X-CLAVE: DISCOVERY
PART ONE
--(c) 1997 M. O'Quinn

Westchester County, New York
Saturday, the 23rd, 7:56 a.m.

The War Room was astonishingly quiet.  The usual banter between
teammates was conspicuously absent.  Even Bobby Drake--Iceman--had no
heart for his usual running line of wisecracks.  

(If the misery gets any thicker in here,) Jean Grey thought to
herself, (I may choke.)  She surveyed the circle of faces around the
conference table:  Archangel stood in the corner, in the shadows, his
arms folded; the flickering radiance from the various satellite
monitors glinted off his razor-tipped wings.  Iceman hunched
miserably in his chair, a gray blob of sorrow.  Rogue sat back in her
chair with her knees crossed and one leg swinging, showing her
impatience; to her left sat Wolverine, whose irritable nature was
hardly improved by current circumstances.  Jubilee was on his other
side, sitting cross-legged in her chair, chomping furiously on a wad
of bubble gum and feigning an air of bored disinterest; she refused
to meet Jean's eyes.  Beast and Bishop were murmuring with their
heads bent towards each other; Jean was careful not to eavesdrop on
them, with either her ears or her mind.  Storm was watching the
satellite feed from CNN, a special report.  Charles Zewe's pleasant
features were grim as he spoke:

"...only rumors at the present time.  The White House has refrained
from comment, but a spokesman for S.H.I.E.L.D. has told CNN that the
world governments should be prepared for the worst, but take no
action at the present time.  Meanwhile, reports of sightings still
persist from countries around the globe...."

The picture beside him on the screen was familiar--too familiar--to
Jean, to all of them.  An extreme close-up of a red helmet with
semicircular eyeslits and an opening down the front to the bottom,
rimmed in violet, with a pair of burning-ice eyes peering out from
the shadowed interior.  Below this portrait, a computer graphic
caption:  IS MAGNETO ALIVE?

(If he is,) Jean thought, (then God help us all.  This time he won't
hold back.)

"Good morning, Jean."

She looked around and managed a weary smile for the man she loved. 
Cyclops reached out and clasped her hand briefly.

"Good morning, X-Men," came a voice behind Cyclops.  In the doorway a
strange golden chair hovered about two feet off the ground, its
covered lower portion almost reminiscent of some type of aircraft. 
The man seated in the hoverchair wore a somber mask, made more severe
by the fact that he was completely bald and his eyebrows feathered up
from his temples.  Cyclops moved aside as his immediate superior
glided soundlessly into the room.

"What's good about it, Charley?" Wolverine rasped into the tense
silence.  "We got a girl in a box downstairs halfway between dyin'
and dead who we can't pull the plug on 'cos Petey took a powder;
ain't none of us got any sleep worth talkin' about in a week's time;
and we're watchin' 'The Return o' Magneto, Part 47' on the tube while
the powers-that-be are gearin' up for World War Four.  You find me
somethin' good about *this* mornin', Charley, and I'll respond in
kind."

Professor Charles Xavier paused at the open end of the table--where,
for obvious reasons, no chairs were placed.  "Wolverine," he said,
rubbing his hand across a tired brow, "have I ever told you how much
I hate being called 'Charley', 'Chuck', or any of the inventive
nicknames you come up with for me--not all of which, I realize, are
meant to be complimentary?"

"More times 'n I can count."  Wolverine took a hard toke on the
remnants of his cigar, sat forward and stubbed the butt out in a
nearby ashtray.  "So why'd ya call this meeting, anyway?  If yer
gonna tell us it's about time we put our heads between our knees and
kiss our sweet asses goodbye, that's somethin' we already know."

Rogue managed a weak chuckle.  "Prof's right, Wolvie.  Danged if'n ya
*don't* have one kinda way with words."

"Can we get on with this, or what?" Jubilee grumbled, slumping down
in her chair.

"My thoughts exactly."  Xavier surveyed the expressions on the
students gathered around the table.  He saw Warren's dark brooding,
Bobby's helpless grief, Rogue's impatience for action.  He could see
through Logan's nettling and Jubilation's jaded facade, clear to
their pain.  He sensed Hank's tenseness, Bishop's fatalistic
resignation, Ororo's contemplative sadness.  And he drew strength
from Scott's and Jean's love for him, their unshaken faith in him, in
his cause, in his dream of peace and acceptance.

"Storm, please mute the monitors so that we may begin."

She did so and sat down beside Bishop, her crystal blue eyes resting
unwaveringly on Xavier.  He took a deep breath, anticipating the
various responses, before he began.

"Yesterday, the automatic sensors on Cerebro detected no less than
three new mutants by random scanning.  All are in the continental
United States; two are east of the Mississippi, and one is even as
nearby as Virginia.  We need to find these people and bring them here
as soon as possible."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then half the people at the table started talking at once.

Iceman:  "Are you *nuts?!*  We can't just--"

Rogue:  "We cain't leave the mansion with Magneto's bein'--"

Wolverine:  "You're sendin' us out--"

Jubilee:  "You're gonna bring *more* kids up here to die--"

Storm:  "Professor, perhaps we should consider--"

Xavier held up a hand.  He did not speak.  *Enough.*

Everybody shut up.

"I realize that the circumstances are less than ideal for the
recruitment of new students," he said, speaking aloud this time
rather than with his mind.  "However, please consider the fact that
Magneto may well be recruiting new Acolytes from the undiscovered
mutant population.  He almost certainly has detection capabilities
which are equivalent to our own; he could have easily stolen the
technology during the time of his directorship here, or developed it
himself.  It's imperative that we reach these three individuals, at
least, before Magneto does."

"Business as usual?"  Warren intoned, his voice dead level and devoid
of emotion.

"If you like."

"Not much, Professor."

Xavier sighed.  "In truth, neither do I.  But we must remember the
reason we are all here to begin with:  to help others who are gifted
as we are deal with their powers, to give them a sense of acceptance
by--"

"Save the speeches, Charley," grumbled Wolverine.  "We've all heard
it before."

"Maybe if you'd listen for once," Cyclops snapped, "he wouldn't have
to keep repeating himself."

Wolverine growled deep in the back of his throat and began to get to
his feet--but Jean warned him and Cyclops both quiet by holding up
her hands.  "Now isn't the time, you two.  Whether you like it or
not--Logan, all of you--Charles is right.  None of us are happy about
Illyana, or Peter, and I can't speak for the rest of you but, quite
frankly, the thought of Magneto being alive and coming after us
terrifies me.  But we can't lock ourselves up in the mansion and let
the rest of humanity--mutants or not--fend for themselves.  If we're
going to stay the X-Men, we have to *be* X-Men, and that means doing
the job we were meant to do."

"And if there's something more important than helping others like us
deal with their powers," Cyclops added, "then I'd like somebody to
tell me what it is."

No one said anything.  Wolverine lit a fresh cigar and sat back, but
there was tension in his every movement.

Xavier pressed a button on his chair arm, and a backlit grid map
hologram of the United States popped up over the table.  Three red
pinpoints of light flickered between the fine blue lines:  one in the
Northeast, another on the Gulf Coast, a third west of Texas. 
"Cyclops and Jean will look for the contact in Virginia; it's a
resort area, with many private cabins, and whoever it is will
probably be from a reasonably upperclass background.  I've taken the
liberty of chartering a private jet for the two of you to Arlington
Airport.  Wolverine, you and Rogue will take the Blue Team's
Blackbird and head for New Orleans.  Storm, Iceman, the two of you
will head for New Mexico.  The rest of you will remain here...in case
something unexpected comes up."

Rogue sat up and raised her hand.  Xavier acknowledged her with a
nod.  "'Scuze me, Professor," she said, "but, if ya don't mind mah
sayin' so, yer sendin' out most of our heavy hitters--Storm, Jean,
me, Wolvie--even Cyclops."

Scott snorted.  "Thanks a lot."

"What am I," Iceman put in, "a Freezer Pop?"

Nobody laughed.

"No offense, y'all.  It's just that...if Magneto *is* comin' back,
shouldn't some of us, at least the ones with a li'l more firepower,
stick close to home?"

"The mansion's defenses were recalibrated by Forge after Magneto's
departure, in anticipation of a possible attack.  I am sending out
the 'heavy hitters,' as you so eloquently put it, precisely because
you are best equipped to deal with Magneto should the need arise.  Of
course, I would have much preferred to send Gambit with you to New
Orleans, rather than Wolverine; however, it seems our Cajun friend is
nowhere to be found."  Xavier's hazel eyes fixed on the compact man
sitting across the table.  "I will simply have to trust to your
discretion, Logan, concerning a direct confrontation in the event you
should encounter Magneto.  I needn't remind you that your adamantium
skeleton makes you particularly vulnerable to his magnetic powers."

Wolverine took a long drag and blew the smoke out in a long blue
cloud.  "If he don't see me comin', Charley, he won't get a chance ta
use 'em--and he'll never know what hit 'im."

Rogue winced, but said nothing.

"You each have your assigned duties," Xavier said.  "Good luck, my
X-Men."

As the others filed out, Beast turned to Bishop.  "You seem troubled,
my inordinately well-armed friend.  Is something else bothering you?"

The young black man scratched idly at the long black "M" tattooed
over his right eye.  "I make it a habit never to question Xavier's
judgment," he said.  "I have too much respect for the man.  But even
I wonder at the wisdom of dividing up our forces in this manner--and
of bringing unknown elements into the mansion at this crucial stage. 
So much seems uncertain."

"You mean you don't know what's going to happen for a change?  What a
refreshing concept."

Bishop ignored the sarcasm.  "I don't usually know what's going to
happen until it happens--that's a liability of time travel.  It's
also beside the point."  He paused in the doorway and looked at
Beast.  "My presence here may possibly create a temporal anomaly
which will change the future I come from."

"It's no secret that the Professor dreads a future such as yours,"
Beast admitted.  "He would do anything he could to bring about a more
positive resolution to our generation--and a better life for those
who follow us."

"Understandable.  But...if the future changes here and now--will
I...cease to exist?"

"You shouldn't waste time worrying about it."  Archangel emerged from
the shadows and walked past Beast, then Bishop as the black man moved
aside.  Archangel paused in the hallway outside the War Room and
looked back, the pale blue mask of his face unreadable.  "Any one of
us could 'cease to exist'--as in die--at any time.  But death isn't
so hard to accept, if you stop worrying about it."

He turned and walked away, casting over his shoulder:

"Take it from someone who's been there."

                  *             *             *

Kennedy Airport
Saturday, the 23rd, 9:17 a.m.

Jean squinted against the glare as she and Scott Summers emerged from
the airport terminal into the bright white glare of the winter sun. 
The snow-dappled tarmac caught the thin radiance and threw it back up
into her eyes.  She put the inside edge of her hand against her brow
and glanced at her companion.  Scott wasn't particularly bothered by
the glare; but then, he wouldn't be.  For one thing, Scott derived
his powers by absorbing sunlight, which meant he never got a sunburn
or was bothered overmuch by its light; secondly, he was wearing the
irradiated ruby quartz-lens glasses he always wore when he wasn't
wearing his uniform visor.  She could just make out the lines of his
eyes through the scarlet transparency.

When he turned to look at her, the sun glinted off the frames, making
her blink hard as tears sprang to her eyes.  "Something wrong, Jean?"
he asked, stopping in his tracks.

"Not really.  It's just too damn bright out here."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  Carefully he closed
his eyes and took his glasses off.  "Want to wear these?"  he said,
offering them to her.

Jean chuckled.  She knew full well Scott was deliberately clowning
with her, trying to make her laugh.  He was normally never so casual
with the only thing that kept his eye-beams in check.  "No, thanks. 
I don't wear red--" she tugged at a crimson lock of her hair-- "I
*am* red."

"Suit yourself, 'Red'."  Scott slipped the glasses back into place,
adjusted them to make sure they were secure, and *then* opened his
eyes again.  He smiled at her, offering his arm.  She returned the
smile and slipped her arm around his waist as they walked together
towards the private charter jet.

There was a figure leaning against the lowered stairway.  At first
Jean thought the pilot had unusually trendy taste in clothing--but
when they got closer, the leather trenchcoat, steel-reinforced boots
and shock of dark russet hair struck an all-too-familiar chord. 
"Gambit?!" she gasped.

The Cajun X-Man smiled, took one last hard drag on the Black Russian
he was smoking, and flipped the cigarette away to fizzle out in a
patch of grey snow.  "'Bout time you showed up, ma fran's," he
murmured in his Arcadian drawl.  "The pilot, he be gettin' antsy--
t'inkin' he won' get to D.C. Internationale in time for lunch,
*nez-pa*?"

