Chapter 6

Warren lit into the kitchen, flannel pants tied loosely around his waist, a sweatshirt hiding his slender body, and stopped. He turned and eyed Bobby, sitting at the kitchen table, his head on his arms. Warren sighed, grabbed a chair, flipped it backward, and straddled it. His wings shuffled themselves, so the tips didn’t rest quite so hard on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” he said, more a statement than a question, despite the words.

Bobby looked up, blue eyes slightly surprised. “What makes you think anything’s wrong?”

“Jamie’s not in the lab, and yet you’re not with him,” Warren pointed out. Then he smiled, slowly, and added, “and you’re in your ‘mope’ position.”

A frown touched Bobby’s brow. “I don’t have a mope position!”

“Sure you do,” Warren argued, grabbing the back of the chair with both hands and leaning away. “You sit at the kitchen table, always in that spot, with your arms folded and your head on them. Your mope position.”

A frown flit across Bobby’s face, but left when the energy to keep it there didn’t surface. “Yeah, well . . .” Bobby sighed. Looked up again. “I don’t have a mope position.”

Warren shrugged and stood. “Suit yourself.”

The swinging door opened again, admitting Sam, carrying several mugs and balancing a few plates. He grinned sheepishly at Warren’s raised eyebrows, and deposited them on the sink. “From mah room,” he explained.

Warren snickered.

Sam turned on the water, glanced back at Bobby, then proceeded to wash dishes. “What’s wrong?”

Bobby scowled. “Nothing!”

“Then why are ya--”

“If you say in ‘my mope position’--”

Sam gave him a look, conveying “Oh, please,” without words. “Ah was gonna say,” he replied calmly, “that yor sulking.”

“I am not sulking!” Bobby protested instantly. “Moping, maybe, but not sulking!”

Warren swung back down into his chair. “So, you admit you’re in your mope position!”

“I admit nothing! I just said I was moping, not that I was in my mope position!”

Sam dried his hands on the towel, leaving the dirty dishes soaking in hot water, and sat down at the little kitchen table. “Yor sulking,” he said solemnly.

“How’s your head, Sam?” Bobby asked pointedly.

Sam frowned and fingered the butterfly stitches at his hairline. “What were you thinkin’, makin’ ice where yor teammates were runnin’?”

Bobby’s defensiveness melted, and he smiled fondly. “That was a pretty good ice sheet.”

“It was black ice, Bobby! How was Ah supposed to see that?”

Bobby frowned. “Well, the idea was that you’d be flying. It was a perfect trap for the bad guys!”

Warren chuckled.

“What are you laughing at, bird brain?” Bobby said, grinning wickedly.

“Snow man.”

“Feather face.”

“Slushy-dick.”

Bobby opened his mouth to retort, and instead just looked at Warren. Then he started laughing. “I don’t believe you said that.”

Warren grinned, linked his hands behind his head, and pretended to sit back.

“Speakin’ o’ dicks,” Sam said, glancing around, unable to suppress his grin, “where’s Jamie?”

Bobby laughed again. “You need to work on your innocent face,” he said solemnly.

Sam sighed. “Ah know.”

“Is he the reason you’re moping?” Warren asked conversationally.

“What, Sam’s innocent face? Well, it is a tragedy, but--”

Warren looked at Bobby blandly. “No. Jamie. Wise-ass.”

“My ass isn’t wise,” Bobby quipped, “my--”

“Please, no more dick jokes,” Sam groaned.

Bobby closed his mouth with a click. Then grinned.

“Go find him,” Warren said, smiling.

Bobby shrugged, his spirits falling slightly. “He’s sleeping.”

“It’s been a rough day for him,” Warren said, nodding. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you just curled up with him. It might do him some good to let him know it doesn’t change things.”

Bobby hesitated, then nodded. He stood, solemnly putting a hand on Sam’s head. “I leave with you the utmost responsibility to defeat this vile, winged creature in mortal name-calling.”

Sam looked back earnestly. “Are you sure that’s the proper way to use the word ‘utmost’?”

