Magneto's fourth recruit, St. John Allerdayle, was a bit more difficult. But the potential? Extraordinary. Magneto could feel it as he watched the kid, the vast power just seeking to be released. With the proper tutelage, it would be.

The kids was the leader of one of the largest street gangs in Sydney Australia. Unimaginatively called the Destroyers, he and his band of followers were wanted all throughout Australia for crimes ranging from grand theft auto to second degree murder.

The problem? No one could get close enough to the fiery-haired young man to even think about arresting him. Those that had all met the same inexplicable fate, their charred and burned corpses found lying on the street.

Of course, it wasn't all that inexplicable. The kid had a mutant power. Magneto knew that even without the Cerebro technology. Perhaps it was flame generation. Or maybe it was simply a psionic control over fire. Either way, he would be a great asset. Whether he wanted to be or not.

Unusual this day was that Magneto was not wearing his normal battle armor but instead, was actually dressed in normal clothes, a plain, flannel shirt and blue jeans. And walking in a part of town that made most slums look like Jamaican resorts. For most anyone, it was pretty much a guarantee to get robbed, at the very least. And that's what he was counting on.

He hadn't been walking for five minutes when he first noticed he was being followed. He kept walking. His pursuer was soon joined by three others who were spreading out, evidently attempting to trap him. There was probably a dead end a few blocks up.

Wrong. The dead end was just around the corner, something that Magneto realized right when he turned it. One pursuer had turned into ten and now they blocked the only way out of the alley.

"You lost, or just plain stupid, mate?" the leader asked. He was Allerdayle alright, the flaming red hair and Aussie accent were unmistakable.

"I was looking for you," Magneto said calmly.

"Ah, Just stupid then. I almost feel bad for yeh mate." St. John, made an abbreviated motion with his hand, clearly some type of signal. "Almost."

Two of the thugs began advancing toward Magneto, single-minded determination in their eyes. They were wearing steel knuckles, which would have been a good idea except that they were up against a master of magnetism.

The first one made a move to grab him by the shoulders, an effort that Magneto thwarted easily, simply deflecting the two outstretched arms away from his body. Then he hit him. Twice. One right hook and then a left one that completely spun the thug around. He chopped him on the back of the neck and the man dropped like so much dead weight.

If the second thug, who topped Magneto by about a foot, was fazed he didn't show it. He threw a surprisingly fast roundhouse that Magneto stopped by chopping him on the inside of the elbow in midswing. Then he kicked the big guy in the groin. Hard.

Time for a little show of power. Magneto reached out with his magnetism and took hold of the steel knuckles that this hoodlum was wearing.

WHAM! He slammed the steel, (still attached to the guy's fist), right into his jaw. Something broke, and it wasn't the steel knuckles. The rest of the gang watched in horrified amazement at what could only look like their teammate punching the crap out of himself. Again. Again. Again. It was downright bizarre.

After the seventh or so punch, Magneto released his magnetic hold. His opponent teetered off balance before finally falling, teeth and bloods spitting from his mouth.

John Allerdayle raised a brow at the two members of his gang who were now lying unconscious. He still wasn't sure what the stranger had done to his fallen compatriot, making him knock himself unconscious.

"Destroyers, leave!" he snapped after a silent decision.

"What? You gonna let him get away with-"

"No. I'll handle him. The rest of you leave."

No movement.

"NOW!" he roared.

The remaining seven thugs glared at Magneto, but ultimately obeyed their boss's command. When they had all cleared out, dragging their two unconscious cohorts with them, Allerdayle finally spoke.

"Those were some nice moves, mate."

Magneto shrugged. "I try."

The stranger had an interesting voice. An interesting posture. Regal, almost as if he was above everyone else (or at least considered himself to be).

"You hadn't done that though, I might've let you live," said Allerdayle. "Now though . . ." He pulled out a Zippo. Lit it, and let the flame grow, spiraling around him.

Magneto looked unimpressed. "Come on. Try, if you think can."

"You're brave, mate. I'll give you that. Too bad you'll be a brave corpse."

Magneto smiled as the flames grew closer. Yes, Allerdayle would be a very good asset indeed. As soon as he learned who was the true master. . .

****

Jean's first class was 2D Art, which she shared with Taryn, the girl from the bus. Taryn was nice, and more than happy to befriend the new girl, a position Jean hadn't found herself in in quite some time.

Their first assignment was to divide into pairs and draw their partner, using specialized drawing pencils, which the teacher provided. "It's an indicator for me," said. Ms. Belfry, the art instructor. "I simply need to see where you are in terms of talent."

Taryn nudged Jean. "Partners?"

