NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Ok, so I'm doing a drastic rewrite of the original story. I went back and read it and was very very unhappy. I suppose that's what happens when you come back to something five or so years later. Don't worry, this time I plan to finish it. I apologize for any typos, I'm doing my rewrites at work in my spare time on a computer with a delete button that sticks, so it's been kind of a pain. Spell-check should have taken care of everything though.
Now, ON WITH THE STORY!

Artistic scholarship

Rowdy shoved his left hand deeper into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket. His right hand pulled the jackets collar up around his neck. Satisfied he could do nothing more to keep out the 10 degree wind chill, or the freezing rain, he quickly shoved his right hand into its pocket, mentally cursing the weather in New York. He would have cursed it out loud, but was afraid his tongue would freeze if he opened his mouth. Having lost feeling in his toes he wished for about the thousandth time in the past hour for some decent soles for his boots. Hell, a roll of duct tape would have made him happy. He hoped what was left of the soles of his worn out Tony Lamas would last just 300 more yards without falling off. Then he hoped his toes would last just 300 more yards without falling off. He quickened his pace as much as his aching knee would allow.
Finally.

He made it to the steps of the art museum. He pulled his hands, covered with worn out deer skin gloves, out of his pockets and pulled open the door. He stopped before entering though, holding the door for a tall dark skinned woman and a bald man in a wheel chair. They thanked him, but he simply smiled and nodded his head. His southern hospitality was probably going to freeze him to death. He was thankful when a young man in a hooded fur lined coat took the door and held it for the following group of teenagers.
"I will take it from here." The young man said with a thick accent before taking the door. "German" Rowdy's mind registered briefly. Rowdy nodded again and hurried inside.
Part of what Rowdy liked about this art museum was that it not only had an extremely good heating system, they had a giant open hearth fire place in the center of the large lobby. Rowdy hurried to it pulling off his gloves. He placed his hand a mere two inches from the roaring gas flames. After he had some feeling back in his fingers, he decided he had to do something about his feet. He pulled up one of the stools arranged around the fire place and sat down, placing his boots on the metal rail that ran directly next to the base of the flames. He felt the heat going through the soles of his boots into his feet immediately, ignoring the smell of burning duct tape and leather.

Professor Charles Xavier pulled Jean Grey and Scott Summers aside from the rest of their group, telling Ororo Munro to take the kids on to the exhibits. Xavier was a powerful mutant, considered by those who knew of such things to be the most powerful telepath in the world. He was extremely rich to boot, and had used his wealth to form a school for mutants, teaching them to control their powers and to help humanity. On the surface the school was merely an expensive private school for yuppie kids, but in truth Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters was the home of the X-Men. The X-Men were an outlaw group of mutants who did more for mutant and human kind than simply lobby politically, though there was a fair amount of that going on as well.
"Jean, did you notice anything odd about that young man by the fire?" he asked in a low voice. He could have communicated the question telepathically, but didn't want anyone around to notice the three standing in a group not talking. Jean Grey, a beautiful tall fiery haired, green eyed telekinetic, looked at the disheveled looking young man as he tried to warm himself. He had shoulder length wavy brown hair, and a rough looking five day beard. He wore a worn leather bomber jacket with a few patches on it, faded and ripped blue jeans with holes in the knees and very nearly holes in the seat, and a pair of old cowboy boots that appeared to be held together with duct tape and a prayer. She stared intently at him for a few moments.
"Yes, that is odd. It's like he's not there. I wouldn't have even noticed him if you hadn't said anything"
"Are you saying he's blocking you telepathically some how Professor?" Scott asked, a frown creasing his clean shaven face.

"Not exactly," Xavier explained. "He's not blocking me in any conventional sense. Ordinarily when someone has mental shields, I can sense a wall is there. I can feel their presence even though I can't read their thoughts. With this young man I can't even feel his presence. It's as if he doesn't exist."

"So he's mutant?" Scott asked.
"Possibly. Probably. We can not tell for sure here. He could be immune to us for another reason, possibly through the use of some new technology. I can't think why this particular young man would have such technology however. Only Cerebro will be able to tell for certain if he is a mutant, and then only if he uses his powers. But whether he is a mutant or not he interests me. I believe I will have Logan keep an eye on him."

Logan was staring at a work of modern art, not even trying to hide his boredom. He was however trying to hide the fact that he didn't understand a damn thing in the entire building. Not that he didn't appreciate art, But really, most of the stuff he was seeing could only be classed as art in the broadest sense. Dr. Henry McCoy, with his image inducer turned on, a strange sight to behold, strolled over to Logan. McCoy was also called Beast for his appearance without his image inducer. Beneath the holographic image he was a giant muscular man with blue fur covering his body, and a large set of fanged teeth. With the image inducer, he was simply a giant muscular man with light normal human skin, and a large set of fanged teeth. Either way he looked like he curled VW Bug's like dumbbells.
"Isn't it incredible? Mangold had such an intuitive eye. He could express so much with so few brush strokes. He..." McCoy rambled on, looking at the painting over his wire rimmed glasses. Logan looked at him and growled, but the Beast didn't seem to notice.
"Why did I agree to chaperone his damn trip?" Logan wondered silently.

Logan , would you please come here? I need you in the lobby

Logan smiled, in spite of his hatred for hated voices in his head. He was just happy to be saved from McCoy's dissertation on minimalist art.
"'Scuse me Hank, but Chuck needs me," he mumbled, and left without awaiting a response.