Bobby sighed dramatically, storming toward the door. “Sure, Sam, ruin the mood! Sheesh!”

Warren chuckled, watching the door swing closed behind Bobby. “Those two kids,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

Warren glanced over, wondering if Sam was serious. After all, he was younger than both of them. Apparently, Sam was serious. Warren shook his head and stood up. “Yeah,” he agreed dryly.

***

The door to Jamie’s room was ajar, and after knocking quietly Bobby pushed it the rest of the of way open and entered. Jamie was sprawled out on the queen-sized bed, Jamie beside him. Bobby smiled and padded into the room, trying not to disturb either of them. He was halfway across the floor when he saw another trenchcoat out of the corner of his eye, and turned to look.

A third Jamie was slouched against the wall, crumpled awkwardly between the wall and the chair. Something black glistened against his face. Another Jamie lay underneath him, twisted.

Bobby’s face paled. He hurried for the bed, stopping short and looking at the two men there. He could see, now, how they hadn’t sprawled; been thrown, maybe, and the second created? He couldn’t quite tell that, but it was unnatural. The angry red bruise forming on one Jamie’s jaw provided proof.

For a moment, Bobby started to pick up that Jamie and take him to Hank--until his eyes flickered to the other two Jamies in the corner. Realization dawned like a cold winter morning: he didn’t know which was the real one.

Bobby strode to the wall communicator, hitting the button with more power than he needed. “Hank,” he said, not waiting for the scientist to answer, “I need help. Jamie’s room. There are four Jamies down.” He glanced around, taking a deep breath and analyzing things. “It appears as if two were hit, creating dupes as they fell. One is bleeding from a head wound--” Bobby stopped, realizing he hadn’t checked to see if it was serious. He continued without that information. “The other has a bruised jaw. Any could be the original.”

He didn’t get a response, but didn’t need one. Wordlessly, he crossed the room in several large steps, kneeling beside the Jamie wedged between wall and chair. The cut looked shallow; it had already stopped bleeding. There was very little bruising. Breathing was normal, and his pulse was strong.

Bobby checked quickly for broken bones, his hands speeding along the lines of Jamie’s coat down his arms, then beneath to feel along his torso, fleeing down his legs. No broken bones.

He took the Jamie’s shoulder, bracing him up as he pulled the chair away. The body sagged, but Bobby kept it from falling back on the other Jamie beneath. He put an arm under the top one’s shoulders, beneath his knees, and shuffled him off of the dupe. A quick check told him the dupe was breathing, his heartbeat steady, then Bobby was off toward the bed. A breeze hit him as he passed the window, the curtains blowing open. The air was laced heavily with Cold; winter was upon them.

Bobby reached the bed, felt for a pulse, found one--and stopped. He turned and looked back at the window.

Open?

Hank appeared in the door, Logan and Sam in tow, each carrying Hank’s prized lightweight, folded stretchers.

“That one and that one,” Bobby said, waving a hand toward the two Jamies that might not have been dupes. “Heartbeats are strong.” He continued toward the window, ignoring the strange look Hank gave him.

The screen was gone. He stuck his head out the window, seeing footprints on the ledge below. Boots. Someone had snuck in, knocked Jamie unconscious, and snuck out without setting off any alarms?

No, he realized as he looked at the prints. They had only snuck out.

Bobby turned, taking in the bodies, his mind racing as he put together and discarded scenarios.

Something flashed through his mind. Standing in the kitchen with Jean, seeing Jamie charge through, hearing Jamie shout “Stop that dupe!” The dupe arriving, snarling and spitting angry, hateful words. The disgust aimed at its own creator, its self, just before Jamie reabsorbed it. Hank saying that the more the disease progressed, the more dupes would have their own personalities, beliefs. The more individual they would be, until that was traded for making untold numbers of them, each less than a perfect copy, each without minds; either Jamie’s or their own.

Bobby walked to the comm again, avoiding Hank, Sam and Logan, ignoring Hank’s questions.

He hit the button that would let him speak to the whole house, hit the emergency button as well. The lights turned off, then turned red to catch everyone’s attention.

