Follow Me Until the End of the World: A Place Worth Saving? - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Sandman
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 5

“In the desert sun,

every step that you take could be your final one,

in the burning heat,

hanging on the edge of destruction,

we can’t stop the pain of your children crying out in your head,

we always said that the living would envy the dead.

So now you’re gonna shoot bullets of fire,

Don’t want to fight, but sometimes you got to.

You’re a sole, sole survivor.

And there’s just one thing you have got to know,

You have ten more thousand miles to go,

Because you’re one of the living,

And if you can’t stick together,

Oh well you’re one of the living,

Who is going to make it tonight?” One of the Living, Tina Turner

Disclaimers: The songs named in this story belong to the artists that are credited. They are, by no means, mentioned for the purpose of personal profit. These are just stories that I write for fun. I’m not very keen on the legality of their use, but if you really feel the need to sue me for using them, go ahead! I don’t have any money anyway!

Chapter Five: The Rocks of Sanctuary

Sprawled out across the backseat of their stolen car with his legs stretched outside to the ground through the open door, the heat was beginning to feel very bothersome to Gambit. He was trying his best not to fall asleep, though it was becoming more difficult every second. The others had warned him that with a concussion, falling asleep might cause him to lapse into a coma. Dazzler and Colossus had been taking turns keeping him awake, but now were both occupied elsewhere. Allison was applying ointment to the minor burns that she sustained from the battle against the Horsemen. Her shirt was pulled over her head, revealing her breasts that were covered only by her cream-colored bra. Normally, Peter would seize the opportunity to make a comment about helping her rub on the cream, but he stood aloft from the group staring at the looming desert. The loss of Cyclops weighed heavily on all of them, though Peter seemed to be dealing with it the worst. He spoke rarely and his normal good humor seemed absent lately. They were demoralized and they felt like they had lost their sense of purpose. And something was left unspoken. The knowledge that Cyclops was their only hope of killing Essex loomed in the recesses of the short conversations. Latent despair was slowly overtaking them all.

Wraith returned with a desert hare in his hand, which would be dinner tonight.

“Gambit! You’re not asleep are you?” he yelled.

“No. Not yet, at least,” he moaned. “Hey Allie, how long did you say that it takes for dees’ guys to come out lookin’ for us?”

Pulling her arms back through her shirt’s sleeves, Dazzler stood up and walked over to the car. Kneeling by him and putting her hands on his knees, she said “I don’t know darlin’. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. But this is the spot, Remy. I know you’re hurting really bad right now, but you just hold on and stay awake.”

“Yes, momma,” Gambit jokingly replied. “Maybe if you gave me a little kiss on my forehead I’d feel better.”

She sensed that he slightly objected to her kindness. Eventually, she admitted, she would come to realize that her protective instincts would be lost on these three.

“Sure, whatever Remy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And don’t ever call me Allie. That’s what you name your dog.”

This time, the Cajun actually laughed a little.

Pulling his knife from his belt, Wraith began skinning the rabbit. The supplies that they gathered for the trip to Calgary went up with the van they originally procured. As luck would have it, the car that they had stolen to replace it had no food in it whatsoever. After cleaning the rabbit, Wraith removed the bones and fatty pieces and placed the meat carefully into a makeshift frying pan, made from one of the car’s hubcaps. The aroma of cooking meat was unpleasant, but the meal would provide enough nourishment to satisfy their stomachs until morning.

The sunset began and a purple hue illustrated the sky. Wispy clouds hung oppressively low, blocking out what little sunlight was left in the day.

Peter saw a pair of headlights appear from over the horizon. He did not alert the others to the observation at first, but when it came closer and he identified it as a range rover, he called over to Wraith and Dazzler.

The three stood in a momentary silence, before Wraith broke it. “Might as well get ready to defend ourselves, just in case.” Nodding, Colossus turned into metal form.

The range rover stopped about fifteen feet from them. The driver’s side door opened and a huge, hulking man stepped out. He had a square face and a crewcut, and the build of a professional body builder. To Peter, he looked a bit clownish, with a head much to small for his body. When the man spoke, he did so with a thick New York accent.

“How’s you guys doin’? I’m wonderin’ if you need some help, like maybe finding someplace?”

