Chapter 2

"So how did it go?"

Charles sighed and massaged his forehead. "Not particularly well. But I'm not giving up yet. How about your end? Have you and Hank had any luck?"

"Not yet. We found the general route of the cab you saw and managed to flag it down. That alone took all day. The driver barely spoke English, but I don't think he's our guy anyway. My guess is he lends his cab out to make some extra cash. We'll try again tomorrow. Did you find your guy?"

"I believe so, yes. But there was a small misunderstanding. I didn't really get to say my piece. I'm hoping tomorrow goes a bit smoother. I may need to rethink my approach."

"What sort of misunderstanding? Did he think you were anti-mutant?"

Charles hesitated. "I suppose you could say that. I'll tell you more when there's more to tell. Everything's still a bit up in the air here."

"Are you sure you're ok, Charles? I can be there by morning and we can handle this together. Don't be stubborn; if you think you're in danger, just get out of there."

"No, no, it's nothing like that. Really, Raven, everything is fine. There was just an…unexpected glitch. I'm sure it's nothing we can't work with."

"If you're sure. Just be careful and stay safe, Charles. And be a good boy!" she added with a laugh before hanging up.

Charles sighed and stared at the phone in his hand. Be a good boy? Was trolling for whores in the realm of 'being a good boy' if your intentions were noble? He reached into his wallet and counted the bills, wondering how much half an hour with a prostitute cost. Perhaps he should run by the bank in the morning. It would be very embarrassing to short the hooker he was trying to befriend.

With a pocket full of crisp notes, Charles found himself standing on the stoop of what he assumed was the mutant's flat off Old Compton Road in Soho the next evening. He hadn't a clue as to which buzzer to press. Instead, he scanned the minds of the tenants, hoping to hit upon the bright mutant red. Nothing. He extended his reach a block at a time, sifting through the irrelevant thoughts of hundreds of humans until he found what he was looking for. He followed his psychic map, winding through the backstreets of Soho, coming to a stop outside of a rundown motel just off of Piccadilly Circus. Charles hesitated for a moment then skimmed the surface of the mutant's mind – not deep enough to read more than a stray thought or see through his eyes. Just enough to catch a glimpse of his emotions, a stronger sense of his presence. He felt boredom and frustration, a bit of annoyance, and just a hint of lust. There was an underlying sense of despair and disgust buried far beneath it all, just at the limits of Charles's shallow reach.

He chose a spot on the steps of the building across the street and waited. He kept a mental eye on the mutant, just holding on enough to make sure he didn't disappear out another door. He wasn't spying – he wouldn't dream of it! – but he couldn't help catching the occasional 'loud' thought flying through the mind he focused on.

'For fuck's sake, I'm going to choke on this thing!'

'God, I'm hungry! Should I get fish and chips or a sandwich?'

'Was that the gas bill or the water bill due this week?'

'Stop fucking thrusting, asshole!'

'Definitely fish and chips. Yeah, that sounds good!'

After about 15 minutes, Charles saw the man walk out of the motel. He glanced around surreptitiously, straightening his vest as he went. He wore the skintight garment over a plain white tee and tight blue jeans. He wore no jacket despite the chilly winter air. Charles followed him through the dirty streets, smiling slightly when he saw him dip into a fish and chips shop. Charles stood in the shadows across the street when the man stepped out and watched him lick the grease from his fingers. From an anthropological standpoint, he found it fascinating. Charles briefly imagined a posh voice-over of a nature documentary: "The prostitute in his natural element feeds on fried delicacies wrapped in old newspaper. He blends in with his prey."

Charles shook his head, banishing the silly thought from his brain. Of course the prostitute would behave like a normal person, he was a normal person! Charles knew that he was just out of his comfort zone, unexpectedly thrust into a side of the world that was unfamiliar to him.

The man stopped in Piccadilly Circus and seemed to loiter on the sidewalk. He leaned against a brick wall and lit a cigarette. Charles watched, waiting for him to do something – walk into a store, get in a cab, go down to the tube – anything, really. But the man just stood there, one foot propped casually against the wall, a thumb hooked through a belt loop, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. The whole relaxed stance exuded an easy sexuality, and it suddenly hit Charles that that was the point: he was working.

Charles waited a moment more, gathering his courage and resolve. He put on his most confident expression and crossed to the mutant.

"Hello, there," he smiled warmly.

The scowl passed briefly over the man's sharp features, but he soon schooled himself and flashed a seductive smile. "You again. Come to save my soul from this dreadful mutation?"

Charles frowned. "I'm truly sorry about that. I know I offended you yesterday, but I can assure you that was not my intention. I was simply caught off guard and that led to a terrible misunderstanding."

The man studied Charles carefully, scrutinizing him more closely than he normally would. Seemingly satisfied, he smiled again. "Well, then. Perhaps you'd like to go somewhere a bit more private?"

"I would, yes. But just to talk," he added. The man squinted suspiciously. Charles hurried on. "Look, I know how odd this must seem. But please just give me half an hour and let me explain. I'm sure it will all make sense then. And, of course, I'll pay you for your time."

