Chapter 1: So the Story Goes on Down a Less Than Traveled Road

Monday, 3:05 am

Detective Erik Lehnsherr was awake and reaching for the phone before the first ring ended. He threw out his senses as he sat up, the smooth glass of the smartphone's touch screen already pressed against his ear, his brain swiftly and smoothly cataloguing every piece of metal in his apartment as he barked into the speaker.

"Lehnsherr. What is it?"

He heard the muffled scramble on the other end of the line that said whoever had called had not anticipated him picking up quite so quickly.

"Ah, hey boss," Sean said uneasily, "Didn't really expect-"

"Who's dead; where and how?" Erik rattled off the questions rapid-fire, not pausing to allow Cassidy to collect himself. With a curt twitch of his fingers Erik called his belt, his gun (holstered, safety on), his badge and ammo to his side. A deeper twist of his mind found his trousers slinking across the floor towards him, drawn by the zipper.

"Caucasian female, early twenties, no immediately apparent physical mutations, although there could be something…" Sean trailed off, obviously uncomfortable.

"Spit it out, Cassidy," Erik growled, halfway dressed already and not in the mood to play games.

"She's sort of…you're just gonna have to see this one yourself," Sean hedged.

Erik grit his teeth and reminded himself that one did not throw one's subordinates off of buildings if one wanted to remain employed. "Text me directions, I'll be there," he finally said when the silence had dragged on just long enough to make Sean nervous but not long enough that the kid hung up. Kid. Hah. He was only a few years younger than Erik. Erik reminded himself that Sean's age did not seem to hinder the man in acting like a teenager.

"Will do, boss," Sean said, trying and failing to hide the relief in his voice that Erik hadn't chewed him out.

Erik hung up and went searching for a clean dress shirt.

…

Monday, 1:04 pm

"Charles!" Oh dear, Raven sounded irritated. A brief touch to her mind revealed a hornet's nest of aggravation and fond exasperation.

"Charles!" She was getting closer now, her chaotic thoughts growing louder with her footfalls as she stormed across the living room.

"Charles!" And there she was, slamming open the door to his study, glaring down at him, her eyes reduced down to liquid gold slits in her blue face as she glowered at him.

"Ah, hello Raven."

"Don't hello Raven me, Charles."

"Would you like me to be rude to you? That can be arranged, but I think it would be dreadfully unpleasant for everyone involved," he said absently, attention already drifting away from his sister and the imposing figure she cut in the doorway to his office.

Well, judging by the spike of irritation she flung in his general direction, she didn't like that much. "Charles," she said, voice shivering in a way that told him very clearly just how hard she was working to keep her tone level.

"It isn't as bad as you think it is, Raven," he responded blithely, fingers skating across the surface of his iPad, privately very glad there was a large, heavy antique desk between him and his irate sister at this particular moment.

"How bad do you think I think it is, exactly?" She had planted both palms flat on the desk and was leaning into his space, face turning a distinctly purple tint as her blue skin flushed with anger.

Charles finally bothered to look up, "Moderately bad?" he offered, trying to levity, and, judging by the outraged turmoil currently curdling in Raven's mind, failing spectacularly.

"OUR NEIGHBOR CALLED THE POLICE; YOU WERE ARRESTED, CHARLES!" She snapped, her own wild thoughts betraying the rush of worry that managed to seep into her memories of that moment, getting that phone call.

"I wasn't arrested," Charles pointed out, setting aside the iPad (and a particularly engaging round of Words with Friends) and resting his hands atop hers, "merely…detained."

"Charles," the fond exasperation was winning, already he could see her posture sagging beneath the sharp white pantsuit she wore when she particularly wanted to impress someone (she had an interview today, he remembered, he must ask her about it later, when she was less irate) her beautiful face already folding into a smile, "our 94-year-old neighbor called the police because it, I quote, 'sounded like someone was being murdered' in our apartment."

Charles found himself indulging in his own spike of irritation at that, huffing a sigh that did nothing to soothe Raven's ruffled feathers (if you pardon the turn of phrase). "Those sounds weren't anything like murder screams."

"CHARLES!"

