Author's Notes: Nate Grey is one of Marvel's best-but-underused characters. Since they *refuse* to give him a role, I've taken up the task. A lot of these ideas aren't mine, but suggestions I've seen on various forums. I haven't plagiarized: nothing was written out. If there's anything you'd like to see in Nate's story, please leave the suggestion in a review. My tale picks up in New Mutants (3rd Series) #25 when he's rescued from the Sugar Man and accepted with the X-Men on Utopia. From that point, things start to go in a different direction.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I might enjoy least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
~Shakespeare's Sonnet 29

The Scorned King

The death of a reality may not seem like the logical beginning of a story, but that is indeed where Nate's began. Imagine him, if you will. He's an American of average size and height in peak physical shape. Although a mutant, he lacks the extraordinary characteristics that mark so many of his race. His only identifying mark is a lock of white fringe above blue eyes, which sometimes flash in anger. But beneath his ordinary face lurks the power to create or destroy life and every element within it.

"This is your home…" Cyclops said awkwardly.

And what a home it was! Magneto's old space fortress had crashed off the coast of California and, like the mutant race itself, was constantly in danger of going under. They couldn't grow their own food or build their own supplies. Enemies besieged them daily. Nate knew how lucky he was to escape a dystopian alternate universe for this shit hole.

Whatever vague intentions Scott had towards his genetic prodigy crumbled like all his promises. Unless Nate was in immediate danger of being possessed by a cosmic firebird, he wasn't noticed. Days passed. It was only a matter of time before Utopia started throwing people off to lighten the load or turned to cannibalism. When that happened, Nate wasn't going to be the easiest target.

His mental superpowers had been stripped away by an ugly little monster called Sugar Man and his Omega Machine. From now on, if Nate wanted to defend himself, he'd have to do it the caveman way.

He began weapons training with Hope. That's right, his teenaged step-aunt-or-something taught him how to wield a sword, fire a gun, and improvise any blunt or semi-sharp object to an instrument of harm. She knew loads, but her teaching method left a lot to be desired. For instance, she wanted him to use sights to aim but he found it easier without them. And every time he got hurt, she'd roll her eyes and sigh: "It's not a toy, Nathaniel." That was real fucking helpful.

She wasn't so great at hand-to-hand, so for that, he turned to the Iron Fist. Danny Rand agreed to come daily via holographic projection (as long as his superheroing didn't interfere), and Nate was stoked. Finally, he thought, Cyclops will take me seriously.

But Danny spent the first thousand sessions focused on breathing! Unlike Hope, who bounced onto the next task as soon as Nate learned one, Danny made him do the same thing over and over. And over. He rambled endlessly about things like discipline and harmony. So much for being the Kung Fu master.

After several weeks, they progressed to focus (bad guys, beware!) and Nate discovered he could tap into his telepathy and telekinesis. Overjoyed, he wept. He hadn't been able to use his powers in ages. He was eager to test his limits, but once more, Danny advised caution.

"You can't chase power. Well – you can, but you'll never catch it. You've gotta grow into power. Be patient."

The others noticed his improvements in Danger Room training sessions. Mild buzz generated, but next to the White Queen and Psylocke, he paled in comparison. Which highlighted another problem…

His telepathy. That needed improvement, too.

Ask his father's silicon lover for help? Or her teenaged clones? He'd sooner hang himself, which was a tempting option, but no. There was a particular telepath he wanted.

"Jean…?"

Last time he tried this, he accidentally brought Maddie back from the dead.

"Not Maddie. Jean, can you hear me?"

She'd been dead for months now.

"Jean, please… I need your help."

Nothing.

One day Danny vanished – superheroes did that from time to time. Nate continued to practice his breathing, focus, and mediation, but he also incorporated his mutant powers and his control grew.

Something magical unfolded in his sleep. He awoke with memories that were not his own of places and people that couldn't exist on this world. It was thrilling. This time, he decided not to seek out a more experienced hand to guide him. He wanted to shock everyone at the next Danger Room training session with this incredible power that he'd cultivated entirely on his own. Cyclops would sprint across the island to watch with slack-jaw wonder. He'd quickly assign Nate a team, eager to tap this previously unseen powerhouse. Together they'd strive to pave a smoother road-

"Hey! X-Man! We've got work to do."

He opened his eyes and saw Dani "Mirage" Moonstar standing in his doorway.

"I'm occupied here, thank you." He said.

"Boxes need unloaded. I'm pretty sure you can do whatever you're doing now and unload boxes."

He'd been intentionally ignoring all the problems around him, but judging by her response, that was not a socially acceptable reason to decline his assistance. So he yielded. Using his hands like a common Homo sapiens, he helped her and Sam stock the pantry and take an inventory. She grinned.

"Why are you so pleased?" he grumbled.

Her grin spread widely across her face. "Can you keep a secret?" She leaned close and whispered, "Cyclops is forming a team and asked me to lead it."

"Aww, come on, Mr. Doom-and-Gloom," Hope teased, tickling his nose with her finger tip. "Won't get your own team by sulking."

Nate swatted her away. "If you want to help, smother me with that pillow."

She leaned on him like the world's most lumpy recliner. "I know it's tough. You used to be so powerful that your body was literally coming undone. Now you're just another telepath. Who wants to live forever when things are so mediocre, am I right? Hey," she hugged him, "if it's any consolation, you're an Omega level self-pity-er."

