She let her head mold against the head of her seat, her body groggily pulsing from the soporific plod of the train's lumber over the tracks below. Clattering glass chimed up an octave in tandem with each track, as the pushcart slowly made its way up the aisle. Gentle notes of voices would respond to the glassware's echo, and the two continued to converse amicably as the train neared its next station. Beyond her window contorted together in different pale yellows, striking scarlets and popping green hues, autumn gracefully stippling New York's rolling hills. The colors seemed almost alive, and it unsettled her stomach to see something so vibrant, such a far cry from the dusty grey's and lonely browns she awoke to every morning. She pulled the jacket tighter around her body, relishing in the way the new leather restricted her movements.
To say she was a nervous was so great an understatement, it was almost a lie. She didn't belong on a train, sitting amongst business men and women leaving behind work in the city in crisp suits, college students enjoying a weekend off campus, teachers herding groups of school kids on their field trip. She was like fool's gold floating in an inundated deposit of the real yellowed treasure. Who was she kidding? Them? Certainly not herself. If only for the time being.
Was she going to be ok?
Her passion to help others may have brought her into the deepest of predicaments. But was it really a "predicament?" A predicament, a situation, almost had the vague, underlining sense of trouble, of something that should cause worry. Should she be worried? If he was any indication of the rest of them, she shouldn't be.
He had been kind, and respectful, and had offered her an opportunity that had the consequence of being a saving grace for her.
Come back with me. Join us. We could use someone like you on the team.
Yeah. He had actually said that.
It was a corny recruiting motto, really. And an incredibly naïve belief. Nothing was ever simple, not in their line of work at least. Not in this lifetime, not in her shoes. And yet that casual arm cross, that lazy pinched smile beneath his mustard-color mask was making her second guess this infallible truth of armor she had strapped to her person.
He wasn't just interested in her abilities, her powers. He showed concern for her, a nobody. And that was why she was sitting on a train she couldn't afford, in new, clean clothes that disguised her as a young girl who belonged in this world, who lived in this world, headed to a place he told her she was allowed to call home.
So where was the 'but'? Where was the clock hidden that would strike at midnight and change the train back into a pumpkin? Where was the poisoned apple she would inevitably bite, or the conch shell that would eventually house her voice? Why was she trembling like a leaf, waiting for the trap door in the floor to loosen and swallow her whole? Because his words were too good to be true. Because something like this, someone like that, didn't just drop into her life with an offer such as this one without a few ropes attached, shaped conveniently like nooses. There were conditions. There had to be. He just wasn't telling her. Because what would a nobody like her have any business working with a group like them.
But that was just it; a group like them. This was it. This was the big leagues. He was legendary, a celebrity in his own right, and so were his colleagues. An opportunity like this didn't come around very often, especially to a nobody like her. The things she could do with them, the masses she could reach, the people she could save. She'd be selfish not to take it. Right?
She sighed again.
What was she getting herself into?
She knew nothing about this life she was walking back into, hadn't been a part of it for years now. She had remained chained to the streets while the world had changed and morphed around her. How was she sitting so casually on a train, headed to a station, wearing new clothes, rested from a mattressed-sleep, full from a breakfast, completely blasé? She didn't belong here. She was a fraud. An. Imposter. And worse, someone was going to call her bluff. She couldn't keep this kind of act up forever. Why did she think that because she had done it years ago, she was qualified to walk the walk, talk the talk, and think she could pass off?
She perked up at the sound of a warbling voice as it crackled through the overhead speakers, catching only the words North Salem before the intercom faded as waves of bustling surrounded her. Bags were grabbed from below seats and over heads, fogged windows were wiped furiously with little rounded fingers. They had reached their destination. They were starting a new adventure, for the day, for the weekend, for the month. She was starting off a new life, maybe for the rest of her life. And all she got for an introduction were the marbled-mouthed words that plopped out of the static speaker above her head.
No trumpets, no fan-fare, no confetti.
North Salem.
Here we go.
He watched the throngs of passengers exiting quickly out of the train doors, scanning the crowds for a face he had memorized now. He stuck out oddly. At first glance, it wasn't easy to distinguish why. His flared and frayed denim and worn leather jacket were attractively conspicuous, but not out-of-place. Even his imposing size could just be written off as a dedicated gym goer. But yet something made heads turn a second time, made eyes squint with suspicion. Who was this man? How could he blend in so well with the traffic of the downtown station, and yet stand resolute with the look of a mind and a body touched with something just a little more fantastic than the hamster-wheel of a life everyone else seemed to be trapped on?
"I don't see her, Logan."
There was an affirmative grunt that she was heard, but his attention remained on the draining carts.
White hair slipped along her shoulder as she turned to look up at him, with a small, curious smile on her face.
A new recruit.
How long had it been since they had opened up their home to a new mutant? A few years now? And one that immediately had a spot on the team? Only a few mutants had had that opportunity when the institute had first started up. Once their small out-reach group had been outed and eventually graduated from Bayville, the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters was no longer just a boarding house; it had officially become a boarding school and Bayville never saw another X-Man again.
