TITLE: Adamant
STARRING: Hellion and X-23
UNIVERSE: 616 Mainstream/AU
RATING: M
SUMMARY: Adamantium defines Laura in more ways than one.
SONG: There are going to be a bunch as I see fit. I'll make a note when I use one.

A/N: This ignores Marjorie Liu's X-23 run, and assumes Laura stayed in Utopia, and was present for Julian killing Omega Sentinel. Also, it assumes Laura being as Kyle & Yost wrote her. In terms of narrative style, this is going to be something completely different to those who have read my past work! I went much closer into Laura's world. Much, much closer...mwahaha...hope you like it! I may do others like this in the future since it's just so fun to slip into the driver's seat.

ADAMANT

Florence and the Machines, Cosmic Love
A falling star fell from your heart | And landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them | And now it's left me blind
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out | You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight |In the shadow of your heart
And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat | I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped and I was in the darkness | So darkness I became
I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

CHAPTER 1

March 11, 21:05

I look at the door, my eyebrows drawn together, biting my lower lip slightly as I have found I do when I am in situations I do not quite understand. Situations like these, which deal with intangible matters called emotions. Nothing else can cause such frustration to me. I am trained to wait on my knees for hours if instructed, waiting for the perfect moment to pull a trigger. To slip in unnoticed. To steal an object. I am not trained for these matters that are so illogical and tangled.

My handlers and owners attempted to remove emotions entirely from my body. The facility program spent millions of dollars and more than a decade on procedures that were supposed to completely erase my natural sympathies, my tendencies to empathy and affections-but they were not completely successful This makes my present state even more confusing, since they neither failed nor succeeded. I am caught in a state of not understanding, but with the knowledge that this seemingly ideal state—of being an emotional creature—is right at my fingertips. I am almost human.

I am relating this because I am now in a situation requiring emotional mastery. I touch the wood of the door, trying to decide what I will say. Will it matter? Will my words be heard? No one else has come to this door, no one else has felt concern, despite the fact that he is one of us. Gambit told me just yesterday, with a smile: "We take care of our own, mon chere." While I acknowledge that his words were regarding a different situation, with different perimeters, I still do not understand why the context would be different. He did not specify certain situations in which 'we take care of our own'.

Given this, I cannot help but wonder why he and the others have consistently excluded my friend.

I have watched his door. There have been many nights that I have sat outside it, not knowing what to do or what to say. I have reverted to my old habits of sitting sentry. And therefore I can say with certainty that no one has made an approach. Not even the people he was once so close to. I asked them, about him, in the cafeteria earlier today. At first no one answered.

"He's not one of us anymore," Cessily had said coldly when I persisted. There had been nods of agreement. I did not understand then, and I do not understand now.

There is one thing I do understand, and that is the fact that he is worth preserving, and so I will try to do so now. I do no not know how I will accomplish it. All I know for sure is that his agitation is growing, and the incidents are getting worse…and according to the rumors that I can hear better than anyone else, he is heading for a disaster of some sort. Perhaps this is true, perhaps it is not, but the thought of him leaving me—as everyone else has—causes me to feel the same burning sensation in my chest, the asphyxiation, the absolute will to deny it as fact.

He is associated with a number of strange sensations in my body. When I become aware of his presence, all realms of senses, which is quite overwhelming. There is no other being I have met that causes this reaction. I consider it similar to my reaction to trigger scent, except I do not feel the urge to kill him, or anyone else. On the contrary, I feel a strange sensation that I consider similar to intoxication with substance, perhaps Ecstasy, which I have imbibed several times on missions at the facility. Perhaps I have formed an addiction to this reaction he causes. I become anxious when I know I may see him.

I have never experienced this before, nor do I think I want to. It is difficult, to live knowing that something I crave is outside my body, and not unlimited nor indelible. What would my reaction be if something happened to him?

Slowly I rap on the door, feeling my heart speeding up in my chest already, even though I haven't seen him yet. I hear him move inside the room, moving things aside, mumbling under his breath, and then the door wrenches open violently, and Julian fixes his eyes on me, leaning on the doorframe. I inhale sharply, a wave of tingling passing through my torso to my peripheral structures.

"Laura," he says. Just my name, with a slight sneer. "What's up?"

This will be harder than I thought. I take a few moments to formulate an answer, but nothing comes. Just as it never does when he is waiting for me to speak.

"Whatever," he says, and starts to close his door.

