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Ya couldn’t live with yourself, Storm, if ya had this dark, ugly thing living inside ya, eating up yer soul.

So she lied. The betrayal fluttered in her chest. She’d never felt the urge before to be anything but honest with the Wolverine. Ororo had the lion’s share of dark, ugly things consuming her soul with greedy, gnashing teeth. Her hands had been running on autopilot, fingers flying over the keys of Charles’ PC as she typed up the syllabus for Henry’s ethics class. Her skin felt itchy and tight, and the air in the cozy, elegantly appointed office began to stifle her. Her fingers stuttered to a pause on the keys, her pinky leaning on the ‘Z’ and making a messy row of them across the page. She tsked in disgust and hit “Undo.” She bowed her head into her chest and laced her fingers behind her neck to work out a kink.

What would Scott do?

Jubilee and Kitty coined the phrase after watching one too many State of the Union addresses on the news, sprinkling it into any available debate at the breakfast table or Danger Room training sessions as conversations permitted, often to the delight “ and gradually, annoyance “ of all involved.

He’d already been gone two weeks. Screw calm, she fumed. She wanted to hit something.

How dare he just kiss her like that, and then leave her hanging? The feel of his lips took three days to drift away, the impression of him finally cooling enough that she didn’t feel flushed when she remembered him slamming his mouth down against hers. She wanted to show him she didn’t need him. It was a worthy ambition. Then that blasted feral went and proved her wrong. Oh, so wrong.

Back to the syllabus. She sighed, hit “print,” then saved it to the faculty network drive. She did a quick scan of the folders on the network and noticed that Kitty and Jubilee had been downloading celebrity photos again; at least ten megabytes of space were devoted to Hugh Jackman. She made a mental note to have a frank discussion about misuse of school resources…and archiving personal files on CD. She did, however, right-click on a gorgeous black and white shot and save it as her screensaver.

Her own growing years should have been so carefree. Posters on her walls. Passing notes. Her hardest decision being what shade of lip gloss to use each morning.

Some nights found her up and wandering the halls after “lights out,” her footsteps taking her downstairs to the kitchen. Her slippers had worn a groove in the corridors; photographs of former classmates and lost loved ones seemed to watch her with curious eyes in the dark.

Her routine on these nights seldom varied. One last check of the locks. One last peek at the security cameras. Then came the restless prowling of the cupboards and pantry. She was never particularly hungry.

It was hard not to take inventory of every shelf, every rack, every cabinet, mentally counting how long every bite of food would sustain the children. Phantom pangs burned in her memory. Her hand often brushed her abdomen when she recalled nights of going to bed hungry, when she even had a bed. Her imagination strayed on nights like those, or on a day like this, taking her to an unpleasant place. An unwelcome vision of Kitty, Jubilee, and Marie, clad in rags and dirt, vulnerable, wasted with hunger danced behind her eyes. She brushed it away and shivered, disgusted with herself. It would never come to that. Not while she drew breath.

Ororo leaned back in her chair and twisted her hair into a loose knot, and held it there a moment. Exhaustion nagged her as she skimmed her day planner. Each space was littered thickly with her sharp scrawl.

“How did you manage, Charles?” she muttered aloud. She continued to stare at the pile of paperwork on her desk, willing it to shrink.

It didn’t budge. She toyed with the idea of “letting” a stray bolt of lightning turn it to cinders. Bobby would never let her live it down if he caught her in the middle of a sopping wet study, extinguishing her charred desk with a self-contained rainstorm, particularly not after the incident (now legend) at the welcome barbecue they’d thrown the students last autumn. Logan double dog-dared her to light the grill herself when she nagged him about taking his sweet time, claiming “the coals ain’t ready yet, Princess, quit harpin’ an’get yer sweet ass back inside.” He continued to throw more lighter fluid on the coals in a vague male ritual of stoking it as high as the flames would go, only to let them die down to mere sparks. Repeatedly. Empty beer cans began to accumulate on the deck railings. Logan’s cigar burned down to a stub between his teeth.

Ororo had had it.

Her eyes glowed eerily, a faint breeze kicking up out of nowhere, blowing her hair into a crackling halo of energy.