Without the professor, though, it seemed almost insulting to open the institute back up with the intent of teaching and housing young mutants once more. The institute had been Charles's dream, though they had all adopted it over time watching children grow free from the judgement of the world. They had discussed it as a team when they had first reached out to Warren to help fund the rebuilding of the mansion off the books and under the radar. Warren's contractors needed finalized plans and the team had not yet given their final consent on whether they should open the mansion back up to housing children.
The vote had been unanimously bittersweet; the institute had already gained enough publicity back when their students at Bayville had been outed, and the Phoenix explosion had sealed the address's permanent fate on the MRD and Senator Kelly's watch list. They all understood the danger of bringing young children back onto the property, reconstructing the towering edifice of Charles's estate. They couldn't guarantee their safety like the Professor had been able to do years ago to hesitant parents. Tildie had been the only exception because she had no one left.
But the vote hadn't been without strong nostalgia of the days they had all been welcomed into the institute and how much it had changed their life, and strong regret that the institute would never be able to do that for anyone else. The anti-mutant hysteria was growing with each day, and young mutants needed a place of refuge now more than ever. But with somber nods, the vote was sealed and the mansion's original classrooms, student bedrooms, recreational areas, music rooms and multiple sport fields were removed from the plans. Now the mansion was. Efficient, blending in with the other up-scale estates on their street. It served a small team of adults that was always on the move and still required their own space in their down time. But it felt larger somehow. Emptier. Colder. An insult to the warm and welcoming home it had been before.
But as Ororo watched with fondness as Logan surveyed the station for the X-Men's newest member, she wondered if it was truly the new layout of the mansion that made it a hollow husk of its former glory, or if there was a slight possibility that it was the habitants inside. There was no more laughter, no more shouts from the fields, no more chatter in the kitchen, no more ambient noise that settled in the rafters like sweet honey. The X-Men operated as a team, and that was that. Once the capes were hung and the suits were gathered for the laundry (or trash if it was one of those missions) everyone scattered. And the mansion echoed the silence.
Ororo wondered to herself if the young girl would be the one to finally break the insufferable quiet, while Logan beside had slipped into a reverie of a few nights prior to.
He ran across the wet pavement, his feet dashing across the already forming puddles. The beating rain made his tight suit cling to his large body, rippled and edged masterfully with muscles earned from heavy training and the glorious heat of battle. His steady breathing produced small puffs of white fog that clung to the damp air with a vengeance. His nerves danced with excitement, as he peered behind him to watch as they drew nearer. He could hear the loud, monotonous footsteps of his pursuers, already multiplying as his enhanced hearing picked up the screech of another vehicle that had joined in on the chase. He grinned mischievously as the click of the triggers of their weapons echoed across the almost deserted neighborhood.
He wasn't afraid. To say he had gone out that night looking for a reason to run, a reason to feel the excruciating, heated pain of his metallic claws sheath from his dense knuckles was probably not all that wrong. On a stormy night like tonight, no one would be out on the streets. No mutants at least. That means he had their full and undivided attention. Perfect. And the fact that they had come extra prepared that night, equipped with a holding cell and everything, its extra weight on the vehicle's wheels chiming in his ear, made him all the cockier.
The X-Men leader even gave his chasers a moment to catch up, standing idly in the street, smirking confidently as the uniformed men circled him on all sides, their hauntingly black glasses staring the mutant down. All weapons were trained simultaneously on the wanted convict, as said offender continued to smirk with raw arrogance.
"Took you guys long enough," Wolverine called out smugly, brashly rolling and popping shoulder sockets. "Kelly's really pickin' the best and the brightest for his Mardy squads" watching, amused, as one of the soldiers actually began to shake, the former Weapon-X smiling at the smell of fear that reeked from the rookie's body.
"Surrender now and we won't hurt you!" one called out from the crowd of MRD soldiers, his voice almost muffled by the pouring rain.
"Funny thing, Bub," Wolverine said, smiling at the satisfying sound of his claws slicing through his skin and embracing the fresh, damp air, "I was going to tell you the same thing."
And without a moment's hesitation, the former Weapon-X was off, jumping first for the rookie, quickly knocking him out with a roundhouse kick. Grabbing the shoulders of the now unconscious lackey, he swung the body in a circle, brutally clobbering the soldier's heavy boots into any surrounding MRD recruits. Animal instinct kicked in as he quickly completed a back flip, narrowly dodging a series of blasts that had erupted from a nearby weapon. He swiftly fist punched a soldier feet from where he landed, grinning as their nose broke with a clean crack beneath his fingers. He grabbed the weapon from his hand and began shooting at the fast approaching group of fighters, his mouth cocked in a supercilious smile.
He was having a blast.
Though the men were heavily protected, the force from the blasts of his newly acquired gun alone knocked most of them off of their feet, leaving the haughty Logan with a few more stragglers, before they would be calling in aerial reinforcements.
