You can wake up to anything. Really, you can. You can wake up in the smoke-fires of hell and . . . you'll still have to wake up. I mean, in theory, people are so picky about what they wanna see when they first open their eyes, especially if you go in for all that artsy-fartsy sentimental crap. At the very least, they want a pillow rising over the eye-blotch that represents their nose and a round and brassy alarm clock perched on the dresser and maybe a paper or two of unfinished homework to provide humorous stress. That's for a normal day, of course. It's gotta be something entirely more sublime if you're a "hero" after the huge and bloody cataclysm, when you've saved the world (or something related) and killed the villain. You've made deals with various witches and sorcerers (and devils, let's just re-emphasize that), but they absolve you of the debt and dunk you in some magical restorative spring. And, okay, you've struggled a little against the revival, because any nifty-keen hero has a guilt complex so wide that he demands his own death for payment for his wrongs. But then you wake up and . . . goodness me! . . . there's the princess or the leather-clad she-warrior, depending on your preferences, and the screen/page is infused with such glorious light that the pains and aches and angsts are forgotten in a moment of bliss.

But in reality . . .you can wake up to anything. You might not even wake up at all, but . . . assuming you do, there's really no guarantee that there will be a dear one leaning over you, just waiting for you to say something. There's no guarantee, even, that the amiable thief-comic will be cracking a joke to make you laugh (and hurt your shattered ribs, of course). There's no guarantee that you won't wake up in the dried out husk of the world you supposedly saved, utterly and completely alone.

Dramatic, isn't it? I guess so. I might have preferred a little company in my first, awakening reactions. You know, I was kinda looking forward to being dead and stuff. You can have so much fun being dead! Or . . . maybe not, but . . . yeah. Where was I? Right. Getting up. It's always hard to get up for me. Even if the bed is hard and settles uncomfortably against my back, I guess I unconsciously feel that going back to sleep is easier than stumbling to my feet and facing, well, whatever. Even the princess (honesty, I'm stretching my metaphor here). If you know how hairline a "successful day" is, how hinged on a careless word or a slip of expression, how can you help but be a little wary?

I know I'm hedging. You want to know about my great and desolate loneliness and I'm desperate enough that I'm telling you, despite the fact you don't exist and my thoughts are echoing right back to me as response. I'm revisiting the horror, but the despair is still shimmering in the walls and I'm sharing my memories with it, if I'm sharing them with anyone. Am I crazy? You bet, but even discussion that is happily edging away from what I'm supposed to be saying. Doesn't everyone want to hear about my near-death experience? Isn't it a source of hope when someone passes to the Great Beyond and returns with a type-set story to prove to the world that . . .

Well, sorry. I never left my body. I didn't see anything except . . . well, nothing, until I had to wake up, because my body was functioning too alertly to let me sleep anymore. I could have gone for seeing something. I'd give something for a moment of . . . it's chintzy, but, you know . . . peace. Resolve. "You did okay." Anything. But I awoke to find my workshop gone and my body lying out in a worn out copy of a department store. I could have gone for a chill angry wind or two . . . or even a stale brooding of the air, but there was nothing so tangible. I exhaled and started to yell a little, but it didn't make feel better. Hurrah for emptiness.

I really hate what all this has done to me. I mean, no doubt I'm being all idyllic about my pre-hell days, but no matter what Xavier thought, I was happy. Basically. Not like I was on drugs or anything, but if I didn't understand everything all the time, there was stuff I could hold on to. Like my family. And God. I always swore to myself that I would never, never play the "poor sad doubter" tact. I would never stare at the sky and cry there was nothing out there, and blast if I still won't. Whatever happened, I thought I could handle it without . . . well, I could handle it with help, right. But there's the problem. I'm so lost in myself that, you know, I've always really tried to pull it all alone.

At the end, I didn't have anything left to pull. I can feel light streaming through the empty parts of my body and nothing's changed from the first moment she cut off life support. I feel about as substantial as an ink-drained wisp of a newspaper, blown up against a wall and left. No one even to step on me anymore. My pain's nothing more than a twinge of existence.

Look, I hate it. I hate the fact that I'm curled up in a corner of a shadow of my old school lab, curled up there because it's silent of shades and I hate the fact that I can't do anything but cry to myself, when I should find some outlet for doing. Or praying, but the she dragged me so dry that I forgot to and I don't know if I can anymore. I'd be too afraid, maybe. See, it's not as though I don't believe in God anymore -- it's more I'm not sure it's mutual. What if I prayed, only to find out that God answered much like Raven did? "How long ago did you learn to fake praying so your mommy would think you were a good boy?" The scary thing about God is he knows the answers -- the real ones , not the vaguely and impersonally observed ones, and the last thing I want is a real and final declaration that I am not capable of emoting or praying without ulterior motive, that I'm not much short of a sociopath, if short at all, or . . . that maybe the she wasn't such a liar at all and I'm quite nicely programmed to act real and autonomous, that there are controllers beyond controllers beyond . . . I know it's a wan and cowardly form of fear, but, man, if sometimes you really don't want to know and you don't have to ask. Can't risk the chance of it being negative for the faint and probably unlikely hope of the positive.

