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Author's Chapter Notes:
You guys will see a HUGE jump here. Don't worry, as soon as I finish getting the rest of Hawk's scenes up (which probably won't happen until after FCAT (Florida Comprehension Assessment Test) is over), I'll edit the chapters.
"Hey, Scott, they were looking for you downstairs. You didn't show," Logan said.

"Obviously," Scott replied tonelessly, not stopping or even slowing as he brushed right by Logan. "What do you care?"

Logan tried to bite back the annoyance that was already starting to surface. "Well, for starters, I had to cover your ass."

"I didn't ask you to," he said simply, stopping and turning to Logan with his arms crossed.

"No," Logan agreed, matching his stance. "You didn't ask. The professor did. I was just passing through."

"So pass through, Logan. Isn't that what you do best?"

Logan held himself in check, not letting on how deeply that statement cut. Would he always have that hanging over his head? He'd left once, damn it! For a month and a half! And he'd been back for over a year! "Hey, look." He grabbed Scott's wrist, pulling him back as he tried to leave.

The taller man looked down at his wrist before his gaze slowly and threateningly traveled up to Logan's eyes. It was a gesture that clearly said, please give me a reason to fight you. "I don't like being touched," he said flatly.

Logan let go. He didn't want to start a fight. Not with Scott. Softening his tone, he said, "I know how you feel."

"Don't," Scott immediately snapped.

"When Jean died – "

Scott gave Logan a quick shove. "I said don't!"

Logan's mouth snapped shut. He wanted to tell Scott that he too felt partly responsible for Jean's death. He too missed her, and he too wished that something – anything – could be done to bring her back. He wanted to tell Scott that he still had nightmares of her death too, some of them quite vivid. But Scott didn't want to hear it. Logan was, however, going to say what needed to be said. This had to stop. "Maybe it's time for us to move on," he told Scott.

"Not everyone heals as fast as you do, Logan."

XXX

It was a modest office black by federal standards, left over from a more decorative age, like the Old Executive Office Building and the Smithsonian. But, what it lacked in modern aesthetics it more than made up for in proximity to the one building in town that really mattered. The one with the address 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

The offices housed the youngest of the President's cabinet departments. But, the reason both for its importance and for its being treated as a bastard stepchild could be found on the official identification plaque out front:

UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF MUTANT AFFAIRS

As usual, despite the constant surveillance of CCTV cameras and patrols by the DC metro police and federal security, someone had still managed to tag the sign during the night, using spray paint to cover Affairs with the word Abominations.

The third floor front suite, with a view of the White House, belonged to the Secretary of Mutant Affairs. Alicia Vargas – former secret service bodyguard to the previous president, now employed by DOMA as unofficial bodyguard and thoroughly official executive assistant to the Secretary – strode down the elegant wood hallway and with pro forma knock, opened the door to her boss's office.

The room was exquisitely furnished; whatever else you could say about Henry McCoy, DSC, PhD, he had excellent taste. At the moment, he was also hanging upside down from the suitably reinforced chandelier, thoroughly enjoying the latest issue of the Economist.

Alicia was a lovely woman, the kind you would expect to be chairing a PTA meeting. She was as professionally turned out as her boss, them both wearing quality designed suits. The major difference was that hers was cut to hide a SIG, while his was built around his six foot, nearly 300 pound, immensely athletic body completely covered in rich blue fur.

He had fangs, too – a mouthful. And claws that became quite evident when he neglected to keep his nails properly trimmed. He had a leonine mane of hair which was a discernibly darker hue than his body, swept elegantly back from a dramatic widow's peak, as well as sweeping side whiskers that bore an uncanny resemblance to one of the major villains of a world-famous comic book. He could bench press twice his body weight without trying, and had reflexes that were almost a match for Alicia's – only because she too was a mutant, just not quite so obvious a manifestation, thank God – and agility that could send the most madcap of monkeys back to school. He was, in fact, everything implied by the nick name he'd been given back in school – The Beast.

McCoy could also speak a score of languages fluently, was one of the more respected genetic anthropologists on the planet, a demon dancer, and apparently an even better lover. He enjoyed fine wines with his brother, the Jungion psychiatrist, preferred cooking to eating out because he was a better chef than most professionals, and had an unfortunate weakness for karaoke bars. His speaking voice was wonderful, but his singing tended to recall cats congregating on a backyard fence.

