Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men, sadly, and I get no money from this. Honest.

There was a time when Logan and Victor were allies. A time when they, along with Wraith, Maverick, and Silver Fox, were the deadly team known as Team X. In this time, Team X went on missions so wrapped in shadow and death, they themselves were unsure of their sanity. After the team was decided too dangerous and too big of a risk, they were disbanded and their memories either wiped or blurred. They left, to pursue different paths in the world.

What none of them knew as they broke apart was that they left behind a reminder.

A daughter.

This is her story.

Rose

I slip a tight leather jacket over my miniscule tube top. My silky black miniskirt swishes about mid-thigh and my three-inch high-heeled boots, that reach my knees, blend into the shadows that rule my room. The only color in my entire outfit is a golden locket that holds a picture of five different people. Engraved on the locket is an X, and it is one of my two links to my past. I look around my barren room, at the sign I had made myself that reads 'the Claw,' the small cot in the corner, the small chest of drawers, both either black or silver. My sheets are gray, drab and uninviting.

I know that tomorrow, like always, I'll be in trouble for one thing or another. Something about me, something about my shoulder length blond hair that is always mussed, something about my hazel eyes, something about me, seems to set off everyone around me. No one likes to be around the girl who does not seem to be the age she is—who seems to be thirty years old yet inhabiting the body of a fifteen year old. The adults hate the peril that radiates from me, my wild attitude and impulses that, more often than not, mean a fight or a mess. The kids in the orphanage hate the wisdom and skill I have, the smooth grace I have stored within my five foot ten body that so often shows up even the older children.

I sigh and open the window. The adults, in their endless war on my night outings, had made me take a room on the sixth floor, the highest in the building.

I jump.

Instincts and long-practiced habits kick in and I smoothly twist about to land feet first, cat-like, on the soft lawn in front of Worthington's Home for Children in Need. I listen; supersensitive hearing makes sure that the steady heartbeats do not race in anger or astonishment at my stunning performance. When I am satisfied that no one noticed or saw, I stand, leather jacket rubbing against my bare skin, and disappear into the darkness.

Dr. Goodman

I look at the report, red bolded letters spelling out: Needs immediate attention. Please give directly to Dr. David Goodman. Sometimes, I dislike the job of being the curator of this home, but grudgingly I pick up the report so clearly intended for me and open it before placing it in the two foot high stack of papers and reports. Again, Rose's name appears in at least once in every single report. Something about that girl is treacherous; her whole behavior suggests that if she wants something, she'd either get it or knock you down.

I sigh. The poor girl has a long record of being bounced from one orphanage or foster home to another. If not for the fact that she's fifteen, she'd probably be in jail now; her fate's still trying to be decided between me and the police. Her brawls and unauthorized forays in to private property, as well as her habit of hanging out in nightclubs, have seen to that.

Just two days ago she was brought back to the orphanage by police. There was not much disciplinary action that could be taken that wasn't already taking place. I feel a little guilty pleasure for already sending a letter to my employer's asking if he would kindly look into the matter of deporting the girl to another, stricter, orphanage—or juvenile hall.

I sigh again. It's a shame. Probably the poor girl just needs someone to really care. But with all the children, it is virtually impossible to give her much needed attention.

Rose

I enter the nightclub, The Wildcat, and am welcomed by a throbbing beat and flashing lights. I smile as I approach the dance floor.

A man turns around and nearly knocks into me, barely managing to keep his balance. I don't move, letting him regain his feet on his own.

His auburn hair, silk strands trailing into his face, settles back around his head. Red irises in black pits glimmer at me as a charming smile greets me. "Ah, chère, I am sorry."

I smile coolly, tossing my blond hair back. "You should be."

He raises an eyebrow, and now looks over me. I ignore him and start to walk away.

"Would y' like a drink?" his voice follows me.

I turn to eye him critically. He wears a long brown coat, but his easy grace and sure movements belie his meek appearance. "Why not?"

He takes my arm and leads me to the counter. I easily sit on the tall stools and glance around. Fred is off this week, and a new person called Joe is there.

"A special, please," I say commandingly.

"Make dat two, homme," my benefactor adds.

When Joe brings our drinks, I casually lift the glass and pretend to take a sip, allowing the liquid to slide back into the cup. I had tried to drink long ago and quickly learned how much alcohol impaired my ability to defend myself in a fight.

"So," the man says, "What's y'r name?"

I look at him over the rim of my cup. "Claw. What's yours?"

He smiles and places the cup on the bar. "Remy."

My eye is caught by a flash of color by the door. "Excuse me. Thanks for the drink," I say as I slide down from the chair and place my cup on the counter.

"Can I count 'n seein' y' tomorrow night, chère?" he asks.

I smile, sharp canines glittering in the pulsing lights. "You can, but that doesn't mean you will."