So I can remain safe and empty as a cheerfully abandoned and badly cracked pot. Oh, wasn't it nice to wander through Bayville and watch fleeting car shapes pass through you? Wasn't it fun to try to engage a nothing-person, there for a moment and then not . . . And then you abandoned it as surely as you were abandoned and fled to a solitude that was at least quiet. Isn't it great to wonder if this is your own private eternity, bereft of even building materials, bereft of a way out and anyone to talk to, and grasping for your darkest memories to make your present state seem not-so-bad? Isn't it great to grasp for rest -- as defined by lack of activity -- with nothing but despondent nightmares to lull you?

Oh yes. You bet it's great. Swell. Don't think it hasn't occurred to me that I died after all and this is hell proper. "Hey, Forge, you were way too busy during life, what with chopping your arm off at every opportunity, and dude, you were so not busy in the right way. Sure, you did some good things, but not for the right reasons. You were just scared of guilt. Let the happy people die and you'll never hear the end of it, huh? Well, perk up and smile, you don't have to worry about guilt anymore! No people to wrong! No innocent furniture to wantonly destroy! It's just you, forever."

And, man, but I wish I could cut the constant internal commentary, for all that.

But, ah, but it looks like I'll be interrupted.

There's a wind whipping my hair againt my neck and my shirt against my back and I don't turn around or sit up because I know what it is.  Wind doesn't exist here unless it's introduced, like a barracuda in a goldfish pond.  It doesn't just rise up on its own.  Someone's gotta let it . . .

I wait for the wind to peter out and die before I move -- and then I move slowly and gradually in a semi-circle until I can see what the wind left for me.

It's unconscious . . . and "it" is about how I can describe the poor piece of flotsam.  It's not human.  A long, pointed tail like an illustration of Dante coils limply back beyond its large and thick-formed feet and the entire creature is lightly furred and . . . blue.

Blue.  Huh.  Grand . . . hold on a blasted hey, how did it get here?  Is someone playing with my old thing, after all these . . .

I slip over by the body, crouching beside its head.  Well, the face is personable enough.  Clothing doesn't do much for it, gotta say.  Sparse, maybe?  Just a thin white hospital-issue looking gown that barely covers the guy (okay, it's a guy) even down to the upper, upper thigh.  Wow, gee, this just gets more fun by the moment.

I take his shoulder and shake it to see if there's the slightest flicker of awareness . . . but there isn't.  I shake again, accompaning the motion with a peevish plea for being noticed.  "He-ey, man.  Let's get up."

Gah, nothing.  I squint down at the sharp blue face and scowl.  There's a flicker now -- but it's not the flicker I'm looking for.  It's the same ol' groovy flicker related to the she's threads and the she herself . . .

And what's sprawled out at my knees is a half-seen.  Er, I mean, there's that easily seen physicalness right there and then there's ties and echoes of something the normal person isn't capable of viewing and it's not that clear for me either.  It's a visual tint -- of scorch-black smoke and of yellow tooth and of fire . . . yep, definitely a lurid iridescent fire thing under all that.

Dimension.  Hostile, but the creature is built to endure it, in small . . . very small . . . spurts.  But . . . dimension.  Yeah, sure, dimension like an escape dropped on my doorsetp that I don't actually know how to use.  I don't have any tools anymore, save what dangles off my arm if I let it come out.  By the time I woke up from my catatonia, the stuff I'd dragged down with me . . . well, I didn't even know how to backtrack . . . I guess it'd be in the shadow-Institute somewhere if it exists anymore, but I never wanted to go back there.  Guess I was terrified of . . . that something happening or something.  And my fake lab was just that -- even the sword I created . . . well, its existence was only in her mind -- and mine, maybe.  Blast if I know what that "soul-fire" did to me.

But those are gone now.  Gone with her fake neighborhood and her stolen children.  It's just me and I'm not worth much without something extra to play with.  I've got me and a . . . teleporter, apparently, who's out like a light and not so strongly connected to his brimstone birthplace to draw himself out of here and back to Earth.  Whee.  Poor guy.