Tell her to get her sweet ass into the kitchen, would he?

In hindsight, her timing could have been better. She could have reigned in that spark, oh, by just a second more. Not just let it fly as Logan sprayed a sparkling stream of lighter fluid across the graying coals.

To her credit, she’d put out the fire before the whole deck went up. Logan’s eyebrows had grown back nicely, if she did say so herself. He’d merely grunted at her peace offering of a new chambray shirt to replace the one he wore that day. She tried to walk away before the twitch of her lips gave her away.

“Thought John was the resident matchstick ‘round here,” he muttered to her retreating back. She knew he caught the brief, convulsive hunch of her shoulders before she made it out the door. It was hopeless.

Ororo reviewed the stack of emergency contact forms, imposing but surprisingly short for a school of roughly two hundred students. She began entering them into her spreadsheet, mentally nagging herself to give Piotr, Sean and Logan a copy…when and if he came back. Her fingers flew nimbly over the keys in a rhythm that nearly caused her eyes to glaze over with the monotony. To her dismay, the “Person to Notify” column was empty on half of the rows. Newcomers to the school often arrived in the nondescript sedans of social workers or in the back of squad cars. Ororo could count on two hands how many parents she’d been introduced to who escorted their own children to the academy, and still have fingers left.

“You’ll type your fingers off,” a rumbling baritone chided her from the doorway. Ororo’s face lit up with unbridled delight.

“Henry!” She shoved her chair back so forcefully it banged into the rear wall before she flew across the room. Hank released a low “ooph!” as she flung herself into one of his infinitely snuggly, decadently warm hugs. “Mmmmm. Missed you.” He rocked her, chuckling at her usual tendency to “groom” him, feathering her hands through his muttonchops. “It might be better if they did fall off. It might save me from tearing my hair out at the roots.”

“Save that honor for that overpaid stylist of yours. Better yet, leave that glorious mane of yours alone.” He toyed with a lock of shining hair, enjoying the faint scent of lavender in the shampoo she used.

“Silver-tongued devil.”

“That would be Kurt. Mind you, I am blue, but that’s where the similarities end.”

“You’re both sweet,” she corrected him.

“Not as much as I’d like to be today, dear heart,” he sighed, letting his hands slide down her arms to gently clasp her hands. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Good first.” Her voice brooked no waffling. She led him to the chaise and poured him a finger of single malt whiskey. He fortified himself with a sip and rested the glass on his knee.

“I may have finally bypassed the need for a psychic interface with Cerebro.” Ororo’s cup of tea sloshed jerkily as she absorbed the impact of his words.

Hank felt a faint chill in the air despite his thick coat of fur and a well-cut wool suit.

“The Stepfords have come a long way in their training. They’ve developed so much since…”

“You know we can’t risk children. There isn’t safety in numbers. They aren’t expendable, nor are they as skilled as Jean was.”

“Stop it. I never implied that about the girls. You said it,” she accused. “Each of them focuses on a different facet of psychic awareness. Empathy, telepathy, psychometry, precognition, manipulation…”

“…if they were septuplets, it would be like owning the psionic equivalent of the seven-in-one screwdriver,” he quipped. Ororo snorted into her tea.

“You call ME incorrigible.”

“You haven’t disproven it. Or refuted it.” Of course she didn’t.

“Go on, Henry. Brief me.”

“Cerebro was ingeniously designed to operate in synch with a telepathic ‘battery.’ The interface was locked to Charles’ unique psychic signature and brain wave patterns. One can’t even turn the console on without a telepath enabling it, opening their mind to the thoughts of the general populace. That many thoughts in your head at once would be like sifting through mountains of sand to isolate one grain.”

“That was why Stryker kidnapped Charles.”

“And why Jean was able to find Rogue at Liberty Island.”

“The effort nearly killed her.”

“No. I examined her readings shortly after her episode, once Scott filled me in as to her condition when he found her in the chamber. She was merely overwhelmed.”

“No. She nearly drowned.” Ororo stirred her tea with growing restlessness.

