Kitty Pryde loves her scars.

They say 'I survived'. The others at the institute hide and try to conceal them away. Like the scars can be healed with a touch of concealer and blush. They sicken her - Rouge, Jean, Jubilee and everyone else. Those who flinch when stared at and duck their heads to hide their blemishes. Their scars. Kitty loves them. She smiles as she runs her hands over the raised skin. She knows their names, their stories by heart –

This one she received from Wolverine in a danger room session, quick snickt of the claws, short pain in the side, never fully healed, she can keep up, keep going.

This one, running down her leg, brush with Wanda, glass in the leg, reminder of how she kept running with Bobby flung over her shoulders. Willing to do anything to protect her loved ones.

The others, all signs, reminders of times where she keep going, kept running, kept fighting. Lessons on how to work harder, train more. Be stronger.

They flinch at the sight of the paler lines on the pale skin, the dark red splotches, Don't understand why (how) she could be proud of them – hideous they say, disgusting, does she think we want to see them?

But Kitty Pryde doesn't care, and late at night, she strokes her babies and talks to them, whispering about the places and things she's seen and the things and places she's kept.