Scott scowled.  "Gambit," he said, "where were you this morning?  We
missed you at the meeting."

"T'ought I'd 'cut to de chass', as dey say, *non*?"

"But how did you--?"  Scott shut his eyes, took a deep breath, let it
out, counted carefully to ten in Russian, and then opened his eyes. 
"Never mind.  Let's go, people."

"Nice to have you along, Remy," Jean said as they mounted the stairs.

Gambit watched her rear departure with indisputable interest. 
"T'ought you might say dat, Jean, *cherie*."

(Jean, darling,) Scott thought at his lover while glaring sideways at
Gambit, (remind me that, at the next available opportunity, I really
must drop a truck on that arrogant bastard.)

Jean smiled in his mind.  *Yes, my love,* she sent to him, *I know. 
A *big* truck.*

(A *really* big truck.)

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Saturday, the 23rd, 9:25 a.m.

"Kitten?"

Katherine Pryde sat unmoving in the semi-darkness, perched on a stool
borrowed from another room, her arms wrapped around herself.  The
seat wasn't a comfortable one, and she'd been sitting on it since six
that morning--but she welcomed the growing stiffness in her dancer's
limbs, the dull ache in her spine.

At least it let her know she was still alive.

A warm brown hand descended on her shoulder.  "Kitty, we're leaving. 
I just want to make sure that you'll be...all right while I'm gone."

"No.  But thanks for asking."  Kitty turned and looked up into eyes
of pure crystal blue, set in a caramel-colored face framed by snowy
white hair.  "Damn it, Ororo...I've been wanting to come back to the
mansion for a long time.  I've missed you all so much--but to have to
come back to..."  She waved a hand at the horizontal, coffin-sized
cylinder in front of her.  

"...this..."

Storm looked into the Shi'ar preservation capsule.  The telltales and
the dim glow from within the transparent cabinet provided the only
illumination in the isolation ward.  Within the capsule lay the small
form of a child, her limbs wasted by disease, her skin almost hanging
off her bones.  The sweet, well-remembered face--blue eyes, blonde
hair the color of sun-kissed wheat--these were obscured by the cold
bulk of a stasis helmet...the only thing keeping Illyana Nickolaevna
Rasputin alive.

Storm was grateful that Illyana was too deep in the coma brought on
by the mutant virus which threatened all their lives to know what was
happening to her.  She wanted nothing more than to break into that
capsule, rip the offensive helmet from the child, and cradle Illyana
in her arms as the seven-year-old breathed her last.  At least then
her suffering would be over, and she would no longer be forced to
endure the ongoing hell of a living death, a vegetable unable to
hear, see, feel, think or respond to those who loved her.

Kitty's racking sobs shook Ororo back to reality.  "Ah, my dear one,"
she whispered, turning Kitty to face her and gathering the woman she
loved like a daughter to her breast.  "Weep, then, Kitten.  Weep for
all of us, who live in such a dark and terrible age."

"Where's--*Peter*?" Kitty gasped.  "Wah-when is he coming back...?"

"I no more know that than you, little one.  Peter is very disturbed. 
You know how much he loves Illyana."

"If he loves her, he should--*know* it's time to let her guh-go..."

"Not everyone is as strong as you are, Kitten--"

"I'M *NOT* STRONG!!!" Kitty screamed, tearing away from Ororo's
gentle embrace.  The force of her pushing away caused the stool on
which she sat to topple over, spilling her onto the floor.

"Kitty--!"  Storm went down on her knees beside her.  "Are you--"

"Don't bother asking.  I'm not.  But I'm not hurt, if that's what you
mean.  Not on the outside."  Kitty picked up a leatherbound scrapbook
with the word MEMORIES inscribed in patchy gold leaf on the well-worn
cover.  "I brought this over with me," she said, opening the book and
turning the dog-eared pages.  "I never got a chance to show it to
her.  I wanted to, before--before she...but I just didn't.  There
wasn't time."

"Kitty," Ororo murmured, putting her arm around her friend, "don't."

The pages of the book were covered almost solid with photographs,
notes, cards for birthdays and Christmases and Hannukahs and "just-
becauses" past.  Most of the photos showed Kitty with an Illyana who
was of an age with her, back during their days in the New Mutants,
when Illyana had been artificially aged into the teenaged sorceress
Magik.  There were tattered pictures of costume designs sketched by
Kitty, most of them terrible, with notes scribbled in the margins by
Illyana:  "Lose the fringe, Tex!" or "Too roller disco, babe!" or
"Are we still stuck in the sixties, hmm?"  There were ticket stubs
and programs from TOMMY and LES MISERABLES and KISS
OF THE SPIDER WOMAN; a booklet from Kitty's first dance recital
(signed by all the New Mutants who attended, as well as Ororo
herself)--fragments of memories, of good times, of happier days when
the world was so much brighter--or, perhaps, when they were far less
aware of the shadows, gathering just ahead of them.

Kitty turned huge, brown, wet eyes up to Storm.  "They were good
times, weren't they?" she asked, trying to smile--and suddenly, she
was thirteen and a half again, a frightened child faced with a world
much bigger, and much more terrifying, than she had ever imagined.

Ororo hugged her tight.  "They were.  The best."

"And now they're gone.  Forever.  'Cos *she's* gone."

"Oh, Kitten, my dear one.  I know how much it hurts you.  But there
will be other good times for you.  I promise you that."  (If I must
pay for them with my life's blood, then so be it.)

She sniffed.  "Yeah.  Right.  Sorry, 'Roro, but it's just too hard to
believe that right now."

"I understand."  Storm looked up as a figure appeared in the doorway. 


"Pardon," a woman's burr.  "I came to check on the patient."

"Same as always, Moira," Kitty choked, managing a bitter laugh. 
"She's here, but she's not."

Moira MacTaggert switched on the lights and entered the room.  Ororo
helped Kitty stand up; the younger woman clutched the scrapbook to
her small bosom.  Moira moved past her and checked the telltales on
the main control board.  "No change," she said.  "As though that were
truly surprising. *Damn*."  She sighed and turned away, swiping a
hand over tired eyes.

"You were supposed to get some rest," Ororo accused.

"I couldna sleep.  Och, if Charles had only not found that wretched
thing to begin with!"  She turned her back on the preservation
capsule.  "At least the child would be at peace now.  But we canna
remove her from the support system now wi'out the consent of her next
o' kin.  And Peter Nikolaevich is nowhere ta be found."  She sighed
deeply.  "There's naught we can do f'r the lass noo."

In the silence which followed, Ororo's communicator beeped.  "Storm. 
This is Iceman.  The Blackbird's ready to go."

"I'm coming, Bobby."  Ororo gave Kitty's thin shoulder a last
squeeze.  "I shall be back as soon as possible, Kitten."

"Be careful," Kitty said, "please.  I--I couldn't stand losing you,
too."

Ororo smiled.  "Don't worry.  I have Iceman to protect me."

Kitty snorted.  "Yeah.  Right."

She turned back to look at the preservation capsule and fell silent.

                  *             *             *

Blackbird (Blue Team) Enroute to New Orleans
Saturday, the 23rd, 10:08 a.m.

Rogue clicked on the autopilot program and sat back in the chair. 
"Y'know, Wolvie," she said, "Ah hope the Professor knows what he's
doin' sendin' us out like this."

Her companion glanced at her.  Wolverine was in full costume, but his
cowl was thrown back, revealing his thick black hair and piercing
eyes.  "There's more botherin' you than just the fact that us 'heavy
hitters' have been sent away from the mansion.  Right?"

"W-ell..."

"Lemme guess."  Wolverine sat forward in the co-pilot's seat. 
"You're scared that, if we do run into Magneto, you're not gonna be
able ta fight him 'cause o' how you feel about him."

"Well...kinda."  Rogue wrapped her arms around herself--the only
touch she could safely bear was her own.  "Ah still ain't sure just
how Ah *do* feel about 'im.  Ah mean...dammit to hell, Wolvie,
Magneto saved mah life, mah mind, ever'thang!  Ah cain't just turn
mah back on 'im--but...aw, shoot.  Ah know what he's doin' ain't
right.  He believes in his cause--he really thinks normal humans are
gonna destroy us, and he may be right.  If the mundanes, don't git
us, then that damned-to-hell virus prob'ly will."

"Then maybe you're on the wrong side, darlin'."

"Yeah."  She ducked her head.  "Ah've thought that sometimes, too. 
But--I *b'lieve* in what the Prof's sayin'--that the only hope for
*ever'body* is to just try to...well, to git along, somehow."

"When you start quotin' Rodney King, darlin', I know it's time for a
brew."  Wolverine unstrapped and rose from the seat.  "Want one?"

"Ah reckon."

Wolverine went over to the rear compartment and tapped on the sliding
door.  "Hey, Jubie, toss us out a couple o' cold ones from the
cooler, willya?"

He said it so matter-of-factly, Rogue almost didn't react.  Then she
heard the partition slide open--and spun around in her seat. 
"Huh*wha*?!"

Jubilee's bespectacled frowning face appeared in the opening.  Her
blue-gloved fists shoved a couple of brown bottles into Wolverine's
face.  He smiled almost cordially and took them from her.  "Much
obliged, darlin'."  he turned away, seemed to think better of it, and
glanced back over his shoulder.  "Must be mighty cramped and chilly
in there, Jube.  Why don'tcha come out here with the rest o' us
pagans, give yer legs a stretch?"

"Jerk," Jubilee grumbled, squeezing her slight frame out of the
narrow opening and dropping, rollerblades and all, onto the deck. 
"Anybody ever tell you, you got a smart mouth, Wolvie?"

"Not to my face, darlin'.  Not twice."  But Wolverine was grinning at
her with, for him, a look of profound affection.  

Jubilee either didn't notice, or pretended not to.  She started to
say something, then her face pinched in a combination of discomfort,
reluctance and embarrassment.

"Somethin' wrong, kid?"

"Umm...Wolvie..."  Jubilee glanced at Rogue, bit her lip, and leaned
in close to her mentor.  "Wolvie," she whispered, "where's the
bathroom on this thing?  I've hadda go since before we took off..."

Wolverine pointed behind her.  "All the way ta the back, last door on
the left."

"Thanks."  As Jubilee skated off towards the rear of the Blackbird,
Wolverine tossed one beer to Rogue and opened the other by popping
one adamantium claw and prying off the bottlecap.

Rogue twisted hers off and glanced back over her shoulder in the
direction of the departed Jubilee.  "How'd you know she wuz on board,
anyway?"

Wolverine winked one grey eye and tapped the side of his nose.  "My
senses don't lie, darlin'.  I knew she was here the minute we got on
the plane."

"Then why didn't ya say somethin', f'r Chrissake?"

"*Sh*.  Keep yer voice down, woman."

Rogue glanced back, then leaned closer to Wolverine.  "Gol-dang it,
Logan," she hissed, "this ain't no trip to no pettin' zoo!  We don't
need a twelve-year-old kid--"

"She's thirteen.  And a half."

"So what?  The Professor took 'er off'n active duty months ago!  She
ain't got no business--"

"--mopin' 'round the mansion feelin' sorry for herself."

Rogue blinked.  "'Scuze me?"

"C'mon, Rogue.  The kid's been miserable ever since what happened to
Illyana.  This is the first sign she's shown o' gettin' back ta her
usual rambunctious, spirited, take-no-prisoners self.  I wasn't about
ta blow the whistle on 'er and risk plungin' her back inta despair. 
I'd rather have 'er with me anyway.  That way, I can keep my eye on
'er."

Rogue watched him as he downed half of his beer in one draught.  "She
means a lot to you, don't she?"

Wolverine lowered the bottle and looked at her.  His eyes were cold
and level, and for a moment Rogue thought she'd made him angry.  (Oh,
now that's *all* I need--to be locked in a cockpit thirty thousand
feet off the ground with a pissed-off, pint-sized, part-time psycho,)
she thought.  But Wolverine didn't snarl or growl or pop his claws or
give any of the other obvious signs of imminent hostility the other
X-Men had come to know and love the Canadian for.  Instead he just
looked back again.  "She's somethin' really special" was all he said.

The rear toilet flushed, a ridiculous punctuation to his remark.  By
the time Jubilee skated back into the forward cockpit, both Rogue and
Wolverine were facing forward, Rogue still nursing her beer,
Wolverine setting down his empty bottle.  The teen chomped on a fresh
piece of gum and leaned forward between them, blowing a huge green
bubble and letting it burst with a thin *pop*.