Dazzler responded, smiling radiantly, “yes, actually we’re in a bind. And were looking for the city of Calgary.”

“Yeah, I thought you might,” said the man, walking over to their fire. Reaching down, he picked up a cooked piece of rabbit and bit into it. He immediately spit it out. “Jesus Christ! You wasn’t really going to eat this mess, were you? C’mon, hope in the truck. Before long, you’ll be dining on some of the finest steaks you’ve ever had.”

Smiling, he said, “welcome to Calgary folks. I’m Guido Cassorella, the sheriff around these parts. Its really good to have you here.”

…

Abandoning their car (which had seen much better days, anyhow) they climbed into the range rover. Guido introduced them to his deputy who was riding shotgun named was Clint Barton (though Guido kept calling him Hawkeye). He spoke with a noticeable Scottish accent, and seemed to bear the features of a Highlander. The nickname called attention to the fact that the man, indeed, looked like a hawk. His narrow face was highlighted by his steel-gray eyes, which seemed to miss nothing. Barton kept his dirty blond hair short all around except in the back, which was pulled into a tight ponytail. When introducing him, Guido had explained that he believed Hawkeye really missed his calling in life as a musician, as the man knew how to play several instruments (guitar, mandolin, a banjo, bagpipes, and the fiddle). In his own defense, Clint interjected that his skill with a rifle and a bow was far greater than his “humble” abilities in music. Upon hearing this, Allison sat forward in her seat and asked if he could hear him play sometime. Hawkeye smiled, and admitted that it would be his pleasure.

Peter shifted suddenly and grimaced.

They drove for an hour before coming to a huge empty plain. Very suddenly, a huge gate appeared.

Turning around, Clint said “that’s our cloaking generator in effect. Our Mayor, Eric Lenscher and another man that goes by Forge put it together. You’ll probably meet both of them before too long. And you’ll probably notice that this place actually isn’t the real Calgary, but a small town several miles from it. The neutron bomb that hit actually had the same effect on the place, but we considered that its position was far more defensible. Plus, the town is quite a bit more clean,” he said with a wink.

Guido rolled down the window and spoke into a voice box near the huge steel gate. The sound of gears moving followed, and the gate parted in the middle, inviting them in. Wraith noticed that once inside, artillery was set up facing outward. Heavily-armed sentries paced back and forth along the catwalk behind the top of the giant concrete and steel-made wall. There were even several SAM sites strategically positioned around the perimeter. This is one helluva little place you guys got here, Wraith thought.

…

True to his word, Guido brought them all to the Mayor’s estate and treated them to his own “cooking”. Hawkeye excused himself to attend to his duties, as apparently, the town drunk and crazy (whose name was Steven), was screaming at a treed cat and was frightening local children. Guido served steaks, vegetables, pasta, and apple pie for desert. Later, he revealed that the food was actually created through synthesizers, since cattle could not graze out here and crops had much trouble growing. Forge, who was the city’s head technical engineer, invented the food synthesizers in order to solve their food shortages. Eventually, Guido said, they hoped to begin trade with other cities, though that would come in the very distant future. Secrecy was their best line of defense at this point.

In the middle of their meal, the mayor, Eric Lenscher, joined them. The gaunt old man had trouble walking, as if he were Atlas carrying the world upon his bony, frail shoulders. Donning a simple yellow button-down shirt, slacks, and loafers, Lenscher looked more like an intellectual than a politician. The man was quite tall, about Gambit’s size, and had probably once been quite an athlete. The burdens of leadership had taken their toll, aging him much faster. He wore a head full of snowy white hair that wisped off in every direction. Every wrinkle in his face seemed to be a marker of the man’s wisdom.

Smiling at the group, he nodded and said, “Hello and welcome to our humble town. It is our pleasure to have you here. I’m Eric Lenscher, the elected Mayor of Calgary, but don’t let it fool you. Its really people like Guido that keep things running smoothly around here.”

“Don’t listen to that garbage. He’s probably just getting’ so senile these days he doesn’t remember half of what he does around here, anymore,” Guido remarked before shoveling a fork load of green beans into his huge mouth.

Laughing, Magneto shook his head. “Well, Guido here will make sure that your stay here is quite comfortable. And if you would so choose, you may remain here permanently. Though if you decide to leave, we do ask that you refrain from revealing our location. Other than that, our rules here are simple and are mostly commonsense.”