He was already imagining his proud walk back home to the mansion and the glass of ice-cold beer when his eyes widened in confusion at a sudden and devastatingly sharp pain that had erupted right in the center of his chest. He quickly turned his attention to find a soldier pointing a gun straight at him, the barrel still relishing in the smoke of its bullet's exit.
"So that's how it's going to be. You're going to be sorry –" But Wolverine's speech was cut off abruptly as his world suddenly shifted out of focus, the atmosphere around him tipping like an uneven see-saw and the edges of his vision clouding over with bright lights.
He weakly turned down to look at where the blast had hit him, expecting to see an already healing scorch mark across his rib cage. But he was caught off-guard to find a small vile of some kind, it's needle surprisingly able to make it through his infamously dense skin. He roughly pulled the contraption out, but looked distraught at the empty vile; the damage had already been done. The cocky leader was only aware of a few type of sedation needles the MRD used, none of them able to pierce his skin deep enough to make it into his blood vessels. So what was this?
He glanced back up to find his vision had become even fuzzier, the MRD vehicles and the buildings behind them swirling together like a finger painting. He cringed as his weak legs suddenly crumpled, forcing the mutant down on his hands and knees. He could vaguely hear the footsteps of approaching Mardy's, their numbers slowly but steadily increasing.
He was screwed.
A flash of golden light suddenly danced across his line of vision. There came a series of panicked yells and screams, as the bright light popped into his vision a few more times before settling before him. And that's when limbs had unceremoniously given out, his fevered body sinking into chilled puddles with glazed eyes settled on brilliant ice blue irises as his world faded out.
The corner of his mouth tilted ever so slightly upward when those same chilled azure eyes settled on his once more, a lean face smiling radiantly in return. Ororo watched with interest as the young girl approached, slight confusion piqued momentarily to find her without luggage or belongings, until Logan's terse clippings returned to her from the previous night, Hank prodding away at his leader atop his medial bench. The scientist was looking desperately for a sample of the concoction, going about the proceedings as if it was locked away deep in Logan's reservoir of blood.
The Shadow Healer's no vigilante. She's just a damn kid, Ororo. A kid. She looks like she should still be taking the bus to school. And she's homeless. The kid's got nobody and nothing. Just the clothes on her back. Looks half starved. And in this weather. I can't just leave her like that. I can't just walk away.
He had been restless since that night, prowling about the house, searching shadows for answers, until she had finally called him back. The relief on his face had been clear as day. And there was an ease about him now, standing before her, that reflected a lifetime of acquaintance they had garnered in a matter of hours. Ororo was very intrigued.
He nodded in greeting. "Hey, kid." Her smile grew wider in return, though her hands continued to wring nervously at the water bottle in her grip. "Safe trip?"
She nodded, and right in that moment, Ororo's stomach bottomed out, and every fiber of her being wanted nothing more to wrap the young girl protectively in her embrace and never let her go. Her eyes so defiantly betrayed the age her body seemed to announce, aided with her impeccable posture and the dark jeans and leather jacket she wore so well. They were the eyes of a child, so young and innocent. Had it not been months ago when dozens of pairs of those same eyes had been laughing and bouncing about the mansion?
This was the Shadow Healer.
The renowned night healer New York had seemed to almost immediately fall head over heels for, and subsequently adopted as their mascot. The mythical superheroine that was the talk within all circles, domestic and otherwise. She was dominating fan-pages, conspiracy cites, even gracing the occasional news outlet.
And she was just a girl.
"Yeah, it was ok," voice easy but finger straight with accusation at Logan, "And don't you dare call me kid again."
She smudged the condensation cloud with her thumb, checking the empty street once again for their black off-roader. Her neck lazily swiveled about, letting a set of loosened pops echo in the hallway, giving a half-interested glance along the second floor and the visible portion of the first. "Where is everybody, anyway? I thought they'd all be here to check the newbie out."
He yawned, impatiently tapping chilled fingers along his kneecap.
"Scott and Jean are out by the water, and I really don't want to know what they're doing. Forge's coddling the jet, Hank's in the zone, Tildie's watching cartoons with Ororo and Kurt is probably off somewhere moping like a big baby," he rattled off.
Man, was he bored. Ororo had to be driving. There was no way with his daredevil speed that Logan was still out on the road.
She scowled at him, jabbing her toes at his. "Come on, you can't blame him for wanting some alone time. Take it easy on him."
He threw his hands up, almost imperceptible trails of frost dancing along the air in his wake. "Hey, he went and fell head over tail for Magneto's daughter. We all warned him about what he was getting himself into."
"Bobby, she almost killed him! None of us saw that coming," Kitty chided.
The eldest Drake scoffed, arms crossed. "Are you kidding me? I totally called that scenario. Either that, or she'd have Lorna cook him up on a homemade frying pan and feed him to Toad."
