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Alkali Lake, mid-afternoon:


Tree shadows dappled the forest floor and scattered across the dirt path; the solitary man shivered slightly in spite of the hazy sunlight, huddling further into his dark gray wool peacoat. He was a complex man who enjoyed complex questions, and he pondered a few as pine needles crunched under the soles of his black combat boots. If a tree falls in the forest and if no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? His years in the United States Army had found him occasionally digging latrines and foxholes, burying fallen comrades and cutting down trees, and the ground shook beneath him with a satisfying crash that startled the birds from their nests every time one of those majestic beauties was brought down.

The assumption that could be made was that if birds in the sky bore witness to the demise of the tree, taking wing upon its deafening roar, then man could assume that tree made a sound, whether he was there to bear witness to it or not. He had bore witness to the deaths of his comrades, and his God smote him for his foolish pride in worldly things.

It was time to set things right.

Sometimes, the scars still chafed and itched with phantom pains; he rubbed the grooves in his hands distractedly as he made his way to the lake shore. The lapping water beckoned him, triggering the memories.

The sounds of his own hoarse screaming. Of crumbling concrete and rock and rushing water. Like Jonah hurled from the belly of the whale, he’d lived to testify and bear witness again, stronger and more willing than ever to take up the yoke of his Lord.

Ophelia. The red-haired mutant mind witch had looked like Ophelia reveling in her madness, hair streaming as she made her final journey down the river, he mused, rebuked by her true love. He scolded himself; she hadn’t been mad. Damned, certainly, and the world was a better place with one less mutant walking among the righteous. The vision burned in his mind of her hair licking up around her preternaturally beautiful face like a halo of fire, golden flames shooting from her eyes plagued his sleep. His breath caught in his throat, even as he counted the gulps of air that he sucked into his lungs, never knowing which would be his last as the dam disintegrated and released the deluge upon him as a final judgment.

Amid the flashes of memory and his life flashing before his eyes, she turned to him and smiled. He couldn’t have imagined it. With a minute gesture, she waved him away and turned back to the task at hand, staring down the crashing wall of water as though she were blocking midday traffic.

He had struggled within the steel links, fighting for some purchase, some flaw in the chain, a point of weakness that would allow his escape. He found none. The Wolverine’s cruel sneer was all the mercy he received when he called out to him, offering him the treasure of his past, of his memories before the experiment.

He’d made him everything he was, given him everything that he had, and the bastard thanked him by turning his back. Leaving him to die. An old Irving Berlin anthem drifted through his thoughts, and he hummed the tune in a surprisingly pleasant baritone. God bless America, he chuckled.

God bless his cause.

He removed his glasses and polished them on the sleeve of his coat to clear them of the faint mist that collected on the lenses. Ever since the complex was buried under tons of rock, a light fog perpetually draped the lake. The man who had sold him the map to his hunting cabin had leaned in close, muttering “Word around the campgrounds is that the rocks around the Alkali actually float.” He rang him up as he gathered up his steaming, covered cup of coffee and a French cruller. His eyes narrowed like a naughty schoolboy’s right before firing a spitball at the backs of the hapless as he added “Folks say it was muties that did it. They’re ta blame fer all the crazy shit that goes on in these hills.” He just smiled in a manner indicating that he got the punchline and nodded his goodbye.

The lapping water was one of the only sounds that greeted him as he approached the enormous basin. It was as though everything living had abandoned it, not daring to brave another disaster, natural or man-made. He trekked along the shore, approaching a small jetty of quartz-speckled rock. He ventured all the way out to its tip, glad of the thick rubber soles of his boots that gave him traction on the slippery stones. His silvery gray eyes scanned the water, looking for any sign…

What was that?

He squinted and removed his glasses for a moment, as though he didn’t trust them to assure him of what he was seeing.

There was a hole in the water. No, he corrected himself, a crater. It was glowing beneath the water, almost an eerie gold radiance winking up at him. He rubbed his eyes impatiently and went to replace his spectacles “

“Ow! Shit!” Something struck him right between the eyes before he could protect himself.