His pager then began humming. Glancing down at it, he turned up and excused himself. “My door is always open if you have any questions or concerns. And again, welcome.”

Each person took turns shaking his hand and thanking him for his kindness.

After the meal, Guido explained that the town’s economy was based on currency (fortunately, their reserves from New York, taken through pick- pocketing, and Allison’s accumulated wealth as a huge rock star would extinguish any money problems). He briefly went over the city laws, hinting that he considered it the be a pretty useless gesture, as no real crime existed here (except for a few drunken brawls and petty theft). With full stomachs, the group was then taken one a comprehensive tour of the city, noticing that much construction was occurring. Guido explained that new housing was always in demand, and public works were struggling to keep up.

…

A week later, everyone had found an apartment and had settled nicely. Each member of the group seemed to hold each other’s company less and less often. What few interactions there were never included the mention of leaving. It briefly felt like their quest had subsided, and that the comfort of sanctuary had caught them, not intending to let go. But internally, they all knew that once their wounds had healed, they would set out once again, whether or not they would find any help here or not. Each was driven on by a personal motivation that they kept secret from one another, though it was very clear that this had created a strong enough bond to sustain the group through anything.

…

Allison pulled her headphones over her ears and activated the walkman on her elastic waistband. Journey’s Only the Young played, and she began to run. Her morning jog was always refreshing, especially when the air held a bit of moisture.

The city was serene-almost utopian in its small-town beauty. It held something for everyone, and the people here honestly acted like neighbors, the way you hoped they would. Personally, Allison loved the nightlife and had gone out dancing at the nightclubs often. She had even had the opportunity to perform, and brought the house down. Peter had been in the audience that night, though she had not seen him. The Russian and the Cajun were usually either in the local “Gentlemen’s Club”, slipping dollar bills down the front of topless dancer’s g-strings, or getting sloshed at one of the local bars. Their friendship always seemed so humorous to her, as they continually insulted one another.

Passing by the local jail (with the appearance of one of those old timey jail houses, like you would find in Mayberry), she saw Clint Barton sitting out in the front strumming a guitar. Pulling off her headphones, she ran over to him.

Hawkeye had seen her running down the street a long time before Allison had noticed him. As she stood in front of him, he continued playing, masterfully playing The Redemption Song. His deep voice sounded beautiful, almost angelic. While singing, his Scottish accent was only accentuated.

When he finished, Allison applauded. Clint smiled and made a slight bow. He stood from his rocking chair and laid his guitar against the rail. Today, he wore his deputy’s uniform-a full khakis suit with a silver badge resting on the left side of his chest.

“That was amazing! You really have a gift,” said Allison, catching her breath.

Shrugging, he dismissed the compliment with a simple thank you.

Suddenly, a prisoner appeared at the bars along the rail and asked Clint for a beer. “Go back to sleep Steven, it will make the time go by faster.”

“No, no, no, no, no. You don’t understand.” Steven then turned around and yelled, “Shut up! I’m asking him!” Addressing Clint again, he said “its for my cell mate here. He’s really thirsty.”

“Alright, I’ll bring him some water in a minute.”

Shaking his head, Steven walked away mumbling “damn.”

Laughing, Allison asked “he has a cell mate?”

“Not a real one. Steven has a few screws loose upstairs, if you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy, and probably one the best, if not the best, fighters the resistance had. But he took a pretty bad blow to the head one time, and hasn’t been the same since. Most people just tolerate him, even though he can be pretty obnoxious. He is harmless, unless he’s defending himself or someone else.”

“That’s good to know. Well, I’ll let you get his water then,” she said, casting him a brilliant smile.

“Hold on a minute Allison. I’m having a concert tomorrow night where I’m playing some traditional music with a Celtic flavor. They always bring in a pretty good crowd. I was thinking that if you aren’t doing anything, maybe you could come, and afterwards we could grab some dinner?”

“Well, that depends. Are you asking me out on a date?”

Pausing for a moment, he looked her over, fearing that she was already involved. She had never looked more beautiful to him than now, dressed simply in short gray cutoffs and a sports bra. Her short blond hair was pulled back and covered by a red bandana, which he thought made her look absolutely stunning. He finally said, “well, yes, that was my intention.”

