Weapons of Dark and Light

by Noyoki

Stripped of his humanity, Logan became Weapon X. When the doctors were through; he was little more than a remote controlled beast guided by base instinct. In contrast, Harry became Weapon IX and was stripped of his human trappings. Care, love, and compassion were torn from him, creating a superb machine who kills without remorse. Is that all they will ever be? *Slash*

38. Survivor's Guilt

Chapter 38 - Survivor's Guilt

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"Guilt is the source of sorrows, the avenging fiend that follows us behind with whips and stings." - Nicholas Rowe

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Black Curse Brings Muggle World to Its KNEES!

There has been much gossip and speculation surrounding the going-ons in the muggle world, and I am here to set the record straight writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. The journey to find the truth took this intrepid Reporter into the depths of Peru, where I uncovered the dastardly truth. In the depths of the Peruvian Rain forest, I found a cave that had been the site of some of the darkest magic I've seen since the last war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

You see, Dear Readers, a coven of witches and wizards of the Blackest sort worked a powerful ritual. One that, fortunately for us, failed at the crucial moment. The remnants of that coven were so badly damaged by the backlash that I was unable to confirm if they were remnants of You-Know-Who's followers, or if this was the seed of a new Dark Lord or Lady attempting to rise, but I can tell you what I inferred from the ruins left behind.

It was clear to me that they'd used a number of muggle sacrifices to fuel a spell never before attempted. One whose soul purpose was to wipe out all the muggles, the world over. The first part of the spell worked, targeting the muggle population, and bringing them to their knees. But that's when the ritual failed. The Dark Coven did not have enough power or sacrifices to finish it. And the spell backfired, killing them all.

Dear Readers, I know many of you have muggle families and friends, and even the Purebloods, who turn their noses up at the muggle population, almost all have some sort of business connection with them. It is important for all of us to remain vigilant, even in these times of peace. One never knows when the next Dark Lord or Lady will make their appearance.

Keep your eyes peeled, and if you see anything out of the ordinary, report it immediately to the nearest Auror!

"Arthur, I can't believe you're reading that rag. That woman never has anything worth saying," Molly scoffed as she loaded the table down with breakfast. Not for the first time Arthur wanted to ask her not to make so much. It was just the two of them now, what with the two eldest off living their own lives and the rest away for most of the year at school. They hardly needed a dozen eggs! But he couldn't bring himself to speak up because he knew how hard she was adjusting to the empty nest. Stifling a sigh, he plopped an overly large helping of eggs onto his plate along with half a dozen slices of crisp bacon.

A few bites into the meal his eyes wandered back to The Daily Prophet. As much as he agreed with his wife, they seemed to be the only paper around showing an interest in the Muggle Matter. The rest of the wizarding world seemed content to ignore it since it had nothing to do with them. But Arthur couldn't let it go. He'd heard whispers around the office. Speculation about what went wrong and who was to blame. Everything from an attempted resurrection of You-Know-Who, to an escape of some rare, deadly magical creature. "I think she might be in the right this time, Love. I overheard a group of Aurors discussing the site she's talking about. They were certainly up to something nasty there."

Molly rolled her eyes and took her seat across from him. The table felt too large with just the two of them, and he thought about applying a shrinking charm to it while the kids were away. If only that wouldn't set Molly off. It was so hard to tell these days which step was the right one. Perhaps she was reaching that time in a woman's life where she went through the change. He shuddered, remembering how awful it had been when his own mother went through it.

"What?"

"I've no doubt they found a group of dark magic workers in the jungle. There are people like that all over the world. Still, I don't see how a single group could have created such a catastrophe. It's too... " She hesitated, a frown furrowing her brows as she tried to puzzle out why the story felt off to her. Maybe because as terrible as the Dark could be, she'd never heard of them coming up with something powerful enough to threaten all the muggles on the planet.

There hadn't been much reporting on the subject. which Molly found odd in and of itself. Yes, it was an event that mainly impacted the muggle world, but anything that could cause such damage was a threat to be taken seriously by everyone. She sighed. "I talked to a few of my muggleborn friends, and it seems so much bigger than a few rogue witches and wizards."

Arthur folded the paper in half and set it aside. "What do you think caused it?" He asked, not to start a fight but because he was genuinely curious.

This time Molly sighed. "I don't know. I wish I did: whatever it was, it's not something we should be mucking about with."

Finishing off the last bite of eggs, Arthur felt full to bursting. He groaned a little as he wiped his face and wondered how much weight he'd end up putting on before the kids got back from school. "True enough. I'll keep my ears open at work; see if I hear anything else that'll point us in the right direction."

"You'll do no such thing, Arthur Weasley. Whatever this is, it's not something for you to go poking your nose around in, less you find it bitten off." She brandished her fork at him, making him raise his hands in hasty surrender.

"Yes, dear."

---

Zen drifted in familiar darkness. The type he'd been driven into over and over again at the hands of the Doctor while the man pushed him beyond his limits. When Stryker used him for mission after mission without allowing him to recover. When forced to go up against mutants who should have overpowered him, but faltered in the face of his relentless pursuit.

The sharp stink of disinfectant stung his nostrils, and beneath that, another odor lingered. One that couldn't be politely classified. It wasn't the full blown stench of rotting corpses, but...

Memories flickered behind his closed eyelids. The pens, cages full of frightened children whose faces now took on the characteristics of Xavier's school children. The innocents he'd been tasked with protecting, tasked with mimicking, tasked with being a victim to. The bitter stink of fear overlaid the memories, but he knew that was part of the past; no, a different smell triggered the memories. It hung in the still air, not the tang of new pennies; but more a fistfull of pennies dropped into a barrel of rotten apples. Old blood, lakes of it dry and flaking on the floor.

Training kept his breath slow and even, his pulse steady, eyes closed. If he was hooked up to any monitors, they'd record him as unconscious. Zen's right wrist gave a minuscule twitch, and the lack of restraints eased the tightness in his chest. With a deep, slow breath, his eyes slid open and locked onto the familiar ceiling of the infirmary at Xavier's school. A quick scan of the room proved he was alone, which allowed him to breath even easier without the threat of Hank hovering over him.

As he sat up, he felt the sharp nip of a needle in his inner arm and reached out to gently tug it free. A thought healed the tiny puncture, and Zen felt a slight hint of pleasure at not having to peel external monitor pads off his skin. The sound of his heart flatlining would have brought Hank down on him in an instant. If he made it out.

Zen sighed as he slid off the table and felt the jolt of the cold floor under his bare feet. All he wore was a pair of clean boxers, presumably so Hank could get to all his wounds without having to worry about cloth getting in the way, yet it still felt spiteful. As if they couldn't help stripping him of his weapons, his identity as IX, whenever he entered the school.

Stiffness made his bones ache, pulling at every muscle, but he no longer felt the crushing exhaustion that sent him into unconsciousness. The lack of exhaustion, coupled with the stiffness and the full state of his bladder, added up to at least two days out of commission.

Unacceptable. He hesitated briefly before he closed his eyes and vanished into the room he shared with Pietro. The breath he'd been holding during the transition eased between his teeth as the tension in his shoulders slowly drained away. Pain didn't drive him to his knees or make him want to throw up. Instead, his power flowed smoothly, almost back to normal. He could still feel tugs and snags, places inside where the roughness would take time to wear away. Good. While he could work through the pain, as he had during the mission, it drained him faster than he liked. If not for the pain, he would have been able to deal with XI on his own.

Something bordering on surprise widened his eyes when he saw his assassin's gear washed and neatly laid out on his bed. All the weapons were pulled out and arranged in a row next to the clothes. With practiced ease Zen inspected each of the weapons; the knives were sharpened, the guns unloaded and cleaned, and everything was in perfect working order. A quick search of his side of the room found a small cardboard box, the remnants of a single-serve Lucky Charms container, used to hold the spare bullets. With a bemused half-smile, one reminiscent of Xavier whenever he had to deal with Zen's social ineptitude, he cleared out the top drawer of his dresser to store the weapons for now. If he was permitted to keep them he would need to get a weapons storage case to keep them safe from curious children and vengeful roommates.

He also tucked his working clothes away, choosing one of his student outfits instead. Once dressed, Zen headed out into the mansion to take stock of the damage. It didn't take him long to find the various sources of the sour scent that reminded him so strongly of the cages. He found each area where Stryker's men met up with X and lost. Sometime between then and now the bodies had been collected, but the blood and bullet holes remained.

Walking through the mansion felt odd to the ex-mutant-hunter. How many times had he and X been part of the snatch and grab teams? How many slash and burn operations? How many single mutants had they taken off the street, out of cars, from their homes, as they walked to school? Faces flicked past his mind's eye; no names, just numbers. Powers. Deaths.

But, it had never been his place broken into. His home violated, bloodied, broken. The mansion felt like a nest ripped open, the young stolen in the night. Zen closed his eyes and listened to the silence. Empty halls that should have been filled with laughter, joy, anger, shouts, confusion, life. Now, nothing moved, and the stink of dead blood seemed to overwhelm any lingering scents of the children who should be here.