“What in God’s name…” The floating gray pebble drifted away after bouncing off his forehead, carried away on the air currents that felt almost heavy as they enveloped and stroked him. He felt a chill rush through him that had nothing to do with the damp fog. His eyes darted about, looking for something, anything solid, anything grounded. Something tangible. He spied a loose crag of gray stone jutting up from the jetty, and he frantically pried it loose, letting the unseen presence strengthen him, guiding his hand as he hefted it and flung it into the watery orb of light. The splash was hollow and deep, and he waited for something “ anything “ to happen.

He didn’t have to wait long.

It was like watching Moses part the Red Sea… The water rushed and flowed in a tinkling patter, gradually increasing to a deafening roar as it funneled and swirled away from the nexus. The wind picked up, whistling in his ears and nipping at his flesh, leaving his nose red-tipped as the spray of the water dampened his cheeks. The water sluiced and ebbed away from the hollow in a narrow funnel, nearly solid as the glow brightened further, beckoning to him. The water divided itself as neatly as sand plowed by a child’s shovel.

William stepped off the jetty, unable to heed any call but that which moved his feet toward the nexus. The corridor of water rippled and pulsed on either side of him, threatening to engulf him, and his heart slammed in his chest with the insanity of it all, but he never broke his stride. He reached the swirling orb of golden light and reached into it…

Energy flowed through him, burning him, shocking every cell in is body as he spasmed with a mixture of pain and fear. His thoughts fell apart as the memories flowed unchecked, overwhelming him with their intensity. “AAAAAAGGGGGGHHHH!” He had been wrong about the lack of life in the surrounding woods, he mused, one of his last coherent thoughts before he passed out, the calls of birds in flight shrieking overhead.

The sun had shifted in the sky, and he never found out how long he lay there. When he woke up, the radiance had dissipated, and he clutched at the still hollow crater’s rim; his fingers scrabbled against something that made a metallic clinking sound against the bare lake bottom. His blurred vision gradually cleared.

He came fully awake with a start, still surrounded by the walls of solid water. Algae and tiny minnow-like fish darted and floated through the mass, mocking him from their liquid cage, triggering an unnerving memory of when he and his wife took Jason through the Shark Tunnel at Marine World when he was five. He hoisted himself up onto his elbows, no mean feat since he was pinning himself to the ground in his long, stiff coat, and he peered down at the shining gold object, stroking it with his fingertip.

It was a one-carat engagement ring. Tarnished, obviously, from its immersion for who knew how many months…yet he knew. He’d been counting the days since he was washed ashore, nearly dead from hypothermia and exhaustion. He plucked the treasure from its resting place and examined it, turning it this way and that. The diamond still shone, throwing prisms of color across his weather-beaten flesh. Out of habit, he turned the ring at an angle to better read the inscription.

To the love of my life, forever. Scott.

William grunted under his breath as he shakily rose to his feet, tucking the tidbit into his pocket. He almost paused to go, until something else caught his eye. He bent down, squinting through his glasses, and once again denied what his eyes were seeing.

Fiery strands of hair, red as new copper.

“Do not ignore the clamor of your adversaries, the uproar of your enemies, which rises continually,” he murmured, pinching up the fragile filaments and admiring how they, too, refracted the light. He told himself that wasn’t a frisson of heat and energy darting up through his fingertips, making him tingle.

He folded the hairs within a crumpled Kleenex and tucked them into his breast pocket, next to his blackened heart.

William Stryker had a new mission.

He clambered back up onto the jetty. As though sensing his departure, the corridor of water collapsed in crashing waves. He never looked back.


Westchester County, Graymalkin Lane, later that same afternoon:

“We were here first!” Kitty’s hazel brown eyes blazed with indignant wrath at the culprits as she stared down at them from their stolen perch on the couch. Marie and Jubilee stood in almost identical poses behind her, feet spread and planted, arms crossed under their breasts, completely implacable. Bobby met her look with a stare that dripped innocence, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. It didn’t hurt that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, anyway, due to his mutation. His light blue eyes twinkled at her, Kitty decided. That was definitely a twinkle.

He was soooooooo dead.

