School Daze

Tom Worthington dipped his fingers into a pot of red paint and began to dab enthusiastically at the sheet of paper in front of him, making dappled marks on the wings of the butterfly that had been initially sketched onto the paper for him. Then he started to trace the pencil lines of the butterfly with blue paint, enthusiastically ignoring some of the boundaries between butterfly and background as he made large, squashed-together hand-prints on the paper skyline. "Do you like it, Uncle Petey?" he asked the man kneeling next to him as he sat at his low painting table, an apron covering his clothes and a tarpaulin set out underneath the table to catch any stray paint that might try escaping onto the floor.

"Da," said Piotr Rasputin, who had been flown to Westchester from the headquarters of Excalibur at Tom's parents' request, "I think it is very good. Perhaps you would like to try some more after this is finished? I have many more sketches that you can colour if you like."

Tom nodded, a broad smile spreading across his paint-flecked blue features, and began smearing paint all over the page again. Behind him, Warren and Betsy watched their son happily drawing long lines of scarlet onto the butterfly's body, and touched Piotr's shoulder as he began guiding Tom's hand to a new colour. "Don't, Peter," Betsy murmured softly. "The worst thing you can do is tell a child what they should be doing." She laughed. "Besides, you should know yourself that artistic expression won't put up with being contained."

"You may be right," Piotr said, as Tom put two fingers into the green pot of paint by his left hand and began speckling the gaps between his red dots with green zigzag markings. "He is certainly an expressive young man. This is a very lively panting he has produced – has he ever considered becoming an artist professionally?"

"No," Warren chuckled. "I think he wants to be an astronaut today. Yesterday he was going to be a race-car driver, and the day before that he was going to go deep-sea diving for a living – I think he takes after his mother that way. Maybe you shouldn't keep taking him on all those trips into the Danger Room, Betts."

Betsy raised an eyebrow, a wry smile spreading across her face. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Warren – if you can take him flying every other weekend, the least I can do is to take him on a dragon hunt. Incidentally, Peter, he wanted to be a knight last week. I tried to tell him that knights didn't exist any more, but then he showed me a picture of the Black Knight in the newspaper. You should have seen his face when he knew he had his Mummy beaten."

"I can imagine that that would have been a sight to witness," Piotr said. "Perhaps I could have turned it into a good painting?"

"Yes, and then you'd have to start learning how to draw without your drawing hand," Betsy replied flatly. "Better not to risk it, wouldn't you say?"

"Undoubtedly," Piotr said, with a wink. "After all, I would not want to upset you."

"There's a good boy. You're learning," Betsy said, before she knelt down next to her son and said "How are you doing, sweetheart?"

"I'm nearly finished, Mummy!" Tom exclaimed in excitement. He pointed at the butterfly, which was now covered in a riot of greens, blues and reds, and beamed at his mother, obviously awaiting her approval. Betsy knew that ordinarily she would have considered such a thing to be thoroughly over-the-top, a crime against good colour co-ordination, and distinctly lacking in any sense of style – but her son had done it, and as such all of the criticisms she might have levelled against it were rendered completely moot. She thought it was beautiful, and she wanted to get it framed as soon as it had dried. Picking her son up and enveloping him in her arms as she sat him on her lap, she kissed him on the top of one ear and squeezed him with a gentle, loving movement.

"I think it's absolutely wonderful," she said, truthfully. "But you know what I think would look even better?"

Tom shifted himself on her lap to get a better look at his mother, a quizzical expression crossing his small face. "What?"

"If I painted you," Betsy said, and she dipped a finger into a pot of blue paint, wiping a dab of it onto her son's nose before he could react. "See? I think it's a great idea."

"Mummy!" Tom shrieked, horrified. "Don't be silly!"

Betsy laughed. "I'm sorry, sweetheart – perhaps you should paint me to make up for it? Here, I'll start for you." She used a finger's-worth of purple paint to draw a thin line down the centre of her own nose. "How do I look?"

"Silly Mummy!" Tom said again, beginning to giggle, before he took some green paint on the end of a small finger and wiped it down his mother's cheek. Betsy almost squealed as he did so, using the rest of the purple paint to quickly draw a circle on her son's forehead. Tom hopped off his mother's lap then and began to run towards the door. "Can't catch me!" he yelled at the top of his voice, before Warren quickly reached out and scooped his son up in both hands.

"Oh no you don't, little man," Warren said sternly. "Come back here and face the painting." He sat down next to Tom and wiped two long streaks of red down his son's face. "Mommy's not going to have all the fun."
"I hope I will be permitted to join in too?" Piotr said to a suddenly grouchy-looking Tom. "Am I allowed to play?" Tom's expression brightened instantly then, and he nodded, making a few green fingerprints on Piotr's cheek and chin at the same time as Piotr was dabbing orange lines onto Betsy's neck and Warren's forehead.

I am so going to need a shower when we're done here, Warren thought to Betsy.

She looked back at him and smiled. It's worth it, though, don't you think?

Totally, he agreed, before sketching a dappled pattern of blue spots onto his wife's cheeks.

