Where There's Smoke

Record #32241

September 22, 2013

-So, Emily Jameson.

-Oh, you know my name. Good for you; this is a bang up job you guys are doing here.

-Thank you. We take pride in our work.

-I'm sure you do.

-Do you know why you're here, Miss Jameson?

-I'll go out on a limb and say you don't want me for my looks.

-That's quite a sense of humor you have there, Miss Jameson. Keep that up and we might have to do something about it.

-Goodness me, was that a threat? I'm so frightened! Look, I'm shaking.

-Sarcasm will get you nowhere with us, Miss Jameson.

-Sorry. It's my body's natural defense against stupidity.

-Why don't you tell me about your friends?

- I don't have friends.

-Colleagues, then. The people you were with before we found you.

-Hmm…people. I don't seem to recall being around anyone before you kidnapped me.

-You make it sound so crass, Miss Jameson; but if we are going to go down this path…we have ways to make you talk.

-Oh. Well, if we're going down that road, can I at least have a doughnut before we start? I'm no fun to torture on an empty stomach.

XXX

"One, two three four…"

"I declare a thumb war!" Em whispered, twisting her hand in a wild attempt to pin down her boyfriend's thumb.

"Ow!" Eric winced and shook Em's hand back and forth. "What are those, claws?"

"Worse—acryllics." Em laughed maniacally and managed to pin down Eric's thumb. She counted to five and let go of his hand. "Now you owe me dinner."

"How 'bout a Heath bar instead?"

"Cheap-o."

"Gold digger."

"Politician."

Eric gasped and pressed a hand to his chest in mock pain. "That hurt, Ems. That really hurt."

"You still owe me dinner." Em shifted in her seat and leaned her head on Eric's shoulder. The dark fabric of his suit rubbed against her face. Eric laughed and slid an arm around her shoulder, tracing his fingers gently up and down her arm.

They sat like this for a minute or two as people rushed to and fro around them. They were seated in a large room—more of a theater, actually. There were three levels of seating, most of which had already been filled. People were still rushing around in the aisles or edging their way between seats. Teleprompters had been set up and film crews positioned strategically around the raised platform and podium that stood at the front of the room. Members of the Secret Service could be seen standing at the exits, scanning the crowd for suspicious activity (or at least that's what they were probably doing. The mirrored sunglasses made it difficult to tell).

Em squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. She hated coming to the debates—they always made her feel sick to her stomach—but Greta had insisted, and when Greta insisted…well, she got her way.

"Your father's speaking, Emily," her stepmother had told her when Em had tried to refuse. "he needs the family there to support him."

Em had sighed and agreed. What else could she have done? Argued that Damien Jameson was a force to be reckoned with all on his own? That he wouldn't care if they showed up or not? That she didn't want to go because she was a…a…

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen!" A man's voice echoed over the crowd. "If you could find your seats and settle down, the conference will commence in two minutes."

Eric nudged Em. "Hey, sleeping beauty, they're starting."

Em elbowed him back and sat up. Sure enough, her father stood behind the podium, smiling his dazzling smile at the crowd.

xXx

Mutants are bad. Blah, blah, blah, danger to society, blah blah, threat to society, blah blah blah.

Gambit rolled his eyes and stretched his long legs out into the aisle next to his chair. It was the same melodramatic spiel he'd heard being spewed at the last…what was it? Five debates?

"Seven," the professor whispered. "And, contrary to what you were thinking, this one is different."

Remy nodded. Professor Xavier had already told him that this would be the last mutant debate before the House of Representatives voted on the Mutant Registration and Cooperation Act.

Remy shifted in his seat. Even the name sounded ominous. Opressive. Ominous and oppressive.

"Ugh," Remy sighed and slipped a hand into his pocket, from which he pulled a brand-spanking-new pack of cards. He popped the box open and slid fifty-two beautifully printed cards into his palm. Gambit split them into two piles, tapping them on his knee to balance them out before he began.

First a riffle shuffle, just as a warm up. the cards purred quietly—thwipthwipthwip—as they cascaded into a neat deck once again.

"The time has come to show these mutants what we are made of," the man on the pulpit was saying. He sounded logical and calm, as though he were proposing a business proposition. "We must let them know that humanity as a whole will not stand and watch them tear our society down brick by brick."

Gambit split the deck again.

"Just this morning I was watching the news. Last night, a Los Angeles bank was robbed in broad daylight by a group of mutants. Four people, including a young girl of eighteen—my daughter's age—died in that robbery. Killed by mutants."

Pile shuffle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, would you ask your families—your children, your nieces and nephews, your grandchildren—to live in a world where they will be terrorized by these genetic mutations of the human species?

Mongean shuffle.

"I wouldn't. I want my family to be free to walk the streets at night, to be able to live without being afraid of these mutants."

Kenchi shuffle.

"My name is Damien Jameson, and I will not—"

Remy. The professor's voice echoed inside Gambit's head. Remy glanced at Xavier: the man was staring straight ahead at the speaker. Remy, we're going to have company.

"Good or bad, professor?"

Xavier turned his head and raised one eyebrow at Gambit.

"Right, professor." Gambit slid all but one of the cards into the sleeve of his trench coat. He rubbed the remaining one—a jack of clubs—between his thumb and forefinger. "Where they comin' from?"

xXx

Em's father was just wrapping up his speech when the wall behind him exploded.

It happened just like that—no warning, no dramatic music in the background or villainous laughter to act as foreshadowing. Just…boom. Steel beams, concrete and rebar caved inward, burying part of the platform and one or two of the other speakers with it.

Through the gaping hole in the wall stepped a man. He wore a cloak and a shiny helmet that hid most of his face.

"Well," he said, "what are you waiting for?"

For a moment, there was total silence as the thousands of people sitting in the audience processed what had just happened.

"Run."

And then all hell broke loose.