“What? YOU were here FIRST?” He swiveled around and looked behind him at the sofa’s upholstery and ran his hands over the plush cushions. “Hm. Ya know, I don’t see your names written on here anywhere.” He wiggled his backside experimentally, his eyebrows dropping lower on his forehead, trying out a look of consternation that Kitty didn’t buy for a second. “Nope. The cushions feel pretty cold, Kitty Cat, and I don’t feel your butt prints on ‘em, either. I could be wrong. ‘Course, the only way I could tell is to get a closer look at the butt in question that occupied this couch last, and see if the indentation matches ““

“Don’t even go there, sugah,” Marie huffed, her walnut brown eyes narrowed into slits as she flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Ya might end up with a closer look at mah foot before I kick yer hiney outta here! We’ve had this DVD from Blockbuster for four days already, today’s the fifth day, and we ain’t seen it yet, with y’all hoggin’ the set ta watch yer usual man drivel like Ultimate Fightin’ an’ Overhaulin’. Ah need mah George Clooney fix. Ya won’t stand between three women and their Clooney DVD if ya wanna stay healthy, shoog,” she purred, favoring him with a reptilian smile that managed to send a chill up his spine…again, no mean feat, considering…

“Yeah,” Jubilee snarled, blowing a large pink bubble with her gum before crackling it between her teeth, “what she said.”

“Oooh, we’re soooooo scared,” Peter drawled, winking saucily at Kitty. She was almost as young as his kid sister Illyana, but she was mature beyond her years. And she was so cute when she was mad. Despite his taunt, Peter knew she’d find a way to get back at them during their next Danger Room session, like phasing him through a tank and leaving him there. But the danger was half the fun. He liked her too much.

“Sure, keep smiling, Shiny Pants,” Jubilee snapped. “It’s our turn for the den and the TV.”

The Julio Cesar Chavez match created background noise for was quickly becoming a heated scrap in the den. Jimmy was the only one less interested the jibes Bobby exchanged with the girls as his eyes stayed glued to the wide plasma screen, making the boxers look larger than life.

“You got up, we came in here and the den was empty,” Bobby shot back, holding out his hands helplessly, indicating the seats that he, Peter, Warren, Sam and Jimmy were occupying, lounging with outstretched legs and propped up feet like they hadn’t a care in the world. “Finders keepers. We left you the bean bag. Or feel free to take up that little space on the floor, it can’t be too uncomfortable.” He waggled his brows at Marie, “You could sit on my lap if you felt like it, Beautiful!”

“Fat chance!” Not that the idea of sitting on Bobby’s lap was so bad, but not in front of his goofball friends.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to take all this tasty junk food upstairs and hog it all to ourselves,” a smooth, slightly accented voice purred from the doorway. The luscious smell of buttered popcorn drifted across the den, making everyone’s mouth water as Sage cocked a brow at the drama unfolding before her. “Kitty, don’t you have that DVD on your PC in your room?” Dani Moonstar hovered behind her, the plastic wrapper of the packet of Twizzlers crackling in her hand as she juggled that and a bag of Lays KC Masterpiece BBQ chips, a six-pack of Mug Root Beer and a box of Little Debbie vanilla crème cakes with the little chocolate zebra stripes that Bobby suddenly craved as soon as he spied it. Peter could have sworn he heard Warren’s stomach growling from the other end of the couch, and he looked him in the eye, communicating with him “telepathically.”

It’s just a chick flick; they’ve got the goodies, and we’ve got Tivo. Our bases are covered, man. Warren grinned and nodded before he got up from the loveseat, giving his wings a brief flutter as he beckoned to the now-vacant spot.

“Ladies…” He gave Jubilee a dramatic bow as she made her way to the love seat, rolling her eyes at the silly gesture. His wings, broad shouldered build and wavy blond hair did give him a certain gallant look, she decided, but she’d never admit it out loud.