“Then the answer is yes,” she said, putting her headphones back on and jogging away. Clint smiled while watching her. He had really hoped she would agree. The day promised to develop into a very good one, indeed.

…

The throwing knife landed squarely into the bullseye. Remy had nearly mastered the skill by now, having practiced for the better part of the week in the backyard of the house he was assigned. He found that the blades were actually quite a bit easier to aim and throw than playing cards. Wraith had suggested to him that he began using them, reasoning that once charged, a blade that had lodged itself under someone’s skin would be devastating, especially if it hit near a vital organ.

Pulling off his shirt and shoes, he collected his knives and laid them across a table. Picking up his quarterstaff, he began to practice, gracefully swinging it. His mind began to wander, and he struggled to maintain his focus. He paused momentarily and wiped the sweat from his brow. He thought of Rogue again.

Suddenly, he broke out into a frenzy of activity, jabbing the staff and mightily swinging it, twirling it around, breaking into an offensive charge, and then falling back into a defensive stance. Again, he charged, swinging the staff left to right with short jabs, choked up and then turned around swung the staff with all his strength. He stopped just short of caving Peter’s skull in.

Startled, Gambit dropped the staff. In his fighting trance, he had not noticed the Russian come up. “It is a good thing you have fast reactions, my scrawny friend. I would really have hated to have to give you yet another concussion so soon after your last one,” Peter said, smiling broadly. They had both known that blow would have killed him, had it landed.

“What are you worried about, mon ami? I’m sure that your thick skull would have just broke the staff into little pieces,” Remy countered.

“Perhaps there is hope for you yet. It seems that you have put on some muscle, after all,” Peter commented, noting the vast improvement in Remy’s physique. Though he didn’t nearly have the muscle mass that Peter did, he was perfectly toned in every contour of his upper body. His abs had become rock hard and finely developed into eight muscular shelves.

“Yeah, well, Ah’ve been drinkin’ my milk”.

The Russian walked over to an under-inflated football and lobbed it at Gambit, who waited until it was directly in his face, and he snatched it from the air. With a fluid motion, he rifled it back at Peter.

“Do you want to go to Sharkey’s tonight? I hear that they are having a live band and a dollar off pitchers tonight,” Peter said.

“Maybe.” Colossus threw the ball with a great deal of might. When it smacked into Remy’s hands, it smarted badly. Gambit shook his wrists out and swore at Colossus.

“You numbnut bastard, take it easy!”

Laughing, Peter responded “awww, what is wrong? Did I wound the weak little daisy?”

Narrowing his eyes, Gambit charged the ball, which prompted Peter to stop laughing immediately. Satisfied, the Cajun threw the ball away, and it detonated.

“I saw Allison the other day with that Clint fella. They seemed to be laughing quite a bit together,” said Remy.

“Yes, I have seen it too. I am not sure that I like him.”

It took a second for Remy to realize what was really being said. His eyes suddenly became wide, and he exclaimed something in French. “You’ve got a thing for Allison, don’t you?”

Shaking his head violently and forming a very serious expression on his face, Peter denied it.

“You should know better than lyin’ to me Peter. I can deal them out and see through them probably better than you’ll ever know.

His stern expression melted away. Pointing his finger at Gambit in a threatening manner, Peter said “you had better not speak a word of this to anybody. I do not want to complicate her life with this”.

“No, homme. You should know that you can trust me. Unconditionally.”

Peter thought at first Remy was being sarcastic and prepared to threaten him. But held back, noticing by his facial expresion that it was actually a genuine statement. It had seemed odd, however, because Gambit normally spoke in half-truths and ambiguous commitments. In that moment, however, it became clear that Remy had actually verbalized an unspoken understanding between the two that there was a deep-seated friendship here-so deep-seated that Peter also realized that he would willingly die for Remy on the battlefield, if it came to that. He looked at his friend with silent admiration.

Breaking the discomfort, Remy said “Sharkey’s sounds good tonight, so long as you buy the first two pitchers. I’m running a little low on cash.”

…

After Colossus departed, Remy went inside and took a shower. Turning the knob to the left only brought forth a stream of ice-cold water, which momentarily felt soothing against his burning forehead. Within a few seconds he began shivering, and quickly rushed through his washing.