“If you like. But she rebounded from being saturated with that level of cacophony by harnessing enough power to level Manhattan. The spikes in her energy levels were uncharted, staggering, and unfortunately, lost.” The scientist in him was already getting carried away. “I was unable to retrieve the data from the infirmary’s monitors, and Charles’ journals of her progress and recovery after Alkali was corrupted, I couldn’t retrieve anything.”

“If we cannot retrieve that data, then neither can anyone else,” she pointed out in a clipped tone.

“Cerebro’s security and the technology that sustains it came at a high cost. We can’t benefit from what we could have learned if we had the needed failsafes in place.”

“The cost was always too high.” Heat flushed Ororo’s cheeks with uneasy tingles, and Hank bristled at the anxiety and grief that rolled off of her, his animal instincts nearly overwhelmed by her change in mood. Too late he realized that he said entirely the wrong thing. He stood and set his half-empty whiskey glass on the settee.

“Don’t you think I miss her too?” She didn’t fight him when he embraced her again, this time in the steady, soothing grip she’d grown to rely on over the years. He was her bulwark when she needed shelter from the storm. “I still don’t sleep at night,” he admitted. Ororo’s sniffle was muffled by his fur and his arms tightened around her before the tears slipped like quicksilver down her cheeks.

“I take no solace in this, Henry.” She clutched at him, shaking and raw. Hank closed his eyes, wishing above and beyond everything that she didn’t feel she had to be strong every moment. Tension knotted her lithe body, embracing him in a show of shared strength instead of sagging into him. Ororo was no everyday damsel in distress. Mentally he chided her to just BEND, damn it…

“I know. Jean would want us to carry on. We can’t rely on those who need us merely coming to us. There will always be those who can’t fight for themselves or live their lives freely without their rights being crushed or compromised. Look at Warren. Logan and Marie found us, God bless them. Charles found you.” Hank felt her nod into his fur. “That was a wondrous day.”

“I don’t want new recruits,” Ororo rasped. “I just want to protect the children.”

“We have to protect them from the Strykers in the world, or whomever would dare to believe that mutants are an abomination, or something to be feared. Hated. Resented. Oh, yes. There will always be someone pointing the finger and calling us a disease. Telling us we need to be cured. Whether it’s a bookish lab jockey like me who sheds every spring, or an angel like you who makes rain fly from her fingertips, darling Ororo, we need to be able to find those who can’t find us.” Ororo knew his wool suit was suffering from her tears. She leaned back and smiled at him apologetically, eyes wet and slightly red. “We’ll be all right.” His palms, large encompassing meat hooks that always surprised her with their gentleness and steadiness when performing finely detailed, precision tasks, cradled her face and daubed away the streaks on her cheeks. He made a sound not unlike a leonine husk of contentment and warmed her forehead with his kiss. “You didn’t let me finish my good news.”

“Oh, goodie.” He handed her back her tea before striding back to the doorway to retrieve his satchel.

“We have assistance from an exciting source to get Cerebro up and running, as well as possible upgrades and portable modules.”

“Really?” Now she felt a faint frisson of excitement.

“Really.” He paused for emphasis. “He’s a mutant.” Her eyes widened and her lips dropped open. “Silly girl. You look like a guppy when you do that.” She shut her mouth only to stick her tongue out at him instead. Hank smirked.

“Where “ and how “ did we find this mutant paragon of technology?”

“We didn’t. The Pentagon did. More accurately, the Department of Defense. I’m not the only mutant who enjoys the privilege of an audience with President Cockrum when national security demands it.”

“Who is he?”

“Inquiring minds want to know,” he quipped. “He maintains aliases and has passports in twelve different countries. He talks like a Texan,” he grinned. “He goes by Forge.”

“Uh-huh.” She quirked a snowy brow.

“He has all of the credentials that look good on paper. Humble upbringing, Ivy League education, ethnic minority ““

“Where are his people from?”

“Wyoming. He’s Cheyenne. Orphaned, not unlike yourself,” he continued thoughtfully before listing the rest of his so-called ‘credentials.’ Ororo’s face settled into thoughtful lines, slowly growing more intrigued. “Unmarried, and no siblings or known relatives to trace or compromise his position and mobility. He’s also a veteran. Forge was honorably discharged from the United States Army when he was injured in a shell blast. Stepped on a landmine.”

