"New mutant signature detected," was the first thing Cerebro said.
Professor Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair, hands clasped in thought; a new mutant had been found.
"Cerebro," he commanded, "Identify the location of this new signature."
"Paris, France," the computer responded.
The disabled founder of the Xavier Institute left Cerebro and made his way to the kitchen where he knew his students were eating breakfast. The younger ones were already heading out the door to school, but a few of the older ones were still eating. That bunch was attending college and it was Tuesday, coincidentally a regular day without classes. Those pupils included Kitty Pryde, Kurt Wagner, Rogue, Scott Summers, and Jean Grey. The three boys looked like they had just gotten up, while the girls, though still in their pajamas, had apparently been up.
"Good morning, Professor," Kitty greeted him cheerily.
"Good, you're all up," their teacher commented, "I want all of you prepped and in the Black Bird within the hour."
"What's up, Professor?" Kurt yawned.
"We're taking a little trip to Paris," was the reply.
So it was within the appointed time that the group had changed into their uniforms and boarded the Black Bird. Scott, code named Cyclops, sat in the pilot's seat as usual and started the jet up as Xavier entered the coordinates into the navigational system.
The figure in the bed stirred for the first time in more than a century; the Phantom had reawakened at last. His eyes slowly fluttered open, then closed again as he stretched his stiff muscles, moaning as he did so. Though stiff from years of slumber, his body had healed from the wounds of that night's beating. His hand rested on a skeleton; he looked down at it, gently stroking it in affection. It was all that was left of his precious Ayesha, his treasured Siamese; he slipped the diamond collar from around her neck. Slowly he rose, making his way to his chest of drawers, and fetched some fresh clothes, unspoiled by the years as a result of the tightly sealed entrance. Then he made his way to his bathroom to bathe, the warm water soothing his stiff form. As he shakily rose from the water, his weak legs gave way, and he fell to the floor. He realized how weak he had become, became aware of a gnawing hunger and raw thirst. He can't have slept long enough to bring about these symptoms… could he?
Kitty, code named Shadow Cat, looked out the window eagerly; she could hardly contain her excitement at the chance to see the City of Light. Kurt, a.k.a. NightCrawler, had fallen asleep while Rogue was staring bored out the window. Finally they landed, and headed into Paris itself, Xavier concentrating on the mind of this new individual. He led the group to a large structure in the very heart of the city: le Palais Garnier.
"Whoa," Kitty gasped, "Like, what is this place?"
"This was once the Opera Populaire," Xavier replied, "I believe our mutant is in here somewhere. All of you split up into pairs and use caution."
The team set off, Scott and Jean staying close to the professor, Kitty and Rogue going one way, and Kurt another. Meanwhile, a dark figure wandered the halls of the old opera house in awe of the changes he had found. The Phantom had again risen, though weaker, and had managed to get to his feet and move about. There were strange people in his Opera: women dressed in rough looking trousers, foreigners being shown around by well-dressed attendants. He approached one of these escorts cautiously, keeping his fedora low to cover the right side of his face.
"Perdonnez moi, monsieur," he said, "Quelle est la date?"
"C'est le 2 septembre 2003," the young man replied.
"Merci," the former Ghost muttered, before walking away, "2003? The early 21st century? Mon dieu…I was asleep for 122 years? Impossible."
Xavier spotted a dark figure walking rather hurriedly away from one of the ushers that gave tours. He pointed the figure out to Jean and Scott.
"I believe that is our man," he remarked, "Both of you wait here."
He approached the figure now standing in the shadows leaning against a pillar for support; the Phantom put a hand to his head, feeling light-headed and weak.
"Are you all right?" a voice queried from behind, causing him to turn.
"Oui, non…" the Ghost stammered, unsure of what to say, "Je ne se pas."
"You do not look well, monsieur," Xavier commented.
"No, I… do not expect so," the man returned.
His legs were beginning to shake, his entire body was quaking, and everything seemed to be spinning… so dizzy… Without warning, the dark form collapsed, the professor's hand outstretched to him. Luckily, there was no one else in the area, so no attention had been attracted.
"Scott, Jean," Xavier called across the foyer.
"What's up, Professor?" Scott asked as they hurried over.
"I'm afraid he's collapsed," the professor explained, "I do not think he is well."
Scott bent to pick up the unconscious body and headed back to the Black Bird while Xavier and Jean gathered the rest of their team.
The Opera Ghost's eyes fluttered open to see a blue face hovering over him, the pale yellow orbs curious. He gave a start, sitting up, and the face retreated, revealing a young boy, perhaps in his teens.