He was answered with a jab of Kitty's heel to his shin, yelping in pain and surprise.
"Hey!?" he whined, rubbing at his leg. "We were all thinking it," he added petulantly more quietly.
"I swear with your manners, Rogue's on-off status, Scott and Jean's 'I love you I hate you' relationship, Tildie's destructive nightmares and Logan's temper, I can't imagine anyone who would want to stay here. I don't even know why we're still here! Mansion explodes for the second time and we're like sure, who wouldn't want back in on that shit show."
Bobby snorted, though there was no humor on his face, eyes on the world outside. "You clearly haven't met my family. This was a step up."
Kitty continued over his comment, arms crossed, eyebrows creased in skepticism. "And since when did Logan start adopting street kids? Last I checked, he hates kids. Like period. Since the beginning of time."
A finger reached out to prod absentmindedly at the window pane, leaving trails of frost in its wake. "And only a month after Frost became snowflakes all over 9th. Papa Wolf's trying to fill a hole in his pack," he joked.
But Kitty looked at him with intrigue, mulling over his words with more thought than he had. "You think that's what he's doing?"
A shrug, and the ice dusting growing thicker along the glass. "Who knows. This is The Wolverine we're talking about. Dude's an animal."
But the young Pryde wasn't satisfied. Something about Bobby's comment left her pondering only more.
Did the team feel that much emptier without the White Queen? Did her absence really beg for a replacement? Or was it the hole left by a certain Southerner with white highlights? Was he actually trying to replace someone at all?
Because, let's be honest here, this was Logan they were talking about. The very man that, for the very reason the Shadow Healer even left the safety of the shadows, went cruising for a bruising with the MRD just for fun.
Did he actually miss anything? "But why her? We have business cards just for instances like this. If the world's in danger, we'll call yah. We don't take in kids. Not anymore. Why are we making an exception for her?"
Bobby gave her a knowing look, eyes and smirk dipped with jest that was looking for trouble. "Jealous?"
She glared him down, before turning her bored stare back to their private cul-de-sac. "No. Just like totally confused."
He stepped out of the medical laboratory, easing the weighted door closed, tensing as the medical-grade plastic seal slipped together, a gun shot in the empty lab. He chanced a quick glance back and sighed with relief when the occupant didn't stir. A large, blue-furred hand rose heavily to his face, pushing his thin-rimmed glasses further up his nose, bleary eyes turning back to the loaded clipboard clenched in the tips of his fingers. Numbers and graphs blurred to a rhythm his glasses couldn't rewrite for his tired eyes, and in these sporadic but plentiful moments when the universe dealt the X-Men a few low-scoring cards, he wished the PhD at the end of his name was earned in medicine. Results he could read, conclusions he could try and procure, but clinical care he wasn't capable of doing.
He wasn't entirely useless. He could watch a concussion, treat a mild burn, ice bruises; anything that didn't require a medical degree and was easily found on the internet or in his library of textbooks floors above him. She needed a medical professional, and unfortunately, possibly more support than what their on-call Night Nurse could offer.
A cleared throat pierced his haze, and he all but jumped at the sight of people in his lab, a space not often frequented.
"Everything go ok, Hank?"
He must've looked like a dazed deer, Logan giving a groveled snort when Hank pivoted to his voice. The blue mutant ran a hand through his equally colored locks and heaved a heavy sigh.
"I performed a mandatory physical of sorts," he started, walking over to his cluttered desk, swatting a few notebooks off the keyboard to bring up the notes he had taken in their med room. He cursed at the circling loading icon. "She fell asleep rather quickly, probably from the long day of traveling, so I got basic but modified visual exam and a complete metabolic panel. But there's still so much more she needs done. She needs a full visual and physical exam, a lipid panel, thyroid and diabetes screening, maybe a few CT's for kicks; she could have organ damage from prolonged starvation. But that's just—I'm just scratching the surface. For the amount of time she's been…off the grid, so to speak, she requires more intensive care. At the very least, she needs a full screening for which vaccinations she had, and inoculate her with ones she doesn't. She also has an increased risk for asthma, iron deficiency, respiratory and ear infections, gastrointestinal problems, on top of the emotional toll of it all. A therapist wouldn't be a bad idea. A dietician as well; a specialized one. Depending on what her diet was like, she could be malnourished, vitamin-deficient and starved, leaving her at a high risk for refeeding syndrome."
The lab fell silent enough to hear a pin drop, and Hank cringed reflexively at how loud his voice must've been during what he embarrassingly conceded to was a ramble. The few X-Men gathered looked dazed at each other, the gravity of the task and the human being they had taken on finally applying its full weight in the pits of their stomachs.
Jean was the first to speak up, Hank with distant fondness reminiscing of the times she had sat in that same swivel chair, asking questions about her anatomy homework that a stiff textbook just couldn't provide. "How long has she been out on the streets?"
Another heavy sigh from the former teacher. "She didn't know until just before, when she asked what the date was. She estimates about 5 years."