“Bright Lady.” She made a small moue of pity.

“Didn’t stop him for a minute,” Hank chuckled. “He designed his prosthetics himself. What’s more, they’re bionic. How many people do you know who can rebuild themselves, literally, to be stronger than they were before?” Hank gulped the last of his whiskey. She pondered that and sighed.

“When can we expect this paragon of mutantcy and technology?”

“He’ll be upon us within twenty-four hours.” She choked on her tea this time.

“Thank you kindly, Henry, for giving me so much time to prepare!”

“He’s been briefed. He knows that you have assumed Charles’ position as headmaster, and he’s been told what he needed to know in regard to both Jean and Charles’ involvement in the senate hearings regarding the Mutant Registration Act prior to Robert Kelly’s unfortunate demise.” Ororo shuddered at the memory of his final moments, the grimace of pain and shock twisting his features until his entire body lost cohesion and ebbed away before her eyes in a tide of plasm. ”And it was on a ‘need to know’ basis, of course.”

“Of course,” she retorted dryly. The glance they shared inferred that pertinent details about the X-Men’s more covert activities had not been divulged…yet.

Ororo and Hank reviewed the new syllabus for his ethics class, deciding that the Mutant Registration Act was a worthy project for the seniors for the following semester. While Hank helped himself to some tea, Ororo settled herself more comfortably in Charles’ old chair.

“Now… about that bad news.”

“I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

“Pity. Lay it on me, Henry.”

“There have been reports that the Cure isn’t as permanent as Worthington Labs previously believed.” Ororo’s stomach dropped into her shoes.

“What?” Ororo hissed and whimpered a moment as she dropped her cup of fresh tea on the floor, the steaming liquid and shards of porcelain pelting her ankles. Hank cursed under his breath and leapt up to fetch a tea towel.

“The Worthington clinics were close down in the wake of the Cure being pulled from the market to protect the neighboring citizens and public. A few of the sites have since been vandalized. The largest facility in District X “ “

“District What?” Ororo’s brows shot up.

“X. Yes, like the gene. That’s what the media labeled it. Local law enforcement has been forced to take more drastic measures to handle the problems they’ve had with squatters and trespassers attempting to us the clinics and the block it’s situated on as a refuge.” Hank handed Ororo a leather-bound folio and extracted a gleaming CD case, tucking it carefully into Ororo’s tower, selecting the file. “New screensaver?” he inquired.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Hm.” Hank’s lips curled before he returned to the matter at hand. “Everyone in the Pentagon’s fond of PowerPoint presentations.”

“They like to look at the pictures. And there’s fewer hard words that way.” Ororo hovered over Hank’s shoulder and scanned the graphs onscreen. “What am I looking at?”

“The estimated figures of mutants who were treated at the Worthington clinics.”

“That’s a violation of confidentiality laws.”

“Hold on, I’ve got something in my ear…” Hank drilled his furry pinky into the canal and mimed being hard of hearing.

“Scamp.”

“Washington’s full of scamps.” Hank clicked through the slides as he spoke. “The Mutant Registration Act was never swept off the table, Ororo. It’s merely been rewritten to include newly depowered mutants.”

“That’s an outrage.”

“Senator Kelly once tried to sway the nation into thinking we were weapons, not human. The usual laws don’t apply.” Hank’s fur bristled, even though his voice was calm. “Our powers subject us to a lot of unwanted attention and invasions of privacy. We’re under scrutiny now, more than before since Alcatraz. That Cure equaled fewer mutants, no matter how benign their traits and abilities. The world at large is calling for the eradication of our kind. That Cure brought them one step closer to that goal.” Hank paused on the next screen. “There are the figures from the clinics during the first two weeks of opening their doors. The column in green shows the number of successful cases “ “

“Successful?” Ororo’s eyes sparked, and Hank felt his hackles rise.

“Let me finish. The treatment was proven effective in ninety-four point four percent of those participating in the initial trials.”

“Trials?” Thunder rolled low and ominous overhead, and Hank’s nostrils twitched with the scent of ozone. Ororo’s tone was rife with indignant rage. He let the other shoe drop.

“The formula for the Cure had not been labeled for use yet by the FDA.”

