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If there was one thing that all of the teachers at the School for Gifted Youngsters had in common, as a result of their tenure at the Institute itself or out in the field as an active officer, it had to be insomnia. None of that tossing and turning for an hour before drifting off stuff. Ororo would qualify it as the caffeine high without the pleasure of the coffee itself; never-ending hours of questions left unanswered, “woulda-coulda-shoulda” solutions to the problems that plagued her during daylight hours, snappy comebacks she which would have jumped from her lips when she had remained silent, and the restless, fervent urge to paste Logan across the chops when she had the opportunity(ies).

“What, no speech?” Ororo mimicked to herself, in her best growly impersonation of the Canadian drifter. I don’t make that many speeches, she mused. Hmmph. Ororo tossed the covers from herself for about the third time that night and rolled out of her bed to crack open her window, letting in the low breeze that carried the scent of autumn leaves and a neighboring property’s wood fire with it. Jean had asked her once why she bothered with blankets on her bed if her mutation kept her warm, particularly if she was a claustrophobic; wouldn’t she feel less hemmed in without thick layers of cloth tangled up around her?

Ororo chose not to verbalize her answer, instead allowing Jean to tap into their empathy, and she telegraphed the feeling of her sheets and vellux blankets caressing her skin, and the satisfaction of the cool Egyptian cotton enhancing the experience of slipping into bed to rest her exhausted limbs after grueling Danger Room sessions or punishing missions. She deepened their connection, letting Jean tread further into the recesses of her mind to a different time and place. Jean gathered impressions of Ororo at a very young age. Crawling into her parents’ bed for protection from night terrors. The feel of her mother’s kaftan beneath her cheek when she would bundle her close for a nap, breathing in the scent of her mother’s lavender soap. The soft and wooly texture of her mother’s hair that she clutched like a security blanket whenever she sat on her lap. And finally, the shock of cold, hard concrete and crumpled metal digging into her tender body as she fought to reach any source of light and fresh air.

Soft textures and green, growing things were important to Ororo, and she surrounded herself with them whenever she could. Though she’d never admit it aloud, she was a sensualist. Rosy cheeks and perfectly windblown hair weren’t the only fringe benefits of her powers. Ororo craved the crisp, heady rush of the wind filling her lungs and lifting her off her feet, causing that little dip in her stomach as she left the ground. Flying wasn’t just a privilege; it was a religion. When she looked into the heavens, she didn’t just see clouds; she saw currents, light and energy rippling through the atmosphere in an intricate dance. Jean had been the only one who truly understood, but only through their rapport, and later, through her awareness of earth and space when her powers evolved beyond her grasp of control and understanding.

One didn’t just spawn the ability to make suns go supernova and devour the life of a planet without losing any semblance of sanity, after all. It had gone beyond the scope of human comprehension, being pulled into the noise of millions of thoughts and emotions, unable to filter it out, and knowing the only way to silence it was to end it all. Jean had discovered the universe compressed atop the point of a needle…and found herself pricked, wounded by its acute sting.

It still hurt.

Jean’s release of power tore through the fabric of the earth itself, jeopardizing Ororo’s precious bond with it, and she still shivered at the echo of Jean’s malevolent laughter in her thoughts as she bent the atmosphere “ Ororo’s lifeblood “ the earth, water and wind to her will, without a second thought. It was like embracing someone in love, only to come away bleeding, Caesar betrayed by Brutus. Their sisterhood hadn’t mattered any more in the long run than Scott’s devotion to her when she struck him down. Certainly the elephant cares nothing for the ant crawling along its flanks, but it chafed Ororo that in the end, nothing mattered enough. She hadn’t mattered enough.

And Logan, not Scott, had been the one to force her to look deeply enough within herself to see that she was out of control. Logan knew something about being out of control. It rankled that she felt such a keen sense of envy that he was the one to get through to her.

And that he shared her last thoughts and feelings, her dying breath when she expired in his arms. Selfishly, her traitorous heart adamantly shouted that He didn’t deserve that privilege. He was an interloper. He came to create unrest and raise questions and turn the order of things upside-down, topsy turvy.

Who did that potty-mouthed, roughnecked hothead think he was, anyway?

It wasn’t difficult for Logan to fan the flames of resentment where she was concerned, all things considered. Ororo snatched up her pajama top and shrugged into it, leaving it open like a cardigan over her black cotton camisole. She skipped the pajama bottoms after peering at the digital display of her clock radio, noting that it was after one a.m. She didn’t expect Logan to come home until shortly before dawn, so she could sneak down to the kitchen, looking like someone’s cousin Boo, without any sly, smirky glances from those rumpled, shaggy eyebrows.

