A guillotine stood tall in the middle of the circle. 

An old fashioned, wood and steel blade, honest to goodness guillotine. Brain remained frozen, half-standing and still half-bent over, his mind reeling- while his eyes remained locked on the tall structure a mere few feet away.

Beside the guillotine stood two masked, burly men. Their ski-cap type of masks revealed the proud grins the covered the lower half of their faces. Fresh blood lay spattered around the base of the guillotine.

A few feet away- and out of splattering distance- were two long tables covered in tiny, metallic utensils. Behind each table sat a guard; each was wielding a syringe and most also sharing in the proud, cocky look of the executioners.

"All right, who's next?" One of the masked executioners called, his eyes narrowing on Brian. "Oy, this one seems eager to give it a go," He said with a hearty chuckle. Looking around, Brian realized he had become alone in the crowd, standing out while everyone had pulled away.

Brian felt his knees weaken and struggled to stand as suddenly from no where another guard came up behind him had dragged him over to the closet table and plopped him down into the chair. Instantly, his holder was had disappeared. Brian found himself staring into the eyes of a thirty-some man whom was in need of a shave. He wore a camouflage print hunter's cap, and a button up flannel shirt missing its sleeves over a pair of typical uniform camouflage pants.

"Number?" He asked, not bothering to check though Brian could see a handheld testing unit also sat on the table amongst the various other utensils.

Brian told him, and the man just nodded.

"What'll it be, kid?" He demanded, chewing on something with the corner of his mouth. Brian guessed it was tobacco, since he just couldn't see the redneck farmer in front of him chewing on the latest flavor of hybrid spearmint.

Brian blinked; he had found his mind wandering again. He stared into the dark brown – nearly black eyes of the man in front of him. "What?" he found himself asking.

The man rolled his eyes. "Do you take the number or the..." He said, trailing off as he nodded in the direction of the guillotine. Brian followed his gaze them snapped his head back towards the man. What kind of question was that? More importantly, what was going on? What number?

"Well?" The man demanded, impatient.

"N..Number." Brian said, stuttering for what was the first time since he was nearly five.

The man gave him a faked smile. "What a fine choice, mister." He said with a slight sneer as he began to fiddle with the syringe in his hands. Still confused, watching the man prepare for something made Brian nervous. He wondered what exactly had he gotten himself into; and prayed it was better than the guillotine. Of course, most things were better than death, but he simply couldn't shake the foreboding feeling of doom.

"Arm." The hillbilly-turned-army man demanded, not bothering to look back at Brian.

"Huh?"

The man's head bolted up. "Gimme yer Arm, Boy." He hissed. Brian obeyed, still unaware of what was going on. The man took Brian's left arm, turned it inside up and studied it for a moment. Then with a grin he slowly brought down the needle and Brian met a new kind of pain that afternoon

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Later that evening, yet another anonymous guard led him back to his cell. Brian believed the man purposefully gripped his left arm harder. Either way, it still hurt like heck.

They paused as the security system outside his cell processed the guard's handprint, but without avail, the door opened with its usual quiet hiss.

The guard rudely shoved Brian in and slammed the door behind him.

Nearly as soon as the guard had left, Ice was at the window, peering in. "So how was your day?" He asked, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Brian remained sitting where he had fallen from the shove. He began to slowly peel off the large ace bandage that covered most of his lower left arm. At least they had been nice enough to give him an actual bandage, he thought bitterly.

"Anyway, I see we both have the same doctor," Ice continued, this time with even more sarcasm laced in.

By this time, Brian had just completed the removal of the bandage and was cradling his arm as he stared at it.

Ice continued, but Brian didn't hear him. A doctor,( had one been there) may have said at this point and time, Brian Tandon went into shock. But then, they didn't exactly have a doctor. Brian felt numb as he read the bold, blue quarter-inch high numbers that ran through the inside of his arm now.

He had been marked. Branded, almost. Like a piece of meat.

His mind drifted back to history class. God, it seemed so far away. But more in specifics, he remembered the many days they spent on the holocaust. He remembered these numbers, the marking of prisoners in such a way, for it had already been done before. Except…the holocaust did not involve guillotines- it involved ovens. A chill went through Brian's spine despite the still temperate heat of the desert's early evening. He let his eyes drift up to one of the ceiling cracks, the one that gave him a small window to the sky.

Brian heard the last of Ice's ramblings, the last line ringing out the clearest.

"Don't worry, It's only just begun…."

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _

That night, Brian did not sleep. He tried, but the blackness of sleep eluded him. He had listened to Ice's lonely ramblings for a few hours until his companion had finally fallen asleep. Brian stared out the tiny ceiling crack for hours on end. The night was calming, but not peaceful. In the distance screams and the occasional cry could be heard.

His mind was still flooded with images from is afternoon. After his tattooing was completed, he was left among the crowd of people. They had nothing to do, just sit in the blistering sun amongst the sandy mounds of dirt. Only one person was beheaded once he was there. He was sure the images were just the beginning of a large few that he would take with him forever.