“Yer such a tool,” she tsked, cracking her gum. Sage and Dani swept in and deposited the snacks on the coffee table before Jimmy offered to go get more soda and an extra chair from the dining room. Dani lay on her stomach on the floor as Bobby had suggested earlier, since she wasn’t all that picky. She was surprised when Sam joined her a moment later, nudging her elbow with a cold can of root beer. She slid her popcorn bowl closer to him, mutely thanking him with a quirk of her lips.

Marie and Bobby eventually did end up economizing space on the couch to make room for Peter and Kitty, and Marie burrowed further into Bobby’s casual embrace from her perch on his lap as they split a Twizzler. The students settled in to watch Out of Sight with no further skirmish.


Upstairs:

Dust motes floated in the fading sunlight streaming in through Ororo’s skylight as she ran her rag across the dresser, giving it a fresh coat of lemon-scented Pledge. She blamed her busy schedule and frequent training sessions for the way she’d let her loft go these past few weeks. She hardly had any time to just come up and contemplate her day from her balcony or listen to her favorite songs on her iPod anymore. Things were just too hectic.

And those were just the most superficial reasons why she missed Scott and Charles.

Things were finally beginning to shape up, she mused, taking in her efforts and deciding that it was good enough. All of her pictures, side tables, stereo cabinets and bookshelves were free of the thick coat of dust that had settled there, and her hardwood floor shone with the brisk “Swiffering” she’d given it earlier. Her throw rugs smelled fresh after she finished beating them over the edge of the balcony, and the faint scents of Clorox and Lysol wafted out from her suite’s bathroom, now spotless from a hearty scrubbing. At least now it was fit for man or beast.

…it just didn’t feel like home again yet. It was strange and disconcerting, not having Jean’s presence in her thoughts. While Jean made it a practice of respecting Ororo’s need for privacy, the longtime friends maintained an empathic link, courtesy of Jean’s telepathy, that allowed each of them to be a barometer of the other’s mood. Ororo needed only feel that odd sense of unease tingling up and down her arms, making the sky overhead darken ominously to know that Jean was projecting through her. Her response inevitably involved grabbing her favorite leather jacket and car keys and kidnapping Jean from her suite to head to the ice cream parlor in downtown Salem for some mocha almond fudge therapy. Jean had shared a similar link with Scott, but it ran deeper, almost devastating in its intensity. While Jean and Ororo merely linked feeling and impressions, exchanging the occasional secret like sisters, Jean and Scott shared one soul. Between the mischievous telepath and brooding force-beam wielding loner, nothing was secret. Jean didn’t just occupy Scott’s thoughts, she resided in his mind, twenty-four-seven.

Ororo shuddered, attempting to put the lid on her imagination before it took her somewhere she had no desire to be. She didn’t want to contemplate how empty Scott must have felt for those last few months after they’d lost Jean at Alkali. His sorrow…his rage rolled off of him in waves whenever they were in the same room together, and the only name Ororo could give to how it felt to face him everyday was ashamed.

She should have done more, tried harder to fight against Jean’s hold of the Blackbird’s bay doors…or used her winds to hold back the tides once the dam broke…or summoned a cyclone to pull them out of there, pulling Jean along with them. Anything.

Anything, damn it!

Ororo sucked in air through her nostrils as a clammy sweat broke out across her flesh. The cleaning rag dropped from her nerveless fingers and she felt what she’d described to Hank as a “crunching” feeling in her temples before her vision was fogged by a field of static. The room spun as she stumbled back over to her bed, collapsing against it like someone had cut her strings. She bowed her face into her palms and cupped them, panting out longer, deeper breaths to fight the growing panic, but her fingertips still felt cold.

“Bright Lady…hate this. I hate this,” she hissed. Pull yourself together, Wind-Rider.

The stairs leading up to her attic creaked with familiar footfalls. Even though Peter was the biggest man in the house, Logan walked the heaviest thanks to “the remarkable metal that ran through his entire body.” She’d know his footsteps anywhere. Even when he managed to sneak up on her, she always sensed the change in the room or wherever she was, like a sixth sense, when he was near. She made him smirk with snide laughter once when he’d failed to startle her one day after remarking to him “You’re slipping, old man. You’d be better off trying to pull the whiskers off a sleeping cat.”