What endeared him most to Alicia, however, was the fact that he needed reading glasses. He wore a classic pair, perched on his rather dramatic nose.

McCoy raised an eyebrow over the spine of the magazine as she snared his jacket off the back of his chair.

"The White House called," she told him. "They've moved up the meeting. Something to do with Bolivar Trask."

"Hmnh" was Hank's only comment as he flipped through a crisp, confined somersault to land on the floor with feline grace. He frowned as he slipped on his shoes - Alicia was the only one who ever saw those reactions, the only one he truly trusted here - he muched preferred to go barefoot. His feet were designed for it, not for being strapped in. But, people were spooked enough by his appearance as it was; dressing respectably was the first, big - necessary - step towards winning their tolerance, if not their acceptance.

"Your car's waiting downstars," She told him as he donned his jacket, taking a moment for their usual exit ritual as she smoothed the shirt across his shoulders and straightened his tie.

Then, twitching her own suit jacket to make sure her gun was in ready reach, she followed him out the door.

XXX

Another surprise awaited Hank and Alicia when they checked in at the White House: The meeting originally scheduled for the Oval Office had been moved downstairs to the Situation Room. It was a small and select meeting: The President, his national security advisor, the director of the FBI, a pair of uniforms, one representing the Joint Chiefs, the other the national Security Council, and the Secretary of Homeland Security, Bolivar Trask.

Big as Hank was, Trask matched him in every dimension, tall and broad and radiating the impression that he remained as powerful and dangerous now as he was in his youth. They'd come out of Detroit, served a career in Army Special Ops before confounding everyone when he turned in his papers and built a new life for himself in disaster management. Trask had barely made it out of high shcool, yet over the course of his two careers he had amassed more practical knowledge than a roomful of certified academics, possessing an eclectic mix of street smarts and on-the-job training. He was a brilliant manager, as gifted in the military and defense aspects of his department as the civil, and seemed soundly determined to protect the country from natural disasters and terrorist threats.

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. President," Hank apologized, as he strode into the darkened room. Display screens were already active, filling the wall at the far end of the room, where everyone at the table could easily see them.

President David Cockrum indicated the open chair to his left. "Have a seat, Henry. Sorry for catching you short, but things have been happening."

Trask sat opposite McCoy, at the president's right hand. From everyone's body language, McCoy knew this was Bolivar's briefing.

"Homeland Security was tracking Magneto. . ."

With that cue, surveillance images appeared on the display wall, showing a tall and handsome man of natually aristocratic bearing. Some time in the recent past, he must a grown a beard, neatly trimmed of course, which gave him the air of a shakespearean warrior king in exile. A lion in winter, McCoy thought, with a pang of regret at the memory of brighter, younger days, and all that might have been.

Trask was speaking, using a laser pointer to highlight his bullet points with the appropriate image. "Homeland Security has been cooridinating with all the relevant alphabet agencies - CIA, NSA, DIA - Plus their counter parts overseas. As you can see, we got hits on him in Lisbon, Geneva, Montreal. NavSat lost him crossing the border. But we did get a consolation prize. . ."

Different screen now, the biggest in the aray, with a crawl at the bottom to inform everyone that they were watching in real-time streaming video. The setting was obviously an interrogation room of some sort, with a double-door security airlock and double-paned observation glass, suggesting something more appropriate to a biohazard containment facility than a standard lock up. There were two figures in view, interrogator and prisoner. No guards - that could be seen.

The object of all this attention lounged in a chair as though she owned the place, and hadn't a care in the world. She was naked and flaunted a perfect body as proudly as any other woman would a new designer gown. Her skin was as blue as McCoy's fur, her hair the color of blood, swept straight back from her forehead and face to end in an impossibly precise blunt cut at the base of her neck. Her body was decorated with ridges, down the arms, breasts, stomach, and groin, with a scattering along her legs. Hank had always been curious whether they were decorative or had some functional value, and the scientist in his soul wondered, How hard would it be to get a cell sample?

Her eyes were a gleaming chrome yellow, The woman on the screen's eyes glowed in the dark, Hank knew, where the rest of her could become effectively invisible. The way they flicked from camera to camera, the way she allwoed herself the smallest of smiles, told Hank that the she knew she was being broadcast, and probably who was watching.

