from when she had entered, darting down the hall. The others could only follow, exchanging glances traded like aces under a card table. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ It was orange. That's all that he could make of it for sure. It was orange and stationary and didn't have large ears, and he was pretty sure it wouldn't lift him up and down and around and around over and over again and again. Right now, that's all he asked for. That whatever it was, it wouldn't move. Later he would worry about getting off of it. Right now, he just wanted to sit on it. The orange bench. 'Strange men in distant lands have spoken of this bench,' he thought to himself, a sniggle of humor creeping its way into his brain. 'Rumors of its existance has spread far and wide, and yet, like the infamous Roswell incident, no one can prove it. But here, now, for your viewing pleasure, I, Everett Thomas, shall prove, once and for all, that it is, in very fact, an ... orange ... bench.' "Whacha doin'?" came an annoyingly high pitched voice, full of sugar induced energy and strange, vaguely satanic undertones. Everett stumbled on his way to the Orange Bench of Salvation ('is that trademarked?' he wondered) and caught himself by one outstretched hand. The lamppost graciously stood still while he leaned against it. "Just resting," he replied with no little amount of wariness. "Ready to go on the next ride? I promise. No more Dumbo ride." The girl next to him grinned brightly. Brigther than John Tesh's music career, it shined with the glare of the noonday sun. Everett, though, was not to be fooled. "No. I think I've had enough for now." He tried to smile, but it came out as a small, strained grimace. "Oh ... " The girl -- he had to remind himself that this was his teammate Jubilation Lee, and not Satan Girl -- frowned and actually looked disappointed. "So ... You mean you're done? That's it?" A puzzled expression crossed her face. "Just for now, Lee. Just for now." Everett pushed himself away from the lamppost and fell with boneless grace into the inviting openness of the Orange Bench. Jubilee mumbled something under her voice. "What was that?" Everett asked, not sure he'd heard it right. She looked at him petulantly. "Yeah, I said you're a hoser. Thank Bob and Doug for that one." He stared at her, confused but wondering where she got off calling him a hoser. It didn't sound nice. "I mean, here we are, best place in the world, games and rides and totally everything you can see all in one place and we, like, get to spend some major precious, seldom received free time without having to worry about being blown up, and you're tired? Al*ready*?" she continued, warming to her rant. "I mean, dude, how old are you? I can understand Icicle and Sean bailing 'cause they're, like, old and stuff, but *you*? Geezus, Ev, you're really slipping in the cool factor." He stiffled a snapped comment, thinking that, perhaps, it was just the half dozen cotton candies talking. "Look, Lee, I'm tired. Let me just rest up a sec, 'k? Then maybe we can look around, do some shopping, check out the -- " "Loser," she said. It sounded like the beginnings of a taunt. "You go hang out with the old folks. I'll just go off by my*self*, then, if it's just too much for you." She crossed her arms over her chest. That was it. He'd had enough. Hopping indignantly to his feet, he said, "Now wait just one minute, Ms Jubilation 'Move over Energizer Bunny, here comes something more hyper' Lee." He resisted the urge to shake his finger at her. "This is supposed to be fun. If you like running around all day, fine! Go ahead! Be my guest. But for me, that's ... Not ... Fun," he stressed, going slow so she was sure to understand. Jubilee snapped her fingers towards him. "Hey, hey, hey, Mr. At-i-*tude*. Chill or something. Yeah, it's supposed to be fun, but if all you're doing is sitting around, you might as well've stayed home." "Don't rub it in!" Everett interupted. "It might've been better if I had." About to respond, Jubilee had thrown back her shoulders and stood as tall as her five feet four inch frame would allow. Her rejoiner, however, froze on the tip of her tongue a blur caught her attention from the corner of her eyes. Everett noticed the pause and hopped up, previous fatigue forgotten. "What? What is it?" he asked. "I thought I saw something," she responded. Heading towards the small alleyway behind the main attraction, she slipped her head carefully around one of the half open doors. Something had just run past it, and it was that which caught her attention. "Hey, Lee, it says 'Employees Only'," Everett pointed out. And, it was true, the door did indeed say that. "Yeah, well, some people think this is 'fun'," she threw back at him. "Stay here if you want. I'm off to investigate." -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Angelo