He's stirring, finally.  I ease back and let him stir.  No reason to be the absolute first thing he sees, leaning right in his face.  "Hey buddy!  My name's Forge!  What's yours?!"  He'd love that.  So I try to stay a little off to the side while he blinks his yellow eyes and kinda sucks his lip in.  Looks a bit confused.  Wonder why?

"Aaaaach," he growns to himself, flailing two thick fingers toward his forehead and not quite making it.

It's time to take the polite route.  Polite, concerned, don't ask too many self-serving questions.  "Hey, you all right?"

He streams off something surprised in German (that's what I'm guessing) and his eyes flick convulsively toward me, one hand poised in a half-clutched position.  "Who . . . who are you?" 

Thank goodness for communication.  "My name is Forge, but I'd kinda guess that's not all you're asking, right?"

He blinks, but doesn't move otherwise.  His expression is too blank to pass for anything other than . . . blank, but since I'd be terribly suspicious of me in his situation, I go right ahead and continue.

"Basically, I'm the sole inhabitant of this marvelous landscape you see before you.  Kinda dropped here not-really-by-accident, but close enough, twenty years ago and I don't really know why you're here, so, yeah, what's your name?"

"What's going on?"  He jerks into a fully sitting position, both hands moving frantically and dramatically for emphasis.  "How did I get here?  What is here?  What am . . . "  he glances down at his front.  "What the . . . why am I wearing this?"

I decide this dear fellow and I are bound to be friends, whatever he is.  "Ah, so many insightful questions . . . heck, if I don't wish I had the answers myself.  All I know is that you just showed up, so I kinda assume it had something to do with the old machine of mine that got me here.  And here is kinda . . . here.  It's kinda a place wedged between Earth and . . . something else."

"Old machine?  What?"  He takes a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to fold his hands calmly in his lap.  "Okay . . . okay.  Never mind where, then.  How do I get out, because, no offense, man, but this is more than a little . . . "  he stares up at the ceiling.  " . . . whacked."

"No argument.  But there's no . . . way out, see.  I'm sorry."

"No way out?"  His eyes are still tilted firmly at the ceiling.

"Not really.  That's just the funny thing, though.  You're kinda attuned to get out of here.  You can teleport, right?" 

"How would you know?" he asks evenly.  Wow, that ceiling sure is fascinating.

"It's not important.  Let's just say no one told me.  But, see . . . ah, for you to get out of here . . . "

He vanishes and reappears, still in the sitting position, half a yard away.  It takes me a half second to process what he just did and . . . whoa, yeah.  There's that barrier that encompasses everything and keeps one dimension from seeping into another and he just . . . circumvented that like it wasn't even there.

"Oh man," the creature cries in disappointment, but I'm having to fight to contain my excitement.

"Yes.  What you just did -- you know, I'd have given a couple of years to do that.  Do it again!"

He stares at me.

"I mean it!  Come on, just a quick one."

"All . . . right."  Another collapse of air and he's gone again, reappearing slightly to one side.  I follow the trajectory, the half-seen and rather limp form of the creature skidding on that other side of the barrier passing quickly from one end to the other. 

I'm grinning like an idiot.  "I have to get my stuff now.  I can work with this!  I can!  If I can just find sufficient . . . "

"What the heck are you talking about?"

I barely notice his franticness.  I'm pacing up and down the washed out lab floor and just seconds from clapping my hands in time with my footfalls.  You can't know what it's like to have the old rush again!  "I'm talking about maybe we can get out.  Oh yes.  You can get out already, man.  Just did.  The only trouble is you're not slipping through that brimstone-y place you usually do, you're slipping through Earth proper.  If we could just change where you came out . . . except . . . ga-ah . . . "  I prop my chin between two fingers and glance at him sidelong.  "I don't know if I can do it electronically.  This whole funky dimension thing's coded right into you and I know, even if everything's perfect and my materials are still anywhere, I don't have anything to play with genetics.  No, wouldn't want to do that.  Have to do it electronically, or not at all.  But how . . . "

"I don't understand a word you're saying," the creature moans and sinks his head into his hands. 

All right, maybe it would be a good time to be at least marginally sympathetic.  "I'm sorry.  I kinda . . . forget when I'm on a roll like that.  Assuming it's a roll.  Okay.  What's the last thing you remember?"

"I thought I was going to school."

"School?"  I can't keep my eyes from roving right to his tail.  Wow, gee, they're a lot more tolerent than when I was a kid.

He sighs.  "I don't look like this when I go to school.  I have a . . . "  He glances at his wrist reflexively and frowns.  "I had a holographic inducer.  Makes me look normal."

"Ah, right.  So, you were going to school . . ."