“We’ve got an intruder,” he said calmly and clearly. “This person took down two, possibly four Jamies.” He hesitated, then added, “This person may be Jamie. A Jamie. They headed out of a window on the East Wing, on foot.”

Logan was at the window, sniffing the ledge. He looked back, surprised. “It was Jamie,” he said, then jumped, clearing the wall easily and landing softly on the roof below.

Bobby’s jaw tightened, and hit pressed the intercom again. “Confirmation: It is Jamie. Logan is in pursuit.”

***

“Hey.”

Jamie smiled slightly, his eyes fluttering open with great effort. “Hey.”

“I’m gonna barf,” Jamie said, on the other side of Bobby. Bobby turned and looked at the other, searching for any sign of which Jamie was the first one. He really hoped it wasn’t the Jamie on his right, as that Jamie was looking distinctly ill.

Across the room, the two dupes were waking up, moaning and sighing alternately.

“What happened?” Bobby asked, standing and fetching a bucket. He put it beside the sick Jamie’s bed. That Jamie gave him a weak smile.

“We were talking,” the Jamie on his left said, scooting up into a sitting position, “the two of us.” He pointed at the Jamie on Bobby’s right. Bobby glanced over, and that Jamie--still lying on his back, an arm tossed over his eyes, hiding the now-clean head wound--picked up the story.

“We created another dupe and he--”

“--I--”

“--Hit us.”

“It really hurt.” This from one of the dupes across the room.

“He started screaming about the Legacy and how we were--”

“--weak, like it had resurfaced because--”

“--we couldn’t keep it down.”

“Stupid.”

Bobby stopped looking from one to the other, and rubbed his eyes. His neck hurt.

“Then he hit me again--”

“--really hard--” the dupe added.

“--and I fell.” This Jamie rubbed his jaw, flinched, and delicately probed at the bruise. Despite the ice Hank had put on it, it was swelling. “That’s the last I remember.”

“He had a really good left hook. Which is funny, because--”

“--I don’t.”

All four Jamies stopped and considered their left fists for a moment, each in a slightly different manner.

Bobby shook his head, feeling the back of his neck crawl, and looked at the floor. Uncanny. He frowned at himself. You’d think that after all this time, he would be used to it.

“Then,” the Jamie to his right said, apparently no longer sick, “I stepped forward. I didn’t move fast enough--I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on, and I couldn‘t sense me.”

Bobby nodded out of habit, rather than because he understood what Jamie meant.

“He struck first,” the dupe across the room said, “and I flew back--”

“--into the chair.”

“I never even gained consciousness,” the dupe said. “I only remember because I was him--" he pointed at the other dupe "--until then.”

The Jamie on the right nodded. “I lost it right after. My head must have hit something . . .” he fingered the cut, cringed, and took his hand away.

“The chair,” Bobby offered.

The Jamie nodded. “Oh.”

“What happened to me?” the Jamie on the left asked plaintively.

“You just said--”

“He means the other us,” a dupe corrected.

“Oh.” Bobby took a deep breath, wondering if he would ever understand the pronoun use Jamie employed. “He--you--jumped out the window, onto the ledge below, then left. Logan and some others are looking for hi--you--now.” He closed his eyes, rubbed them, and opened them again. “This is confusing.”

All four Jamies laughed. Then the one on the right turned green, and flung his head over the side of the table, using the bucket Bobby had gotten before. Bobby cringed.

“Let go! You damn, dirty ape!”

All heads turned toward the door, and a moment later Hank burst through, holding it open for Rogue, who was carrying a thrashing Jamie under her arm like a giant rug. Logan walked in after her, hands in front of his face like a surgeon, his claws extended.

“You want me to reabsorb him?” Jamie On The Left said, tiredly. Bobby reached out and took his hand, squeezing supportively.

“No, thank you Jamie,” Hank said, unlocking the door to the store room and pushing it open. He walked in and grabbed things; two boxes of needles, a pan of sharp instruments and something liquid, then hurried back out. “You may place him within my instrument depository,” he said to Rogue, putting his treasures on the counter.