He dressed and went to the Italian restaurant down the road from his house, which was ironically owned by a Frenchman named Alain Laroquette. Remy liked the owner, a former Parisian with a fantastic culinary talent. The Cajun came to the restaurant with such regularity that he was given a nice discount on every check. The owner delighted in conversing with Remy in French, who seemed to have a story for every occasion.

Finding his regular table by the window, Remy seated himself, nodding a hello to the waiter (the restaurant had only one). The young man, Remy guessed, was probably not more than eighteen years old. The owner had once told him the story about how the boy came to work here. The tragic story began with the boy having been an orphaned mutant that had been enrolled in some school in New York that taught the “gifted” to control their powers. It survived for many years after the war but then suddenly closed when the Southern Cross began seeking out mutants. Many of the students went to the school joined the resistance, including the boy, who could not have been more than fourteen at the time of his enlistment. When the Southern Cross decimated the resistance in New York, he fled with the others to Calgary. Alain had found Bobby Drake as a homeless panhandler, and offered him a job.

The waiter always seemed fascinated by Gambit, constantly asking him questions about what was happening outside the city. Remy usually evaded them by telling the boy that life was much better inside the city than outside. The waiter often slipped from his professionalism and tried to impress Remy with his knowledge of the city, offering advice about hotspots, particularly the best place “to pick up chicks”. Presently, he walked up to Gambit’s table and took his order, and then asked if he could join Remy during his break, as he done several times. Gambit agreed mostly to humor him.

Bringing the food out and laying it down on the table, Bobby sat down. They ate in silence. After the meal, Gambit reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette.

“Can I bum one of those?”

Narrowing his eyes, Remy said “Aren’t you a little young? It’ll stunt your growth.” The boy was already runty, topping out at five foot seven and probably weighed a buck thirty-five, soaking wet.

“No way, man. I’ve been smoking for a few years now.”

Remy slapped another cigarette out of his pack and slid it over to waiter, who took it and lit it.

“Hey, if you’re not busy tonight, my roommate, this guy named John St. Clair, are thinking about going out clubbing. You wanna come?”

“Mmmm, I can’t. I already made some plans.”

“That’s cool. Maybe next time then. You should meet him though, John I mean. We’re in a band together, he’s kick ass drummer and he writes the songs. We haven’t thought up a name yet though.”

Remy gazed out the window, feeling like a person who was stuck sitting through a terrible three hour movie.

A few moments of silence followed, then Remy looked over at the boy. A surge of sympathy set through him, realizing that the kid had probably been through more in his lifetime at eighteen then most. It looked like Bobby was finally starting to understand that was too old to be a companion to him. Before he had the chance to make an excuse to leave, Remy asked him about the New York.

Bobby’s eyes lit up, and he began discussing the school he attended. In his second sentence about it, he said the name of the headmaster, Charles Xavier.

Interrupting, Remy asked him if he had heard the name correctly.

“Sure, Charles Xavier. Tall, bald guy, smart as hell. He took me in- actually, that’s where I met John. Anyway, he helped us learn how to, well, control our powers. I’m not sure if you knew, but I’m a mutant.”

Shaking his head, Gambit said “it don’t matter none to me. So am I. Keep going with your story.”

“Anyway, I actually saw the guy not too long ago. He came through here with another one of older students, her name was Rogue. They came to talk with Eric about something.”

Remy’s heart pounded violently in his chest, and he leaned in closer to the table, as if he had suddenly become captivated with what Bobby had to say.

“Dis girl, Rogue. She had two white streaks of hair runnin’ down her forehead?”

“Yeah, you knew her?”

“Yes. Do you know where she or Xavier went?”

“No. I had dinner with them all one night and the next day Xavier was gone. He had wrote me a goodbye note. Eric gave it to me. Rogue left not too long after that. She told me that she was going down South for some reason. I asked her if I could go with, but she wouldn’t let me.”

Remy’s fists clenched suddenly and gritted his teeth.

“Looks like we may be leavin’ sooner than I thought. Do you think that Eric knows where Xavier is?”

Taking a drag off his cigarette, Bobby answered, “I don’t know. I guess if anybody did, it would be him.”

Remy pulled out his wallet and slapped down enough money to cover both their tabs.

