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

Avalon
Saturday, the 13th, 1900 hours GMT

"Her name," Magneto announced to those assembled before them, "is
Galatea.  She is to be treated with the utmost respect, for she is
under my personal protection."  His eyes glittered.  "I trust that is
understood."

"Of course, Lord," the forbidding figure of Exodus replied.  All the
others were silent.

"You are dismissed."

The small crowd dispersed.  Galatea was left standing alone on the
podium with Magneto.  She looked around the now-empty hall; it was
dark, very dark, with deep pockets of shadow in the cross-beams and
catwalks overhead where the light couldn't reach.  She glanced shyly
at Magneto.

"You have a question," he said with no uncertainty.

Slowly, she nodded.

"Ask of me what you will.  Unlike your erstwhile mentor, I will keep
no secrets from those who follow me."

She let the insult to Xavier pass.  "What is this place?"

Magneto spread his arms wide.  "This is Avalon.  This is my home. 
Yours as well, now and for all time.  A place where the grasping,
crushing hands of humanity cannot reach you or any of my chosen.  A
haven of hope from the hatred and fear you have always known."

"But I've never known hatred," she objected.  "My Uncle Simon's
human, and he loves me."

"Loved you enough to let you wander out into the desert to seek your
death.  Ah, yes, I remember, Galatea.  I remember a child so
frightened and confused by her condition that she no longer wanted to
live.  Who found you?  Who saved you from self-destruction?  Who made
you aware of your true worth?  Who kept you from cursing yourself as
a freak?  Your uncle?  No."  His hand took hers.  "We both remember
who it was."

Galatea hung her head.  "But...Uncle Simon tried.  He did his best. 
It wasn't easy for him, either.  And he never left me alone again."

"Better late than never, eh?  No, my dear," he said, holding up a
hand as she began to protest again.  "I will concede your point, if
it makes you feel better.  Perhaps your uncle was not quite as
incompetent as he seemed."

"*Dammit*!" Galatea pulled her hand away and stamped her foot with a
faint *ting* on the metal floor.  "Don't patronize me.  I'm not that
stupid!"

Magneto pulled his helmet off and stared at her, his eyes burning
pale.

Galatea raised her head and thrust out her chin.  "I'm sorry for
being rude," she said, "but you of all people shouldn't treat me like
that.  I told you:  I'm not a child anymore."

For a moment he still looked at her.  Then he threw back his head and
laughed.

"It's not funny!" she snapped.

"No...no...my apologies, dear Galatea."  He quieted down, but he was
still smiling.  "You misunderstand.  After months of everyone around
me either trying to kill me or bending themselves double in blind
obeisance, your manner is a refreshing and most welcome change."  He
reached out and took her hand again.  "You were right; I should not
patronize you.  If you say your uncle is a good man, human though he
might be, I will accept your word and speak no more ill of him. 
Agreed?"

Galatea's irritation vanished.  He was, if anything, even more
handsome than she remembered, especially when he smiled.  "Agreed."

"Excellent.  Now:  are you hungry?"

She considered.  "I could eat, I think."

"Then eat we shall."

Any other questions she might have had forgotten for the moment,
Galatea allowed Magneto to escort her from the main hall.

                  *             *             *

Galatea sat in what must have been part of Magneto's private
quarters.  The lighting was muted, and there was an excellent view of
the Earth out a series of gently curved port windows.  They sat at a
small table, set with a number of exotic delicacies, including a
spicy meat dish which Galatea could not identify but liked very much.

The meal passed mostly in silence.  Finally, at one point when
Galatea was sipping a sweet red wine from a tall smoky glass,
watching the planet turn below them, Magneto's voice broke in on her
thoughts.  "Deceptively peaceful-looking, is it not?"

She nodded and swallowed a mouthful of wine.

"One would hardly suspect that the cerulean sphere below us harbored
a race so capable of violence and mass destruction--you find
something amusing?"

Hearing the edge in Magneto's latter words, Galatea tried to still
her evident amusement.  "It's just that I've never heard anyone work
'cerulean' into a sentence before."  She sobered.  "I'm sorry.  It's
true, there's a lot of trouble down there.  Uncle Simon says the
planet's getting too small to hold us, and the only way to go is up--
into space."

"An astute position.  However, the whole universe, it seems, will
never be large enough to hold humanity and mutantkind both."

Galatea set her glass down.  "But in the end," she said, "aren't we
all human?"

"It would be a much less dangerous world if the humans shared your
view."  Magneto turned and looked down at the Earth; the reflected
light bathed his face in glimmering silver and cast pale shadows in
his snowy hair.  "To the scientific community, we are curious
aberrations, laboratory specimens.  To the theocrats, we are devils. 
To the politicians, we are a global embarrassment.  To the
doomsayers, we are the death-knell for *Homo sapiens*.  To the
masses, we are monsters.  Perhaps they are all correct, each in their
own way."

"*You're* not a monster," Galatea said.  "If you were, you wouldn't
have bothered with me."

He looked aside at her and smiled.  "Your former fellow students
would not agree with your statement that I am not a monster.  They
hate me nearly as much as the humans do, for I represent the threat
of harsh reality to Charles Xavier's dream of universal brotherhood."

"The X-Men don't hate you, Magneto.  They respect you, and maybe they
fear what they think you're capable of.  Yes, I heard them talking
about you, though I never knew what you looked like until today.  I
didn't know you were my angel, the one who saved me when I was a
child.  If I had, I would have told them."

"Do you think it would have changed their reaction to me today?"

"Maybe not.  But maybe it would at least have made them think."

"Anyone who follows Charles Xavier relinquishes their right to
independent thought."

"Funny; that's the same thing some of the X-Men say about you and
your Acolytes."

Magneto looked hard at her.  A stern frown settled over his features. 
"Your honesty is indeed refreshing," he said, "but even I can only
take so much refreshment at one sitting."

Galatea folded her hands submissively in her lap.  "I'm sorry.  I'm
not trying to be rude.  I don't mean to talk out of turn.  I guess I
never spent enough time around other people to learn how to be
polite."

"Never mind; I understand that no malice was meant on your part."  He
rose from the table, turned and walked away a few steps, pausing in
front of one of the full-length viewports and staring out at the
stars.

Galatea got quietly up from her chair and padded up just behind him. 
She stopped a respectful arm's length from him.  Quietly she asked,
"Why did you bring me here?"

He looked at her reflection in the glass.  "To keep you safe.  To
spare you from the ravages of the world that Xavier would subject you
to.  Why?  Do you wish to return?"

She was silent for a moment.  Then she shook her head, her hair
chiming around her shoulders.  "I don't know.  I feel as though I've
waited for you all my life, and yet--all of the friends I've made at
the mansion...I miss them."

"It sorrows me to see you so separated, Galatea."  There was
sincerity in the blue-grey eyes.  "It was not my choice, I assure
you.  Charles and all of his students would be more than welcome
here.  Indeed, it would gladden my heart to be able to keep them safe
with me.  Does that surprise you?  I hold them all in high regard,
though they hardly think of me so kindly.  I wish to make the world
safe for all mutants, not merely those who follow my teachings. 
However, the years have made me a realist, if nothing else.  Charles
is a dreamer, and always will be, and dreams are ever fated to fade
upon waking.  I am awake, sweet Galatea, and my eyes are wide open. 
I can no longer allow my people to be ground under humanity's boot-
heel."  He raised a fisted hand.  "We are at war, Galatea.  We did
not declare this war, nor did we seek it.  We are fighting, not for
conquest, but for the right merely to exist.  If I truly believed
that humanity would ever let us live in peace, I would be more than
willing to allow it to come to pass.  But time and again I have seen
my people die because of the butchers who pursue them out of fear,
hate and ignorance."  He shut his eyes against sudden tears.  "I will
suffer such sacrifice no longer."

"But you'll kill the X-Men, if they try to stop you."

"*I have no choice*!" he thundered, whirling on her.  His cloak
unfurled around him like a war-banner.  His pale eyes were almost
white with rage.

Galatea shrank back, but stood her ground.  The violence of his
outburst stunned her.

"Do you think I wish to see them harmed?" he demanded of her.  When
she remained silent, he turned his back on her again and glared out
the viewport.  "They...they were my friends," he said, and his voice
dropped almost to a whisper.  "I fought at their side.  Charles left
the school in my care and keeping.  I tried to direct them as he
would have, to guide them and advise them as he would have done.  And
what became of it?"  

Galatea didn't know how to answer, but a moment later it was apparent
that no response was necessary.  

"Douglas Ramsey.  The gentlest of the young students, the New
Mutants.  The most intelligent and sensitive young man I have ever
known."  Magneto was almost talking to himself now, as though she
were no longer there.  "He believed in Charles Xavier's dream with
his whole heart, as did I, at the time.  He paid the ultimate price
for our folly.  He was butchered and I could do nothing to save him. 
Nothing.  The other New Mutants...they blamed me for it.  I know they
did.  Their resentment grew until finally, as one, they turned from
me.  They believed I had failed Douglas, failed all of them, and
I...I had."  He put his face in his hands.

Galatea stepped forward and reached out.  She hesitated only for a
moment and then, gingerly, put her hand on his shoulder.  "I've heard
them mention Doug Ramsey," she said.  "Kitty speaks of him often.  I
never once heard her or anyone say they blamed you for his death."

"After Douglas died, everything seemed to fall apart faster than I
could hold it together."  He spoke as if he hadn't even heard her. 
"The X-Men had vanished, and were presumed dead.  Those few who
remained wanted nothing to do with me.  Even the Hellfire Club no
longer accepted me.  Everything I touched turned to ashes and sifted
away through my fingers.  I removed myself to my asteroid, bitterly
content to allow the world to destroy itself--but even there, I was
not left in peace.  I was forced to shake the dust from my limbs and
charge forth to defend my people once more--only to find my former
companions, the X-Men, ready and waiting to do battle with me.  Even
Wolverine, who had accepted me with a whole heart before, had turned
against me.  When my acolyte Cortez betrayed me, I was ready to die. 
What was left for me?  But even the peace of death was denied me. 
Because of one of my loyal followers, who sacrificed herself so that
I might live, I survived the plunge from heaven to earth.  I suffered
grave injury, oh yes, but finally I recovered."  He looked at his
hands, studying them intently.  "There is so much blood on my hands,"
he said.  "Again and again I have tried to save the lives of those
precious to me, only to see them slip through my fingers in spite of
all my vaunted power."  His hands curled into fists.  "If that be my
destiny, then, to destroy all that I touch, let my destruction serve
a purpose.  Let the old be torn down to make way for the new.  Let us
become the menace the humans believe us to be, if they will allow us
no other role.  Let us obliterate the society which has been built on
a history of hate and prejudice and rebuild a world where mutants can
truly live in peace!"

The echoes of his voice reverberated in the silence.

Galatea simply looked at him.

He relaxed somewhat under her scrutiny, lowering his hands, relaxing
them.  "Forgive my sermonizing," he said in a more normal tone.  "It
is a subject about which I feel most strongly."

"I understand."

"But there is hardly any need to preach to you, my dear.  Your
presence here is evidence of your faith in me."  He smiled and
reached out a hand for her.

She took it, although she didn't see herself as a staunch supporter
of his cause at present.  She sensed that now was not the time to
point this out to him.  

He led her towards the door leading to the corridor.  "Avalon may
perhaps seem cold to you," he said, "but your beauty will make it
come alive."

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
4:18 p.m.

Pixie's eyelashes fluttered.  "Mmmm...?"

"Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead."  Mirror's voice, tired but satisfied.

Pixie opened her eyes.  She expected to see blue sky above her, but
instead found the cream-colored ceiling of her bedroom.  She sat up
slowly.  "What...what happened?"

"De sky fall down on you, *petite*," a voice at her other side said. 
"Wit' *un peu* help from de Iceman, of course."

"Bobby didn't mean to hurt anyone, Gambit," Mirror sighed.  The
healer was chalk-faced and sweating; her eyes were huge in her
drained face.  "You should be all right now, Pix."

She *was* all right, and a little concerned about Mirror's haggard
appearance.  "What happened?"

"You got hurt.  Badly.  Gambit thought you were dead."

"Oh, no!  Gambit, I--"  She turned to look at him, and her voice
caught in her throat.

If Mirror looked haggard, Gambit appeared half dead.  His skin was
almost grey, and there were deep shadows under both eyes.  His face
gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat.  When he smiled at her, trying to
look nonchalant, the corners of his mouth shook.

"Oh my sweet God!  Gambit, what happened to *you*?"

"I did," Mirror said.  "You were pretty bad off, Pix.  I managed to
splice you together long enough for Gambit to get you up here, but
then you went into deep shock and everything started falling apart
inside--but I won't go into the gory details."

"Thanks," Pixie muttered, feeling her stomach start to shrivel up. 
She couldn't take her eyes off Gambit's face.

"I couldn't even take time to call Logan up here," Mirror continued. 
"So I had to make do with the Cajun as an emergency backup generator. 
We've been working on you for over an hour."

"Oh..."

"But you're fine now.  And nothing's wrong with me or the Cajun over
there that a good night's sleep, lots of good red meat and--"

"A whole blood transfusion won' cure," Gambit finished with weary
amusement.

"*What*!"

"Gambler," Mirror said with pretended sternness, "you have the
bedside manner of the average garden gnome."

"Dammit, Miry, I am a gambler, not a doctor!"

"Thank you, Remy McCoy."

"First cousin to Monsieur Bete?"

"Not unless you sprout blue fur."  

The sound of knocking at the door made everyone look around. 
Wolverine stood in the doorway none of them had noticed opening, one
hand on the doorknob, knuckles of the other lightly rapping on the
wood.  

"Logan!"  Mirror stood up--and wobbled dangerously.  Wolverine
crossed the distance in a bound and a half and caught her up in his
arms.  