"Professor, that kid looks half frozen. Are you sure you just want to follow him? He's liable to be dead before Logan finds out anything" Scott commented, watching the boy with his boots nearly in the fire.
"I think he will be alright. I suspect he's survived for at least a couple days in this weather. I think he will survive a few more. Besides, if need be, Logan can take bring him to the school for medical attention"

Finally Rowdy felt warm enough to continue his trip of artistic scholarship. At least that was one of many reasons he was in the museum. The other reasons being warmth and the fact that these trips were almost always profitable. His long fingers were as nimble as ever again. Arthritis was beginning to bother his left hand, but he could mover it as well as his right, simply ignoring the pain. Wiggling his fingers, he started off toward the featured exhibits room. They had several Van Gough pieces and the entire Andy Warhol traveling collection this month. Rowdy loved both artists work.
He entered the first Warhol room which, unlike the rest of the rooms of the museum, was low lit. Only the displays were bathed in bright spot lights. Carnival mirrors hung between the paintings, making a somewhat odd display seem even odder. Rowdy smiled, enjoying both the appropriateness of the lighting and its convenience. He walked up to one of the many Campbell 's soup cans and stood at the back of the small group of onlookers. Beside him stood a man in a fancy Italian suit. In front of him was a woman in an obviously expensive dress. She had an equally expensive looking handbag clasp behind her back. Rowdy smiled to himself. This was just too easy.

Logan watched the kid from the other side of the room; or rather, he watched the kid's reflection. To avoid suspicion, Logan was facing a painting of John F. Kennedy, watching the kid in the reflection of a mirror.
"Kid sure is acting odd," he thought to himself. "He's only half looking at the painting. Course, so am I, but I don't want to be here, an I assume he- What the hell?"

Logan caught a swift, but smooth motion. He turned around to watch without the hindrance of the trick mirror. Yep, sure enough, he saw the kid dip his hand into the Suits pocket. But for all the world it looked like he put the dude's wallet BACK IN the pocket. Then he saw the kid dip his hand into a woman's purse and come out with a woman's wallet. The kid slipped the wallet inside his jacket pocket for a few seconds, the pulled it out and slipped it back into the woman's purse.
"Slick," Logan mumbled to himself. "Grab their money but not their wallets, make 'em think they just didn't have as much money as they thought they did. Probably won't even notice they've been robbed till they get home," he thought.
The kid pulled his disappearing money trick a few more times, then headed off to the second Warhol room and began examining the art for the next thirty minutes or so. Thirty minutes in which Logan was bored out of his Adamantium skull. Bored or not however, he never once relinquished his predator like vigil on the kid. He was, after all, the best at what he did. Also known as Wolverine, Logan was not a mutant to be trifled with due to a set of Adamantium claws in his hands, hyper senses, a healing factor that made decapitation look like the hiccups, and a berserker rage that turned a killing machine into an uncontrollable killing machine.

The kid headed for a room with all blue walls. Logan recognized a painting with a large crowd around it. It was Vincent Van Gough's "Starry Night." Among the crowd was Rogue; Mari he reminded himself to call her in public; and Kitty Pryde. Rogue and Kitty were both students at Xavier's school, and both mutants as well. The two were talking quietly, but Logan had no trouble listening in on their conversation.
"I still don't get it," Kitty was saying.
"What's not ta get? It's a starry nite." Rogue responded matter of factly.
"That's what I don't get. It doesn't look all that ground breaking to me. Why is it supposed to be so important?" she continued.
"Well according to Miss Munro, it's 'cause nobody had ever done anything like it before him," Rogue said. "She says he saw the world in a completely different way, so people thought he was crazy."

"Well yeah, but what does that mean: "in a completely different way," Kitty countered.
"It's basic psychology." A new voice entered the picture. Logan nearly spit out the unlit cigar he was chewing on. The little juvenile delinquent was talking to Rogue.
"Ever'body looks at the world with his own perceptions," the kid drawled in a southern accent. "That's why there's really no such thang as reality. Everybody perceives it differently." Rogue and Kitty turned to look at the new comer, Rogue tilting her head to one side, listening intently, Kitty looking more confused.
"When somebody perceives the world in a vastly different and new way, he's called crazy by the so called "sane" society. When he places his heart on a platter, as artists do, he's often laughed at." The kid paused to look at the painting again, a slight grin on his face. He seemed to have their undivided attention. Kitty had partially recovered from complete confusion and was now staring at what the girls obviously considered a handsome face. Rogue, Logan noted happily, didn't seem as interested in his looks, though she seemed to accept him as some kind of art authority.
"So how did Van Gough look at the world?" she asked.
"Well, aside from looking at his stuff, which is probably the best way ta git ta know his brain, it might help to know that he once said that he 'often thought the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.' That kinda explains why a lot of his scenes are dark. Wanna go catch some dinner and grab a movie? Or vice versa." The kid switched from explaining philosophy and art to making a pass on her without blinking an eye or drawing a breath. It seemed to take Rogue a second to realize what he had said.
Logan took another close look at the kid, the turned away to watch him disgustedly in another mirror. "Damn art freaks." he muttered. It was kind of funny to hear fine art explained by a scruffy looking redneck bum though. He thankfully heard Rogue turn him down on the dinner and a movie idea.

AUTHOR"S NOTE
The next chapter is written, and the action really starts in it, so don't run off yet! Oh yeh, Review for me please! (please no flaming, at least not till I completely get the hang of posting on here.)