Zen's lips pulled down into a practiced frown even though there was no one here to see. Just being back in the school triggered the reaction, the careful thought to how his face should be in light of any given situation. Why did the scene bother him? He walked through each violated room, noting the broken glass blown inward from nearly every window. It lined the floor, glinting in the watery winter sunshine. Cold wind pulled at tattered curtains, and below each window the floor was stained with residual moisture from at least one rain storm. Shattered wood marked the entrance to more than one bedroom where children, desperate and afraid, tried to lock out the danger. Zen spent long minutes in every broken bedroom, eyes tracking over the scenes, searching for the tell-tale signs of violence. A few of the rooms were marred by the scorch marks of flash bang grenades, others had doors or walls blasted open with shotgun shells, and he found blood in a few. But not on the beds. There were a few areas where he could tell one of the children put up a fight and got the worst of it, but in those scuffed areas, the bloodshed was light. Surface wounds. In two of the rooms the blood flow was thick, but all centered in the doorway; soldiers who couldn't get the upper hand and were taken out.

The last of the tension in Zen's back finally let go, so suddenly he almost sat on the floor. Only the shards of glass and puddles of dry blood kept him upright. He didn't need to add more blood to the mess. There was enough to do already. The children were safe; at least, that was his best assumption with the given information. Since he woke up here he could assume that the rest made it to safety. He'd managed to protect and save the children who'd been captured with him, and it appeared that the ones here escaped with no obvious casualties.

After finishing his thorough examination of the student living quarters, he moved on to the administration wing of the mansion that held the teachers offices, and Xavier's main office. The sound of Hank's deep, rumbling voice made the hair along the back of his neck stand at attention. "Yes, I understand. I've already scheduled for samples to be brought to the mansion tomorrow. All we need to do is coordinate... " Zen moved past the door quickly. Odds were good if Hank caught sight of him he would end the call and insist on doing a physical examination.

The other teachers' offices were empty; trashed, but empty. The invaders pulled out every drawer, sifting through all the files before dumping them on the floor, and pulled all the books off the shelves, evidently searching for hidden compartments. Unease flared in his chest at the sight of the files on the floor. How much information had Stryker's team gleaned about the students from the records? Kneeling, he sifted through what was left behind and relaxed. All the files were coded by number, and were merely notes on grades and behavioral issues. Even the disciplinary infractions were in code simply listed as numbered infractions.

Standing up, he headed to the room at the end of the hall, Xavier's office. The sturdy oak door leaned against the wall, split almost in half from the breach. Inside, Zen could see that they'd given this office special attention. Nothing was left unmolested, and even though it looked like a tornado had ripped through the room Zen's eyes instantly zeroed in on the man seated behind the wobbly desk. At a glance Zen could see one of the legs had been broken off during the search; someone did their best to prop it back up, but it was a sorry sight. The same someone had cleared a wheelchair-sized path through the debris, allowing Xavier clean access to where he sat in utter silence.

The telepath was staring absently out the window, his eyes distant and filled with unspoken torment. Zen's practiced frown made another appearance when Xavier didn't look his way. It was impossible to sneak up on a telepath of Xavier's caliber, yet it appeared his Wielder had no idea he was here. In any other circumstance he might have looked like an old man enjoying the view, but Zen could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth turned down in a grimace, and how tightly his folded hands were clenched together. Even though the man sat in perfect silence he vibrated with piano-wire tension, as if he might implode at any moment.

Zen stood in the doorway for over a minute studying the man before he turned and headed down to the kitchen. With a whole mansion of rooms to search, including the sub-floors, Stryker's men left this area relatively untouched. He sifted through the cabinet full of an eclectic mix of coffee mugs, looking for the right one. There it was, tucked behind a white mug with the slogan - To Do List: 1. Wake Up, 2. Drink Coffee, 3. Poop, 4. Be Awesome that Bobby used most mornings, was Xavier's favorite mug. It was also white, emblazoned on the front was a simple caption: Those who dare to teach never cease to learn.

Setting the cup aside, he pulled out the old fashioned tea pot and set the water to boil before he began digging through the tea drawer until he found a pouch of Earl Grey tea. Once the pot gave its chirp Zen set about making the tea, with two scoops of sugar and a small splash of cream. Then he toasted a blueberry bagel, smeared it with a liberal amount of honey-almond cream cheese, and added the small meal to a tray.

He returned to the office to find Xavier in the same position he'd left him in. That made his stomach twist unpleasantly, and he wondered how long the man had been sitting there. Why was he here to begin with? Shouldn't he be with the children?

Zen picked his way through the disaster of torn papers, ripped books, and shattered artwork. So much destruction, half of it completely unnecessary. When he'd lead such missions he and his team hadn't wasted time with frivolous destruction.

Zen dismissed the thought and set the tray down in front of his Wielder, mindful of the unstable surface. The desk accepted the weight grudgingly, the leg only giving a slight wobble. "Sir?"

Nothing. "Sir?" Narrowing his eyes reached out and touched Xavier's clenched hands. The skin was cool, and he could feel tension humming beneath the surface. Closing his eyes, Zen reached out with his thoughts like he often did to check on his Wielder. Sir? Still nothing. Focusing, he added a small jolt of power to his next attempt. Nothing like the hook attack he'd used on Jean, more like a mental prodding with a stick.

Charles Xavier!

Xavier's mind reacted like a wounded animal. Pain tore through Zen's head and he staggered back. Blood trickled from both nostrils; he sank to his knees as his sense of balance failed him. Closing his eyes, Zen focused on the damage and quickly repaired it. He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand as he looked at Xavier.

His Wielder's blue eyes were wide and shocked. "Zen?"

"I'm fine," Zen assured him. He regained his feet and carefully cleaned the blood from his face while Xavier watched.

"I hurt you." Now the voice sounded like one of the children; in shock, frightened, and so full of pain even Zen could recognize the emotion. The way his gut clenched unhappily reminded him of when Kitty cried, and he wondered how he was supposed to put this to rights. Shouldn't one of the other adults be here? Why had they left Xavier all alone?

Zen forced his lips up into a faker looking smile than normal. "I'm fine, sir. Here, drink some tea. It will make you feel better." At least that's what Storm always said that tea could cure all ills.

Xavier looked down at the tray in front of him and blinked in shock at the way it magically appeared. Slowly, he reached out and cradled the cup in his hands. He managed to take a sip without sloshing the hot liquid down the front of his shirt, but it was a close thing with how badly his hands were shaking. Then he set the cup down and locked eyes with Zen. "I hurt you." This time there was no getting around the statement.

"Yes," Zen agreed. "But I healed the damage."

"I HURT YOU!"

Zen's spine stiffened a little at the shout, startled by the outburst. He'd never heard Xavier yell before.

Then he spoke again, quiet this time, the words shattered with despair. "I hurt everyone."

"No." The single sharp word drew Xavier's shock stained eyes back to Zen's cold face. Only it wasn't Zen who looked at him now. IX stared at him through dead green eyes. "Stryker hurt the mutants. Magneto hurt the humans. Yes, you were the tool they used to do so, but you were just the sword in their hands, sir, not the Wielder."

The reminder of what Xavier was supposed to be made the old man's skin crawl, and gave him an even deeper understanding of the weapon he'd so foolishly taken control of. Now he'd had the smallest taste of what Zen lived for years. To be entirely out of control, a puppet on someone else's strings, and it made him sick to think he still held Zen's and that there was nothing he could do to cut them. "It doesn't matter how or why; I almost killed everything I love. My actions will undoubtedly hasten the deterioration of relations between humans and mutants. I've single-handedly undone all that I've attempted to accomplish in this world."

Zen studied Xavier. Even though he could still see signs of shock around the man's eyes and the wounded way he held himself, at least now he was thinking clearly enough to assess the damage done, and the future as it now stood. "You were a pawn, used by both sides of the board to attempt a clean sweep of their opposition. It failed, and while there will be some fallout from this, it is something that was bound to happen anyway. You have to remember; the group I was a part of spent decades doing everything they could to destabilize human/mutant relations. Even without using you, something like this was going to happen. Just like what Magneto attempted in New York. And in the end we stopped it."

Xavier flinched at that. "This time. We stopped it this time, but what about next time? I am too dangerous, Zen, too dangerous by far. I almost killed the world. Don't you understand that? I felt them screaming in my head, yet I couldn't pull back. Couldn't stop. Couldn't... " He choked on the words and, to Zen's dismay, tears started to slide down his wrinkled cheeks. He wasn't qualified to handle this. Closing his eyes, he wondered if he should go find Hank, but what could the medic do? Sedate Xavier? No, that wouldn't do. He needed to defuse this somehow. He couldn't allow his Wielder to remain so unstable.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

That drew Xavier out of the dark pit of depression sucking him in. He frowned at Zen. "What do you mean?"

"When I attacked the school. I know your power levels now, You could have easily reduced my brain to ash. Crushed it entirely. But you didn't. All you did was keep me from communicating with my team. Why?"

The frown on Xavier's face deepened, and he reached out grab the mug again. Zen felt a small flare of satisfaction when he saw that the shaking had almost stopped. Now small tremors made the tea dance in the cup instead of the fierce trembling that almost sloshed it over the brim earlier. It was a small step in the right direction.

"Because I... " He hesitated, taking another sip. "I believe that people deserve second chances. Even in the heat of the moment, when I knew you were seconds away from revealing our location to your superiors, I couldn't bring myself to kill you outright. Although did believe I was dealing you a crippling blow, I could not kill you."

Zen nodded. "So I deserve a second chance. You also kept X alive, even though Logan had serious difficulties keeping X contained. He could have slipped the leash at any moment, and if that happened he would have torn your school apart to get to me."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes! Even if X killed the students, the teachers, me, all of us, he couldn't kill the entire world in one blow!" Xavier bellowed, his eyes once more widening as he circled back to that truth. That he'd almost slaughtered the whole world. That for all his mental prowess, it hadn't been enough to keep his mind free, or stop him from having his own gifts turned against the planet.