Jean smiled. "Um, sure. I'll go get us some paper and-"

"I'll get the pencils," finished Taryn.

As she walked over to the front, Jean couldn't help smiling to herself. She had a good feeling she'd just made a friend.

The two returned to their table, sitting across from each other. "Here," said Taryn, handing Jean her pencil."

Jean looked it over, frowning. "Um, I think it's broken."

"Looks fine to me."

"But it doesn't have an eraser."

"Very few art pencils do." Taryn pulled out two pink erasers. "Here," she said, handing one to Jean. "You need to erase, just rub that on the paper and-"

"I know how to use an eraser," Jean chuckled. Then with a sigh, she said. "Not much else though. Art is more Scott's department."

"He's the kid with the sunglasses."

"Yep."

"Pretty cute too, huh."

"Yep." The reply was instinctive and Jean didn't even realize what she'd agreed to until a few seconds later. "I mean, huh?"

"You heard me." Taryn began etching a rough outline of Jean.

"Well I suppose so," stammered Jean, "if you wanted to look at him that way."

"Yeah," said Taryn nodding in agreement. "And you guys live together."

"You could say that."

Taryn chuckled, looking down at her picture as she began fleshing out details. "Where you from, Jean?" Taryn inquired. "On the bus, you said you'd only been at the Xavier school for part of the summer."

"Yeah, I used to live a while away. Went to a different school and everything."

"Why'd you move?"

Jean hesitated. She had no reason to distrust Taryn, but Xavier had warned her of discussing Institute business. "I had a problem. The Professor there knew how to help."

"Did Scott have a problem too?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Anything to do with those sunglasses he's always wearing?"

Jean hesitated once more. "He had. . .has an eye condition," she said finally.

"And what about you? What was your problem?"

Jean couldn't help but smile at the girl's frank curiosity. "Mine was more of a mental problem."

Tarn's eyes went wide. "Do you have ADD?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"Attention Deficit Disorder. My cousin has it."

"Oh, well no, it's a bit more complex than that."

"Ah." Thankfully, Taryn didn't pry. Instead, she concentrated back on her picture, touching up the image. "What do you think?"

Jean looked up. Taryn was holding her piece of paper out Jean to see. The picture was good. Very good. It was only a portrait, but Jean could definitely see herself in the image that Taryn had created. "That's . . .amazing," Jean told Taryn honestly.

"Thanks. Its definitely you, Jean," beamed Taryn.

Jean held her own up. "Mine isn't that good."

Taryn peered over at Jean's work in progress. "You're right," she declared. "its not."

Jean gave a mock scowl and playfully threw an eraser at Taryn which the dark haired girl dodged, laughing. The eraser hit a blond, muscular boy at another table. He froze when the eraser bounced off of the side of his head and plopped on his table, whirling around, eyes searching for the perpetrator.

"Sorry," called Jean. "I didn't mean to hit you . . .I'm really sorry."

The blond boy said nothing for a moment. He just stared at her, hard enough to make Jean feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"Um, could I have my eraser back?" She went on.

The blond boy flashed what had to be the most arrogant smirk Jean had ever seen. "Sure babe," he replied. Except instead of tossing it back, he stood up and walked over to Jean's table. "Hey," he said in what he must have thought was a very attractive manner. "You new here Gorgeous?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "My name's Duncan, and yours is?"

Jean frowned. Yes, this guy was handsome, but his attitude, his air of superiority annoyed her. "My eraser, please," she said coldly.

He waved it temptingly in front of her. "Just a name babe."

"Fine. Its Jean. Not 'babe'."

The eraser clattered on her table. "Some other time." He winked, and then swaggered back to his own table.

When Jean looked back at Taryn, she could see the girl looking at Duncan with undisguised hatred.

"That jerk," muttered Taryn.

"You know him?" Jean asked.

"We used to go out."

"What happened?" asked Jean, leaning forward.

Taryn shook her head, as if to clear bad memories. "He's just a jerk. Don't let him convince you otherwise, OK."

Jean nodded, wondering what had happened that caused Taryn to hate him so much.

*********************

"Mr. Summers, we have a problem," stated Edward Nasson, sarcastically referred to by his students as 'Mr. Niceguy'.

"I can't take my sunglasses off," said Scott once more. Behind him, he heard the rest of the class mumbling, even a few muffled shouts of 'Just take 'em the hell off Summers!'

"Yes, you've told me," said Mr. Niceguy. "You have a widdle sensitibidee in your eyes, right?" His voice was mockingly babyish.

"Well yeah." Behind Scott on the bleachers, the rest of the class was laughing.