"If you must know," he continued, not slowing down to allow her a longer fit of outrage, "I was playing several films about insane asylums at once, trying to research ambiance. The whole thing with Mrs. Smith and the police was really a very silly misunderstanding." He paused and couldn't help but add, "And those really weren't anything like murder screams. Insane asylum screams sound completely different."

"Charles," Raven sighed, plopping into the leather chair in front of his desk. He relinquished his hold on her hands with grace; fingers already itching to get back to his round of Words with Friends, "Seek help."

"No thank you," he said lightly, a smile that he knew people found completely adorable fixed on his face.

"You aren't even working on a project right now," Raven grumbled, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her until she sat curled in the chair, elbow planted firmly on the armrest, cheek propped on her cupped hand.

Charles looked back up at her, indignant, "I'm working on something!"

She gave him a flat look, "No, you're not, you're sitting around in raggedy corduroys and one of the world's ugliest sweaters, playing Words with Friends on my iPad just like you've been for the past five weeks. Only now apparently you've added 'scaring the shit out of our geriatric neighbors' to your list of writer's-block-related pursuits."

"I'm trying to find inspiration," Charles defended, although the claim sounded weak even to his own ears. A quick brush against Raven's mind, and really, even the most cursory of glances at her face, revealed how pathetic it sounded to her too.

"Bullshit," she pointed out, not unkindly, "You finished your bestselling, award-winning, every-fucking-person-on-the-subway-has-a-copy series and now you don't know what to do with your life."

Charles felt his mouth twist and his spirits sink. Clearly there was no fooling Raven. She had known him too long and too well. Best go with the honest approach. "You're right, of course," he said, trying to keep his tone light an only partially succeeding, "Now that everything's all wrapped up…where do I go from here?"

"Write more sequels," she suggested flatly, "They certainly brought in the big bucks last time."

Last time he was shocked enough that people not only liked, nay, loved his book enough to want sequels he hadn't really thought it through before he was already pounding out books two and three. Now, well, things were different.

He gave her a helpless little shrug, "There's a reason I killed off my main character. He just wasn't going anywhere. It got boring."

"It got boring? Seriously?"

"It did," and no, he did not sound defensive at all, thank you.

"How hard can it be to just resurrect him somehow and send him off on adventures all over again?"

"Very, very hard, Raven," Charles sighed, trying not to let his exasperation and general frustration with his brain's inability to produce anything more than eloquent than a handful of clever tweets and the occasional scathing review the past few weeks overflow into this conversation. Raven didn't deserve him snapping at her. She was just trying to help. Although, a small, mulish corner of his mind reminded him, he did not meddle in her artistic process nearly as much as she tried to futz with his. "I'm done with this character, I'm done with this series; there is nothing more to write. When you're onstage don't you ever just realize that there are no more lines to say? Your big, dramatic monologue's done and now it's time to move on to Act 2?"

Raven gave him a look that spoke volumes.

"And I suppose I should now thank you for not criticizing my obvious complete lack of theatre know-how."

She just stared at him.

He stared back.

Her eyes narrowed, "No mind-reading, that's cheating."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said blithely, attention once again drifting back to the iPad.

She sighed, "Honestly, at this point, I'm not all that clear where this conversation was going."

He hummed absently.

"Charles."

"What?"

"I don't know, do something. You're making me sad watching you drift around in a haze all the time."

"I can't just magic away writer's block, Raven. It's bad enough having Logan breathing down my neck, I don't need you too."

Logan. His agent. Who would not hesitate to skin him alive if he flaked out on the next contract. Charles could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes. He pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids and tried not to think.

Raven sighed and Charles suddenly felt the cool pressure of her fingers sliding around his wrists and giving them a gentle squeeze. "You'll figure something out, you always do."

"Always?" he said mock-skeptically and she laughed.

"You're really going to make me wax poetic about my brilliant, wonderful brother and his brilliant, wonderful books?"

"No," Charles admitted ruefully. "Although a little poetic wouldn't hurt. I need positive reinforcement too, you know."

Raven laughed and let go, flicking him in the center of his forehead and snickering when his eyes flew open and he winced comically.

"Was that necessary?" he whined.