She called herself Mystique. She'd been by Magneto's side for almost as long as he had been in active opposition to Charles Xavier. No one had ever been able to fathom the precise nature of their relationship, beyond the obvious fact that she was utterly devoted to him and to his cause, and that Magneto cared for her as he did for few others in his life, past or present.

She was a metamorph, a shape-changer able to transform herself with a thought into any other human form she pleased. What they were viewing now was supposedly her default form; it was certainly the skin she was most comfortable wearing, the one she always returned to.

The main screen was complimented by an array of lesser display windows, showing different perspecties on the scene. Looking at he one aimed at her eyes, McCoy couldn't hake the sense that she was looking right back at him through the lens. that she could actually see him.

With an inner wrench, he turned his attention back to Trask, who was still speaking. "We picked her up breaking into the FDA, of all places."

"Do you know who she was imitating?" the President asked in an aside to Hank, "Secretary Trask."

That must have been a sight to behold, Hank thought, and almost as if he'd heard the comment aloud, Trask cued an archival shot of the scene in question, showing Mystique before, and then right after, the takedown. Hank looked from the man himself to the screen and back again - as did everyone else present. The match was flawless.

"Yes, sir," Hank told the president. "She can do that."

"Not anymore, she can't," Trask said with pardonable satisfaction. Smart as she may have been he had found a way to nail her: "We got her."

"You think your walls can hold her, Trask?"

"We have some new walls, Henry." came the reply, with the hint of an edge. Trask's tone indicatied that he thought that Hank's question was utterly foolish. What was the point of taking the woman if you didn't have the means to keep her? "We'll be a step ahead this time."

Hank was about to press him on that point when Trask gestured with his remote and added sound to the streaming video from the interrogation room.

"Raven," the agent with her said softly, and was ignored.

"Raven," he repeated, 'I'm talking to you"

She flicked her eyes dismissively. "I don't answer to my slave name."

"It's on your birth certificate. Raven Darkholme, or has he convinced you that you don't have a family anymore?"

No one needed to be told which 'he' was being referred to, but the question did provoke a response. Mystique swung round in her chair to face the agent. Her look promised mayhem. the interrogator took it in stride.

"My family tried to kill me, you pathetic meat-sack."

"So, now he's your family?"

She sniffed, haughtily as a queen, and half turned away striking a glamour pose that flaunted her body to him and to the cameras.

The interrogator's tone hardened.

"Are you playing games with me?"

She gave the agent a smile as overtly sexy as her pose, and then morped into a mirror image of him.

"What makes you say that?"

The interrogator leaned forward, "Is it worth it, all this, to protect him?"

"You really want to know where he is?" He didn't need to reply. He didn't have to, the answer went without saying. "All right then, I'll tell you . . ."

She leaned forward. Inviting the interrogator to meet her halfway.

Hank's eyes flickered a warning to Trask. Both men were on the same wave length. This was too soon, too easy. Way to good to be true. Trask already had a phone in hand, a direct line to the holding cell, but never got a chance to warn him.

Even as Hank heard the ringing phone through the main display, Mystique struck, grabbing the interrogator by the ears and delivering a vicious head-butt that would have him in the hospital for the better part of a week with a wicked concussion.

Now the previously unseen guards made their entrance, hard and fast and in no mood to paly. Their adversary was faster than they were, stronger as well, likely more skilled in the martial arts. She'd stopped herself free of every restraint, making her hands momentarily boneless so that they'd slid loose from her cuffs, but the room was too small and suddenly filled wall-to-wall with muscle. She had no room to maneuver, and when she tried morphing into one of them Hank saw that they'd been biotagged. External surveillance systems told the team outside who was who so that they always knew who to hit.

It was a gallant, desperate struggle that reminded Hank too much of a wild animal being caged. It was doomed from the start and quickly over.

Trask shut off the feed.

"One down," he said quietly, "one to go".

Hank stared at him. "You know her capture will only provoke Magneto."

"So? Do we forgo the capture of terrorsit lieutenants because we're scared of their boss? If that's our policy, why don't we just hand over the country to him and be done with it?"