The beheaded was college-aged guy. He was dressed in torn clothes, and looked like he had been on the street. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and he seemed to be the type of person to surrender himself to death. Brian later pictured the guy committing suicide had he not been in the camp. Had he not been an Invie of course, things may have been different for the man. Suicide among the Valids wasn't unheard of, just not very common.

The man was first tested to prove his number, then led over to the guillotine. The executioners eyed him gleefully. One came up behind the young man and forced him down into a crouching position.

Brian was in a position where he could still see the man's face. He was crying softly.

The executioners ignored the man's weeping; they may have even been pushed onward by it. Either way, the man's fate had already been sealed. With a loud yell, the executioners let the blade fall.

Time seemed to slow as the blade dropped. Nothing else seemed to exist for Brian-- Just him, the man, and the executioners with their guillotine. A beam of sunlight hit the blade as it fell, giving off a bright flash of white light. Brian squinted. When he opened his eyes fully again, the blade rested at the bottom of the guillotine. The first five inches of the blade were smeared with the man's crimson blood. All around the base of the wretched machine was blood, and splattered on the executioner's pants, and also anyone unlucky enough to be close to the body.

Through all of this though, it really wasn't to bad, if you think about it. He was still alive, and except for the tattoos on his arm, he was pretty much in the same shape physically as he had been before. But the thing was, this was only the beginning as Ice had said. The beginnings are always easy, soft. Like the start of a new school year, the teachers are really nice and all in the beginning, with a few rules and disciplinary actions set out, but that's nothing compared to the end. The end, well, by the end it's usually unbearable.

Ever since he had noticed the resemblance of the numbers on his arm and the events of WWII, Brian had been on the edge. He remembered reading somewhere of the mass murdering that was done to those in camps. The poor conditions, the numbers, the executions- though different still portrayed the point, they all led back to the main picture. This sure wasn't the rough part of the journey yet. Heck, He'd probably look back on this later and miss the easy days.

But maybe there wasn't going to be a later for him though. Maybe he was going to become the next victim the guillotine claimed.

______________________________________

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_______________________________________

McIntosh impatiently drummed his fingers against the dark mahogany wood of his desk. The drumming rapidly sped up, and then with exaggerated frustration, McIntosh threw his hands up. HE banged on the intercom, with precision. "George!" He yelled. A rustle a mumbled cry of distress reached McIntosh from the other end of the intercom.

McIntosh gave a smile at hearing this as he leaned back in his expensive leather office chair. Mentally, he counted back from five, as he replaced his smile with the stern look that terrified the poor assistant.

As McIntosh reached one in his countdown, the door to his office swung open, revealing a disheveled George Cattermole.

Gasping for air, George managed to ask a quick, "Sir?".

McIntosh glared at his bumbling assistant. "Do you have the reports?" He asked slowly, as if trying to hold onto what little patience he had.

George stuttered for a moment.

"Well?" McIntosh demanded, rising in his chair.

"Sir, well, this is really quite interesting. You see, Stryker, He..he didn't have the files. I asked him myself." George struggled.

McIntosh stared dumfounded at the man. Why oh why didn't he hire a competent assistant? He wondered. As he continued to stare in disbelief, Cattermole began to fidget.

"You asked him yourself?" McIntosh finally managed. To this, Cattermole gave a series of nervous, speedy nods.

McIntosh continued, "I haven't seen Col. Stryker in years, George, was he in good shape? I remember he was going through a rough time with the death of his wife." McIntosh awaited the answer.

Cattermole seemed to hesitate before answering. "He was…the same, sir."

"Really? He must be doing pretty good then, for a dead man." McIntosh concluded, with a smile. Not a happy smile, no, more of a sinister, condescending smile. "Now, George," He said, walking over to the man. "Where are my files?"

Cattermole bit his lip. Stuttering he replied, "I'm sorry sir."

McIntosh's eyes narrowed. "Why are you sorry, you twit?"

"I gave them to someone else sir…On accidence of course." Cattermole replied quietly, like a dog waiting to be whipped.

McIntosh began to walk in a slow circle around the assistant. "You gave my confidential, and very key files to someone else?" He asked quietly.

Now, even Cattermole knew that most times when McIntosh yelled, he was merely doing it for the overall effect. When he was quiet, then he was deadly.

"Sir, you can talk with security about it. I…I gave it to you, but you weren't you." Cattermole struggled to explain.

McIntosh stared at him.

"Well, It looked like you. It was a mutant, sir," Cattermole finished.

"Care to explain, George?" McIntosh hissed, making another circle around the anxious man.

____________________________________________________

George Cattermole was in a hurry. This really was no surprise. His employer, McIntosh was always yelling. 'George do this, George do that.' He rolled his eyes, as he stood alone in the elevator.

He had been supposed to give McIntosh the copied files from Stryker's computer network late in the afternoon, but suddenly, at nearly nine am, up had called McIntosh, demanding his files. This was typical of McIntosh, say one thing, expect another.

