Categories > Comics > X-Men0 Reviews
A mindless ramble about the marvelous Marvel Girl. Set during Morrison's run on New X-Men.
It was immobilizing, to the point where every time a muscle flexed – even so slightly that it couldn't be seen beneath her flesh – a sharp pain would start at her toes and work its way up to her head, but for some reason, the discomfort was familiar.
She continued to lie on the floor – afraid to move simply because she assumed that the slightest bend of a joint would send her into shock – but something, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind, was demanding her to sit up.
Taking in a deep breath, the best she could muster since her lungs felt like they were full of nothing but fire and smoke, she pushed herself up with her palms and stayed still for a few moments to regain herself.
Her eyes were closed as her nose pointed to the floor, her hair covering up her face as her elbows threatened to give out on her, but she was determined. Whatever this was – she had to fight it, she had to be in control.
With another push, she was finally where she needed to be: her back against the wall with her legs sprawled out in front of her, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she forced her eyes open.
As she did this, it took quite awhile for her vision to adjust. Everything had been so dark before, an eerie, pitch-black without any sound or movement, and now – now she was staring at a light centered perfectly in the middle of the room that seemed virtually endless – her pupils dilating and retracting as she attempted to make sense of the situation.
Even though her lids were twitching and attempting to close themselves half-way, she refused to let them do so, and she swallowed the lump of spit that had lodged itself into the back of her throat as soon as the panic set in.
At this point, she didn't care about the pain. She jumped up from the floor and spun in a circle, pushing unruly strands of red hair – a hue that matched the heat of the fire in her lungs that was making her close to asthmatic – out of her face, her arms stretching out to touch the coldness of the wall that was surrounding her, pushing and pushing and pushing as if she was trapped in some sort of advance jail cell that she could get out of by using brute strength.
Without her telekinesis, that brute strength was limited, but if she was in danger, she wanted to save all of her energy, and since Jean was a practical and logical woman, she knew better than to waste it on something that could, most likely, be easily solved.
She cleared her throat of any implications – it was dry and felt like someone had taken a thousand needles and dragged them down the tissue and her vocal chords – but perhaps she wasn't alone – her telepathy was inconsistent but again, she wasn't keen on exerting herself, and so she blocked the sporadic interferences before they could add on to the twisting feeling her brain was currently enduring.
Jean's first assumption was that she had been overpowered by the White Queen and was now trapped within her own head, with Emma acting as God and not allowing anything to come in or out; after all, Jean had traumatized her by trampling all over her memories and dragging her through things she had tucked away, but even she couldn't be this cruel, could she?
Regardless, it was the only plausible thing she could come up with, and suddenly overcome with rage, she began to pound her fists on the wall she had been trying to push down earlier.
"Emma?! Emma!" Her voice was hoarse and strained, cracking with each syllable and dancing in octaves, "this is not funny, Emma – let me out!" Her demand wasn't fulfilled, and since patience was a lost virtue on her for the time being, she continued to hopelessly send her knuckles into the white structure, "you don't want to do this, Emma, not after everything I saw. I will crush your mind again," if this was some act of retaliation for Jean's behavior after catching the woman and her husband 'sharing a thought', she would happily make Emma catatonic once more – she would shatter her brain into a million pieces, but for some reason, this was too out of character for the former villainess.
Surely, if this was Emma's doing, she would hear her taunting – she would see her face on the wall or an astral projection of her body – Emma would be flooding her mind and picking her apart, piece by piece by piece.
No, this was too passive for Emma Frost, and Jean found herself back at square one.
She slammed her palms down and leaned against the wall with her forehead, her eyes tightly shut as she mulled the possibilities for her entrapment over in her mind.
Had she been lobotomized?
Did Charles think she was such a huge threat that he invaded her mind when she wasn't alert and trapped her?
Had Quentin inhaled too much Kick and decided he needed to 'make a point' by jailing her conscious?
No – Quentin was powerful, but not that powerful – she would be able to kick him out on reflex, and the same went for the Cuckoos, but Charles could slip into her head without her realizing – he could poke and prod and peel back her thoughts without making a sound or leaving his touch – and that terrified her.
She refused to look up – Jean was completely stationary with her lids squeezed shut to avoid her migraine progressing and her arms had crossed over her chest – never had she been to terrified before, this wasn't making any sense.
"Professor? Are you in here? What is this?"
She quieted for just a moment to allow an answer, but when she only received for silence, Jean cracked under the pressure.
Tears began to quietly roll down her cheeks and her shoulders heaved with each muted sob – she didn't know where she was or how she got there, and the only thing she could do was cry.
She couldn't think or act or move or observe – she was beyond the point of panic and had no indication on how to get out – but almost as soon as she began to have her moment of self pity, there was an extreme heat that was radiating behind her – something so familiar she could almost taste it – but out of pure intimidation, she refused to turn around.
There is no need to weep, Jean Grey-Summers; you are protected by me now.
Jean's brow quirked and her eyes rapidly opened.
That voice – she knew that voice.
It was powerful and unearthly and, at one point in time, it had been her voice, but there was a hollowness behind the tone that didn't seem quite right, and when she mustered up the courage to look over her shoulder, nothing was there – only the traces of a hellish temperature and something that could not be read with a telepathic probe.
You know who I am, you know where you are.
No, no she did not!
"No, no I do not! What is this? What have you done to me?!"
You are not ready yet, Jean Grey-Summers. Rest your mind, rest your body, and I will be back.
Jean's jaw nearly hit the floor and she turned on her heal, her fingertips digging into her palms with such ferocity that that the skin broke and tiny, close-to-invisible drops of blood hit the floor. Saying that she was frustrated would be the understatement of the century – but what was she to do?
Clearly defeated, she fell back into the wall, sliding down it and hugging her knees as her attention was caught by the bright bulb that refused to flicker above her.
She thought about it for a few moments – taking in her surroundings and chewing on her bottom lip – her willpower refusing to let her emotions get the better of her yet again.
Jean remained as calm as possible, not blinking as she gazed up and attempted to piece the fragments all back together.
Minutes, perhaps hours, went by – her green eyes were bright against the red of her dried sclera – her focus refused to move from the bulb and the muscles in her face were stoic and stiff – but suddenly, there was a twitch.
Her brows arched and her back straightened out and the look of shock was written all over her.
She knew where she was.
She knew all along.
This wasn't a cruel joke, or a physic lobotomy, or a trap that would drive her into perpetual insanity.
No – that was all destruction, and this was creation.
This was the White Hot Room.