Trask gestured to the screen. "Henry, be real here. You see what we're dealing with here."

"All the more reason to be diplomatic."

"You expect me to negotiate with these people?" asked the president pointedly.

Hank's first reaction was thankfully an unspoked thought:

And what people precisely would you be referring to, sir? The 'terroristst' mutants or mutants in general?

Aloud, he chose to follow his own advice and speak diplomatically: "All due respect, sir, I thought that's why you appointed me."

Hank shook his head, realizing from the look on the president's face and the way the other man's eyes shifted ever so slightly, that the venue for this meeting hadn't been any last minute change, nor had it's earlier start.

"This isn't why you called me here, is it, sir?"

The president shook his head. "No," he said, his tone conveying what was surely meant to sound like a sincere and heartfelt apology. He slid a file towards McCoy.

"This is what she was after."

Hank used a ritual with his glasses to regain his inner composure: he removed the bifocals, puffed on the lenses, wiping them clear on the thick luxurious fur protruding from his cuffs.

When he was done reading, when the axis of the Earth had finished shifting beneath him, he didn't know whether he felt rage or terror, but assumed that it was a decent measure of both. He pressed his hands together, resting his face against them, like a man assuming an attitude of prayer, determined not to allow them to tremble and hoping his voice wouldn't betray him when he spoke.

"Is it viable?" He asked.

"We believe it is, yes."

"Do you have any idea of the level of impact this will have on the mutant community?"

The president nodded, choosing his words very carefully.

"Yes, I do. That's precisely why we need some of your 'diplomacy' now."

Hank closed his eyes, his inner child hoping against hope that this was merely some wild flight of fancy, and that when he opened them again he'd be back in his old room at Xavier's, young and carefree, with no thoughts for the days ahead other than charming the daylights out of Jean how to slow-dance.

And then came a darker image, of a movie he'd watched far to often, one to compliment the books and files he'd commited to memory while researching his first doctoral thesis, which hadn't been on medicine of any kind, but history. In 1942, there'd been a conference in Wonnsee Villa, a resort outside Berlin, chaired by Reinhard Heydrich, who'd go down in history as "Hangman Heydrich" (his fellow Nazis called him 'The Blood Butcher'). He was then Deputy Reichsfuherer, a handsome, powerfully commanding presence whom everyone assumed would claim the leadership of the Third Reich if and when Hitler passed from the scene. He'd gathered the top bureaucrats in the Reich, from all the key departments of state, and in a meeting that lasted ninety minutes, they'd resolved the 'Jewish question' in Europe. In terms both barbaric in their racial virulence and damnably chilling in their institutional banality, these men signed the death warrant of millions.

XXX

"Power corrupts," Charles Xavier told his ethics class, "and absolute power corrupts absolutely. This is a lesson every one of us must learn and live. Why? Because we are mutants.

"Will it be for the greater good," he continued, "or personal, destructive, and tyrannical? This is a question we all must ask ourselves. Why? Because we are mutants."

Kitty answered him with a sigh and briefly considered relaxing her hold on her power, just for a heartbeat, her phased form remaining at rest while the Earth continued merrily spinning on its axis. Just that little burst would put her outside the building. If she held her breath for a couple of minutes, she could be miles away.

It was tempting, but it would be wrong. Like it or not, responsibility had become her second nature. She had Xavier to thank for that.

"Riiight," she agreed. "Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Xavier shook his head. He didn't like it when she was intellectually lazy.

Kitty, that's not an argument, it's a cliché and a generalization. And like all generalizations, it's only partly true. Unfortunately, students" – he explained the colloquy to embrace the entire class – "There are no absolutes when it comes to questions of ethics. For psychics, such as myself. . ." As he said this, Kitty felt his thoughts jump into her mid: and as well for those who can walk through walls. She got the message, sitting straight up while her cheeks flushed tomato scarlet, pursing her lips in embarrassment at being busted. Xavier continued, ". . . this presents a particular problem. When is it acceptable to use our powers and when do we cross that invisible line that turns us into tyrants over our fellow men?"

"Professor," Kitty countered, seizing the opening with a question that was actually pertinent, yet also just that faintest bit of naughty, "if the line is invisible, how do we know when we've crossed it?"