"Yes. You don't need me to coddle you, you need to get working." She stood up, leveling a finger in his general direction, turning to leave, "And stop scaring the neighbors. No more getting arrested either."

Charles threw her an exaggerated wince, "I believe those days are behind me. I've gone respectable."

Raven's disdainful snort told him just what she thought of that. "I have an audition, I'll be back tonight. Try to stay out of trouble until then, okay?"

"I'll try, dearest."

"Thank you, brother darling," she threw back in an exaggerated accent he could only assume was intended to mock his own.

"Haha." He stuck out his tongue at her. Because he was a mature adult. "Are you going to the book launch party tonight?" he asked, not looking up from his tablet as Raven whirled past the door to his office, her red hair and blue skin sliding away to reveal her favorite neutral face: blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes.

"No, remember I've got that fundraiser."

"Fine, abandon me at my hour of need," Charles said, tone playfully mournful; "You know without you by my side I spend the rest of the night as cougar-bait."

"You like being cougar-bait," Raven pointed out acerbically, "It makes you feel young."

"I am young!" Charles protested.

"Brother dear, thirty-three may be the new twenty but it certainly doesn't look it," she ducked out of the doorway, cackling, when he threw a slipper at her.

"I still get carded at restaurants, I'll have you know!"

Raven sighed and leaned back into the doorway, purse slung over her shoulder, pantsuit traded for more casual but no less trendy black fitted yoga pants and a light blue top that would look even more striking when she shifted back into her natural form. "Yes, you do. And before you get all excited about that, may I suggest you take your fifteen-year-old daughter to the party and use her to shield you from the big, mean, scary cougar-ladies." She pulled a face at him and Charles debated the value of throwing the other slipper at her.

"Of course I'm taking Jean with me, and Ororo too, they've been so excited about it." Charles could feel his face automatically slipping into the indulgent smile he tended to wear whenever his daughters were brought up.

"Isn't seven a bit young for the book-launch crowd?" Raven asked, then winced, "God, I sound like you."

"Delightful, aren't I?" Charles said, face falling into a mischievous smile, "And Ororo had a lovely time at the last book launch."

Raven narrowed her eyes at him, "And she provided you with an easy excuse to leave early."

Charles smiled, not bothering to pretend to be abashed. "Exactly."

Raven rolled her eyes. "You are incorrigible and I am leaving. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Goodbye, Raven, break a leg at your audition."

"Thanks. Don't get arrested before I see you again."

"Scout's honor."

…

Monday, 5:43 pm

"What kind of a sick bastard does that to a person?" Sean said for the millionth time that day, gazing at the crime scene photos pinned to what the unit irreverently referred to as their 'murder board'.

"A really creative one," Armando observed dryly and Alex snorted.

"A really fucked-up one, more like."

Sean nodded his agreement. "What I don't get is this: it looks like a hate crime, right? Woman found blindfolded, naked, dead, covered in feathers with some gibberish spray-painted above her corpse. Except the gibberish is literally gibberish and the woman isn't a minority. She isn't even poor."

"These are all the same questions we've been asking for hours," Armando pointed out.

Alex grunted in agreement, "Anything from Lehnsherr?"

"Nope," Sean popped the 'p', "Crazy bastard just said he had an idea and rushed out of here."

"Hopefully it'll be something more useful than what we have here," Armando sighed, spinning slowly in his swivel chair. "What I want to know is why this seems so familiar?"

"Plotting murders in your sleep?" Sean asked jokingly.

"No, it just seems like I've seen this before," Armando mused, "No idea where."

"Well," a voice interrupted them and the trio turned to see the blue furry form of their resident medical examiner standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"'Sup, Beast?" Sean said, kicking his feet up on the desk and leaning back to look at the other man.

"That is not my name," Dr. Hank McCoy observed dryly.

"What've you got?" Alex demanded.

Hank shot him a look that screamed 'be patient, nitwit,' but said nothing more than, "She's not a mutant. Preliminary tests came back negative and she has no signs of physical mutation."

"She could've been maimed by the killer," Alex pointed out.

"No signs of abuse whatsoever," Hank contradicted him.

"Except for the cut throat," Alex muttered darkly.

