Sorry all, I had to change the title of my story because it ends up I stole it from Jen1703 (I KNEW it sounded familiar . . . and thanks to Optic Red for pointing that out) So, many apologies to Jen1703, many thanks to Optic Red, and to all of you who reviewed!

It's been 8 or so years since I lived in Germany, so my German isn't all that great any more. If any of you more competent readers can correct Kurt's lines, please feel free to do so in your reviews, thanks!

"blah blah" is talking 'blah blah' is thinking *blah blah* is thought-speak

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The three adults (Charles, Logan, and Ororo) gathered in the cramped alleyway just as a light mist began to fall.

Crouched in his enclave where the two buildings met, a small boy with grimy tape wrapped around his head shivered with the cold and began to whimper ever so slightly.

"Storm?" Logan nodded to a pile of dirty rags piled adjacently from the boy's corner.

Ororo gave an inquiring look to Charles who nodded in return. Turning back towards the flammable waste, her eyes flamed white and thunder rolled above her head. Gesturing to the rags with a commanding nod, a jagged bold of lightening reached out with its fiery fingers, caressing the cloths as flames engulfed the filthy pile.

In his sleep the boy rolled over, embracing the fire's warmth. But as the aroma of smoke wafted over him, the boy's expression darkened and Charles could feel him go spiraling into a haunting dream.

~*~*~

Rolling over in bed, the acrid smell of smoke stung the young boy's nose, filling his soft brown eyes with hot tears. Across the cabin he could make out the blurry form of his mother gently shaking his younger brother.

"Alex, sweetie, Mommy needs you to wake up." Her velvet voice was lined with worry as she pleaded.

"Mom?" She whirled around, wiping tears from her tired eyes as her older son rose from his caught. "Mom, what's going on?"

"Oh, Scott, sweetheart. . ." her voice broke as her son approached, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head in her chest. She rocked back and forth, clutching him to her, finally kissing his voluminous brown hair as she broke away, placing both hands on his shoulders. "Honey, Mommy needs you and Alex to put on your jackets and these backpacks, okay?"

"Why? Are we landing? Mom, why are you crying? What's wrong?" But his mother just glared meaningfully at him and walked back to the cockpit.

Two minutes later, an anxious Scott and half-asleep Alex stood by the cabin door as their mother kissed both their cheeks. "Boys, we're having a bit of trouble with the plane," Katherine Summers choked back tears.

"But Daddy can fix it, right? Daddy can fix anything." Alex spoke in confident pride.

In spite of her tears, Katherine had to smile. "No, sweetie, Daddy can't fix it. Now, I need you two to be brave, okay? Scott, I need you to be a big boy and take care of your little brother. . ." she trailed off as her husband unlatched the cabin door. "Promise me you'll take care of him?"

"No! I'm not going without you and Dad!" Scott shouted defiantly.

"Scott, please," his mother pleaded, tears streaming down her face. "Daddy and I will be alright. Just go!"

"No, no!" Tears were now swelling in Scott's eyes as well.

"Scott," his father knelt down beside the 10-year-old boy. "Your mother and I both love you very much, but we need you to do this, take care of Alex, be a good big brother. Can you do that?"

Scott nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Okay, now count to ten before opening the chutes, alright?"

Scott clasped Alex's hand as the two fell spiraling in dizzy circles through the dark sky. Scott looked up one more time at the plane, his parents entwined in each others' arms as flames shot out of the tail.

"Mommy, Daddy, I love you!" He screamed as he pulled the cord on his parachute. "Alex! Pull your cord!" But it was too late; Scott had pulled his sooner than his brother and soon the blonde-haired, ruddy-cheeked boy's hand was wrenched from his grasp. Scott's scream was torn from his lungs as he tumbled into the icy darkness below.

~*~*~

Waking from the horrid memory, Scott could still feel heat and smell the rising smoke of a fire. Hearing thunder crack through the sky, he remembered the pile of rags that had been left in the crescent adjacent from him. "Lighting," he muttered to himself.