"So," she said, "this thing get a CD player since the last flight, or
what?"

                  *             *             *

Heathrow Airport
Saturday, the 23rd, 4:18 p.m. (Greenwich)

The two women who stood side by side at the baggage carousel
attracted their fair share of stares, mostly from the men.  Both
women were unaccountably beautiful, even with their unusual
coloration.  They might have been twins--they were the same height,
same build, same violet eyes and hair--but one was obviously Oriental
in feature and skin tone, while the other was just as obviously of
Occidental heritage, with her fair skin and delicate profile.

In many ways, these two women were the same person.  Both had been
born with the name Elisabeth Braddock; both were mutant telepaths;
both had operated under the code name Psylocke.  Both shared part of
the memory of a mysterious entity known only as Kwannon.

And both were convinced that the other "Psylocke" was a fake.

"Brian will settle this," the Oriental Psylocke, who resembled
Kwannon, said in an icy monotone.

"To be sure he will," the Occidental replied just as coldly.  "Then
we shall see who is the true Elisabeth Braddock and who is the
impostor."

"That we shall."

A long silence.  Then the Occidental snared a pale blue suitcase from
the carousel.  "It was kind of the Professor to allow us to take a
leave of absence during such a crucial time."

"I'm sure he wants this matter settled as much as I do.  It is
possible that my twin can determine who is the true Elisabeth where
no one else could."

"More than likely.  I do hope the X-Men can spare me, though."

"I'm sure they can, considering you're a fake."

"Speak for yourself."

Another silence.  Then the Oriental snagged her utilitarian black bag
as it cam around.  "There.  Are we ready?"

"As we'll ever be, I suppose.  Did you ring for a hired car?"

"I thought *you* had."

"Oh, bother!  Never mind, I'll do it."

                  *             *             *

Rural Upstate Virginia
Saturday, the 23rd, 1:38 p.m.

"It's absolutely gorgeous up here," Jean murmured, looking out the
passenger window of the Turcel.  

Scott grunted as he skillfully navigated the small rental car through
the winding mountain roads.  

"It's hard to believe the country's this unspoiled just two hours out
of Washington," she continued, marveling at the rolling hills of
dappled white and evergreen beneath a clear blue sky.  "I bet it's
beautiful in the spring..."

"'opefully we won' be 'ere dat long, *cherie*," Gambit muttered from
the back seat.  The city was his wilderness; the great outdoors
tended to give him hives.

"Scott, that's our turn--!" Jean called out suddenly.  Scott slammed
on the brakes--and the tires slipped on the icy road.

"Look out!" Gambit yelled, bracing himself for impact as the car
skidded towards the embankment.  Scott turned his wheels in the same
direction they were moving, hit the brake and prayed, knowing full
well they wouldn't stop in time--

--but they did.

Scott blinked, saw they had stopped, and hit the emergency brake
before looking around to ask what had happened.  Before the words
could leave his mouth, he saw the familiar vertical crease between
Jean's eyebrows--what Stephen King had called an "I-want" line in one
of his novels.  That particular expression only meant one of two
things:  either Jean was being remarkably stubborn about some point
or other, or she was concentrating hard on her telekinetic abilities. 
Either force was almost impossible to resist.

Scott let out his breath in an explosive rush.  He hadn't even
realized he'd stopped breathing.  "Thanks, Carrot-top," he said.

"Anytime, Slim."  Jean smiled as she slowly relaxed her telekinetic
grip on the car.

"Now--where was that turn?"

"Back there.  On the right.  On the left, if we turn around."

It took Scott three tries moving the car before he remembered he'd
put the emergency brake on.  Feeling remarkably foolish, he
disengaged the brake and turned the car around.  As they turned left
down the side road, he glanced sideways at the woman he loved more
than life.  (Stop laughing at me.)

*Laughing?  Me?  I haven't made a sound, Mr. Summers.*

(I can hear you *inside my head*, Ms. Grey.)

*That's beside the point.*

About five miles down the narrow back road, the high bluffs on either
side opened out unexpectedly into a secluded mountain valley.  A
half-frozen lake dominated the site; a weathered but sturdy-looking
house perched on its shore, with a boat-house and pier nearby.

"A cozy little retreat," Gambit remarked.

"Looks deserted," said Jean, peering at the curtained windows.

"Hang on..." Scott checked the device strapped to his right wrist. 
Meant to look like an ordinary digital watch, the gadget was actually
a mini-Cerebro, designed to detect unusual mutant activity.  It was
sensitive enough to pick up even residual wavelengths at close range,
although a broad scan could only give a general area and visual
confirmation would be required.  "This has to be it," he said. 
"There's definite traces of hyperwave radiation--which are only
produced by the active use of external-affecting mutant powers."

"If you say so, *mon ami*," said Gambit.  "You mean, dat contraption
could detect Mam'selle Jean's TK, or your eyebeams--but not such
t'ings as Wolverine's 'ealing factor or M'sieur *Bete's* blue fur?"

"Give yourself a class credit, Gambler."

The Turcel pulled up into the narrow driveway and stopped.  The three
of them emerged from the car; Scott walked up onto the planked front
porch with Jean at his right hand.  He knocked on the weathered
wooden door.

No response.

Scott knocked again.

Still nothing.

Scott frowned.  "Jean, can you sense anyone in there?"

Jean closed her eyes and reached out with her mind.  After a moment
she shook her head.  "No.  The house is empty."

"I suppose it's possible that our mutant left the area recently...Can
you extend the search?"

"Already done.  I've found someone--out on the fishing pier, I think. 
Behind the house."

The two of them walked around to the back of the house and looked
down the lakeshore towards the pier.  Sure enough, there was a small
figure, little more than child-sized, perched on one of the far
pilings out on the far end.

There was also a tall, trenchcoated man walking out onto the wooden
planking.

"Gambit--!" Scott started forward, but Jean put a hand on his chest
to hold him back.

"Let him go," she said.  

"But--"

"Scott, darling, trust me.  Give him a chance."  It would be a
violation of privacy, not to mention damned difficult, for Jean to
try to explain the black void of emptiness and need emanating from
the young woman on the wharf.  It would be just as hard to explain
how Gambit was subconsciously drawn to the woman's plight; even he
himself didn't understand why he was doing what he was doing.  Gambit
was borderline psionic--and might even be more than borderline, if he
would ever open himself up enough to learn how to channel and control
his mental abilities.  He seemed content, however, to use them simply
to ingratiate himself to virtually everybody he met.

The *female* half of everybody, anyway.

Out on the wharf, Gambit stopped about a meter and a half behind the
small curled-up figure.  She hadn't moved or responded in any way to
his approach; she probably didn't know he was there.

Softly he cleared his throat.  "Ah--*excusez-moi, mam'selle*..."

"*YEEP*!"  The small woman jumped straight up into the air--ten feet,
at least.  She came down just as fast--right into a pair of waiting
arms which wrapped around her waist and held her fast.  She found
herself nose-to-nose with an incredibly handsome, russet-haired,
absolute total stranger wearing a black half-cowl of some sort and
wraparound mirror shades.

"*Pardon, cherie*," Gambit murmured, smiling.  She was an impossibly
small thing, he thought, but quite beautiful.  She had a surprisingly
womanly figure, and her long strawberry blonde curls framed a heart-
shaped face with a full rosebud mouth, turned-up nose and wide,
startled, deep blue eyes.  "I did not mean to startle--*oof*!"  The
air rushed out of him as one well-turned leg went for a groin shot
and he only just managed to shift in time to get kneed in the abdomen
instead.

"*Who* the *hell* are *you* get'cher *hands* offa *me* 'fore I *kick*
yer *butt* from *here* to *Cincinnati*--"

"*Alor*!  Take it easy, *petite*!"  Gambit dropped her to her feet
and backed away a couple of steps, spreading his empty hands wide
(and effectively blocking the way to the shore).  "I come en peace,
*non*?  An' I got no particular desire to leave en pieces."

The tiny woman stood in a defensive crouch.  Gambit noticed for the
first time that she was wearing shorts and a halter top--hardly
suitable in the near-freezing weather, although she didn't seem
bothered by the cold.  "*Who* are you?" she demanded again.

"Gambit."

"'Gum beet?'--oh."  She blinked, relaxing slightly.  "Gambit.  Y'all
French?"

"Cajun, *mam'selle*."  He affected a low bow.  "At your service."

"Yeah, well...that still don't explain what'ch'all're doin' on
private property."

"Mam'selle--"

"Vanessa.  Vanessa Covington-Smythe."  She said the name with an edge
of sarcasm.  It meant nothing to Gambit.

"Mam'selle Covington-Smythe, I represent Xavier's Institute for
Higher Learning in New York State.  It 'as come to our attention that
you 'ave, 'ow you say, certain 'gifts' which are not possessed by the
generale population.  Dere are odder people at de Institute, like
maself," he said, touching his chest, "who are similarly gifted.  De
Institute offers an opportunity for you to develop dose abilities--to
learn 'ow to use dem, an' also 'ow *not* to use dem."

Vanessa stood regarding him through narrowed eyes, her tiny arms
crossed over her generous breasts.  "I don't rightly know what it is
you're talkin' about, suh," she said.

"*Non*...?"  Slowly he reached up and lowered his wraparounds,
peering at her over the top rims.

Vanessa gasped.

Where others' eyes were white, Gambit's were black and lustrous, and
his irises were twin coals of deep, scarlet red.  He smiled a slow
lazy smile at her.

"I t'ink you do, *cherie*."

She watched agape as he removed the glasses, bent forward at the
waist, clapped the back of his neck, and straightened back up.  "You
see?  No contacts.  No parlor tricks.  No lies.  No double-dealing. 
I am, 'ow you say, on de level.  I am a mutant.  As are you."

Denial sprang to Vann's lips, but she couldn't lie.  Not while
looking into those bizarrely beautiful eyes..."How--how did y'all
find me?"

"A marvelous device known as Cerebro, which detects de use of mutant
powers.  But we can explain all dat once we get back to New York,
*non*?"

The rosebud pout firmed into a small frown.  "Now what makes y'all
think I'm goin' *anywhere* with the likes of you?"

Slowly, carefully, Gambit reached out and took her uptilted chin in
one hand.  "Ah, *cherie*...would you break a man's 'eart whom you've
only just met by saying 'no'?"

Vann's resolve to refuse melted and misted away like ice on a hot
griddle.  "I...I'll think about it."

Gambit's smile broadened.  "*Bon*."  He straightened up and offered
her his arm.  "If you will come wit' me, *petite*, I will introduce
you to a pair of de post-graduate instructors from de Institute...."

Vann allowed herself to be guided off the wharf, feeling a bit dazed. 
She nodded in greeting as Gambit introduced her to the redhead and
the dark-haired man wearing red glasses, but she didn't really catch
their names.  She heard herself agreeing to accompany them back to
New York, without really registering precisely what was said on
either side.  In a dreamlike state she went upstairs to her bedroom,
fished her beige leather Gucci out of the back of the closet and
packed the few belongings she had brought to the isolated retreat
with her.

She had closed the bag and was making her way towards the door when
she noticed the framed photograph left on the nightstand.  She
stopped where she was, letting the bag fall to the floor.  She walked
over to the small table and picked up the memento, staring at the
moment frozen in time behind the glass.

Vann, several years younger, her eyes bright and laughing, had her
arms around the neck of a devastatingly handsome blond young man
wearing a prep school sweater and an engaging grin.  A message was
inscribed in the lower right-hand corner; the first word was rendered
in precise block lettering, the rest in a different hand, curvaceous
and feminine like the sixteen-year-old who had written it:

                          WARREN & Vann
                             4Ever!!!

Smiling wistfully, Vann traced the image of her ex-fiance's face. 
(Oh, Warren.  We didn't make our engagement, and we didn't break it
either.  Our whole lives were plotted out for us, and then changed at
the last minute, by our respective parents.  And now--now you're
gone, and we'll never get the chance to see what we're like together
without anyone else pulling the strings.)

She opened up her bag and carefully cushioned the photograph between
a pair of cable-knit sweaters to keep it from being broken.  Part of
her nagged at her to leave it behind, but she just couldn't.  Besides
the promise ring she no longer wore, it was all she had left of
Warren Kenneth Worthington III, who had slammed his plane into the
side of a mountain all those months ago...after the world had
discovered that he was a mutant.

