Part 1 - His Burning Eye

That year, the year it all started, New York saw snow in the middle of summer. A chain of blizzards ripped through the state, one after another, smothering the landscape in bleak, glittering white. With every exhale, clouds of frozen breath congealed midair, stubbornly refusing to dissipate as they clung and climbed the falling, leaden snow. Inhaling was a far less placid action, oxygen absorption involving cutting gasps that left aching, unshakeable cold deep inside the chests of all unfortunate enough to depend on breathing for survival. Charcoal storm clouds hung low in the sky, wrapping around the earth like a scratchy woolen blanket; sunlight became a precious commodity. That year, the year it all started, New York's summer was not an environment that lent itself well towards fostering a desire to live.

Being invulnerable didn't mean escape from the cold. Being invulnerable meant not having to share the grounds of Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters in Westchester as an escape from the twisted tragedy inside the mansion. The walls of the building seemed to bow outwards from the sheer amount of hatred constantly oozing from the resounding majority of its inhabitants. The Wolverine could smell the hate; it was making him sick with rage. The Wolverine couldn't entirely leave the hate behind; it clung to his clothing, lingering despite being bombarded with flying razors of ice.

"Logan," She approached slowly, her voice holding all its usual softness, but shaking from the strain of anguish, frustration, and exhaustion. He knew those were the reasons because he felt them inside himself, too, felt them digging into his flesh and settling in. After all the misfortune leading up to that moment, a future without the hopelessness and anger seemed completely out of reach.

"'Ro," The man responded gruffly, continuing to take slow puffs of his cigar, loosing plumes of rich, dense smoke into the dusk. For a few moments, the pair retreated into silence, watching as a vague, sickly glow from behind the clouds descended below the horizon. It was probably the sun, but it had been so long since either had seen the bright star that they couldn't know for sure.

Shades of gray bled together, and then the world was black; a barrage of cold crystal shards continued to relentlessly assault them from out of the darkness. "How's Gumbo?" Logan finally grunted, breaking the stillness of their reverie.

"I am afraid there has been no change in his condition," Ororo replied softly, her white hair whipping backwards, leaving her dark face fully exposed to the elements she was wielding without mercy, "I have had no luck talking him out of his depression. He still will not speak or eat, and does nothing but stare at the ceiling."

It wasn't the answer either of them was hoping for, but it was the truth, the despicable truth and also the reason they had both sought solitude in the blizzard: Remy LeBeau was broken. A whole month had passed since he was recovered from Antarctica, after having been abandoned there, betrayed by his own teammates. For a whole month, the young Cajun had done nothing but shiver in silence. Those who loved him--they were few but loyal--were disturbed most by his complete lack of anger, of emotion entirely. The frostbite would eventually heal, as would the damage to his sensitive eyes and the deep, jagged gashes on both his wrists, but a fear hung heavy in the mutants' hearts that the young thief's vivacious and intelligent mind was injured beyond repair, that they'd been far too late to save their friend.

Logan wanted him to scream, and swear, and threaten to blow them all sky high; Ororo wanted him to rave, and cry, and let her nurse him back to the vibrant spirit he once was; Remy only laid in bed, near catatonic, with no outward signs of life beside the steady beep... beep... beep... of the monitors hooked to his chest.

With a deep sigh, Logan tried to lighten the mood, a task not generally left up to the short-tempered Canadian, by requesting, "Can't ya do something about all this snow?"

"No," The weather witch responded, her voice a growl that would have been more fitting coming from the feral at her side, "Those responsible for my brother's condition shall freeze as he did. I only regret not being able to remove them from the safety of their beds and strand them with nothing but the clothes on their worthless backs."

The fire in her voice prompted Logan to finally send a sideways glance towards the woman, and he nearly smirked at the uncharacteristic fury written all over her proud, striking features. Only the reason behind the fury kept his amusement in check. "Down, 'Ro," He joked dryly, deadpan as he grasped his cigar firmly in the corner of his mouth, "Freeze the bastards all ya want, just do me a favor and keep the snow under six feet. I'm gonna do one last patrol of the grounds before I lock up, and wading through powder over my head'll be a real pain in the ass."

