He pulled the hood of his jacket over his face against the cold wind of an early winter. The puddles on the street, only partially frozen over, crunched underfoot as he made his way along down a quiet sidewalk, not too far away from the local park. Bug-filled street lamps lit the ground, illuminating the thin, somewhat grungy looking ice with a yellowish glow. Minnesota was none too kind in the months of winter and late fall, and even spring mornings would often be dosed with their share of ice-encased flower buds.

The occasional car driving past would send up a spray of icy water, to which the lone walker would quickly turn his back to. As a result of this action, his jacket, which had been light gray, was now splattered with mud. The general dampness of the coat made him think that he'd probably be warmer without it, but his mother's reaction should he come home with it off made him decide it would probably be for the best that he kept it on, cold or no.

His name was Keith, Keith Malcolm Stewart, and he was, at that very moment, regretting the complacency of his life. He was fifteen, attending a private school simply for the reason of his parents being able to afford one. He dressed in nice clothes, hung out with nice people, and was banned from nearly every sport but baseball. He wouldn't say that his family was rich, but neither were they poor. They were slightly above average income and, with only him and his younger brother, there really wasn't much money needed to be spent. His life, while boring and generally uneventful, was comfy and peaceful, and he was told he should be happy with it. But he wasn't.

He had been able to deal with the dress code his parents had enforced, it was fairly basic; clean clothes, unwrinkled blue jeans, shoes without scuff marks, etcetera. It was when his parents began to bar who he could hang around that he started to have problems. Jared was a nice guy, albeit a nice guy with spiked hair, a skateboard, and a gig on the high school football team that would easily earn him a scholarship if he worked at it. Keith's parents had taken issue with him and barred Keith from seeing him. It wasn't fair, in Keith's opinion, and it had gotten to the point where every disagreement turned into a screaming match that ultimately resulted in the slamming of doors and exchanging of angry glares over the breakfast table.

Keith shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the chipped sidewalk intensely. He was late, twenty-three minutes late, to be exact. It was at this moment that he would normally start running down the road, sneak into his house and pretend to have been in bed. However, he'd had a bad day, and, although he wouldn't admit it to himself, he was looking for a fight.

A black van appeared on the tip of the hill behind him and he turned the opposite way, bracing himself for the inevitable spray of freezing cold rainwater. However, it didn't happen. Instead, he heard the screeching sound as the driver of the van furiously applied the brakes, sliding the car out so that it blocked the middle of the road.

"What the heck?" Keith muttered, squinting his eyes as he examined the van.

Five men, dressed completely in black poured out of the car like in the action movies or crime shows he saw on TV. All had reflective masks covering their faces, tactical vests and massive guns. At first he thought it was merely a raid on one of the houses, but when the guns started turning in his direction, Keith knew it was time to run.

He dug his heels in, running as fast as he could. With eight years of baseball, he was fast, but not as fast as his pursuers. Something slammed into his shoulder. It felt like a wasp that wouldn't stop stinging him. His vision started to blur and his movements felt sluggish. He shook his head and kept running. He had to get away from these people. He felt impact as another one of the projectiles hit his lower back. His pace slowed and he doggedly took a few steps before crumpling to his feet.

"Police," he croaked, his throat feeling dry and raspy. "Police. Someone."

The men were closing in on him fast. He pulled himself to his feet and managed a few more feet before a final sting hit him in the back and pulled him to the ground. His vision blurred, completely out of focus now. He fought, trying to stay awake, but whatever they had shot him with won out. The men picked him up and tossed him in the back of the van. The hazy yellow light of the street lamps were the last things he saw as the doors closed and he slipped deep into unconsciousness.

The X-Men sat around the table, eating a late dinner after having a long day chocked full of every session Logan could possibly have imagined. Someone had keyed his motorcycle and, until he found out who did it, he intended on making them all suffer.

They were, of course, suffering. When Logan set out to do something, he usually accomplished it. The students were sore, tired, and depressed in knowing that they would most likely have to do it all again tomorrow; unless the perpetrator confessed, which, course would never happen. Who would want to face Logan's wrath alone? Not only Logan's wrath, but also the wrath of the many recruits who were forced to go through with the exercises. It would be weeks before a confession was made.

"Please pass the potatoes," said Kurt, who looked as though he was about to pass out on his plate.

Kitty moaned. "I don't think I can. My arms feel like noodles."

Logan grunted and picked at his food. He was watching them all like a hawk, trying to find the guilty party. "Get used to it, bubs. You're doing this everyday 'till someone admits it was them."

"What if someone admits just to ease our suffering?" Jamie said in his usual cheerful voice, albeit a slightly more weary sounding version. He was quite obviously suggesting that the 'someone' who would volunteer to take the blame would not be him.

Evan looked at Logan, who reciprocated with a throaty growl. "Yeah, kid," he said to Jamie. "Good luck with that one."

Jamie sighed. "It was worth a shot."

Professor Xavier came into the room, seemingly lost in thought.

"Something on your mind, Professor?" asked Scott. "Pick something up on Cerebro?"

"Nothing any more different than usual. The number of mutants is quickly going up, as you know. I've even found several new mutants in the Bayville area. But, no, that's not what's on my mind. I was looking through the security footage from last night and, apparently, members of the brotherhood managed to sneak past our security system. They didn't steal anything of particular value. All that I saw them do on the tape was key Logan's motorcycle and a couple of the XTVs."

The entire company around the table collapsed in a collective sigh, except for Bobby, who spread his hands and grinned.

"I told you it wasn't me," he said.

Logan just grimaced and clenched his fists tightly. "My motorcycle..."

"How could the Brotherhood get past our security system?" asked Scott.

The Professor shook his head. "That's just it, Scott. I don't have the slightest idea."

Logan placed his silverware back on the table and pushed out his chair, suddenly having lost his appetite. "Whatever the case is, sounds like it's high time for an upgrade. If I catch them around my motorcycle again..." His claws shot out and each of the recruits around the table were feeling quite glad that they had been cleared of the crime.

Unfortunately, Bobby couldn't resist a jab at Logan. "Guess you owe us an apology," he said.

Logan looked over his shoulder and shot him a glare that could wither flowers. "Don't press your luck, bub."

"Right," Bobby said, losing quite a bit of his earlier confidence. "G'night, Logan."

The only response he heard was a muttered rant containing the phrase "kids these days."