“You can’t put me in there!” the Jamie shouted. “I’ll break everything! I swear!”

“Ah, my duplicating acquaintance, you may most certainly attempt to rupture every single item you encounter. I have taken the liberty of removing articles I may find essential from your ephemeral penitentiary.” Hank turned and smiled. “Have at.”

Jamie, swearing, sputtering, and screaming, was tossed unceremoniously into the room. Rogue closed the door and leaned against it.

“Good Lord in Heaven,” she said, dragging hair out of her eyes, “that boy sure can put up a fight!”

“And now, my vertically challenged friend . . .” Hank motioned Logan to come closer, then carefully scraped glass slides over each claw. Once done, Logan’s claws retracted and he stepped away, leaning against the end of the table that Jamie On The Left sat on.

“What’s going on?” Jamie asked quietly, as Hank sandwiched the glass slides and put them under a microscope.

“I cut the kid,” Logan said, jerking his head toward the storeroom door, “and Hank’s checking for Legacy.”

“Oh,” Jamie said, sitting back. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Neither had I, my youthful collaborator,” Hank said, bending over the microscope. “It was Logan who suggested that a reproduction of your very self who behaved in a manner dissimilar to your own might also, then, possess dissimilar DNA. Which is, of course, what we have spent weeks searching for.”

Jamie sat forward, his knees up, arms propped on them. “How soon will you know?” he asked. His words were slurred slightly, and with a cringe Bobby realized he was trying not to move his bruised jaw.

Hank sat back. “Soon.”

Jamie took a deep breath and nodded once. His hair fell in his face.

**

"But Jamie, that's wonderful!" Sam said, grinning and jumping up from his seat on the bench. "It means you got a clean body, right?"

Jamie squirmed, shuffling his feet in the light dusting of snow. It was the first of the winter. Very late.

"Have you told Bobby yet? Or any of the others?"

Jamie looked up, one side of his mouth quirking dryly. "Given where we live, they probably already know."

Sam grinned, unabashed. "They will when Ah get back!"

Jamie gave a half-hearted glare, but it fell apart after only a moment. He looked down at the muddy prints his boots had made in the snow. A bird hopped back and forth, pecking at the ground around the other side of the bench. It looked up and leveled a stern look at Jamie.

"Jamie? What's wrong?" Sam asked softly, sinking down onto the hard wood next to Jamie. It was slightly damp, swollen from the moisture.

"He's so different than me, Sam," Jamie said at last, sighing. "Hank says that there's no way to know if I'll actually jump to his body. He's such a different person. And if I do--will I stay me? Or are his genes different enough that my personality would change?" Jamie stood, duster flapping about his legs. The bird whistled shrilly and darted away, landing in a nearby tree.

"Oh." Sam folded his hands together.

"I can't even sense him!" Jamie said, his hands clenching. "I can sense all the others, no matter what we're doing. I can't feel him at all." His jaw tightened, then relaxed again. "And even if it works, and I jump through the link--even though I can't feel one--and I hop into that other body and my personality doesn't change. Even if all that--have you talked to him?" Jamie turned, eyeing Sam closely. "Have you held a conversation with him? He's another person. He has his own views and opinions. He doesn't think like me or agree with me or anything. I would, essentially, kill him. Can I do that? Is that right, or fair?"

Jamie held Sam's gaze for a long moment, then turned and flopped back down onto the bench.

Sam sat back slowly, settling his broad shoulders awkwardly against the wooden slats. "Well," he said, drawing the word out, "Your dupes are you, right?"

Jamie nodded without looking over.

"So, wouldn't that go for this one as well? It wouldn't be so much taking him over, as . . . well, re-absorbing him."

Jamie turned and gave Sam an exquisitely bland look. "Except he's not really like me."

Sam frowned and shook his head. "Jamie, he is you. If you don't jump into his body you'll--what? Re-absorb him, right? How is that different than jumping into his body? It shouldn't eradicate him, just pull him back into you. He'd still be there. Heck, maybe all your dupes would be like him from then on."