"You're not helping," he shoved her away.

Frustrated, she stormed away. At the door, she turned and sneered: "Neither are you!"

Although his abilities were growing, he'd never be as powerful as he'd once been. Unless he was at the top of his field – which would never happen – the X-Men had no use for him. Those at the very bottom were mentored and protected, but people like Nate, neither great nor helpless, were usually cannon fodder. He'd been living under the illusion that he could do something – anything – to knock his father off his feet and earn his… not love… Respect. That's all he wanted. To be validated.

It would never happen now.

His mutations were like a tree that had been badly damaged and could no longer grow towards the sky. As his power returned, it twisted towards the sun and formed a different shape. He was an anomaly. There was no place for him in the X-Men's carefully groomed garden, so he was left to grow wild in the wood.

Disillusioned, he turned inward more and more. He still trained, of course, but no one paid him any special attention and he didn't try to change that. His urgency had been replaced by curiosity. What was he becoming? And where could he apply that if not the X-Men?

"Am I hurt?" she asked.

"You're bleeding," Nate said, "Can you remove your jacket?"

The walls between dimensions were breaking down, which was new and terrifying. When he'd been at peak performance, he could easily look across time and into people's minds; give physical form to minds; distort reality; and he controlled all of these things with his thoughts. But seeing another dimension? This was dangerous stuff. If the X-Men found out, they'd be concerned for the integrity of the barriers. What if he was inadvertently destroying reality?

She struggled. "No. Give me a hand."

When he helped her out of her jacket, he saw a compound fracture of the collarbone.

Nate started violently and the vision ended. He tried to collect his bearings. She was only a dream: vivid, profound, and ethereal. But something in her had possessed him and he couldn't get her out of his mind.

"Is something wrong?"

"Honey, we've got to get you to the hospital."

"What's wrong?"

"Everything, honey. Everything's wrong."

She looked around. "Did you hear that?"

She'd heard him! That meant he was becoming a part of her reality.

Realities, universes, dimensions… They weren't important. Not in the grand scheme of things. Sure, Cyclops would disagree and his army would happily uphold his decisions, but Nate had seen worlds come and go, and what difference did it make? Not one iota.

"So what's changed?" Danny asked when their lessons resumed.

Nate hadn't seen him in months, so he reported recent history of Utopia. "An undead army attacked. Some mutants returned from the dead. You know, usual X-Men stuff."

"I meant with you."

"Me? Nothing's changed for me. Oh, my hair cut! I was a little concerned about potential fight hazard, but Psylocke assured me-"

"It's not your hair!" Danny snapped. "You're holding on to something. It's like a boulder in a stream, everything has to move around it. Your focus is… Is it a woman?"

Nate crossed his arms. "If celibacy's part of your training, I'll have no part of it."

"All things in moderation. Every bad decision is born of anger, desire, or fear. When you eliminate those things from the decision process, you act in wisdom."

"Wise men never fall in love. Isn't that what they say?"

"Love? It's serious then. You should've warned me. I know how hard it is to focus on clearing your thoughts when there's tail to chase."

He flushed and denied it, but it was true.

He loved her.

Which was crazy, right? People didn't fall in love with strangers who didn't know they even existed… Except when they did.

If he wasn't training, his mind was away, peering into a time and place where she lived. Her world had become as vivid to him as his own.

"I love you," Nate said over the phone. The heel of his hand was pressed hard against his eyes. "I'm sorry, I know it complicates things and I shouldn't say it, but I've loved you for years."

"You love sex," she sneered. "I'm sorry you can't tell the difference!"

Later, they held each other and she confessed: "I love you, too. I think I've always loved you."

Alex Summers, the sometimes X-Man known as Havok, said: "She used you, son."

"No."

"After she was done with you, she'd sneak into the lab and use our teleporter to move goods to Afghanistan. She moved hundreds of thousands of dollars of weapons into enemy hands, and worse, set you up to take the fall."

Long, long ago, after she'd broken her collarbone, he helped her into the car. Gingerly, he buckled her safety belt and adjusted the strap so it wasn't rubbing against her arm, which was now in a sling. She was pale from surgery and blood loss, but she smiled so sweetly that his heart broke. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. He wanted to kiss her lips. Chicken shit.

Nate tried to possess the body of his alternate-reality self. He yearned to press his lips to hers, and although that Nate wanted it, too, he wouldn't surrender his free will.

Something wet and oily spilled from his nostrils.

A nosebleed?!

Holding his nose, he dashed into the bathroom. He pressed a fistful of tissue against the bleeding nostril and looked at himself in the mirror. What did he see? The stern face of a leader who'd never led; baby-blue eyes on a man conceived and artificially aged in a test-tube; brown hair crowned in white to give him the appearance of wisdom; and a body in peak physical condition that did bugger-all except please the eye. Tears coursed down his face. He hadn't had a nosebleed in years, not since his Omega-level days when his body would break under the telepathic strain. It only happened a few times. Once with Cable, another time with Holocaust, and of course with Onslaught… It always meant the same thing: his powers were killing him.

Furious, he wiped away his tears. Hope was right; his self-pity wasn't serving anyone.

Time to man the fuck up.

…

To Be Continued…