The kitchen was plunged into near-total darkness, except for the range top light over the stove. It cast its glow over the fixtures and appliances and gave her more than enough light to reach the refrigerator. The noise from the door’s seal separating from the vinyl and the slightly squealing hinge evoked a startled gasp that nearly scared Ororo out of her own skin.

“Ohmigod!” a breathy, deep female voice exclaimed. “Whoozzat!” Ororo’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, picking out the tall, slender form of Dani Moonstar, clutching her tea cup to her chest.

“It’s just me,” Ororo reassured her, turning to stand in the glow of the refrigerator bulb, opening the door more widely to shed more light. She nearly laughed at Dani’s exaggerated look of relief, closing her eyes as she smoothed a stray lock of hair from her face. Dani made a striking picture, dressed in tiny cotton sleep shirts and a white wifebeater tank top that revealed burnished skin and endlessly long, supple limbs. Years of living on a farm left her with a more fit physique than most of the incoming students who hadn’t yet taken up Logan’s training regime and combat training. Dani’s hair hung long and unfettered from its normal plaits, its glossy black waves a rippling spill that fell over her breasts and reached past her waist. Her walnut-shaped eyes squinted at Ororo as something occurred to her. “What are you doing up, Miss Munroe?”

“I can be Miss Munroe in my office or the classroom,” she corrected her gently. “The rest of the time, I’m Ororo. Especially when I’m in my PJs,” she pointed out. Dani rolled her eyes and giggled.

“Gotcha.” She shook the box of tea bags in her hand, beckoning “I was gonna make some tea, you want some?”

“What kind?”

“Mint chamomile,” she replied, already reaching into the cupboard for another mug, an easy task since at five-nine, she was an a couple of inches taller than Ororo. “Let me put the kettle on. You still never told me,” she accused.

“Excuse me?”

“Why you’re up. You never said why.”

“Oh. It’s nothing. I’m just very nocturnal sometimes. More so since moving into the headmaster’s office,” she explained, not wanting to reveal too much. Dani had a strong sense of empathy for people’s feelings, which surprised Ororo, since her first impression of the girl was one of being a loner, not unlike Logan. Minus the stomping, growling, and swearing, of course. Dani’s student file showed that her parents had died during a hunting accident when they were losing livestock on their spread to a grizzly bear roaming through the mountains where they lived. The file held precious few details on the death of her grandfather, who had taken his place as her legal guardian and notified the Professor of his wish to enroll her in the school once her powers manifested. When Scott and Professor Xavier had first met Danielle, she was wary and nervous, possessing none of the self-assured confidence or carefree humor that she’d developed since arriving at the school. There were days when shadows filled her eyes and she gave monosyllabic replies, shrugging off concern with typical, teenaged “MYOB” candor before heading out to Xavier’s stables. The horses and random deer that wandered the estate’s grounds and woods were the only thing that granted her a measure of surcease when things became frustrating. Ororo thought of the way that Logan had with shielding himself from animals or other prey; he was a natural born hunter. Dani, on the other hand, shared a link to animals that ran much, much deeper. She could actually talk to them.

“I wouldn’t call myself a night owl,” Dani qualified, “I just can’t sleep. Some nights, my nightmares are real doozies. If it was just my own nightmares, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Really? How do you mean?”

“I can tap into people’s fears or desires, at least the strong ones,” she explained, filling the kettle and setting it on the burner. She dug in the lazy susan and found the box of Danish sugar cubes, setting them on the butcher block table where Ororo had seated herself. She dug out the packet of vanilla cream-filled wafers from the pantry and joined her headmistress, relieved to have someone to unload a fraction of her burdens to. “Problem is, their psychic signature, and a residue of their emotions linger with me even after I break contact. Sometimes, their nightmares become MY nightmares. Doesn’t help when everyone here loves horror movies, I’ve pulled about ten different incarnations of the Boogey Man from the younger kids here, and every single one of ‘em has an appetite for elementary schoolers. Nasty,” she grimaced.

“The Boogey Man became real for me when I was a young girl,” Ororo mused, standing to retrieve the kettle when its shrill whistle disrupted the quiet of the kitchen. “Then I realized that just when I think I’ve slain one demon, there’s a few hundred more waiting to jump out at me around the corner.”

“Nice.” Dani tossed the tea bags into their cups and poured for them both. “Glad I’ve got something to look forward to.”

“We aim to please. What woke you tonight, Dani?”

“My own Boogey Man,” she quipped, wrinkling her nose. “I heard screams in my sleep. Growls. Saw claws and jagged teeth, and this huge, furry beast that wouldn’t stop chasing me.” She sipped her tea. “It never really stops chasing me.”