(And the worst part of it is, Warren honey,) Vann reflected as she
started down the stairs, (the reason my father broke our engagement
off is because he didn't want the high-and-mighty Worthingtons
finding out that the Senator's daughter was one of them 'freaks'
herself.  If only you'd told me...if only I'd told you...maybe...)

She paused on the steps to wipe away the welling of sudden tears,
then continued on down.

(...maybe you'd still be alive.)

                  *             *             *

Upstate New Mexico
Saturday, the 23rd, 12:17 p.m. (MST)

"It would appear to be a disused military installation," Ororo
observed as she and Bobby approached the drab, flat grey building set
in the reddish desert sands like a discarded crackerbox.  "It likely
dates back to the 1950s."

"Atomic testing, huh?  Figures."  Robert Drake rubbed at the back of
his neck, which was already developing the telltale sting of sunburn. 
He was wearing a blue-grey suit that was a bit too warm for desert
climates, even in January.  Ororo looked as untroubled as she ever
was by temperature, wearing a full-skirted red chiffon dress, her
white hair concealed in a crocheted net.  "Radiation and mutants go
hand-in-hand.  Of course, Professor X has a theory that mutants were
already appearing in the population before fission was discovered. 
People like Magneto, and of course himself, too.  The A-bomb just
helped things along a little--where it didn't screw people up totally
like it did over in Japan."

"I had no idea you were such an authority, Robert."

"Genetics was kind of a sideline for me in college.  I toyed with
going into medicine, but I decided I didn't have the temperament, or
the stamina, for it.  I mean, look at poor Moira--she's so torn up
over Illyana she can't do anything else."

"We are all upset over Illyana's fate."

"Oh, sure!  I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't.  Now, hush."  Ororo stepped boldly up to the
gunmetal door and pressed the red button beside it.  A buzz sounded
faintly behind the wall.

After an extended pause, a panel slid open.  A pair of pale blue eyes
peered out.  "Uh--yes, can I help you?" said a man's voice.

"Dr. Butler?  Simon Butler?"

"That's me."

"My name is Ororo Munroe.  This is my associate, Robert Drake.  We
represent the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning."

"Look, if this is about donations, I don't contribute to--"

"No, Doctor, this is not a solicitation for funds.  I assure you, we
want nothing from you but a few minutes of your time."  She smiled
warmly, cocking her head a bit to one side.

The eyes narrowed through the slit, then a heavy sigh was heard. 
"All right.  Since you came all the way out here, I can hardly turn
you away, now can I?"  The panel shut; after the click and rattle of
disengaging locks (at least four of them, from the sound of it), the
door swung open.  Standing there was a man of slightly less than
Bobby's height, with a tousled mop of wheat-blond hair and a short,
somewhat scraggly beard of a darker blond.  He was wearing a white
lab coat over blue jeans, well-worn sneakers and a Jerry
Garcia/Grateful Dead/"marching teddies" psychedelic T-shirt.  "Please
come in," he said.  Ororo and Bobby did so.

The interior of the refurbished building was decorated in early Acid
Rock.  Bobby paused in the door from the hallway to admire the view
as Butler showed Ororo to an overstuffed sofa that could have come
off a curb somewhere.  A lava lamp bubbled sluggishly on a corner
bookshelf stocked with everything from a tattered copy of DUNE to the
LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy to a much-abused copy of ZEN AND THE ART OF
MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE.  The walls were plastered with '60s rock
posters--Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, Creedence Clearwater
Revival...and of course, Jerry and the Dead were everywhere.  There
was even an old-fashioned turntable with a huge stack of battered
twelve-inch LPs leaning against its stand.  The carpet beneath their
feet was--what else?--a beige-and-brown shag, clean if threadbare in
places.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Butler stood in the doorway to
the kitchen, pausing uncertainly, as if unused to company.  "Milk? 
Tea?  Coffee?  Beer?  Kiwi-fruit juice?  A V-8, maybe?"

Bobby opened his mouth to ask for a beer, but Ororo spoke first. 
"Nothing, thank you.  Not to be rude, Dr. Butler, but if you don't
mind, we would prefer to get right to the point."

"All right."  Butler perched on the arm of a Naugahyde chair that in
no way matched the sofa.  "Please do."

Bobby only half-listened to the standard spiel; he'd been out on his
share of recruitment missions in the past, and Ororo was one of the
best at approaching people and managing to say, "Hey, we know you
are/your kid is/your (fill in relationship of subject or subjects to
person being addressed) is/are a mutant/mutants, and we want to take
you/him/her/them back with us so we can teach you/him/her/them how to
use your/his/her/their powers in a constructive way, blah blah
blah"--although not in so many words, of course.  Like the Professor
and Cyke and Jean and even Warren to a certain degree, Ororo managed
to convey the required information in such a way so as not to freak
normal people, or gun-shy mutants, too much.  

However, even Ororo's considerable and obvious charms didn't seem to
be doing much to keep Butler from freaking.  "No, really," he said,
blinking furiously as he glanced nervously from side to side, "I
don't know what you're talking about."

(Liar-liar-liar,) Bobby thought.  (Ororo knows it too, only she's too
polite to say so--huh?)

There was a faint *ting*, like the sound of a tiny bell being struck,
from the darkened depths of the hallway, heading towards the back of
the building.  Bobby glanced into the living room; Butler was totally
absorbed in his furious denial of Ororo's gentle but firm
declarations.  Casually, quietly, he drifted away down the hall
towards where the sound had come from.

All the lights in the back of the house were off.  Making his way
through the dimness, he found himself at the foot of a flight of
stairs leading upwards.  He tossed a cursory glance up in that
direction--then did a double-take.  There was a shadowy form on the
landing that froze visibly when he looked directly at it.

"Umm...hi," Bobby said in a stage whisper, squinting.  He couldn't
make out any details through the gloom, although he thought he saw a
fringe of pale, possibly blonde, bangs.  (Ah-HA!  Five'll getcha
twenty this is our mystery mutant, not the Deadhead in the lab coat
back there.)  "My name's Bobby.  It's okay, you don't have to hide."

Silence.

"What's *your* name?"  he pressed.

Still nothing.

Bobby showed his most charming smile.  With teeth and everything. 
"Hey, c'mon, I won't bite, I promise.  What's your name?"

Silence.

Then:  "Ga...Galatea."  A thin, small, high voice, one that might be
expected from a girl-child of ten or twelve who was frightened out of
her wits.

"Galatea?  That's pretty.  C'mon down here, honey, I won't hurt you. 
My friend Ororo's talking to your dad--"

"He's my uncle.  Uncle Simon."

"Oh.  Okay.  Your Uncle Simon, then."  Bobby placed one hand on the
guard-rail and beckoned with the other.  "Come on down here, and
we'll go in and see him."

"I..."  A shifting of weight.  "I'm not supposed to talk to
strangers.  I'm not supposed to let them...see me."

"You're a smart girl, Galatea.  Tell you what:  I'll go into the
living room, and you can come behind me.  That way, your Uncle Simon
will be right there with us, and then we can all talk together, and
nobody has to hide.  Do you think that's a good idea?"

"...yes."

"Okay.  Is it a deal?"

A pause.  Then:  "Deal."  Spoken very firmly.

"You're on, hon."  Resolutely, Bobby turned his back.  As he walked
away, he listened for the girl to follow.  After he'd gotten about
ten feet away, he heard a faint, multiple musical ringing, and then
the faint *ting, ting* of what could only be the girl's feet on the
steps.  (Hoo boy.  What *have* we stumbled into?  Either our dear old
Uncle Simon makes the kid wear metal shoes, or she must have some
*in*teresting abilities.)  He resisted the urge to look back at her,
for fear she would panic, cut and run.  

When he walked into the room, Butler was sitting back in his chair,
his hands up, palms outward, in an obvious gesture of denial.  Ororo
was sitting forward, elbows on knees, an expression of interminable
patience and understanding on her face.  Butler glanced up as he
walked in, blinked as a look of puzzlement washed over his features--
then his face went white, his eyes snapped open wide, and he jumped
to his feet.  "*Gale*!" he yelled.

"Hey, it's okay," Bobby said, with a placating smile.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Simon!"  Behind him in the doorway, Galatea sounded
desperate and frightened.  "I didn't mean for him to see me, but I
wanted to hear--"

"It's all right," Ororo announced, rising from her seat.  She was
taller than anyone else in the room, and her assumption of presence
and authority lent a veneer of calm, however strained, that would
otherwise not have existed.  "Robert, would you care to introduce me
to your newfound friend?"

"Sure.  This is Galatea.  She's Dr. Butler's niece.  This is Ororo,
honey--" Bobby turned around, looking down to where he guesstimated
the eye level of a ten-year-old child should be.

He found himself looking at a pair of beautifully shaped, well-
developed breasts quite prominent even under cover of a white T-shirt
tie-dyed blue and purple. Slowly his eyes tracked upwards until he
found himself looking into a pair of wide, impossibly deep blue eyes
set in a graceful silver mask.  As he took in the whole view, he saw
that *all* of Galatea's exposed skin was silver, while her hair was
the color of fine sterling polished to a white sheen.

She looked to be about twenty years old.

"Hi," she said, in her childlike voice, offering a shy smile as she
looked from Bobby to Ororo, and finally to her uncle, almost
pleading.  "Please don't be angry at Bobby, Uncle Simon.  It was my
fault."

"I...I'm not mad, sweetheart.  Not at you, or at anybody."  With a
weary sigh, Butler collapsed into the chair.  He rubbed his hand over
his eyes.  "Okay," he said, "I lied.  I don't live here alone, I do
know what mutants are, I've heard of Charles Xavier, and I know my
niece is a mutant."  He looked up at Ororo with a defeated
expression.  "Just tell me what you want."

"The Institute is a place where Galatea can learn more about herself,
and about those like her.  We can teach her how to deal with the
world outside--and with herself."  Ororo moved forward and put a hand
on Butler's narrow shoulder.  "I sense that you have hidden Galatea
here for a very long time."

Slowly, tiredly, he nodded.  "Ever since she was twelve.  She had a
terrible fever that summer, and when it broke, she woke up one
morning...the way she is now.  What could I do?  I was terrified that
someone would come to--to take her away.  I didn't--don't--trust the
government.  I couldn't take the chance that a bunch of CIA
bughunters wouldn't swoop down and carry her off.  She...she's all I
have, and I'm the only family she has."  His voice caught; when he
rubbed at his eyes again, his hand was shaking.  Galatea moved past
Bobby to kneel at her uncle's side.  He took her hand and looked up
at Ororo.  "I should have known I couldn't keep her a secret forever. 
I just...I just don't want to send her out there alone."

"You don't have to, Doctor.  You may accompany us to the Institute,
if you like; see what it's like, meet Professor Xavier, and then both
of you may decide what you want to do."

Butler considered this.  He looked at Galatea.  "How about it, honey? 
Are you ready to go out and meet the world head-on?"

Her wide mouth pursed slightly; then she nodded.  "Yes, Uncle Simon. 
If you can come with me, I want to go."  She looked back and smiled
at Bobby.

He could think of nothing to do but smile back.

                  *             *             *

New Orleans, Louisiana
Saturday, the 23rd, 3:38 p.m. (CST)

"...we've been tromping up and down and around these stupid narrow
streets for *hours*, it's *noisy*, it *smells*, my feet hurt 'cos you
didn't let me bring my *blades*, and why hasn't anybody told this
place it's not supposed to be eighty-godawful-something degrees in
*January* for Chrissake?"  Jubilee removed her transparent red
eyeshades and swiped a bare arm across her sweaty brow.  Her beloved
yellow trenchcoat was draped over Rogue's arm, but even in her red
sleeveless tank top and blue sport shorts, she was sweltering hot.  

"This is the Gulf Coast, Jubilee, sugah," Rogue said, putting a
soothing hand on the young girl's sweat-drenched back.  "'S warm most
alla time down heah, most 'specially this close to the Miss'ippi
bayoo."

"Now I know why you *left* Mississippi, Rogue.  It's too flamin'
*hot*!"  Jubilee looked pleadingly at the third member of their
group.  "Can't we go somewhere and get something to drink, at least? 
My tongue's about to shrivel up and fall out..."

"Can't have that, now can we?" Wolverine grumbled.  He paused on the
corner of Dumaine and Chartres Streets; if he remembered right, they
were one block east and one block north of Jackson Square.  He pulled
the miniaturized Cerebro unit out of his pocket and checked it.  The
reading was clear and steady; Xavier's mystery mutant was in the
area, and very close now.

