The mutants, what was actually left of them, got bored after a few years and began to unhinge. There was never any sort of legal counsel and, while that lended a certain hardcoreness to the entire affair, it was the subtle undoing. It was out of their hands and it was just as well. The mutants mostly died out or retreated to lesser causes.
Cliff sadly refills his drink, remembering when he didn't drink, only speed or the odd dose of lithium. Marybeth had left and returned several times, he wasn't even sure if she was home now. "It's always been a boy's club." He finishes writing the letter and gets another bottle off the shelf.
Chris wakes up in Arkansas, "It was inevitable," he thinks "I never really left." He shuffles down to the quik-mart, puts his last hundred dollar bill down on lottery tickets and peanut-butter cups.
Rob is pumping gas in South Haven. "Always have something to fall back on," he smiles and makes change for a twenty.
Scott and Ryan, driving through the desert, "I knew them when,"
wistfully out the window, never been here before, right?
Never been here before.
Scott kills the engine.
Here's to the turn of the century,
To ashes-ashes we all fall down.
To marching on a road of bones.
To faded glory.