“I’m here when you need to talk about it,” Ororo offered.

“I know. You’re not in bed right now, either, so I lucked out!” Ororo smiled as she passed Dani the wafer packet.

“You won’t think you’re so lucky when you still have to go to Logan’s combat training in the morning, if you don’t get proper sleep.” Dani made a face.

“Geez…I know. He really rides us,” she grumped.

“He’s the best there is at what he does,” Ororo murmured into her cup.

“Does he actually say that, or is it just something we’re supposed to accept without argument?”

“Accept it without argument,” Ororo deadpanned, “if you want to stay all in one piece.” Then she recanted, “He isn’t that bad.”

“Yeah, right!” Dani snorted, entirely unconvinced.

“He wants all of us to be able to protect ourselves. That’s a big job. I want to protect you too,” she added.

“You’ve done your best,” Dani reasoned, furrowing her brow. Miss Munroe looked so sad all of the sudden.

“Sometimes it isn’t enough.” Ororo nibbled the corner off a cookie. “The most we can do here is give you the tools to handle your mutations and deal with the consequences. How you choose to live your life once you leave these halls is out of our hands, but in the meantime, I want what Professor Xavier wanted. I want you to have lives to live, hopefully in peace. This is meant to be a haven as well as a school.”

“Sure has been for me. This kept me out of foster care when Grandpa Black Eagle was killed,” Dani sighed. “Until I came here, I had nobody.” She was about to say something else when she heard a husky yawn from the doorway. Sam Guthrie stumbled in, rubbing his eyes and squinting when he recognized the two women at the table.

“Dani? What’re y’doin’ down here, gal? Oh, hi, Miz Munroe, didn’t expect ya ta be down here.” Sam suddenly looked sheepish to be caught in his unmentionables, or at the very least, in blue and white striped pajama bottoms and no shirt. He folded his arms across his ribs self-consciously, making Dani suppress a tiny smile. She didn’t feel so bad now about looking so sleep-tousled. In her opinion, she was a wreck.

Sam, on the other hand, silently admired her gleaming fall of hair and the way her thin undershirt hugged her slender body. So sue him, he was male. Dani could hold her own in a tussle, something he’d already found out in their practices, and he loved baiting and teasing her, since it was so easy to get a rise out of her. She gave as good as she got, though, and rode his butt about his need to “learn how to steer.”

Even so, he was cute, in an aw-shucks kind of Mom-and-apple pie kinda way…if that was your thing. His eyes, when he wasn’t being bashful, were soft and kind, and a clear robin’s egg blue. He was, though, the unfortunate owner of a buzz cut that revealed that his tiny hometown had only one barber to its name.

“Hello, Sam. I just came down for something to help me rest a little easier. Dani fixed us some tea.”

“We got any milk?” he asked.

“Sure do, bub, let me grab it,” Dani offered. He rubbed his neck awkwardly as she brushed past him, nodding for him to take up the chair beside hers at the table and opening the fridge. Her skin felt cool and smooth as she inadvertently bumped him, and he tried to suppress the flush in his cheeks (thank the Lord it was dark) and goosebumps running up his arm. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

“Bad dream? Stress?”

“All of the above, an’ then some, gal.” He grabbed the Spongebob glass from the cupboard, making Dani chuckle at his choice before she handed him the milk carton. “Sometimes Ah get this recurring nightmare about the day the mine collapsed around our ears, except mah powers didn’t work. Sucks,” he muttered.

“Man. That does,” Dani sympathized. She passed him the cookie packet, and he gratefully plucked out a few wafers.

“It was dark and hot, and stiflin’ as all get-out in those mines,” he continued. “Ah’m glad Ah ain’t doin’ that fer a livin’ anymore, but Ah still worry about Momma and mah kid brothers and sisters. Ah should be there.”

“Your mother wanted you to be here,” Ororo reminded him, “and you can visit her anytime. But in the meantime, we’re pleased to have you here, where you can learn and be safe.” She didn’t add “to the best extent that we can keep you that way.” After Stryker’s strike against the school two years ago, that wasn’t something she could claim with confidence anymore. That petrified her. “I don’t like closed up spaces much, either, Sam.”

“’Cuz ya like ta fly?”

“Yes. And I had an incident when I was young that made me a bit claustrophobic, but I won’t weigh you down with the details now. You have enough on your mind if you’re up at this hour for cookies and milk,” she jibed, eyeing them carefully. “I’m headed up now, you two. Sleep well. Don’t stay up too late,” she admonished with a warm smile. Dani and Sam murmured their goodnights to her before she swept upstairs. Their low voices followed her down the hall. It would be nice if they could foster a friendship. Sam’s strong sense of family and kinship would help fill the empty space left in Dani’s life by losing everyone she loved; Ororo could only hope the bond would be beneficial to them both.