Some of the others grinned, and even Xavier permitted himself an itsy-bitsy quirk of the lips that might be interpreted as a smile. His game of choice had always been chess, but Kitty's was tennis, and she served to win.

Behind the professor, a flat-screen display revealed a hospital room, together with a legend that identified the source as the Muir Isle Research Facility, Scotland. It was an isolation cubicle, marked with the international biohazard trefoil and an M stamped in the middle to indicate mutant biohazard. A man lay on the single bed, clearly not in the best of health. Beside him stood a woman, Dr. Moira MacTaggart, old friend of Xavier's, a former lover, and partner in many of his current researches.

"This case was forwarded to me by a colleague, Dr. MacTaggart."

Everyone took notes. Kitty couldn't help sneaking an envious peek over at Jules, who was merely running a pair of fingertips along each line of her notebook page. In their wake, every word Xavier spoke what transcribed automatically from her ear to the page, although it seemed to be going to be going smoothly now, it wasn't always as easy as that; when she got distracted, Jules' transcription power tapped into her thoughts and her notes became a stream-of-consciousness exercise that put Joyce's Finnegan's Wake to sham. Then, of course, it was all hands to the rescue among her best friends at school, Kitty included, to try to separate out what was supposed to be there. This morning, though, she looked totally on track.

Dr. MacTaggart was speaking, the screen obligingly providing subtitles for those who found her Highland accent a bit hard to fathom.

"The man you see here," she said, indicating her patient, "was born with no higher-level brain functions. His organs and nervous system function normally, but he has no consciousness to speak of. That has been confirmed both by the most comprehensive medical scans available to us, and telepathic examination as well."

Xavier paused the transmission.

"What if," he asked the class, "we could transfer the consciousness of one person, say a father of four with terminal cancer, into the body of this man?"

Kitty couldn't help muttering, "Sounds like someone wants to play God."

Jules giggled.

Xavier ignored them both.

"How are we going to . . .?"

He paused, looking off to the side for just a moment, then tried to move on.

"How are we to decide what is within the range of ethical behavior and what is . . ." His voice trailed off again as he put his hand to his brow, closing his eyes.

"Professor . . .?" Kitty started.

"We'll continue Tomorrow," Xavier announced suddenly, to the surprise of very few. You didn't have to be a student at Xavier's very long to figure out what moments like this were all about. "Class dismissed".

XXX

Hawk was reading Harry Potter: and the Chamber of Secrets, when the sky suddenly grew dark. Being younger, she didn't have the class schedule some of her older friends had- which meant sometimes she had classes with them, and other times she didn't- so she just read this hour. She got up and went to the window. She knew that she was the only other weather manipulator in the mansion, and she wasn't the one doing this.

XXX

Charles tried reaching her telepathically as he rolled his wheelchair through the halls, but, as was usually the case when her powers were this active, there was so much charged electrical energy coursing through her system that it coated her mind with a sleet storm of psychic static. Even the fleeting contact necessary to determine her location threatened a nasty head ache. The only telepath he knew who could penetrate the static without consequence was Hawk.

By the time he had left the shelter of the doorway, windwas whipping enthusiastically across the Great Lawn and the scattered figures of students were racing for cover.

The cause of the sudden weather change stood alone, staring off into the trees, so lost in thought she had no idea what was happening around her.

"Ororo," Xavier called quietly, when he'd approached close enough for her to hear him and not be startled, or he hoped so. Taking Storm by surprise at moments like this, he risked a close encounter with one of her lightning bolts. Not a happy experience. Then he noticed someone behind the plants. Someone he should've known would be out here...

XXX

Hawk was out by the plants near the entrance to the mansion. Storm was actually on the balcony at the railing. "Trying to decide whether or not to disturb her?" Professor X asked, rolling up behind Hawk.

Hawk looked at him as he came up next to her. Then back at Storm. "She doesn't even realize I'm here. She's too lost in thought. "

"Have you tried calling to her?"

Hawk looked at him. Being a telepath also, she knew what he was thinking. "You want to get struck by a lightning bolt, be my guest."

Professor X chuckled and rolled forward. "The forecast was for sunny skies."

Storm gasped and as she turned around to see Charles. "Oh," she said. "Sh-" Storm began under her breath.