Rebecca Braddock sat cross-legged on the grass of the Xavier Institute's rear lawn, next to her fiancé Sam Guthrie and a picnic basket full of sweet, sugary treats. Lying on a changing mat spread over the blanket they were sitting on was their little daughter Hannah, who flexed her small clawed hands and burbled happily while Rebecca changed her nappy and gave her fur a good brushing.

"Hard to believe she's almost six months old, ain't it?" Sam said, stroking his daughter's forehead with his fingers. She purred loudly at that, raising her head a little so that she could get as much contact between her father and herself. "Seems like only yesterday she was just a newborn kitten."

Rebecca nodded, fastening a new terrycloth nappy around Hannah's waist and pinning it up carefully. "She's certainly grown fast, hasn't she?" She smiled. "I bet Hank's going to love giving her horsey rides around the garden when she's a little older."

"Your kid brother probably wouldn't let her," Sam laughed. "I tell you, that kid is pretty forceful when he wants to be."

"He can't help that, Sam; he's got Braddock in his blood. We're like that," Rebecca replied, with a broad grin. She fastened Hannah's nappy and smiled down at her daughter, who laughed at her expression happily. Rebecca raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Sam. "I don't look that funny, do I?" Before Sam could answer, she continued "On second thought, don't answer that."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sam chuckled. Kneeling close to Hannah, he helped her to sit upright and shook a circular rattle at her, letting her clutch at it and put it in her mouth. Rebecca had noticed that she'd been doing this more and more, and she had asked Hank about it. He'd told her that it was probably her daughter's first tooth coming through, most likely one of the two lower front teeth, and that she needed to be watchful that Hannah's gums didn't get infected after feeding. Another thing to watch out for, Rebecca thought, once more feeling exhausted at the sheer number of details a mother had to remember. Putting that thought away for the moment, she picked up one of Hannah's building blocks and, after waiting for Sam to put the rattle down, placed the block into Hannah's small hand. Looking delighted, Hannah shook the block excitedly, before dropping it on the blanket and watching it roll into the side of the wicker picnic basket. She wailed loudly, her lip beginning to tremble, and Sam quickly had to rescue the block and give it back to her before the wailing became a fully-fledged tantrum. She could sense his relief as Hannah began to examine the block with great fascination. The contrasting colours of red and blue seemed to captivate her, and Rebecca could feel her daughter's intense interest. It wasn't a fully-fledged emotion yet, but it was getting closer all the time, and she loved feeling the mental sensation of her daughter growing up.

"Hey, you," she said, leaning down so that she was close to Hannah, and gently taking the block away so that she could hide it behind her back. Hannah looked deeply angry that the block had vanished again, and Rebecca could feel a scream building in her throat. What the hell are you doin'? Sam thought to her, and she gave him a strong mental reassurance that she knew exactly what she was doing, and he shouldn't worry. "Oh no!" she exclaimed. "Where's that naughty block gone?" Then she brought the block back around to her front, and Hannah's face lit up, ecstatic. "There it is!" she said, and Hannah hooted loudly with laughter. "There's that naughty block!" She hid it once more, and Hannah frowned when it disappeared, but again burst out laughing when it came back.

"Looks like you're a natural," Sam told her with a chuckle. "But then again, I've been sayin' that ever since the little one arrived, so that ain't no surprise, I guess." Thunder boomed in the sky, almost directly next to the Institute's gardens, and Sam glanced up as the rapidly-darkening clouds above started to spit raindrops sporadically onto the lawn. "Looks like we'd better get inside before this gets any worse," he suggested quickly. Rebecca nodded, so Sam pushed himself to his feet and began to pack the food they had brought out with them back into the wicker picnic basket, spreading a cloth over them to keep them as fresh as possible. Rebecca clutched Hannah to her chest to try and share some body heat, and felt her daughter snuggling as close to her as possible, beginning to purr again, quietly, as she did so. She kissed Hannah on the top of her furry scalp and began to sing a lullaby to her as she and Sam walked back to the mansion, watching Hannah nestle against her chest, her fur slightly raised to keep her as warm as possible. Bobby had once said that she looked like a ball of fluff when she was cold, and right now Rebecca was finding it hard to disagree with that statement.

When they were safely indoors, Rebecca and Sam retreated to the room they shared together, and set Hannah down on their bed. She looked a little disgruntled that she'd been moved indoors, but she was otherwise still cheerful – Rebecca could sense that she was happy being around her parents because they were familiar. That wasn't exactly how her mind was putting it, of course, but the essence of it was the same. She leant down and nuzzled Hannah with her nose, and she and her daughter rubbed cheeks gently, like house cats meeting in the morning. Sam walked over to the bedroom's door, leaned against the doorframe, and said "You know, if you want me to go get y'all a saucer of milk, I'm sure that can be arranged."

"Don't push it, Sam," Rebecca told him lightly. "We both have claws, remember?" As if to emphasise her words, she raised her left fist and extended a crackling psychic knife. Its ruby-red colour cast an incandescent glow around the room, reflecting off the large mirror on top of the dressing table and off the screen of the plasma television set that was bolted to the wall opposite the bed. "You'd better watch your mouth, unless you want to be used as a scratching post."