Her sojourn to the kitchen hadn’t helped. Her eyes were still round as saucers in the dark, and that dratted man hadn’t come roaring up on Scott’s bike yet. Blast him!

…she really needed to stop thinking of it as Scott’s bike. She’d even listen to the two of them engaging in their testosterone-fueled pissing contest in the garage over the darned motorcycle to have Scott back in the house. Ororo had kept Scott and Jean’s suite unoccupied out of respect for his memory, and out of some defiant sense that he’d want to reclaim it one day, even if it was impossible. He wasn’t coming back. But it comforted her to still see their things, mementos and other cherished items, where she could pick them up, touch them, and remember how it was to have them there. After they held Jean’s memorial service in the garden, Ororo had crept into their suite after curfew and perused Jean’s scrapbook and her tiny wooden jewelry box, looking at the boardwalk photo strips and class pictures of the two of them together that Scott took when they hassled him to use Jean’s camera. There was nothing keeping Logan from taking the bike out for a ride every now and again, she knew.

She snorted to herself, fidgeting under the covers. It didn’t help matters that Scott’s bike was practically made for Logan’s meaty frame and competent handling, and that he was at home straddling the streamlined machine, looking like every mother’s nightmare…he had to know how he looked.

What was worse…he had to know how she’d been peeking at him when he wasn’t looking. You’re twenty-six years old, Wind-Rider, not twelve… she mentally slapped herself. He was stubborn, hotheaded, insubordinate and infuriating. Unpredictable. Annoying. Loud. Crass. Smoldering. Intense. Impulsive. Insensitive. Sarcastic. Intelligent…wait. Wait, wait, wait…Ororo ticked off all those points again, trying to isolate the ones that didn’t belong.

Smoldering? That was new. She wanted to draw a blank as to why that description leapt into her mind, but it kept occurring to her that yes, the Wolverine did, indeed, smolder. Especially that funny little half-smile that he made, when his eyes looked like they could gobble a woman up…too bad he reserved that look for Jean. Okay, then, that settled it. Now that Jean was gone, any “smoldering” that he did would come to an end. No one else affected him that way.

Intense. Sure. Why not. Logan put up a good front of letting everyone believe that his priorities consisted of bar brawls, drinking his friends at Harry’s under the table and emptying their pockets at the pool or poker tables, but the man he portrayed himself as wasn’t the man who came to Marie’s rescue in Laughlin City. He didn’t just snarl for show around the kids; he was fiercely protective of all of them. Ororo detected genuine caring in his gruff manner as he barked out instructions during workout and combat sessions or maintained order whenever they moved between classes or congregated in common rooms. He commanded respect. In his own way, he gave it back full measure. If you ignored the profanity…

What made it worth anyone’s while to deal with Logan’s “unique qualities,” she decided, was being able to meet his gaze, without wavering or turning away. Those hazel eyes spoke volumes about the man for anyone who took the time and effort to look.

Last but not least, by the Goddess, he was intelligent. Cunning, shrewd, and quick with the snappy comebacks. Logan shared the honor with Hank of being one of the only people on the planet who could beat Kitty at chess, speak as many languages as the professor had with considerable fluency, and he had lived through enough history to be able to teach it himself, first hand. It ruffled her feathers while she was teaching history class one day when he strolled past her classroom only to double back and bark, “It didn’t actually begin in 1929.”

“What?” Her hand paused in mid-air, chalk at the ready as she paused from what she was scribbling across the blackboard.

“The Depression. That’s not accurate. America’s economy was headed toward a Depression way before Black Tuesday. People just cite that day as the one when the banks closed and the stock market crashed.”

“Would you care to come and share your knowledge with the class, Wolverine? Come in, enlighten us.”

“Eh. Go ahead back to what ya were doin’, Teach,” he drawled, tugging a cigar from his shirt pocket and tucking it between his teeth. He never apologized for the interruption, but Ororo could have sworn he began lingering by her classroom door more often after that. One day, she even caught him mouthing the answers to her oral questions during the lecture hour before the students raised their hands. He’d scowled at her through the window pane of the door before sauntering off. Typical.

The average human mind was like a sponge; absorbent, certainly, but every once in a while, older knowledge was “wrung out” to make room for more. Logan’s memories were scrambled from years of government-implanted lies and conditioning, but he never forgot learned information and training.

Ororo rolled out of bed again, this time flicking on her small lamp on the side table. She reached for her dog-eared copy of Close Encounters by Sandra Kitt and flipped it open to a random page, settling in for a good read to make her eyelids heavy. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could take her mind off a certain beer-swilling rebel and the sight of his butt walking away in those tight jeans. She doubted it.