"C'mon, ladies, let's take a stroll down Decatur and see if anything
looks promisin'."

Jubilee groaned as she fell into step beside him.  "The only thing
that would look promising right now is a nice, deep swimming pool and
Luke Perry with a pitcher of Coke and two glasses."

"Can't deliver the dude, Jubie--but ya can always jump in the
fountain at the Square if ya want."

"Gee, thanks."

They were walking past the old Jax Brewery, now converted into a
multistory mall-cum-tourist trap, when a sharp, shrill *beep* came
from Wolverine's jacket pocket.  He stopped dead in his tracks, dug
the mini-Cerebro out, and held it out and moved slowly in a circle. 
He was facing across the street when it *beep*ed again.  He looked
up; his eyes narrowed, and he pointed with his free hand.  "That's
the place," he said.

Rogue and Jubilee looked.  The area across the street was crammed
with tall, narrow buildings, most of them converted into specialty
shops of various sorts.  The particular structure Wolverine indicated
was about three stories high and looked to be as old as any other
building on the block.  However, it looked to be very well-kept,
painted a fresh pristine white, with black ironwork on the second
floor balcony that almost gleamed in the afternoon light.  A neatly
hand-lettered sign hung over the narrow shop door: *Kagami Antiques*.

"You sure that's it, sugah?" Rogue sounded skeptical.  "Looks awful
quiet to be holdin' a mutant with active powers."

"Buildings on either side're vacant, Rogue darlin'.  Process o'
elimination don't leave no other choices."  He scuffed the top of
Jubilee's damp hair.  "Why don'tcha take Jubie here an' get somethin'
ta wet yer whistles.  I'll scope the layout."

"Alone?"

Wolverine tipped up the brim of his Stetson and smiled.  "If I can't
handle it by my lonesome, darlin', you'll be the first one I call." 
He didn't have any evident worries about not being able to handle any
situation himself.

One way or the other.

Rogue shrugged.  "C'mon, sugah," she said to Jubilee--who, torn
momentarily between loyalty to Wolverine and the need for something
cold and wet to drink, hesitated.

Wolverine nodded to her.  "You go on with Rogue now, darlin'.  This
shouldn't take too long.  I'll catch you up later."

"How will you find us?"

Wolverine smirked and tapped his nose.

Jubilee relaxed.  "Oh."

Without another word, Wolverine turned and headed across the street.  

The door to the antiques shop was inset with a panel of stained
glass.  The puzzle-pieces of red, blue, gold and green combined with
clear, uncolored glass to form an image of a pond with stylized water
lilies.  As he opened the door, a bell chimed faintly over his head. 
His first impression was from the scent of age and wood polish and
surprisingly little dust.  His eyes adjusted almost immediately to
the dimly lit interior.  The shop was long and narrow, crowded from
wall to wall with all manner of furniture--lamps and sofas, chairs
and cabinets--and with tables and display cases and shelves crammed
with jewelry and knickknacks.  For all the sheer volume of
merchandise, everything was incredibly well-ordered, almost
regimented.  

A rustle to his right caught his attention.  He looked over to see a
young woman seated behind the glass-top counter.  She was closing a
*manga*--a Japanese comic book; he caught the title, Shoujo
Paradaisu, as she put it aside.  With the unconscious grace of any
well-bred Oriental female, she straightened her back, sat up, and
looked at him.  "May I help you?"

Wolverine froze.

(Lord,) he thought.  The afternoon sun slanting through the shop
window turned her eyes to liquid golden fire and picked out red
highlights in her long dark hair.  Her face was a perfect oval, the
skin smooth and pale as fine rice paper.  The shape of her cheekbones
and nose hinted at a mixed heritage, possibly a fusion of French with
the Japanese blood, and her scarlet-tinged lips were full and moist
and ripe for kissing good and long and hard.

(Jesus.  I ain't even got past her bottom lip yet, and I'm about to
bust my zipper.)

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, and her voice was a warm contralto. 
"Is there something I can do for you?"

(Ohhh, yeah, darling.  Just stand there and breathe, and good old
Papa Logan'll do the rest--whoa.  Hold on a minute.  I'm supposed to
be recruiting, not seducing.  What's the matter with me all of a
sudden?  I gotta take a minute to catch my breath...)  "I'm lookin'
for...somethin' real special."

She smiled at him, and Wolverine felt something grab inside his
belly.  "Well, just let me know if you need anything."

He stood there a moment, searching her wide, tip-tilted eyes for some
sign of trickery.  (Can't shake the feeling she knows what's going
on...but maybe she don't *know* she knows.  Hell, I don't even know. 
Flamin' hell.  Maybe I'm just getting old.  Or paranoid.  Or both.) 
"Thanks."  

He moved away down the nearest aisle with just enough deliberate
slowness to not seem to be rushing away from her.  When he felt he'd
put enough distance between them, he stopped in front of an ornate
armoire , stared fixedly at it, and got his breathing under control.

(Okay.  Okay.  Get a grip, son.  What the *hell* was that?  Okay,
she's not bad looking--correction, she's drop dead gorgeous.  I
always did go for the exotic types.  Ain't no reason to get all
hot-and-bothered over a pretty face.  I ain't no horny young buck; I
been around too much to be acting like this.  This is crazy, even for
me. All I want to do is take her in my arms and take her down right
here and now, and chuck everything else.  And I don't think she'd be
fighting me, either.) 

He looked over his shoulder towards the counter.  He was quick enough
to see her start and duck her head, riveting her eyes to the open
book in front of her.  (She's watching me.  If she's what I come here
looking for, maybe she'd messing with my head somehow.)  He
suppressed a growl and started back towards the front.

She sat up again as he approached.  "See anything you want?"

He studied her for a moment, letting his senses read her.  (Nope. 
Whatever's going on, she ain't doing anything deliberate.  She's
scared--I can smell it on her.  She's as attracted to me as I am to
her, and it confuses the hell out of her.  She don't know what's
going on here any more than I do.  But she ain't running from it. 
She's gonna see it through, whatever happens.  She's got nerve.  I
like that.)  He smiled at her.  "Sure do, darlin'."

He put his hand over hers where it rested on the counter, and she
gasped.  

(Damn, her hand's tiny.  My hairy paw damn near swallows it whole.)

Slowly the golden eyes raised to meet his.  "You...didn't come in
here looking for antiques."  It wasn't a question; she *knew*.

(Yup, she's a mutant, all right.  Telepath, maybe, only she don't
know it for sure.)  "Nope.  Sure didn't."

"Wh..." She swallowed and licked her bottom lip.  "...what do you
want?"

"You."  The word was out of his mouth before he realized it.

She tried to smile.  "Now, what would someone like you want with a
caged bird like me?"

"I've come ta set ya free, darlin'."  (Christ.  Who's writing this
script, anyway?)  "The cage door's open.  All ya gotta do is come
out."

"Just like that--leave with a total stranger?  You...you're crazy."

"That's right, darlin'.  Crazy insane.  Now, are ya comin' with me or
not?"

She started leaning towards him, or he started towards her--it didn't
matter.  He couldn't remember, he didn't care.  His mouth met hers,
and he tasted the soft sweet velvet of her lips, and his arms went
around her.  He felt her stiffen, then relax in silent surrender as
her slender arms encircled his neck.

"*MIRYOKO*!" a female voice cut from the back of the shop.  The girl
jerked back and looked.  Wolverine followed her gaze and saw an older
woman with faded red hair standing in the doorway.  The newcomer
could have been anywhere from thirty to a very well-preserved
fiftysomething.  Logan could immediately see where the shop girl got
her uncommon beauty, if this was her mother.  

"M...Mom?" she stuttered, confirming that thought.

"Who is this...this creature?" the mother demanded, pointing at
Wolverine.  Her voice rose to a pitch of indignation that only the
French, or Canadian French, could achieve.  "How *dare* you behave
like a common slut in your father's shop!"

"Mother..."

"I tolerate your dressing like a motorcycle tramp and going out at
all hours of the night to that coffee house of yours--"

"*Mother-*-"

"--but I will not have you dragging your so-called 'friends' back
here for your clandestine meetings!  We raised you to be a decent
girl, and--"

The girl--Miryoko--pulled away from Wolverine, dropped to the floor,
and spun around.  "Mother, *SHUT UP!*!" she screamed.

The older woman froze with her mouth still open.

"You don't understand anything," Miryoko continued.  "He just came
in--it's not like you--I haven't been--you can't...I..."

She was running out of steam fast.

(She don't know what's happening herself, how can she explain it to
her mama?)  "Ma'am," he said, taking off his hat, "mebbe I c'n clear
things up a mite.  I'm from--"

"*You *be quiet!" the woman snapped.  

Time for desperate measures.  "Ma'am, have you ever heard tell o' the
X-Men?"

"No, I have not, nor do I care to!  As for you, Miryoko, go to your
room at once."

She stood her ground.  "No."

"I'll deal with you--what?"  The older woman frowned, as though she
didn't quite understand.  "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean, 'No, Mother, I'm twenty-four years old and I refuse to be
treated like a child!'"  She folded her arms and shifted her weight
to one leg.  "Now why don't you just shut your mouth so we can hear
what this gentleman has to say."  She nodded to Wolverine.  "I'm
interested in hearing his story, myself."

"...you...you...*ungrateful-*-"  The woman was getting redder and
redder in the face.  "You will *never *address me in that manner!  I
ought to turn you out on the street--!"

Miryoko's small chin firmed.  She turned to Wolverine.  "Were you
serious--about wanting to take me with you?"

Wolverine's jaw twitched.  "Uh--yeah.  But it ain't--"

"Fine.  You've got a deal.  Wait here; I'll be right back."  She
walked with a determined gait down the narrow center aisle.  

"Hey, darlin' wait--"  Wolverine took a step forward, holding out a
hand to stop her.  "It ain't what you're thinkin'--"

She paused long enough to look back.  "The only thing I'm thinking
right now is how bad I want to get out of here.  The rest can wait. 
Excuse me," she said, brushing past her mother, who stood watching
with fish-eyes as she went through the back door and headed up the
stairs.

"Miryoko, come back here--I'm not done with you yet!"  Furious, she
turned and started up the stairs after her daughter.

Wolverine pulled out a cigar, lit up and waited.

Seven and a half minutes later, after much shrill protestation on the
part of the mother, Miryoko reappeared.  She was wearing black form-
fitting stirrup pants, a white tube top, and ankle boots.  Even
wearing three-inch spike heels, she was barely Wolverine's height.  A
black leather jacket was thrown over one shoulder along with a black
duffel bag, and she carried a guitar case in her other hand. 
"C'mon--um, what's your name?"

"Logan."

"C'mon, Logan, let's blow this pop stand."  She paused and looked
back at her mother, who stood hyperventilating in the rear doorway. 
"Mother, by the way, this is Logan.  Logan, this is my mother,
Claude-Therese.  Forgive her appearance; she's not at her best just
now.  I'll call you when I get where I'm going, Mother."  She started
walking towards the door.

"Where will you go?"  her mother wailed.

(Great,) Wolverine thought.  (When angry and indignant fail, try
pitiful.)

"I have no idea.  I'll let you know that, too."

She made it to the door before her mother played her ace.

"What will your father say?"

Miryoko stopped.  As she turned back, Logan saw a flash of hesitation
in her eyes.  Then her resolve strengthened.  "I suppose I'll have to
hear it from him when he gets back from Osaka.  Goodbye, Mother. 
Believe it or not, I love you."  

Logan opened the door for her and let her go out.  He put on his hat
and was following her when Claude-Therese started in again.  

"So you're just going to ride off into the sunset with--with some
scruffy *carcajou?*!"

He stopped in the doorway, the door half-shut behind him.  His head
whipped around, and he stared at Claude-Therese in complete shock.

"Logan," Miryoko hissed, tugging at his sleeve.  "Hey, come on, let's
go.  Don't say anything to her, please.  It'll only make it worse. 
Let's just go. *Now.*"

He let himself be pulled away, and the shop door jingled shut behind
them.

Across the street, in front of the Brewery main entrance, Rogue and
Jubilee saw them come out.  "Well, looks like Wolvie bagged himself
one," Rogue commented.

Jubilee took a long draw off her giant-size lemonade, then raised her
eyeshades and squinted.  "Damn," she said.  "Another one."

"Another what?"

Slurp.  "Can't Wolvie ever meet any plain girls with frumpy taste in
clothes?"