“Yet Warren Sr. would use his own son…that bright, beautiful boy with a unique gift as a guinea pig. For something untried.”

“He thought he was helping him. Misguided notion, granted, but Ororo, the boy was confined to his home. They didn’t realize they were only providing the boy with a gilded cage.”

“A cage of any kind is a fate worse than death,” she snapped, “gilded or not.” Her heart went out to Warren, whom she’d adopted into the fold of her surrogate “little brothers” that included Piotr, Kurt and Bobby.

“To one with your gift, Ororo, anything below the clouds qualifies as a cage.” Hank tapped the folio in Ororo’s lap. “Read the report. A lot of what’s in there falls in line with Forge’s theory, and with mine.”

“What are your theories?”

“That the Cure was meant to target the impulses in the human brain linked to mutant abilities. I could liken it to tying a left-handed person’s hand to their side to force them to use their right instead. You’re forced to adapt, except this time, it’s your neural cells being manipulated to behave differently.” Ororo leafed through the sheets and scanned through gene sequences and molecular diagrams.

“What does Forge think?”

“That mutant genes can relearn what was stripped away. That the gene sequences are still existent and still active. Forge means to give them a refresher course. Some mutants may fare well enough without it, however.” Ororo’s hands stilled, the rattling of the pages drifting into silence. At her expectant look, Hank continued. “The equipment still works. We’re still working on the ‘on’ switch.”

The possibilities were mind-boggling. Ororo exhaled through her nose and steepled her fingers over its bridge.

“Now, the reports. Westchester County General treated six locals over the past month whose mutant abilities resurfaced.” Hank showed Ororo a scan of a phoeo and medical file redundantly stamped “CONFIDENTIAL.” She ran her fingertips over its glossy surface. A young man drifted ominously in a containment tank roughly four by seven feet. His face twisted with pain, his skin covered with welts and sores. Ororo noticed his neck and cheeks featured long, angular creases that were splayed open and pulsing pink.

Gills.

Leads and tubes decorated his body, clad only in briefs and an undershirt. Her heart thudded with dread and ached with sympathy for the agony of another living being.

“He’s amphibious. His mutation was like Kitten’s; it was never truly dormant. He remained able to breathe in our atmosphere, on land for brief periods, through an act of will. He previously utilized a breathing device that synthesized the oxygen to be more saturated. He also needed a special lightweight suit to avoid becoming dehydrated. Those sores are heat blisters. The lad was hiking in the hills when his mutation re-activated.”

“We don’t know the catalyst?”

“No. All we can surmise is that his mutation was dormant, but also dominant.” Hank smoothed his palms over the legs of his trousers, grooming the knife-sharp pleats. “I wasn’t always the walking shampoo advertisement you see before you, dear heart. My mutation is still “passive.” My fancy parlor tricks include agility, strength, and performing a decent tango. With these feet, no one can knock me over.” Ororo grinned. Hank was the only person Ororo had ever met who wore a size sixteen shoe. “In a sense, I ‘am’ my power.”

“And me, Henry?”

“You are linked to the earth’s atmosphere, perhaps even a living, breathing extension of it. But you wield your gift. Your power has an off-switch. If you lost your powers, you would not die.”

“Liar,” she argued. “So much of who I am is expressed by my power, Henry. When I had nothing else “ no one else “ I had that. I had the wind. I had the rain. I had the entire sky to myself.”

“Not anymore. Share your toys, young lady.”

“Warren and I have an evasive maneuvering lesson tomorrow.”

“And, Ororo…you have us.” Hank relieved her of the folio, setting it on the plush sofa cushion and enveloping her hand in his.

“I know.”

“You always will.”

“Don’t make me promises, Henry.” She leaned over and kissed him warmly. “When do you meet with Forge next?”

“Tomorrow.” He rose and straightened up effortlessly with the grace and strength afforded by leonine, sinuous muscles.

“Are you meeting him in Texas?”

“Dallas. And no. He’s coming here.”

“Henry! Have you taken leave of your senses? You’d bring him to our doorstep?”

“Would you prefer having communications with him traced over the phone wires or cyberspace? Dealing with secret service? This is the best way.”

“Care to blindfold him on the way over?” she offered.

