A/N: After encouragement from Charlie's Angels (a.k.a. Alara Rogers and Andraste), from my RL allies in the Cause, and from my muse, I'm trying this Ultimate thing on for size. After all this time of wildly exaggerating Xavier's personality to make him evil, it's going to be interesting to write based on someone else's version of his dark side.

Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men any more than I did when I was looking for a new source of evil and mayhem for fanfic and my friend said, "Well, there's always Charles Xavier."

Dedication: For the ones who asked.

Prologue

Nobody gives me a second glance as I wait on the steps of the school. I might be the older brother of one of the students, here to provide a ride home. I might be waiting for that young, pretty teacher with the curly hair and the low-cut blouses. Hell, they might think I'm planning to rob the place. I don't care. He once said that he wished I thought as quickly as I moved. This was after the first time I suggested that I zip into Xavier's little bomb shelter and accomplish what Wolverine would eventually fail at.

I'm not sure what he meant. Considering how fast I can move, I'm not even sure it can be an insult.

The point is, I could probably come up with a story pretty damn quickly. If anyone asked. They wouldn't believe me if I told them the truth: "Oh, I'm waiting for my mutant terrorist father, whom the whole world thought was dead." Right.

When I saw him in the park that day, playing Frisbee with a bunch of little kids, I thought I was hallucinating even when I zipped closer to get a better look. The temptation to rush up to Xavier and Colossus and shake the old geezer until he gives me some answers was overwhelming, but I have a pretty good idea of what he's capable of. And pretty soon, all of them were distracted by some huge crisis that went down in Europe and put their zit-faced human ice cube in intensive care. I thought for sure that it would be the end of their little crusade for good. No go.

Anyway, Wanda thought I was seeing things, too. We're living separately now, but when I called her cell phone (God knows where she got her hands on it; I sure don't, and I didn't ask), she cut me off before I even finished telling her what I'd seen. "Pie, I do not believe you don't understand what's going on here." I hate it when she uses that tone of voice that I know means she's going to play the Daddy's-boy card. I hate it when she calls me Pie.

"I don't?" I replied sarcastically.

"You can't accept the fact that you're living your own life now, Magneto-free, so you start seeing him everywhere. Pure psychology."

"Don't patronize me, Wanda."

"He's gone, Pietro. Baldy killed him. And I was crushed, too, believe me, but what you're doing is too classic for words."

"I've heard more about this guy than you have. He doesn't strike me as the type who would kill anyone."

"You really expect me to believe," she said, "that while he didn't even let you call him Father without permission, he opened up about his past with Xavier?"

"I wasn't hallucinating. I don't want him back in my life."

"So you say."

"I know what I saw!" I snapped.

"Okay. Okay. Chill. Do you have any idea where to find him?"

I sighed. That was the closest she'd come to I believe you. "No, but I can find out."

A bell — not the shrill whine of the high-school bells I've heard, but one long, irritating note — ushers me back into the present. Teachers usher kids half my size out of the building, toward buses and vans. Still, none of them look my way.

He's the last to leave. Silver hair. Silver beard. Wearing clothes that actually border on casual. Walking alone. And he does look in my direction. And I recognize him. No doubt about it. And even though I had believed my eyes the first time, the sight of him —- alive! — even in this context, speeds my heard up even faster than usual.

I have a ridiculous urge to say, "Quicksilver reporting for duty, sir!"

But he speaks first. "May I help you?"

Maybe I'm wrong. No, I can't be wrong. I know him!

"I'm Erik Lensherr. I teach fourth grade here. Are you looking for someone?"

I can't speak. Is he undercover? Could he have faked his own death, disguised himself, and set up shop here to plan… what? But that doesn't make sense; we're alone now. The last of the buses has pulled out."

"Father, it's me. Pietro." How cheesy does that sound? Like something out of a soap opera.

He shakes his head. "Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not married. No kids."

In the past, he's pretended I wasn't there until I called him "sir." But this isn't one of those times. He's watching me, and there's something about his eyes that I don't like. Emotion has never been one of his strong points, and he's always been good at keeping his feelings off his face, his eyes like chips of ice or hot burning coals. But never like this. Never just… blank, like he could smile or laugh or frown, and they would still resemble two shiny coins. Am I making sense?

Thought not.

I prod a little more. He just looks more and more confused, says that I must be mistaking him for someone else. I apologize and make my exit. It's not until I'm back in my own rathole apartment that I start shaking uncontrollably.

I know what I saw.

And as I think back, I know why I saw it.

I leave again, in search of a phone. Wanda has to hear about this.