George sighed as the elevator doors opened with a ping. He stepped out into the spacious lobby and looked around. This was another odd thing about the meeting, McIntosh had also demanded they meet in the lobby, next to the palm trees. McIntosh had a very nice office, George couldn't see why on God's green earth they were meeting in the lobby, but he didn't dare question his boss.

George spotted McIntosh hidden behind the potted palm trees. He was impatiently glaring at his watch, and looking around with a nervous look. But this was yet again typical of McIntosh. He was a busy, public man and George understood that. He just didn't understand the occasionally eccentric behavior of McIntosh's.

George confidently walked over and was ignored momentarily by McIntosh. George stood right next to the seemingly oblivious man and cleared his throat. McIntosh spun around, and stared expectantly at him "Do you have the files?" He demanded.

George nodded briskly and handed the thick, printed out copies over to McIntosh, who smiled eagerly. Once the copies were in his hands, McIntosh's demeanor changed. He glanced back up at George, clearly not near as tense as he had been just moment prior.

"George," He said, placing his hand of George's shoulder in a friendly manner. "Tell the techies to immediately erase the hard drives of Stryker's computer. I want everything deleted, you hear? I've been notified a protestors group is going to try to use this against me, so be quick to have them delete it all." And with that, Peter McIntosh walked away.

Unknown to Cattermole, whom had happily returned to his office, Peter McIntosh never left the building. But a blonde teenager did instead….

A few hours later, Cattermole was sitting in his office, twirling in his desk chair. He had pleased McIntosh, he still had his job, and he had no work at the moment. Life was good. Until the phone rang, that is. It was security. They had been reviewing the tape from the morning and noticed something odd. After meeting with Cattermole behind the palms, Peter McIntosh had walked into the Lobby's ladies restroom. This is what had alerted them. Well, this really had only caught their attention because the security guards that worked at minimum wage watching security cameras from the basement wanted to find some dirt on McIntosh. The man was a political figure, they reckoned he'd even run for president one day. So watching him go into the women's bathroom sent up big red flags for them. They assumed McIntosh was either gay or having an affair, so they excitedly switched to the cameras they had illegally placed in the bathroom. What they saw wasn't exactly what they were expecting or hoping for.

As they watched, they saw McIntosh stride in front of the long mirror that rested above the pale pink bathroom sink and look at himself for a moment, and flash one of those cheesy smiles he was known for. Then, he changed. From Peter McIntosh's body morphed a thin, darkly skinned woman with short spiky hair. They couldn't tell exactly the color of either her skin or hair, due to the black and white cameras, but the male guards were busy focusing on a different matter. The woman appeared to be naked.

Then, just as suddenly as the first transformation had begun, a new one started. The short hair grew longer, paler, while the skin also paled. From the woman's flesh a tight, fashionable miniskirt and matching tailored jacket appeared. Seconds later, a young woman, who appeared to be an intern stood in the place where Peter McIntosh had stood only moments before. She flashed a smile again, revealing behind her glossy lips a row of perfectly straight white teeth. From there she simply walked out.

Realizing what had happened; the guards had immediately called Cattermole. Unfortunately, they had learned of their mistake hours too late, and could do nothing to possibly find the woman. Cattermole was able to salvage the files from the Tech lab though. He thanked God they didn't listen to him when he had given them the order long before. And then all he had left to do was face McIntosh. George assumed McIntosh knew about the incident, but he was apparently very wrong.

__________________________________________________________

"And that's about it, Sir," Cattermole finished up. Of course, he had only given his boss the facts of the story, not his beliefs pertaining to McIntosh's general insanity, and the rest of that type of information.

McIntosh stared back at his assistant. He had stopped circling him about halfway through the story and now stood several feet away with his arms crossed.

"Here is the security tape," Cattermole struggled. He could tell McIntosh did not believe him. "The files should be done within the hour," He added desperately.

With a sigh, McIntosh took the tape. Though he did not want to admit it to Cattermole, he fully believed his tale. He had proof, he remembered the night a few weeks ago in his office with the imposter who claimed to be Sadira. One thing disturbed him though. He had shot the imposter, and watched the EMT's pronounce her dead and take it to the morgue. Either whoever the imposter was is still alive and out to get him, or he had been visited by two mutants with the same power in that short of time period. That bothered the usually unshakeable Peter McIntosh.

But, it was too late for the freak now. Far too late. The ball was rolling, and things were in motion. HE didn't think he could stop the anti-mutant act now if he wanted to. Maybe this is the rut Senator Kelly was in years ago. He was so supportive of something then one day just stopped. Oh well, that was Senator Kelly, man of the past. Senator McIntosh was the new IT man in the case against mutants. And this IT man was winning.

_____________________________

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_____________________________

A/N: Did I keep you all in suspense long enough before this chapter? Sorry bout that guys! Anyway, Once a again, a huge mountain of thanks to all my fantastic reviewers! Guin, Eight, Dslguy14, TornadoAlly, Pendragon4, and Kasey22—Y'all are wonderful!