The Last X-Man

Search for Tomorrow

I had finally found him, the thrice-benighted last x-man. He had shell companies across all of Nová Evropa, complicated holding schemes looping through the RCA, a subsidiary or two in Brazil, and, finally, corporate headquarters in Mobile, Alabama. In hindsight, of course he'd be in Mobile; it was one of the only even semi-functioning towns left in the entire NAG-C, and he'd always held a weird fondness for that gloomy, wet area of the world. It would have been nice if that realization hit me *before* having to hunt across vast swaths of the civilized world, but, oh well; ya win some, ya lose some.

Still, though, I was here now, and I wasn't leaving until I got what I wanted (unless this was somehow another dead end. Then I'd be...really pretty unhappy and deeply frustrated and UGH, why, good heavens, must this man be so completely paranoid? I mean, I get it, perfectly good reasons, yeah, but that doesn't feel much better when you've just had to wade through 400 miles of bona fide American wasteland. It smells worse than it looks, people, and it looks pretty bad! But, that's quite enough about *that* little adventure; it was already bad enough going through it once.).

So, here I am: me, the mighty town of Mobile (with a grotesquely swollen population of 629,000 souls), and the official headquarters of the X-Corporation (Man, what a stiff-suit of a name. Almost makes *me* feel faceless). Now, I have to case the place out, figure out how to get where I need to be, and, most of all, not die in a city teeming with crazy outlaw Americans and paranoid mutants.

Thankfully, the current incarnation of the Corp doesn't seem to be nearly as straight-laced and joyless as I imagine old Xavier would have wanted it to be. For one, 'headquarters' seems to be a jumped-up name for 'casino, tavern, alehouse, and general place of ill repute.' It might have seemed more out of place, I suppose, if this had been most other cities, but Mobile perches precariously on the edge of the wastes, and it is...somewhat difficult, to find a more aggressively lawless locale, at least on this side of the Atlantic. For another, at least three people tried to pickpocket me on my way there. After man #3 got perhaps a little too close to actually finding my wallet (a little too clumsily for my dignity to allow), I broke his arm and strong-armed him at the nearest desiccated bit of 'greenery' (Four riders, I hate summer *SO MUCH*), to his obvious surprise and consternation. Not a bad toss, either; he ended up lodged awkwardly in a particularly spiny holly bush. Thankfully, that seemed to mark a definite end to that particular brand of mischief.

(In retrospect, that sort of welcome seems fairly clever; case the new arrival out, see what skills she might have, keep a bit of an eye on her with someone not *too* important. I doubt The Man phrased it quite like that, but I suspect that's what he was thinking. And, besides, snag the wallet, take a quick peek, return it, maybe even with most of its valuables...not the worst way of gathering information. Didn't work for me, but I'm definitely something special.)

Finally, I waded my way into the actual building-crowded and frenetic (and blisteringly hot), filled with an eclectic mix of the unwashed masses, the glimmering elite, and, rarest of all, the clever, wary ones, card sharking, or dicing, or hawking, or auctioneering, lone beacons of wariness in a sea of obvious marks. There were scattered junkies, people tossed up and abandoned like trash on the tide (though, surprisingly, the place didn't seem to be much of a drug den, I absently noted, almost tasting the relish of juice or Leaf or Neverwhere...No hypercortisone, though. Someone was keeping an eye out, or the real action was happening somewhere else.). They'd made their way down to this mad city and somehow, not quite sure how, they'd ended up adrift on a sea of sensation. Maybe they'd do something about it, too, just after their next hit...

My attention sifted rapidly through the human tide. Most of the activity seemed to be frantic betting, and yelling, and milling about, centered on a large circular pit, with smaller epicenters around card tables, ticket counters, and one strange woman hawking some kind of fat, strange otter. She-the woman that is-had dull pink skin, long twig-like hair, and a voice that banged out over some sort of rusty, ill-used amplification system.
"Neloov Suleiman, clone of the grand champion, Radagast Chomper! Gents, gents, ladies and gents, fancy a try? Can't go wrong with Neloov! Spirit, such fine spirit, and such clever paws! Step right up and you'll be on your way to victory! No better capotter in the whole of the Americas! Sure to bring you sweet victory and your chance for lasting fame and money!"
Across from her, on a sort of dais at the edge of the circular pit, a large, enormously plump otter-creature reclined comfortably across the lap of a burly young woman, who fountained frizzy black hair and wore a large, shapeless coat, looking languidly upon the scene. She was, quite apparently, some sort of reigning champion of...whatever strange thing was going on here.