"Except for the cut throat. There are no defensive wounds, no bruises, no broken bones or unusual trauma. It would almost appear the killer was…gentle with her."

"That's fucked-up, man," Armando said, voice even and steady.

"I tend to think all forms of murder are bit 'fucked up'," Hank said dryly.

"So those weren't her feathers," Sean interjected, "You said no trauma so that means she didn't have wings. Or feathers."

"Wings," Armando mused before Hank could respond in the affirmative, "Her own wings…"

"Hey!" the metaphorical light bulb went off above Alex's head and he slapped the table, "That's just like-"

"Pearls from the Gates, by C.F. Xavier," a harsh and familiar voice interrupted him, punctuating the ominous sentence with the thud of a box of books hitting the tabletop. Once again, everyone in the room pivoted to eyeball the new arrival.

Erik Lehnsherr stood in the doorway, a slightly soggy cardboard box of books crouched on the tabletop before him like a bad-tempered gargoyle, the detective wearing a dripping overcoat and a sharp-toothed shark smile.

"Is it raining outside?" Alex asked, the words shaken out of him by the surprise of Erik's sudden appearance.

"Yes," Erik said tersely.

"Hey! You ruined our big dramatic epiphany moment!" Sean griped but shut up quickly when Erik's steely grey-green gaze slid over to pin him down.

"I'm sure you will survive," Erik observed, the growl of his faded German accent giving the words more menace than he may have intended. Or perhaps just as much menace as he intended. Erik was a menacing guy.

"So, what's the deal with the books?" Sean, who still wasn't completely in the loop, asked.

Erik grunted and began rifling through the box in front of him, extracting a battered paperback and, without pause, hurling it at the junior detective's head. "Read sometime," Erik said flatly as Sean yelped and flailed, trying to catch the book.

Armando clicked his tongue, "Ah, I remember it now. Pearls from the Gates is one of the less-popular ones."

"Yes," Erik acknowledged, "It was written before the wildly popular Nathan Storm series and was re-released after the Storm books had broken international sales records."

"Fascinating as the Wikipedia footnotes are," Alex said, avoiding Erik's cold gaze and willing those frigid eyes to look away from him, "What do we actually need to know about the book? All I remember is the mutant woman killed and buried in her own feathers."

"Yes," Erik said tersely, "A mutant woman is murdered and her wings are plucked. The killer leaves her body very carefully arranged."

"…shrouded in her own feathers, with graffiti in a dead language above her head," Armando finished the synopsis, "The book is actually fascinating on a psychological level. The woman's death, thought to be a hate crime, sparks a slew of increasingly brutal attacks on humans by mutants and on mutants by humans. Eventually you learn her death wasn't a random act of violence but actually a calculated assault on the neighborhood as a whole, part of a bizarre and terrifying social experiment by a psychology professor who wanted to test what sub-communities within the larger community might do should they be presented with specific stimuli. Like the Stanford prison experiment but on a larger scale."

"And fictional," Alex said firmly, "Really, really fictional."

"Not anymore," Erik said tersely, "Someone's imitated it."

"Not exactly," Hank pointed out, "Our victim's not a mutant. Those aren't her feathers."

A normal person would have pursed his lips or furrowed his brows. Erik just sort of stared harder. "Read the book. I'm bringing the author in."

"Can we get him to sign something? Because I'm pretty sure something like that'd sell really well on eBay."

"The only thing he's signing is a confession," Erik snarled and stalked out with a whirl of wet overcoat.

"He's fucking terrifying," Alex observed into the silence. The others grumbled their agreement.

Meanwhile, Sean let out a shriek that made the glass in the windows shiver disturbingly. When the rest of the unit glared at him he shrugged vaguely, and waved the paperback in a general sort of gesture. "This book is scary, man."

…

Monday, 6:27 pm

"Nice party, Dad," Jean said, looking up from her homework long enough to smile at a harried-looking Charles. He collapsed into a barstool beside her and took a healthy swig from her ginger ale, making a face when he realized what it was.

"Who let you have that?" he complained, "It's atrocious."

Jean laughed, "It's ginger ale, Dad. I think it'd be a problem if they were letting me have anything else."