Harry’s Hideaway, downtown Salem Center:

“Hit me again, bub,” Logan beckoned, waving his shot glass cavalierly as the whiskey dulled his senses just enough to keep the driving music from pummeling his ear drums. Harry’s was hopping tonight; Logan counted at least ten girls that looked suspiciously younger than the ages listed on their ID cards as they simpered and giggled their way inside. Logan had shown up shortly after happy hour was over, but Harry kept the fridge stocked with this favorite imported beer on tap, and plenty of Jack Daniels in the icebox. Logan’s money was always good at Harry’s, even since he rescued him from a bruiser who wouldn’t take “you’ve had enough, go sleep it off” for an answer, feeding the guy his front teeth for a midnight snack. It was a widely held misconception that Logan relied on his claws in a scrap; his adamantium-laced knuckles often did all the work without having to alert anyone to the fact that he was a mutant. Shoot, even looking at anyone who wanted to cross him made ‘em all pee their pants without him having to even raise his fists.

“Got a designated driver, Logan?”

“Sure, my limo’s waitin’ outside, with the motor runnin’,” he shot back, nodding at him to pour him the shot. Harry chuckled as he doled out two fingers of Jack Daniels and shoved the bowl of beer nuts closer to his stoic best customer. Logan was a decent fellow; always smoked those cigars of his outside, well away from his front door, unless he stayed until Harry was off-duty and could join him with his pack of Marlboros. No sense in hearing the ladies complain, he’d told him slyly. Logan’s step never wavered, and any semblance of a buzz that he got from the liquor never lasted more than mere moments. Harry could have sworn he saw the bloodshot veins in those eyes of his visibly recede and disappear after he’d finished half the bottle of whiskey himself. The “designated driver” shtick was a running joke between them by now. He knew Logan parked his bike in a garage to avoid the boys in blue stopping him from mounting up outside the bar. His healing factor didn’t stop him from smelling like a brewery.

He knew Storm would be jumping on his ass if he came home in that condition. Logan grunted low in this throat as he remembered her stern resolve not to let him coddle her. One moment, her entire body was relaxed, practically leaning into his touch…and the next, he was back to being “Wolverine” and being shrugged off like an itchy coat.

Problem was, he was too stubborn to tell her he just wanted to return the favor.

They’d said nothing about that horrible afternoon that found him coughing up lungfuls of dust amidst the rubble and ruins of the Grey’s suburban home. His vision was still blurred from the torrents of wind and energy rushing at him, nearly rending him to bits as Jean threw everything she had at them…his last sight was of Xavier turning to him one final time, bequeathing him a smile that was ludicrously peaceful and resigned, right before Jean scattered his cells into the ether.

No man should have to witness such things. It wasn’t the first time his eyes had observed such atrocities, but this time, the experience was shared. He didn’t believe it when a slender, strong pair of arms encircled him, supporting him and shielding him from the devastation, cocooning him desperately, even tenderly. He felt the tremors wracking Ororo’s body, but still she held onto him, breathing raggedly and stifling the sobs she couldn’t afford to release. Logan knew too well how it felt to be on such a short tether. Beneath the choking stench of dust and smoke, her scent reached him, light, sweet and comforting. Her hair brushed the nape of his neck as she tucked her chin into his shoulder. She held and rocked him until his faint grip around her wrist prompted her to release him, assuring her that he could stand on his own.

He was still cursing himself now, even as he tossed back the shot. That was two people tryin’ not t’fall apart after the man whose dream they shared was taken from them way too soon, under earth-shattering circumstances. She held him. It didn’t go any further than that, didn’t mean anything but that. Period.

But damn, she felt good. Jean’s powers were handy enough when it came to keeping herself or anyone else out of the path of oncoming bullets or flying debris, but Ororo took a different approach. She relied on her winds at her back, lending her speed to reach the side of any who needed her. He huffed in disgust at her grandstanding in the Danger Room, when they ran the Sentinel routine in the interest of teaching “defensive maneuvers.” He hadn’t been the one who needed defending, and what did she do? Tackled him like a sack of potatoes to knock him out of the range of the Sentinel’s blast. She’d covered him with her whole body, fer cryin’ out loud! And Charley called HIM impulsive!

But yeah, it felt good, just for that frantic moment, to have her plastered against him like that. It was still a stupid move, though. Stubborn frail, she coulda got hurt. He’d heal. Her, not so likely. And if she got herself hurt…that just didn’t bear contemplating.