"With all due respect, sir, you're not the most dangerous mutant on the planet. Yes, you could have killed us all. So could I, if my handler was insane and wished it of me."

"What?" Xavier gaped at him.

"My fire is unique. There comes a point when it no longer draws power from me. It becomes almost... sentient. Malevolent is perhaps a better word. It is fire personified, and it hungers. Nothing the scientists tried could extinguish it. Only I can do that, and only if it is small enough. The fire I set in the village was the largest I ever attempted, and it almost got away from me. If that happens, nothing will be able to stop it."

Zen watched the color drain from Xavier's face and wondered if he should consider this a step forward or back. Of course Xavier had no idea how deadly he could be, even though he'd seen IX's leavings in the mountains. And he hadn't bothered filling the man in when he realized how uninterested Xavier was in using him to his full potential. His Wielder would have no use for the cursed fire. No bodies needed burning, no towns needed to be destroyed.

Now he reached out and nudged the plate forward. "There are many mutants with the power to destroy the world. And more than a few humans who are willing to capture said mutants in an attempt to turn them into weapons. In most cases, they fail. Fortunately there are few Omega Class mutants around, and it is nearly impossible to capture them without being destroyed in the process. It's why our team had a long standing policy to take out Omega Level mutants if and when they were found, instead of attempting to acquire them."

Zen didn't add that he'd pegged Xavier as an Omega when he'd spotted him in the mall while hunting Remy. But now that he'd drawn Xavier out of the pit he'd dug himself into, his mind was already starting to unclinch from the hurt ball it had been in since the attack. Zen saw the way his Wielder's eyes closed and knew he'd caught at least the tail end of the thought.

"A lot of elements had to be put in place to capture you, Xavier." The use of his name made the old man sit up a little straighter, and another pointed look at the plate with the now cold bagel on it made him sigh audibly before he picked it up. Zen rewarded him with another fake smile when he took a bite. "Statistically speaking, the chance of recapture is minuscule."

That made Xavier set the bagel down again. "But the possibility still exists."

"Anything is possible. I could be recaptured by my previous keeper tomorrow and used to destroy you and the children." Zen gave him a pointed look, acknowledging even now that no matter how much he'd grown, he could still be brought to heel by anyone who knew the proper sequence of numbers. "Should you kill me now to keep that remote possibility from happening?"

Xavier scowled at him and didn't dignify the question with an answer.

"Then we are in agreement. We will not take rash actions against remote possibilities."

Xavier gave him a stern frown but kept his mouth shut. That made Zen nod in acceptance. "Good. If you are captured again, and I am unable to extract you from the situation, I will kill you before your powers can be turned against the world again. Is that acceptable?"

Silence stretched between them, a brittle thing that held all the unspoken words and acknowledgements of the seriousness of the offer. Xavier knew that if Zen killed him, the assassin would die in turn. He also knew that Zen wasn't offering false reassurances. No, he would do what had to be done, and that assurance allowed some of the black self-recrimination to ease.

At long last Xavier nodded his assent to the proposal. "Agreed." The barest hint of a true smile brushed over Zen's lips as he studied Xavier's exhaustion-worn face. The man was far from recovered, but he no longer looked like a living corpse. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and he was once again fully present. Only time would heal the emotional wounds, turning them to silvered scars that would forever remind him of the day he'd held the whole world in the palm of his hand and almost crushed it.

Clearing his throat, Xavier finished off the cup of tea before speaking. "I have a request."

"Yes?"

"Look after Scott for me. He's in a dark place right now and I don't want him to get hurt more than he already is."

Zen nodded his assent, wondering what happened while he'd been unconscious to inspire such a request. He didn't ask, not wanting to draw Xavier's mind back into the darkness of the past. Zen collected the dishes and said,"You should get some rest, sir."

Now it was Xavier's turn to snort. "No, I need to check on Hank, see how he's getting on with the paperwork."

With that quiet dismissal Zen turned his back on his Wielder and took the dishes back to the kitchen.

Finished with the upper floors and Xavier, Zen braced himself for the lower levels. Stryker would have stripped the lower levels of everything he could carry before trashing anything that couldn't be taken. Stranded operating procedure, though not usually used against a group of mutants. That was more in line with overseas operations, or raids on renegade corporations like the one he'd run against Stark.

The elevator swished open and Zen froze, eyes widening slightly in shock. Even from where he stood he could see the residual damage. Boot marks scuffed the floors, drag marks where equipment had been pulled out, terminals bore scratches where hardware had been jerked loose. Yet, said hardware was still there. Zen walked slowly through the halls, and every room he checked showed the strange juxtaposition of damage and repair. The most dramatic instance was Cerebro. It was the only room that looked entirely untouched. Perhaps because it was the only room made entirely out of metal, a theme he'd noticed in all the repairs.

"Curious," he murmured as he reached out to run a finger along the gleaming metal edge of the vault-like door. Zen tried to puzzle out Magneto's motives as he made his way from room to room. First he used Xavier as a disposable weapon against the human population, and yet, when that failed, he'd come here and made repairs. A strange form of blackmail? Giving a favor so that he'd be able to call in a favor in the future? No, that wasn't right. The Doctor's tormented face flashed in his memory, and he nodded. Yes. An apology; not for using Xavier, or for the plan failing. No, it was merely an acknowledgment of damage done, and a peace offering. Not that he thought his Wielder required such things. Aside from the torment he'd allowed Zen to suffer, it went against the grain of the man to seek retribution for past wrongs.

---

Dread and hope throbbed in Hermione's chest, each beat thrummed with painful mental shouts trying to capture her attention. Last summer had been... awful. Her parents sent her across the country to her grandparents house a mere week after she got home; a week spent walking on eggshells around each other. She could still hear her mother's sob when she saw how short she'd cropped her hair.

"Oh honey, no, what happened?"

"It was too hard to take care of."

And while that was true enough, it sent her mother into yet another gale of tears. As much of a hassle as her hair had been, they'd always taken time together to brush it out. Really, it was a two person job, and with only one good hand, and still trying to learn how to use the wooden one, she hadn't been able to manage the unruly mane of curls.

Instead, she'd cut it herself. The results were less than pleasant, but compared to everything else, what did it matter? All that mattered was she didn't have to fight with it anymore. Yet, her mother's tears echoed the hurt look in Professor McGonagall's face. That look still managed to tug at her heart, even though she despised the woman for what she'd done to her and her family.

After a week her mother drove her to the airport and shipped her off like an unwanted puppy. Tears still tried to sting her eyes at the thought, but she'd gotten a lot better at keeping them in check. After months with her father's side of the family, a group that contained far too many curious, chatty, bratty children, she finally made it back to a cold home. Her parents took her to do her school shopping and said barely two words to each other, let alone to her.

In a way it felt like she died and was a ghost haunting her parents lives. Maybe it would have been better if the club fell just a little closer.

Banishing the thought, Hermione grabbed her trunk and made her way off the train.

The sight of her mother dealt the small fluttering thing called hope a crippling blow. Her mother's once wild and carefree curls were pulled back into a severe braid, not a single wisp of hair escaping. A style she'd only ever seen her wear in the most dire circumstances; dealing with grandfather, a funeral, or a job interview. The attention she'd put into the makeup on her face also told a tale. While the colors were light, everything was done with that painstaking attention to detail that almost made Hermione bring her thumb up to her lips to bite the nail. Only the fact that her hands were full with her trunk kept her from the nervous habit. And, most ominous of all, her mother stood there alone.

Hermione's lips gave a helpless little jerk as she tried to force them up into a smile. Her mother's lips pinched tight at her obvious effort, and without a word, she reached out and grabbed the trunk. Bands of tightness that reminded her of the Binding Spell wrapped arms around Hermione's chest. Questions flew through her mind but didn't touch her still tongue. She didn't want to know.

So, like she had through most of the school year, Hermione buttoned her lip and maintained her silence. If the stiff arch of her mother's shoulders was any indication her unaccustomed silence was as much a blow to her as her tightly bound hair was to Hermione. How many times will we cut each other by accident this time? She couldn't help but wonder, and silently pray that the Christmas holiday would pass quickly for all their sakes.

"Daddy?" Hermione squeaked, unable to keep the word locked behind her teeth when she saw him slumped in the passenger seat. She hated how frightened her voice was, or that she used the babyish word. It had been years since she'd called him that.

Instead of rushing forward to see if he was all right, her mother dropped her trunk on the ground and gave the top of the car an abrupt slap. The bang made both Hermione and her father jump, and Hermione almost recoiled from the venomous look her mother threw him as she pointed towards the back of the car. With a sheepish smile, he reached over and pressed the button to open the trunk. Then, before Hermione could even think about helping, her mother wrestled the large trunk into the small space.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Hermione cracked open the back door and climbed in. Instantly, the sharp unfamiliar smell slapped her across the face. It was a strange mix of bitter and sweet, and even though she'd never smelt alcohol before, she knew that's what it was.

"So good of you to wake up, Richard." Her mother's voice held a razor edge she'd never heard before, and if the flinch on her dad's face was anything to go by he felt the bite all too sharply.

