Her red hair was piled messily upon her pillow, as Jean tossed and turned in her sleep in an almost childish manner. Her eyes were tightly closed, as if immense pressure were building in her eyes, which she didn't want to release. Jean let out a little protest, without using a single word. It seemed that her ability to use words had been stunted, and she could only hear the words of the terrifying presence in her nightmarish dream.

"Something is coming, little one."

"We will change the world . . . Forever."

The mind's eye of Jean was suddenly filled with terrible flame and brimstone that rained down from the sky, and the land that had become lava, presumably at the hands of the terrible being whose voice rang in her head.

"And there's nothing . . . nothing you can do to stop it."

"The world will soar into hell and brimstone..."

Jean saw herself and Scott in this land of fire and lava, standing on the only piece of solid rock in the belligerent landscape. To her utter horror, a gigantic fireball of lava and fire soared towards her and her love-- and Scott pushed Jean out of the way to save her.

"No!"

Jean cried out in her sleep and woke up abruptly, only to find herself in the familiar walls of the room that she and Scott shared. Looking over at Scott's side of the bed, she was thankful that he was asleep; she knew that Scott would always be there for her, but Jean didn't know how to tell him about this dream-- and, more importantly, how he would react.

Jean crouched on her side of the bed and glanced at the time. It was about one in the morning, so she held her head in her hands, hoping that she might coax herself into getting a little more sleep. But even as she slowly slipped into the clutches of sleep, Jean heard the powerful, booming voice in her head.

"Something is coming..."

Running. She had done nothing but run . . . for, god, how long? She counted on her swollen and red paws the days. It wasn't for days, or weeks . . . she had been running for six months. Her fur, once pristine and clean, was now tawny and brown. She couldn't imagine that she could get so dirty, even after such a long journey. But she was, and as the young girl who had borrowed the form of a wolf journeyed discreetly through the wilderness of New York. Breathing in the combination of city and semi-natural air, the formerly white wolf sniffed her way to her desired destination.

Thankfully for her, the journey through the "wilds" of New York lasted only a few weeks, until she found herself beholding a sight she'd never thought she'd see; the pristine Academy of Charles Xavier's 'gifted' children. But even through another animal's eyes, the young girl knew what it really was; it was a school for mutants, those born with amazing powers that scared the human world-- but not those of her own, the supernatural world, filled with magic and demons of all sorts. The young girl was, in fact, a teacher at a supernatural academy in her home, called Xaphania. So she wasn't afraid, but rather very tired, when she approached the academy's front door. She smiled inwardly, knowing from experience that wolves couldn't smile, as she pictured what might happen when the person who answered the door saw that a wolf had rang the doorbell. But she jumped up briefly on her hind legs anyway, and rang the doorbell, becoming fully aware of the calluses on her legs and paws, and the blood and pus that oozed from them as she applied pressure on the doorbell-- which wasn't really a bell, she soon realized. It was a doorknocker, and the girl exhausted all of the power in her legs and feet while desperately knocking the metal against the fine wood of the door. Xavier better answer, she thought to herself, slipping uncontrollably away from consciousness. Or I better not change back.

But she would have no say over her own state of being, as the door was opened just as she was completing the third knock. Logan answered the door, wondering who would actually use the first door, since every other member of the X-men and Professor Xavier had gone out either for fun or business. To his great surprise, a bruised, bleeding, and dirty wolf fell on top of him. He could tell it was a female by its markings and the way it stood to "greet" him, but it was still heavy as it made him topple against the wall just opposite the doorway. Logan was about to gather it up in his arms, but then something happened that he would never forget, if he lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and five.

It changed into a woman. A rather young woman, in fact, with black and brown hair, and a face that angels would kill for—and had killed for, unbeknownst to him. But Logan blushed, and was further amazed at another attribute of the woman.

She wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing, aside from two necklaces around her neck that he couldn't take off of her. Logan winced as she lay in his arms, her neck encircled by two necklaces . . . they looked painful, coming dangerously close to hugging her jugular vein.

Logan swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on what he should do, as he could feel most of the curves her young, but still womanly body possessed. The girl, who looked about seventeen years of age (by virtue of her face), wrapped her arms about Logan's neck while following her subconscious instincts. Her skin was perfectly pale, and her mouth curiously close to his neck as she whispered, with a distinct British accent in her throat and voice, "Help me."

Her eyes narrowed painfully, and she dropped, unconscious, into Logan's arms.

Logan knew that he had to help her; leaving a naked woman outside wasn't exactly moral—not by anyone's standards. He decided to try to lift her; though he didn't know if he could. It wasn't that she was heavy-set, but that she was unusually muscular for a teenager. However, to his surprise, he carried the young girl quite easily. It was as if all of the extra weight that she had had while she was a wolf had just melted away. Smiling to himself, thinking, I'm not old yet, he carried the girl so that her developed physique wouldn't be visible—to him, anyway. Logan didn't want to make the girl feel violated or anything of the sort when she woke up.

If she woke up.

Logan gently placed the girl on a medical table in the spookily quiet med bay. He placed her on her back, making sure that she would be comfortable. Blushing as he did so, Logan got some medical blankets for the young girl. He hoped that she wouldn't be cold—or feel that something awful had transpired when she woke up. He didn't want to think that this young girl had died—he didn't know her at all, but somehow he felt for her situation.

Maybe it was the fact that she was almost like him—a girl seemingly without a past, who wouldn't remember when she awoke. But Logan felt a brief moment of pity as he glanced upon her face; she was so young. . . . not a day over seventeen, it seemed. But she had gone through such hardship to come here—and willingly.

Logan smiled, and, leaning over her haphazardly covered body, planted chaste kisses on the girl's cheek and forehead. It was done in a fatherly way, though Logan hadn't felt that way about anyone since he brought Rogue to the Academy. But Logan was lost in the moment when he took the girl's hand, holding it for support. He couldn't say whether it was just for the girl—or for him as well.

But he didn't want to analyze anything he did—not at the present moment. All he wanted to do was to wait for the young girl to stir, and to help her more if he could.

He didn't even hear the roar of the X-jet as it landed outside the complex Academy.