"Yes!  That's all.  I was walking and then I blacked out.  That's all I know!"

"Gah."  I snap my fingers . . . or try to.  Never was much good at snapping my fingers.  "That doesn't leave me with much.  What I guess I'll do is head over to where I might have some stuff stashed and . . . "

I pause.  A breeze snatches at the creature's fur and my hair and I'm frozen in the thought that someone else is going to implode into the shadows . . . but it's different this time.  The wind picks up like a funnel and it nearly knocks me off my feet -- while the creature sprawls on all fours, his tail trailing back behind him like a banner.  The washed-out far wall melts into what seems garish color after all this time . . . although its dark and grey, with the only real splash of hue being the figure holding a . . . thing.  An almost familiar thing, but it's not mine after all.  Oddly enough, the figure has a vague familiarity as well, young, with red glasses of all things . . .

Huh.  Red. 

Huh . . . out!  Right! 

The creature apparently figured that one out quicker than I did.  He's crawling toward the opening and jerking his head toward it . . . ah, trying to get me to follow.  I do, trying to keep my balance.

"I'm going to try to teleport through," he shouts over the roar of the exit wind and I nod . . . but am completely taken off guard when he grabs my forearm and teleports.

It's quick.  I know that, because I've watched the creature 'port and it takes a half second at most.  But my abrupt disaffection from old typical walking reality is considerably expanded.  Figures.  I can feel myself straddling the faded and the real for a minute and then it's like my spine's pressed hard against steel -- and it's curved steel so I'm bending back against the surface on the verge of breaking . . .

And I'm half blind, everything's misted, but I can see the shimmering red-shaded guy and I can see him press something on the thing and the surface slams hard once against me . . . and then it's gone and I'm on my rear in the dust of my real old lab in a comprimising position.  The creature is slumped next to me, eyes wide.

"Scott?"

Scott?  Hey, wait a . . .

Scott shakes his head convulsively, recoiling and actually dropping the mostly-familiar thing, which lands with a broken clatter at his feet.  "Kurt!  What's happened?  What am I . . . "  He swears under his breath, so softly I can bearly catch it.  "All right.  You're wearing a hospital gown, I'm using machinery that I don't recognize, and I don't think I know who you are."  I assume by the tilt of his glasses that he's talking to me.  That and I don't think my name is Kurt, nor am I wearing a hospital gown and . . . Scott?

I struggle woozily to my feet.  "I'm Forge.  Uh . . . I'm not sure what's going on, but, hey, I'm indebted to you.  I've been in this funny little dimension for . . . a long time and it looks like you and Kurt just got me out."

"Eh?"  Scott stares at me, then Kurt, then me again, his brow furrowing.  "Wait . . . oh no.  You look awfully familiar.  Forge?"

"Yes, that's my name.  Forge."  Scott?  I've gotta stop saying that.

"No way."  Scott laughs, very shortly, and it's Kurt's turn to look terribly lost.

I've got to ask now.  "You . . . remember?"

"How could I not?  I'm suprised you remember me.  I'm definitely not eight any more and you . . . haven't changed a bit."  He tilts his head briefly to one side.  "You were also dead, as I remember."

"What?"

"I'll explain it later, Kurt."

"Ah, yes, the whole dead thing.  I guess not."  I rub the back of my neck.  "But man, if I know why I'm not dead."  How long was I sleeping?  Look at him.  "Wow, you look about eighteen now."

"That's right.  It's been about ten years."  He looks down at the ruined metal . . . thing and sighs.  "I'm still not sure how this happened.  I thought I was in class.  But at least you're out."

"Yeah . . . yeah, I appreciate that.  Um . . . Scott, Kurt.  Great meeting you and all, but I think I'm going to . . . go home."  Wow.  Home.

"I can give you a ride . .  ." 

"That's all right.  I'd rather walk."  I feel vaguely guilty about appearing and disappearing.  I mean, I really am very interested as to what Scott's been doing for the past ten years and why he was operating something similar to what I made back in '78, and I feel sorry for poor blue Kurt in his hospital gown, but, um, yep, not really into making long conversation at the moment.  "But, yeah, thanks.  Both of you.  I'll . . . see you around . . . "

"We're at the Xavier Institute," Scott say seriously as I start moving away.

"Oh."  Well, could have guessed that.  Mutants.  Xavier.  Yep. 

"I don't mean to sound insensitive, but are you sure your home is still . . . home?  Would it be safer to maybe spend the night at the Institute and . . . "

"No.  Sorry.  Maybe some other time.  I really do want to talk to you later.  But . . . not now."  Scott nods, Kurt looks embarressed, and I'm finally out of the cellar.

What progress we have made.