The man hesitated for a split second then nodded with a smile. 'Let's see how much Weirdo is willing to shell out.' "It's £50 for a half hour."

Charles glanced into his mind briefly and saw that was more than twice his going rate. He returned the smile. "That sounds quite reasonable."

Per Charles's request, the man led him to one of the cleaner hourly rooms he frequented, one with a little table and chair. Charles sat stiffly in the seat while the stranger stretched across the bed languidly, the £50 in his pocket. Charles read that he was still assuming his client wanted more than polite conversation for his money.

"So," he smiled seductively, "what's on your mind, darling?"

Charles ignored the address and leaned forward. "Well, as I said yesterday, my name is Charles Xavier. I'm a professor of genetics at Oxford. My particular interest is the study of genetic mutations," he felt the man tense at the perceived insult and hurried on, "mutations that result in unique, special abilities. I've always wanted to locate others but I've only recently been presented with the means to do so." Charles paused for breath and the man interrupted, propping himself up on his elbows.

"So, what? Are you saying that the ability to give a stellar blow job is the result of genetic mutation?"

Charles laughed softly. "No, certainly nothing like that. I'm talking about something unique, something completely out of the ordinary."

The man rolled onto his stomach and gave Charles his best come-hither look. "I promise, my blow jobs are anything but ordinary. Shall I demonstrate?"

"Thank you, no. I am honestly only here to talk to you. I don't want anything from you. Has no one ever just wanted to speak to you?"

The man sat up, instantly turning off the charm and watching Charles suspiciously. "Sure. But they're usually jerking off at the same time."

"I…mm," he sighed and rubbed his forehead. This was not going as smoothly has he'd hoped. "What I'm talking about isn't sexual – well, at least it probably isn't, I supposed it could be in some way. I'm talking about something…supernatural. Something different about you that you can't explain. I'm hesitant to use the word, but a 'superpower', if you will." The man's muscles tensed and Charles sensed he was ready to run or fight if necessary. 'Shit, this bloke is mad.' "I assure you, I'm not mad." He narrowed his eyes at Charles but seemed to take his response to an unspoken thought as an eerie coincidence. "Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable discussing your particular gift if I demonstrated mine first."

'You are not alone.' The man inhaled sharply, eyes wide on Charles's. 'I know you must think you're different, that there's something wrong with you. There isn't. You are the next step in evolution, my friend. We are the next step in evolution. You don't have to hide anymore.'

"You're in my head?" the man hissed.

"Yes. I'm a telepath, you see. That is my 'superpower', the result of my own genetic mutation." He smiled comfortingly. "Would you show me yours?"

The man shook his head, not in denial but disbelief. "This is some kind of freaky trick. Are you throwing your voice or something?"

Charles was a bit taken aback. He had been certain that a small demonstration of his gift would be enough to set the mutant at ease. "You don't believe me?" He shook his head again. "Then perhaps you'd allow me to read your mind?" His eyes shifted away from Charles's; he was unsure. "If you think this is some sort of magic trick, then you certainly have nothing to fear."

One more short pause then: "Fine, then."

Charles put his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. Two seconds passed and they opened again, locking onto the other man's. "People call you Michael McKellen. Sometimes they shorten it to Mick. But that isn't your name. Your name is Erik. Erik Lensherr. Though no one has called you that in a very long time."

The man – Erik – trembled. "Who are you," he whispered.

"As I said, my name is Charles Xavier and I am a telepath."

Erik didn't seem to hear him. "No one alive has ever known that name. How could you… There aren't any papers or documents…There's no way…"

"Erik, I know your name because you know your name. This is not a trick or a scam. I am a telepath. I can read your mind."

"That's impossible."

Charles frowned, confused. "Each mutation produces a different ability. Telepathy is just as likely or unlikely as what it is your mutation allows you to do."

Erik jumped up. "You keep saying that! Look, even if I believed this rubbish – which I don't! – it's nothing to do with me. I can't read minds. I don't have any silly superpowers. Why the hell would you think I did?"

"Erik, a mutant's mind is quite different from 'normal' humans. I can sense them quite clearly. A scientist I know has developed a machine that amplifies my abilities. I saw your mind all the way from New York. And let me tell you, it's incredible. Your mind was so bright, so powerful, I simply couldn't resist finding you."

'He's a delusional freak and now he's obsessed with me. Fuck!' "Well, that's wonderful, Charles, but I'm afraid I'll have to cut our appointment short. Sorry, no refunds." Erik walked quickly through the door without looking back at him. It was all he could do to keep from jogging down the grimy hallway.

Charles sat in the room alone, too shocked to move. "Delusional freak?" Erik couldn't really believe that. But he did. It was as if he really had no idea of his power. But that was impossible. The weakest mutation would be evident by adulthood. A mutation as powerful as Erik's – as Charles's – would probably manifest even earlier and stronger than most. It was simply inconceivable that he would be completely unaware of his abilities or be unable to recognize them in others.

Wasn't it?