"Promises, promises," Sam laughed, and then moved towards the bed, sitting down on the opposite side to Rebecca so that Hannah could see both of her parents clearly. "Hey, little lady," he said softly, taking a brightly-coloured stuffed dog from the box of toys that was pushed right up to the edge of the bed. "Look what I found!" He waved it gently, causing the bells on the dog's collar to jangle loudly. Hannah giggled and held out her hands, so Sam gave her the dog and watched her shaking it, getting more and more excited as the bells sounded with every movement. "Wow," he breathed. "She's wonderful, ain't she?"

"Completely," Rebecca said, resting her head on one hand as she lay on the bed watching her daughter. "I could sit here all day…"

The Danger Room was, unusually for this time of day, filled with the sounds of combat. Logan, in full training uniform, fought beside his new adopted daughter, Laura, as she was running through her paces in his own personally-designed (and lethal, since the safety protocols were automatically switched off whenever it began) callisthenics programme. She howled as she ducked under the wild swipe of a bull-faced beast-man's club, and made it pay for that mistake by jabbing the claws on her right hand into its face while bringing up a knee to hit it in the groin. As it fell, clutching its ruined eyes, she flicked out the claw on her right foot and casually disembowelled it with one swift kick, causing it to blink out of existence. Logan took his eyes off her elegant and deadly ballet long enough to slice off the arm of a giant bipedal lizard-creature, the arm's clawed fingers flipping open and closed as it fell limply to the ground. Swaying out of the range of the lizard-man's remaining arms, Logan slashed down with the claws on his right hand and carved three deep lines into the creature's body, ripping apart flesh and bone alike. The beast staggered backwards and Logan seized the opportunity to retract his claws and tackle it round the waist, driving it to the floor, where he extended both sets of claws again and drove them into the thing's chest almost up to the hilt. It screamed, thrashing weakly as Logan ripped his claws free and sprang to his feet, hurling himself at his next target. It was a holographic rendition of Sabretooth – Logan often liked to practice his skills against his old enemy, even if the holographic rehearsals were never as raw or brutal as the real thing.

"Long time no see, runt," the hologram chuckled. "Let's dance." It curled its lip, baring one of its enlarged canines, and then charged forwards, its massive bulk barrelling through the mass of other creatures in front of it. Logan ducked its initial swipe, but cried out in pain as the claws on the hologram's other hand sliced into his belly. The feeling only lasted a few seconds, of course, but he never liked having to get his practice costume fixed after a session like this. For one thing, it meant having to listen to Beast complaining about how he was always spending too much time correcting his colleagues' mistakes, and Logan knew he didn't want to hear that again – at least not for a while. The hologram noticed his ripped suit and sneered at him. "Gettin' old, runt," it sneered. "Never would've clipped you like that ten years ago."

"Don't count on it becomin' a habit, bub," Logan said, his voice almost a growl, and hit out with a kick, one of his muscular legs swinging towards the hologram's torso and impacting against the hard-light equivalent of Creed's adamantium ribs. It didn't do much except stagger his opponent, but that was enough to let him bring his claws down across its face, carving it open from ear to mouth. The hologram stumbled backwards for a moment, and then grinned back at Logan while its cheek zipped itself closed. When the flesh had fully healed, it touched its face and raised its eyebrows.

"Now that's more like it," it said in a vaguely impressed tone. And then it charged, three hundred and fifty pounds of simulated muscle barrelling towards Logan with only one intention. Logan knew that, and had to fight against his every instinct not to return the favour. Instead, as it closed with him, he dropped onto his back, stuck a leg into its gut, and flipped it into the nearest wall. The sound of the impact echoed throughout the Danger Room, and Logan took advantage of the momentary respite to move closer to his target, both sets of claws extended and ready. Before the Creed-doppelganger could rise to its feet, he had driven both knees into its chest and pinned it to the floor.

"Game over, Creed," he snarled, and raised his hand to deliver a deathblow. Before he could do so, however, the hologram had raised one clawed hand and fastened it around his throat.

"Think again, runt," it croaked. "Looks like we got a little Mexican stand-off here, don't it? You pop those claws into my head, I'll still pull your damn throat out. Maybe if you –" Suddenly, the hologram's words were cut off, and its eyes rolled upwards in its skull as it started to convulse spasmodically, twitching as if it had been given a massive electric shock. Logan glanced upwards so that he was looking ahead of himself instead of down at Creed, and what he saw took him totally by surprise. In front of him he could see Laura, one of her foot-claws embedded up to the hilt in the skull of the hologram. For a second, Logan waited for her to spring at him, thinking that she had gone into a berserker rage involuntarily, but instead she simply stood looking at him, blinking back confusion as she pulled her foot-claw free of its target.

"Did I… did I do something wrong?" she asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Didn't you want me to help you?"

"No, kid, you did fine," Logan said, pushing himself to his feet and taking her by the hand. "You're a fast learner – that'll get you a long way here, that's for damn sure..."