Truth is Overrated: I was a late bloomer. An old man swooped in and then dropped me into the crazy world of his School for Mutants my senior year of high school. To the surprise of everyone else, I turned out all right. It's been a long time since I called the Institute home, but now I'm back and I think I might be here to stay. Sequel to Normalcy is Overrated.

Disclaimer: The X-Men, SHIELD, the Avengers, the Brotherhood of Mutants, and any other familiar characters are not my property. I claim no ownership of them. They are the creation and property of their creators and the rich assholes that control their every movements. I simply like to toy with them. The SRU, Danielle Evans, her grandmother, and a few other random characters are mine. Kurt Morgan is the creation of a good friend of mine, but he's given me permission to use him as I please. Thanks Noah!

Rating: This story is rated M+ for Mature Audiences only. This story contains Adult Content including vulgar language, drug references and/or usage, suggestive materials, and sexually explicit materials. No children, please.

Author's Note: People asked for it, so here it is. The sequel to Normalcy is Overrated is here, and it's here to stay. Follow Dani on her continued journey as a mutant in a land replete with dangers and mystery. The awkward and unsure mutant from Xavier's Institute is all grown up, and she's caught in the middle of one of the greatest, and most dangerous, mysteries her kind has ever faced.

"The truth is overrated." - Peter Westerberg

Truth is Overrated

~Chapter One~

I crushed the cigarette under my heel as I stepped under the yellow police line and shoved past a uniform with ease. Not even glancing at the officers on scene, I flashed my badge at the uniform at the door, managing a nod as I slipped past him and into the small, squat building.

"Jesus H. Christ," I hissed as I slipped my ID into my back pocket, side-stepping two body bags and a crime scene photographer. "What is that smell?"

"Fecal matter, ma'am," a uniform replied as he led me through the main corridor and into a large room off to the left. "I, uh, I mean human feces. The body's are fresh, and decomp's pretty minimal. But the place is filthy." There was more police tape, and he lifted it up and motioned for me to go ahead as I slipped under it and took the narrow stairs two at a time.

The building itself was located in the industrial center, one that, according to preliminary reports, was leased to an imports/exports company that had gone bankrupt three years before. The ground level itself was mostly storage space with a few rooms that could serve as offices, but it was the underground storage that I was interested in.

"What do we got?" I barked as I walked on-scene, booted feet clacking on the cement floor.

The coroner knelt next to a body bag, his back to me. I'd dealt with him a few times, and knew he would tell me in his own time, but that didn't mean I wouldn't shake him down a little bit, try to push his buttons. "None of the victims struggled. It would appear as they died where they fell. This fella," the gray-haired coroner jerked a gloved thumb in the direction of the body bag next to him, "looks to have bruising on his neck, and what may be an entrance point for a syringe."

"Like the bodies in D.C.?" I prompted, scowling when he slowly nodded his head in agreement. "No witnesses? Nothing?"

He opened his mouth to respond when the same uniform that had led me downstairs cleared his throat loudly. I eyed him for a moment, letting my eyes rake over him from head to foot. He looked to be in his mid thirties, had a bit of a beer belly, and a receding hairline. "Ma'am, we've got something you're definitely gonna wanna see." This time, he led the way as he ushered me through a partially hidden door in the far wall and into a room that was far bigger than any floor plan would have ever indicated. "When it was called in, we received orders not to-"

"Approach or accost any possible survivors or aggressive victims," I finished for him, brows furrowed. "I'm the one that gave that order, Detective. Has anyone been in this room?"

"No, ma'am. I told my boys to stay out and I've been the only one in or out. The big one came to about an hour ago, but he hasn't said anything." The uniform looked uncomfortable and terribly out of place in the white-washed sterilized laboratory of a room.

Two long exam tables sat on either side of a very wicked looking computer. All of the equipment, including incubators, and machines I didn't even know the name of– looked to be top of the line. Whoever it was that had been using the room hadn't been some two-bit crack head cooking up the latest batch of meth.

Besides, the three cells at the far side of the room that held two people were huge indicators of more than crack cocaine.

Deftly, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and pressed the speed dial for my contact. "Morgan, this is Evans. We've got a possible lead." Glancing at the watch on my wrist, I rattled off the address and explained to the uniform that I would have a team arriving any moment. "Keep it quiet– I don't want to draw any more attention than necessary." Without waiting for a reply, I slid the phone back into my pocket and turned to the uniform, who looked far from pleased.

"Now just one second," he began, color filling his otherwise pallid cheeks. "This is my crime scene, ma'am. Who are you to just barge in here and-"

"Detective?"

"Reinhold," he more or less snapped.

"Detective Reinhold, I thank you for the fine work that you and your team have done, but from here on out, this is a federal case." I fished out my ID yet again and flashed it open, holding it up so that he could get a big fresh whiff of the fact that I'd just stolen his case out from under him, simply because I could. "We feel that this could be connected to several cases across the States. So, unless you'd like me to call up your Captain..." I trailed off, letting the threat do all of the dirty work.