"Swear to God you're the wimpiest kid I've ever met! They're just glasses. You won't die if you take them off!"

"You might," Scott muttered.

"Excuse me."

"Nothing."

Mr. Niceguy looked at his watch. He had wasted five minutes of class time trying to get this new kid to take off his glasses. Lenses and dodgeball really didn't mix. However, the other kids were getting restless and Scott Summers was obviously pretty adamant about the shades.

"You know what, fine! Wear 'em. Just don't come crying to me when they break."

"They won't."

"Yeah, we'll see. Now sit down! I need to get you all divided into groups."

Scott found a seat by a tall blond kid, doing his best not to look anyone in the eye. He thought back to the conversation he'd had in the mall with Jean, and had a good feeling that he hadn't done his popularity any favors by the stunt he'd just pulled.

He felt a tap on his arm. It was the blond kid.

"Hey." His voice was confident. Or maybe arrogant. Hard to tell from just that one word.

"Hey," Scott replied.

"Dude, that was pretty neat. Getting' all smart and stuff with Niceguy."

"Thanks," said Scott, even though he wasn't really paying attention.

"Name's Duncan. Duncan Matthews."

"Scott. Scott Summers."

Duncan apparently found this funny, since he began laughing, nudging one of his buddies. "Man, I love this guy." He turned back to Scott. "Listen man, I've got this party comin' up at my place. You should come?"

"OK," said Scott, the fact he was being invited to his first high school party not lost on him.

"Great man. Lotta chicks will be there, and the 'rents'll be in Southern Cali. Best time to have a party, right?"

Warning bells tinkled in Scott's head, but they were overshadowed by sheer practicality. He was new and didn't know anyone, the fact that he had to wear sunglasses 24/7 not being a real help. Going to a popular kid's party couldn't hurt. And if things got out of hand, he could always leave. "When is it?"

"This weekend. Catch up with me later and I'll show you where it is."

"Sounds . . .great." Scott heard his name called and walked over to take his place on the dodgeball team he'd been assigned, suddenly missing Jean, even though he'd seen her just that morning. He wondered what was happening with her in her classes.

And then a dodgeball flew threw the air, the only thing saving Scott from being hit in the face being his reflexes, and even then just barely.

"Pay attention Summers!" screamed the coach.

Right.

****************************

What were the odds, wondered Logan, that the woman from the bookstore would not only be a mutant, but one that Xavier had to recruit. Whatever they were, they'd been met, and now he found himself regretting (slightly) his behavior toward her earlier. Of course, even if he had been rude, she was more than paying him back by simply ignoring him.

She was beautiful though. Extraordinarily so and as such, he found it difficult to take his eyes off of her. He hadn't been in that situation since Mariko, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

They were in the Professor's car, Ororo and he in the backseat and Xavier driving, thanks to the miracle of technology. The conversation hadn't taken long, and Ororo had immediately agreed to go with Xavier to the Institute. She didn't feel very safe in her own house. So they'd gotten in the car for the ride home and Ororo of course was sitting as far from him as possible. Wouldn't even look at him.

"Must be uncomfortable," said Logan amiably, "havin to turn your head at that angle just to look as far away from me as humanly possible."

Her eyebrow twitched, but no answer.

Logan shrugged, pulled out a cigar, and lit it, sending a ring of smoke out in front of him.

"I would appreciate if you wouldn't do that," said Ororo. Despite her tone, she had a beautiful voice.

"I'm sorry, I must be hearing things. Did you actually speak to me?"

"You're a very funny man," said Ororo sarcastically, pointedly eyeing his cigar.

"Thank you." Just as sarcastically.

"I do have the right however not to have to be exposed to secondhand smoke and all of its harmful effects. So I am asking you nicely to stop smoking."

"Well darlin', I'm touched that you're asking nicely. I really am. But I like to smoke and this is a damn good cigar that I've been savin all week, so I think I'll finish it." He puffed again, a slow exhalation that floated in a series of smoky wreaths before dissolving.

And then it started raining. In the car. And just on him. "What the flamin'-"He looked up to see a miniature storm cloud that had somehow formed above his head, unleashing a torrent of rain. The cigar, soaked now, went out leaving nothing but wet smoke.

"I can ask nicer if you want, Mr. Logan."

"That was a thirty dollar cigar!"

"Your liver and lungs won't miss it, trust me."

Logan gave her a glare that had put the fear of God into hardened soldiers in its prime. Ororo was completely unfazed. With a sigh and perhaps a fair share of expletives to boot, he wiped beads of rainwater out of his eyes as well as he could. "Women!" he grumbled.

And maybe, just maybe, Ororo Munroe gave the hint of a smile.