Another bout of silence impregnated the room.
Ororo looked completely ashen and devastated when she turned Beast, eyes wide with sympathy. She had always been the bleeding heart of the predominantly adult male household. There would have been wild creatures for children running about the halls if she hadn't been a radiating source of motherly love beside the Professor. "Where's her family? Does she have any?"
It was Logan who replied, the only one upright amongst them, arms entangled with each other across his chest. "She wasn't willing to disclose that information."
Scott followed up with an almost immediate remark, Logan barely restraining an eye roll before the young Summers had barely started speaking. "Not willing to disclose—like 'hey I don't really want to talk about it right now' information or 'hey I'm a fugitive of the law because I killed some people' kind of information," arms releasing their grip on the desk edge below him to mimic a hold similar to Logan's. He turned his question to the young telepath beside him. "Did you get anything from her mind?"
Jean looked output, shaking her head, and Hank felt equal parts intrigued and fearful at the slight hint of awe in her voice. "No. Her mind is locked shut. Completely. A telepath must've taught her how to actively defend against other telepaths, and they taught her well."
A soundless guffaw echoed out of Cyclops throat, and Hank could all but watch warily as Logan's all too obvious irritation was bleeding out onto the floor. "So you're telling me we have some kid who's picture we've run through every electronic database out there, including the illegal ones, with no matches. Who's been living out on the streets for half a decade, literally a textbook definition of falling off the face of the earth. And now she's suddenly walking around the mansion with the keys!?" red-tinted glasses noticeably flickering.
The former Weapon-X had been finally pushed far enough over the edge, and all they could do was cling to their respective seats like life preservers as the primal Wolverine detracted his claws. "She saved my life, Summers, and she's got nowhere else to go," Logan coolly interjected, restraining himself from physical rounding on the young X-Man. His words were pivoting toward him just as effectively.
The young Summers lacked the restraint of the much older Howlett, and the hot-headed 24-year-old bled through, mentee turning on mentor with insecure defilement. "No offense, Logan, but you said the same thing about Rogue and she's been putting us through the ringer with her little Brotherhood escapades. What is up with you and abandoned kids, anyway?" he asked, getting up from his seat to address the X-Men leader. The last statement was a low and immature blow to the X-Men leader, a desperately-made tactic Hank knew Scott didn't try often, even with Logan. Something about the predicament was hitting too close to home and Hank was willing to bet his entire library upstairs that it started with Emma and ended with Frost.
Logan was in Scott's face within seconds; the mighty Wolverine never backed down from a fight, verbal or otherwise. No matter how long he spent as their leader, that quality would never be bred out. And although it cost them the occasional festive dishware, Hank felt the trait more beneficial than harmful in the current societal atmosphere; he was willing to play the offensive. "In case you've forgotten, Summers, you were an abandoned kid when Charles picked you up. We all were," he growled out.
Ororo, bless her soul, was still ready to mother-hen at the drop of a hat, whatever the age: "What did you learn about her powers, Hank?" Ororo asked, Jean already tugging at her partner's shirt, leading him down back into his seat, because no, they did not need another repeat of the pair's last fight. He had just gotten his new lab back.
He gave one last, irritated punch to the 'enter' key before abandoning the still stalled computer screen and simply handing over his paper notes to their resident weather witch. "If she does possess healing capabilities, due to her numerous superficial and intrinsic wounds, she's limited to healing others only. She has a long list of mutant alterations, originating from something I'm deeply surprised the MRD have no record of," he explained, turning to Ororo, "Go to the 3rd page."
On the screen was a rough outline of the young mutant's body and skeletal form. However, right in the middle of her chest, was a ball of burning, white light, flashing warnings swarming to the anomaly like ravishing bees.
"What…is that?" Jean asked, the entire team staring wide-eyed at the scan.
"It's her heart," he exclaimed. "It's a form of energy source, itself. A powerful one. The radiation and electromagnetic readings I gathered from it supersedes that of any synthetic form of energy. I had to access NASA's data files to finally find something that mirrored the data," the scientist explained.
"And?" Logan asked, inwardly chuckling at the scientist's enthusiasm over their new house guest. Being a mutant required a breed more resilient against the restrictions of reality to intrigue the mind, than simply extraordinary.
"It was the Sun. The thermal, radiant and electromagnetic readings from her heart perfectly match. I still can't comprehend how her body is in any way stable. Her heart appears to be freely circulating small pieces of this energy throughout her body, along with oxygenated blood, as if her very being depends on it. And on top of that, her body keeps the energy completely contained. Nothing seeps out into the surrounding atmosphere. Something of that power, just walking amongst us."
Logan gave an impressed whistle. "Incredible," Jean gasped.
"So what kind of power are we talking about here? Level 2? 3?" Scott asked, his voice still on edge as he sneaked glares over to his leader, who was seeming more intrigued than concerned over the revelation of some kind of burning star living beneath their roof.