"Easy there, darlin'," he rumbled.  "Personally, I'd rather you kiss
me than the floor."

"Nice of you to join us, *mon ami*," Gambit remarked.  "An', if I may
be so bold as to ask, where were you when we needed you here?"

Wolverine leveled ice-grey eyes at the Cajun.  "I was tryin' to pick
up Petey's trail.  I woulda caught him, too, but Charley wouldn't let
me go.  I spent the last half-hour arguin' the point with him."

"Since you are here, and Colossus is not, I take it you lost."

Wolverine's bewhiskered jaw firmed.  "I ain't talkin'."  He looked
over at Pixie, who was still half-sitting, half-reclining on her bed. 
"You gonna be okay, kid?" he asked, his rough voice softening.

"Uh-huh.  Thanks."

The Canadian nodded once, then turned his attention to Miry.  His
craggy features took on a look of genuine, tender affection.  "C'mon,
Miry darlin'," he husked, "let's get you to bed."

"'M okay," she murmured sleepily.  "Just need to rest a minute."

"You can have all the minutes you want.  Hell, take a couple o' hours
while you're at it."  He carried her to the doorway, paused there,
and turned back to smile at Pixie.  "Try to get some rest yerself,
Pix.  You want me to throw that good-for-nothin' Cajun out on his
butt, or what?"

"Or what, please."

"Suit yourself."  Wolverine shrugged in pretended disdain and winked
at Pixie before carrying his lover out of the room.  He set Mirror
down on her feet long enough to pull the door shut behind them with a
soft *click*.

The room fell quiet.

"Gambit?"  Pixie ventured shyly.

He looked down at her.  "*Oui, ma petite fey*?"

"Is everybody else all right?  We--we didn't lose anybody, did we?"

"No, *petite*.  Everybody's okay."

"Even Illyana?"

Gambit's face went still.  He remained silent.

"Oh, my God."  She struggled to rise.  "I've got to--"

"She didn't get hurt, *petite*."  A hand on her arm restrained her,
holding her down gently but firmly.  "Colossus, he decided he didn't
want to stay no more, an' he take *la jeune fille* an' abscond wit'
her."

"Where did they go?"

"Nobody know, *petite*.  Professor, he say, let him go.  He needs
time to, how you say, get a lid on."

Pixie fell back to the pillows with a *whoosh*ing sigh.  "If it ain't
one thing," she said, "it's another."

"Truer words never spoken, *cherie*."  Gambit slid up on the edge of
the bed and sat beside the reclining Pixie, with his back against the
headboard.  It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Pixie
to shift so that she was leaning against Gambit's side, and he
obligingly raised his arm to accommodate her, placing his hand
lightly on her far shoulder.

"I thought..."  Pixie yawned in spite of herself.  "I thought you and
Rogue were...well..."

"Gambit, he don' belong t' nobody but Gambit."  He kissed the top of
Pixie's head.  "I t'ought *you* were enamoured of M'sieur
Worthington."

"Warren?"  She blinked up at him.  "He's all right, and a hell of a
nice guy, but...we're just friends, really."

"I t'ought you say you was gonna marry him or somet'ing."

"Our families arranged our marriage when we were children.  We barely
were getting to know each other when my father broke it off cold.  In
a different place or time, under different circumstances, maybe
there'd be something there.  But as it is--there's nothing between us
but friendship."  She poked his ribcage with a tiny finger.  "And
*that* doesn't answer my question about you and the Mississippi
Marauder."

"*La belle* Rogue, you mean."  Something like sadness crossed the
Cajun's flawless features.  "She is *une tres belle femme*," he
admitted.  "A very, very beautiful woman.  She is also very, very
lonely.  Gambit, he knows what lonely is.  Lonely people, sometimes
dey get togedder just 'cos two can hold de loneliness at bay better
dan one."  He stroked a hand gently over Pixie's fall of strawberry-
gold curls.  "Your eyes, dey shine like stars," he murmured.

"I might be flattered if I believed that."

"Truth, *petite*.  Gambit wouldn't lie to you."

"Do you often speak of yourself in third person singular?"

"Gambit, he's a singular type of guy."

She chuckled.  "Typical; a snappy comeback for every straight line. 
I don't think I've ever talked to anybody who wasn't a politician who
was so good at dodging questions."  Pixie looked out the window at
the clouding sky.  "Looks like it's fixin' to snow again," she said. 
"I will say one thing about this crazy place:  it's beautiful, even
in winter.  The Professor's gonna let me plant a garden out back of
the house, you know.  I sent off yesterday for a seed packet with all
these flowers that are supposed to attract butterflies.  I might even
plant a few apple trees.  Heck, I just need the seeds out of an apple
for that.  I can grow practically anything, anywhere.  It may take a
while, but eventually we could go out and pick our own desserts.  I
wonder if anybody here knows how to make a decent apple pie--"  She
looked up at his face--and stopped.

Gambit's eyes were closed.  His breathing was deep and regular.

Pixie's smile evaporated.  (Typical.  Best-looking man in the whole
house, or nearabouts, and I put him to sleep chattering like a gray
squirrel.)

Her rosebud mouth pouting just a trifle, she snuggled down against
Gambit's chest.

(Mm.  Smells good, though.)

She was sure she couldn't possibly fall asleep until she closed her
eyes and did so.

                  *             *             *

Braddock Manor
Sunday, the 14th, 4:17 p.m. (Greenwich)

"...And it really was *so* lovely, I simply can't tell you."  Meggan
Braddock poured a fastidious cup of hot tea from a delicate Limoges
porcelain pot.  "I can't remember when I've enjoyed myself more.  One
lump or two, Brian darling?" she asked her husband, as she always did
at teatime.

"None, if you please, my dear," Brian Braddock answered, as he always
did at teatime.

Meggan picked up the silver sugar tongs with dainty fingers,
carefully selected just the right lump of sugar, and dropped it into
her husband's cup with a tiny *plip*.  She stirred the tea vigorously
with a silver Regency spoon as she continued.  "Now, what was I
saying--?  Oh, yes.  Of course you understand I don't know any of the
royal family personally, but I read about them all the time.  Why, I
wouldn't dream of missing an issue of the *Sun*.  Do you know, just
the other day I read something that would simply set Her Majesty's
ears to *burning*--"

"*Thank you*, dearest," Brian cut in, taking the cup as gracefully as
he could from his wife, considering the fact that she was still
stirring merrily away.  "Elisabeth, would you like another cup?"

"No thank you," two voices replied, with precisely the same tone and
inflection.  As always after such an occurrence, the two women with
violet hair and eyes who sat at opposite ends of the table from
glared balefully at one another.  Both women were equidistant from
Brian Braddock; one sported Caucasian features, the other Oriental. 
Other than that, they could have been identical twins.

Brian sighed.

As usual, in the awkward silence that followed, it was Nightcrawler
to the rescue.  "These lemon cookies are spectacular, Meggan," he
remarked, nibbling on one voraciously to prove his point.  "What's
your secret?"

"Oh, do you really like the biscuits?  Well, I was looking through
some back issues of *Women's Weekly* and happened to spot the recipe,
and I thought, 'Now, wouldn't those be ever so nice for tea!'..."

And with that, Meggan was good for another ten to fifteen minutes of
more or less unrelenting chatter.  That carried them through teatime,
at least.  As soon as Meggan got up to clear the table, the other two
women disappeared, each in a different direction.

Brian dutifully helped his wife with the washing-up, and afterwards
wandered outside into the garden.  Only the holly bush hedge was
green at this time of year, the shiny color of the leaves almost
black against the crusted snow covering everything else.  He paused
by the huge stone fountain, in disuse for the winter, and leaned
against the low black ironwork railing around the structure.

"You seem troubled, *mein freund*."

Brian did his best not to jump at the voice behind him.  He sometimes
forgot just how quiet Nightcrawler could be without even trying.  "A
bit, Kurt, a bit."  He sighed deeply.  "How long has it been now? 
Two months, or nearly?"

"You mean, since Elisabeth came to us--both of her?"  Kurt Wagner
smiled a little, but neither man thought the situation was all that
funny.  "I believe you're right."

"Seems like two years."

Nightcrawler leapt on top of the ironwork rail and crouched on his
haunches, balancing without effort.  For any normal person the
position would have been precarious at best and uncomfortable at
worst.  For Kurt, however, it was the most natural posture in the
world.  Even in the sunlight, his face appeared to be in deep shadow. 
The effect offset his startlingly yellow, pupilless eyes.  It was
hard to read the man's emotions, but Brian could tell that his friend
and teammate was lost in intense concentration.

One three-fingered hand came up to rub idly at a jawline that was
covered with fine, velvety blue fur, like the rest of Nightcrawler's
skin.  A stray breeze ruffled the glossy black curls which covered
his head and trailed down below the back of his collar.  His arrow-
tipped tail curled and lashed lazily as he mused, helping him
maintain his delicate but stable balance.

"It's an awkward situation," he said at last, his breath misting in
the chilly air.  He rested his elbows on his knees and let his
loosely-clasped hands dangle between them.  "Each one of them is
convinced that she is the original Betsy Braddock, and the other is a
copy or clone of some sort.  I take if from your consternation that
you're having trouble telling them apart."

"That's just it, Kurt; I *can't* tell them apart."  Brian folded his
arms and paced away a few steps.  "They're both my sister, and
neither of them are.  They both sound and talk and react like Betsy--
and they both have completely alien mannerisms which I don't
recognize at all.  And they came all the way over here and expect me
to choose between them, to declare one the 'real' Elisabeth Braddock
and the other an impostor.  But Kurt--I...I can't."  Brian broke off
when he realized he was raising his voice.  He took a deep breath and
blinked hard to hold back the moisture gathering in his eyes.  "It's
all so damned confusing," he continued in a quieter tone.  "At this
point, quite frankly I'm not convinced that either one of them is my
sister at all.  It's possible that Betsy, my Betsy, simply no longer
exists."

Kurt jumped down from the railing and came up behind Brian.  He put a
hand on his friend's tense shoulder.  "Take heart, Brian.  There may
yet be a way to differentiate between the two, if there's any
difference at all."

Brian looked around.  "How so?"

"I've been talking to them both.  Of course, it's not the easiest
thing to hold a conversation with two aggressive women who each
despise the sight of the other..."

Brian managed a thin chuckle.  "You've always had a way with
beautiful women, my friend."

"Neither of them wanted either Professor Xavier or Jean to probe too
deeply into their minds--partly because they both consider it an
invasion of their privacy; but mostly, I believe, they were both a
bit wary of what might be found out.  However, since her--their--
brother can't make it easy for them, now they feel they have no
choice but to let another telepath into each of their minds and
discover the truth."

"So they'll be heading back for the States," Brian said, hoping the
relief in his voice wasn't too stark.  "For the mansion."

"*Ja*.  And I hope you'll take good care of Excalibur while I'm
gone."

It took a moment for *that* statement to register.  Brian turned on
his teammate.  "What!  You can't be serious."

"I am, Brian.  Completely.  The pair of them barely made it over here
without hacking one another to bits!  Their mood has hardly improved
since then."

"Yes," Brian said, "I had noticed."

"Besides," Kurt continued, "we've been out of touch for entirely too
long.  If the news reports are true, and Magneto is really alive and
active, the X-Men may need all the help they can get to hold him
back."  The German sighed.  "We may *all* need all the help we can
get."

"You're right, I suppose."  Brian rubbed the back of his head and
smiled ruefully.  "Have you called the mansion yet?"

"I did want to talk it over with you first.  I know it'll leave you
short-handed, what with Kitty already over there, and now the duly
elected leader of Excalibur taking an unscheduled leave of
absence..."

"Oh, I think we'll manage all right.  Captain Britain should be able
to take up the reins of England's only official secret superhero
group--for a while, anyway.  I don't envy you your job, though, my
friend.  Acting as mediator between those two is not going to be an
easy task."

Kurt grinned, showing his sharp white fangs.  "Ah, I can just picture
myself snugly ensconced between two beautiful, passionate women.  I
can hardly wait."

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Tuesday, the 16th, 11:16 p.m.

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

     Three days have passed since Magneto's abrupt appearance
     and subsequent disappearance with Galatea Malloy.  In that
     time, I have been working with Storm and Cyclops on our
     imminent confrontation with the self-styled Master of
     Magnetism.  I have been investigating the possibility of
     requisitioning a prototype suit of armor designed to mask
     the wearer's presence from Magneto's senses.  Cyclops,
     meanwhile, has been training intensively with both the
     Blue and Gold teams to prepare them for the coming battle. 
     

     We have heard nothing from Peter, who vanished with his
     sister Illyana.  I have, however, heard from one of my
     former X-Men:  Nightcrawler.  It seems that Captain
     Britain has been unsuccessful in discerning between his
     sister, Elisabeth, and her apparent doppelganger.  The
     reports of both Psylockes being part of Elisabeth Braddock
     and partly the entity known as Kwannon would therefore
     seem to be at least partially valid.  Kurt Wagner is
     escorting both women back here to the Institute--in hopes,
     I suspect, that his presence will prevent the pair from
     open hostilities toward one another.*

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Wednesday, the 17th, 11:23 a.m.

Mirror was passing the foyer towards the kitchen when she heard the
front doorbell.  She knew that guests were expected--one former
student and two current residents of the mansion--and, seeing that
the indicator light on the keypad to one side of the door was green
(indicating the presence of known and accepted individuals awaiting
entry), she opened the door.

She started at the figure standing in front of her, but managed not
to jump, gasp or stare at the furry blue devil who grinned at her,
showing sharp white fangs.  "Good morning," the devil said with a
discernible Teutonic accent.  "You must be one of the new students."

"Yes--Mirror."  She drew upon everything she had ever learned about
*wa*, harmony when presented with the unexpected, and smiled.  "You
are...?"

"Nightcrawler."

Recognition flashed.  "Oh, yes, of course--Kurt, right?  Herr Wagner,
I mean."