When her mother slid into the driver's seat, so wrong, Daddy drives, he always drives, the contrast between the two made her want to cry. While every line of her mother was painfully made up and correct, her dad... he looked like he'd woken up after a three day bender and crawled into the car. His shirt might have been white at some point, but it was getting pretty ripe around the edges. Once neat brown hair now stood up in a rather undignified cow lick along the left side, and he had at least two days worth of beard scuffing his cheeks. And his eyes were red from drinking. When did he start drinking!?

But did she need to ask? Had he been drinking before that summer? Probably. She barely remembered the fight half-overheard, half-dreamed-up before she'd been sent to spend the summer away. Were they fighting about his drinking? Or about her?

A painful lump burned in Hermione's throat, and she had to keep her eyes open wide to keep the tears from falling. Why bring him? Couldn't her mother have just left him at home and spared them both this misery? She couldn't begin to understand it. But she knew one thing: It was all her fault. Her father's drinking. Her mother's bitterness. The slow disintegration of her whole world.

Trying to swallow the lump down, refusing to let it turn into a sobbing apology she would never be able to explain, Hermione cursed magic. Cursed this supposed gift that turned her life into a walking nightmare of pain and loss. How much would it take before it was finally satisfied? No amount of wonder, wand-waving, or being able to turn into animals was worth this!

Somehow that last thought made her mood oscillate in the entire opposite direction. Now, instead of trying to hold back tears, she had to fight herself to choke down a howl of bitter laughter as she tried to imagine performing the Animagus transformation. It wouldn't be so bad if she were a cat or a dog, but what about a bird? How would she fly with just one wing, not to mention any sort of equine? She had to smother laughter to keep from sobbing again at the realization of yet another thing lost to her. Why even try it when most of the forms wouldn't function with a missing limb?

---

The house felt too small with both her parents in it. Somewhere along the way, they'd lost all interest in trying to hide their animosity from her. The fights sparked over every little thing; a look, a dropped book, a plate left on the table. Any inconsequential thing to take the place of the glaringly obvious topic they wouldn't touch. It was like they only had two modes these days: Screaming at each other in a fire of desperate passion, or brittle ice that creaked under foot, always threatening to shatter under an unwary step.

Hermione sat on her bed, the door between her and them firmly shut. If only the wood was strong enough to lock out the sound of their voices as the latest battle drifted up to her.

"Of course we aren't invited to my parents house! How could you expect them to after you called my mom a nosy bitch who should mind her own business." Her mother's voice broke on the "b"-word, and Hermione shook her head in shock at how badly things had deteriorated in her absence. How could it get so bad? She wasn't even around! Couldn't they just pretend nothing happened? It wasn't like she lived with them for more than a few months out of the year. Why couldn't they let it go? Damn it, they were the adults. Why couldn't they get their acts together and be her parents again, and stop acting like they were the ones who got hurt?

Pain bled into bitterness as she threw herself onto the bed and covered her head with a pillow. She stuffed a pair of earbuds into her ears and blasted Disturbed so loud it made her teeth ache, but it drowned them out, so the pain was better.

She didn't know how long she vegged out to the music and wished she were anywhere else. A light touch on her calf forced her out of her tiny cocoon of peace, and Hermione tried to pretend she was asleep. Go away, I'm not in the mood for any attempted heart-to-hearts, she thought as hard as she could, willing whoever it was to leave her alone. No such luck. The hand shook her a little harder, and she knew it wouldn't be ignored.

Prying the brain pounding music out of her ears, Hermione tossed the pillow to the side and sat up. Her mom offered her a painfully false cheerful smile. "Did you have a good nap, dear?"

Even though it left a bitter taste on her tongue, Hermione followed her mother's lead. "Yeah. So, we're staying here for dinner?"

That question made her mother's face instantly cloud over. "Well, grandpa isn't feeling well tonight, maybe we'll stop by tomorrow to see them. I'm sure they'll have gifts for you."

Part of Hermione wanted to scream liar in her mother's face, as if she hadn't heard the whole fight. They'd screamed it loud enough for the neighbors on all four sides to hear. But a larger part was tired. Tired of the fighting, of the lies, of her dad's drinking and her mom's back biting. No matter what he did, it was wrong. Every word she spoke shouted at him that it was his fault. His fault. HIS FAULT!

And she knew, in his heart, he agreed. It's why he always lost the fights. Why he was the one drinking himself to death instead of her. Why he never stood up for himself and told her to bugger off.

"Okay," she agreed. They only had a few days left. They could all hold it together for a little bit longer. We can do this, I'll go back to school, and then things can settle back down. Out of sight out of mind. Hermione felt foolish lying to herself but it was all she could do to get up and follow her mother downstairs.

Her father sat at the head of the table, his face painfully blank. At least he'd taken the time to shave and it looked like he'd had a shower sometime within the last couple days. Again, Hermione tried on a smile, and felt it wilt before it could even half form. So she took her seat, and locked her eyes on the fine china plate. Mom's good plates. The ones she only took down when they were having special company. Only now it was just them, sitting together in painful silence, none of them quite daring to break it because more bitter fighting hovered just over their shoulders.

Hermione focused on breathing and the painful realization that she would soon have to try and choke down a whole plate-full of food without showing how much all the stress made her want to throw up.

Next year I'll stay at Hogwarts.

The deep buzz of the electric knife snapping to life made her jump in her seat, and she glanced back towards her dad while he began the dubious process of carving meat off the plump turkey. Too plump for just the three of them. What had her mother been thinking? That they would really be able to eat a 30 pound turkey themselves? Her stomach shriveled even more at the thought of how much leftover turkey would be forced on her over the next couple of days.

Then another sound, her Dad hissing in pain, the blade jerked back and blood splattered over the pristine white meat of the turkey. Hermione blanched at the sight, her pupils dilating until they almost consumed her face as she stared at the cut on her Dad's palm, at the bright red blood. So bright against the white turkey. All at once she could smell the stench of the troll, the red ruin of her arm with its flecks of white bone.

Her ears roared, pounding with the frantic beat of her heart, and distantly, she could hear the shrill sound of her mother shouting. Always shouting now. About how her father couldn't do anything right, how he ruined everything. But the sound was inconsequential in the face of the blood. And Hermione wondered what they would do when she passed out.

Only she didn't. Her mind slowly un-ground itself from the past and propelled her back into this awful new scene of familial dysfunction. Something tugged at her though, a discordant note in the strange play that was her life now.

Her father wasn't yelling back. He always yelled back, at least at the start of a fight. But now he sat there, a napkin clutched in his hands to staunch the blood, with the saddest look on his face.

Don't. Please don't.

"Enough, Maddy." How long had it been since he'd called her that? Before the accident, that's for sure, but Hermione thought it was even longer than that if the shocked look on her mother's face was anything to go by. Those two little words, spoke in such a cool, quiet tone, acted like a slap, breaking her words off so sharply Hermione had to turn and look to make sure he hadn't somehow slapped her into silence. But now her face was frozen, held in bizarre stillness as if she could sense what he would say next, and couldn't stop it.

Both women sat frozen in the silence of the moment, neither one willing or able to break it. For better or worse, it was Michael's turn to speak.

He got wearily to his feet, blood still dripping from the cut. "I can't do this anymore, Maddy. You can have the house, the cars, all of it. I don't care. But I'm done. I'm going to pack a bag, and then head to the hospital to get this stitched up, then I'll get a hotel room. I'll call you later to work out the details." His eyes turned to Hermione and she felt a sob choke her when they filled with tears. "I am so very sorry for what I did to you my little love. If I could go back in time, I would gladly give my own arm for yours. Hell, I'd give my life just to make you whole again, but I can't stay here anymore. Maybe once I'm gone, you can both heal."

"Daddy, please don't go," the words felt like acid in her throat, and it tore her heart to say them because she shouldn't have to. None of this should be happening. It wasn't his fault! How could she make them understand? She tried, her throat convulsed around the words as the Binding Spells gagged her, and in that moment he gave a sad smile, before he walked away.

Out of the kitchen. Out of the house. Out of their lives.

Another victim of magic.

---

With the entire mansion mapped out from top to bottom, Zen vanished. He reappeared in a small room in one of Stryker's infrequently used bases. There he liberated everything he'd need for the task at hand: Countless gallons of a nameless cleaning solution that had a broad spectrum kill claim, multiple sets of personal protective equipment in various sizes, biohazard bags, biohazard labels, leak-proof sharps containers for the contaminated glass and darts, dustpans and brushes, tongs, and finally disinfectant wipes.

Back at the mansion, Zen slid easily into the protective gear. This was hardly the first mess he'd had to clean up, and it would be twice as hard to do now that the blood was dry. Starting in the kitchen, Zen began the tedious task of removing all the debris. Using a full sized broom first, he gently swept all the broken glass into a neat pile in the center of the room. It was studded with a few of the darts that failed to hit their marks. Out of all the rooms in the mansion, this one held the least damage, a few broken bottles that had fallen during the fighting, and only one puddle of dried blood.

With the glass cleared away, he sprayed the wide bloodstain down with the disinfectant and gave it ten minutes to soak in before he got down on hands and knees to start the long scrubbing process.

---

Scott walked slowly through the first floor of the mansion. Each step hurt; even though his physical injuries were minor, every soft thump of his feet on hardwood sent jolts of emotional agony through his body. Everywhere he looked, signs of the invasion that ended in tragedy leapt up to mock him. Here, broken glass from windows blown out by gun fire, there, a shattered TV screen. Scott remembered so many nights curled up with Jean as they and the kids watched movies late into the night. The kids begging for just one more, even though it was already past midnight and half of them were already asleep. The dark splashes of blood where X cut down the enemies like a farmer cuts wheat, yet still unable to fight them all. He was just one man.