"That was no ordinary lightening, Scott Summers." A friendly voice emitted from the darkness.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"I am Charles Xavier and these are my associates Ororo Monroe and Logan. We want to help you."

Underneath his bandages, Scott's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Life on the streets had hardened him, teaching him not to be overly trustful. People didn't give out favors without expecting things in return. No one wanted to willingly help a measly little kid. "Why would you want to help me?"

"Because we can," a feminine voice spoke up.

'That must be Ororo,' Scott thought. The voice sounded so kind, so soothing, but not enough so that he let his guard down. "Even if you could, you wouldn't want to help a kid like me."

"Why not?" Another deeper, gruffer voice came out sounding amused.

"Because, Logan," Scott started pointedly.

"Smart kid," Logan murmured.

"I'm not a normal kid. I'm a thief and a, I'm a. . ."

"A freak?" Charles asked quietly. When Scott didn't reply, Charles continued, "You're not a freak, Scott, you're gifted."

He snorted, "What I've got is no gift."

*I wouldn't be too sure about that,* the kind voice echoed inside his head.

"How'd you do that? Voice projection lessons or something?" Scott was half curious and half terrified.

*This is no voice projection, it is my gift.*

"Y-you mean you can read my thoughts?"

"Only if you let me?"

"I can block you out?"

"Would you like to learn?"

Scott hesitated, the man sounded so nice, yet how did Scott really know that he was safe? 'Safe? You think living on the streets is safe?' he thought to himself.

"You don't need to be afraid, Scott, though that is understandable. . ."

"I'm not afraid!" He spoke in such a tone that Logan had to fake a cough in order to cover up his laughter.

"We can help you. I have a school in New York, a school for gifted youngsters, mutants, like yourself."

"Mutants?"

"People who have evolved and acquired unique gifts, powers. Ororo, here, can control the weather; she created the lightening that ignited the rags beside you." As if to annunciate this, a roll of thunder sang out through the air. "Logan has impressive healing powers that make him almost immortal, as well as metal claws that extend from his hands." The professor paused, before continuing. "If you agree to join us, we can teach you not only to control your own power but also to block your mind to other mutants, and, of course, undergoing physical training."

"Whaddaya say, kid?" Logan broke in, "Give it a shot?"

'It can't be as bad as here,' he thought. "All right, I'll give it a try."

Xavier smiled as the boy shakily rose to his feet. "Once we arrive at the mansion, I'll speak to one of my colleagues about seeing to getting you someway to control that vision of yours." And with that, Ororo helped guide Scott onto the X-jet, Xavier and Logan following closely behind.

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"Mr. Grey, you have to understand, Charles Xavier is a highly respected doctor, far more superior in comatose cases than any of the doctors here."

"So just how much is this going to cost me? I'm not paying extra for some kook to misjudge my daughter again! And I am not paying for him to rekindle my wife's hopes only to have them dashed once more!" John Grey shouted, causing several other patients to look up, startled.

"Mr. Grey, do you want your daughter to live in a state other than that of a vegetable?"

The tall man looked flustered by the doctor's blunt tactlessness. "Yes, of course."

"Then I suggest you give this man a try, regardless of the cost."

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The sweet scent of heavily perfumed incense drifted throughout the empty cathedral as a stocky friar extinguished the many candles.

"Was ist das?!" He exclaimed as he came across a track of damp footprints trailing on the marble floor. The normal churchgoers and ritual evening worshippers had long since retired home. Could a lost soul have traveled in, seeking sanctuary from the outside cold? The friar wrinkled his nose in disgust, though he would never turn out an especially weary traveler without first giving him time to warm himself, the avid worshipper would never tolerate a common thief running from the law.