"Kurt's fine."

"Thank you.  And I'm Miry.  Logan's spoken well of you.  Won't you
come in."  Mirror stepped aside to allow him to pass.

A look of gentle incomprehension passed over the sharp, beshadowed
features. *Logan*? he mouthed, half to himself, as he entered. 
Mirror felt his confusion and smiled behind her face.  That invisible
smile faded when she saw Nightcrawler's traveling companions.

Two women, both perfectly--*too* perfectly--matched in height,
weight, build and coloring; except that one's skin tone was markedly
sallower, though still pale.  The sallower twin was Oriental in
feature with almond-shaped eyes, straighter hair, higher cheekbones;
while the other woman had the look of highly-bred nobility, straight
of feature, with the blood-and-milk complexion of a pureblooded
Caucasian.

But both women moved the same, wore the same cold, bitter expression,
had the same iron-hard look behind two pairs of lovely amethyst
eyes--

And both women had the same cacophony of psychic pain wailing inside
their minds--the continuous scream of two psyches rent apart and
forced back together in a way they were never meant to be.

Mirror's face went chalk-white, and she shrank back as the women
passed her.  She received a cursory glance from each woman, but
neither spoke to her.  It was just as well; Mirror had momentarily
lost the ability to speak.  Once they were in the foyer, she shut the
heavily reinforced door and leaned against it, struggling to maintain
her serenely impassive expression, tossing up a frantic mental
barrier to bar any empathic projections, trying with all her strength
to keep from trembling.

Their faces carefully turned away from the young empath, the pair of
purple-tressed telepaths exchanged daggered looks.

*I think we frighten her,* the Oriental-featured woman observed.

*Perhaps.  It's difficult to tell.  She has strong shields,* the
other responded.

*Shields which, no doubt, you could punch through like tissue paper.*

*As you could yourself.  I'm surprised you haven't tried already.*

*I have nothing to prove--to you, myself or anyone.  Can you say the
same?*

"Hey--misfit!" came from the top of the front stairs.  Oblivious to
the tableau behind him in the foyer, Nightcrawler looked up and saw a
familiar figure descending.  

"'Hey' yourself, short stuff," he called back laughingly.

Wolverine grinned crookedly as he stepped down off the last riser. 
Even in his cowboy boots, the top of his head (not counting his wild
hair) only reached the center of Nightcrawler's chest when the latter
man was standing straight up.  "You know how many people I let make
smart remarks about my height?"

"About as many as I let call me 'misfit'."  Joyfully Nightcrawler
clasped hands with the old teammate with whom he felt the closest
bond of all the X-Men.  "You're looking well, Logan."

"You ain't doin' too bad yerself, from what I hear, Kurt.  You been
pumpin' iron or what?  Looks like you might be tryin' to get some
muscle on those skinny bones o' yours."

"Well, being in Excalibur keeps me jumping--in more senses than the
literal one."  Nightcrawler noticed a sudden frown on his old
comrade's face.  "Something wrong, *mein freund*?"

"I dunno...'scuze me, elf, willya?"  Wolverine passed the Psylockes
with the barest of nods as acknowledgment, heading straight for the
foyer.  "Miry, darlin'?  You okay?"

('Miry, *darling*?') Kurt mused.  (Obviously some changes have
transpired since my last visit.  I mean, Wolverine calls everything
wearing a skirt 'darling', but he seldom puts that much feeling into
it.  What happened to Mariko, I wonder?  And do I even dare ask?)

Wolverine emerged from the foyer with his arm around Mirror. 
Outwardly she showed little sign of strain, but Nightcrawler sensed
that the young woman was barely holding onto her composure with a
deathgrip.  

"Good morning, Kurt; ladies."  The voice from the top of the stairs
made Nightcrawler jump almost off the floor.  He looked around and up
at the figure seated in the golden hoverchair on the second-floor
landing.  Beside Xavier stood Jean Grey, who smiled warmly at them. 
Kurt returned the silent greeting.

"Lunch will be served at twelve-thirty," Xavier announced.  "Would
you ladies like to wait until afterwards to begin our exploration of
your relative conditions, or are you--"

"We crossed the ocean and back to find out the truth about each
other," the Oriental Psylocke broke in, "and ourselves.  I see no
need for pretense or pleasantries now.  I think we've waited long
enough."

"I agree," the other said.

Jean's expression froze over, and she took a defensive step forward.

Xavier stilled her with an upraised hand.  "I understand your
eagerness," he said in a soothing tone.  "If you will accompany us,
then, we'll get started right away."

The Psylockes mounted the stairs without a word or even a glance back
at the man who'd accompanied them back across the Atlantic. 
Nightcrawler sighed quietly as the pair disappeared with Jean and
Xavier.  He heard the sound echoed behind him, and turned around.  

Mirror's exhalation was one of relief.  Her head bowed, and she let
herself lean against Wolverine, who was all but holding her up. 
"That bad, darlin'?" he asked softly.

"Worse.  I honestly don't know how either of them can stand it."  Her
hand fluttered birdlike against his chest, and there was a lost
expression on her face.

Wolverine looked at Kurt and jerked his head towards the rear of the
house.  "C'mon, Kurt, I'll buy ya a beer.  I need ta get Miry settled
down, and you and me got some major catchin'-up ta do."

                  *             *             *

A mind torn apart will scream.

It isn't a scream that can be heard, but *felt*--by perceptions
beyond the five established senses.  By the soul.  By instinct.  Even
the non-psionic can hear it, though they would never recognize it for
what it was.  It would only cause a distinct unease--a hurrying away
from the source of the scream, perhaps, followed by a close
examination of one's own state of mind, with an unconscious prayer of
thanks that one's psyche is, indeed, if not sound, then at least in
one piece.

A mind torn apart will scream...and it's a scream that will not stop
so long as the sundered halves still exist in any form.  

*They're *joined*,* Jean sent to the Professor, her horror evident in
the dark coloration of her thoughts.  Her psi-self stood beside
Xavier's on a tortured, plain, the ground cracked and shattered.  One
side was bright with sunlight--burning radiance, scorching the barren
ground.  The other half of the surreal landscape was filled with ink-
colored shadows, pitted and murky, where no light could reach. 
Together the two telepaths stood on the blurred borderline where
light met darkness. *Betsy--and Kwannon.  They're completely fused,
mind and soul.  Irretrievably?*

*Perhaps.*  Xavier held himself distant from his own revulsion only
by long years of self-discipline, of self-denial.  *Certainly
Elisabeth cannot herself break the disjointed halves of her psyche
free from that of the entity known as Kwannon.  The woman we once
knew as Elisabeth Braddock no longer exists as a separate entity.*

*Can't you do anything, Professor?*

*Not without risking irreparable harm to both of their psyches.  I
can't even sense where the two are joined together.  With your
empathic tendencies, I was hoping that you would at least be able to
do that.*

*If you wanted an empath, why didn't you ask Mirror to help you with
this?*

*Because, unlike you, Jean, Mirror is untrained at *psychic* surgery. 
To train her would take more time than either Betsy or Kwannon is
likely to have.*

Jean felt herself go cold.  *You mean...*

Carefully reinforcing the mental shielding that kept either Psylocke
from overhearing their conversation, Xavier continued, *The two
psyches are not only diverse, they are ultimately incompatible.  They
are fusing, assimilating, but ultimately they will destroy one
another.  Betsy--both of her--may well be left with a mind that is
neither hers or Kwannon's.  Or with no mind at all.*

Jean shivered.  *And...there's nothing we can do.*

                  *             *             *

"...It was *horrible*.  I don't see how either of them can even
function."  Mirror took another long pull of the warmed *sak‚* rice
wine that Wolverine had put before her and coerced her to drink.  Her
hand shook marginally as she set down the handleless porcelain cup. 
"It's no wonder they seem ill-mannered; they're both in constant
psychic agony that doesn't let up for a moment, even when they're
asleep.  The Professor had told us, of course, what to expect--but I
didn't realize it would be so jarring."  She smiled wanly at
Nightcrawler.  "I must seem like a hysterical wreck to you.  Forgive
me."

"There's nothing to forgive.  You're an empath; it must be terrible
for you."

"Oh, I'm used to pain, mental and physical.  That much doesn't bother
me.  It's just that...it feels so *wrong*.  Unnatural.  It's like..." 
Mirror's hands paused in midair as she struggled for an appropriate
analogy.  "It's as if someone sawed a tiger and a dolphin both neatly
in half and stitched the mismatched halves to each other with coarse-
grade baling wire.  And *both* halves of *both* animals were aware of
the procedure the whole time.  There's such a feeling of not-right
about it.  They kept their innermost feelings shielded, but I know it
must be like all nine circles of hell at once for both of them, all
the time."

Wolverine reached out and took her hand, squeezed it.  "Try not to
think about it anymore, darlin'.  Listen, why don't you go upstairs
and get some rest for a while?  I'll be up to check in on you in a
little bit."

Mirror leveled golden eyes at him, and a smile ghosted her lips.  "In
other words, you want me to get lost so you can do that man-talk
male-bonding thing with an old friend."

He chuckled.  "Can't put nothin' over on you, can I?"

"Not this week, love."  She kissed him briefly, smiled at Kurt, and
left the kitchen.

When she was gone and safely out of earshot, Kurt whistled softly
through his pointed teeth.  "She's quite a lady, Logan.  As
perceptive as she is beautiful."

"Yup."  Wolverine took a long pull off his third beer.  "Go ahead and
ask, why don'tcha?"

"Ask?"

"Ya been givin' Miry and me funny looks ever since ya walked in.  I
figure you're wonderin' what happened to me and Mariko."

Nightcrawler huffed a little sigh and shrugged.  "I *was* a bit
surprised to find you with another lady, true.  I didn't think it
would be exactly polite to ask--"

"Ya mean 'healthy' instead o' 'polite', don'tcha, elf?"

Kurt chuckled.  "Well, I didn't really--"

"Mariko's dead."

The laughter died in Kurt's throat.  "Oh, Logan, I'm sorry.  I had no
idea.  How did it...?"  He let the words trail off into silence.

Wolverine's greyish eyes were cold and steady as he sat back in his
chair.  "Happened about a year ago," he said.  "She was tryin' to get
her family, Clan Yashida, out o' debt to the Yakuza, the Japanese
mob.  Gambit an' me ended up in Japan, holed up in Osaka at the
Yashida estate with her--just the three of us, plus Mariko's half-
brother, the Silver Samurai, against several hundred ninja.  Their
master, a slimy creep name o' Matsuo, sent in an envoy, s'posedly to
negotiate a compromise.  I was up on the roof tryin' to keep a wacko
cyborg named Cylla off o' Mariko's back, so I wasn't there.  If I had
been..."  He looked down and away.  "Matsuo's envoy was Reiko--I knew
her from Madripoor, and she owed me big time, but she didn't know I
was there, and she sure's hell didn't know about me and Mariko. 
Matsuo sent her in to kill the head of Clan Yashida, and she got
Mariko with a blade tipped with blowfish toxin.  No cure."

Nightcrawler bit his lip.  "*Mein Gott*."

"Yeah.  Mine too."  Wolverine drained the beer can, crushed it in one
hand and tossed it effortlessly into the wastebasket.  It dropped
with a *thunk*.  "After that, it was like I dried up inside.  My
whole life went from bad to worse--but you don't need to hear about
any o' that."  He sat up again and popped another can out of the
plastic ring assembly holding what was left of the six-pack--his
fourth, while Kurt was still working on his first.  "Just when I
thought things couldn't get any blacker, here's old Maggie himself,
comin' back on us like bad meat."  He shot out one claw and deftly
opened the can's pop-top.  "Illyana was dyin' o' that goddamned
virus, Petey was coppin' major 'tude, the head twins were playin'
duelin' witches, and life at the homestead was about as bad as it
could get.  And right in the middle o' all o' this, Charley sends us
out--for what?  To find more kids to drag inta this mess we've made
o' our lives."  He took a long drink, burped for effect, then grinned
with a sudden, unexpected brightness.  "I thought he'd flipped his
pate.  But I guess it turned out all right by me.  Minute I saw Miry,
my life started lookin' up, and it's been gettin' better every day."

"I'm glad for that, Logan.  You deserve some true happiness."  Kurt
set down his half-finished beer; it was getting too warm for his
liking.  "You mentioned Illyana.  How--how is she?"

"Last I saw o' her, she was fine.  Pix--that's Pixie, one o' the new
recruits--kept her from dyin' and it turns out Miry can actually cure
the virus."

"Cured?  Illyana's well again?  That's *wunderbar--phantastich*!  I--
wait a minute."  Kurt drew his feet up onto the chair and crouched
forward, tail lashing.  "What do you mean, 'last you saw of her'? 
Isn't she here?"

"Nope.  I told ya Petey's been gettin' serious attitude lately.  He
got pissed off after Magneto snatched Gale an' Drake brought two
miles o' ice down on everybody's head--"

"*Was*?!?"  Nightcrawler exclaimed; then stopped, took a deep breath. 
"Logan, my friend," he said in a carefully even tone, "I think you'd
better start from the top and fill me in on what's been happening
around here."

"Maybe yer right, misfit.  I--"

"Hey!" came from the doorway.  "I heard somebody hollerin'. 
Somethin' goin' on in here I oughta know about?"

Wolverine looked back over his shoulder.  "Oh, hey, Vic.  C'mon--" 
He broke off.  There was just enough time for his mind to close its
grasp on the potential misinterpretation of the situation by the
other two parties present before the tableau was shattered by Kurt's
full-voiced scream:

"*SABRETOOTH*!!"  

"Yeah--?"  Creed blinked as the blue devil sitting with his oldest
and closest friend at the kitchen table vanished in a puff of
red/black/purple smoke that smelled of brimstone with an audible
*bamf* of imploding air.  He didn't see Nightcrawler reappear behind
him.  "Huhwha?" he asked, looking at Logan.