He smelled the flowery cologne and the faint musk of desire, mingled with the cloying sweetness of fuzzy navel fumes moments before he actually felt a slim hand land on his forearm. “Hey,” she greeted, swinging her straight chestnut brown hair over her shoulder in a practiced flip and beaming blearily at him. “I’m Chelsea.”

“I’m too old fer you, darlin’,” he announced, without malice. Gads, if she only knew.

“No you’re nooooooootttt,” she whined, still holding on to her smile as she rolled her eyes at him as though he’d told her something knee-slappingly funny. “How old do you think I am, then? Go ahead, guess, I dare you!” He flinched as she leaned over him, closing in on him from his perch on the barstool, pressing her bosom into his back without a care.

“Ya dare me, eh? Ain’t wise ta challenge complete strangers to a dare like that, kiddo, ya don’t know what kinda folks lurk in dives like this.” He winked at Harry, who’d peered at him with a cocked eyebrow as if to ask “whose place are ya callin’ a dive, punk?”

“You’re not lurking, you’re sitting. And you’re having a lil’ drinkie poo,” she giggled, slurring enough for Logan to guess her number of shots to hover between eight or nine. He picked up the trill of feminine chatter a few yards away over the din and glanced at the cluster of girls who were similarly dressed and nodding and giggling at their ringleader as she plied him with her charms. Retail princesses, he sighed. And there they were, egging him on. She was the one on a dare. He suppressed a snort.

It was time to head home.

“You still haven’t guessed how old I am,” she reminded him, stroking the fine layer of hair on his arm with her fingertip, rubbing it the wrong direction. He chafed, bristling at her once he decided he had enough. Why did dames play this game? “Ask me how old I am.” He’d heard that one before, and he’d gotten many a dirty look for answering it truthfully. Nope. Not tonight.

“Yer barely over legal drivin’ age, sweetheart; I’m bettin’ ya’ve only been livin’ away from home a year, just long enough ta learn ta separate yer lights from yer darks when ya do yer own laundry. That might make ya above the legal limit, but ya’d still make me feel like I was breakin’ the law. Think yer friends are gonna start missin’ ya in a minute.” He drained his shot glass of its last swallow, looking longingly at the last drops in the bottom before he slammed it back down on the bar. “G’night, Harry.”

“Night, Logan.” Chelsea stared after him in mild shock. She wasn’t used to being turned down.

“Asshole,” she hissed after him.” Logan never looked back, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

Logan needn’t have worried. He slowly eased the bike in the garage, decelerating before he even reached the front gate. He knew Ororo’s hearing was remarkably sharp, and she probably didn’t miss his arrival, but he made it in through the back door without any reprisal. Then he remembered the shape she was in before he left, and it hit him that she needed whatever sleep that she could get.

The whiskey hadn’t helped a damn bit. He was still restless, and what sleep that he caught was full of phantom faces, laughing at him as they stabbed and twisted him apart. He woke up with a throbbing head and a ringing in his ears, covered in his own sweat. A tepid shower would set him to rights, that much he knew. Logan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hangover, but he did remember that it had followed one helluva brawl, more whiskey than he could measure, and a giggling barmaid who worked at the tavern by the lumber mill where he made his living. Yeah, it had been worth it!

Logan finished his shower and shrugged into his charcoal gray t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. He flicked his comb through his hair and let it air-dry into its customary waves and peaks before he reached for his can of shaving foam. He cruised out of his room and down to the kitchen with a cleanly scraped face and a rumbling in his gut. The aroma of fresh coffee quickened his strides.

He entered the kitchen to find Peter lounging behind the sports section of the paper, nodding over the edge of it when he appeared. “Good morning, tovarisch.”

“Hey, Pete.” Logan yanked open the refrigerator and peered inside at the prospects, which were surprisingly slim. Crossing to the pantry, he found the remnants of a box of Cap’n Crunch and dumped it into a bowl. To his dismay, the whole mess turned blue when he added milk. He looked at the box and grunted as he read the insert on the front calling it a “limited edition Superman Crunch that turns milk blue!” Just his luck. Peter glanced at the unappetizing mess and muttered “Iccccchhhh.”

“Wasn’t there still a half a box left of the frosted mini-wheats in the cupboard yesterday?”

“Uh-huh.” The paper rattled as he innocently added “And they were delicious.” He let out a low belch for emphasis.

“Fucker.”

“I try.” He flicked a hand toward the coffeemaker. “Have some coffee. Between that and the sugar from that bowl of questionable slop, you’ll be good and amped up for that combat training you’ve got scheduled in a half hour.”

“Ain’t gonna slow me down any. But sure, piss me off now; I ain’t goin’ any easier on ya when we have that little session that Storm scheduled to work on your sparring skills. Enjoy sittin’ on yer ass now, ya won’t wanna after I’m done with ya.”