I stick my boot in the space, and look at him. He raises his eyebrows and raises the stumps of his wrists in the air, then steps back—indicating I am free to act as I please. Evidently, he finds my approaching him strange…and it is true that this is out of the ordinary. I prefer to linger in the background, admiring his presence from afar, but I am spurred by the thought that this may no longer be possible. I enter his room, glance around, inhale. It is very messy inside. Used food containers are strewn about, as well as six half-empty liquor bottles. Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum. Jägermeister. Crown Royal. Kahlua. Fireball. Bombay. I doubt he has been having mixed beverages. "The legal drinking age is twenty-one," I say, disapproval in my tone.

He folds his arms. "You come here to lecture me about that, X?"

I pause, look at his bed, which is rumpled, and smells like him. I open my mouth and take several breaths through it, passing air past my Jacobsen's organ, like a snake. This gives me a better scent sample, allowing me to process the pheromone chemicals properly.

"Or just to stand there with your mouth agape?"

I turn to him, hesitate. "No. We need to…talk."

His eyebrows raise. "I couldn't have heard you right."

I say nothing. He heard me fine, I can tell that. He is assuming a defensive position, his arms still folded against his chest, his feet apart.

"So, talk," Julian orders me.

I hesitate again, my eyebrows drawing together. "I am…concerned. For you."

A few moments pass, and his expression contorts. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" he shouts. "They send the clone?! The person who is more messed up than any of us…they send you to—"

"No one sent me."

He stops yelling, but I can see this effect isn't in favor of my mission, either. He looks just as angry. "God, I must be really far gone if the X-men's pet serial killer is getting worried."

I say nothing. He turns his head away, his teeth gritted. "So…tell me…what exactly are you worried about?"

"Your safety," I say, because I cannot think of any other way to word it. "I do not—I do not want to lose you."

My voice catches slightly at the end, and he looks at me again. "Lose me?" he asks, his voice about a hundred and ten hertz softer.

I nod but do not elaborate. I don't know how to put my complex feelings and sensations into words. I do not understand how other people can be so communicative about this sort of subject. My instincts tell me to protect it, to treat it like a secret I have been ordered not to divulge—even if I am tortured for it.

"You don't have me," Julian says, his voice rising again. "On what planet do you think I would look twice at you, clone?"

I remain silent, watchful. He looks at me, and the anger in his face fades to dullness. "Then again, I'm not that far off from being as freaky as you are." He unfolds his arms, and the stumps hang by his sides.

Right now, I hear his words, but somehow they do not reach me. I am focused on his body language, on the fact that he is relaxing, that he is starting to look at me, that he is not hostile to my presence. I raise my eyes to his, and feel the tingling again, so I flush slightly and tear my gaze away.

"See…you can't even look at me," he says. "Even you. I should just walk off a cliff."

"What would that accomplish?" I ask, puzzled. He can fly.

"An end to this meaningless existence." He kicks a pizza box on the floor. "I'm bored with it."

"It is not meaningless," I say softly.

"It is to me. I'm tired of getting hurt, of behind chopped apart piece by piece, of—"

"I will protect you," I interrupt.

He glares at me. "Right. Just like you protected me for these." He holds up his stumps, then lets them drop, yet again. "No, I don't need protecting, X. If I'm this easy to hurt, then I'm dead weight. I'm worthless. You guys are better off with me—"

"You are not worthless," I say fiercely. He stops, surprised, his eyebrows raising as he stares at me—and I feel the tingling again, so I close my eyes. I need to say this. "I would die for you," I say. "I would kill for you. You are important to me."

He says nothing.

"I do not—" I hesitate. I am conflicted. He is forcing me to expose weaknesses that might be used against me later. "I do not want to live without you," I say, in a voice with less volume. I do not sense anyone around us at the moment, but there could be surveillance devices.

A few moments pass. "But you never talk to me," he says. His expression suggests surprise but the rest of his body language does not.

"Because I do not know how." I allow myself a glance at him. "You make me anxious."

He tilts his head slightly. "Why?"

I am beginning to feel uneasy with the amount I have said. "I do not wish to discuss this," I say, something the other children have joked is my 'catchphrase'.

"Oh come on!" he says, impatiently. "You can't do this. You come to my room and—and make me think you're finally going to—" he pauses. "You know. Laura, I'm tired of this stupid dance. I don't have time for this shit. If you're going to lead me on with cryptic messages—"

"'Lead you on'?" I ask, unfamiliar with the term.