Twenty minutes later I stood outside of the hidden laboratory, reading over the preliminary reports that the coroner and the first-on-scene had left while my team did their jobs. My eyes raked over the medical terminology lazily, simply because I didn't understand a good forty percent of it.

"Evans?" a masculine voice called out, causing me to hand over the reports to a blonde whose name I forgot every other week. With a nod in her direction, I slipped into the lab room and offered the others a quick nod as they dusted the surfaces for prints. "Two males: First appears to be in his mid-to-late thirties, Caucasian, brown hair, red and black eyes, approximately six foot three; Second appears to be in his late thirties, Caucasian, possibly brown hair, black eyes, approximately six and a half foot."

"How you doing, Morgan?" I grinned at the man as he rubbed at his stubbled jaw tiredly. He'd clearly just gone to bed when he'd gotten the call, but like any good soldier he'd rolled out of bed and gotten right to work. He was a few inches taller than me, gruff and rough looking, and built as lean and as mean as they came. "Uniform said the big one was in and out earlier. How are they?"

"First survivor's pupils are responding, and the Doc's guessing that he's under a pretty heavy dose of either pure-grade anesthesia or some heavy drugs." His uniform was black, blue under the light, and practically skin-tight as he moved in front of the cells where two large men were first restraining the smaller of the two men before loading him onto a gurney. "The second seems to be fighting whatever sort of drugs he's on, and he's shown signs of aggression. Evans?" he asked suddenly, drawing me out of my daze.

Six and a half years, I reminded myself as I stared at the large man sprawled almost indecently across a too-small cot. It's been six years. Instinctively, I lifted a hand to the dog tags I wore around my neck, reassuring that they were still there as I ran my hand through my already tussled hair. "Fury's prepared quarters for them at Triskileon," I finally responded, mind reeling as I continued to stare at his large, unmoving form. "Any luck yet ID'ing them?"

"We've got nothing on the big guy, but the smaller one's prints are matching those that were found in Paris a few years back." Deftly, he pulled out his palm pilot, working the thing like an old pro before holding it up towards me, showing me what may have been the smaller man's face. "If it's him, he's one of the best thieves in the world. Interpol's been after this guy," he shook his palm pilot slightly, "for over a decade."

"Nothing on the other?" I asked, moving to the side as two men carried LeBeau, according to his prints, out of the room.

"Nothing," he replied, sighing heavily as he tucked his palm pilot back into his uniform's vest pocket. "Why exactly is the SRU handling this?"

I stared at him for a long moment before glancing around, ensuring that there were no prying ears to overheard what I was about to tell him. "Sources outside of any federal agency are saying that these labs we've stumbled across a few times are part of some bigger picture. I'm willing to bet my terrible annual salary that when the blood work on the three victims comes back, it's going to say that they're all mutants."

"Those two are mutants?" he asked, pointing to where LeBeau had just exited and the larger man still lay unconscious on his cot. "Not so surprising."

Nodding, I folded my arms over my chest and chose my words carefully. "There's someone out there, possibly multiple someones, that are popping up all over the States. Usually the victims are runaways, or mutants with terribly obvious physical mutations. But, over the last three months, we've had two cases eerily similar to this, and this is the first time there's been any live subjects."

He seemed to consider my words for a moment before he gave an abrupt shake of his head. Kurt Morgan was certainly not a man of many words, and often preferred to do his talking in close-quarters-combat, or with a weapon of some sort. Which is generally why we tended to get along so well. "What does Fury hope to accomplish by getting these two back to Triskileon?"

The truth of the matter was that I didn't really know all of the details, I never did. Even when they told me they were briefing me fully, I knew that they were always holding something back. Nobody ever laid all of their cards out on the table, not for me. Not ever.

"We're hoping to finally get a solid ID on the asshole that keeps kidnapping mutants off of the streets." He seemed to buy it, and merely nodded his head in acceptance. "As if this shit wasn't enough to deal with, apparently the feds are reporting that several Sentinel production facilities have gone rogue and are still operating," I managed, teeth clenched. "I'm really getting tired of picking up after the bureaucrats."

"Yeah, I'd rather beat up unruly mutants all day," he grinned, face paling slightly when he realized his mistake. "Aw, shit, Dani, you know I don't mean you-"

"It's fine," I cut him off, holding a hand up in order to keep him from inserting his foot firmly in his mouth. "That's what the SRU was formed for – even the Avengers can't do what our guys do." Which sort of seemed ironic, though entirely true, seeing as how the Superhuman Response Unit was formed to take care of the problems that needed to be handled off-screen; things the public shouldn't ever know about.

"So what do we do about the big guy?" he asked suddenly, throwing me for a bit of a loop as he motioned to the remaining survivor. "Tranq him just in case, you think?"

I managed a nod as I tapped my fingers together thoughtfully, working over a rough plan in my mind. It was full of holes, but after a few hours I knew that I'd be able to get it into motion. "Tranq him and ship him. File the paperwork, and then take the day off." Turning on my heel, I headed for the door, bound and determined that I would not be around when they carted him off.

Six and a half years.