ran for the next door, but it was locked too. "No good, amigos. We're hemmed in." A rising note of panic liberally laced his words. "Hold on. We ain't done yet," Paige responded, glancing around quickly to get a feel for the area. "We ain't 'bout to be caught by park police. Our reputation'd be shot ta hell." << Oh, now there's something we need to worry about. >> Jono replied wryly. << Heaven f'rbid we aren't as cool as the X-Men. >> Paige half glared at the image-induced form next to her. "You can just shut up now, Mr. I'm Too Good for the X-Men. Some o' us just happen to think they're a good, solid, well meaning group. There are worse things to be." "Yeah, like caught and stuck in Deputy Goofy's Jailhouse. C'mon, we'll discuss the coolness of the X-Men -- or lack or whatever -- later. The police are gonna be down here any minute." Angelo looked around the small alley, putting his words into action. "I believe I've found something," Monet responds. "Down here." Clearing away a box which had fallen over onto the entrance, the fugitives considered the drain-cap before them. Lying on the ground, it seemed to be an entryway into the subterranean realm of Disneyworld. "Um ... y'all think that's safe?" Paige asked, her expression clearly dubious. One eyebrow was quirked, and her lips were pulled tightly together. << Look, Sunshine, it's either that, 'r we -- >> "Halt! Don't take another step! Get back here, you kids!" The pounding of running footsteps came quickly from the way they'd just come. Angelo reached down to remove the drain-cap, but it wouldn't come off. "Madre de Dios. What, did someone weld this thing on?" Extra skin wrapped around the heavy iron. "Someone wanna lend me a hand with this?" Jono and Paige weren't listening, though. Or, rather, they were listening to the sound of footsteps get closer. The shouting had stopped, but from the sounds of it, either Jumanji was filming again in the heart of Disneyworld or all of the park cops were on their way. With dread in their hearts, they froze like deer in headlights, wondering how well they could claim they had no clue who this Hispanic boy was and that they had nothing to do with this little mix up. But just as they were about to put their little white lies into effect, from around the corner burst two figures. One was short with a bright yellow trenchcoat, shades set atop her head, cotton candy evidence in one hand, short black hair, Asian features, and a grin that rivaled her coat in intensity. The other was taller, darker, with the look of someone nearing the end of his tolerance level. His normally peaceful expression was pulled into a scowl, and Jono and Paige took a step back from its invisible force. "Hey, guys! Lemme guess. Someone got in trouble and now you're all runnin' from the law, right?" Jubilee asked. "Well, have no fear. Jubes and Ev are here to save your scrawny little butts from the fire. C'mon! They're running the other way right now. If we hurry, we can be outta here by the time they figure they're on a wild goose chase." "Got it!" came Angelo's yell at nearly the same time. The sewer drain's cap was pulled to one side, and he gathered his skin back to him. Jubilee pounced on the proclaimation and, without waiting for word from the others or even really looking where she leapt, bounded away like an Amer-Asian gazelle. Down the sewer, she boldly, if foolhardily, led the way. Almost as one, Angelo, Jono, Monet and Paige turned towards Everett with a look that might have been 'What the *hell*??' had anyone thought to actually vocalize it. Everett, for his part, simply shrugged. "It's the cotton candy," he offered by way of explanation. "I think it's spiked." Nodding in sporadic unison, they decided to look upon it as a Good Thing -- at least for now -- and darted after the hyper girl, thankful for the respite and distraction she'd provided. Little did they know that forces greater than they were at work in the sewers below Disneyworld. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ Sean glanced again at his watch, noticing the rapidly spinning hands. Not literally but figuratively, time was running faster than usual. Of course, that always happened when the kids were missing. It'd been over an hour, now, since they were supposed to meet back at the plane. Frost Enterprises had provided them with a luxury jet, and soon enough, they'd be back home, safe and sound, in Massachusettes. Provided, of course, that the other children ever arrived. He was about to turn into the main cabin when a yell from behind stopped him short. "Yo, amigo! Hold that door!" Spinning around, he was gratified to notice the missing children were running down the concourse. They charged up the ladder and brushed past him with several quick, mumbled 'hello's, but not a one met his eyes or tried to speak with him. Even Jubilee, ever