“Silly goose. He has GPS built into his prosthetic hand.”

“Rats.”

“He knows discretion. He won't leave this school with knowledge he shouldn’t have.”

“It’s what he brings to the table that scares me.”

“We won’t let this fall into the wrong hands.”

“We said that the last time, Henry.” Oror looped her hand through the crook of his burly arm and led him to the kitchen.



Elsewhere:

“Wanna soda? Or maybe a beer?”

“Eh. Whatever, I guess.” The offer was greeted with an indifferent shrug.

“’Kay. Don’t…don’t move, all right? Be right back.” Lorna watched his retreating back, garbed in safe, fashionable Jnco jeans with a flaming skull grinning from the hip pocket.

Doug was such a tool sometimes. Nice, but still…what a poser. At least he had a nice pad. Didn’t hurt that his folks were loaded. Doug scooted his way through the crowd of their classmates. Some punk. Some prep. Mostly posers. Lorna picked at her fingernails. He moved in the unassuming, aw-gee-shucks way of someone who hated disappointing people, flattening himself as he made his way to the refrigerator.

Doug was clean-cut, despite the trappings of boarder-punk chic. His honey-blond hair was floppy and brushed his shirt collar. He wore the same distressed cotton two-in-one tee shirts with “false sleeves” except that his came from Aeropostale or Buckle instead of Hot Topic or the bondage shop owned by that hippie couple downtown in the garment district. His pants slouched over battered Converse sneakers. His fingers were adored with tarnished silver rings, including a claddagh ring that Lorna actually liked. Not like she’d admit it, though…

He came back, two sodas in hand. Lorna smirked at his choice of Mountain Dew for himself even as she uncapped her Pepsi. She licked a bead of soda from her lips, glossed in lipstick so blood-red it was practically black. Doug’s eyes flitted over her mouth at the gesture and he shot her a funny, sheepish little grin. Okay. He was cute. For a tool.

“Didn’t wanna go any further than that little thing in your ear?” Lorna flicked the silver hoop adorning the crest of his ear.

“I can’t walk around with an extra hold in my face. My mom’d kill me.”

“Pfft.” Lorna shrank guiltily back into her seat on the sofa, rolling her eyes to her lap. She picked at her tattered shirt. Her mother’s eyes haunted her. She distractedly scratched her brow, carefully avoiding disturbing the silver hoop nestled there.

“So…was that you I saw coming out of metal shop?”

“So what if it was?”

“Nothing. Just asking.” He took a drag of soda and dangled the bottle between his knees. His legs were spread wide and slack. His thigh bumped against hers. Lorna peered at him though lowered lashes. She looked away every time his swung her way. They volleyed the look back and forth for another minute. Doug gave her the crooked grin that Ali claimed was enough to make her faint. Yup…there it went. The cute little eye crinkle. The dimple. The left corner of his lips twitching up first…her stomach fluttered. Damn it.

“Quit it,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“Quit doing that.”

“What?” he repeated, giving her the age-old “shoulder flirt” bump. He felt warm, even through her jacket. She huddled into it more deeply.

“That.” He shrugged. “You know what.”

“The music blared from the expensive speakers; home-burned CDs littered the side table that had been meticulous an hour ago. Soda bottles, empty beer cans and ominous, red plastic cups accumulated on the counters of the wet bar in the basement rec room. Girls hunched between their friends’ knees, braiding each other’s hair. Lorna smelled something pungent that reminded her of her aunt’s wood-burning stove, maybe even like rice when you burned it onto the bottom of the saucepan.

“Shit,” Doug hissed.

“What?” Lorna inquired, sitting up and tucking her hands into the overly long sleeves of her jacket.

“Shit,” he repeated by way of explanation. “Someone lit some upstairs. Smell that?”

“That weird little smell?”

“It’s pot. It better not be in my parents’ room. Jono promised me he wouldn’t bring it here. Back in a sec,” he promised. His hand flicked out to stroke her knee, urging her to stay. He looked back at her as he climbed the steps before his face disappeared from view. He caught her staring back.

Damn it.

“I’m such a dork,” she hissed out. She helped herself to a handful of tortilla chips.