Wolverine escorted his charge across the street towards them. 
"Rogue, Jubilee, this here's Miryoko...um, Kagami?"

"That's right."  Miryoko shook Rogue's hand.  "My friends call me
Miry."  

She offered a hand to Jubilee, who promptly turned her back on her
and faced Wolverine.  "Can we go now?"

"Yeah, Jubie.  We can go now."

"Good."  She started off towards the curb where they could hail a
taxi, with Wolverine at her side.

Rogue wondered at the man's unusually subdued behavior, but thought
better of commenting on it.  "Don't pay no nevermind ta Jubilee,
Miry," she said.  "She ain't always like this."

"I know."  Miry smiled after the girl.  "She sees me as a threat to
her relationship with Logan.  Things will get better, I'm sure."

Rogue blinked.  "Um...how much did Wol--um. Logan tell you in theah?"

"Would you believe I have no idea who you people or, where I'm going,
or why he came into the shop in the first place--other than it had
something to do with me?"

"Sugah, wheah thet theah man's concernt, Ah'll b'lieve most
anything."

"So," Jubilee hissed to Wolverine as they walked, "what's eating you? 
Something about the babe bother you?"

"Not about her.  About her ma."

"Aww.  You mean I don't get to beat her up?"

The sharp look Wolverine gave her made her swallow hard.

"Hey, ease off!  I was just kidding.  So...what's your beef?"

"Somethin' her ma said before we left."

"What--'Be sure to have her back by ten o'clock'?"

"Nothin' like that.  It was somethin' she called me."

"Hey, c'mon, Wolvie, you've been called more names than Gilbert
Godfrey.  What could be so bad?"

Wolverine stopped at the curb, held up his hand for a taxi a block
away, and whistled.  Rogue and Miry were still about fifteen paces
back.  "*'Carcajou'*," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

"*No hablo.*"

"It's what she called me."

"So what's it mean?"

"It's Canadian French--"  He broke off as the women caught up. 
"Forget it," he muttered.  

"Hey, that's not fair--!"

"Hush."

The taxi stopped in front of them; the three females piled in the
back, Rogue between Miry and Jubilee, who made a point of sitting
behind the passenger seat that Wolverine had taken.  

"Loyola Airport, please," Wolverine said, sitting back and shoving
his hat down over his eyes.

They rode for about seven blocks in silence.  The traffic situation
was going from bad to worse as it got later in the evening.  It was
nothing compared to the madness that would begin in a couple of
weeks, when Carnival season would start.  However, with the influx of
one-way streets and dead ends and tourists who didn't know where the
hell they were going or how to get there, it was enough start-and-
stop to qualify for rush hour traffic in many places.

Finally Jubilee couldn't stand it anymore.  "Hey, you--Mary!"

"Miry," the stranger corrected gently.

"Whatever.  Listen, do you speak French?"

"Leave it be, darlin'," warned a low growl from the passenger seat.

Jubilee ignored it.  "So, do you?"

"Well, yes.  Why?"

"So, what does 'carcol'--um, 'carcage'--oh, hell, what was that her
mom called you?" she asked, thumping the back of the cowboy hat.

"Let it go, Jube," he answered.

"*Carcajou?*" Miry supplied.

"Yeah, that was it.  So, what's it mean?  Is it X-rated, or what?"

Miry laughed.  "Hardly.  My mother was just stressed out.  She wanted
to put on a show for the visitor.  By the time we get to--wherever,
and I call her, she'll be all tears and apologies."

"But what does carca-whatever *mean?*"

"Why is it so important?"

"Just tell me, okay?"

Miry looked towards the front seat for guidance, but Logan was trying
very hard to pretend he wasn't there, and even if he was he didn't
know anyone else in the car.  She shrugged and turned back to an
impatient Jubilee.

"All it means is 'wolverine'."

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Saturday, the 23rd, 4:56 p.m.

Three mutants.

Three contacts; three retrievals.

Everything went precisely as it should have.

Charles Xavier wondered why he was so nervous.

(Perhaps it's been so long that *anything *has gone the way it should
have for us, I no longer feel comfortable with it.)  

He looked out the window of his study at the darkening sky.  A cab
had just pulled up to admit the first group he'd sent out; Jean and
Scott stood in the driveway waiting as Gambit helped a diminutive
young woman with her luggage--an unaccountably gallant gesture from
the Cajun.  He'd already received word from Storm and from Rogue that
the remaining two teams were also on their way.

Everything was running smoothly.

If he'd had any hair on the back of his neck, it would have been
standing up.

"*Charles*...?"

He started visibly and looked around.

A luminous form hung suspended in mid-air in the center of the room. 
The figure shone with inner radiance, almost transparent, but not
quite.  It was a woman, her beauty undisputably alien, with a fringe
of iridescent ebony feathers framing her face instead of hair.  Her
deep blue gown shimmered and glowed in the glittering light.

Xavier relaxed.  "Lilandra."

"*My love.*"  The holographic image of the Majestrix of the Shi'Ar
smiled.  "*Across the great expanse of stars which separate us, I
felt your need for reassurance.  Would that I could be with you in
reality, rather than by subspace transmission.*"

"I'm sorry I alarmed you, dearest.  Nothing's wrong."  He smiled
bitterly.  "For a change."

"*How defeated you sound.*"  The hologram drifted behind him; though
he did not feel the hands descending on his shoulders, he accepted
the comfort the gesture meant to convey.  "*Your burdens are great,
but you do not carry them alone.  Your students believe in you, as do
I.  You must not give in to despair.*"

"Oh, don't mind me.  I suppose I've gotten a bit gun-shy.  So much
has happened:  Magneto's reversion to type, his supposed death and
recent resurrection; the defection of the New Mutants to Cable's
strike force; the ongoing war with the Acolytes..."  He closed his
eyes.  

"...Illyana..."

"*You are not responsible for the child's condition, Charles.*"

"Aren't I, Lilandra?  If I had acted sooner, perhaps the virus would
never have existed at all.  If I had been more decisive--more..."

"*Bloodthirsty?  To kill outright is not your way.*"  Lilandra's
image knelt down beside Xavier's hoverchair, her ghost-hands resting
weightlessly on his arm.  "*Beloved, I am a warrior born of a race of
warriors.  You are a man of peace, born of a people perhaps even more
torn by strife than mine.  I understand the turmoil you must be
experiencing.  Believe me when I tell you that your course is,
ultimately, the more correct.  Even a warrior must know when it is
time to call an end to the fighting*..."  Here her lovely face grew
grave.  "*Just as even a man of peace must know when to gird himself
for war.*"

"Was Magneto right, then?  Is bloodshed between humans and mutants
the only resolution to the conflict which exists?"

"*He was right, to a point; as are you.*"

Before Lilandra could continue, there was a soft knock at the door. 
"Professor?"

"A moment, Scott; I'm on my way."  Xavier reached out to put his hand
alongside a face he couldn't touch.  "I have to go."

"*Then go with my love, Charles, and my blessing.  May the gods grant
your task be finished quickly, and speed you safely back to my
side.*"  The hologram straightened up, and in a burst of blue-tinged
light, Lilandra's ghost-image was gone.

"That is my prayer as well, my darling," Xavier breathed softly into
the sudden gloom.  He went to the door and opened it, composing his
face into a tranquil mask.  "I was watching from the window.  I see
you were successful."

"Give Gambit the credit.  I think he could make any woman jump
through Hula-Hoops with that charm of his."  Scott grinned.  "Her
name's Vanessa.  Vanessa Covington-Smythe."

"Any relation to the Senator?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Hm.  He's well known for his support of mutant control legislation. 
Word from the Capitol says he's in Kelly's back pocket."

"I haven't had a chance to go into that with her, sir.  Jean's
showing her to her room so she can rest up.  Have you heard from the
others?"

"All contacts were successful.  The remaining teams should arrive
within the hour."  Xavier moved out into the hall.  "Scott, if you
would, let Jean know to have Ms. Covington-Smythe in the parlor no
later than six o'clock.  I would like to speak with all our new
guests before dinner."

"Yes, Professor."

Xavier caught the bitter edge to Scott's voice and cursed himself. 
Even now, he found himself treating his first pupil like the boy of
eighteen he once was, rather than the man of nearly thirty years he
had become.  He paused and looked up.  "I'm sorry, Scott.  I don't
mean to be reverting to old, bad habits."

Scott relaxed.  "You've been under a strain, Professor.  We all have. 
It's understandable."

"Nevertheless, the next time I start holding forth like the old dean
of a prep school, you have my full permission to slap me."

The younger man chuckled.  "I'll bear that in mind, Charles."

Xavier nodded, then turned towards the stairs to the lower levels. 
Scott didn't have to ask where he would be.  He knew, and Xavier knew
he knew.

He was going to the medical bay...to the isolation ward.

                  *             *             *

5:38 p.m.

Both Blackbirds had to burn up the air in order to be back at the
mansion by the Professor's deadline, but both managed to make it. 
Galatea was shown her room by Ororo; Bobby took Butler to the men's
dorm, and Rogue showed Miry to her quarters when Wolverine
inexplicably vanished shortly after their arrival.

Jean knocked on the door to Vanessa's room.  A sleepy murmur answered
her, and she opened the door a crack.  "Vanessa?"

"Hm-mm."  A rustle, and a sleepy stretch from the figure on the bed. 
"C'mon in."

Jean switched on the light and entered.  All of Vanessa's possessions
were already neatly packed away.  The tiny woman sat up on the bed
and smiled thinly.  "Is it time to meet the Perfesser?"

"Just about.  You still have a few minutes--" Jean glanced at the
clock on the nightstand...and her voice caught in her throat when she
saw the photograph.

Vanessa looked from Jean to the nightstand and back.  "Somethin'
wrong?"

"No--no.  It's just...later than I thought, that's all," she lied. 
She forced a bright smile onto her face.  "Can you be ready in ten
minutes?"

"Sure.  Just lemme hop up an' take a quick shower."  She got up from
the bed and went over to the closet.

"I'll leave you to it, then.  I'll see you downstairs."  Jean made as
graceful an exist as a hasty one could be, then went down the hall. 
*SCOTT!!*

(...Jean?  Problem?)

*BIG problem.*

(Danger?)

*Not exactly.*  She sent him a mental picture of the photograph on
Vanessa's nightstand.  

(...gack.)

*My thoughts exactly.  Scott, I scanned her surface thoughts when she
looked at the photo.  I don't think she was in love with Warren, but
she was very fond of him...and she thinks he's dead.*

(So does most of the rest of the world.)

*But what does she do when (a) sees him; (b) finds out he's a mutant;
(c) sees how much he's changed; or (d) all of the above?  She's in a
very fragile emotional state.  Scott, it could shatter her!*

(I...I think we'd better let the Professor know about this. *Before*
the meeting.)

*I think you're right.*


                  *             *             *

6:14 p.m.

Charles Xavier surveyed the circle of faces, most of them familiar, a
few not.  He took a moment to study the attitudes and body language
of the newcomers to the mansion.  The young woman wrought of living
silver--Galatea--sat with her uncle, holding his hand and looking
around warily at the crowded room.  Obviously she wasn't used to
large numbers of people; understandable, considering her uncle had
kept her in isolation since her powers manifested at the age of
twelve and altered her appearance.  The smallest of the newcomers,
the Senator's daughter, sat close to Gambit, her back ramrod-
straight, her tiny hands pressed together in her lap.  The third new
recruit, Miryoko Kagami, sat in a straightback wooden chair, feet
flat on the floor, hands on knees.  Every now and a gain her golden
almond eyes flickered to either of the two doors, anticipating, no
doubt, the arrival of the man who brought her here.  The gentleman in
question was conspicuous by his absence.  Of the X-Men currently at
the mansion, only he and Archangel were absent--and the latter for
obvious reasons, and by request.

*Wolverine,* Xavier sent out, searching.  He made contact with the
man's mind immediately, but received no answer.  *The meeting is
about to begin.  I can't wait any longer for you.  You need to hurry
if you plan to attend.*

Still no answer, just the mental equivalent of a growl, followed by
the concept of pulling away, shutting out. 

Xavier silently sighed.  There would be no coercing Wolverine to
attend a meeting he had no intention of attending.  As usual, his
reasons for staying away were his own and he would be unlikely to
share them even if Xavier insisted.  Instead of dwelling on this
uncomfortable point, Xavier composed his stark features into a mask
of benevolent authority and began to speak.

