The X-Project

Forge is not happy about the idea of Scott's car being taken off to the junkyard. He has a better idea. Scott, much to his own surprise, agrees.


He had been hoping not to have to be there, Scott thought irritably as he headed down to the garage. Lee had agreed to let the wrecker in and keep an eye on him until he hauled the car away, and Scott had been quietly grateful to him for that. But Forge's post made him think that he'd really better at least put in an appearance. Who knew what Forge was capable of talking a poor wrecker-driver into? If not that, Scott had disturbing mental images of Forge standing in front of that wrecker like that protestor in front of the tank in Tianamen Square.

Instead, Forge's impression was more along the lines of Evel Knievel, leaping down the stairwell and using the wall to slow his descent as he burst through the door into the garage. Whipping a complicated-looking remote out of his pocket, he thumbed a red button and heard the garage door motor grind to a halt. Resting against the tailgate of the school's battered work truck, he panted for breath and looked up at the headmaster.

"What... do you think... you're doing?" he gasped.

Scott gave him one of those patient looks that really wasn't anything of the sort. "The gentleman in the large truck outside is here to tow my car off to the junkyard where it belongs," he said, his voice not so much wry as flat. "You seem distraught."

"No," Forge replied in the tone one would use for a child who was trying to insist that the sky was orange. "Junkyards are for things that are wrecked and unsalvageable. Your car just has a temporary condition that's impairing its performance... completely," he amended. "But I emphasize the temporary. Have you hit your head? Again?"

Scott folded his arms across his chest, his expression still very level. "I don't have the time or the inclination to fix it. Nor do I feel like paying anyone else to." Okay, so that part, on the face of it, probably was the part that wouldn't make sense at all to Forge.

"You hit your head," Forge deduced. "I mean, come on. What was the first thing I got told when I got here? 'Feel free to tinker with any of the cars in the garage - except Mr. Summers' RX-7' - that car is like... the only thing anyone ever sees you DO outside of work. You're talking about just scrapping it and starting over?"

"No." It was a very odd, tight little smile that Scott gave Forge. "I'm talking about just scrapping it. I don't really need my own car -there are plenty of school cars. This was just an indulgence." He didn't need the car. He couldn't have the Blackbird, at least not really, not when he could tinker with her but not fly her. And whose fault is that, Summers? Scott ignored the sensible voice at the back of his head.

He'd keep the bike. But that was it.

Forge paled. "It... no, I'm not buying it. Trust me, I know cars. First time I sat behind the wheel by myself at twelve years old I knew everything about my dad's car. Professor says that was probably the first sign of my mutant power kicking in. I've seen how you are with the jet, with your bike - come on, Mr. S," he cajoled, "You know as well as I do that there's nothing like that freedom of the open road like that, just pointing forward and dropping the hammer on five hundred and twenty-five horsepower."

He walked across the garage, pointing at the wreck of the car that was still on the wheeled platform, ready to be hauled outside. "You can't junk this. It's not scrap."

Scott stared at it for a moment and then walked over as well, resting a hand on the smashed front end for a moment. The lump in his throat was stupid, he told himself. It could go away. "You know when I bought this?" he heard himself say, his voice quiet. "Three months after Charles made me headmaster. I'd been saving up for a couple of years before that, and after three months of the very respectable salary Charles pays me, I could buy this free and clear. It was such..." His smile was a sad, crooked thing. "Such a typical young-man-with-a-new-job-and-money thing to do. Hank just shook his head at me. Ororo wanted to drive it. Jean loved the car."

"It's not junk," Forge insisted, nodding to Scott. "If you think it can't be fixed - if you can't do anything with it..."

He paused, pulling his PDA out of his pocket and tapping a few commands. One small query later and he looked up. "Thirteen thousand five hundred."

The sudden intrusion of numbers into the conversation snapped Scott out of the reverie. Which was a good thing, because if he kept up with the reverie, he was liable to talk himself out of or into something he didn't want. "What?" he asked, looking back at Forge with a frown. "Wait... let me get this straight. You want to buy my wreck?"

"That's fair market value, plus aftermarket modifications, minus estimated cost of repairs," Forge rattled off. He looked up at Scott from under a furrowed brow. "I'm getting a pretty nice advance from my publisher, I can have a check to you by the end of the week."

Scott opened his mouth - and then closed it again, his frown deepening. "Why?"

"I turned sixteen two years ago," Forge explained, "and when other kids were getting their first car, I was learning to walk all over again. Never mind that I can do things behind the wheel that would make most Formula One drivers wet themselves. I saw kids my age driving around with their friends, just having that freedom that... well, you know how it is." He walked over to the wrecked car, trailing his fingers over an unblemished section of rear bumper.

"Sure, I can build something that'd blow the doors off anything on the market. I took that Jeep and transformed it from a rustbucket into a powerhouse. I could have any car in this garage winning NASCAR trials within a week." He rapped his knuckles against the body of the car with a frown. "But that wouldn't be half as satisfying as the first time getting behind the wheel of your own car, would it? I can't build that. Why do I want to buy your car?" he asked rhetorically, "Maybe I want the chance to give you some time to want it again. I'll buy it from you, I'll show you it can be what it once was - and then if you change your mind, we'll talk."

Scott was so tempted to turn him down, impassioned speech that connected on a few too many levels for comfort or not. He stared at the car, and the urge to get it out of his sight, to never have to see it again, was just as strong as it had been when he'd picked up the phone yesterday and called the wreckers. Yet there was entirely too much to what Forge was saying, too. Why did it have to be so messy? Why was there this much damned... symbolism in a car?

"I don't want to hear about progress," he said abruptly, his eye stinging suspiciously. Well. Apparently he'd made the decision. "You can do this, but I don't want to know how it's going. And you're not spending your advance on this," he said, before Forge could respond. "I didn't make an insurance claim on the car, so there's nothing complicated about disposing of it. We'll come up with some token amount."

"No," Forge said flatly. "I'm not talking about a gift. I'm not talking about some kind of deal. I'm talking plainly here - you're willing to junk it, it doesn't mean anything to you. I'll buy it for a fair price, and then it's just as out of your hair as if you sent it off to the scrap heap. It's a beautiful machine, Mr. Summers. It deserves the chance to be one again."

I'm not junking it because it means nothing to me. I'm junking it because it means too much. Scott didn't say it, though he was tempted. "Fine," he said, his voice remote. "But I want to check your figures. Make sure they're reasonable."

"Fair enough," Forge said with a smile. "I suppose that proves you haven't gone completely insane."

"I guess I've got to go and talk to the wrecker," Scott said, not responding to the smile. He was staring at the car again. "I really do want it out of sight," he said almost brusquely, finally turning away. "You can look after that. Stop by my office once your advance comes in, and we'll hash out the details."

Forge jerked a thumb to the large roll-up door across the garage. "Stay out of my machine shop," he said with a smirk, "and you'll never even know it's there. Of course, when I'm done, you might not recognize it anyway."

They really do make me feel old at times. Scott shrugged and nodded at the same time, and headed towards the door to the garage, already mentally composing what he'd tell the driver of the wrecker.