Summary: Scott's memories of "zero hour" and a strange man named Nathaniel Essex counsels him after the tragedy.

* * *

            It was an unusually cold Saturday morning, meaning breakfast wouldn't be served till almost noon because even Ororo would want to sleep in. So Scott lay in bed for a few hours, staring at the ceiling and recapping the events of the X-Men's last mission in his head. Then he'd remember. Okay, so it wasn't really remembering because Scott could never forget, but the memory would blindside him and old wounds would once again draw fresh blood.

* * *

            "Scott Summers? I'm so sorry, but the young child you were with, little Alexander, passed away shortly after being brought to the hospital."

Scott rolled over to his side, throwing the blankets over his head so that only a mop of reddish brown hair could be seen from underneath. "No. It's not true. You're lying."

            "Now Scott, you know that I have no reason to lie to you," the young counselor, Scott thought he heard the nurse call him "Mr. Essex," told him gently, as if Scott would find anything this man had to tell him the least bit comforting.

            "Go away." Scott managed to whisper from under the thin, hospital sheets that covered his body. He was trembling, but not from the cold.

            "You've been asleep for a long time, you know that? We were all getting worried about you. Your parents' plane went down in Colorado over a month ago now," Mr. Essex's continued talking to Scott's annoyance. After ten minutes passed without a response from the young boy, Essex rose from his seat. "All right, Scott, if that's what you really want, I'll leave. But I'll be back soon to check up on you," the man touched his shoulder and Scott reflexively pulled back. "We'll get through this together, okay?"

            Scott made no answer, merely buried his head in his pillow and replayed his descent with Alex from the plane and wondered what he did wrong that cost his brother his life.

            A few days passed and Scott noticed he hadn't cried at all since the accident. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but he physically couldn't.[i] Each day a new tray of hospital food would sit on the small folding table beside him, untouched. Every once in a while someone would come in. A nurse who would smile at him and ask him in a friendly voice why he hadn't been eating or if he needed to use the little boy's room or an officer from the State Department wondering if he could ask Scott "a few questions about himself that would help him to find a nice family to adopt him." Scott didn't want a nice family to adopt him. He wanted his own family back, but he never said anything to any of them.

            A few more days passed and the State Department called Mr. Essex back in to counsel Scott through this tragedy.

* * *

            Scott stared at the man's desk. Beside the clutter of documents, folders and faxes, a little plaque on his desk announced his full name to be "Dr. Nathaniel Essex." Scott cringed without really knowing why.

            "Hello Scott. Why don't you have a seat?" 

            He did, but not without a little hesitation. "You're a psychologist."

            The dark haired man with tortoise shell framed glasses smiled. "How did you guess?"

            Scott looked around the room blankly. "You seem to like to surround yourself with proof of your qualification to judge other people's lives."

            Laughing, Essex threw his large frame down onto a swiveling leather chair. "That's a rather astute observation for a ten year old."

            "I am a very astute ten year old."

            "You sure are," Essex agreed readily, opening a file that Scott had seen on his desk earlier; the label marked it as being his "personnel file."

            "Where's Alex really?"

            "I beg your pardon," Dr. Essex asked, looking up at Scott through his glasses.

            "I mean, he can't be dead. He can't," Scott pressed, keeping his voice low and grave as he had seen his father do whenever he was dealing with his military friends. Scott had found mimicking this tone of voice made people take him seriously. "I've been reviewing all the events in my head. There's no way I could be alive and he would be dead. There's just no possibility."

            Essex smiled at Scott as if he were trying to comfort a raging man. "Scott, your family is gone now; you're going to have to accept that fact sooner or later if you hope to move on with your life."

            "You didn't answer my question."

            Throwing his papers back on his desk and pulling off his glasses, Dr. Essex sighed, "You mean where is his body? Do you really want to see it, Scott?"