Just one.

That stuck in his throat, a chicken bone he couldn't swallow. They'd left Logan here alone to guard the children, foolishly assuming they'd be safe. And he `couldn't even find it in himself to blame the man for failing. There wasn't much a single man could do against an army.

I wasn't here.

No. By the time the mansion was taken he was already under Stryker's thumb, just another mutant puppet willing to do the man's bidding. If he closed his eyes he could still feel the way he floated in the back of his mind, how his body acted without his control. Against his will he reached up and fingered the burn mark on the back of his neck, and couldn't help but recall the branding on the back of Zen and Logan's necks in exactly the same spot. They'd all been branded as weapons in the end.

The spot still stung as he ran a fingertip over it. Scott's lips pulled back in a grimace as he dug his nails into it, relishing the sharp jolt of pain that traveled all the way down his spine. If he could he would cut the spot from his flesh, but all that would do was create an even bigger brand, marking him as compromised. His breath hitched in his chest and he clenched his eyes shut tightly as he forced his hand to drop back to his side. In his mind he saw Jean's face, wide, frightened green eyes flicking from fear, to pain, to rage, to determination as he attacked.

Scott swallowed hard, forcing his mind away from the painful wound and back to the present, almost breaking down in the process. Because the present was so much worse.

"Jean." The word was full of broken edges, and he jumped slightly at the sound of it. He hadn't meant to speak it out loud. Perhaps he never meant to speak it out loud again. As if not speaking her name would unmake her being gone. He felt like a ship whose masts shattered under the force of a brutal storm. Now there was nothing to propel him forward. Nothing to guide him.

Stop, this is useless, find Xavier. Scott focused on his self-imposed mission. Find Xavier, advise him about the state of the children at the summer grounds, figure out their next move. Simple. He needed to keep things simple and stop thinking.

Somehow, while he'd been lost in thought, his feet brought him to the door of the kitchen. He blinked at what he found in there for over a minute before his frazzled brain was able to figure out what he was looking at. Zen-because it had to be Zen, he was the only one of that size still in the mansion-was kneeling on the floor. He was dressed in biohazard gear, and was carefully scrubbing at an unpleasantly large puddle of dry blood.

Swish, swish, swish, the sound of the rag rasping over rough tile mesmerized him, and Scott wasn't sure how much time he lost watching the ex-assassin cleaning up blood before he spoke up.

" What are you doing?" The words should have had force to them, a demand, not a plaintive question. The swishing stopped, and that felt like a blow to the stomach, Scott held his breath, waiting for the answer and silently willing the swishing to start again.

Zen sat back on his haunches and studied Scott for a minute before speaking. "I'm cleaning up the mess."

The brief answer made Scott's jaw clench in irritation, but he couldn't hold on to the trivial emotion. Not when Jean... Not when everything was wrong. Instead of getting angry, he stepped into the room and looked around. On the table he spotted a whole heaping pile of protective gear; there were biohazard bags, rags, and countless gallons of different cleaners, the sharp scent of it all burned his nose.

His gaze settled back on Zen, who was now wringing the rag out in a bucket of water that was hot enough to have steam wafting from its now-pink surface. "Why? Did Xavier tell you to?"

"No, but he didn't tell me not to." And that was answer enough, considering how powerful a psychic Xavier was, not to mention how close an eye he kept on Zen. So the logic made sense, in a twisted way. "I'm doing it so the children won't have to."

Those words drew Scott entirely in the moment as he tried to figure them out. What did the children have to do with anything? It took a few seconds, then it clicked. Zen thought they would make the children clean up the mess. The sharp bite of a headache flared behind his eyes at Zen's broken reasoning. "Zen-"

"The children shouldn't have to clean it up." There was a strange note to the words, a sharp finality that stopped Scott in his tracks. After Xavier reprogrammed him he'd never heard Zen use even a slightly disrespectful tone before. Especially towards the adults. He always spoke deferentially, even when they're behavior had been entirely unfair to Zen. He never complained, and always agreed with whatever they chose to do to him.

For the first time since Zen ended up with them, Scott realized he wasn't a child. Intellectually, yes, he knew Zen was full grown, that he'd been an assassin, that before he'd come to them he had been part of a mutant-hunting team. But he was so small. When dressed he looked 14, 15 tops. When he widened his eyes and tilted his head just a bit, he looked 12. Somehow, after Xavier tamed him, he seemed to shrink back into a child in Scott's mind. And now he was forced to acknowledge that he wasn't. That he would take on the duty of cleaning blood off the floor so the children wouldn't have to. He was forced to accept that Zen came from a world where they forced children to clean up the blood after they were done torturing them.

Go find Xavier. The thought came and went unheeded as he stood watching Zen. The low swishing began again. He should go give his report to Xavier, get back to the camp, and help Storm and Logan with the children. He shouldn't be standing here watching Zen clean blood unnecessarily. Blood that would be cleaned up by a professional crime scene cleanup crew within the next couple days.

There was so much he should be doing, but none of it mattered. It took everything in him just to stand here, watching Zen instead of running up the stairs to his room. Just his now. To fling himself onto the bed and bury his face in the pillows. He knew that if he went up there, hid under the blankets, naked and surrounded by her scent, he could pretend Jean was still alive. That she hadn't left him all alone, cut free from the one person in the world who anchored him.

First his parents, then his brother, now Jean. It seemed like everyone who had the misfortune of loving him died, leaving him alone in the darkness.

The pain of an ocean's worth of loss burned under his skin, and Scott found himself heading towards the kitchen table instead of to Xavier or up to his room. With hands that felt distant and numb, he shuffled through the protective gear until he found his size. Biting the inside of his cheek, Scott slid into the gear and grabbed a rag. Without a word, and utterly avoiding eye contact, Scott dipped the rag into the water, knelt and began to scrub.

---

Zen's eyes never left Scott as he worked. Emotions played over the other man's face, and the red-tinted glasses made reading them all the more difficult, but as the man wrang out his own wash cloth and bent to the work, Zen caught a single clear expression. One that he understood in an instant.

It was a look he'd seen more than once on the faces of children who came in with siblings. When the tests got too bad, and one of the siblings died, the survivor generally had one of two reactions. Fury, like Pietro, or despair, like so many others. After a while Zen could tell at a glance which way a sibling would jump, and more importantly, he could tell the ones who wouldn't make it. Even if they didn't actively suicide they lost the will to live. And in Stryker's organization, the will to live was vital. It never took long for those mutants to die.

Scott's face held the same shadow of death. Now he understood what Xavier meant when he asked him to look after the other man. What happened to bring him to this point? And more importantly, what could he do to pull him back from the edge? That was a trickier proposition. He'd never had to pull someone back before. In truth, he doubted the Doctor was aware of the ones who fell to despair. Yes, he knew they lost some, but the Doctor only cared if the mutation was of particular interest to him. Most ended up on the autopsy table, their corpses examined for anything of interest before they were disposed of.

"Where did you get all this?" Scott's quiet voice drew him from his troubled thoughts.

Zen gave a slight shrug. "Stryker won't miss it." Thinking of Stryker brought his mind around to the question he hadn't quite dared ask Xavier. "How are the children, did they all make it to safety?

Scott bent his back to a particularly stubborn patch of blood lodged in the grout. "Yes. There were a few minor injuries, but they all made it out."

The hint of a smile brushed Zen's lips at the confirmation that he'd succeeded in his mission. He'd been able to get all the children out of the base in one piece, and the ones he'd been forced to leave behind made it to safety. It was good to know that his gamble paid off.

"Jean didn't make it." Each word was bitten off, and rang with a depth of agony that should have left bleeding wounds behind. Zen froze at the words, his eyes narrowing at the dried blood as he accepted his failure.

"I'm sorry."

Scott started to wave a dismissive hand at the apology before he froze, the words catching up to him. Since Zen never gave frivolous apologies it meant something else when he gave one. It meant he felt responsible.

"Why?" Scott demanded.

"I should have saved her."

Scott scoffed at the words. "You couldn't have saved a kitten in the state you were in. You were half-dead, and completely unconscious when she-" But he couldn't finish the sentence. It hung between them like a bloody exclamation point.

Zen bowed his head and began to scrub again. "I overused my power. If I'd been more judicious with them, I wouldn't have passed out at such an inopportune moment. That was careless of me. Unacceptable. I should have had enough left to keep her safe."

He shook his head, giving Zen a sharp frown. "From what I've heard, you died. That gives you a pass on being Superman."

"I'm sorry," Zen repeated, dismissing the excuse.

"So am I."

For a while the pair worked in silence. "Jean's gone." The abrupt words made every muscle in Scott's body tense, as if he wanted to leap across the blood stain and attack for the reminder of his loss. "But the children are still here." That kept Scott in place, listening. "What Xavier did will have far reaching consequences for the mutant community."

"We talked to the President, showed him proof that it was Stryker, he-"

Zen cut him off with a single reproachful glance. "That won't be enough and you know it. It doesn't matter what a single world leader says, not in the face of the global disaster barely averted. How many casualties do you think resulted in those attacks?"

"Casualties?"

"Yes, casualties. How many car accidents, plane crashes, people drowning in pools, falling down stairs, falling onto grills?"

Scott's face paled so fast that Zen braced himself, prepared to catch the man if he passed out. Once he was sure Scott wouldn't fall on his face, he continued. "Xavier, the children, mutants everywhere are going to need all the help they can get in the coming years to survive the wave of rage that is going to sweep over us."