Wolverine jumped to his feet, overturning his chair and dropping his
beer-can to spill suds across the spotless tile floor.  "Kurt,
*don't*!" he yelled, holding out a warning hand.

It was too late.  Kurt's interlaced hands swung hard, hitting the
back of Creed's skull with an audible *thunk*.  The big blond man
staggered forward with a yelp born more of surprise than real pain. 
His reaction was as fast as it was instinctive--reach around, grab
the nearest available body part of his attacker, and take appropriate
action.  He seized Kurt's tail and hurled him hard towards the
opposite wall.

"Oh, Jesus-flamin'-*Christ*--"  Wolverine moved forward to stop Creed
from going after Nightcrawler--but Nightcrawler never hit the wall. 
He *bamf*ed again, reappearing behind Creed once more, moving at the
same velocity with which he had been thrown.  He twisted artfully in
midair and hit Creed square in the small of his back.  The big man
was hurled forward--right into Wolverine.  In a tangle of arms and
legs, the three of them hurtled through the kitchen, smashing the
kitchen table and chairs into so much kindling and bent aluminum on
their way.  

They landed in a tumble out in the hall, with Wolverine at the bottom
of the heap.  With a snarling grunt he threw the weight of the other
two men off and scrambled up to a crouch.  "Kurt, cut it out.  This
ain't--aw, *shoot*, Vic, *no*!!" he yelled as Creed unsheathed his
long, glistening claws.

"I dunno who the hell you think you are," Creed snarled at
Nightcrawler, "but you just bought into a world o' hurt on the
installment plan!"  He slashed at the German, who teleported with a
cloud of brimstone.  Creed immediately grabbed behind him, and caught
Kurt's arm on the downswing.  "Fool me twice, shame on me," he
growled, drawing back his other clawed hand.

Nightcrawler *bamf*ed out of Creed's grasp into the kitchen, scooped
up a heavy ceramic flour canister, and drew back to pitch it at
Creed's head just as a bleary-eyed, tousle-haired Jubilee, wearing a
long sleeper T-shirt, a terrycloth robe and Garfield slippers,
appeared in the doorway behind him.  Someone attacking her buddy Vic
was all she needed to see.  

"Back off, buster!" she shouted, raising her hands.  Flashing
sparkles of bright golden light erupted from her fingertips into
Nightcrawler's face as he glanced around.  With a yelp he jumped
back, throwing off his aim, and the canister flew wild from his hands
and shattered between Creed's feet, coating him in a light dusting of
white that settled thicker, like snow-powder, on his long hair and
shaggy eyebrows.

"Okay <koff> that *does* it!" Creed bellowed.  "Now I'm <koff-koff>
*really* mad!!"  He rushed forward, claws ready--

Nightcrawler picked up a bent and twisted chair and drew it back--

Jubilee took a deep breath, held it so hard her face began to turn
red, and stuck out her hands again--

Wolverine sprang at Creed, trying to catch him before he killed
anybody--

And a thunderstorm suddenly exploded in the kitchen.  Lightning
bounced from the black clouds which appeared near the ceiling,
bouncing off chrome and ricocheting around the room.  Jubilee
squawked and lost her concentration, her "pafs" dispersing harmlessly
back into her body.  Creed and Nightcrawler, their charges cut off by
streaks of raw lightning, stopped where they were and looked around
to find the source of the sudden, inexplicable indoor tempest. 
Wolverine, unfortunately, with his adamantium bonded skeleton, was a
natural lightning rod.  He took no less than four good jolts before
finally hitting the floor and grounding out.  "Thanks a whole flamin'
heap, 'Roro," he growled, waiting as patiently as he could (which
wasn't much) for his butt to stop stinging.

The tall, majestic black woman stood framed in the hall doorway, her
white hair billowing around her face in the wind.  "Now that I have
your attention..." she shouted, waving her hand to dismiss the
thunderstorm as quickly as she'd summoned it, then continuing in a
quieter tone, "...what is going on here?"

Sitting less than ten feet apart on the debris-littered floor,
Nightcrawler and Creed pointed at each other and said, in perfect
unison, "*He* started it!"

There followed approximately six and a half seconds of utter silence.

Then Wolverine suddenly burst out laughing.  While everyone else
stared at him, Jubilee, sensing any threat had passed, ran forward
and put her arms around Creed's neck.  "Vic, are you okay?"

Creed reached up, patted her arm with his huge hand, and chuckled. 
"Yeah, China Girl, I'm awright.  Just got my BVD's in a wad, is all. 
Dunno what the blue guy's major problem is, though."

"Get used to it," Wolverine told him, getting his laughter under
control.  "You ain't exactly been Mister Congeniality f'r the past
few years."

"Yeah, well, I ain't exactly been myself, either."

"Can't expect everybody ta know that, Vic."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..."  

Nightcrawler looked with wide, stunned yellow eyes from Wolverine to
Creed.  He finally settled on his old teammate, pointed at the other
man, and said, "*Was...was ist los*?!"

Wolverine stood up, rubbing his left buttock to relieve the lingering
sting.  "That, Kurt ol' buddy, is Victor J. Creed, my ex-partner from
the old days with the Company.  Not to be confused with Sabretooth,
who's been runnin' around usin' his body for the past twenty years or
so."

"...oh."  Kurt got to his feet, looked at Creed, and shrugged. 
"Um...my apologies, *Herr* Creed.  I had no idea..."

"No problem, junior."  Creed rose, one arm still around Jubilee's
shoulders.  "Just next time, ask a guy if he's out to rock your world
before ya start poundin' on him.  My disposition ain't as nasty as it
usedta be, but I still got me a hell of a temper."

"It's all right, 'Roro," Wolverine said with a grin to Storm, who
still stood in the doorway.  "Just a little misunderstandin', is
all."

"Just...a little...misunderstanding."  Storm's voice was perfectly
even, level, and devoid of any inflection--a sure sign of an
impending explosion.  "Look.  Just *look* at what you have done to
our kitchen!"  She spread her hands out to indicate the shattered
table, the contorted chairs, the shattered canisters, the spill of
beer and flour on the floor. 

Creed's head sank slowly down between his shoulders, and his lower
lip jutted out, but there was no repentance in his eyes as he winked
at Jubilee, who had to stifle a giggle.

Storm immediately fixed the Chinese-American teen with a glare. 
"This is not funny, Jubilation."

"Well," Nightcrawler said, "since I'm already in trouble--"  He
*bamf*ed across the room, reappearing right beside Storm.  "I might
as well die happy!"  He grabbed the tall black woman into an embrace,
dipped her in true Romantic fashion, and pressed his mouth hard to
hers.

"Whoooo-*ee*!" Creed whooped, pumping a fist in the air.  "Get down
on it, Blue Boy!"

"Now he's *really* gonna die!" Jubilee observed, grinning.

Wolverine just observed as Storm first resisted, then responded
wholeheartedly to the kiss.  The impromptu embrace endured for
several heartbeats; then, the minute Nightcrawler released her,
Storm's delicate light brown face flushed a deep brick red.  "You--
you--*you*--!"  she huffed, each syllable rising in volume and pitch,
as lightning crackled from her outstretched hands.

"Tally-ho!" Nightcrawler carolled, teleporting out of the room. 
"Catch me if you can, Ororo!" came a teasing call from down the
corridor, somewhere in the vicinity of the stairs.

With a snarl of rage that would have done Wolverine proud, Storm
lifted up into the air on a sudden burst of wind and was gone.

Wolverine watched her go with a look of mingled amusement and dawning
revelation.

                  *             *             *

The last traces of winter snow were slowly melting in the March sun. 
Pixie knelt down on a carefully staked out patch of bare ground, flat
on her stomach, hands pressed to the earth, eyes firmly shut.  She
didn't move for a long time.

"Pixie!"  Footsteps pounded across the lawn towards her.  She raised
up on her elbows, blinking at Cyclops as he approached.  "Pixie, what
happened?"  His voice rang with urgent authority.

"Nothing, Cyke.  Why?"  It would have been easy to picture a fuzzy
green question mark appearing over Pixie's head, so puzzled was her
expression.

He stopped in front of her as she stood, flashes of red energy
flaring behind his ruby quartz glasses.  "Well--you were lying face-
down out here on the lawn; I thought you'd been attacked--"

"Oh!"  Pixie giggled.  She knew she shouldn't--Cyclops' expression
was so dead serious--but she couldn't help it.  "Oh, no, nothing like
*that*.  I was just talking to..." She faltered, realizing how
difficult it was to explain.  She waved a hand at the barren patch of
ground.  "I was talking to the apple trees."

Cyclops looked where she was pointing.  "What apple trees?"

"The ones that are still asleep in their seeds under the ground,
silly."

"I...see."  Cyclops knelt down, seeing for the first time the half
dozen or so evenly-spaced mounds in the earth.  "I didn't know seeds
could talk," he said.

"They can't really.  But they can listen."

"What are you telling them?"

Pixie frowned a little at Cyclops' profile, but she couldn't detect
any condescension on his part.  "I guess you could say I'm giving
them a wake-up call, sort of.  Storm says the cold weather's gone for
good; gonna have an early spring.  I thought I'd pass the information
along so they could get a head start."  She leaned over next to
Cyclops, putting her hands on her knees and studying him carefully. 
"I'm surprised you didn't laugh when I told you what I was doing."

"Laugh at you for talking to plants?"  Cyclops smiled at her; Pixie
suddenly realized with a shock what a handsome man Scott Summers
really was, behind the "official" face he wore most of the time. 
(Right near as pretty as Gambit,) she thought.  (If it weren't for
Remy, and for Jean, I might even be tempted...)

"Lady," Cyclops continued, breaking into her musing, "I live in a
house with a bald guy who reads minds, another fellow with wings, a
third who turns into ice, a blue furry physicist, and a dozen and a
half other assorted individuals with strange and unique abilities. 
Not to mention the fact that, when the mood takes me--"  He tapped
the side of his glasses-- "I can give somebody a *really* dirty look. 
So who am I to laugh, anyway?"

"Point taken, fearless leader."  

"Actually, I was coming out to see if I could help you with
anything."

"What's the matter, Scott?  The redhead ain't keeping you busy
enough?"

He chuckled.  "Jean's working in the psi-lab with the Professor, and
everyone else seems to be busy this morning."

"In other words, you're bored and looking for something to do besides
polish your spare visors."

"Done that already."

Pixie laughed.  "Okay, you asked for it.  I plan to put up a picket
border around this plot to make sure Bobby didn't run over the
saplings with the riding mower once the grass started growing.  I was
gonna ask Gambit to help, but he's nowhere to be found."

"Gambit tends to come and go pretty much as he pleases."  Cyclops
kept most of the edge out of his voice.  "It drives me up the wall
sometimes, frankly, but if the Professor's willing to put up with it,
there's not much I can do about it.  All I can do is make sure he
toes the line when we take the team out."

Pixie picked up a long cardboard box, looking for the flap to open
it.  "Run a tight ship, don'tcha?" she asked.

"I believe teamwork is the key to survival.  That means knowing when
to listen to everyone's opinion and when to stop arguing and follow
orders.  So who do I get on the Blue Team?  Wolverine and Gambit, of
course, two of the loosest cannons on this ship."

"At least they respect you--dad-blast it!"  Pixie had found the
opening flap on the box, but she couldn't pull the copper staples
loose.

"Here, let me."  Cyclops got up, took one end of the box from Pixie,
and pulled it open.  The neat rows of short white pickets attached to
long dowels tumbled out onto the ground like oversized pick-up
sticks.  

Cyclops looked up and met Pixie's eyes.  He said, "Oops."

And they both laughed.

Neither of them looked up to the bell-tower; even if they had, they
might not have seen the dark-clad figure sitting half in the window
beside the bell.  Gambit couldn't hear their words, but their body
language portrayed an immediate ease with each other that he himself
could never remember having truly felt with anyone.

He took a long drag from his cigarette and puffed a thin trail of
blue smoke into the brisk air.  (It should be you down there,
*homme*,) he told himself sternly.  (You knew *la petite fey* was
looking for you, and you deliberately made yourself not where she was
looking.  Why?  It was you who brought her here.  She wouldn't ever
have come if you hadn't encouraged her.  Why do you keep turning away
from her?  Are you scared?  If yes, are you scared for her--or for
you...?)

"Nice view from up here, ain't it."

Anyone else who had been as startled as Gambit was by the low
thrumming voice behind him would have certainly yelped, probably
jumped, and possibly would have fallen right out of the tower. 
Gambit simply flicked the grey-white clump of ash from his cigarette
and looked around, a calculated expression of disinterest on his
handsome face.

Wolverine leaned against one of the corner posts, folding his burly
arms.  "Why don'tcha go on down there, Cajun?" he rumbled.  "Sittin'
up here broodin' ain't gonna getcha anywhere."

"Get me anywhere wit' what, *mon ami*?"

"Yeah, I hear ya.  Same old Gumbo who don't care nothin' about
nobody.  Only I know better.  I been there myself, remember?" 
Wolverine's grey eyes tracked out to where Pixie and Cyclops were
setting up the pickets, and he listened for a moment to the distant
laughter as the carefully-balanced pieces fell over for the third or
fourth time.  "After what happened last year, I didn't want much to
do with anybody either.  If you don't give a damn about anybody,
includin' yourself, you can't get hurt inside.  Problem with that is,
you might as well be dead.  All my promises to myself, all the times
I said to myself, okay, that's it, no more, never again--all that
went right out the window the minute I first laid eyes on Miry."  His
voice dropped to a low murmur.  "I'm thinkin' maybe the same thing
happened with you and that little girl down there."

"You don't know nothin'!"  Gambit tossed his cigarette away, got up
and moved to the other side of the tower, his back to his teammate. 
"You ain't got no business pryin' into odder people's affairs."