"Well, that's what you're doing," Julian says, glaring at me. "Two years. Two whole years and nothing. You just linger in the background, gawking at me. You're worse than Sofia, you know." His voice is rising again. "I'm fucking sick of this almost-life I'm living!"

I don't know what to say, so I remain silent. He sighs, reaches up and rubs his stump against his head, then realizes his fingers are gone and scowls. His arm drops to his side.

"I think you should go," he says, less aggressively. "This isn't doing either of us any good. I'm just in a bad mood and you're making it worse by reminding me of everything bad in my life."

I feel something—something hot and painful and light, upon hearing these words. My eyes burn, like I have just let soap run into them. My reaction must be visible, because he's staring at me, with what looks like astonishment. "Are you crying?" he asks.

I say nothing, direct my gaze to the floor, and wait for the sensation to pass. He takes a step toward me, and then another, as if approaching a wild animal. "How about that," he says, examining my face. "So you're not a machine."

I grit my teeth, and glare at him. He seems surprised. "Laura—" he says, raising one of his stumps. "I didn't mean to make you upset, I—"

"Then what did you intend?" I demand. He has made me angry. I do not like it when people call me a machine, or an animal.

He pauses. "I don't know," he says, scowling. "I don't know anymore, dammit. You're confusing me." His face contorts. "Just leave."

I hesitate.

"No, I won't keel over and die!" Julian snaps. "Even though I really want to."

Nodding slightly, I move to the door, still stinging from his words. He has implied I am a problem in his life, and the logical thing to do—since I am concerned about his wellbeing—is to remove myself from the situation. But this conflicts with my own interests. I am very confused myself.

I slip outside his room and pull the door closed behind me.

...

March 12, 09:34

In the morning, I catch a glimpse of him in the cafeteria. I am in the middle of a group of other students, on our way out, and he is sitting at a table and eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup, his head bowed. There is a wide berth of empty seats in his vicinity. I am reminded of my cousin Megan, and her reaction when I informed her that I did not question her sanity. "I know. You're my only friend."

I stop, in the doorway, and turn around so that I can walk to his table. "Hi," I say.

Julian doesn't acknowledge me, but I know that he is aware of my presence by the way his shoulders move slightly.

"I do not think you are crazy," I say, because it worked once.

Now he looks up, his eyebrows rising. "What the—"

I sit down on the bench opposite to him, and let my book bag sink to the floor, and force myself to look at him. Perhaps a little too intently.

"Right," he says. "I'm the crazy one here."

I am surprised. Megan had responded much more positively to this approach. Perhaps I will need a new strategy. While I am trying to formulate a plan, he shifts in his seat, and looks at me with an expression that suggests he is wary of my next actions.

"I thought you weren't talking to me," Julian says.

"We are talking now," I respond. His logic at times baffles me, but then, so does everyone else's. I believe I may be the one who is missing something in method, since exasperation is a common reaction to my rebuttals.

He rolls his eyes. "I mean, I thought you were furious with me. You stomped off and everything."

"I am not 'furious' with you," I say, impatiently. Again his logic is unsound. "I left because you asked me to leave."

He thinks for a moment. "Oh. Right." He pauses for a few moments, not more than three and a half. "I don't think you should hang around me anymore."

"By what reasoning?" I inquire.

Julian looks down, and the muscles in his face go taut, as if he is making a physical effort of some sort. "I'm not…I don't think I'm the kind of person you need in your life right now. You have your own problems…and as you can probably tell…I have mine." His tone is subdued and quiet, probably because he does not want anyone else to hear. "So you should stay away from me."

I sit back. I am not used to him making admissions of weakness, of any sort. This new turn of events makes me feel uneasy. He must truly be unwell. "Why?" I ask. "Your problems do not endanger me." I pause. "Although, mine may endanger you, so I agree."

"Whatever," he says. "As long as you get the point."

"The point?" I ask.

"That we're not friends anymore."

"Why are we not friends anymore?" I ask, confused.

"Just leave it," he says, in a flat tone. He picks up his soup spoon and swirls his meal with an expression of disinterest. I do not think it is the soup's fault.

"No, I do not want to 'just leave it'," I argue.

"Really?" he asks, drawling the word slightly and giving me an unimpressed look. "You don't understand when I don't want to talk about something?"

I flush a little. He has caught me in an unintended bias. "You never respect my requests," I remind him, since he seems to have forgotten.