"Why are you telling me this?" Scott demanded, not wanting to take the weight of any more deaths onto his heart, but knowing instinctively that Zen was right. There had to be casualties.

Now the rag stopped again, and Zen sat up fully. "I'm telling you this because you can't give in to your sorrows. Jean is gone, but she would want you to live. She would want you to do all that you can to keep the children safe, and to live on in her memory."

Each word was a blow to his already battered heart, but his mind couldn't help but latch onto them with grim determination. As much as he hated it, Zen was right. There was a storm coming, and it would sweep away far more than Jean if they weren't careful.

Jean's loss still felt crushing, like having both wings ripped off an aircraft, but his own sense of honor wouldn't let him crash. Not when Xavier needed him. Pain flared in his heart as he remembered how badly he failed his mentor. How he'd been there to guard the other man's back, and failed to do so. Never again, the grim words resonated in his shattered heart, and he vowed to stand beside Zen against the world that would see them all dead if given half a chance.

And if he could die in battle, saving the children? Then all the better. Jean couldn't be mad at him then.

"Ah, there you are."

Scott frowned when he saw Zen's shoulders hunch slightly, as if to protect himself from a blow.

Hank stepped into the room, neatly skirting the half scrubbed puddle. "Awake I see, come on kiddo, I'll look you over then you can pack a bag. I'm done with my business here and Xavier's ready to head out to the camp."

If he didn't know better, Scott would say that Zen was afraid of the blue mutant. Obviously not because of his looks. But he could tell something was setting the small male on edge, yet he stood up and stripped out of the protective gear with mechanical precision. Before he could call them back and probe the situation further, the pair vanished down the hall. Scott closed his eyes and let it go. Hank would never hurt a child under his care, and even if Zen wasn't a child, he was still Xavier's... what? Guest? Property? Ward?

All. None. Scott pealed out of his gear and let the questions drop. Zen was complicated, that's all, and Scott doubted he would ever fully understand him.

Turning his back on the partially-cleaned mess, Scott headed to one of the lower level bathrooms to take a quick shower. He didn't dare head up to his room to clean up. The siren call of his bed still sounded in his heart, but he wasn't sure if he could get up again if he gave in. It would be far too tempting to give up, bury himself in the scent of Jean, and never move again.

---

Bobby sat on the rough wooden steps of the lodge, arms wrapped loosely around his knees thanking the cold that kept the rest of the kids inside. Closing his eyes, Bobby let the chilly winter air tickle the bare skin of his arms and couldn't help remembering how harshly it bit into his skin when his power turned against him.

Ever since his powers came on-line fully the cold hadn't bothered him in the slightest. He could walk around naked in the North Pole and be fine. But then Xavier's psychic wave turned all their powers against them, and he'd suffered under the bone deep chill of deadly cold. Flexing his fingers, Bobby squeezed his eyes tighter. Even though he would never say it out loud he knew he wasn't the only one feeling leery of the Professor, and of their own powers. Having them turned against him... it hurt almost as bad as having their safe-haven broken into by a bunch of armed army goons.

He glared at the memory as he rubbed a finger restlessly over a healing cut on his arm. One that happened sometime during the attack, but for the life of him he couldn't remember when. Shame flooded him as he remembered the attack, and how most of them choked. Hell, even Logan choked, and X had to take over to do what-

Bobby cut the thought off ruthlessly, but he couldn't stop the memories. The sound of a man's dying breath; the boneless way he fell to the ground. Glazed eyes staring at him where he hid like a child under the table while X killed, and killed, and killed.

But it wasn't enough, because the rest of them, for all their power and all the time they'd spent fighting imaginary monsters in the Danger Room, had choked. When it came down to it they'd all ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. Of course X couldn't save them all, and Zen...

"Bobby?"

His head jerked up off where he'd rested his chin on his knees, all thoughts of the pair of assassins vanished as Rogue sat down next to him. She wore a heavy coat against the cold, and he forced his lips into a welcoming smile even though he wished she'd just go back in. The last thing he wanted to do was talk.

"Hey." But he couldn't tell her to go away, so he scooted over a little and let her take the spot next to him.

Shaking her hair off her face, Bobby's eyes were drawn to the stripe of white. Just like the thin lines of white that were peppered through Zen's hair now.

Her eyes narrowed. "What?" A blush heated Bobby's cheeks and he looked away.

"I was just wondering about Zen."

The unexpected statement knocked the irritated frown off her face. "Zen? What about him?"

Bobby swallowed, then began to draw random doodles in frost on the wood between them. "You saw him on the jet, right? His hair?" He gave her snowy forelock a pointed look and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear, as if she could hide it from his probing eyes.

"What about it," she snapped, defensiveness edging the words.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he gave a non-committal shrug and looked away.

"Nothing."

"Bobby."

A branch cracked somewhere in the forest, making both the teens jump and stare wide-eyed out at the shifting trees. Wind danced through the snow heavy limbs, and another cracked under the weight. Bobby gave an awkward laugh, more fearful than humorous. "I guess we'll all be jumping at shadows for a while, huh."

Now it was Rogue's turn to sigh. "Yeah." She began to rub her hands together. The thin gloves she wore were enough to keep her from accidentally draining anyone, but they were scant protection against the biting cold of the early winter morning.

Tiny snowflakes began to drift down from the cloud heavy sky, and Rogue glared at them as if they personally offended her. That made Bobby frown; he knew she usually loved winter; since everyone had to dress in layers, making it safer for her to be around the group as a whole.

"Too bad John isn't here, he could have warmed you up pretty quick," Bobby said wistfully, his mind turning to his wayward roommate. Stupid John, going off with Magneto like that. But he wasn't too surprised. His roomie was always the sort to go off the beaten path. Not that he thought John would stay with that bunch of losers. He'd be back before the scent of Axe body wash faded from their room.

Rogue scoffed, the sound jolted Bobby from his thoughts. "I'd freeze to death before I accepted anything from that little cockroach." For a second all Bobby could do was gape at her in astonishment at the pure vitriol in her tone. Sure, John screwed up, but he wasn't that bad!

"Don't look at me like that, Bobby Drake," Rogue said, her eyes flashing. "He left us there to die, and worse, he went with our enemies. Like the little coward he is, he turned his back on us at the first opportunity."

The shock instantly turned to hot anger on John's behalf. "Look, John's a lot of things okay, but he isn't as bad as you're making him out to be. There's a lot you don't know about him. He's had a rough life."

Rogue gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "You are so blind, Bobby. John? Ha! Pyro should have been with Magneto from the start. I've seen how he sees the world. All we are is kindling to him. Everything in the world is just a number of how much energy it would take to burn us."

Standing up, Bobby turned to face her, his face darkening with anger. "Just because you stole-"

Now she leaped to her feet. "Stole?" She snarled in his face. "You mean saved those officers lives? Yes I stopped him by taking his power because people like that don't deserve power! He would have roasted that officer alive. He WANTED to."

"I don't believe you," Bobby hissed back. He'd known John for years, and no way would he kill someone. "If he was going to kill anyone, he would have killed the soldiers who attacked the mansion."

Rogue folded her arms across her chest and glared up at him. "You're so blind. Look past your crush for one second and realize that Pyro is a bad guy. He's always been a bad guy."

Heat, from rage or embarrassment at her accusation, filled his cheeks. "That's rich coming from you! You killed your first boyfriend with a ki-"

The words were cut off before he could finish by the palm of her gloved hand in a slap that made his skin sting and jerked his head to the side. Thank God she didn't punch me, he thought as she stormed back up the stairs and slammed the door shut behind her. With the amount of force she'd put behind the blow, if it had been a fist, she would have knocked him out cold.

Bobby rubbed his cheek and glared at the door, but his anger was already collapsing under its own weight, a snowman toppling over under the hot spring sunshine. He'd known, even as he said it, that he'd gone too far. Closing his eyes, he wondered if this counted as a break up.

---

Logan watched Rogue storm past the kitchen door looking like a cat who'd had her tail pulled, and he felt a flash of relief when she didn't notice him. After the past week he had no patience to help a teenage girl sort out her love life. Though he had to give a half smirk at the way she'd handled Bobby. They'd been loud enough out there to give the feral a show, something to distract him from his own morose thoughts.

Now that the show was over he turned his attention back to the half-full bottle of scotch on the table. Even though he knew it was futile he took another long pull, letting the fiery liquid burn a line down his throat until it settled like a coal in his belly.

X shifted restlessly in the back of their mind and he knew he'd have to hand the reins to their body over soon. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of the Stryker fiasco; they were now working as a team instead of two lone wolves fighting over the same kill. He closed his eyes, not looking forward to the talk he knew awaited him with Chuck sometime in the near future. Even though he'd found an uneasy peace with his other half, he had no intention of merging with the damaged psyche. Thanks but no thanks. While he wouldn't mind getting his pre-X memories back, he was pretty sure those were gone. And he sure as fuck didn't want X's memories in their place. The nightmares were bad enough.

All around him he could hear the children. They'd managed to gather up all the lost kids and brought them to the summer camp ground. Thankfully the place had a log cabin, more a lodge really, that could have rivaled the mansion for space. They had to sleep three to a room instead of two, but there was enough space for everyone, even if it was tight.

Logan frowned down at the near empty bottle. Left over from one of the teachers over the summer, he was sure. There should have been more noise. With the kids all packed together like this they should have been talking, laughing, fighting, sharing secrets. Yet it was eerily quiet. He could hear their heartbeats, slow with sleep, fast with a nightmare or stifled panic attack.