"Maybe you're right.  I just don't like seein' anybody eat themselves
up inside.  I've done it too often to myself.  It don't feel too
good, does it?"

Gambit didn't reply.

Wolverine shrugged.  "Well, I tried anyhow.  See you around."  He
pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards the stairway.

"Wolverine."  His voice was low, barely audible.

The older man stopped, turned around.  "Yeah?"

Gambit was facing him again.  His head was down, eyes in deep shadow. 
"I'm sorry...about Mariko."

Wolverine drew in a deep breath.  "Yeah.  Me, too."

"It was my fault."

Shaggy brows furrowed.  "Huh?  How you figure that?"

"I stood dere an' watched it happen.  I never should 'ave let 'er do
it.  She was gonna cut off 'er finger, an'--"

"--And the Silver Samurai was holdin' you at sword-point and wouldn't
let you interfere.  You tried to stop it, but Mariko wouldn't listen
to ya."

Gambit's jaw dropped.  "'Ow--'ow did you know--?!"

A thin, bitter smile.  "I know Mariko--and her thick-headed bastard
half-brother, too.  And I know somethin' about Japanese tradition,
too.  Matsuo demanded Mariko cut off her finger, an old Yakuza
custom, an atonement for failure or wrongdoing.  She was doin' it to
cleanse her honor, and the honor of her clan.  By that time, she was
pretty desperate.  I don't think *I* coulda stopped her even if I'd
been there."

Gambit turned his face away.  "I tol' you I look after her," he
muttered.  "I fail you."

He didn't hear Wolverine move, but suddenly a large hand descended on
his shoulder.  "You did whatcha could, gambler," he said.  "It's
over.  Let it go."

Gambit looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

"Hey, you ain't still sore about that five large I owed you, are ya?"

The ghost of a smile tugged at one corner of Gambit's mouth.  "I
t'ought it was six," he said.

"Tell you what.  How's about we settle it in th' Danger Room--double
or nothin'?"

"Wal..."

"C'mon.  I'll even letcha pick the programs."

Gambit gave a firm nod.  "Done. *Allez*!"

As the two men left the bell tower, it never once occurred to
Wolverine that Gambit had brought up the subject of Mariko's untimely
death because he would rather have talked about *that*--would rather
talk about *anything*--rather than invite any speculation about his
feelings for Pixie.

Whatever they were.

                  *             *             *

When the call came for her, Mirror changed into her fighting togs--if
for nothing else, for the security of being ready for action.  She
liked her leather jacket, it made her feel she looked tougher than
she really was.  It was part of the camouflage she wore when she
wanted to throw people off guard.  No one expected an empathic healer
to be dressed like a biker witch.  

She entered the psi-lab with as confident a stride as she could
manage, making sure her shields were firmly in place.  "You wanted to
see me, Professor?"  She was gratified to find that her voice wasn't
shaking.

"Yes, Mirror."  Xavier hovered serenely between the two centers of
the psychic maelstrom in the room; one Psylocke stood at his right
hand, the other waited at his left.  Jean was behind all of them,
leaning against a console and looking mildly distressed.  "I realize
how uncomfortable you must feel, and I apologize.  Elizabeth informed
me of your adverse reaction to her--their--psychic emanations..."

(I'll just bet she did.  --Stop it, Miryoko!  That was uncalled for.) 
She drew herself up straight as though her spine was strung on tight
wire.  "I apologize for any rudeness," she said, making herself face
first one, then the other, of the tormented pair.  "I am as yet only
partly trained, although the Professor has worked diligently at
properly instructing me."  (*God* I sound like a Japanese
schoolgirl--)

"No offense was taken, I assure you," the Oriental stated, leaving
the unspoken impression that Mirror simply wasn't important enough to
bother her.

"Think nothing of it," the Occidental added, with the silent
assurance that *she* certainly wouldn't give it--or Mirror--another
thought.

Xavier smiled politely.  "Well, to avoid any unnecessary
dissemblage--particularly since everyone in this room can discern any
sort of subterfuge--let's get right to the point, shall we?"  He
laced his hands in front of his chin.  "Your perceptions, Mirror, are
subtly different from Jean's, or mine.  Could you describe in detail
precisely what it was you perceived from these women, and why it made
you react in such a negative fashion?"

Mirror took a long, slow breath.  (Buck up, girl; this is what you're
here for.  Nobody ever said being an X-Man was always fun, safe or
clean.)  "The first thing I felt," she said, looking dead straight at
Xavier and not at either of the women beside him, "was a terrible
discordance--like a pair of discordant notes played at precisely the
same volume, two notes that never should have been played together. 
Only it didn't stop.  It went on and on."  She clenched her fists,
red nails digging into her palms, to keep her voice cold and steady. 
"As bad as it must be for me, it must be infinitely worse for her--
for them.  It's like I was telling Logan--like a tiger and a dolphin
were stitched together with baling wire.  I can *feel* where the
stitches are..."  She swallowed hard.  "Like it's cutting into me as
well as them."

Xavier put his hands on the arms of his hoverchair and leaned
forward, his interest piqued.  "You can sense where the two minds are
linked?"  he said.

"Yes, of course!  Can't you?"

"No, as a matter of fact.  Jean--" Xavier looked around.

She came forward.  "Right here, Professor."

"Jean, this presents us with an incredible opportunity."  Xavier's
voice was low and urgent.  "If Mirror can show me where the bindings
are, then I can unloose them, setting the two minds free of each
other.  Then *you* could guide the disparate halves back to their
proper places--"

"And Elisabeth would be free," Jean breathed.

"Yes.  As would Kwannon, the Hand assassin."  Xavier looked from one
Psylocke to the other.  "Of course, I would need assurance that she
would not then take the opportunity to attack us."

The pair locked eyes momentarily.  Then, as one, they nodded.  "You
have my word," the Oriental intoned.

"And mine," the other agreed.  

"In that case, Mirror," Xavier said, giving her the smile of a war-
weary general about to lead his troops into battle, "you're about to
get your first lesson in psychic surgery."

                  *             *             *

"...You're missin' the point, Bishop, sugah."  Rogue fanned a handful
of cards and waved them in front of the muscular young black man. 
"This heah's a full house--aces ovah queens.  Only things'll beat
this hand are aces ovah kings, a straight, or a royal flush.  See,
th' highah th' odds agin' gettin' a certain combination o' cards, th'
moah th' hand's worth."  She set them down and drew five more cards
from the top of the deck.

Bishop frowned over his own handful of cards, a worthless mismatch of
suits and values.  "I understand the mathematical principles, Rogue,"
he said, "but I still don't understand why anyone would want to play
a game that's based more on the luck of the draw than any real
skill."

"Now, sugah, that's where you're missin' it.  Pokah happens t' be a
right fine way t' hone all kinda necessary fightin' skills.  For
example..."  She sat back in her chair, crossed her shapely legs, and
swung one foot seductively.  "Let's say, just for example, that
theah's a heap o' money in the pot, an' Ah'm holdin' a pair o'
deuces.  What would you do if you was me?"

"Surrender gracefully.  There would be no way to win with the lowest-
scoring hand in the game."

"No no *no*, Bishop honey!  What you do is, you sit back, you smile
this long, lazy, real confident smile, an' you look at ever'body else
at the table like they're open cans o' Nine Lives an' you're Morris
the cat."  She demonstrated, her bright green eyes sweeping over
imagined players sitting around the table.  "Then you raise 'em, say,
a hunnert or so."  She selected a red chip from the neat stacks
nearby and tossed it into the pile in the center of the table.  "Now
let's say sweet li'l ol' Bobby Drake's sitting ovah theah holdin' a
heart flush.  He'll drop out real quick-like--boy's got plenty o'
balls in a fight, but when it comes to pokah, he folds like an
accordion.  Cyke ovah theah," she said, pointing to another empty
space, "he's smart, but he couldn't see through a bluff if you give
him a microscope.  So he goes too, even though *he's* holdin' three
eights.  Then theah's Dr. Hank McCoy, sittin' right across the table. 
He's got more letters in back o' his name than Quaker's got oatmeal,
but it's three days from payday an' he couldn't raise from the last
time, so he had to back out last round."  Rogue sat up.  "That leaves
just li'l ol' me, sittin' pretty, with two large in the pot and me
with--" she laid down the cards-- "my li'l ol' pair o' deuces.  So,
you see, I come out against not one, but three superior forces, with
th' wimpiest hand possible.  Ain't too bad, huh?"

"Perhaps--though it would probably be more effective if we could
convince Magneto to settle our disputes with a poker game."

Rogue shook her head and smiled with tolerant affection at him. 
"Bish, sugah, they ain't nobody else quite like you--in *any*
century."

Bishop opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance.

*[PAIN]*

Sudden, splitting, all-encompassing--Bishop's eyes snapped open so
wide they almost bulged out.  Rogue screamed and fell across the
table, her hands going to her head as though trying to keep her skull
from bursting open.  Her cry was echoed throughout the mansion, from
a dozen throats, as every student of Charles Xavier in the house felt
the same blistering, searing, sundering--

And then it was gone, as quickly as it had begun.

"Wh..."  Bishop shook his no-longer-painful head.  "What the *hell*
was that?"

"Ah...Ah dunno, sugah..."  Rogue pushed herself up off the tabletop,
confusion dulling the brightness of her green eyes.  "Felt like mah
mind wuz bein' ripped apart or somethin'."

Bishop's mouth tightened into a grim line, and he drew his ever-
present energy blaster.  "It must have been some kind of attack," he
said.

*Is everyone all right?*

"Per...Professor...?"  Rogue blinked and looked upwards, towards the
ceiling, sensing that the call was coming from upstairs.  "Yeah,
we're fine down heah.  What *wuz* that?"

*I know you must all have a lot of questions.  Meet us in the
psi-lab, and I'll explain.*

"This had better be good," Bishop intoned darkly, heading for the
door.

Rogue shrugged and rose up into the air.  "It usually is, Bish
honey."

                  *             *             *

Wolverine took the stairs four at a bound and hit the floor running
in the upstairs hallway.  Confronted with the closed door of the psi-
lab, he did what came naturally, and his claws made short work of the
reinforced titanium steel.

"Wolverine!"  Xavier scowled.  "That was hardly necessary."

The Canadian ignored him for the moment, grey eyes casting about the
psi-lab.  The so-called "head twins" were in evidence; the Oriental
crouched on her haunches in a corner, eyes tight shut, head half-
bowed, while the Caucasian sat between Jean and Mirror, her face in
her hands, her shoulders trembling.  Jean was flushed and covered
with sweat, but she was obviously holding herself together well
enough.  Mirror was chalk-white, her golden eyes glazed over with
exhaustion.

"What the flamin' hell happened?"  Wolverine whirled on Xavier and
pointed at Mirror.  "What didja do to her, Charley?!"

"I didn't do anything to her, Logan.  I assure you, Miryoko is quite
unharmed."

"She'd *better* be."  Wolverine strode over and bent over Mirror. 
"Miry?  Darlin'?  You okay?"

She blinked and looked up at him.  "Um...?"  Recognizing him, she
smiled, weary but obviously proud.  "It worked," she whispered.

"What worked?"

"The separation," Jean answered him.  "Miryoko showed Charles the
joining-points that held Betsy's and Kwannon's divided psyches
together.  When Charles dissolved the bonds, the disparate halves
repelled each other, causing both of them intense psychic pain."

"That pain was unfortunately broadcast through me to the rest of
you."  Xavier was now addressing not only Wolverine, but the other
resident X-Men who were coming into the psi-lab.  "Mirror's proximity
made her particularly vulnerable to the backlash."

"But I'm all right now," Mirror assured her lover, placing a tiny
hand on his breast.  

"I *hate* coming in in the middle of these things," Nightcrawler
said.  "So, *Herr* Professor, are you saying that Elisabeth's back to
normal?"

"I...wouldn't swear...to that, my friend,"  came the answer, in a
thin, jaded voice with decided British flavoring and an undercurrent
of residual strength.  Elisabeth Braddock raised her head from Jean's
shoulder and managed a brave smile for the general audience.  "There
are those who would argue...that I've never been quite 'normal' to
begin with.  However, what mind of which I am still
possessed...appears to be whole once more."  She took a deep breath--

And collapsed.

"Betts!"  Wolverine sprang forward and caught the woman before she
hit the ground.  "What's wrong with her?"

"*You* try having your mind ripped neatly in half and sewn with
psychic baling wire to two halves of someone else's for a year or
two," said Jean, "and chances are you won't feel like running a
marathon either."

Wolverine growled at her.

                  *             *             *

Upstate New York
Wednesday, the 17th, 9:48 a.m.

"I appreciate your company, Miryoko."  Elisabeth Braddock guided the
lilac-colored Citroen between the marble posts, past the wrought-iron
fence.  "I would have asked Katherine, but I don't think she's up to
this yet.  She hasn't been back here since...since," she finished,
parking the car on one of the smooth-paved side roads.

"It's all right, Betsy."  Miry got out of the car and looked around
at the carefully-maintained concrete and marble markers, almost
invisible against the fresh drifts of a late snowfall.  She had never
been overly fond of cemeteries, but she could sense that Betsy didn't
want to make this trip alone.  Logan thought highly of Betsy, but he
was stuck on monitor duty this morning, so Miry had offered to ride
along, even though she had never met the individual in question.

Betsy got out and looked around, getting her bearings.  "It's over
there, I think...just past the angel."  Trudging through the snow
past the marble statue, she finally located the particular marker she
was looking for.  "There he is."

The gravestone was a simple one--no carved cherubs or hands of the
Lord or any such adornments.  It showed only a date of birth, a date
of death, and a name:  DOUGLAS RAMSEY.

Betsy went down on her knees at the foot of the plot.  Tears welled
in her violet eyes.  "Hullo, Doug...I'm sorry I've been away so long. 
More things have happened than you can possibly imagine."