Logan had been minding his own business, just tossing down the small black comb that he’d flicked haphazardly through his hair after his shower before he headed upstairs to tell Ororo that he was going out. Hank was puttering around in his lab in the basement, Peter was lollygagging in the den, watching the fight, and Ororo mumbled something about doing a little spring cleaning, so that left enough adults on duty to tend the flock and keep the rugrats in check.

His senses gave him pause as he neared Ororo’s door. He smelled panic, heard her struggling gasps and heart slamming in her chest and didn’t bother to knock.

“Storm?”

Whoa. Not good. He rushed over to the edge of her bed and dropped to his knees, reaching out gently to clasp her wrist in his beefy hand.

“Storm,” he inquired, louder and with more determination this time, “talk t’me. Whatsamatter?” He tugged gently on her wrist to cajole her into looking at him. Mutely she shook her head, still shielding her face from his gaze, her thick white hair swishing with the motion. His fingers itched to touch it, and he indulged himself for a brief moment, tenderly stroking aside a lock that had fallen over her hands.

Miserable, bloodshot brown eyes glimmered up at him as she slid her hands low enough to meet his. Her breathing was sharper still as she fought to regulate it, and her shoulders were heaving with the effort.

“Shit,” he huffed, frowning as he recognized the emotions he found there. He knew a full-fledged panic attack when he came across one. He released her reluctantly and rushed into her bathroom, looking for a cup or anything else that he could use for water. He settled on one of Ororo’s slate blue washcloths lying neatly folded on the counter, and he dashed it under the cold faucet, yanking the spigot shut with a jerky twist. He wrung it out and hurried back and laid the rag against her nape, nearly jumping as she jerked back from his touch. Her eyes were glazed but frightened as she regarded him.

“D-don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t ha-have to be h-here, Logan…m’fine, j-just go, please,” she insisted. She propped herself up, leaning her elbows against her knees and she fanned cool air onto her cheeks. Her skin gleamed in the fading light, and florid color rose up in angry spots on her cheekbones.

“Bullshit. Ya call this fine? Ya sure ain’t,” he growled, stroking her arm with far less menace, trying to quiet the shivers running through her. She shut her eyes to ward off the persistent dizziness and let her face fall forward, nearly tucking her chin into her chest as Logan moved up, kneading the knotted muscles in her shoulders. With more care and gentleness than she thought him capable of, he reached for the rag and gripped her chin, raising her face up for his inspection. She felt him drag it in smooth swipes across her cheeks and forehead, swabbing her neck and wiping her hair off her face. She was equally surprised when he blew a cool breath of air against her skin, and she let her eyes flutter shut reflexively at the caress. Bit by bit, she began to relax, and the tension thrumming through her torso eased. Logan was finally satisfied when her breathing began to settle back into its customary rhythm.

“Shit, Storm,” he grumbled, uncurling her fingers and tucking the damp rag into it before he rose, shaking his head at her with resignation, “ya’ve gotta calm the fuck down.” His hackles rose as he heard the winds whipping up outside, making the latch on Ororo’s skylight clatter.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she gritted out, shooting him a glare that reminded him of a kitten being dried off after a flea dip. He reached out for her again as she stood, but backed off when she waved away his assistance. Ororo stalked back to the bathroom and chucked the washcloth into the sink before she came out. She rummaged through her desk drawer and found the pack of Trident spearmint gum she was searching for. She unwrapped a piece and popped it into her mouth, chewing it furiously. The sharp mint stung her palate and felt cool in her cheeks.

“Gum?” he questioned.

“Helps,” she shot back.

“Hm. ‘Kay.” Logan rubbed his palms against his faded Levi’s as he studied her. Yup, the old prickly Ice Britches was back and in fine form. “Have it yer way, Boss. I’m goin’ out. Don’t wait up.”