Oot, Hawk sent telepathically. She wasn't one for adult foul language, and got a brief glare by Storm.

"I'm sorry," she said turning back to Professor X. Her eyes turned as silver as her hair. No sign of Iris or pupil. Indicating that her power was under her active control. The sky cleared and Storm's eyes reverted to brown again.

"I don't need to be psychic to see that something's bothering you," the Professor said.

Seeing that the adults needed to talk, Hawk decided to go back inside. "Well, I'm gonna go back inside," she said. "See ya, Storm."

"What? No eavesdropping this time?" Storm asked.

"Storm!"

The adults chuckled. Hawk looked at them mock-incredulously. "I don't think this conversation has anything to be eavesdropped on. Besides," she held up her book that she was holding. "I'm on a good part."

Storm rolled her eyes amusingly. "Get in there, Hawk."

"Later."

XXX

"My Grades are down from A's to D's. I'm way behind in History. I've lost myself in fantasies, Of you and me together. I don't know why-iy-iy but dreamin's all i do-do. I won't get by-iy-iy on mere imagination." There was a sudden knock on the door. "I got it!" She called, since she was closer. When she opened the door, she gasped in surprise when she saw a blue lion standing in front of the door.

"I'm sorry if I scared you-"

"No, no," Hawk said reassuringly. "It's alright. I'm just not used to seeing mutations quite like that. I mean, I'm used to seeing them on Shape-shifters and Wolfsbane, but not actually seeing them automatically..." Hawk knew she was probably going over the edge. She hated her social awkwardness. "Uh...are you here to see anyone specific?"

"I'm just here to see a couple of old friends."

"Follow me then," Hawk said, waving him inside. Professor you have a visitor, she sent out. Then she continued to sing softly. "Upside down, bouncin' off the ceilin.' Inside out, stranger to this feelin'. Got no clue what I should do I'll go crazy if I can't get next to you."

"What's that?" the guest asked.

"Bouncing off the ceiling by A*Teens," Hawk replied. "By the way, I never caught your name."

"Hank McCoy," Hank replied. "And you?"

"Hawk."

"Nice name," Hank said.

"I know, it's a little weird, but I like it." They reached the Professor's office. "The Professor and Storm are talking right now, but they should be in in a couple of minutes."

XXX

"I don't understand," Storm said, as she and the Professor crossed the threshold into the main foyer and on to the Professor's office. "Magneto's a fugitive, we have a mutant in the cabinet, a president who understands us- so why are we still hiding?"

"We are not hiding. But we still have enemies out there, and I must protect my students, you know that."

"Yes, but we can't be students forever."

Charles laughed. "Storm, I haven't thought of you as my student in years..."

They reached his office.

"... in fact, I thought that perhaps, you might take my place someday."

XXX

Storm wondered is she had heard correctly. "But, Scott's..."

"Scott is a changed man. He took Jean's death so hard. Yes things are better out there, but you of all people know how fast the weather can change."

"There's something you're not telling us."

He opened the door and she found her answer inside, looking at one of the paintings.

"Hank," she said, following Charles into the room.

"Ororo, Charles." Hank greeted Storm in the same manner as she came over and hugged him.

She ran her hand through his hair. "I just love what you've done with your hair."

"You too."

"Thanks."

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Henry," Charles replied, "You are always welcome here, you're apart of this place."

"I have news."

"Erick?" Charles asked, fearing the worst.

"No," Hank replied, shaking his great, shaggy head. "Although we have been making progress on that part. Mystique was recently apprehended."

"Who's the furball?" challenged a new arrival from the doorway.

Storm and Hank looked up to see Logan leaning against the door frame."

"Hank McCoy," Hank replied. "Secretary of mutant affairs."

"Right, right, the secretary," Logan replied, stepping into the room. The way he said Hank's title, it wasn't a compliment. "Nice suit."

Xavier sighed, mainly to himself. Not a great beginning. "Hank this is-"

"Wolverine," Hank finished. "I hear you're quite an animal."

"Look who's talkin'."

Storm was done watching this display of testosterone.

"You know going to come for Mystique, right?"

"Hope your prison has plastic screws," Logan offered.

"Magneto's not the problem. At least, not our most pressing one. A major pharmaceutical company has developed a mutant anti-body. A way to suppress the mutant gene."