"I am sorry, my friend," She murmured quietly, looking towards the sky. After a moment of concentration, her dark eyes went completely white. The winds died. The steady fall of snow ceased only a few minutes later. When she turned her eyes back on the man beside her, they were normal once more.

Giving a gruff nod rather than a smile, Logan stated, "Thanks. Makes my job a hell of a lot easier. Now, get yourself back inside before you catch something."

"You are welcome, Logan," Ororo breathed, turning away from him and walking along the narrow shoveled path that lead away from the edge of the frozen pond and back to the mansion, "Do not be too long. I will be with Remy if you need me."

He nodded, and listened to the retreat of her light, graceful footsteps, tracking her movement until he was sure she was within the safe, albeit hostile mansion. Alone again, Logan continued to smoke in the darkness and ignore the nausea still churning inside his gut. One of the few things he knew for sure in life is that nothing can mask the stench of hatred.

Although he was by no accounts a religious man, the Wolverine couldn't help offering a silent prayer for the Cajun's recovery to whatever higher powers might be listening.

And then he set off to stalk the school's perimeter, with no idea that an answer was already waiting to be found.

xxXxx

Remy LeBeau couldn't figure out whether he was alive or dead. He should've been dead. He was stranded in Antarctica for nearly two months, and, in a delirious fit of cold, exhaustion, and hunger, slit his wrists to end his own suffering. Slowly, numb warmth had come over his body. The blinding, searing white of his surroundings faded to a peaceful black as he bled into the ice, and he thought it was all finally over.

But he opened his eyes to find that he was in a private room in the medlab of the X-Mansion. He was still unbearably cold, his whole body ached horrendously, and Dr. Hank McCoy was putting a Very Large Needle into his arm. The immediate thought that passed through the young Cajun's mind was "Merde, I'm in hell. Shoulda known."

However, he caught sight of Storm at his bedside. She had one of his hands in both of hers, softly stroking his knuckles as she smiled down at him. She had tears in her eyes, and whispered, "Welcome back, my brother." He couldn't really be in hell then. He loved Storm; she made him happy, and doesn't hell have some kind of rule against the presence of anything that makes its inhabitants happy?

He had to be dead though. He'd killed himself. Heaven was out of the question. As far as Remy was concerned, doctors were not allowed through the gates, and besides that, his powers were nearly nonexistent. He was weak to the point of being useless. Maybe it was purgatory? Ok, that made sense. So he just had to sit back and serve his sentence like Tante always told him, "Purgatory's where ya go to get cleansed and readied fo' Heaven, a place o' punishment fo' dose who depart dis life in God's grace, mais not havin' fully paid de penance due fo' dere sins." If that was the case, he certainly had a long wait ahead of him, what with all the stealing, swearing, sex, and murder.

It was hard ignoring the fake Storm and all her pleas for him to speak, but he deemed it necessary. He thought it was best not to let himself ever believe that this place where he was to serve his punishment had somehow gone back to reality.

"Hello, Remy," Storm was back again, standing over him with that pained, loving smile that made his heart break, "How are you feeling?" He didn't answer. If he answered, that would mean he believed she was real, and she wasn't. She wasn't. He continued to stare straight up. His adoptive sister sighed, gently carding her slender fingers through his unwashed auburn hair. Her hands felt so warm, and good, and alive. He closed his eyes and tried to remember that hope was useless.

xxXxx

Trampling through snow up to his chest was not high on Logan's list of things he enjoyed. However, he was far too security conscious to skip off on his nightly perimeter check due to a little bad weather. Still, he was snarling quietly to himself as he waded his way up to the gate. Only one thing left: inspecting the locks and keypad on the outside. Then he could get back inside, get a beer, and maybe spend a little quality time trying to smack some sense into Gumbo.

With those pleasant thoughts to distract from his annoyance and anger, the Wolverine unlocked and opened the big metal gate. Fortunately, the snow on the other side was mostly plowed, and he didn't sink completely into it. He was free to do a quick examination of the security precautions and discover, yet again, that no one had attempted to sabotage them.