Jamie snorted. "Great."

"My point is," Sam said succinctly, "that you aren't killing him. You're doing what you do to all of them--re-absorbing. He is you. You're him. And he'll still be inside you--only, you'll get to have the control."

"Makes me sound like one of those people with the extra personalities," Jamie remarked sullenly.

Sam grinned. "Whal," he said, accent heavy with playfulness, "Ah always thought ya'll were teched in the head."

Jamie glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "Teched?"

"Ya know," Sam said, and circled one finger slowly around his temple.

Jamie twisted, dug his feet into the ground, and shoved Sam as hard as he could. The other boy yelped and fell off the edge of the bench in a flurry of muddy snow. Jamie jumped up, bolting for the street--but not quite fast enough, as Sam caught the edge of his coat and yanked, pulling Jamie right off his feet and flat on his back on the ground. “Oh, God,” Jamie wheezed. “I think I just swallowed my spine.”

Sam stood about him, covered in snow and grinning like a loon. “That s right, Kansas-boy. Don t mess with Kentucky.”

“Or you’ll what?” Jamie asked, crawling to his feet. He stumbled as he stepped on his own coat, but managed to stand at last. He dusted off his sleeves, facing Sam with as much dignity as he could muster. “Terrorize me to submission with your state’s low IQ scores?” He turned and ran, vaulting over the bench and landing on both feet on the other side.

“Ya ll are meat, Madrox!” Sam shouted, and the roar of his blast field coming to life greeted Jamie’s ears.

Jamie landed hard, his feet slipping out from underneath him as Sam roared by. Thinking fast, and like the less powerful being he knew himself to be, Jamie rolled under the bench, then slithered out on the opposite side. He lunged to his feet and made for the trees, but not nearly fast enough as Sam scooped him up from behind, and they both shot into the air.

By his hip, Jamie felt something tremble. He glanced down, sighed, and held one finger up in front of Sam’s face--the classic pause gesture.

They stopped flying upward, hovering in mid-air as Jamie flipped open his cell phone and put it to his ear. He shifted slightly, trying to sag in his clothes in a more comfortable fashion. “Madrox.”

He was silent for a moment, nodding occasionally, then said, “Right,” and hung up. He twisted to look at Sam over his shoulder. “We have to go back to the mansion. You’re busted.”

“What?!” Sam squawked. “What’d Ah do?”

“Scott says you were supposed to--”

“Oh, no!” Sam let go of Jamie with one hand, covering his eyes. Jamie squeaked and flailed for a moment, then grabbed hold of his duster with both hands, as if that would help him stay up.

“Not helping in the faith department here, Sammy-O!” Jamie called.

“Ah can’t believe Ah forgot to--”

“You didn’t put the seat down, did you?” Jamie deadpanned. “I bet Jean’s a real stickler for that. Bet she’s got Scott whipped.” A gleam entered Jamie’s eyes, and he pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “I wonder if she whips Sco--”

Sam shook him, once again making him squeak and flail mid-air. “Ah don t wanna hear the end of that sentence,” Sam growled.

Jamie laughed wickedly.

“Jean’s like a--”

“Dominatrix?” Jamie suggested brightly.

“Sister!” Sam howled. “Ah oughta just drop you off right here!”

“Okay, okay, easy there farmboy!” Jamie laughed, clutching tighter at his jacket. “But, c’mon, tell me you can’t imagine Jean with a--” he stopped when Sam jiggled him threateningly. “Kitchen knife,” he finished.

Sam sighed. “Nah, Jamie, ya got it all wrong.”

“Oh?” Jamie asked, twisting to see Sam.

“The whip belongs to Storm. C’mon, now, look at her! I bet she’s just repressin‘! Besides, you wouldn’t believe what I heard about how she used to be . . .”

“Really?” Jamie said, eyes bulging. Any answer Sam might have made was lost, however, as they took off across the sky, back toward the mansion.

** Back to the living room
Back to Water Lines

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