“Whatcha doin’, Raggedy Ann?” Monet sidled up to the chips. Lorna groaned to herself, raising her brows until they disappeared into her overgrown bangs.

“Hangin’ out.”

“So, like, when’re you gonna figure it out and make up your mind, Lorna?”

“Figure out what, Monet?” Like she gave a damn.

“Whether your natural color’s puke green or shit black. It’s nasty,” she sneered, wrinkling her patrician nose. She looked proud of herself. Her Bebe tee glittered with rhinestones, and her own chestnut brown hair gleamed with hair gel.

“I got inspired one day when I saw your mom on the front porch, munching a booger. It was a big one.” Lorna feigned admiration over the spectacle.

The roots of Lorna’s hair lay defiantly exposed and unrepentantly green. She hadn’t had a touch-up for a few weeks. Her mother nearly grounded her when she shunned the sedate, sable brown hair color she picked out and came back with blue-black. In contrast, Lorna’s skin was enviably clear and fair, not a freckle or blemish in sight. Beneath the thick layer of smudged kohl, her eyes were a clear sapphire blue, almond-shaped, deep-set, and fringed with long lashes beneath arched brows. The shrewd intelligence that twinkled out from their depths, Monet decided, seemed to be mocking her now.

“Bitch.” Monet bumped her way between Lorna and the nachos, intentionally knocking her soda off the table. It fizzed over the carpet, wetting her Doc Marten boots. Lorna’s cry of outrage was strangled and promised retribution. “I don’t know what you’re even doing here, Lorna. Everyone hates you, you’re such a loser.”

“Yeah. That’s why Doug invited me.” Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d finally slowed down from running the past six blocked and turning up the next street. Doug saw her scuffing along while he was talking to his friends in the front yard and called out, “LORNA! Dude, c’mon in, take a load off. We’re gonna have a band in a few!”

She had nothing better to do, and nowhere to go. She hadn’t thought any further than that.

“Says a lot for him. Doesn’t mean shit for you. Guess he believes in being kind to strays.”

“Yeah. Doug just went upstairs. Might wanna ask him to fetch you some nice Purina Cat Chow. Nachos might go to your hips?” She flicked her eyes, pretending to crane her neck around to Monet’s butt.

“God, I hate you,” Monet flounced off.

“Awww…” Lorna whined. “Don’t go!” Monet flipped her the bird. “Buh-bye,” she shot back, with a little Princess Diana wave for good measure.

Lorna was up rooting through Doug’s CDs, pondering that his taste in music wasn’t what she expected. She felt a warm presence at her back and a familiar baritone by her ear.

“See anything good?” She felt a funny quiver that sent hot tingles into her cheeks.

“Um…yeah, I guess. Kinda.”

“Pick one,” he offered, taking the stack of discs from her hand and spearding them out. His fingertips grazed hers. More tingles. He smelled like Speed Stick and Tide. She pointed to one at random. “Girl after my own heart,” he encouraged. He popped it into the disc carousel and hit play. Creed’s guitar riffs set the mood and evoked grunts of approval from those assembled. They were an okay band, she considered…

…and this song might become her favorite now. She barely heard the lyrics as Doug continued staring at her, taking her in bit by bit.

A sudden stampede of footsteps thudded overhead. “Now what?” Doug huffed.

“Doug, DUDE!” Cops are here,” Roberto piped up as casually as if it were the pizza man at the front door.

“Nonononono… Lorna smothered a small moan.

It was just a noise complaint. That was it. Nothing more.

“Gotta go.” Doug shot her a wishful look, blue eyes thoughtful as he tugged a lock of her hair, which felt soft in his grip. “Stay!” he commanded.

“Arf, arf!” she joked, crossing her eyes. He emitted a crack of sputtering laughter. Lorna looked for placed to hide. Her heartbeat skipped, and the music and chatter swam around her, as though she were standing in a tunnel.

“Told you she’d scare him away,” Money drawled, nodding to Paige Guthrie. Her shirt was the baby blue twin to Monet’s, paired with low-rise jeans and a purse party Prada knockoff.

“Skank,” Paige agreed.

“Scary skank,” she emphasized back.

“You really that scared?” Lorna challenged.