But a set of nearly covered tire tracks were pressed into the snow, marking where a vehicle had stopped near the wall, where people had gotten out and approached the gate for some unknown reason. The tracks were probably only a half hour or so old and they were not a set he recognized. The snikt of Adamantium claws cutting from Logan's knuckles seemed unusually loud in the peaceful, still night, but he hardly noticed, carefully sniffing the air for any signs of intruders.

He did smell something, but he wasn't at all sure what it was. The scent was... young... fresh... completely free from the hate he was expecting... bloody? It was also faint and... dying? The man swore under his breath, searching harder for the source. A little scrap of purple from underneath a snow bank to the right of the gate got his attention.

Instantly, he retracted his claws, and rushed straight for the spot of color. And then he was digging, cursing wildly as he struggled to find the poor person who had apparently gotten buried when the plow came by. Logan hoped it was just some stupid kid who'd been playing by the side of the road, not paying attention. He wasn't at all prepared to suddenly find himself holding a tiny blue-faced infant in his hands.

xxXxx

"Logan, microwave some bags of saline immediately! Jean, begin CPR! ORORO!" Remy mentally cursed as the big blue doctor stuck his furry, fanged head into the room. All that screaming was making the ache behind his eyes throb even more painfully. Then, of course, he remembered that this was supposed to be a punishment for all the bad things he'd done in life, and resigned himself to enduring the pain.

At his side, the dozing Storm was startled into full alertness, jumping to her feet and answering, "Hank? What is the matter?"

With a profoundly disturbed, harried frown, Dr. McCoy replied, "I need one of the electric blankets and heat lamps from Remy's room! Please bring them out right away!" His urgent and frightened demeanor was contagious, spreading to Ororo without delay as she complied with his request, and rushed out to see what was happening in the medlab proper.

Remy couldn't help but be intrigued himself. In all the time he'd been suspended in this limbo, nothing like what had just occurred had taken place. The break of routine was enough to make him curious enough to want to investigate, so he carefully sat up for the first time in a month. He brushed the wires off his chest, and winced queasily as he pulled the I.V. out of his arm. Free from monitors and fluid drips, the young Cajun shakily made his way towards the raucous of activity going on in the other room.

As soon as he got to the open door, his strength waned. He had to lean heavily on the frame to keep standing while trying to get his head to stop spinning and his knees to stop threatening to buckle. The fact that he was only wearing thin, blue hospital scrubs didn't help matters. Violent shivers were already overtaking his body, breathing was difficult with his pneumatic lungs, and the cold tile felt like it was burning the soles of his frostbitten feet. The bright light stung his eyes despite the black-out shades he wore.

Still, all these things didn't stop Remy from watching with quiet fascination as four X-Men ran circles around the room, horror written on all their faces. Jean Grey was openly weeping as she bent over a small lump of blue and purple fabric in the middle of one of the gurneys, and Logan looked more murderous than usual, quite near vomiting at the same time. The doctor had one of those Very Large Needles in his clawed hands, but it wasn't until he stuck the lump of fabric with it that Remy came to realize that it was not, in fact, a lump of fabric.

It was a baby.

Its skin was a blue he knew too well to be from expose to extreme cold. Patches of his own skin had turned the same shade after just his first few days in Antarctica, and had progressed quickly to necrotic black that still had yet to fully fade from the tips of his toes. The purple blanket wrapped around the small creature had obviously done just as poorly a job protecting its owner as his own clothing had done for him.

"I can't find a vein," Hank moaned heartbrokenly, breathing hard as he stepped back, a look of utter hopelessness and defeat marring his usually kind face, "Or a pulse." The room became very quiet, only the sounds of Jean's sobbing and continued attempts at CPR echoing off the institutional white of the walls.

Slowly, Ororo stepped forward and laid a hand on the redhead's arm, stating softly, "We can do no more. She is gone, child."

"No! No! No!" Jean responded, frantic in her efforts, "We can still save her! She's just a baby! There has to be something we can do!" Not even able to believe herself, the end of Jean's declaration turned to sobs of grief, and Ororo quickly pulled the redhead into a comforting embrace. Crying silently as well, Storm lead her teammate out of the room, letting the young woman bawl onto her shoulder. Logan left soon after, and, from the look on his face, both Hank and Remy assumed he was off to take out his overwhelming frustration and anger in the Danger Room.