"Suppress?" Logan asked after a very awkward silence.

"Permanently. They're calling it a cure."

Logan snorted in disgust, which took care of his opinion.

Storm spoke up. "Well that's ridiculous. You can't cure being a mutant."

"Well scientifically speaking-" Hank began, but she allowed him no further.

"Since when have we become a disease? How can anyone in their right-"

"Storm," Charles interrupted. Storm looked at him. "They're announcing it now."

XXX

On Alcatraz island, Warren Worthington Jr. was making an announcement to the press. "These mutants are people just like us. Their affliction is nothing more than a disease. A corruption of healthy cellular activity. But I stand here today to let you all know, that there is hope. And this site-" he pointed to the building behind him- "Once the world's most famous prison, will now be the resource to freedom for all mutants who chose it..."

XXX

Over in Washington D.C., President Cockrum and Bolivar Trask, wathced from inside the oval office. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the answer for mutation..."

XXX

Back at the Xavier Institute, all the kids gathered in the common rooms to see what all the fuss was all about. "Finally, we have a cure." Rogue let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Can they really cure us? she thought. Only one person had the answer.

Over in another common room, Hawk stood by the door until the announcement was over. What? She ran over to the Professor's office.

XXX

Storm looked ready to hit something, radiating a violent fury that seemed to secretly impress Logan, and Hank thought it was probably because it reminded the Wolverine of himself.

"Who would want this cure?" She demanded. "I mean what kind of coward would take it just to fit in?"

"Is it cowardice," Hank asked, next to her on the couch, "to save ones self from persecution? Not all of us can fit in so easily. You don't shed on the furniture."

Storm, Charles, and Hank smiled amusingly.

"Well, for all we know the government helped cook this up," Logan said, ruining the moment.

"I assure the government had nothing to do with this," Hank said defensively.

"Well, I've heard that before."

"My boy I have been fighting for mutant rights since before you had claws."

Storm looked at Hank and Logan, then sighed inwardly. Logan looked at her. "Did he just call me boy?"

There were the sound of footsteps headed their way. "Is it true?" Two voices asked. They all looked up to see Hawk and Rogue coming in. "Can they cure us?" Rogue asked.

Hawk looked at her friend, shocked at what she just heard. "Rogue..."

Charles looked at Rogue. "Yes, Rogue, it appears to be true."

There was an awkward silence. The Storm spoke up. "No, Professor, they can't cure us." She looked up at Rogue, got off the couch, and walked toward her. "D'you wanna know why? Because there's nothing to cure; nothing's wrong with you." She looked at the others. "Or any of us for that matter."

Rogue nodded, but Storm knew that her words had fallen on rock. Rogue heard, but would not listen.

Storm turned to Xavier, and this time the thunder wasn't shy. It came in a burst that shook the house like the end of the world, and the sunny day gave way to rain that fell in torrents. "Whoa," Hawk said.

Storm held Xavier's gaze. "Guess you were right about the weather," she said softly, then turned to leave. She stopped briefly when she reached Hawk. "Don't follow me." Then left.

"Wasn't going to," Hawk replied.

"I know you Hawk, don't."

XXX

When Hawk looked back into the room, Logan and Rogue were looking at her. She didn't have to be a telepath to know what they wanted. She sighed exasperatedly. "I'll go talk to her." Then secretly added. A little later when the storm has calmed down.

"Have you met our guest, Hawk?" the Professor asked.

Hank nodded. "Briefly."

"I brought him in here," Hawk added.

"What did Ororo mean when she told her 'not to follow her', and that she 'knew her'?" Hank asked.

"Hawk's the residential eavesdropping all out troublemaker," Logan replied.

"You know I can hear, you, right Logan?" Hawk said.

"Speaking of which, Hawk," the Professor said. "We're going to have a little talk about sending your animals to eavesdrop for you."

Hawk got a guilty look on her face. "Oops."

Logan and Rogue still had that look on their faces to go and talk to Storm. She sighed again. "I'll go talk to her." As she left, she started to grumble silently about that. Geez, guys, you act like I'm the only one who can come in on her bad moods. I might cross the line once in a while, but I know when it's a good idea not to.


Chapter End Notes:
Yeah, I'll also add the italices where they go later to.



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