            Some part of Scott raged for him to stop questioning, to stop tormenting himself, but that wasn't the part of him that worked his vocal cords. Opening his mouth he spoke hoarsely, "Yes. Let me see him."

* * *

            They were going into an Air Force base hanger that much Scott knew. But nothing prepared him for what he was to see when the metal gate retracted and Scott beheld what was inside. His vision bleared and he swayed-almost fell into someone's arms. Dimly, he thought he heard someone speaking to him. Probably Essex, so it was good thing Scott wasn't listening.

            "I knew you weren't going to like it," Essex told him, a hint of something, pleasure maybe, in his voice. Scott didn't care; he struggled to stop the room from spinning.

            "Poor kid," a nearby airman whispered to his colleague, "that wreck you see there, his parents were in it when it, you know…"

            Getting a firmer grip on his voice and squelching the rising nausea, Scott asked Essex simply, "Where?"

            "Alex's body was badly burnt when he was finally found Scott, I don't think-"

            "Where?" Scott asked again, the strength returning in his voice and a strange red light flashing in the little boy's eyes bright green eyes.

            For a second Scott thought he saw Essex as he truly was, a twisted man who fed on his misery like a leech gorging on the blood of its victims. But just as quickly as it came, the mask came slamming back down and he replied in a normal voice, "I'll show you."

* * *

            Ororo Monroe threw the morning paper onto the kitchen counter in disgust. In the headlines, five boys had been kidnapped from their homes in the Bayville area. All were very young, only six or seven years old with blonde hair and blue eyes. Four of the bodies were found mutilated in some form or another so that they were barely able to discern one from the other. The fifth body had yet to be found.

            "Whoever's doing this should be caged at the zoo with the rest of the animals," she remarked, calmly spreading jam onto her toast. "Professor? Is something the matter?"

            Professor Charles Xavier shook his head from side to side to clear the mental fog in his head. "Ah, it is a shame to be so young and feel such pain."

            "Professor?" Ororo called, her silver eyes revealing the love and concern she felt for this man.

            Xavier smiled reassuringly at her. "Come, preparations must be made."

            "For what?" asked Ororo.

            "Our guest. Although his stay will most likely be permanent."

* * *

            Scott ran. His eyes burned, but still no tears would form.

            'Damn him,' Scott thought over and over again. 'He wanted me to see Alex's body like that. I know he did. Why? Why did this have to happen?'

            He had spent exactly ten minutes at the orphanage before he started hyperventilating. 'I was happy, damn it. Why did you have to go and take it all away from me? Why?' Then he had just left. Through the front door. No one stopped him. No one cared. 'Everyone who ever cared was now dead. Dead. And death is forever.'

            He didn't know how far he ran or where he was or when it was that he finally collapsed. Only that before he blacked out, he hoped he wouldn't wake up ever again.

            His wish didn't come true. And when he awoke, it was on an unusually large, comfortable bed.

            'I see you're up Mr. Summers,' A voice was speaking to him, but it wasn't a real voice, it was a voice inside his head.

            He blinked. "Where is this place?"

            "My school," The same voice that spoke to him before answered, but this time he was actually speaking to him. "Allow me to introduce myself, I am Professor Charles Xavier."

            "What exactly is it that you teach here?" Scott asked, pulling himself into a sitting position on the bed. "And how did you know my name?"

            "To answer your first question, I teach…tolerance. As to how I knew your name, well, Scott, I'm special. Much like yourself. I know quite a lot about you actually."

            "You don't know the first thing about me," Scott replied sadly, rubbing the growing soreness at the back of his head.

            "Oh I know much of who you are, or should I say what you are. I also know very well where you've been and what you've done. But the real question is what will you do now? I have a few suggestions for you myself, but the choice lies with you, Scott. Now I ask you, what will it be?"

TBC…

Author's Notes: Ugh, doesn't the end sound like the perfect place to bust out into a Paula Cole song? Sorry about that.



[i] A fact established in the comics, although some artists/writers have chosen not to adhere to it.