"It's disgusting," Charles grumbled, propping his elbows up on the bar and scrubbing his face through his hands, making his bangs stick up in wild disarray.

Jean laughed and took a long gulp, "More for me, then."

"Can I have some of your big-girl drink?" Ororo chirped, looking up from her coloring long enough to send Jean a pleading look. She noticed Charles almost as an afterthought, head bobbing adorably, white curls flying every which way, "Hi Daddy!"

"Hi Ororo, don't you have your own big-girl drink?" Charles asked gently.

Ororo pursed her lips, "But it's not the same."

"Yes, it is," Jean explained patiently. When Ororo pouted at her, Jean sighed, and caved. "Alright, here's a deal. I give you a sip of my drink and you give me a sip of ours. That way it's a trade."

Ororo's little face lit up with a brilliant smile and she nodded eagerly. They traded sips quickly, just enough time for Charles to order his own, less-innocent beverage.

"So, Dad," Jean turned back to him, Ororo content for now to keep scribbling in her coloring book, "Why aren't you out schmoozing and making nice with all the scary ladies who want to take you home and do nasty things to you?"

Charles pulled a face, "I'm so sorry, I should have left you at home, dear. Hearing all that background chatter from a million unguarded minds…"

Jean laughed, "It's not that bad, Dad. You do just fine; so do I."

Charles gave her a look, "You haven't had the decades of experience I have."

Jean's face softened and she smiled, "I'm fine."

"You'll let me know the minute you get a headache?"

"The exact minute."

"Best telepathic daughter I could have asked for."

"But I'm the best stormy daughter you could have asked for, right?" Ororo chimed in. Charles laughed despite himself.

"Of course, Ro. The very best."

The little girl seemed pleased with that, a few cheery snowflakes fluttering around them before dissipating in the hot press of the crowded terrace.

"So, Dad." Jean twirled her pencil nimbly between her fingers and watched him with delicately arched eyebrows, "Any ideas for your next book?"

Charles sighed and grimaced, "That is the million dollar question at the moment, isn't it, darling? 'What will the great C.F. Xavier do next?' You and the literary world are all dying to know."

"Except for the hipsters," Jean managed to say with a straight face, although her could see the twinkle in her green eyes, "You know they're above that sort of thing."

"Ah, wrong," he held up a teasing finger, "My Storm series has become so very mainstream they're actively seeking out my older works and reading those. Pearls from the Gates has become delightfully counter-culture."

Jean pulled a face, "Ew, that's the one with the mutilations, isn't it? I didn't like that one."

Charles sighed, "I don't think you're quite old enough to understand the subtle nuance of metaphor at play in that book just yet." He pulled a wry face, "…And the mutilations are a bit excessive, in hindsight."

"Good to hear," a deep voice interjected behind him.

Startled, Charles reflexively reached out to brush the mind attached to the rather distinctive accent…and found himself slapped away with a brisk mental swat. Blinking and befuddled, Charles looked up to see a tall Germanic man with really fantastic bone structure glowering down at him. The glower only intensified when Charles mentally reached out again, keeping the touch of his thoughts at a cordial distance.

"Stop that," the German snapped again, glare intensifying and Charles got a brief flash of 'fucking telepaths, no boundaries…entitled bastard…blue eyes…not threatening…suspicious…baby face…no weapons…' before all other surface thoughts were subsumed by a resounding blast of 'GET OUT OF MY HEAD' that left Charles' ears ringing. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Jean wince as she struggled to pull her shields back up. Charles tried to drown out the sick rush of guilt in his core, with (completely justified) anger, and turned back to their visitor.

"You don't need to broadcast nearly that loudly, my friend, we can hear you quite well, thank you," Charles said tightly, tone clipped and frigidly ironic on the words 'my friend'.

The German's face didn't so much register surprise as shift the tiniest bit, as if the man's internal algorithms had to readjust to this new bit of data. "Stay out of my head," he said; the statement thudding into the conversation like a blunt object to the skull.

"Yes, you made that very clear," Charles said acidly, "Who are you and what, pray tell, do you want with us?"

"Are you C.F. Xavier?"

"My birth certificate seems to think so," Charles tried for levity but the words just sounded sharp-edged and weary to him.