"Good evening, everyone.  Ms. Malloy, Ms. Covington-Smythe, Ms.
Kagami, I want to thank you for coming here.  As you have each no
doubt guessed by now, the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning is far
more than an academic facility.  All of you--all of us--were born
with the potential for certain special abilities which manifested for
most of us around the time of puberty.  It is specifically because of
these abilities that we made contact with you.  Like all of us at the
Institute, you are each born of a species which is one step beyond
*Homo sapiens,* of a subspecies rather grandiosely known as *Homo
superior*--mutants, to the general populace.

"We live in unfortunate and difficult times.  There are many in power
who see us as a threat, and public opinion has been capricious at
best and hostile at worst where mutant rights are concerned.  While
it's true that many born with supernormal powers are dangerous and
uncontrollable, or use their abilities for personal gain or to harm
others, these individuals are by far the exception rather than the
rule.  Many mutants don't even know of their abilities.  Only the
most powerful are usually noticed and singled out.  Unfortunately,
this notice all too often brings attention from the wrong quarters--
hate mobs, extragovernmental studies which all too often reduce the
subjects to the status of laboratory animals.

"We employ a device known as Cerebro in order to seek out powerful
mutants, young and experienced, in order to contact them and let them
know that there is an alternative to living in fear, hiding their
abilities from the world.  Here, we teach mutants by exploring what
their abilities are, the range and limits of their powers, how to
control them, and how to use them constructively.  I'm sure each of
you have heard of the X-Men, if only through word of mouth.  That is
who we are.  Not 'X' for Xavier, as is so commonly believed," and
here he gave a small, amused, slightly embarrassed smile, "but 'X'
for the X-factor which is common in the DNA structure of all *Homo
superior*.  The X-Men are not a 'superhero group' in the common sense
of the word.  We consider ourselves more a defensive force,
intervening only when there is need, usually against those who would
harm mutants, or against mutants, whether in groups or against a
single, very powerful individual, who strike out against all humans
for the wrongdoings of a few.  Along with your training in your
abilities, you will also learn how to defend yourselves here; and
how, if necessary, to use your powers and your natural abilities to
their best effect in a potential combat situation.  Not all the
graduates from the Institute choose to join the X-Men, of course. 
Still, most alumni do elect to do so, even if only temporarily, in
order to help us achieve what so many of us have fought for, and a
few have died for.  Peace between all subsets of the human race,
whatever the differences may be."  He sat back.  "Do any of you have
any questions?"

Miryoko looked around, then at Xavier.  "Professor?"

"Yes, Ms. Kagami?"

"What if we say, 'no'?"

"Then we will return you to your respective homes and not disturb you
again.  If ever you should change your mind, of course, you are
welcome to come back to the Institute at any time."

She nodded, satisfied.  "In that case...I say yes."

"Ah...sir?"  A tiny, shy voice.

"Ms. Malloy?"

"Could...do you think it would be all right if my Uncle Simon stayed
here for a couple of days...?  Just until I...so he can see that
everything...?"

He smiled.  "Of course.  I would have no problem with that."

She relaxed and turned to her uncle.  "Please, Uncle Simon--may we?"

The bearded blond man nodded.  "Why not?  I don't see where you need
any help learning how to do what you do, but if you want to explore
the possibilities, I have no problem with that."

(And you have no problems with helping your niece develop social
skills among those who would not laugh at her or try to harm her,
Doctor Butler.  Your concern for her, your love for her, are so
evident, I don't need my telepathic abilities to sense them.)  "What
about you, Ms. Covington-Smythe?  Are you interested in enrolling?"

"If I hadn't been, I wouldn't'a come here in the first place."  She
shrugged.  "As the man said--why not?"

"Excellent.  Now, then, I've kept you all long enough.  Dinner will
be served in half an hour.  You may do as you like until then.  If
you wish to see the rest of the mansion, I'm sure any of the
established students will be happy to show you around.  Any
restricted areas are clearly marked.  After dinner, I would like to
speak with each of you privately, so that we may begin to determine
what your abilities are.  Dismissed."  As people began getting up to
go, he held a hand out to Vanessa.  "Ms. Covington-Smythe?  If you
could remain here for a moment."

She paused uncertainly, looking up at Gambit, who was holding her
hand.  The Cajun looked at the Professor, one eyebrow quirking up in
a silent query.

*Gambit, it's important.  If you would wait outside for her, I would
greatly appreciate it.*

He received the mental impression of a frown, but Gambit was smiling
when he looked at Vanessa.  "*C'est bon, cherie.*  I wait outside for
you, *non?*"  He gave her hand a squeeze and let it go, closing the
door softly behind him.  

When they were alone in the room, Xavier moved his hoverchair forward
and brought himself down to eye level with her.  "Ms. Covington-
Smythe--may I call you Vanessa?"

"Yes'r."

"Vanessa, I understand that you were acquainted with a former student
of mine.  His name was Warren Worthington III."

A shock of guilt and sorrow shot through her.  She blinked hard,
swallowed, and nodded.  "Yes'r, I was.  We was engaged before--before
he...before what happened to him."

Xavier's arched eyebrows shot up.  "Engaged?"

"Well...almost."  Vanessa sat down on a plush burgundy ottoman,
tugged down the hem of her lavender halter-top minidress, and put her
hands around her knees.  "It was arranged by our families when we was
just little.  Warren's daddy an' mine was old buddies; Mr.
Worthington practic'ly financed my daddy's first campaign all by his
lonesome.  I guess promisin' me to Mr. Worthington's son was kind of
a payback, in a way.  Warren an' I barely knew each other till the
year before he went off to school.  We spent the summer together,
sorta got to knowin' one another, and decided that maybe it wasn't
such a bad idea to be engaged after all.  After he got through with
school we was supposed to make the official announcements."  She
looked down.  "I never heard from him again.  Couple years later, our
families broke off the engagement.  I don't know who did.  I think it
mighta been my daddy, and I think I know why."  She looked fearlessly
up to meet Xavier's eyes, and a pair of pink, translucent wings
fluttered out of her back.  "He didn't want the Worthingtons to find
out their son had been promised to a freak.  I don't know why Warren
never got in touch with me again.  If I'd'a known he was...who he
was, I might'a called on him.  But I didn't find out till
after...till after."  She put her head down.

Xavier took a deep breath, measuring his words before he spoke. 
"Vanessa...what I am going to tell you may come as a shock.  Warren
Worthington III is alive."

Her head jerked up.  "Wh-*what*?!"

"He survived the plane crash meant to end his life, but he spent many
months...recovering, both physically and psychologically.  His
physical appearance has been altered--"

She jumped up.  "Where is he?  Can I see him?"

Xavier didn't think she was ready, but she was certainly as ready as
she was going to get.  *Warren, come in now, please.*  "He's right
here, Vanessa."

The door behind him opened, and Archangel entered.  He wasn't wearing
the dehumanizing costume Apocalypse had designed for him; he was
dressed in a perfectly presentable dark suit and tie, his razor-
tipped wings carefully folded and concealed beneath the woolen
jacket.  Xavier had time to notice that Warren had even gone to the
trouble of putting on the special makeup which helped him approximate
his original skintone before seeing Vanessa rise shakily to her feet.

"Wa...Warren...oh my sweet Lord--"  Vanessa's eyes rolled up in the
back of her head, and she keeled over.  Archangel caught her up
before she hit the floor and deposited her in a smooth continuation
of the motion on the velvet sofa.  

"You were right, Professor," he intoned.  "She didn't react well."

"I had no choice, Warren.  Was I supposed to hide you in a closet to
keep her from running into you in the hallway?"

"I know, I know; you had to let her know.  Still..."  He held her
hand and studied the pale, elfin face.

Xavier moved closer.  "You never mentioned her."

"Why should I have?  I didn't know she was a mutant.  She never told
me...just like I never told her.  When I got word that our engagement
had been broken off, I just assumed she'd found someone else.  Of
course, by then her father had jumped on Kelly's bandwagon, and I
didn't think it was the right time to go checking up on her."

"I understand; it's a very painful situation for both of you.  I hope
something can be worked out.  I could hardly blame her if she changed
her mind about staying on.  I had no idea the circumstances were so
distressing."

"Well, it can't be helped now."  Vanessa stirred, and Archangel
squeezed her small hand.  "Come on, Vann, wakey-wakey.  It's okay."

The sapphire blue eyes fluttered open.  "Warren," she said, smiling. 
"You're alive.  You're really alive!"

"Yes, hon."  Xavier sensed Archangel's discomfort, but thought it
best not to interfere.

She frowned a little.  "Why...why, Warren?  Why'd you do it?"

"Loooooong story, Vann.  I'll tell you about it sometime when you've
got about three days to listen.  Right now, why don't I take you up
to your room so you can lie down for a while?"

She sat up, tested her balance, and stood.  "Thanks, but...Gambit's
waiting for me.  I..."

"It's okay.  I understand.  We'll talk later, all right?"

"Sure."  She turned and showed the Professor a wan smile.  "Thank
you, sir.  'Scuse me..."  She exited as gracefully as she could.

Xavier and one of his five original students looked at each other in
uncomfortable silence.

                  *             *             *


10:11 p.m.

     *From the Files of Charles Xavier, Ph.D., Director of the
     Xavier Institute for Higher Learning:

     I have spoken in turn to each of our three newcomers, and
     also initiated primary exploration of their mutant
     abilities.  What follows is a preliminary assessment of
     each new student, what abilities they have demonstrated or
     are aware of thus far, and my impressions of their
     respective characters.

     Of the new contacts brought in today, Galatea Malloy seems
     to have the most potent physical powers, and is the most
     familiar with her abilities and limitations.  She has the
     potential for being as powerful as Magneto himself--but
     without his bitterness or resentment towards humanity. 
     She can move many times her own weight in metal, can shape
     it to her will, and can also generate and channel high
     voltages of electrical energy, an ability which even
     Magneto himself does not possess.  Her metallic form,
     unlike that of Colossus, is unswitchable.  Even her blood
     has a dark silvery color, not unlike hematite, although
     its constitution is normal Type A human blood.  As I have
     named many of the students here, I suggested the *nom du
     guerre* of "Electra", but she politely refused this,
     preferring to operate under her given name of Galatea. 
     Since Galatea was a statue brought to life in Greek
     mythology, perhaps this is a more appropriate name for her
     after all.

     Vanessa Covington-Smythe is something of a mystery.  She
     has retractable wings not unlike those of a butterfly--or
     a fairy, perhaps--but, while her flight is dependent on
     them, I suspect she gains the ability to fly from another
     source.  She is also able to generate balls of light
     which, unlike Jubilee's, are not explosive, but like
     Dazzler's simply hover and move wherever she directs them. 
     (Note to myself:  check on current whereabouts of Alison
     Blaire.  Status and location still currently unknown.) 
     There are also energy wavelengths of an unexplained
     nature.  They seem similar to the readings produced by
     Illyana's abilities as Magik, but instead of coming from
     an outside source her abilities are generated from within
     herself.  We will need to explore these innate abilities
     carefully, since the term "magic" covers so many grey
     areas.  I have assigned her the code name of "Pixie",
     which she seems to find acceptable and even amusing.  Of
     the three new students, only she has expressed any real
     reservations about becoming an X-Man.  Whether this is
     because of her father, or because of her difficulties with
     Warren, remains to be seen.  I am hoping she will become
     more receptive as time goes on, but considering the recent
     upscale in hazardous duty, it would be unthinkable to try
     to coerce her into joining either team if it would be
     against her wishes.  The decision rests solely with her. 
     She has agreed to go through the standard training in
     preparation for field duty and has foregone any further
     decisions until such time.

     Our third newcomer, Miryoko Kagami, has a wide range of
     abilities.  She is a full-range empath, receptive and
     projective both, and has possessed this ability since her
     birth.  She is also able to heal herself and others of any
     wound, which will prove to be remarkably useful in the
     field, I am certain.  She possesses limited psychometric
     abilities.  Because she tends to reflect the mood of those
     around her, I have given her the code name "Mirror".  I
     had no idea that "mirror" was the literal translation of
     her family name until she told me.  Privately, Jean has
     expressed some concern that Miryoko may be holding some
     unconscious emotional sway over Wolverine, who first made
     contact with her.  She has my permission to follow up this
     theorem, if Wolverine is willing to cooperate--which he
     very seldom is.  Certainly Miryoko has no conscious
     knowledge of influencing anyone to do anything; when I
     broached the subject to her in a general way, she
     expressed a strong and honest revulsion to the concept. 
     She is a very high-principled and honest young lady.