Remy

I watch the young girl walk off. She is one good-looking girl, I'll give her that, but she's underage. How did she get in? The Wildcat is known for its strict enforcement of the proper age level.

I shake out my long coat and idly ignore my drink to watch her walk over to a girl with pink hair, neon green spaghetti strap shirt, and flashy purple skintight pants, sequins sprinkled freely over the silky material. The two talk together and are soon joined by a third person, a young boy. His black hair is in a crew cut, blue eyes glittering in his handsome face. A thick leather coat covers his white shirt, and loose khaki pants pool around his ankles.

They walk towards the back of the club, and I unobtrusively follow. They take the back stairs to the upstairs apartment, and I frown. Upstairs is not the best place for children as young as them; not one can be older than fifteen.

They knock on a door, which opens and shuts behind them. I carefully commit the scene to memory before taking my leave of the club, hoping I will see her later.

Rose

I walk down the streets and alleys of Salem. It isn't a large place, not like the bustle of Manhattan or Boston or NYC. But I don't really mind; in an out of the way place like this, the rather large police record of 'Claw' is diminished. These small-time cops don't fully get the clear picture of me, which is good. If I can stay in small towns like this until Scar erases my records, earning small money from staging small heists and robberies, I'll be content.

My ear cocks. Someone is yelling in the distance. I debate between going to check it out and going back to my room.

I change my direction and scale a wall, fluidly and gracefully.

Once on top of the building, I shed my leather jacket and place the packet of money Tessa, Staik, and I have earned this night down my tube top, and leap over the rooftops, a ghostly specter of darkness and purpose. Darkly tanned skin flashes momentarily in the light from a street lamp as I spring onto it and then leap off, across the street. I land with a light tap before loping across the rooftops.

I come to a stop at the edge of private property. I haven't entered it mainly because of the disturbing scents and aura, but it always teases me, taunts me. A scream sounds from my left and I reluctantly leave the boundary to clamber into a small alleyway.

It is just a small case of an attractive woman in the wrong place. I leap down, grab the man's shirt collar, and spring, carrying the man onto the roof. He's drunk, and his red rimmed eyes stare blearily upwards at me. I ignore him and search his pockets for identification.

He reaches out to me, muttering something under his breath, and I casually break his wrist while slipping his wallet out of his back pocket. As he howls in pain, I inspect his wallet's contents.

Looking down at him, I size him up. Big and beefy as he is, a blow to the neck might not knock him out. Instead, I slam my elbow into his temple. He gives a slight moan before his eyes roll up into his head and he sags in my hold.

I hoist him onto my back and easily dart across the roofs until I come to his address. After flinging him into the trash can at the end of his driveway, I then scamper off in the growing sunlight, quickly retrieving my cloak.

Reaching the orphanage, I scramble up the oak tree that reaches the second story. Standing on the highest branch, I jump.

I land on my windowsill with the grace of a cat and slide into the shadow filled room.

"Hey Cloak," I say as I step into my closet.

A shape detaches itself from my wall and shadows to sit on my bed. "I can never surprise you," the male voice says ruefully.

I chuckle. "If you could, you wouldn't bother visiting me," I answer as I slide off my clothes and slip on a light cotton T-shirt, torn off at the bottom to expose my stomach, and loose slacks that flare out around my bare feet. Pulling back my tangled hair in the semblance of a ponytail, I exit the tiny closet to sit beside my guest.

He wears a hooded cloak, from which he earns his name. It is said no one had ever seen his face but a few, and those few are long dead. A mutant like myself, he has been a part of the Morlocks before their massacre. He can travel through the shadows, much akin to a teleporter, yet he can not move living creatures through with him.

"Scar's almost done, and then you can come join us in Brooklyn," Cloak says.

I smile. "Scar is prompt, isn't he?" I say to myself as I stretch languidly.

"Have I ever told you how amazing you are?" Cloak says, and I can hear the love and lust in his tone.

I grin, teeth glinting. "Yes, but that doesn't matter. Unless you've been practicing?"

He sighs and I see the hood shake. I relax once more. Long before, when I had first joined the motley crew of mutants and Morlocks that banded together to try and take care of orphaned mutants, I had gotten a lot of . . . attention, because of my beauty. To take care of the problem, I told them that the only people I would consider taking an interest in are those who could best me in hand-to-hand combat.

So far, no one has earned the right to woo me.

"When's Scar exactly gonna be done?" I ask as I begin to do warm-up exercises.

Cloak shrugs. "He said he's making progress, but that doesn't mean he told us when he's going to be done. He's got quite a few states left." He cocks his head sideways. "You know, if you didn't get into so much trouble, this wouldn't be so much trouble."

"Are you going to stop me?" I ask as I begin one-handed push-ups.

He sighs. "You could be more low-key," he grumbles.

I back flip into a standing position, my hazel eyes alight with a strange fire, my body radiating a daredevil aura. "Where's the fun in that?" I ask him.