Miry knelt quietly beside Betsy on the ground, trying not to listen
as her newfound friend related a year and a half of hardship and
trial, not the least of which was the mental rape and sundering by
Tsurayaba.  (The more I hear about Matsuo,) she thought, (the less I
like him.)

The current of grief and enduring love from Elisabeth was almost
impossible to ignore, but Miry blocked it out as best she could, so
as not to intrude.  Her mind sought the surrounding area for a
distraction, any distraction that wasn't connected to Betsy's private
sorrow...

Something tugged at her perceptions.  Something nearby; a dormant
mind, ready to be awakened.  Cautiously, erecting the mental defenses
Xavier had taught her how to construct, she traced the emanations
back to their source.

"...but when Matsuo brainwashed what was left of my mind in order to
use me against Wolverine, there was nothing I could do.  Fortunately,
he--Miryoko?!"  Betsy gasped as Mirror flung herself face-first down
on top of the grave, her fingers digging through the snow into the
hard-frozen soil.  "Miry, what--?"

"I *hear* you!"  Mirror gasped, almost face-down in the snow, her
eyes radiant silver.  "Yes, I can hear you. *Nan da?  Hai.  So ka*?"

Betsy crept cautiously forward and put a hand on Mirror's shoulder. 
"Miryoko, *what* are you--?"

"Listen!"  Mirror's hand shot out and back and caught Betsy's in a
firm grip.  "Listen with *my* senses.  Can't you feel it?  Oh, gods,
Bets, can't you feel *him*?!"

A flood of sensation swamped Betsy's senses before she could erect 
any defense.  She was a highly-trained telepath, but Mirror was an
empath, equally skilled and powerful in her own right.  There was no
question but that what the young Asian shared with her was real.

There *was* a mind there--dormant, sleeping, but unquestionably aware
on some deep level.  Patient.  Expectant.  Waiting.  

Waiting for *her*...somewhere in the ground beneath her feet.

"Oh--oh, dear sweet Jesus--" Betsy fell to her hands and knees beside
Mirror, sudden hot tears melting tiny pockets in the snow beneath
her.  "Doug!  Oh, Jesus God--he's *alive* down there! *He's alive*!!"

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
3:38 p.m.

It took only a matter of hours to convince the probate judge to grant
the exhumation order; Xavier usually balked at using telepathic
persuasion on innocents these days, but Betsy's and Miry's frantic
fervor convinced him.  It took little more effort to induce the
cemetery management to close the grounds for the time it took Jean,
Scott, Bishop and Gambit to unearth the coffin from its concrete
crypt underneath the hard-packed ground.  It would have taken a
normal work crew most of the day, but for the X-Men, it was a matter
of a little over an hour.

Now Douglas Ramsey lay safely in a bed in the medical lab back at the
mansion.  His readouts were near normal, although the psi-scan showed
some unusual brain activity.  Elisabeth had not left his side since
he'd appeared--and all present who had known Douglas Ramsey received
a fresh shock.

After Doug had died, his friend, Warlock, had joined him in death
shortly thereafter.  The surviving New Mutants had poured Warlock's
liquefied remains on Doug's grave.  That had been almost three years
ago.  Douglas Ramsey had died at the age of fifteen.

The comatose young man on the med-bed was nearly eighteen years old.

"All this time..." Betsy whispered, clutching at his hand.  "All this
time, he's been *alive* down there, but too deeply comatose for even
my mind to touch his.  If only we had known..."

Xavier studied the print-out in his hand.  "All his vital signs are
stable, albeit in the lower range.  Mirror, can you awaken him?"

"I can try."  She put a hand on Doug's narrow chest.  Silver light
washed over the youth, and he stirred.

Psylocke's breath caught in her throat.

"Ugh."  His mobile face squinched up around the eyes.  "Lockster, you
dad packs one hell of a sucker punch...How long've I been out?"

"Doug..."

His eyes flew open.  "Betsy!  Oh, my God, they *found* you--!" He sat
up and threw his arms around her.  "You wouldn't believe it--when you
and the X-Men disappeared, I thought I'd never see you again--boy
howdy, won't Magnus be glad to see you--"

"Douglas."  Xavier's voice was half-choked, but his face was calm.

Doug looked up.  "Professor--you're back!"  He looked around the
room; seeing only two faces he recognized, he said, "Okay.  Where
*is* everybody?"

Betsy hardly knew where to begin.

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
Friday, the 19th, 1:16 a.m.

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

     The time for confronting Magneto on his own ground--Avalon--
     is fast approaching.  The incredible joy at the
     discovery of Douglas alive in his coffin and the
     restoration of Elisabeth to her own mind and body is
     tempered by the sobriety of the upcoming battle--from
     which none of those who fight may return.

     We have yet another new member.  This morning--well,
     yesterday morning, actually--I sent Rogue and Wolverine
     back to New Orleans, where Cerebro had detected yet
     another new mutant.  They found a remarkable young man who
     calls himself Anarchy.  The chaos of his brain-patterns is
     difficult for even me to discern, but the youth seems to
     be suffering from total amnesia.  There is some organic
     brain damage, but it seems to me that most of the problem
     is psychological in origin.  I have offered to help him
     remember, but he simply doesn't seem interested.  He is,
     nonetheless, an incredibly powerful individual--strong,
     agile, with the powers of flight and of energy generation
     and projection.  For the safety of the public as well as
     his own, I have persuaded him to remain at the mansion.  I
     believe he has agreed as much for the access to our
     advanced technology as for any desire to join the X-Men,
     although beneath his careless facade I seem to detect a
     genuine desire to do what is right.  With Anarchy, it is
     difficult to tell.*

                  *             *             *

11:48 a.m.

"Got everything, *Katzchen*?"  Kurt counted the rip-stop nylon bags
surrounding his feet in the foyer.  "My gear's all present and
accounted for."

"Yeah, I guess."  Kitty sat down on her Samsonite pull-case.  Her
mobile features were drawn into somber lines.  "Fuzzy-elf...can we
talk?"

"Of course."  Completely unselfconscious, Kurt leapt up on top of the
heap of his luggage and crouched on his haunches, tail curling around
his ankles.  "What's on your mind?"

"Kurt...you know how much I love working with you.  And the people
back at the lighthouse--Brian, Meggan, Rache...they're my friends. 
It's just that--well, being over here and everything, it's like--"

"It's like we've come home."  Kurt spoke softly.  "It would seem that
*Herr* Burke was wrong about that.  You can go home again...if it's
still home to you."

"Right.  So, I was thinking...maybe...maybe I should stay on here for
a while.  At least until Peter and Illyana get back.  I mean, I'd
like some time to get reacquainted with Doug; you know he's freaking
about how much things have changed, and he--Kurt?  What's wrong?"

The German was convulsing slightly.  Then his face burst into a wide,
white grin and he threw back his head and laughed. 

"Kurt?!"

"Ah, *liebchen*..."  Kurt leaned forward and took Kitty's hands in
his.  "Congratulations.  You've proven beyond a shadow of a doubt you
have more courage than your supposedly fearless furry blue leader."

"Huhwha?"

"I have spent most of the past two days trying to drum up the courage
to tell you how much *I* want to stay here, at least for a while.  I
just couldn't do it.  I would have felt I was letting you down
somehow."

"But what's Brian going to do without *both* of us?  We can't just--"

"Why not?  No one's saying it's going to be forever anyway."

"But we *started* Excalibur, Kurt--"

"To replace the X-Men when we thought they were dead.  Brian's a
perfectly capable leader, Kitty; they'll manage just fine without
us."  He hopped off the stack of luggage.  "Now, let's go talk to the
Professor about getting our old rooms back."

                  *             *             *

6:57 p.m.

Because of hectic schedules, formal dinners were not commonly held at
the mansion.  However, on this particular evening Xavier was
determined to make an exception.  The mansion defenses were put on
full automatic and every active member and trainee was informed that
dinner on the evening of the fifth would be a black tie affair.

Not everyone at the mansion was pleased.

"A *party*?!"  In the lab given him several weeks before, Simon
Butler leaned over to snarl directly into Xavier's stoic face. 
"Galatea's still in the clutches of a man who's only *slightly*
deranged, a *mere* genocidal fanatic, a *minor* megalomaniacal mutant
messiah, and *you're* getting ready to *party*?!?"

"We may be mutants, Dr. Butler," Xavier intoned, his voice very even,
his words carefully spaced, "but we are human as well.  In less than
forty-eight hours I am going to send people I have trained and cared
about for years into a battle which they will most likely not
survive.  If I can grant them an hour or two of some semblance of
normalcy--"

Simon scooped a Pyrex beaker off the table and started tossing it
one-handed, looking as if he might like to pitch it at Xavier's face. 
"Do you know what he could be *doing* to her up there?"

"If Magneto had wished Galatea dead, he would have killed her when he
first appeared.  Whatever he is now, whatever his Acolytes believe
him to be,  Magnus will not harm her.  She is innocent--and she *is*
a mutant, one of those he is sworn to protect."

"Oh, right.  He's a confirmed psycho, and you're trusting him to
adhere to some twisted sense of honor.  It's easy for *you* to be so
blase about it, considering she's not *your* flesh and blood!"

Xavier's eyes narrowed.  "My students are my children," he stated
firmly.  "Their safety is always paramount in my mind.  However, the
breach codes are still being processed by the computers and it will
be well past midnight before they can be retrieved.  We will commence
our attack on Avalon at dawn tomorrow.  That's less than twelve hours
away; if nothing has happened to Galatea by now, then surely that
period of time won't make any difference."

Butler dropped the beaker, and it shattered on the floor.  "Oh,
really?"  he grumbled, and turned and walked away.

                  *             *             *

"You handsome devil, you."  Kurt Wagner studied his reflection in the
full-length mirror in his newly-reclaimed room.  He remembered
vaguely the times he was ashamed to face his own reflection, on
account of either the pranks he pulled on his adopted Gypsy tribe as
a child or, later, when he discovered a world outside his sheltered
childhood that would condemn him on the grounds of his demonic
appearance.  Now, however, he was among friends, people who looked
past the devil-mask of his face and liked what they saw.

A gentle knock sounded at his door.  "*Kommen sie*," he carolled.

The door opened behind him.  "Kurt?"  A soft woman's contralto, one
he knew well.

"Ah, hello, Oro--"  he turned...and froze.  "...ro," he finished.

She stood in the doorway, tall and magnificent.  Her snowdrift hair
was piled high in soft, shimmering waves on top of her head, held in
place by a golden comb.  The dark red silk gown she wore clung
tantalizingly to her lush curves, flaring slightly around her feet. 
She wore no jewelry; she needed none.  Her beauty was ornamentation
enough.  "I was wondering," she said, "if you might allow me the
pleasure of escorting you downstairs."

Slowly Kurt smiled.  "I remember that dress," he said.  "Or one like
it, anyway.  Cassidy Keep--"

"Yes," she said.  "Our first formal dinner together.  Let us hope
that this one will not be so rudely interrupted."

"Yes.  With any luck, the condemned will eat a hearty meal."  Kurt
took Ororo's arm and they went into the hallway together.

"You seem rather fatalistic," she said as they descended the stairs
side by side.

It took a bit of effort for Kurt to walk upright--his normal gait
involved stooping forward and scuttling forth on his hands and feet
faster than most people could run--but he was happy to make the
effort for Ororo's sake.  "When it comes to fighting Magneto? 
*Liebchen*, we barely survived the last confrontation with his
Acolytes.  On Magneto's territory, on his terms--I don't believe we
stand a chance."

                  *             *             *

Kurt's fatalistic mood was shared by most of the people at the table
that evening.  Only Simon Butler was conspicuous by his absence, but
despite the large number of people, the meal passed in relative
silence.

All, that is, except for one.

"...Yeah, try some of the purple stuff," Anarchy urged in between
mouthfuls.  "It's great.  Stay away from the greens, though--plant
matter rots your brain.  Or maybe it just bind you up, I'm not sure." 
At Xavier's insistence, Anarchy wore a black tie.  A black leather
tie.  On a studded collar.  And no shirt.  But at least his leather
jacket was clean.  "Now where was I--?  Oh, yeah.  As I was saying, a
lot of people go in for armor-piercers, but if you're dealing with
exposed flesh, nothing creates a better splat than hollow-points--
unless it's a hot-load with a depleted uranium core swimming in
mercury..."

"Anarchy," Xavier warned.  "The effect of high-velocity projectiles
on living targets is *not* considered an appropriate subject for
polite dinnertime conversation."

Anarchy blinked at him.  "It's not?"

"Professor."  Jean's voice cut off any further discussion.  

"What is it?"

"We've got a visitor.  Two of them, in fact.  Peter's at the front
door--"

There was a great scraping of chairs on the floor and a loud <BAMF>
as various members of the team ran, flew and teleported for the front
foyer, leaving a half-consumed meal and a lingering stench of
brimstone in their wake.

Of course, Nightcrawler arrived first.  He was opening the front door
as Jean, Storm and Iceman came up behind him.  "Peter, you've come
back--*Lieber Gott*!!"

Xavier was the last to get to the scene.  With only Anarchy remaining
behind to finish his course, the hallway was jammed with X-Men.  By
the time the hoverchair finally got through the assembly to the
front, Colossus was inside.  "*Gospyodin*," he said, his blue eyes
wide, "you must--you must *do* something!"

"Something?  Peter, what--?"  Xavier fell silent and, like the
others, stared.

The blonde who stood beside Colossus wore an ill-fitting flannel
shirt and jeans several sizes too large for her, cinched tight around
the waist.  The belt had had three new holes punched into the leather
above those already made for it.  The shoes she wore were obviously
also too large and were almost falling off her feet even with the
numerous pairs of socks she wore.  "Hi, guys," Illyana said in
perfect English.  "Remember me?"

In the past five days, she had aged ten years.