They were nothing like the rowdy bunch of children who'd lived in Xavier's Mansion, safe behind their walls. Worst of all was the stink of their fear. It filled the lodge like deadly perfume and rubbed both him and X raw with its intensity.

It was infuriating, not that the children were afraid, but that he and X failed to protect them from the cause of their terror. Worse, he'd failed to protect Zen. Just thinking of the small assassin made his fists ache with the need to unsheathe his claws and tear everything to pieces, as if that might ease some of the gnawing guilt in his heart. Not just X. If it had only been his alter, Logan would have been able to ignore it. The feral had always been nuts for Zen, so it made sense for him to feel unreasonably guilty for all that happened, but Logan felt the same.

When it all went down, they should have fought back to back, side by side, to protect the children. Instead, he'd ended up fighting alone. Losing alone. And he couldn't even blame Zen. In the chaos of the situation he knew Zen made the most expedient choice to protect the most people. What rubbed him the wrong way was how he'd had no say. Zen made the choice for them both, leaving him behind to protect the children at the mansion and allowing himself to be taken so he could protect the captured children.

Logan had no doubt that's what went down. They wouldn't have been able to take Zen by surprise. No, he'd judged the situation, and let them take him. If not there would have been double, if not triple the bodies. The only corpses left behind were the ones Logan-no, X left. Even the children, all powerful in their own right, hesitated when they stood on the edge of life and death. The few who hadn't frozen, and had actually fought, used non-lethal force. Their mindsets were those of sheltered children.

For all their power, they'd been helpless. Taken by surprise in the middle of the night when most of the adults were away.

Guilt like arsenic-laced bile burned his throat, and he took another long pull on the bottle to drown out the taste. His nose wrinkled when he drained the last drops.

Growling, he slammed the bottle down and huffed under his breath when he heard someone squeak in fear from one of the bedrooms. What had Chuck been thinking, leaving the kids so damned innocent? If it wasn't for the fact that Stryker's team had been holding back most of them would be dead right now.

And that brought him all the way back around to why they were here and not at the mansion guarding Zen's back. For all their powers, all their training in the danger room, the children were sitting ducks. If there was another attack they weren't in any shape to defend themselves. It was even worse now than before the last attack. Now they were too tightly wound, most probably suffering from some degree of PTSD, and while he didn't think they would freeze as badly again he worried they'd go off half-cocked.

The children would take themselves out in a hail of friendly fire before the soldiers could do the job.

If that happened while Logan was mooning over Zen's unconscious body he knew without a doubt that Zen would roast him alive when he woke up.

He had to stay here and protect the children. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"I'm going for a walk." Storm's abrupt words felt like a slap to the back of his head, and Logan grunted his acknowledgment. He'd known she was there, of course, but he hadn't expected her to speak. Let alone have her willingly walk away from the children if even for a few minutes to get a breath of fresh air. Over the past few days she'd been nearly as silent as the children, and he knew she was probably almost in as much shock. How damaging it would have been to leave only to come back and find that mess? Not knowing what happened, who'd died, if anyone was still alive.

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply as he took in her lingering scent. It was similar to Zen's; both held that static edge of power, though hers was mixed with the almost sweet scent of rain. One thing he'd always found amusing about her was how the rain scent changed with her emotion. Soft spring rain was happiness, the near electric throb of the pounding summer rain meant rage. Right now he caught the bitter edge of a winter ice storm in her scent; the sharp tang of depression.

Logan gave the empty bottle one last glare before he hefted himself out of the chair, needing to make his rounds of the lodge to ensure it was secure. The pack of guilt rats gnawing at his guts seemed to thrash a little harder as he looked at the closed door Storm passed through only moments ago. So few people knew how much information scent could give. For most, their nose was just a thing to hold up glasses. Only the most blatant odors made any impact at all, and that was of the most basic kind. Smells good, smells bad. For a feral it was different. Scent as a sense was a close second to sight and hearing, and at times it even bumped up to higher than both.

He'd known of the affection the two women shared-mostly sisterly, but there was that one time when it took a turn into intimate. There were scent markers of each women in the other's skin, though Scott's marks were far deeper in Jean's, almost covering all others. Yet Storm held her mark on the other woman too. They spent a lot of time together, were close friends, and now Jean was gone.

Damn.

---

Storm drifted through the trees like a small, ground-bound cloud. If a hiker glimpsed her through the trees, they'd have thought her a fay being, with her deep mahogany skin, distant blue eyes, and long mane of silver hair. As she walked, she reached out to run her fingertips over the bark of the trees she passed, needing to feel something, anything besides the pain boiling inside her like a thunderstorm on the verge of breaking loose. The texture of the trees gave her an outlet, poor though it was.

Still, her mind played Jean's last moments over and over again. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see tendrils of beautiful power like heat waves wafting off her friend. Saw the wave, like some terrible beast crouched over her, it's maw full of broken tree teeth, stone claws. She saw the last, sweet smile before the monster pounced, obliterating Jean's small form beneath its ponderous weight.

And through it all, she saw herself; sitting uselessly in the pilot's seat, doing nothing at all to save her. How could she just sit there and let Jean single-handedly save them, giving her own life to do so? Tears slid down her cheeks, adding thin lines of silver to her smooth skin.

Soft, white mist drifted around her, dancing between her fingertips as it caressed the trees and cocooned her in a world of grey. More tears fell unheeded. "Why didn't you stay on the jet? You could have done all that from your seat," she whispered, the words breaking half way through on a sob. The endless, useless questions bit her with the sharp fangs of a hyena.

They all boiled down to one. Why? Why leave the jet? Why let the wave take her? Why-why did she leave them? Why did Jean have to die?

Too many questions.

Not enough answers.

No matter how she turned the facts around in her mind, all Storm felt was bitter loss and confusion. Perhaps if Jean had died in the underground base, a victim of the attack, it could be easier to bear. But she didn't. She'd walked calmly to her death, putting herself in front of them to spare them from it while willingly embracing it.

It felt like suicide, and that truth cut deepest of all.

---

Zen fought back the exhaustion tugging at his senses. As much as he wished to rest he couldn't bring himself to do so in a moving vehicle. There was too much potential for attack, and he refused to be caught off guard. Even with Stryker gone, he knew there were other departments. Other teams. Other governments. All of them with varying degrees of fear and interest in mutants. From wanting to exterminate them all, to wanting to turn them into weapons, and everything in between. Very few were interested in developing live and let live policies. After the Xavier incident Zen was sure the number of groups willing to let mutants live freely hovered somewhere around zero.

That thought alone kept him awake. While he didn't think anyone knew Xavier was the source of the psychic wave, he couldn't make that assumption. He would have to be vigilant over the next weeks and months to ensure his Wielder's survival.

So he stayed awake, stayed alert, and watched the buildings give way to forest while they drove. Before long he noticed thin ropes of fog drifting over the road, growing thicker as they approached. The slightest hint of a smile brushed Zen's lips when he noticed that the woods were shrouded with fog but only wisps of the concealing mist slithered over the road. They were getting close.

Less than five minutes later they turned onto a gravel path that ended in front of a massive wooden structure, built along the lines of a wood cabin even if it was too large to bear the name. Logan stood on the porch, his arms folded over his barrel-like chest as he watched the car pull in. A lingering tension Zen hadn't known was there eased at the sight of the feral.

Even though he knew better than most how indestructible X was he couldn't help the anxiety he felt when he woke up alone. It was too much like the first time he'd woken up in Xavier's school after the Professor's attack. When the car slid to a smooth stop Zen climbed out and got Xavier's chair situated, helping his Wielder into it before turning his attention back to the lodge, and Logan, who'd had the good sense to wait until he was finished.

When Zen climbed the steps he paused in front of Logan, unsure what to expect. To be grabbed perhaps, hugged or bitten or both. What he didn't expect was for the larger man to lean forward and bury his face in the junction between shoulder and neck before taking a deep breath, drinking in his scent.

"Good, you smell like you again," he rumbled. The worlds held more growl than usual, and Zen knew more than just Logan spoke them. With a soft huff he nudged the feral back.

"Report."

The word drew an annoyed grunt from Logan, but he didn't fight the compulsion. "All of the children are safe. We found the stragglers and brought them all here." Now he hesitated, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "There was one casualty-"

"Jean Grey." The word held no emotion, but Logan could see something in the depths of Zen's green gaze.

"It wasn't your fault."

Zen didn't dignify that with a response. Before Logan could push it the door opened and Kitty stepped out. The sight of her made Zen's eyes widen a bit and he stepped past Logan, earning a low growl that was easily ignored. He'd thought when he saw her again Kitty would fling herself at him with all her normal exuberance, but she didn't. Instead she just looked at him with hurt blue eyes. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and for the first time since he'd met her Kitty looked as small and fragile as her namesake. Dark circles traced half-moons of bluish black beneath her eyes, and as he stood there they filled with tears. She didn't sob, or scream. All she did was stand there, small tremors wracking her as tears fell down her cheeks, her lower lip quivered. Uncomfortable pain flared in Zen's stomach at the sight.

Without a word he went to her, his arm wrapping tightly around her shoulders as he stared her back into the lodge. It didn't take Zen long to find the living room and he didn't hesitate to lead Kitty to a couch. He pulled her down next to him and closed his eyes in defeat as she clung to him. Perhaps he should be used to her overt emotional outbursts, but this wasn't like the rest.