“Paige tsked, sneering. “Duh. >i>No. Just that I might catch something from you if I get to close.”

“Only below the waist. Don’t think we have to worry about that, since I don’t swing that way…”

“ohmiGOD! SKANK!”

“You think you’re tough shit.”

“You think your shit doesn’t stink.”

Monet tsked in disgust. “That was original.”

“You’d know,” Lorna sang. Monet rolled her neck, eyes snapping, before her French manicured nails, sparklng with pink glitter raked through Lorna’s hair in a gesture that hinted at a slap.

“Back off!” she hissed.

“Make me,” Monet huffed. Her black eyes suddenly widened. “What’s up with your hair?”

“Shit,” Paige breathed.

It was standing on end. It was happening again. Lorna nearly forgot about her surroundings, not wanting to dig Doug any deeper with his parents, but she knew in the back of her mind that things were too far gone.

The speakers squawked and the digital display of the stereo flickered. Stunned gasps erupted as beer cans, key rings and cigarette lighters danced through the air. Whatches and belt buckled whipped through the air, tripping up Paige’s brother Jay when his baggy jeans went sliding down to his ankles in his effort to tuck tail and run.

All eyes were riveted on Lorna.

“I knew you were a freak!” Monet shoved her. Lorna extended her hand and shoved back, sending Monet, hurtling into the opposite wall…

…where she made a dent. The rest of the partygoers didn’t know whether to be shocked that Lorna hadn’t laid a finger on Monet, or that Monet merely stood up without missing a beat, not so much as a scratch on her. Paige’s eyes landed accusingly on her friend.

“You SO didn’t do that!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Monet argued. “SHE did!”

“Guys, bad news; the neighbors complained, if we don’t turn down the …what happened?” His glance was quizzical, perturbed to find his friends in varying states of panic. “What - ?”

“LOOK OUT!” The beer cans weren’t drifting in mid-air anymore. They were finding random targets.

“DOUG!” Lorna cried, finally noticing him, hating the look of horrified disbelief widening his eyes. Her concentration broke; she felt an odd surge of connectedness with every molecule of metal in the room. Eerily, it went deeper than that. She heard the iron and other minerals rushing through the bloodstream of everyone there. Smelled those elements in their sweat. Various bits of metal in her own clothing warmed and buzzed against her flesh, tingling. She throbbed with power.

Her hands whipped out convulsively, and seconds too late to summon back the stereo speaker that was ripped loose from the wall, hurtling straight for Doug. It struck him in the sternum, knocking the wind from him. He staggered back, crashing into Jono, who supported him and glared back at her balefully.

“What’s your fucking deal, Dane?” That came from Jono; Doug merely looked stunned, and strangely sympathetic.

“I…I don’t know.” Every person in the room had already back up against the wall reflexively, burrowing under furniture and shelves. “I’m sorry,” she choked, darting up the stairs. She burst from the house, heading out the back door in the hopes that the police wouldn’t still be there or recognize her.

It just kept on getting worse. Night fell; the cold air bit at her cheeks, and the twinkling stars appeared to mock her.

~*~


“Closure.” Her gaze held no disgust, only resignation tinged with sadness. “If all you focus on is what they took away, you’ll never know what you could gain from reaching out for what’s offered to you now.”

Ororo’s words lingered in his memory, like the aftertaste of a mellow lump of caramel. She was right. He knew she was right. But here he was, alone and kicking himself.

Reaching Canada by motorcycle was a whole different story from cruising in the Blackbird. Logan preferred the thrum of the machine beneath him, wind rushing over him and tearing through his hair over the left-my-lunch-behind-when-we-lifted-off feeling of the jet’s oppressive, streamlined cabin.

The proud pines and firs swayed with the nighttime breeze, seducing him onward, even as those unnamed, buried memories warned him to turn back the way he came. He smelled a hint of pending snowfall the higher he climbed into the hills. He still remembered Jim’s final words to him before he left.

“Department H has spent a lot of time and money on you, Logan. I took a risk vouching for your sorry hide. You wanna walk away, don’t expect me to hand you that trust so easily next time, bub.” So he already had fences to mend.

He’d do whatever he had to do.





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