Kitty screamed.  "ILLYANA!"  Phasing, she passed through the crowd to
the front, solidifying to scoop her best friend up in her arms.  "Oh
God you're grown-up again I don't believe it I thought oh God and
holy Moses I don't--"

Illyana tapped one ear.  "Hey, Kit-Kat--you think you can freak at a
lower volume?  I might need these eardrums someday."

"Hey, let me through, come on--*oof*!"  The willowy blond youth
wedged his way through between Iceman and Bishop and popped out of
the crowd like a bottle-cork.  

Illyana took one look at Doug and screamed.  Next to Kitty's ear.

"*Ow*!" said Kitty.

                  *             *             *

10:16 p.m.

"That should do it."  Mirror stepped back and smiled, taking her
hands from Illyana's face.  "The aging process was slowing down on
its own anyway.  From this point on, you'll age at a perfectly normal
rate."

"That'll be a switch."  Illyana stretched her tingling limbs.  She
was now dressed in a faded Elfquest T-shirt and acid-washed jeans
that were just a tad too short for her--clothes scrounged from
Kitty's suitcase.  "I've skipped over puberty so many times it's not
even amusing anymore.  I've got boobs, I don't, I've got boobs, I
don't..."  She frowned down at her modest bustline.  "Well, maybe."

Colossus put a large hand on his sister's shoulder.  "The important
thing now, *Yanashka*, is that you are well again, and you have been
restored...even though you have aged ten years in half as many days." 
He looked at Mirror.  "Can you not return her to her appropriate
age?"

Mirror shook her head.  "I can do lots of things, but turning back
the metabolic clock isn't one of them.  I can make someone *older*,
maybe, but not younger.  The biochemical process can be sped up, but
not reversed."

"So you're stuck at seventeen, babe," Kitty chirped.  She couldn't
wipe the silly happy grin off her face to save her life.  "Deal with
it."

"There's nothing wrong with seventeen," Psylocke murmured.

"Except you're not legal to do anything fun," Doug pointed out.

"Excuse me."  Illyana held up her hand.  "Does my opinion count here? 
For your information, beloved big brother, I *like* being seventeen
again, and having all my memories from my time with the New Mutants,
and being able to speak English again.  Furthermore, I do *not* want
my age sped up any higher even a teeny bit.  I'll wait the six months
it'll take to turn eighteen legally.  It'll make a nice change, being
the same age for more than five minutes at a time.  Okay?"  She took
Peter's hand in both of hers.  "I know you're worried about me," she
said more softly.  "I understand, and I appreciate it.  But you heard
the lady:  I'm okay now.  If my age is stable now, I'd be just as
happy not having it messed around with anymore.  Okay?"

Colossus nodded, his face somber.  "Forgive me, little snowflake.  I
neglected to take your feelings into consideration."

"Oh, you're just being overprotective of me again.  I'm used to it." 
Illyana looked around, her gaze settling on her former teammates. 
"So where is everybody?  Xi'an, 'Berto, Sam, Tabby?  Oh God, Kitty,
don't tell me they're all dead."

"No, no.  You and Useless--"

"Watch it!"  Doug warned her.

"You were the only ones with the bad taste to die.  Xi'an's in
Madripoor, Dani's running around somewhere, and most of the rest of
the guys are with X-Force and/or X-Factor."

"X-*whosis*?"

"Well, see, once upon a time there was this guy who called himself
Cable--"

*Colossus.  Mirror.*  Xavier's mental summons was not loud, but it
was impossible to ignore.  *Come to the war room at once for final
briefing.*

Mirror sighed.  "A lot of good it does *me*.  He won't let me go with
the boarding party."

"I know what he wants to ask of me," Colossus said, "and the answer
is 'no'.  However, he will not accept it unless I tell him in person. 
I will return soon, Yanashka."

When they'd gone, they left a somewhat sombre quartet of ex-New
Mutants in their wake.  "I *hate* this," Kitty announced to the
general assembly.  "Off they go to get slaughtered, and there's
nothing we can do about it."

"If only there were some way to contact Magnus," Psylocke said.  "I
remember our last contact with him vaguely--I was only half myself
then--but he seemed forced into the role of antagonist.  "

"What makes you think he's gonna listen to a bunch of kids?  He never
did before..."

"You weren't around for the business in the Savage Land," Kitty said
grimly.  "I wasn't actually there, but from the tape files, I hear it
was pretty nasty, the way he waxed Zaladane."

"He was under a great deal of pressure at that time," Psylocke
reminded her.  "The X-Men--including myself--were presumed dead,
Douglas was--was gone, and Zaladane forced Magnus's hand.  I remain
convinced that Magnus, as far as he's gone this time, is still
willing to *be* convinced, given the opportunity simply to listen."

"Well, it would be a lot easier to convince the Professor not to go
charging up and get everybody killed if we got Magnus to give us back
that girl he took off.  But there's no way we can contact him from
here."

"*So why don't we take the discussion to him*?"

Kitty turned--and gasped.  "Illyana...?"

Psylocke and Doug just stared.

Illyana was on her feet--and clad head to foot in the armor that had
once belonged to the Darkchilde.  An ornate sword, pulled from thin
air and crafted of sorcery and force of will, pulsed and glowed in
her right hand.

But her armor was different this time.  Before, as the Darkchilde, it
had been a cold blue steel color, dull as gunmetal.  This time, it
seemed crafted of lustrous gold, shining softly with its own light.

"Hello, everybody," she said in a strong, clear voice.  "Magik's
home."

"*O*miGod," said Kitty.  "'Yana, you're not supposed to have magic
powers any more, remember?  You sacrificed them--"

"Hey, I don't write the script, Kit.  I don't question, I just do." 
She waved her hand in the air.  "Now let's go set the big red guy in
the sky straight on a few things, shall we?"  

A glowing white-gold disk of light shimmered into existence above
their heads.  Iridescence pulsed in its heart.  Magik dropped her
hand sharply, and the disk fell on them like a stone.

"Illyana," Psylocke shouted, "*do--*"

                  *             *             *

Avalon
1531 hours GMT

"*--n't*!"

The quartet blinked into existence in the middle of a sterile
corridor that gently curved off to the left and right.  The teleport
disk winked out--

And alarms went off as the lights turned red.

"Oh," Doug groaned, "*swell*."

                  *             *             *

Galatea started as the lights turned red.  Magneto had been standing
at his favored viewport, watching the Earth turn beneath them, as if
expecting something.  He'd been quieter than usual this evening. 
When the klaxon sounded, he turned, but there was no surprise in his
face.

"So," he said, "it begins."

He rose into the air; a wave of his hand summoned his helm from its
place on the table.  Donning it, he flew into the corridor and
disappeared.  

With no specific instructions, Galatea used the training Magnus had
provided her to take flight and follow her mentor.

                  *             *             *

"Invaders!  Interlopers!  Kill them all!"

"Here it comes,"  Kitty announced, bracing herself.  "This is gonna
sting a little."

"*Them*, maybe."  Showing her old spirit and fire, Magik took a
firmer grip on her sword and took a defensive stance.

"So this is it.  We're going to die."  Doug huffed.  "As the bowl of
petunias said to the blue whale:  'Oh, no.  Not again.'"

Psylocke moved in front of Doug and felt her stomach twist in a sick
fashion.  She could sense the hostile thoughts of the approaching
Acolytes--Amelia Voght's bitterness, Unuscione's relentless devotion
to her beloved "Messiah", Senyaka's bloodthirsty enthusiasm for the
battle to come--and all the others, a maelstrom onslaught as daunting
to a psi-sensitive as any physical attack.

She erected her strongest mental shields, and that new part of
herself--the legacy of her too-close association with Kwannon--joined
forces with her own cultivated tiger's nature and brought her psi-
daggers crackling and burning to her fingertips.  (If we go down,)
she resolved, (we go down fighting.)

"Hold!"

Even as the Acolytes came into view, and into line-of-sight for
attack, a wall of visible energy formed before them.  The power, and
the voice, belonged to the same source, and Psylocke recognized it
all too well.  (I didn't sense his presence...but with that thrice-
damned helmet of his, it's no wonder.)

Behind them, from the opposite direction, a magnificent figure in
scarlet and purple hovered into plain sight.  "So," Magneto intoned,
his baritone booming back resonant echoes from the sterile walls,
"Xavier now sends children against me.  I expected a full frontal
assault, not a feeble attempt at subterfuge."

Cheated of the battle she seemed to crave, Magik turned on him,
snarling through gritted teeth.  "We came up here to talk, not fight. 
But if it's a fight you want, you'll get one!"

"Wait!  Now just hold on a minute."  Kitty was terrified, and her
fear pummelled like a wild bird against Psylocke's shields, but the
young woman fought to speak bravely.  "Magnus--listen, you and your
followers and the X-Men are just going to end up killing each other! 
I know things are bad, but...hey, you used to listen to reason every
once in a blue moon.  Can't you just stop for a minute and *think*
what you're doing?"

"Once upon a time," the cold voice said, "my mind was twisted by your
mentor's friend, Moira MacTaggert.  She made me over into what she
thought I should be.  I have overcome--"

"All she did to you was try to help you!  She didn't affect your
mind.  I was there, remember?  Not when she did it, but I've seen her
notes.  Okay, even the ones she didn't want anybody else to see. 
Okay?  So I'm nosy.  Put me in front of a computer and I go snooping. 
She didn't mess with your head, honest.  She just twiddled your
biological structure so your powers wouldn't make you crazy when you
grew up! *That's all she did*.  C'mon, Magnus, you know I wouldn't
lie to you."

"Give it up, Pryde," Magik growled.  "Can't you see his mind is made
up?  He doesn't want to be confused with the facts."

"And who are you, child," Magneto thundered, "to dictate to the
savior of your race?"

Magik stomped forward.

"Illyana, *no*!"  Whatever control Psylocke could exert over the
situation was rapidly slipping from her grasp.

The Russian stopped just barely a sword's reach away from Magneto. 
She reached up and yanked off her helmet, letting it clatter to the
deck behind her.  Her wheat-golden hair spilled down her back.

"I am Illyana Nikolaivna Rasputin," she proclaimed in a steady voice. 
"And this isn't the first time I've told you that you're wrong."

"You cannot be Illyana."  Magneto's tone brooked no discussion.  "She
is a mere child, not a near-grown woman."

"I bought a little maturity on the installment plan," she retorted. 
"It won't be the first time."

He was shaking his head.  "It is not possible."

"Yeah?"  Doug stepped out from behind Psylocke.  

"No," she attempted, but she couldn't stop him before Magneto saw.

"I make it a point to believe at least six impossible things before
breakfast."  Doug showed his trademark grin.  "You really ought to
try it."

Behind the slits of his helm, Magneto went pale.  "Douglas...no. 
What treachery is this?"

"It's not treachery, Magnus."  Psylocke spoke very calmly and
carefully, ignoring the hammering of her heart.  "You know I have
never lied to you, as friend, ally or enemy.  I don't intend to start
now."

"Douglas Ramsey is dead."

"I got better," Doug supplied helpfully.  "With a little help from my
friends."

"Even if I were to believe," Magneto said, "and even if I were
willing to acquiesce to your arguments...you realize that Xavier and
his faithful followers could never accept me again.  Even now, they
prepare to do battle against me.  In a matter of hours, one side, or
the other, or possibly both, will be destroyed.  In any case, the
matter will be resolved once and for all."

"It doesn't have to be that way, Magnus."  Psylocke came forward,
gratified that her knees were not shaking.  She felt calmer than she
ever had even though she believed Magneto fully capable of striking
them all dead on the spot.  "The Professor is expediting his attack
on Avalon for one reason.  You took a young woman, one of his
students, from the mansion.  Her uncle--her only living relative--is
frantic for her safe return.  You must let us take her back with us. 
Perhaps then some sort of compromise agreement may be reached.  Come,
Magnus.  You cannot tell me honestly that an all-out war of mutant
against mutant, both sides to the death, is what you really want, or
what you ever really wanted."

Eyes the color of a late winter sky studied Psylocke's.  "If I fall,"
he said, "or at the first sign of any coercion on your part, the wall
which holds back my faithful will fall...and then, so will you."

"Bring 'em on," Illyana hissed.

"Does the non-combatant get a vote here?" Doug asked.

"I'm with you," Kitty agreed.

Magneto reached up and removed his helm.  Holding it at his side, he
met Psylocke's eyes.  "Show me," he said.  "Show me the truth."

Psylocke returned his gaze.  Violet energies fluttered from her gaze
and, with the wings of a butterfly, brushed Magneto's forehead.  He
gasped.  The wall wavered.  The Acolytes tried to surge forward, the
magnetic field bellying inward.

"That's it," Kitty sighed.  "We're dead."

The butterfly left Magneto's face and returned to Psylocke, absorbed
into her brow.  Magneto's face was still, completely unreadable.

The force field behind them firmed up, shutting off even the angry
cries of the Acolytes.

Magneto spoke one word.  "Galatea."

The faint ring of metallic footsteps heralded the arrival of as
living silver statue.  Doug and Psylocke had their first look at the
object of their quest.  Her sterling-white hair fell gleaming
straight down her back.  She now wore a metallic blue bodysuit that
sculpted itself to her flawless body, with arm-bands and boots
patterned after Magneto's own.

"Whoa," Kitty said.  "Well, the self-image of every other female
present just took a nose-dive."

"Speak for yourself, Pryde," Magik cautioned.  "Wish I had the boobs,
though."

"What is it, Magnus?" the newcomer said in a voice like silver bells.

"Your uncle wishes to assure himself of your safety.  Therefore, if
it is your wish, you may return to Xavier and reassure all concerned
that you have not been harmed in any fashion; that, in fact, I have
given you instruction in the use of your powers."

Galatea looked from him to the others and back again.  "Magnus..."

"Speak, child."  His tone was uncommonly gentle.  "Do not be afraid."