"You'll have to come with me."

"Really?"

The man blinked. Apparently men that scary were not used to being questioned. When in doubt, his default setting appeared to be 'vaguely menacing and somewhat monosyllabic'. "Yes. Really."

"Why? This party is rather lovely; my daughters seem to be having a good time. Right, girls?" He glanced over his shoulder at the two of them, arching his eyebrows at Jean in a way that clearly screamed 'back me up or bail me out'.

Jean deigned to glance up from her textbook long enough to flatly say, "Delightful."

Charles pulled a face at her. 'Some wingwoman you are,' he mouthed at her and she rolled her eyes.

Ororo, clearly missing all of these delicate social cues, stood on her bar stool, craning her neck to see around her father and sister, eyeballing the stranger curiously. "Are you German? You talk funny. Not bad. Funny. Daddy talks funny, but different-funny. Like some of the people on TV. Have you ever been on TV? You're very boy-pretty. You could be on TV. There's a different word for boy-pretty but I can't remember it. I think it's hand-some…Yeah! I don't know what hands have to do with being pretty but Daddy says it's a real word and that's what it means so I believe him because Daddy knows everything. Except for how to cook. Aunt Raven says he burns water but Daddy says that's impossible because you put fires out with water. Anyway, you've got some hands and you're pretty so I think that makes you handsome. So, have you been on TV or haven't you?"

Charles took a brief moment to cackle internally at the stymied expression on the stranger's face. A few microscopic facial spasms later, the man managed to say, "No, I've never been on TV."

"Oh," Ororo looked disappointed. It was ridiculously cute. The stranger looked like his face wasn't sure what to do and had just frozen midway to nothing like a browser that wouldn't load. It was almost endearing.

Unfortunately, then the man had to go and talk again and that ruined that, didn't it?

"My name is Detective Erik Lehnsherr, and we have some questions for you about," he paused, struggling for a child-friendly phrase; Charles the pulse of confusion just beneath the surface of the tidily ordered thoughts of the man, Erik's, conscious mind.

Yes, he knew he mustn't pry. But he was curious, and the man just insisted on projecting bloody everywhere.

"Has there been an incident, Detective?" Charles asked sweetly, offering Erik both an olive branch and an easy out.

The man seized on it with thinly veiled relief. "Yes. There has been an incident. You'll be coming with me." Almost as an afterthought, he flashed his badge. As if Charles might think he was kidding.

Then again, were Charles a bit drunker, he very well might have chalked this up to a prank in bad taste from one of his more…intense fans. Or Raven. She was mischievous enough for this. But Erik didn't look the type to aide and abet in sisterly pranks. And that badge looked very real.

"Very well, let me call a friend of mine."

"You don't get your one phone call until you're officially arrested." Was that a joke? Erik was smiling, but he smiled like an extra from Jaws so it was a bit hard to tell.

"Well, my children need a ride home and if I'm going to be detained, I'd rather be secure in the knowledge that my fifteen-year-old and my seven-year-old aren't braving the subway alone at night."

"Fine."

Charles blinked. He hadn't expected Erik to agree quite so easily.

Erik's glower, which, aside from the shark-face smile, seemed to be one of his very limited supply of expressions, intensified. "Make your call."

"Very well." Charles shot him a sunny smile just to irk him. Erik's right eyebrow twitched. Success.

Moira picked up on the second ring. Lovely woman, Moira.

"Moira, darling," Charles tried his best to sound nonchalant but was keenly aware of the fact that he probably just came off as strained, "I hate to drag you away from whatever you're doing but I could really use a favor. Well, you see, I've been detained by the police and I really, desperately need someone to pick up Jean and Ororo from the book-launch party…"

Author's Note: Welcome to my new fic! This was an idea that wouldn't leave me alone for the past week so finally I just decided to write it out and here we are. I'm going to try to keep updates regular, but no promises. I'll be updating "Discount Angels" (one of my Supernatural fics) regularly around the same time so updates can be a little delayed, I apologize in advance.

Anywho, I hope you liked chapter one of my new little project! If you have a bit of time, please do leave a review. I always appreciate hearing from people; reviews make my day.