The doctor was wiping tears out of his own eyes as he methodically shut down the monitors and other equipment he never gotten a chance to use, carefully covering the body of the infant with the scrap of purple fabric before leaving the room. He needed to inform Professor Xavier of his failure.

Remy suddenly found himself all alone. Still leaning against the doorframe, he didn't realize he was crying until the trails of salt on his cheeks began to cool and sting. He sniffed in confusion, bringing his hands up to feel the tears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. He hadn't even done so when Rogue left him... This certainly was a very sadistic form of punishment. What exactly had he done to deserve to witness such an atrocity? He hadn't been that bad, had he?

And then he was taking cautious steps towards the covered body, for some reason intent on seeing it, needing to see it. His hands shook violently as he peeled back the blanket, and a choked sob left his throat.

It was a girl, a tiny, naked baby girl, limp and prone on the gurney. Her skin was blue and waxen, her chest not rising and falling like it should have been. The little body was still spattered in a thin film of blood and birth fluid. She couldn't have been more than a few hours old.

The soft wisp of black fuzz a top her head wasn't enough to cover the smooth crimson horns right jutting from below her hairline. Aside from the obvious mutation, she looked a lot like his little nephews just after they were born. He hadn't seen his family in years, and ached with the desire to just make sure that none of them had ended up like this.

Tenderly, he swaddled her in the blanket, like his sister-in-law, Mercy, had taught him soon after his first nephew, Nicolas, was born. That was already four or five years in the past, but the skill was still almost automatic. When the little bundle was made, he tucked it under his arm, humming a broken lullaby he remembered from his Tante Mattie as he used a corner of the purple fabric to clean the infant's pretty face. She was so cold. He brushed his fingertips lightly through her hair, and promised repentance for all his sins if only that would save the girl.

He was startled when he noticed himself charging the blanket, even more so when he saw the baby's blue body charge as well. It was an odd time for his powers to manifest, especially after having been out of commission for so long. He wasn't supposed to be able to charge people, either. That couldn't be good. He really didn't want to blow the little creature up, so he concentrated as hard as he could on just letting the energy flow through him and into her and harmlessly back out. I felt odd, but somehow right, like he was sharing the good part of himself with a child who obviously needed it. She glowed like an angel.

And then it stopped. He took the charge away, finally noticing that he'd never stopped his soft lullaby. Even though he felt utterly drained from the effort, a wry smile spread over his face. Color came back into the girl's, and she fussed weakly in his arms, like she was waking up cranky from a nap. Gambit choked on his own surprise, sending himself into a slight coughing fit.

As soon as he managed to calm down, the baby in his arms suddenly opened her mouth and let out several loud, healthy wails, filling the silence of the cold room. Suspended somewhere between panic and glee, the Cajun rocked her, shushing softly even as he had to struggle to keep himself conscious and breathing.

The cries quieted much quicker than he expected, the girl snuggling and yawning and babbling like a normal baby should have been doing all along. Remy almost couldn't bear the elated smile on his face. It spread even wider when she opened her eyes.

"Ey, petite," He cooed, waving a finger at her sweet little face as she squirmed to free herself from the blanket. With minimal effort, she loosed her arms, and immediately grabbed onto the finger. Her fist was tiny in comparison, blunt fingernails made of the same dark red, shiny bone as the horns on her forehead.

"Name's Remy," The smiling thief introduced, "An' you have de most belle eyes dis Cajun's ever seen."

xxXxx

Several hours later, Hank McCoy slowly dragged himself into his lab, having been given the immensely regrettable job of preparing the infant's body for burial. Everyone who heard the unfortunate story had insisted on a funeral, and the Professor was more than happy to oblige. The idea of a mutant baby being dumped like that had definitely hit very close to home for the inhabitants of the mansion. The other X-Men and assorted students were still tearfully debating what name should be put on the headstone. So far, she was just Baby X, and Beast had a suspicion that was what she would remain. Consensus wasn't something that came easy to his team.