"I don't know. She may not have any powers concerning this particular mutant adaptation and then again, she may have a whole other series of abilities," the scientist explained.
"When she was attacking the Mardy's the other night, she was glowing. Could that be from her heart?" Logan asked.
"It is a possibility," Hank replied.
The young Summers snapped and suddenly the subtle jabs at his leader were being missed. "Great. So we're caging a possible ticking time bomb that, for we all know, could be Senator Kelly or even Magneto's head honcho? You really out-did yourself this time, Logan."
"You know what, Summers, the door is always open. If you don't like it, no one's stopping you," the X-Men leader grumbled back. Cyclops stood up from his seat and stormed out of the control room, forcefully slamming the door behind him.
Her body ever begrudgingly climbed to consciousness, the heat of embarrassment already pink on her cheeks before her waking mind could even remember why.
Mr. McCoy had been looking over her scans, explaining something to her, and she remembered nothing else. She had fallen asleep.
But something about the numbing taste of the exhaustion that had gone breaking over her was strange. Foreign.
It didn't wail with a sharp tenor along stretched muscle fibers. Didn't weigh her bones into the ground. Didn't scratch fire along her head to embers only the dark world behind her eyes could cool.
It was a tired that stuffed cotton to her skull's elasticity limits. That sucked energy clean from her, like a swift blow to the ribs. Made her body ache to depths even her nerves didn't grace. Painted her limbs numb from her mind, so heavily it took too long for her to reason her wandering fingertips were playing for purchase with cotton sheets, not the unforgiving bench top as before.
Something was wrong.
The reality that she wasn't in the medical room felt like an unreal door slamming her mind back into place, and suddenly she was sitting up, a golden coat slipping into place around her.
She was scolding herself for being blind sighted so easily, buying right into their false sense of security, when her senses were hit with a pale gray that colored the walls in her vision, her fingertips hypnotized by seagull down she heard more than felt. She knew that now, could feel a chilly breeze now pulling out goose bumps along her arm.
She was in a furnished room, a bedroom her mind supplied, with a ceiling that stretched for the sky, the windows and balcony door leading out to the setting ambers of the real one. The wood was a dark stain, a brew of rich coffee accenting the seagull gray walls, the white trim and crown-molding, and the faded azure of foggy dawns on the bed she was sitting on. The two sofas stretched out before the fire place. The empty frames along the jamb. The table runner along a …
It was a beautiful room, a palette calming to wake and rest to. It was untouched though, empty of everyday human use. Clean of a messy life. Whomever slept here rarely used it. Then came the question as to whom it belonged to; Dr. McCoy, Logan, Ororo, the red-head who looked at her with confusion just as she felt a telepath tap at her mind for entry, the tall man beside her with ruby glasses that did not hide a distrust pulled across his frown.
She really hoped she wasn't in his room.
But as she continued to stare at her surroundings, things were catching her attention and disrupting the calm of the room; the jacket she bought the other day hanging in the open armoire, the rest of her new outfit folded on the …'s stool; a glass of water, bottles of medication and what looked like an electric heating pad on the table beside her.
Her stuff was here. And no one else's.
Rapid-fire conclusions stirred her unsettled stomach into another violent frenzy, and she felt sticky bubbles float of her throat.
No.
Life didn't work like that.
Fairy-tales worked like that.
Like in Lady in the Tramp, when Tramp saved the young baby, and suddenly he was wearing a collar and calling the Darling's his home. Just accepted in off the streets, fleas and all.
That was a Disney movie. This was the real world.
But a vicious ache reared its ugly head, roared its tempting roar, and suddenly she was sliding blissfully down assumptions and dreams of fantastic proportions.
This was her room.
Her stuff wouldn't be hanging here otherwise.
This was her room.
Her sheets.
Her pillows.
Her bed.
Her window seats.
Her chest and armoire and beauty stand and fireplace and couches and rugs and balcony and storm doors and curtains.
It was all hers.
She had a room, a place to call her own.
Not an abandoned apartment building, scheduled for demolition, accented with roaches and cobwebs and mold.
Not a warehouse, with security cameras that saw all except for the small corner with a wooden crate for a bed.
Not the storage closet of a restaurant that reeked of garlic powder, ginger and salty canned fish.
Not a back alley with slight roof overhang to stem the rain, her tarp dancing wildly with the wind, and her single coat in no way waterproof.
Not even the tops of skyscrapers, gravel flooring sometimes manageable, sometimes not.
Already she was retracting her previous suspicion, against her raging half that kept juxtaposing her thoughts to Lady and the Tramp; if these people were anything like Logan, the X-Men were very good people.
But what did she know about Logan?
He was the leader. Charles Xavier's mysterious disappearance from news reports and genetic conventions begged the question if Wolverine stepped in by choice or force.
What else did she know?
She had helped him with trouble he had gone actively seeking out.
But Wolverine was notoriously known for his physical displays of displeasure with the MRD.
He had metal for bones. Not encasing it, not reinforced by it; his bones were completely made of it.