     In all, I believe our recruitment of these three
     individuals to be of vast potential benefit to both the 
     X-Men and to the furthering of our goals.*

                  *             *             *

10:23 p.m.

The battle droid never stood a chance.

Six deep gouges ripped from the servomotored legs, up through the
torso casing to the shoulder joints, spat out sparks and hissing
wires as it fell to its knees with a loud double clank, its glowing
LED "eyes" went dark, and it fell over to join its three predecessors
on the highly polished vanadium steel floor.

The Danger Room was quiet except for the sound of a man half-snarling
under his quickened breath.  Claws still out and ready, he pivoted
slowly in a defensive crouch, waiting.

Silence stretched into minutes, and nothing else moved.

"Come on," he hissed.  "Come *on.*"

"Haven't you had enough, Logan?" came a voice over the loudspeakers.

Wolverine bared his teeth at the shadowed figure in the control room. 
"Not hardly, Jeannie darlin'.  Keep 'em comin'."

"You've scrapped four battle droids already, Logan.  I'd have thought
you'd be bored with it by now."

"So send 'em at me two or three at a time.  I ain't goin' nowhere."

"I think not."  The lights flashed up, and the door light turned
green as Jean's shadow vanished from the control room windows. 
Wolverine snarled, but pulled his claws back in and waited.

The exit door opened, and Jean stood in the doorway, leaning against
the jamb and folding her arms.  "We missed you at the meeting.  And
at dinner.  The Professor was particularly sorry you didn't attend."

"How many demerits did he fine me this week?  Two hundred?  Three?"

Jean shook her head at his unrepentant tone.  With a bemused smile,
she surveyed the wreckage.  "Not a bad night's work."

"It ain't enough.  I still got me some mad to work off."

"Wouldn't you rather talk?"

"'Bout what, darlin'?"

"About what's making you want to smash, rip, tear and generally
demolish everything in sight."

"Got me a feelin' you already know, Jeannie."

"It's the woman you brought up here, isn't it?  Miryoko Kagami?"

"Right the first time."  Wolverine stripped off his sweat-damp shirt
and sat down on the floor.  Jean moved to join him, kneeling at his
side.  If there was one human being alive Wolverine would talk to
about his feelings, it would be this woman whom he had always loved. 
"Thing is, I ain't sure *how *I feel about her.  Except..."  He
paused for a long time; Jean knew better than to push him.  She
waited as minutes passed.  

"There's somethin' in her," he finally said, "that calls out to some
part o' me.  And that part o' me that answers, loud and strong.  The
minute I looked into her eyes, I...*wanted* her, Jeannie.  I woulda
prob'ly taken her right then and there, right on the counter o' her
papa's curio shop, and she wouldn't've been fightin' me, either,
'cause she wanted it as bad as I did.  Do."  He threw his shirt aside
in disgust.  "I'm actin' like a lovestruck kid, and I'll be goddamned
if I can tell ya *why.*"

"I can.  Maybe."

He looked at her sideways.  "Do tell, darlin'."

"Miryoko's an empath.  She has the psionic ability to sense
emotions...and to generate them in others."  Her words fell into the
ringing silence.  Wolverine's face had gone very still.  She went on
hastily, knowing Wolverine's violent abhorrence to having anyone
"mess with his head".  "The Professor asked her--without mentioning
names--if she ever did that sort of thing, and she was horrified by
the concept.  She assured both of us that she would never do such a
thing.  It's against her principles.  She was telling the truth,
Logan.  She says she never lies, and I believe her."

"So why'd ya--"

"She may not be doing anything *consciously* to you.  She's very
skilled, but still untrained in the full range of her abilities.  She
may have 'pulled' on you without meaning to."

"So how the flamin' hell am I s'posed ta know whether what I'm
feelin' is comin' from her or from me?"

Jean put a hand on his bare shoulder.  "I could take a look, if you'd
let me.  I promise I won't dig too deep; I just thought if I checked
and made sure there were no extraneous outside influences on your
emotional state, it would make you feel better."

A deep frown creased Wolverine's craggy features.  He exhaled hard
and lowered his head.  In a gutteral growl he said:  "Do it."

Gently Jean reached out with her mind, brushing the chaotic
wroughtwork of pain and hardship that was Wolverine's sense of self. 
As delicately as the brush of a butterfly's wing, she touched here
and there, establishing what was *him,* defining what, if anything,
was *not.*  Here and there, she touched lingering pain; once
Wolverine hissed in hard through clenched teeth and she thought he
would break away from her, but he braced himself and held still. 
Jean made herself not look at what she'd touched, but went on.

Nowhere, in no way, did she find anything that didn't have
Wolverine's personal aura stamped all over it.  No outside influences
were apparent.  The feeling generated in him concerning Miryoko
Kagami was one of sudden, irresistible attraction.  It was a reaction
uniquely his, a primal response which came from within him, where he
knew what he saw and liked it, and wanted it.  It was the same
immediate fascination he'd felt the first time he saw Silver Fox,
felt again with Mariko Yashida, and even with Jean herself--

*That* line of perception led too far into Wolverine's private mind. 
Jean cut a mental one-eighty turn and pulled herself out of
Wolverine's consciousness.  

He sat still as a stone for a long moment after she left him, and
Jean waited for him to explode at her.  Instead his blue-grey eyes
flickered open and fixed on her.  "Well?"

"It...you're not being influenced, Logan.  It's you."  She smiled,
still uncomfortable with the depth of emotion she'd uncovered in this
very private man.  "It's all you."

"Thanks, darlin'.  That's all I needed ta know."  He rose from the
floor in a graceful motion and turned towards the door.

"Logan," Jean said, standing up, "where are you going?"

"Ta get a shower and make myself presentable.  And then...I'm goin'
right to the source o' the problem, darlin'."

"Logan, didn't you hear me?  She's not doing it to you--"

He paused in the doorway, looked back, and smiled.  "Oh, she's doin'
it to me all right, darlin'.  She just ain't doin' it with her
*mind.*  Or on purpose."

And he went on.

                  *             *             *

10:41 p.m.

(It's nothing to me.

(I don't care.

(Really I don't.

(It doesn't bother me one little tiny insignificant bit.)

Jubilee stood at the observation window, staring into the isolation
ward at the tiny figure that she could barely see.  

(Look at that Kitty Pryde sitting in there like an idiot.  She's gone
to sleep in her chair again.  Doesn't she know that Illyana can't see
her, or hear her, or know that she's eating herself up about what's
happened to her?  I wish Tinhead would get his chrome-plated butt
back here so's we can go ahead and pull the plug already and get on
with our lives.

(I...

(I can't stand just...

(I can't stand seeing her like that.)

"Ain't it past yer bedtime, Jubie?"

"YOW!"  Jubilee jumped, barely managing not to "paf" a burst of
fireworks at the man who'd come up behind her.  She whirled on
Wolverine, her face flushing a furious red.  "You got some nerve
sneakin' up on people like that!  You could get hurt, you know!"

He smiled at her, thereby only infuriating her further.  "What'cha
doin' up here at this hour, kid?"

"I...I was just lookin' for my--for my shades," she lied.  "I thought
I mighta left them up here the other day when I was--I thought I left
them up here."

Wolverine reached out one finger and tapped the top of Jubilee's
head.  The red eyeshades fell down into place on the bridge of her
nose.

She reached up and adjusted them.  "Thanks," she snapped tersely,
skating away on her rollerblades.

Wolverine watched her go without comment, then headed off towards his
room for a fresh change of clothes.

                  *             *             *

10:52 p.m.

Trapped.

Not-living, not-dying, not-feeling, not-thinking.

Not-being.

Frozen into a pattern of lines and angles, the beep of monitors, the
dark and light of unseen days, washing over and touching without
being responded to.

Forever.

(*NO*!)

An insistent knocking woke her.

Miryoko sat upright in her bed, shivering.  She reached up hands to
her face, to make sure that the feel of cold metal was only in her
dream.  She sucked in lungful after lungful of cool air, grateful for
the sensation of warmth on her face.  

The knocking came again.  At her door.

She swallowed.  "Who is it?"

"Logan."

"Ah--just a minute--" Miry leaned over and switched on the bedside
lamp.  She stood up, pulled on her red silk robe, threw back her long
hair from her face.  "Come in."

The door opened, and Logan entered.  He was wearing a black tank top,
faded jeans and scuffed boots.  He closed the door behind him. 
"Sorry I woke ya, darlin'."

"No.  It's all right.  I was...having a bad dream, sort of."  She sat
down on the edge of the bed, looking up at him with wide, expectant
eyes.  "What...what can I do for you?"

He settled on his haunches on the floor in front of her, hands on
knees.  "You and me," he said, "we got some business to take care
of."

She nodded.  "Go on."

"First things first.  How're ya settlin' in?"

Miry took a deep breath.  "All right, I guess.  I tried to call my
mother.  She hung up on me.  Twice.  I guess she's taking this harder
than I thought."

"Try her again tomorrow.  Give her a chance ta simmer down."

"My thoughts exactly.  As for the rest..." She folded her arms around
herself.  "I like it here," she continued softly, looking down.  "I
like the people, I like Professor Xavier.  I like what you're trying
to do here.  I fully intend to become a fully functioning X-Man, once
my training is complete."  She raised her head and looked at him. 
"But that's not what brought me here.  You are.  And I don't just
mean you threw me on the airplane and flew me here and dragged me up
the front steps by my hair."

"You weren't exactly fightin', darlin'."

"I know, and that's my point.  I came willingly, even not knowing
what you wanted me for.  I would have followed you anywhere you took
me.  No questions asked."  She huffed.  "I don't do this every week,
you know."

"What--run away from home with total strangers, not knowin' where yer
goin' or why?"

"Exactly."  She put her hands down beside her on the bed and leaned
forward a little.  "I've never felt this way about anybody before,"
she said.

Logan put his knees on the floor and raised up face-to-face with her. 
"You ain't never met anybody like me before."

"That's a true statement.  You're--one of the X-Men, then?"

He chuckled and held a fist up in front of his face, the back of his
hand towards her.  "That I am, darlin'.  You ain't seen me in my
fightin' togs yet, but ya should recognize *these*."  His forearm
tensed, and three nine-inch gleaming razor-sharp claws shot out the
back of his hand, glinting in the soft light from the lamp.  He
grinned broadly at her, for the first time displaying short, sharp
canines which were almost more like fangs.

Miry gasped and braced herself against jumping back.  "You...you're
*Wolverine*," she breathed.  "Of course--*carcajou*.  I should have
known."  She frowned a little.  "You're not as short as I thought you
were."

Another chuckle.  "I'm short enough, darlin'."  He sheathed his
claws, got to his feet, took her upper arms, and pulled her up with
him in one smooth motion.  In her bare feet, she came up just to the
bridge of his nose.  "You, now...yer *just* the right height."  He
leaned down and pressed a kiss to her full, soft lips, and she
responded with full enthusiasm.  Her lush young body pressed against
him, and the appropriate portions of his anatomy responded
accordingly.

(So much for polite conversation,) he thought.  Any noble intentions
of talking things out before going too far were summarily abandoned. 
His need for her was fueled by her eagerness for him.  Her soft silk
robe and red chiffon nightgown were quickly removed, his own clothing
easily discarded.  He bore her down on the bed, or perhaps she pulled
him down with her.  It didn't matter.

Finally, when they were done, he rolled onto his back and pulled her
close and warm against him.  Her arm slid across his chest, her cheek
coming to rest in the crook of his shoulder.  He felt a peace within
himself deeper than any he'd known in a long, long time.  It was a
long time before he broke the easy silence between them.

"When I first set my sights on you, Miry darlin', I knew I wanted
you.  Knew you wanted me too.  I saw it in yer pretty gold eyes. 
Knew you were *right* for me.  Ain't nobody I remember ever worked
their way under my skin as fast as you have...and the one thing that
really bothers me about it is the fact that it don't bother me."  He
scratched his left sideburn thoughtfully, then folded an arm under
his head.  "I mean, it oughta bother me, shouldn't it?  Me, the
original self-professed loner who didn't need anybody, ever.  I've
loved a lot o' women, but I've proved I can do without 'em.  I can
walk away anytime I want.  Always have.  So tell me, Miry
darlin'...how is it I couldn't...can't...walk away from you?"

Slow, soft breathing was the only reply.  She was already asleep.

He smirked.  (Must be my company,) he thought as he settled in beside
her.  One well-muscled arm reached over and switched off the light.

                  *             *             *