"And you never tell me anyway." He drops the spoon against the bowl with a clink! "Laura, I said…I don't want to be friends anymore. It takes two for a friendship. So…it's over."

"Okay," I say, feeling a twinge of burning somewhere inside at the fact that he won't explain his logic to me—and that he hasn't defined how people 'stop being friends'. I get up from the table, take my bag, and start to leave.

"Oh, and Laura—" he calls. I stop and turn.

"Stop saving me," he says.

I feel my face harden, which is a strange sensation. It feels like a muscle spasm. "Never," I say, forcefully.

A few moments pass, and then I walk away, after my classmates, wondering if this excursion was a mistake.

March 24, 11:15

For the next ten days, I keep a very strict routine.

Each day I complete my assignments on the island as usual; these are various tasks, from crop cultivation to security to assisting with repairs from the damage of 'the dome', as the others call the red force field used in Bastion's attack. I serve as a table saw, since I am much more efficient at cutting than the aforementioned accessory.

At precisely 20:45 each evening, I head down the cell block on which his room is located, and sit by the door. I am not certain of my purpose, except for the thought that I am protecting him from something. I failed to protect him during the influx of Nimrod Sentinels. This is unacceptable. I have never failed at anything before. So I sit in the hallway each night and listen to make sure that he is alive and not in distress. The noises I most often hear from his room are loud music being routed through his headphones, intelligible murmuring, energy humming, and bumps, with the occasional violent crash. Hearing the latter sounds always alarm me, and each time I almost take down the door. He usually utters profanities in a conversational tone afterward, which lead me to believe that he is not under attack. I am certain these crashes are him kicking things, which is a form of emotional relief that I understand-having once destroyed a sink in the Xavier School while upset.

On March 24th my routine is severely disturbed. Quentin Quire causes a phenomenal disturbance at an International Arms Control Conference in Bern, Switzerland. He telepathically forces a roomful of World Leaders to divulge national secrets, then makes a worldwide broadcast on the future of mutants. Sentinels are called in, which will become a trend in the coming weeks. Suddenly the conflict-free period is gone, and Utopia is attacked almost daily. I am torn between the missions that Logan and Scott Summers assign to me, and my own personal mission. In the end—recalling, ironically, Logan's orders that I am to explore my individuality and not take any more orders—I choose the latter. I decline an invitation to a 'Mutant History Museum' exhibit, which the other students are attending—and subsequently fail to protect them when the museum is attacked by insurgents who claim to be acting on the orders of the Hellfire Club. In my place, Oya is forced to kill. Logan is furious, and has an argument with Scott Summers about the role of 'child soldiers'. Distracted by this argument, they fail to prevent a self-assembling Super Sentinel from amassing its parts, and it heads straight for Utopia, which is momentarily vulnerable—most of the adults being out on away missions.

The argument is not over. Scott Summers extends an open invitation to any students who wish to remain and fight the Sentinel. Logan takes issue with this, and orders the students to leave, as he has a back-up plan: destroy Utopia. The students intervene and the Super Sentinel is defeated, but Logan decides he has had enough of Scott Summers, and announces that he will be leaving the island at the end of the week—and extends an invitation to any students who want to join him.

I am extremely distressed. This argument is a result of my failure to fulfill my role as the killing machine, a role which Logan had denied was necessary. But his argument was a direct contradiction to another order he had issued me earlier, when I was a member of X-force: we are to protect the innocent. I am confused and embarrassed by my failure, and I spend the next evenings in the hallway wondering what my next actions will be. I cannot leave Utopia if Julian does not, since then I will fail to protect him, but in staying I will severely damage my relationship with Logan. Neither situation is acceptable. I begin to cut my wrists again to relieve my anxiety.

Dr. McCoy seeks me out at this time, and asks me to accompany him on an excursion. He intercepts me in the evening of March 27th as I am heading toward the hallway from the cafeteria. He explains that he is attempting to discover if there is a way to reverse M-day, and that to do so, he has decided to consult with a list of genius level intellects across the globe. There are nine names on the list, and they are all criminals. He has already consulted six of these individuals, but on the last attempt, he was attacked and came very close to being extinguished. He asks that I will accompany him, both as a body-guard of sorts, and as a 'living, unbiased record'. Dr. McCoy also possesses eidetic memory, but he is afraid that he may bring his own prejudices to the subject.