And it was artificial. It wasn't a part of his mutation. She shivered at the thought of how that metal and come to find home within his body.
What was a part of his mutation were the renowned retractable claws, the increased healing abilities (beyond levels she had ever seen before), the stagnated aging process, the enhanced senses.
Oh. And he was almost 200 years old.
That was exciting to find when she was healing him. She wouldn't have second guessed his age; his healing abilities were phenomenal. But when she was removing the serum, she came across those cells in his blood. The ones everyone had. They were the only things in his body that were able to collect his lifespan without being reprogrammed by his mutations.
The stories he could tell.
So. Yeah.
That was it. That's all she knew.
And yet when he handed her a Metro Q card with some clipped responses of feigned causality about joining the team, she actually considered it. 16 hours later of flipping the Q card between her clammy fingers found her in a cab staring out fogged glass.
Just. Like. That.
A broad-shouldered double century year old Edward Scissorhands hands her a train ticket to his secret mansion with the fairytale ending that briefly interrupted her stream of night-time terrors, and she just says yes.
Just. Like. That.
Maybe this was a hallucination. Or some sick telepath.
She'd wake up from what induced mental state she had fallen into with a killer headache tucked away beneath the…along the rooftop of…in her familiar clothes Dr. McCoy had not hesitated to take the moment she had slipped them off.
And promptly tossed into a garbage bag.
She had known they reeked to high Heaven, but nostalgia and the anxiousness in this strange new world of hers itched her fingers with a need to pull at the worn thread of that stained and battered hoodie.
She wished with all her being for familiarity. Reflecting on the massive size of the roof she was beneath was a daunting void that threatened to swallow her hole, so she steered clear.
She slowly gathered herself out of bed, skin ghosting against the oversized sweat suit Dr. McCoy had handed her in the entrance way of his lab.
It had been an awkward initial exchange, Logan obviously nervously uncertain the protocols of bringing a homeless kid into a giant mansion. Do you feed them? They're probably hungry. But what do you feed someone who's eaten out of garbage cans for the past 6 years? Is chicken and vegetables too bland? Or is it too priveleged to assume it is? But what about a shower? Because they probably haven't recently. At least they smell like they haven't. Shower sounds good. But what about their clothes. You can't expect them to put them back on. Because they smell too. And they're really dirty. So they need new clothes.
And it was the latter Logan ran with, leading her down to the pits of the X-Men's house where the walls changed from neutral yellow to a cold metal that incited… And then she was being steered to a calming wall of fur and lab coat that exuded such a … steel blue, the ache in her bones craved nothing more than to curl up into it and cry herself into a slumber powerful enough to send her back to far away land.
It was amusing to watch the X-Men leader visibly stutter with her in tow, putrid yellow-greens scratching at her nose like a heavy scent she could smell, failing to subtly convey to the stranger in the lab coat that she needed clothes.
When she looked up, there were stout fangs indenting smiling lips, full of warmth and understanding to levels she had never experienced. Then there was a padded hand with elongated nails in her view, and a voice like the tumbling low wind that would rattle shop windows in the winter was introducing itself.
Hi, I'm Dr. Hank McCoy. Pleasure to finally meet you, Reagan.
In his words, coming from his voice, 'Reagan' almost sounded normal. Like it belonged to her. Like the name 'Reagan' had a face, with hair and eyes and a nose, and all of the other characteristics that came with being a living human.
And the way he said it. The same way Logan had said it when she introduced him to the girl beneath the hood and cap. As if the 'Shadow Healer' wasn't the real identity. It wasn't her identity. That someone else awoke in the morning and fell asleep beneath the smog dusk at night. She didn't know yet if she liked that or not. For the time being, it would just continue to worm against her stomach and fill those philosophical thoughts that always gently disturbed her nights.
And bless Hank who was, in no offense to Logan, easier around her. He wasn't coiled tight with anxiety but loose and comfortable, handing her a recently warmed jumpsuit with a yellow X. Then he was taking note of her swollen shoulder, her slight limp and the scratch along her hairline, and was suddenly steering her down another labyrinth of hallways.
Suddenly there was a room with a shower that gloriously scorched her skin and soap that didn't smell and a hair brush that seemed to glide through her hair despite the nests of knots. She felt as if she changed on both a physical and emotional level. What felt like hours later, found her emerging from the cloud of heavy steam into another side room where she remembered nothing more but the warmth of the clothes she was in, the sweet scent of soap and the crisp linen pillow beneath her head.
Sliding out from the cotton sheets, thick socks slithered along wooden flooring to the cool October breeze, feet shivering at the feeling of the chilled marble of the balcony beneath her toes. The fresh air shocked her blood pumping, the fog of sleep swept swiftly from her mind.
She stared in awe at the scenery before her. Directly below her balcony was a large, stone patio below a wooden pergola, covered in rose vines, flowers retreating for the season. The green yard stretched out in rolling hills for at least 2 acres before suddenly dropping way to beautiful cliffs, right before a small stretch of beach, all over-looking a vast body of water.