When he walked through the door, the doctor stopped in his tracks and did an immediately double take. He could not be seeing what he thought he was seeing. He rubbed his eyes. He shook his head. He checked himself for an imaginary fever. The scene did not change.

Remy LeBeau was out of his room. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, on top of an electric blanket. He had another draped around his shoulders, and had set up four heat-lamps in a circle around himself. A tender smile graced his tired face as he spoke in soft gasps of French to a little bundle of purple cloth in his arms.

Beast thought the young man had cracked, that he was deluding himself into believing the infant was still alive, and the doctor immediately began coming up with ways to extract the body from Remy without traumatizing him anymore. He was obviously unwell.

Then the girl began to swing her arms, screeching happily before firmly grasping Remy's nose. "Ouch, petite," He chuckled breathlessly, struggling with the weak, ragged state of his lungs, "Remy don't think dat particular piece o' himself comes off, oui?" In response, the very much alive Baby X gurgled, and then began to scream.

"Y' hungry, hun?" The Cajun observed quietly, giving the girl a finger to suck on, "Désolé, chéri. Remy don' got no food for ya. Can't get up no more either. We just wait here til somebody finds us, d'accord?"

Beast was snapped out of his confusion by the obvious fact that the young Cajun needed some help. "Oh my stars and garters!" He cried, rushing forward to attend to both his patients, "Remy, you're up! What... how... baby..." For once, the brilliant physician was at a loss for words.

That made the thief smile. "Oh, bonjour, Hank," He laughed, having to pause and catch his breath before continuing, "Where ya been? Remy an' de petite got stuck down here."

"I-I apologize," The doctor offered lamely, carefully assisting Remy in standing, guiding him to take a seat on one of the gurneys, "I... had no idea you were up."

"Think you could get a bottle for de petite?" Remy requested, acting like he hadn't heard a word said to him as he continued to play with the fidgeting girl in his arms, "She gettin' real cranky, and nobody likes a cranky bébé."

Nodding without pause, Hank answered, "Of course, I will see to it immediately, but I should examine the infant first." Shrugging, Remy muttered unhappily, "If you need to. Jus' be careful wit her."

Again, the doctor nodded, and bent over the girl. His eyes went wide when he saw hers: dark, glowing rubies set in flawless onyxes. "How-" He gasped, unable to express that she hadn't had those when he checked her pupils a few hours ago. She'd had hazel eyes. They were dull and lifeless.

"Remy," Hank breathed in amazement, "She has... how did you do this? How did you resuscitate her? Change her eyes?"

The thief shrugged, auburn hair falling into his own dimming eyes as he explained casually, "Accidentally charged her, den took it back, and she started to cry. You gonna get dat bottle, homme, or do me an' de petite have to start someting wit ya?"

"In a moment," He responded, still fixated on this odd turn of events as he gently took Baby X from the reluctant Cajun and put a stethoscope to her frail chest, "Please, explain to me exactly what happened."

"Already told ya," Remy yawned, laying back on the gurney, curling himself into a ball underneath the blissful warmth of his electric blanket, "Charged de petite, uncharged de petite, de petite woke up. She ok, non?"

After a moment of silence, Hank replied, "Surprisingly, she seems to be in good health... how are you, Remy? You gave us quite a scare."

"Dis thief will live to steal again," The young man chuckled, on the brink of passing out, his eyes slowly falling shut behind black shades, "Take good care of de petite. Remy be tired."

"Of course," Dr. McCoy stated, watching quietly as his patient slipped off to sleep, looking peaceful for the first time since he was recovered from the barren planes of Antarctica. The whole situation fascinated Beast, and, after making sure Remy would be alright, he turned his attention to the miracle in his hairy blue arms.

"Hello there, little one," He greeted, holding the squirming child out in front of himself, smiling when she stared unflinchingly back at him, demonic eyes wide with wonder, tiny horns glinting in the fluorescent light. "Extraordinary," The doctor breathed, tucking her into the crook of his arm as he hurried upstairs to tell his team the very good news: there was no longer need for them to plan a funeral.

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my first XMen fanfic. please be gentle but reviews will be greatly appreciated.