The bystanders couldn't see "An Dehai's" bewildered face. But having heard Maya's announcement, every single one of them wore an expression of dawning comprehension.
(Author's note: An Dehai was the infamous Qing dynasty eunuch. His Chinese name sounds similar to Andrew's Chinese name, 安德鲁 Āndélǔ. The joke is that Andrew, having been... severed, now shares a name with history's most famous castrate.)
"Ohhhh, so he was playing S&M and it went wrong—cut off his own little guy. Serves him right!" a passing New Yorker exclaimed.
"Christ, landing Liz wasn't enough? He had to go and do S&M too? Unbelievable!" one of the male students cursed.
"The nation is doomed! Doomed! Elementary schoolers are doing this now? The great American republic is headed straight for the gutter!" an elderly gentleman declaimed.
"Ha ha ha, each American generation is worse than the last. Looks like it's finally time for my great XX to rise!" a foreign tourist thought gleefully to himself.
...
Meanwhile, little "An Dehai" was shouting his defense to anyone who'd listen: "It wasn't me! I didn't do it! I'm innocent! I don't even know what happened!"
Sadly, his protests were as convincing as wet cardboard—far too bland for a crowd that craved gossip—and nobody believed a word.
"Here. Take your stuff."
Madam President handed Andrew the jar, cutting off his feeble explanations.
Watching Andrew clutch the glass bottle like a holy relic, Maya swept her perception across the murmuring crowd and gave a satisfied nod.
The incident had happened in broad daylight with dozens of witnesses. A cover-up was impossible, so the only option was to provide a plausible explanation. Madam President could hardly announce, "Hey everyone, there's a mutant girl right here!" could she? And so Andrew became the fall guy. But really—as a man (questionable), taking the rap for his girlfriend was no big deal. Compared to what had already happened to him today, one more indignity was nothing.
Like a person already a hundred million in debt—another million doesn't even register. Sure, Andrew might disagree, but the microphone wasn't in his hands. Madam President had every right to make that call.
After all, without Madam President's intervention, Andrew would've gone from Andrew to An Dehai for real.
After a moment's thought, Maya called Nana over. "Nana, help me carry Liz to the school bus. She doesn't need to go to the hospital."
"But she seems like she's..."
"Trust me. Take off your jacket and put it over her."
Nana didn't argue this time. She walked over, slipped off her spring jacket, and draped it across Liz.
Maya insisted on handling this personally because she was worried Liz might wake up mid-transport and hurt someone. Keeping Liz away from the hospital served an even simpler purpose: preventing anyone from discovering she was a mutant.
By the time Madam President had Liz settled and made it back to the grove, Andrew was already being loaded onto a stretcher, cradling his jar as paramedics carried him into the ambulance.
Given the situation, she didn't bother going over. As for the long wooden "toothpicks" in Andrew's lower body, Maya wasn't worried. Those acupoints weren't vital; the needles were just there to stop the bleeding. Anyone could pull them out without risk to Andrew's health.
She checked in with Ms. Hannah and learned she'd already called Andrew's father, Lucius. That put Maya's mind fully at ease.
Andrew's situation was mostly handled. The remaining problem was Liz.
As for the reputational fallout for the school? Madam President's verdict: their school was in Hell's Kitchen. That alone already put them dead last in New York's rankings. Students fooling around? Hardly headline news. They might technically be "elementary students," but most of them were 14- and 15-year-old teenagers. Getting a boyfriend or girlfriend was perfectly normal, wasn't it?
The New Yorkers in the crowd, for instance, barely batted an eye at the idea of kids messing around in Central Park. Wouldn't be surprised if a few of them tried out that same little grove next weekend. Er—then again, Andrew's Incident of the Severed Member had sent a chill down every man's spine. That particular "scenic spot" was probably going to be avoided like the plague for a while.
By the time Madam President brought Liz to her family's home, it was already nearing seven in the evening. Not because the Blacks lived far away, but because Maya had woken Liz up partway there. She'd found a secluded spot along the Hudson and laid out the entire situation, start to finish.
It took half an hour to calm Liz down. Then Liz asked Maya to come home with her. Madam President didn't refuse—which was how she came to be sitting on the Blacks' living room sofa at this very moment.
"Mr. Black, your daughter isn't sick. Her genes have simply awakened," Madam President explained once again.
"Bullshit. She is sick. She needs a doctor. Being a mutant is a disease!"
Madam President dearly wanted to plant a Rasengan in that fat face. Honestly, she couldn't understand it. The Black family was solidly middle-class. Liz's father was a white-collar professional—educated, supposedly civilized. So why was this man being so impossibly pigheaded?
"Every person carries 23 pairs—46 strands—of DNA. Each parent contributes 23. Which means the X-gene in Liz's body came from the two of you."
"Oh my—" Mrs. Black gasped.
"No! My wife and I are both normal. We don't have any X-gene. Liz is sick—it's a genetic disease, and she needs to go to the hospital!"
Mr. Black doubled down, glaring at his crying daughter with undisguised revulsion—as if she were not his child but some dangerous piece of filth.
Clearly, Mr. Black harbored deep prejudice against mutants. Madam President's expression hardened, her voice going crisp and serious. "Mr. Black, you went to college. DNA was discovered by scientists in the 1970s. You should have at least a basic understanding of genetics. The most cutting-edge science has now confirmed that the X-gene is not a mutation. It has always been present, stably inherited within a specific segment of human DNA."
"Some people never activate it—like you, for example. For others, the gene can be triggered by strong stimuli during adolescence, and they become what you so despise: a mutant. Like your daughter Liz."
"Let me be blunt: taking Liz to a hospital won't accomplish anything. Forget regular doctors—even the top biotech company, Oscorp, can't do a thing about the X-gene. And given the nature of Liz's particular ability, doctors can't even administer a sedative. On the other hand, if you simply comfort your daughter and help her stay calm, she'll be no different from anyone else."
Seeing the thoughtful expressions on both Mr. and Mrs. Black's faces, Madam President pressed her advantage. "I'm sure you're also aware that the government is not exactly friendly toward mutants. If—and I mean if—they discover Liz's situation, it won't go well for you either. Your family, you personally—all of you will be placed under heightened surveillance. Because you carry the X-gene. Because every one of your other children is a potential mutant."
Scared yet? Good. You should be. If she didn't put the fear of God into this man, the moment she left, the fat idiot would probably call the cops.
"That said, you don't need to be afraid of Liz hurting you. Her spatial blades can only activate when someone touches her. It's... look, don't be scared. Spatial blades aren't scary at all. At most, they'd slice open a cut, same as a kitchen knife. As long as you don't touch her, nothing will happen."
"But this afternoon, that boy..." Mrs. Black said hesitantly.