This could not be for real.
She was dreaming.
She was drugged.
Her mind was being manipulated.
The method was not important. What she did know for certain was that this was not reality. A smelly, homeless teenager was not just scooped up off the streets and settled into Barbie's Dream House, complete with all of the accessories. She wasn't Annie, and this wasn't Oliver Warbucks's New York mansion.
So how did she get out of this?
If it was a telepath, they were powerful enough to somehow tap into her powers and learn her reading abilities along with the associations between hormonal emotions and their resulting colors. She hadn't come against someone of this caliber before, putting aside the very idea that they were somehow able to reach into her mind. He had taught her how to reach out mentally to him after placing the barriers. Worst comes to worst, she could somehow contact his own mental fields and send out a distress beacon.
If it was drugs…well they had to be some very good drugs. Everything was too realistic. The touches, smells and sounds her brain was registering were too intricate to be something drudged up from some induced stupor. So, high possibility it wasn't drugs. Though with chemical concoctions like the Hope Serum making it's rounds in the city, anything was possible.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
A lot of things happened all at once in such a train wreck of a moment, she would remember it for years to come. A shriek exploded from her, feet propelled backward, unfortunately into each other's escape routes and then suddenly she was dropping to the ground and pain rocketed along her tailbone.
"I'm so sorry. Sometimes I forget to be quiet when I stalk."
There was that voice again. She opened her eyes and stared up at the figure.
He, like Hank, was blue but certainly not as hairy as the scientist. The boy before her was blue-skinned. He had raven hair that parted in the middle, both parts flopping to each side, though not far enough to cover his extremely pointy ears. His eyes were a solid, golden yellow, each eye circled by a darker shade of blue. She suddenly discovered his twitching, blue tail, ending in the shape of an arrow head.
She looked once again up to his small smile, his lips almost hiding the two, small fangs on each side of his mouth.
Another new figure.
Very intricately detailed and configured. A new voice pattern. New mannerisms and physical attributes. If she read his emotions, she was willing to bet they would be a perfect match to the twitching arrow-headed tail and the wide pale yellow eyes watching her. She was dealing with no amateur of a telepath. Even worst, if they were going through this much trouble to keep up this act, they may have discovered the true power the Shadow Healer was keeping under wraps.
But then there were thuds echoing along her fingers, knocking the ball and sockets of her knuckles against each other to a perfect beat, and she became very confused.
A heartbeat.
Not hers. But his. His heartbeat.
That was impossible.
It couldn't be.
But there it was again. And again. And again.
That meant. That meant this was real. All of it. Logan. The train ride. Ororo. Dr. McCoy. The X-Men. The mansion. The bedroom. Her bedroom.
It was all real. And suddenly all she wanted to do in that moment was cry and laugh and skip and sob and cry out to the moon.
He was asking if she was alright, and suddenly she was noticing the heavy Eastern European accent, German she was sure.
She nodded.
"Reagan, right?" and suddenly there was that blue hand again, "Kurt Wagner, it's a pleasure to meet you."
Her hand had barely settled in his, and she was suddenly standing, his steady grip never leaving until he had brought her knuckles up to place an almost air light kiss upon them. His startling yellow eyes never left hers, gently watching her in a comforting hold she could almost feel settle on her shoulders. She was sure she had responded with "The pleasure's all mine," but in his safe gaze, she wasn't sure anymore.
"Ah, those Irish eyes. Always smiling, according to the song."
She paused, fingers actually reaching to her cheeks to confirm she was doing just so. "How did you— "
"Your name. Reagan. Quite a popular surname there, but your face, freckles, your curls were enough. Very much Western European. Judging by your scapular, probably Irish Catholic."
She was taken aback once more, unintentionally going to smooth the pad of her finger over the faded medal. "You're Catholic?"
He nodded, a peaceful look about his face. "Ja." And then the playful smile was back, "And you didn't correct me. So the Angel of New York is a Christian herself. Quite fitting."
She cringed at the name. They were all too…fantastical, feeling gaudy and heavy with excess in her mouth.
The Shadow Healer.
The Angel of New York.
They felt ridiculous.
"I didn't choose the name."
He understood profoundly, she could see it in the way he gently smiled in return, in the way he tilted his head lower to reach her gaze to pass this shared reality between them. "We rarely do."
Of course he understood. Tall, blue, tail; he was the X-Men's teleporter—Nightcrawler. A name such as that was no doubt bestowed by a third party. No self-respecting person named themselves after a worm.
"It suits you, though."
He spoke again, and she let his words roll around in her head.
Which one, she wanted to ask.
The fake civilian name?
The mutant calling card that spoke only of the safe half of her abilities?
Or was it the moniker NYC had branded her with, so assured they knew who she truly was?
An angel? Hardly.
But she smiled in thanks to his polite kindness and turned back to the ocean stretched out before her, suddenly aching for it to swallow her whole.
