From what Drake had seen on news reports, the X-Men's jet was nothing compared to Maggie's. This one, christened the Crow (after all, the X-Men had a Blackbird), was twice as big, with engines that would have made Nick Fury drool. It was undetectable under radar, could reach Mach 3, and had the amenities of a commercial airliner.
Magneto sat in the copilot chair next to Mystique, but did noticeably little in the way of flying the plane. "Must be hard to rely on metal to get 10,000 miles when you can reshape it with a stray thought," thought Drake. He sat behind Magneto, under the watchful yellow eyes of Mystique.
He stared out the window as they crossed over the Grand Canyon, habitually twirling his favorite knife between his fingers. Mystique sighed suggestively, but Drake did not pay attention.
"Mr. Baxter, could you please stop that? It's distracting," requested Mystique, though with a distinct grind in her voice.
Drake looked up. "Oh, yeah, sure." He grasped the knife and Mystique turned back around. Without thinking about it, he began spinning it again. Mystique, her peripheral vision betraying her, did not sigh this time. She merely whirled around, landing a spinning kick to Drake's hand, then returned to her seat all without moving her hand from the controls. The knife flew backwards, the angle embedding it in the carpet.
Mystique cocked an eye in his direction. "Next time I will not kick that knife away from you."
Drake took the warning seriously and went to retrieve his knife. "I'm going to go to the bathroom, guys."
Magneto spoke for the first time since takeoff. "Understood. Don't get any ideas though."
Drake furrowed his brow. "What?"
Magneto ignored the question, as did Mystique. Shrugging his shoulders, Drake headed to the lavatory.
When he finished, he sat there a few seconds longer, fully aware for the first time what he was doing. He had just knowingly agreed to go home with an international terrorist tied to thousands of deaths. 24 hours earlier, he was scrounging downtown Dallas for spare change.
"What the hell have I done?" he whispered. "I'm a good kid. Raised by two parents, with a baby brother, went to church every Sunday, made good grades, had good friends. What happened to me?"
Drugs happened to him, that's what. It started with what, a snort of crack, a small joint? Then moved on to some heavier stuff, ecstasy. This was eighteen friggin' months ago!
Of course, alcohol was no biggie. His youth minister, his pastor, his parents, even his younger brother, only eight, knew something was going on. Why hadn't he been able to stop himself? What was wrong with him?
Of course, none of these thoughts had gone through his mind when he was high. Just that incredible feeling. Like he was flying through air thin as paper. No cares, no problems. Hakuna matata.
Then, it happened. On the way to the church parking lot, of all places. Just two blocks, no need for a car ride. He wasn't high, and for that he was thankful. His dealer, whom he'd met for the first time about three months prior to then, had come to collect.
Drake's mother wept, and her knees shook like jelly, begging the dealer to leave them alone. It wasn't her baby he was looking for.
The dealer saw his opportunity and snatched his mother's pearls off her necks, the silvery balls clattering to the ground, and his mother's scream resounding as she clutched the back of her neck.
His father's yell and step forward, fist raised to defend his wife. Then, the echoing "BLAM" and the graceful arc of his father's body falling to the ground. His mother's knees giving out as she fainted, her head slamming to the concrete first, blood all over the sidewalk.
Then, most tragic of all, his eight year old baby brother, showing more foolish courage than he would ever be able to show, lunging at the burly black man that towered over him and taking a bullet in the chest. Then one in the head.
The dealer just grimaced, spat, and turned to collect his money. Drake's tears would not come, but the money was hastily thrust into the hands of the murderer. The dealer simply turned around and walked away.
His mother and brother were already dead, but his father had seconds remaining. Drake would never forget leaning down to stare his father in the eyes as one of them died physically and the other emotionally.
Drake's tears came as he heard his father and saw the blood spurt out of his mouth.
His father had only seconds left to live. "You've disappointed me."
Drake broke down, but he heard the final words, the faint whispers. "Don't let it happen again. I love you—"
Then the hand went limp.
Back in the lavatory, Drake's tears again would not come.
That was when he realized what Magneto had meant about getting ideas. There was a latch on the floor, a latch that could be turned and used to exit the plane.
His father's words haunted him. "You've disappointed me." Surely his father wouldn't have approved of this decision. Dropping to the floor, he put his body into it, turning the latch with all his might.
After a few minutes, the latch was gone, and the air tunnel the plane created swept Drake's hair up. Suicide was better than what would come in Genosha. Turning his head, he spotted the emergency life jacket on the wall. Life was better than suicide.
He strapped it on his back, took a deep breath and dove headfirst out of the plane. He didn't get three feet out of the plane.
"Going somewhere, Mr. Baxter?"
He turned, but he knew the voice. "As a matter of fact, I was just going out for some fresh air."
"Really now. Not getting any of those ideas I warned you about?"
"Absolutely not. Why would I want to escape when I could go to a neo-Nazi's private island?"
Magneto's eyes grew wide, and he swept his arms up. Drake felt the magnetic force holding him in the air release, and he was falling. Suddenly, he was swept back up and thrust into the side of the plane with a force that broke his ribs instantly. He cried out in pain, but refused to cry in front of Magneto.
Magneto floated close to Drake and spit in both eyes. "I was in the Holocaust, as was my family. Any reference to Nazis from here will result in loss of limbs. Or life. Is that understood?"
"Go # yourself."
Being thrust through two plane windows didn't improve the state of his broken ribs, but it did shut him up. He didn't say a word for the rest of the flight.