“C’mon, Bobby. I need you to take the rest of the day off-I’m sure Alain won’t mind. There’s something really important that I need your help with.”

“

Sure thing, man,” Bobby said with a confused look on his face.

…

When she finally awoke, Rogue found herself in a very precarious situation. A cage, crafted from bone, surrounded her. Rubbing her throbbing head, it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Distant lights adorned the room-though they were so distant that she had guessed that calling it a room would probably be a stretch. Ah’m definitely not in Kansas anymore…

The bone cage was being suspended from a steel beam. There were cages off the sides, though they were empty. A walkway stretched out in front of the row of bone cages, leading to a stairway on either side. Below, it seemed to be an endless chasm. Picking up a small human bone, she tossed it out. No sound followed.

Her entire body seemed to throb. The combat that led her here was intense. Her clothes were torn and tattered, and fresh bruises and cuts decorated her exposed skin. At least she had dispatched several of the Hunters before finally being taken down. A dull silver bracelet was locked around her leg. I suppose this means that my powers are gone now. Why didn’t Beast help me?…He only watched on like some godamned spectator…

Turning, she saw a figure standing before her cage. Graydon Creed, her former co-worker, stood aloft dressed in a black vest that exposed his chest and dark leather pants. Around his neck, a rope of human finger bones rested and on across his back, a massive broadsword was slung.

He reached up and shook her cage. For a moment, it felt like it would fall from the beam. She gripped the sides of the cage and screamed out in terror.

“Rogue…you were lucky. These things are not very secure.” He walked over to cage at his side and kicked it. Swaying twice, it creaked and then broke from the beam. Again, no sound followed the fall.

“You know what I want. Just tell me where Charles Xavier is located.”

“Go fuck yourself, you limp dicked bastard!” she yelled at him.

“I figured that your response would be as much. Well then, my dear, just hang there then, wondering when exactly it will be your time to fall. If you’re lucky, I’ll be back later this week to give you another chance to tell me.”

Creed looked inside at the helpless girl and wanted to enter very badly, to ravage her body and then to strangle her to death. Her exposed skin only enticed his appetite further to see what was really underneath. The only way the experience would be better, of course, would be if Gambit were here to watch the act.

He knew better, of course. They had known that she would not talk. Sinister would bring a telepath to her and would search her mind. If he ended up killing in a fit of rage, Essex would not be forgiving. Besides, even without her powers, the bitch was still very dangerous.

Waving at a sarcastic goodbye, he turned and left.

Don’t you be afraid now, girl. You just have to be strong, like you’ve been all your life, Rogue thought to herself. Just then, another cage creaked and fell. Despite her attempt at calming herself, she felt an empty hopelessness filling inside her.

Sighing, she laid down across the uncomfortable cage. As tears filled her eyes, she thought back a song that her father had once sung to her when she was much younger, before she had run away and saved her family the embarrassment of having a mutant in the family. It was a song from her father’s favorite band, the Allman Brothers, called Soulshind. She sung gently between sobs,

“When you can’t find the light, that got you through a cloudy day.

When the stars ain’t shining bright, you feel like you lost your way.

When the candlelight of home burns so very far away,

You’ve got to let your soul shine, just like my daddy used to say.

Used to say soulshine, is better than sunshine,

Is better than moonshine,

damn sure better than rain,

Now people don’t mind,

We all feel this way sometimes,

You have to let your soul shine,

Shine through the break of day…

…

Nathaniel Essex looked up from his microscope, and passed the film underneath a computer sensor. The computer churned and then beeped, sending the results across the monitor. He reared back, horrified.

The DNA sample for Scott Summers had three kin matches according to this database.

One, of course, was Alex, and the other was his father.

The third was Remy LeBeau.

1

2 Brothers…there was a third brother…this can not be…

Which also meant that Remy could harm Essex, possibly even kill him with his mutant power, which no doubt possessed the same energy signature as his brothers.

Essex reflected back on his wisdom of not killing allowing the Horsemen to kill Scott Summers when they had the chance. He would not to double his efforts to make himself immune to Summers’ power. This will only slow things down further…gods be damned…

As for LeBeau, he did not pose much of a threat, but did indeed present one. Perhaps he would use Rogue to bring him closer and kill him. He will not be able to resist that bait.