Hope Summers hadn’t wanted to sleep in the mansion, despite the invitation that Kitty and Jean had extended. She hadn’t gone to the school, and she didn’t want to be treated like a child, regardless. And besides, some cushy mansion, with air conditioning and soft bedding: that wasn’t Nathan Christopher’s way.
Hope had made herself a little shelter in Central Park, a tent, some makeshift sandbags, clear lines of sight across the park and three different fall back routes in case she was overrun. That was Cable’s way – battlefield preparedness and survivalist, all day every day. That was how they had always done it, when they were on the run from Bishop, in the future, living every moment like they were under siege.
The cops hadn’t exactly liked that she had accumulated enough weapons to take on a small army in her little shelter, but Hope had borrowed some telepathy from Psylocke, and the police thought that she was just a very, very determined bird-watcher.
“Shit.”
Hope swore, as one of the perimeter alarms went off, a subsonic alarm keyed to one of the gadgets she had in her pouches. She found the tracker, and keyed to the camera. Two people, moving fast, from the mansion.
“If it’s those X-Force kids again, I’m going to shoot someone,” she mumbled. “By the bright lady . . .” But still, she opened the flap on the tent, taking up a sniper post, and sighting in. A flash of blue, dashing through the sky, above an orange blur, and then Hope felt a tap on her shoulder, and whipped around. She drew her pistol, flicking the safety, only for the orange blur to materialize into a man.
“Whoa, whoa, chica. No one but friends, here.” The man looked like he was in his thirties, with a full beard and rugged features, like a sailor or something like that. Hope tilted her head, looking at him, closely.
“Gabriel? Velocidad?” Hope dropped the gun, and jumped, hugging him tightly. “You got old.”
“That’s how my powers work, Hope, you know that.” The blue flash alighted, too, revealing itself as a girl, blue skinned with a shock of red hair.
“Hi, Hope,” the girl -Transonic - said, waving hello.
“Laurie and I heard what happened,” Velocidad said. “We wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“We were at the school when Ahab attacked,” Transonic said. “We heard what happened from Professor Grey. We were worried.”
Hope took the magazine from the gun. “I’m fine.”
“Really?”
Hope gave Laurie a look. “What? I looked at the video of your dad’s last funeral. You didn’t seem that fine.”
Velocidad sat down, on the grass. “I’ve got like two years to live, Hope.” He smiled, looking up at her. “I’ve decided that it’s real dumb to pretend to think things that we aren’t. Or feel things.”
She brushed her hair, over her face, and didn’t quite look at either of her friends. “I’m fine. That’s what Dad would want me to be. A good soldier. Prepared.”
Laurie glanced at Velocidad, who shrugged, but she pressed onwards. “Hope . . . you know it’s okay to be sad, right? Your dad died. Cable . . . I didn’t know him, or anything, but, I’ve read a lot of psych books, and they say that grieving is an important part of the process.”
“I told you, I’m fine! A good soldier.” Hope turned around, checked another sensor. “You should go. Professor Grey is coming.”
“Hope . . .” Velocidad stood, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone. Just, like, know you’ve got friends, ‘kay?”
Laurie slipped something out of her purse, and handed it to Hope before taking off again. “I got you a new burner. It’s got our numbers on it. Teon, Pixie, Kenji and Oya’s, too. Just give us a call, sometime.”
Hope nodded. She didn’t answer them, though. Her friends left, and she waiting, prepping traps and sensors and disassembling and reassembling her guns. She felt Jean before she saw him, a telepathic ping, just to let the younger girl know that she was coming. Jean was just walking, in civvies, not uniforms.
“Hope?”
“Hey, Gramma.”
Jean eyed Hope’s little fortress. “Is this safe to leave for a couple hours? I don’t exactly want some kid to get himself shot.”
Hope clicked a button on a gadget, and it cloaked into invisibility. “Yeah. You said you wanted to go somewhere? With me?”
Jean nodded. “Copy my powers. Then fly with me. It isn’t far.”
It wasn’t far. About forty blocks up, and then three long blocks over. It was a gothic edifice in the otherwise modernist monstrosity that was Manhattan – the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The two alighted on the steps, Jean in her street clothes, Hope in the post-apocalyptic battle armor that was her style.
“My brother Liam, your Great-Uncle, he used to work here. I was hoping you would join me? I haven’t been back for a while. Not since Scott died, the first time.”
Hope eyed the door. “I’m not a Catholic.”
“I didn’t really expect you to be,” Jean opened the door, and gestured for Hope to follow her. “We didn’t raise Nathan Christopher to be religious, except in the faith that your aunt made up. Come anyway. Just to be with me, if for nothing else.”
“Fine.” Hope followed Jean, using her borrowed telepathy to make people’s eyes gloss over her costume. “The Askani religion was sort of strange, anyway. Now that I’m here, I’m pretty sure Aunt Rachel just used memes, the Xavier School rulebook, and some badly remembered boy scout stuff for it, anyway.”
Jean slid into a pew, as the services started, and Hope sat next to her.
“You can just sit, if you want. You don’t have to pray if you’re not comfortable.”
Hope nodded. They sat in silence for a few minutes, while the pastor started talking. Hope switched to her borrowed telepath. What . . . Gramma, can you tell me about Dad? From when he was a kid. With you and Grandpa.
Jean glanced down at her, a little surprised. That was a long time ago, Hope. She smiled, fondly. When Scott and I were in the future, raising Nathan? Before a whole lot of things. He was great. We were running from town to town, a step ahead from Apocalypse, always worrying that we were minutes away from death . . .
Hope laughed, once, earning stern glances from other churchgoers. Sounds like my childhood.
He wasn’t like you, at all. Jean looked wistfully. Quieter. Studious. We’d spend afternoons, when we weren’t running, just sitting and meditating, telepathically communing, while Scott and I helped him master his virus and his powers. You’re tougher then he ever was.
I don’t believe that.
Jean raised an eyebrow. He was. He’d have be proud--
Stop saying that! Don’t treat me like a child.
Jean put her hand on Hope’s shoulder. You’re right. I’m sorry, you’re an adult, and I should treat you like such. I’m glad to know you, Hope. But I’ve lost people too. I know how you can say one thing, and then really think something entirely else. I just want to know that you understand.
Yeah. Hope looked abashed. Thanks, Gramma.