the chatterbox if he'd ever met one, was unusually subdued. With the children safe inside, Sean nodded to the attendant. Take off was uneventful, but though Sean itched to satisfy his curiosity, he wisely, if reluctantly, held back. Which was just as well. The late comers were tired after their day's misadventures, and as usually happens in such circumstances, were slowly gravitating towards their own private rest zones. Which, it may be noted, was only normal if one was unlearned in the habits and relationships which existed among the six teenagers. Quietly sitting to one side, Monet St. Croix and Paige Guthrie, sisters in their common ordeal, spoke in hushed tones and quiet murmurs. "Do you think we should tell him?" Paige asked, face carefully neutral. "No," Monet replied, haughtily. The chill in her voice masked the confusion beneath. "No, what we saw wasn't meant for the eyes of adults ... I'm afraid he simply wouldn't understand." Paige nodded slowly, tucking her legs beneath her. Eyes scanned the room and settled on the other four. Four pairs of eyes met hers and then looked away. The tale of their adventures in the subterranean realm would be told another day ... -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/ A mirror is like a German painting -- it hides no flaw, forsaking elegance for raw emotion. Emma Frost prized this habit of mirrors particularly, and, besides the fact that she found much to admire about herself, it was one of the primary reasons she spent so much time invested in observation of her image in a clear surface. She reached up both hands to hook the beaded collar around her neck, fidgeting once or twice until the link snapped into place and she breathed pure satisfaction outward as her peers would a smoke ring. A mirror is like a French painting -- it has no depth, no perspective. The world exists on the surface, seeming trapped on film between what you can touch and what you can see. Emma Frost, being an aristocrat, appreciated this as well. Clinically, she dissected her impression, posing herself by turning her hand into the juncture of a swan's wing and neck and placing it beneath her pointed, foxish chin. Was this the image of a killer? she wondered, a quick flash of memory tossing her directly into Mercury's footsteps where she could see the dissolution of so many faces. Yes, she answered, smoothing her sheath of a dress over the angle of her hips. She was all clean lines. Was this the image of a teacher? Her eyes met their counterparts, blue like polar icecaps, impossible blue, precious blue, the note of a saxophone without the warmth of breath. Yes, she returned, noting the tiny lines around the abscissa of her mouth where she had begun to laugh, the experience hiding deep and opiate in her pupils. Was this the image of a woman? Overwhelmingly yes. She was a porcelain maid, she reflected, smoothing the whalebone of her corset over the melodic curve of her breasts. Part of the appeal of appearing clad in all white was that it knocked people for a considerable loop. We are trained now, she had thought many a time before, to accept knee-jerk emotional stimuli. White equaled virginal; white equaled silent. White equaled all colors and tabula rasa. White was something that had not yet experienced the stamping and shaping of life. Nobody expected anything of white save the provision of a slate. Emma would lay back, she would let them trace their Etch-a-Sketch worlds against her body, charcoal and silver, and then, laughing, she would absorb it, returning to her natural state halfway between solid matter and air. She figured by now the Hellfire Club would have understood that, but that was giving them far too much credit. A mirror is like an American painting -- it makes allowances for motion by travelling out of the frame, but there is always that central image, still and sinuous, that draws attention. Emma Frost crouched before the mirror, long fingers more suited to an artist clicking bone against leather-edge as she adjusted the starbursts of plumage edging her gown. Her web extended in all directions, dappled with dew and bodies, regrets wound in secret cocoons. She was always the center. Once a White Queen, always a White Queen. She glided to the door and cracked it, letting sounds that had been muted grow intense; the party was at its apex, and she calculated exactly, it was the time to make her appearance. A mirror is like an Asian painting -- it knows its patterns well. Emma Frost whirled once, utterly pleased with her twin through the looking glass, and whisked from the room, a born-again debutante. A single, chiming note of rightness trilled through her body to the tips of her gloves. The Hellfire Club's Inner Circle would drink from her crystal slipper tonight, and forever more. -=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/-=/