Approaching the end of the footprints, the friar froze. Before the floor to ceiling oil painting of the mother Mary, surrounded by intricately carved alabaster cherubim, and illuminated by two lit memorial candles, knelt a hunched figure, head bent in prayer.

Kurt Wagner's lips moved slowly, emitting no sound as his fingers deftly moved over his simple mahogany rosary. Sensing another's presence, he stopped mid-prayer, shifted his weight, and lifted his tear-filled eyes to meet the friar's startled gray ones.

"Kurt?"

"Entschuldigen, Vater. I didn't mean to disturb your vork. Vould you like me to leave?"

"Nein. The House of God never closes. Stay as long as you like."

"Danke schun, Vater."

The old man smiled at the young parishioner. "Bitte schun, Kurt, bitte schun.

As the friar retreated into the darkness of the chapel, Kurt turned back to Mary's ever watchful eyes. Before the friar had interrupted his thoughts, Kurt had been praying for his Mother and Father, his biological parents, the ones who hadn't wanted him. He didn't blame them; after all, they had a freak for a son, most people would have been glad to be rid of him.

'But not all people,' a nagging thought rang through his mind. Kurt sighed and silently agreed. Someone had wanted him; his adoptive parents had found a way to love him despite his frightening appearance. Though he loved the Wagners and was grateful for their support and devotion, Kurt couldn't help wondering who his real parents were. Was he really so hideous that he'd caused his parents to give up their own child? Or was there something else involved? Had they been forced to leave their son behind? To abandon him without even knowing if he would survive? Had their case been similar to that of Moses' mother when she gave up Moses? (A/N: Does anyone know what his mother's name was? None of the bibles I've read give her name.) It was the unanswered inquiries like these that drove Kurt to the Cathedral; that drove him to God. The Wagners had brought him up to be a devote Catholic, so he often sought refuge in God, praying for the safe keeping of his biological mother and father. Hoping beyond the most improbable hope that someday they may be reunited.

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Silky hair danced across the pillow's white state as the young girl's body trembled and shook with another one of her spasms. A passing nurse caught sight of the quaking girl and hastily cried out, "D-dr. Xavier! Come quick!"

Moments later, a bald man pulled up in his silver wheelchair. "Nurse Amber, what seems to be the problem?"

"It's Jean, she's having another seizure."

"All right, I'll see to her. Please see to it that no one else enters the room unless on my call, understood?"

Though it struck her as odd that the doctor wanted no extra assistance, Amber only nodded her head obligingly, shutting the door behind Xavier.

Sighing, Charles Xavier turned to face the chaotic room. Objects were rattling in their places while the girl's bed shook with tremendous force.

Placing his hands near her pulsating temples, Charles inhaled deeply, speaking into Jean's mind, *Hello, little one.*

The girl's body tensed, pausing in its vibrating madness.

*Do not be afraid, little one, I'm here to help you.* The soothing voice clamed Jean's frazzled nerves and she slowly began to relax, allowing the shaking objects to slow to a rest. *That's right, just calm down. No one is going to harm you.*

But as jean relaxed, as she let her guard down, her mind was stampeded by a rush of thoughts that were not her own. Her body began to writhe as her mind was torn by the pain of the many voices. *Stop! Please, make the voices stop! There are so many!*

*Jean,* the raise of panic in the man's voice was highly audible as surgical objects flew passed his head. *Jean, I need you to concentrate. Can you do that? Concentrate on my voice.*

*I, I'll try,* she murmured weakly. The soothing voice, he kept speaking to her, and as he spoke she tuned out the other voices, concentrating only on his and her own.

As the ruckus in her head dimmed, Jean could feel a grin break across her face. But in all her excitement, Jean was unable to tell that the grin had not come from herself, no, it had come from the open link in her mind.

*Very good, now, let's say we get you out of here, all right?*

Jean's bubbling pleasure was clearly emitted from her thoughts as she joyously agreed, allowing the man to pull her out of her ever deepening sleep.

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