“I’ve been working on my fastball,” Peter bragged.

“Betcha still throw like a girl,” Logan retorted.

“You couldn’t handle it if he really did,” purred a familiar, husky voice from the doorway. He got a whiff of her fresh lavender scent and shampoo, almost overwhelmed by Hank’s stronger natural musk and the detergent he used in his clothes. “Peter’s got nothing on me, Logan.” She grinned at Peter. “Truth hurts.”

“I bow to the master,” he admitted, taking Logan by surprise.

“Our Ororo is a woman of many talents. Even has a nice knack for iambic pentameter.” Hank helped himself to some coffee and added a generous measure of creamer.

“I read a mean Kate.” Ororo reached for the remainder of the loaf of bread on the top shelf and looked disappointed at the limp heels in the bag before shrugging and tossing them into the toaster anyway. Logan winced at her choice.

“We’re hittin’ the grocery store today,” he grumbled. “This is pitiful.”

“Yesterday Dani and Sage made a snack run,” Peter offered.

“Lotta good that did. They didn’t leave so much as a crumb of it last night. I want something that sticks to yer ribs.”

“All that bacon you consume will do a fine job of sticking to your arteries,” Ororo sniffed, giving him a tart cock of her arched brows as she spread a thin layer of sugar free jam onto the darkly toasted slices. She ate it with little enthusiasm, washing it down with a cup of black, sweet coffee. Logan half-expected her to dash off once she tucked her plate into the dishwasher, but she watched Hank finish the last of his coffee and lean back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

“Now,” he rumbled, “about my findings from last night, Ororo. We need to talk. Wolverine, don’t run off just yet.”

“I’ve gotta head down to the Danger Room ta set up my training,” he complained.

“It can wait a few minutes,” Ororo advised. The look on her face double-dog dared him to walk out the door. He sighed gustily and refilled his cup with coffee. To her surprise, he automatically refilled her cup, too, and slid her the bowl of sugar cubes. Her face softened as she nodded her thanks.

“You’ll want to hear this, my friend. I ran some tests on the samples that you two brought back from Alkali Lake and the compound itself.”

“The compound was buried under a ton of rubble and concrete, there wasn’t anything worth studying,” Logan argued.

“Do you remember that odd phenomena that you and Ororo witnessed when you retrieved Jean?” Logan’s nostrils flared, his lips thinning at the mention of her name, and that day. He’d been so bloody hopeful…and it had all gone so spectacularly wrong. His fingers still remembered how it felt to brush aside that curtain of long, silky copper hair to better gaze at the face that haunted his dreams.

“You’ll hafta narrow it down, Beast,” he pointed out. Hank narrowed his eyes at his use of the despised nickname.

“Specifically the floating rocks and debris, the unusual fog, and the water flowing up. Obviously bringing back water samples wasn’t possible, in light of the circumstances, but the rock samples were helpful and enlightening. I subjected them to a thorough study. It yielded startling results. The rocks contain the same energy signature as Scott’s optic blasts.” Peter had already folded his newspaper shut, but his mouth dropped open in shock.

“Boszhe moi!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah. What he said,” Logan agreed. “Are ya shittin’ me?”

“Ahem,” Hank cleared his throat, trying to look solemn, “I would never shit you, my friend.” He doubted that anyone would ever dare such a thing. “Those rock samples, perhaps even the entire compound, hold traces of the same energy, and resonate at the same frequency of his eye beams. I was able to better observe it and determine this when I examined the fragments using the ruby quartz lenses and an infrared scan.”

“What the hell does this mean?”

Hank sighed heavily. His tone was full of resignation as he admitted, “It means we have a better idea of how Scott perished. What we can draw from this is that Jean killed him, and she managed to use his own power to do it.”

“What are you saying?” Ororo stopped stirring her coffee when her hands began trembling. Logan mutely reached for one and clasped it, stilling it. He didn’t like how icy they felt, so he stroked her fingers soothingly with his thumb, much like he had the night before.

“Jean was easily one of the most powerful, if not THE most powerful telekinetics on the face of the earth. As the Phoenix, those abilities were amplified beyond the scope of our comprehension, and we were robbed of any opportunity to better study what she could do when she left the school.”

“She made herself pretty clear that she didn’t wanna be anybody’s lab rat,” Logan snarled. This time, Ororo lightly squeezed his hand, and he faced her for a moment, reading her wish for him to let Hank continue without judgment or further outburst. Her velvety brown eyes pleaded with him, and he let her have her way. She released his hand, and received her second shock of the day when he cupped her shoulder instead, for which she was grateful. Odder things had happened, but she was hard-pressed to think of when.