That was all it took to unleash the storm. Her hoarse sobs wracked her small frame hard enough that Zen worried something might tear under the strain.

It hurt. Listening to her pour out her pain hurt worse than facing the Doctor and his whip. He would rather take fifty lashes than have Kitty suffer like this. Worse, he didn't know how to fix it. All he could do was hold her, and wish he'd had a chance to do to Stryker what he'd done to the Doctor.

---

"You wished to speak with me?"

Pietro almost vibrated a foot out of the chair at the sound of his voice. He wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting in the small office after they'd been informed that Xavier, Hank, Zen, and Scott would be joining them.

In the week and a half they'd been at the camp, Pietro's thoughts plagued him night and day. His disheveled hair no longer looked artfully tousled. No, it looked like there'd been a squirrel Battle Royale in it. There were knots in there that he knew would have to be cut out. The way things were going he might have to shave the whole grey matted mess off and start fresh. His tired eyes were ringed with deep circles, speaking eloquently on how much sleep he'd gotten in the days since they last saw each other.

Xavier wheeled his chair around the desk and took a few moments to get properly situated, giving the youngster a few extra minutes to gather his wits before giving him the full weight of his regard. If the way Pietro blanched as his gaze fell on him was any indication, it hadn't been long enough. As much as he'd like to smooth the way for Pietro he maintained his silence, allowing the youth to make the first move in the coming verbal dance.

Running his fingers through his hair, only to hiss as the middle one stuck fast in a knot, Pietro cursed under his breath. "Look, I'm-" He rubbed his eyes hard, struggling with it. "Give me a few days, okay? I don't have anywhere to go, but I'll leave. I don't belong here." Tears blurred the words, and although Pietro kept his head bent forward Xavier still saw a few drops of moisture fall.

"Why do you say that?" The old man prodded gently.

"Why?" Pietro echoed hollowly, and they both gave a small, involuntary, flinch as the visceral memory of blood splashing over the front of his shirt played again in his mind's eye. How, in the end, when given access to power, he turned out to be no better than the bastards who killed Wanda.

More tears fell, and he didn't even have the will to try and stop them. Because, damn it all, the old man had been right. Killing that bastard changed nothing. Not one less tear cried, not one less drop of blood spilled. Hell, he hadn't even felt good doing it. Instead the whole process horrified him. How Zen or anyone could do stuff like that for years and not be totally batshit crazy was mind-boggling. Yet, in spite of all his quirks and oddities, Zen seemed to be settling down into a decent human being now that a pack of madmen weren't holding his leash.

What was Pietro's excuse? He could have had Zen shoot the man. Or slit his throat. Anything but what he'd asked. A shuddering sob tore at his throat, and Pietro found he couldn't swallow it back as the whole wretched scene played out in his head again and again. He'd forced Zen back into IX's skin, used him to torture his most hated enemy, and then forced Zen to help him kill the man after the dirty work was done. He hadn't even been man enough to stand there and watch. Instead he fled like a child after the first few cuts.

Disgust and shame made his guts roll, and, not for the first time, he wished he'd been the one to feel the kiss of IX's blade instead of Wanda. She would have been able to let things go and live in the moment after she escaped instead of wasting so much of her energy on thoughts of revenge.

"Pietro, as long as your conscience remains as strong as it is now, and as long as you recognize the error of your ways and why treating Zen the way you did was wrong, you have a place among us."

The startling words jolted Pietro out of his self-destructive thoughts. "But you said... "

"Do you still hunger for revenge?"

"NO!"

"Then I think my fears were unfounded. You took a sip from the cup of power, and found it's brew too bitter to swallow. Which saved you from the madness of revenge. I dare say, I'm proud of you."

Against his will, Pietro's lips tugged up into a wistful smile at the words.

An answering smile flared on Xavier's lips. "Truly. Taking a life can be addicting, and the power of life and death has led more than a few down the path of utter destruction. Even though you answered the call once, you weren't blinded by that power. You were able to turn away from the path I once laid out for you. For that, you should be proud."

Heat flared in his cheeks, and he mumbled something unintelligible.

"However." That made the grey haired teen's shoulders hunch automatically. "You owe Zen an apology." To his surprise, Pietro didn't fight him on it.

Instead he hung his head and tugged morosely at one of the knots. "Yeah, you're right." The silence stretched between them, but before it had a chance to become strained the door opened.

"Ah, there you are. How is Kitty?" Xavier said as he waved Zen into the room.

"She is resting, sir."

Xavier gave a sage nod. "While I do appreciate you looking out for her, try not to make a habit of putting her to sleep when she's upset. Kitty will need to work through her emotions."

"Yes, sir." Even though Zen would follow the order, he still thought his method better. That level of emotional upset couldn't be healthy. Sending Kitty to sleep seemed like the best course of action to him.

He glanced over to the chair where Pietro looked like he was doing his best to melt into the floor. "Sir?"

"Yes, I do believe Mr. Maximoff has something he'd like to say."

Pietro shoved himself to a standing position, and for a second all his muscles tensed, as if he wanted to attack, or maybe flee. Then his shoulders slumped and he turned to face Zen. He cleared his throat. "Look, I just wanted to apologize for the way I used you to... " What little color Pietro had drained from his face as the memories tried to drag him back to that blood soaked room. Blood he'd ordered spilled. Blood that belonged on his hands. A deep itch burned along the skin of his palms and he wanted nothing more than to go wash them in the hottest water he could stand. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done so since they got here, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

It took more effort than was pretty for him to continue without fleeing the room to either throw up or scrub a few layers of skin off his hands. "I'm sorry for using you to kill... no to-" his throat locked up on the words, and for the second time tears burned his eyes. He fought them, fought them with terrible bitterness, but they burned down his cheeks, adding to his shame and humiliation. Pietro didn't know what was worse; that he was crying in front of his enemy, or that Zen showed no reaction to the tears. Part of him waited for Zen to laugh at him; to call him a baby, a loser, a monster. Part of him wanted the cold mask to break, to see something human in Zen's face. To have his tears affect the other mutant in a human way. Still another part of him was grateful for the way Zen appeared to ignore the outburst and his stuttering excuse of an apology. His absolute lack of reaction allowed Pietro to ignore the tears too; let him pretend he wasn't standing here crying like a fool.

Pietro's breath hitched in his throat, but he forced himself to continue. "I'm sorry I forced you back into IX's skin. I shouldn't have-"

Now the blank mask cracked around the edges. Zen's lips pulled down into a practiced frown, but Pietro could have sworn he saw confusion flare in the depths of the ex-assassin's green gaze. "I killed the Doctor to atone for what I did to your sister."

If anything, that made the tears flow faster. "I know, and it was wrong for me to ask you to. I was wrong."

Zen gave him a long look, then offered one of his fake smiles. "I accept your apology." Then he turned to Xavier. "Is there anything else you need from me, sir?"

"No, that will be all."

With that Zen turned and walked out of the room, leaving Pietro standing there with his mouth half open, needing to say more but unable to find the words.

Before he could change his mind Pietro ran out of the room, a mere blur of color. He caught Zen on the stairs leading up to the sleeping quarters. Zen's body stiffened slightly when Pietro grabbed his arm, making the speed mutant cringe at the reminder of all he'd done to the other boy. After all they'd been through Pietro couldn't help thinking that Stryker made monsters of them all.

"Wait." He tried to keep his voice neutral, and failed. Glaring down at the stairs, he wiped the remnants of tears off his cheek before he started climbing again. "I'll show you our room." Zen followed behind, saying nothing, making it all worse somehow.

By the time they made it to the room at the end of the hall, Pietro couldn't keep silent. "I shouldn't have used you like that! Okay? It was wrong, everything about what we did was wrong. If I wanted that bastard dead I should have done it myself. If I wanted to make him scream, it should have been my hand cutting him open. You're trying to become something new and I took that away from you and it was wrong!" The words poured out almost too fast to understand, and Pietro could feel bands of iron tightening around his chest. Every breath came more shallow than the last, and fear spiked through him. Was he having a heart attack?

Before he could pass out or start screaming under the strain Zen lashed out. The fist slammed into Pietro's cheek. A blow he saw coming, but was too stunned to react to. He crashed into the ground and gaped up at Zen, pure shock flaring in his eyes as blood began to trickle from his split lip. "W-what?"

"There, I've punished you for your act against me. Do you feel better now?"

Pietro opened his mouth to yell, then shut it. Pain radiated from where he'd been struck, and yet, the tightness in his chest was gone. He no longer felt like he was going to fly apart at any second.

To his utter shock Zen held a hand out to him. And he reached up and took it. With surprising gentleness he pulled Pietro back to a standing position. "We are even, now go to sleep."

The words almost made Pietro choke on bitter laughter. As if a punch to the face could make up for everything he'd done. Yet he knew Zen meant it. Not just about the Doctor. But about everything.

"Good night," Zen's words startled him out of his shock, but he turned and left before Pietro could think of a single thing to say in response.

Curling up on the bed, he rubbed his sore cheek, and realized he did feel better. Pietro closed his eyes and sighed at how strange the world was, and decided that if Zen could let the past go, so could he.

"I'm sorry, Wanda. I'll do better," he whispered into the darkness.

---

Author's note:

Look at that! A new chapter? *GASP* And it hasn't even been a year yet. Sooo, since I was so nice and gave you this shiny new chapter, maybe you can push me over the 2k mark for reviews? *Begging Kitty eyes* I only need 34 more!