“Why should I be surprised? Of course, shoo! Chop, chop! Hop onto Scott’s bike and make yourself scarce, it’s what your good at,” she carped, whirling to face him. The haunted look was gone, only to be replaced by disgusted impatience. She raked her eyes over him savagely, taking in his perfectly broken in jeans that hugged him in all of the right places, the equally worn black leather boots, and the royal blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal his white wife beater and the tempting sprinkle of curling dark hair peeking over the neckline. Logan watched her throat work as she swallowed, and he hoped she didn’t choke on her gum next; he’d hate to have her cuss him out after giving her the Heimlich, especially after she’d just read him the riot act about how she was “fine.” She mentally kicked herself for staring too long, enjoying his roughnecked, rugged good looks and piercing stare.

He chafed slightly as the words “Scott’s bike” escaped her lips, and she realized her faux pas at roughly the same time, if the way she plowed her fingers through her rumpled waves of hair was any indication, right before she stared down at her bare feet.

“Awright. I’m outta here, since I ain’t needed.” He turned away and had his hand on the knob before she steeled herself, wondering where her manners had gone, and called out to him.

“Wolverine,” he heard her cry, her voice plaintive; perhaps even apologetic.

“Yeah?”

“I…I’m sorry. You came up here to let me know you were on your way out. I appreciate it.” She dragged her hand from her hair to the nape of her neck, kneading it thoughtfully. “You’ve been working hard. Having you here to take over my classes until we get another instructor has been a real blessing, and I’ve been too buried in paperwork and picking up where Charles left off to say thank you.” Self-consciously she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear beneath his stare. The memory of his fingers stroking her skin and tipping her face to meet his still lingered; she couldn’t shake the feel of his touch, even though she wanted to.

“What, no speech?” he shrugged, letting her off the hook more easily than she deserved. “No telling me ‘if yer with us, then be with us?’ Ya scare me when ya just go all quiet on me, ‘Roro, ya really do. I’m even up here in yer little sanctorium,” he chuckled, spreading his arms at her freshly cleaned loft, “without ya jumpin’ down my throat or chewin’ my ass about how y’aren’t ta be disturbed, since yer on call every other moment of the day. When ya don’t lecture me or cuss me out, I know something’s wrong.”

“The Wolverine shows concern for his fellow teammate!” she gasped, aghast. “It’s the seventh sign of the apocalypse! Say your prayers, one and all!” She shoved her narrow feet into her baby blue velour house slippers and shimmied into a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms for decency’s sake as she preceded him out of her loft, bouncing down the steps. Logan was slightly put out that she covered up his view of her lithe legs revealed by the form-fitting white cotton camisole and tiny little cotton pyjama shorts, but he still had a good view of the curve of her derriere and tiny waist. Sure, she was team leader, headmistress of a school for young mutant geeks and she looked at him like he was something she wiped off the sole of her boots, but she sure was easy on the eyes.

It didn’t help matters when he was trying to be annoyed with her, or vice versa, that she smelled so goddamned good. It wasn’t an overly girly scent, or the overpowering stink of perfume, he decided; it was the natural pheromones of her flesh, mingled with hint of sandalwood and lavender. Even when they’d first met, and they each stood locked in the other’s gaze, without any trace of the hard-won trust that characterized their friendship now, he couldn’t help but enjoy her scent. Jean’s striking beauty filled his vision, but he found himself craving more of that caramel-skinned woman’s delicate fragrance who’d taken her leave as soon as Charles ordered him into his study.

“So yer fine now?”

“Yes. Fit as a fiddle. Go. Enjoy yourself, my friend.” They’d reached the main floor, and Ororo was already halfway to the refrigerator, rummaging through the upper shelf for her Arizona Green Tea with Honey. She grabbed it and purloined a plate and a few Golden Oreos from the cupboard as an impromptu dinner.

“Great example ta set for the kids,” he grumbled.

“They can do bad all by themselves; I saw Sage and Dani coming back in from their trip to the 7-11. They’ve bought enough junk food to feed a third world country,” she grinned.

“Ya don’t hafta encourage it.”

“I’m not taking nutritional advice from a man who lives on a steady diet of sugar cereal, bacon, beer and cigars,” she flounced, taking a pull from her bottle of tea. “And I’m just not that hungry,” she added as an afterthought.