“Science always takes a backseat to the well-being of one of my closest, lifelong friends; the Professor wanted to ensure that Jean didn’t harm herself or anyone else when her powers fully manifested themselves. It was never about the Professor wanting to control her, Wolverine, but about Jean controlling herself. Now,” he interjected, revisiting his original topic, “Scott’s untimely death was left a mystery by the fact that we had nothing left in the way of a body or any other physical sign. You brought back his goggles, but even they left us no clue “ no blood, no skin cells, no physical evidence. What I found was further supported by the fog and the floating matter and water. Scott’s optic blasts were concussive force created by excited ions. Much like your claws, Wolverine, his beams cut punch through just about anything, although perhaps not your adamantium.”

“Wasn’t fer lack of tryin’, bub. Sonofagun nailed me pretty good in our workouts when he wanted to.” He almost smiled at the memory. Sure, he thought Scooter was a tight-assed Boy Scout, but the only thing he ever really hated about him was that he had Jeannie. Absently his hand rubbed Ororo’s back as he considered, Scooter had the friends and family ya never managed ta have yerself, Patch.

“What made the rocks float, Henry?”

“I thought it was just a remnant of Jean’s telekinesis that was causing that to happen, but it occurred to me that phenomenon should have ceased when she left the compound. She was unconscious when you found her, and wasn’t purposely controlling the water and debris anymore. There was a lingering energy that was charging the particles. I believe it was the remnant of Scott’s optic beams. She used her own power to overload his energy and turned it back on him, like filling a water balloon until it bursts.”

“Goddess,” Ororo breathed. She shivered at the thought of how excruciating a death that must have been, wondering if Jean would have done the same to her if she’d been the first to discover her at the compound instead.

“The dispersal of his beams, infusing the water with that concussive energy created that layer of fog,” Hank explained, “even though you were able to clear it long enough for your reconnaissance, Ororo. But let me assure you, it wasn’t a natural occurrence.”

“What are you saying, tovarisch?”

“What I’m saying, Peter, is that Scott was scattered into the ether. And before I can know more, we need to return to Alkali Lake.”

“It’s asking a lot to have us go back to that horrid place,” Ororo pointed out. She’d unconsciously been leaning against Logan for support during the discussion, puzzled as to why the chilly, tingling flush of panic had disappeared in spite of how Hank’s words had affected her; Logan was generating enough heat to warm her to her toes. She felt him squeeze her again at her admission, knowing her sentiment was shared.

“It’s a necessary evil, for what we have to do.”

“What, Hank?” Peter’s blue eyes were troubled, his head already reeling with the implications.

“Bring Scott back.”


Oyama Heavy Industries, in the foothills of Alkali Lake:

“What’s the good word, Doctor?”

“Project SPIRAL is a go, Sergeant. The samples have yielded enough salvageable DNA for us to go forward with it. I’m very optimistic,” he assured him, adjusting his glasses.

“No one has more reason to be optimistic than you, Dr. Cornelius.” He patted the man on the back, ignoring his initial revulsion as he gazed at his scarred visage. Intelligent eyes gleamed brightly from his ruined face, and he rewarded Stryker with a crooked smile, left that way from having the severed tendons surgically repaired.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Sergeant.” He indicated the Petri dish and invited Stryker to take a look, adjusting the magnification to its maximum.

“What am I looking at?”

“You’re looking at the Lord’s work on the sixth day of creation. Think of that little patch of cells as Adam’s rib,” he chuckled. Stryker used the small plastic tongs to move the dish back and forth to better study its contents. He gasped when the specimen twitched, right before the pinkish cell divided its walls and split not into two new ones, but four. The cells glowed faintly and continued on at that pace.

“You’ve done it,” he replied numbly, looking away from the microscope to regard Cornelius in shock.

“I’ve done very little. That’s a remarkable DNA specimen you gave me, Sergeant. It’s every bit as impressive, not to mention promising, as what we gathered from that young woman downstairs. Her father would have been delighted with this new project, if he were here to see it.”

“How is Lady Yuriko?”

“Fit as a fiddle. Resting. Might lift her spirits if you stopped by for a visit,” Cornelius suggested brightly. Stryker smiled darkly, scratching his cheek as he contemplated his words.

“I want results within a week. Viable results that I can wrap both hands around, Doctor.” He ambled over to the large lab table and flicked on the overhead lamp before he dug through the steel cabinets, looking for the tiny sealed plastic pouch that he knew was inside. He pulled it out and looked at it again, holding it up to the light.

The tarnished engagement ring winked up at him within its plastic sheath, and Stryker smiled.





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