"Will I...will I be able to come back?"

"That will be up to you, my dear.  If Xavier attempts to keep you
there against your will, summon me in the manner in which I have
taught you, and I shall come for you."

"I don't want anyone hurt."

"Then it would be advisable for you to express your concerns to
Xavier."  He waved his hand.  "Now, go, all of you."

"Magnus..."  Psylocke stepped back, head held high.  "It really
doesn't have to be this way.  However much you blame yourself for
Doug's death, he never blamed you, and neither did the rest of us,
whatever you might believe."

"The children entrusted to my care abandoned me.  What other
conclusion was I to make?"

"Did you ever stop to think that your own frustration at the ensuing
catastrophes drove you back to the old, violent ways of the old
Magneto?  Yes, the children left you, but they would have returned. 
You never gave them the chance.  Just...just *think* about it,
please.  Otherwise, you will destroy your dream, and Charles', in one
fell swoop."

"I will give your argument due consideration," Magneto said.  "Now
go."

"Come on, people."  Magik scooped up her helmet and put it back on. 
"Let's blow this pop stand."

Galatea waved one silvery hand as a white-gold circle of light opened
and swallowed the five of them whole, leaving no trace.

Magnus stood there, unmoving.

When the wall collapsed, the Acolytes rushed forward.  Finding no
foes to vanquish, they fell to questioning and praising their
Messiah.

"Leave me," Magneto murmured, but his directive was drowned out by
the acclamations of the gathered throng.

"Hail Magnus, the savior of our kind!"

"Death to all flatscans!"

"The throwbacks will fall!"

"The servants shall be the masters--"

"*LEAVE ME*!!"  Magneto roared, pumping his gauntleted fists in the
air.  Bands of force exploded around him, driving the Acolytes
physically back down the way from which they had come.

Murmuring obeisances and fragments of their contrived scriptural
verse, they retreated, bowing, leaving their savior alone.

Magneto returned to his private chambers, to the room where, minutes
ago, he and Galatea had awaited the oncoming assault.  The attack
might yet come, although he believed that, if anything could turn the
tide of Xavier's righteous fervor, Psylocke's powers of persuasion
could.

He watched the Earth revolve slowly beneath Avalon.  Its tranquil
blues and greens belied the turmoil roiling on its surface:  father
against son, child against mother, brother against brother...human
against mutant.  

Sometimes, in his dreams, he was back in the village of his young
adulthood, cradling the broken and lifeless body of his tiny
daughter, in his arms.  Sweet Anya, who never lived to see her fifth
birthday, slain with her mother.

In the cousins to those dreams, the setting was Auschwitz, and he
held his Romany blood-brother in his arms.  At still other times, he
crouched in his own base in the Pacific Ocean, holding a young woman-
child whom he had caused harm without meaning to...a girl named
Katherine Pryde.

*That* had been the dawn of his understanding.  He had seen his
reflection in Kitty's terrified eyes, and he had seen himself as one
of the ignorant villagers who had killed Anya...as one of the
Auschwitz guards...as prejudiced and hate-driven as those who had
persecuted him all his life.

But it had been a lie.  A lingering influence, akin to a post-
hypnotic suggestion, implanted by Moira MacTaggert within his genetic
structure when he was most vulnerable.

Hadn't it?

He watched the planet of his birth for a long time, weighing his
options, considering the paths to be taken.

Then he spoke a single word.

"*No*."

                  *             *             *

Westchester County, New York
10:32 p.m.

Simon Butler was in his lab.  He could *hear* his stash calling him,
feel its seductive pull, like the beckoning of an illicit lover. 
*Come on, Simon, baby, you know you want it, you know you want *me*,
you want me bad, so why don't you come on up and see me sometime? 
Like now?*

"No," he said aloud.  He sat down at his desk and buried his face in
his hands.  If he gave in, it might dull some of the anger and
outrage he felt, and he didn't want that to happen.  (If Charlie
Xavier's eavesdropping on my thoughts right now, I hope the son of a
witch gets his bald-as-a-brass-billiard-ball head full--)

"Uncle Simon?  Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Gale, I'm fine.  It's just--"

*Click*.

He looked up.

She stood in the doorway, wearing a blue costume and a puzzled,
concerned frown.

"*Gyaaaaah*!"  Butler vaulted his desk and pounced upon his sister's
daughter.  "Where did you--how did you--what did you--*where's*
Xavier?"

"I don't know."

"Well, come on, let's *find* him!"  

                  *             *             *

10:57 p.m.

"I assure you, Dr. Butler, that while I am grateful for Galatea's
safe return, I had nothing whatsoever to do with it."  Xavier was
somewhat irritated at having his "war conference" disrupted by a
wild-haired, wild-eyed researcher.  The members of the proposed
strike force--Jean, Wolverine, Sabretooth, Gambit, Rogue, and Bishop
--were already wearing their enviro-suits.  The other X-Men,
including Mirror, Pixie and Anarchy (who last statement to the
Professor was "C'mon, Coach, put me in, I'm ready to play--I can be
center field!"), were also present, as a back-up force should it
prove necessary.

"Well, if you didn't get her back, what did he do--just let her go?"

"Yes," Galatea answered.

All eyes turned on her.

She shrugged a little.  "Well, he *did*.  After the purple lady
talked to him, he--"

"'Purple' lady?" echoed Cyclops.

"Well, that's what she *was*.  She was wearing purple, her hair was
purple, her eyes were purple--"

"Psylocke!" Jean said.

"I guess so.  I think that's what Magnus called her."

Xavier glided noiselessly forward in his hoverchair.  "Galatea," he
said, "perhaps you'd better begin at the beginning."

                  *             *             *

Saturday, the 20th, 12:14 a.m.

"I don't believe your *nerve*."  Kitty sat cross-legged on the
dinette chair, hugging a cup of cocoa with both hands.  "Illyana, be
straight with me--are you on steroids or something?"

"Get serious."  Back in her old *Elfquest* T-shirt and jeans, Illyana
showed no sign of the warrior-mage she'd been an hour before.  "In
the past three and a half years, Kit-Kat, I've gone from four to
fourteen, then back from sixteen to six, lost my memory, got sick,
died, got resurrected and cured, and here I am at seventeen.  It's
called 'puberty, twice, *fast*'.  And *that's* just the cute
biological tricks.  That *doesn't* count the ten years I spent in
another dimension, having demons fighting over who gets to take my
soul, *and* all the B-S we went through as the X-Babies.  Life
sucks."

"Not all the time," Doug pointed out.  "Beats the hell out of the
only available alternative."

"The voice of experience speaks," Illyana said.

Doug nodded once.  "Been there.  Done that.  Didn't like it.  Don't
want to do it again anytime real soon, thanks very much all the
same."

Psylocke said nothing.  She sat on the stool beside Doug and kept
hold of his hand.  Silent since their return from Avalon, Elisabeth
wasn't really sure what she *could* say.  Thankfully, Doug seemed to
accept her silence easily.  For a master of words and their meaning,
he seemed to have an innate sense of when they were neither necessary
nor adequate.  He kept up enough constant chatter with the girls to
distract them from Psylocke's uncommon reticence.

Bets didn't understand why she shouldn't be proud of herself, and
proud of her friends.  Illyana's journey to Avalon might have been
ill-advised at first, but they had won freedom for Galatea and
returned without harm.  They had also managed to give Magneto
something to at least think about in the process.

(So why doesn't anything feel *resolved*?) she wondered.  (Why do I
feel as though the struggle has only just begun?  As though we
haven't even *seen* any true potential for violent confrontation
yet?)

*PSYLOCKE.  BRING ILLYANA, KATHERINE AND DOUGLAS TO MY OFFICE
IMMEDIATELY.*

The telepathic "shout" was heard by all present.  Psylocke winced at
its intensity.  (*That's* why,) she thought grimly.

"Oops," Doug said, grinning helplessly.

Illyana and Kitty looked at each other.  "Weeeee're *busted*!" they
chorused with the impish delight of the young.  For a moment of *deja
vu* they were all years younger, and Elisabeth savored that moment as
she rose from her stool--(because when Xavier gets done with the lot
of us, we may regret ever having been born mutants at all.)

                  *             *             *

5:45 a.m.

It had been a long, long night.

Of course, Xavier had called off the attack on Avalon.  It was
something of an anticlimax--Wolverine and Sabretooth were
particularly disgruntled--but with the return of Galatea to the
mansion, the assault had lost some of its immediacy.

A more pressing concern to Charles Xavier was the wayward
impulsiveness of his younger students.  He spent the better part of
the small hours between midnight and dawn demanding information,
evaluating offered excuses and expressing his extreme disappointment. 
He could have retrieved the information from their minds in a matter
of seconds, but he intentionally questioned them over every detail of
their impromptu visit to the most dangerous mutant in existence, to
better reinforce the magnitude of their transgression.

The fact that none of them seemed particularly repentant only drove
his frustration to greater heights.  "Do you realize that, by all
rights, you should each and every one of you be dead right now?" he
demanded, waxing to another crescendo of outrage.  "Illyana, it is
apparent that your mental maturity has not had time to catch up with
your physical development."

"So what are you going to do?"  Illyana challenged.  "Take us out to
the woodshed and paddle us?"

"Would that I could instill a sense of responsibility in you so
easily.  Elisabeth, I know you tried to forestall this debacle, but
you must share some accountability for not realizing sooner what
Illyana's intentions were.  As an X-Man, you have been trained to
anticipate and circumvent rash action--"

"*That's it*!"  Kitty jumped to her feet.

"Sit down, Katherine.  I am not finished."

"The hell you're not!"  Kitty slammed both her hands down hard on the
top of Xavier's desk.  "For *five hours* we've listened to you rant
and rave about responsibility and accountability and every other kind
of 'bility you can look up in a thesaurus.  You have, however,
neglected one vital point:  We did what your precious X-Men with all
their high-octane firepower couldn't.  We went up to Avalon, got the
silver girl, and got back without so much as a shot being fired or
a drop of blood being drawn.  Maybe we got lucky, maybe luckier than
we deserved. But we *did* it.  The only trouble is, you don't live up
to your own credo."  She pointed at the dinner-plate-sized molded
crest hanging on the wall.  "*Mutatis mutandis*.  Changing with
change.  Only you *haven't* changed.  You're still the same stuffy,
stuck-up, anally retentive *jerk* you've always been.  Josef Stalin
has a better sense of humor than you do, and *he's dead*!  You
believe that the only way is *your* way.  Well, here's a news flash
for you: *everything changes*.  You don't always have to fight for
what's right, because your right isn't always right for everybody. 
We went up to Avalon to *talk* to Magnus.  And to *listen*.  Maybe
you should try some of that listening stuff once in a while.  Even a
Mr. Know-it-all like you might learn something."

Xavier glared up at her.  "Are you quite finished?"

"Not quite.  One more point.  Get *this* through your thick
chrome-dome, Charley--*We're not your students.  Not anymore*.  So if
we want to use our powers to go to Avalon, or Hawaii, or bloody Alpha
Centauri, then that's *our* business, and *not* yours.  I wanted to
stay on here because I was *proud* to be an X-Man.  I'm willing to be
one again.  I can't speak for anybody else here, but that's how I
felt and how I still feel. *If* I decide to stay, and *if* you decide
to let me after this, then you're going to have to accept the fact
that not everybody is going to look up at you with bright, worshipful
eyes and say 'Oh, yes, *sir*, Professor, I'll be a good little X-Man
for you' anymore.  At least Mama Pryde's little baby girl isn't going
to.  You're no more worthy of unquestioning obedience than Magneto
is.  If I think what you're proposing is a majorly *stupid* idea,
then I'm going to say so right out in front of God and everybody.  If
you can't deal with that, then say the word and I'm outta here."

"You go, girlfriend," Illyana murmured.

Kitty stood firm in front of the desk, feet planted a yard apart,
breathing hard, waiting for Xavier to answer.

Xavier never got the chance.

*Professor!*  Everyone could hear Jean's shout.  *The proximity
alert--we've got Magneto sign, and he's closing fast!*

*Forces?* Xavier requested, moving out from behind his desk. 

*None.  He's alone, sir.*

*Everyone, outside.  I'm on my way.*  "We will continue this
discussion at a later time," he said sternly.  "Obviously your
sojourn to Avalon has encouraged its master to respond in kind."

                  *             *             *

"Stay back, Wolverine," Cyclops cautioned, eyes focused on the still-
darkened sky above the mansion.  "You and Colossus both.  I want
neither of you in close proximity to Magneto if things turn ugly."

"Aww," Wolverine grumbled, "an' that's just the way I like 'em."

Both X-Men teams, Blue and Gold, and all the trainees waited on the
front lawn, in the remnants of the last snowfall.  Gradually one of
the fading stars began to get brighter, then turned a pale violet and
started to grow, becoming a shimmering sphere which rapidly
approached the ground.

"Lemme at 'im, Cyke."  Sabretooth popped his curved talons.  "*I*
ain't got no adamantium skeleton."

"But you've got iron in your blood like everybody else.  He'll use
that to manipulate you.  It's an old trick of his."

"I could always throw some anti-government pamphlets at him," Anarchy
suggested helpfully.

"Everybody just hold back," Cyclops ordered, "and be ready for
*anything*."

Xavier emerged from the mansion just as the magnetic force-sphere
touched ground.  It dropped to reveal a familiar purple-cloaked, red-
helmed figure.  Blatantly ignoring the X-Men, he turned and walked to
meet Xavier.

"Tell everyone to get ready," Cyclops told Jean.  She quietly
broadcast the thought, and a ripple of controlled tension swept
through the group.

Magneto stopped two meters away from the hoverchair.  Xavier looked
up at him, and the two men locked eyes.

"All right, Charles," Magneto intoned, "I'm here.  Persuade me."

                     *          *          *

                          THE BEGINNING