At first I decline his offer because it would mean leaving my post. Surprisingly, Dr. McCoy seems to understand my reluctance. I remind myself that he has senses as keen as mine, and like Logan he must be able to see my reaction to Julian. Dr. McCoy promises to have Danger guard the hallway in my place, but this is not an acceptable compromise to me. Then he points out that if this excursion is successful, guarding the hallway will no longer be necessary, as extinguishing the remaining mutants will be a futile endeavor if more are consistently born. On this sound argument I agree and we set off to find these individuals of high intellect. I will admit that I was mildly curious about them, but I did not question Dr. McCoy, whom I have come to respect.

Soon I understand his wishes to have accompaniment, as the first person we meet turns out to be Nathaniel Essex. I have heard of his 'Mr. Sinister' persona before; he creates clones. At first glance I am instantly on the alert, as he is very dangerous, and I resent anyone responsible for cloning. However, Essex turns out to be well-mannered and agreeable in his conversation with Dr. McCoy, and what is even more notable is his interest in myself personally. He expresses respect for my creator—Dr. Kinney—and asks me a number of questions about myself. Oddly, I do not find these inquiries invasive. He explains afterward that his creations have never acted independently of the purpose for their creation, and that I am the only clone he has ever met that successfully overthrew their creator's programming. Dr. McCoy then tells me we should go, and so we do.

The next individual we visit is someone very confusing. Dr. McCoy explains that he is an 'alternate version' of himself. I am not quite certain what that means. We go into the sewers to meet this man, who is indeed almost identical, except for the fact that his fur is ten to eleven Pantone shades darker. They have an argument that is so complicated that even I begin to lose track of what they are discussing, and this turns to fisticuffs. I begin to intervene and stab the man in the lower section of his linea alba with about an inch of my right foot claw. He escapes and I make pursuit for a few moments, but Dr. McCoy requests that I let him go. His voice indicates that he requires rest, but I suspect his exhaustion is not caused by a lack of sleep.

The last individual we meet with is located in the Patagonia mountains of South America. As we climb the path, Dr. McCoy tells me about the woman we are visiting. Her name is Spiral, and apparently the establishment she runs is called 'The Body Shoppe'. This has been the source of much trouble for the X-men: Psylocke's cybernetic eyes, Donald Pierce's robotics and Lady Deathstrike's cyborg enhancements have all originated from this 'business', which caters to those seeking to augment their biological bodies. I am upset upon hearing this, still shamed by the fact that I had failed to kill Lady Deathstrike in Antarctica. I reassure myself that the next time I will not fail. I suspect beheading her will complete the task.

After a series of complicated entrance rituals and interviews, we are led into the heart of the Body Shoppe by an assistant. In the middle of the room stands a woman with six arms, one set folded defensively, one set on her hips, and the others holding swords. She orders us to state our business, and Dr. McCoy begins to speak, but I fail in my role as a recording device. I am too distracted by the establishment we have entered; I now understand why it is called the Body Shoppe.

The walls are lined with cybernetic attachments, for various purposes. There are many parts I do not understand. There are a good deal that I do: wings, tails, horns, eyeballs, entire faces, arms, legs, feet…and hands. I see a pair of metal hands sitting on a shelf at eye level, and I instinctively reach for them.

Spiral immediately looks at me, stopping in mid-sentence. "Put that down," she tells me.

I look at the hand I am holding. While it is made out of segmented metal, it looks very life-like in shape, and incredibly feels even more so: it is malleable and textured, as if it is a real hand I am holding. The only difference is that it is cold and lifeless.

"Is this for sale?" I ask.

Dr. McCoy looks at me. "Laura, no."

I do not return his gaze. Spiral considers me, although it is difficult to ascertain exactly what she is looking at because she has no pupils. After a moment, she nods.

"The price?" I ask. I have one hundred forty-seven thousand seven hundred and eight dollars, slightly more than when Megan had tried to borrow twenty dollars from me. My investments have already provided returns.

"More than you can afford, little girl," Spiral says, with a slight sneer. "Put it back."

"The price?" I repeat.

She arches her eyebrows. "My boss Mojo needs a new toy for his arena," she says.

Dr. McCoy shakes his head. "She's a minor. I am her supervising adult, and I forbid it."

"How long?" I inquire.

Spiral sucks her tongue. "You survive a week…and the hands are yours. Transportation provided."

"Done," I say.

Dr. McCoy's eyes widen. "Laura, you cannot possibly understand what you are agreeing to."

"The contract requires that you explicitly state your agreement," Spiral says. "Since this is an arena with visible spectators. Verbal terms will do. Oh, and you can't hurt the audience."