“Eh. Sure.” That worried him, too. Lately mealtimes found Ororo playing mother hen, ladling food onto the children’s plates and then making herself scarce. A half-slice of toast, the occasional apple, or a cup of coffee regular were all he ever saw her grab before she escaped to Charley’s old office to go over paperwork and student files. Those pretty fawn brown eyes of hers had dark smudges under them that only added to his worry. “Storm?”

“Yes, Wolverine?” His use of her codename was to get her attention, she knew, and she baited him with his own, almost as though she were spoiling for an argument. The prospect of going a few rounds with him warmed her; it would keep him in the kitchen a little longer.

“Quit lettin’ yerself get so wound up. Don’t keep all this shit to yerself. If ya wanna talk, then talk.” He absently patted his pockets for his keys, heard their telltale jingle, then met her eyes again. “One-Eye wasn’t the only pair of ears in this joint. I know ya were close, and ya miss him, an’ all, but…”

“I miss all of them,” she corrected him, her voice back on edge. “You haven’t been here that long, Wolverine, so I don’t expect you to know what I had in Jean, Charles and Scott.” Ororo emphasized the last two names so her intent would be clear. He’d made it obvious where his loyalties lay that fateful night that they’d boarded the Blackbird and set their destination for Alcatraz Island. She unscrewed the top from her Oreo and licked the beige wafer thoughtfully. Logan’s gut tightened as he watched her little pink tongue dart out and lave the cookie, lapping up the white cream like the proverbial cat. He was roused from the sight by her dismissal by her next words. “Goodnight, Wolverine.”

“Yeah,” he huffed, stomping out the kitchen door,” goodnight.”

Stubborn, uppity frail. Fine, then. His favorite barstool at Harry’s and a bottle of Jack Daniels were calling his name. See if he cared.

Then he kicked himself. Of course he friggin’ cared. Like it or lump it, she’d gotten under his skin again. He rode to Harry’s, trying to find comfortable purchase around an erection that he could hang his hat on, shifting himself on the supple leather bike seat to no avail. Damn it.


Downstairs, sub-basement level, Dr. McCoy’s lab:

Hank studied the rock samples that Ororo had brought back from Alkali Lake the same day that she and Logan retrieved Jean from the shore. For the past few weeks, between teaching literature classes at the Institute and holding meetings with the Secretary of Defense, Hank had been tinkering with the samples, scraping off specimens and studying them more closely under the microscopes and various examination arrays, trying to make sense of the energy readings they still emitted, even with Jean deceased. He placed the rock sample in the Petri dish, then placed the wafer-thin plastic lid over it to keep the rock from bobbing out. Hank keyed in a few commands and adjusted the magnification, then switched to different modes of scan.

He turned away after several minutes, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. Blast. Nothing. He kept coming up empty. He sighed, then turned away from the monitor to peer at the old pair of ruby quartz goggles that Scott used to use during Danger Room sessions and everyday use, when his visor was too bulky. Hank hung them like a talisman from the hook on the wall, and as a makeshift memorial to his oldest friend. The fluorescent lamps shone on the lenses, making their crimson surfaces wink at him. Out of recent habit, Hank rose and stretched, letting his joints pop into more reasonable positions before he lumbered over to the hook. He plucked them off the wall and stroked the stems of the spectacles, making a rumbling sound in his throat.

“Hm.” A thought occurred to him “ he was a genius, so this happened pretty often “ that he hadn’t considered ruby quartz as a new element to his study, to examine the effects. He peered into the goggles, squinting his catlike yellow eyes, then slowly put them on.

“My stars and garters,” he exclaimed under his breath. “So this is what it was like, living in your world, my friend.” Everything glowed a brilliant red; in variegated depths of shade, granted, but red nonetheless. He returned to his specimen and bent down to look at it again through the lens.

Oh, my. This changes everything.

The pebble was webbed with a tiny, glowing network of crimson filaments, wavering and interconnecting like a hive of ants. The rock itself wasn’t what was remarkable, so much as the force that animated it.

As much as he hated to drop one more quandary onto Ororo’s overloaded plate, his feet padded upstairs to show her his findings.





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