"I agree to the terms," I say, setting the hand back on the shelf and turning to her. "I will participate in this arena for one week, in exchange for this pair of cybernetic hands. I am ready to go now."

She nods, and one of her index fingers begins to spin in the air. Beside her, a blue-colored portal begins to open—a wormhole—and she makes a gesture for me to enter, with her other hand. I look at Dr. McCoy. "If I am successful, I will return in a week. Please do not tell anyone."

He nods very stiffly. I appreciate and respect him even more. Logan would not respect my choices. I step into the portal, and everything rushes away. My breath is ripped from my lungs, and when I catch it again, I am in the middle of a huge, sand-filled arena. Around me are glass walls, behind which are many thousands of spectators, of various shapes, colors and compositions, but this is hardly remarkable to me after my time with the X-men. A look upward shows that there is a strange grid system of metal pipes, overtop which is a white, puffy dome.

Spiral's portal seals shut behind me.

The audience members all crane their necks and look toward a set of amplifiers, set in each rounded corner of the arena, but I cannot hear what is being said. I assume the purpose of this is to keep me in the dark about what is coming next while building audience participation. My senses, however, tell me that I will not have long to prepare for my first attack.

There are many flatscreen television displays facing the audience, but the only one that I can see is a countdown timer. It displays 167:59:30, and I realize this is how many hours I will have to survive before I will be returned to the Body Shoppe. I crouch, and realize that my grey-and-black uniform has disintegrated. I am now dressed in strips of leather, which I decide allows for greater freedom of movement. I have no weapons, but I don't need them. The doors of the arena are opening to let in bright white light, and I squint into the distance…and my eyes widen slightly as I take in the size of the figure approaching me. And the shape.

It is a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

The week that follows tests my endurance greatly. I am pitted against foes that are my equals and more. At one point, the sprinkler system above me begins to mist the floor with a sticky, orange fluid: trigger scent. I am terrified that they have discovered my weakness but I do not have much time to think about this as the world goes red for a period of what I later discover is three days. When Spiral's portal finally reopens seven days later—the clock having reached 00:00:00—I crawl into it, weaker than when I had overstayed the safely allotted amount of time in the future on an X-force mission. In addition to the combat, I have been thoroughly tested in every factor of my survivability. I was drugged, poisoned by venom stingers, tazed, and set on fire twelve times. There was acid rain. I was almost completely ripped in half on three occasions, and my limbs severed more times than I cared to count. Thankfully I managed to recover the limbs and reattach them, so that I would not have to undergo having my Adamantium claws reinserted. I crawled through mazes that appeared out of nowhere, and endured psychological games. The lights went out more than once, and I fought in the dark, with only a light strip on the opponent's collar to guide my actions. During the last twenty-four hours, my healing factor was disabled. No other ill effects were applied, but I was already thoroughly exhausted and my opponents became more and more powerful. At the last hour, Spiral herself appeared in the arena and used magic against me, something I cannot even comprehend. But when the clock hit 00:00, I was still alive, and the portal opened as suddenly as it had disappeared at the start.

On the other side, I collapse on the floor of the Body Shoppe, almost unconscious. Spiral flings the hands at me with a sour expression and tells me that I will have to arrange my own transport home—and that I have a minute to get out of her shop before she kills me. The only thing on my side is that my healing factor is very slowly returning. Somehow I manage to escape into the mountains, and back to civilization—mostly by rolling down the slope, the hands clutched tightly against my abdomen. When I reach a town with technology, I call Logan from a payphone—the only number I can think of at the moment—and ask him to tell Dr. McCoy that I am finished with my task. He explodes in worry, but I hang up and sit down on a rock to wait. I lose consciousness several times and fall off my perch. On each occasion I wake to the metallic sound of the hands in my lap hitting the pavement, and I am able to recover my senses enough to gather them again.

At some point, Dr. McCoy appears to collect me, along with Pixie. They say many things to me, but as I am not lucid at this point, I do not remember them later. I am not aware of being teleported to Utopia, nor of my refusing the infirmary, as Dr. McCoy later informs me. I walk down the hallway, dragging one leg that has not quite healed from being broken, and knock on Julian's door—and lean my full body weight against the door frame. When he finally answers three minutes and ten seconds later (I am aware of counting), I am confused as to why I am there and he has to yell at me before I remember the hands. I attempt to give them to him, but I drop them on the floor—I remember a heavy metallic thud—and then I join them, face-first.