"Whoa, easy, man," the blue figure said, pushing the Phantom back on the pillows, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
"Wh-where am I?" he asked, mentally noting the German accent.
"Don't worry, you're safe," the youth assured, "You're at the Xavier Institute, in New York."
"New York?" the man questioned, "Is that not in America?"
"Yeah."
"How- how did I get here?"
"You fainted, so the Professor brought you here."
"The professor?"
"Professor X, well, Xavier. He's the one who built this place, it's a special school for mutants."
"Mutants? What are… mutants?"
"Umm… never mind, I'm sure he'll explain it."
The blue boy turned to the side, taking a tray off the bedside table, a bowl of hot soup and a teapot on it.
"Here, gotcha some hot soup and Professor X figured you'd like some tea," he offered with a friendly smile, showing a pair of fangs, "I'm Kurt, Kurt Wagner, by the way."
"Merci," the weakened Ghost replied, accepting the offered food.
"What's your name?" Kurt queried.
"My-my name?" he stammered, dropping the spoon in his hand.
"Yeah," the blue figured affirmed, picking the dropped instrument up.
"Erik, my name is Erik."
"Erik… huh, cool."
He sat on the bed next to Erik, facing him, as the newcomer ate, then poured himself a cup of tea.
"You said your name is Erik," Kurt said, "what about a last name?"
Erik rested the cup on the tray, lowering his eyes, and stared at the blanket covering him.
"I-I don't have one," he muttered, eyes closing and brow knit.
"Why not?" his companion wondered, tilting his head in confusion.
"Because," came the response, a scowl distorting his features, "I never knew it."
"You… don't know your own last name?"
"No."
"Can I ask why?"
"May you ask why," a deep sigh, "Because my mother abhorred me, she wanted nothing to do with me, cared for me only out of obligation."
"Wow, she never loved you?"
"No," Erik whispered.
"How come?"
Erik regarded him carefully, noting the unique features and mentally cataloging what he saw: blue fur, pointed ears, three fingers on each hand, two toes on each foot, and long thin tail with a spade on the end.
Experience and life had long since drilled into him the need to trust no one to the point that it was second nature. Yet… this boy was very different, in all probability he had been shunned by humanity just as Erik himself had always been. He felt a kinship to this youngster, both so different, considered inhuman, demons, by mankind. He had once felt the same toward the Gypsies, but they proved as bad as his mother if not worse. But this strange creature was talking informally with him as one being to another, as an equal. He lifted a hand to the right side of his face, his fingers stroking the smooth surface of the half mask of white leather. He desperately longed to spill his heart out to another, anyone, to get his story out in the open, to remove the weight of his past from his shoulders. It was a heavy burden and he was tired of suffering it alone. He came to a difficult decision with which he seriously questioned his sanity.
"I will show you," he finally answered, "On the condition that you tell no one. I don't expect you to bear it; I cannot even bear to look upon myself. But I am putting my trust in you, do not betray that."
"I won't tell a soul," Kurt swore honestly, his right hand over his heart, left hand raised.
Erik lifted his hands, hesitated, then reached to the back of his head and untied the ribbons holding his prison in place. Slowly, eyes clenched shut, he removed it, laying it in his lap, allowing the youth to see his face fully. Kurt's eyes widened in shock, his mouth an 'O', as he gazed upon the horror that he beheld. All right, maybe that was exaggerating; though grotesque, he'd been expecting far worse. The flesh was like yellow parchment, rough and unevenly colored, his cheekbone protruded through the taut flesh. His right eye was sunken in its socket, the flesh dark as from lack of sleep, a network of blue arteries and maroon veins visible beneath the tightly stretched skin. The right side of his lower lip thick as though swollen; Kurt wondered if the nerves were functional at all, if Erik could smile, etc. Curiously, hardly aware of what he was doing, he reached out to feel the deformed membrane, his fingers barely brushing Erik's cheek. Suddenly, the man jerked back as though he had been struck, his eyes opening, filled with enraged fear.
Seeing that the sudden flare of temper would not ebb, Kurt rose quickly from the bed, backing away. Seeing the alarm in those yellow orbs, Erik calmed, coming back to himself, ashamed that he had frightened the lad when he had really done nothing wrong.
"I apologize," he said quietly, turning his head away, "I had no reason to have reacted in such a way, you've done nothing to deserve it. I am truly sorry."
Kurt let out a sigh of relief and again approached the bed, then felt pity for the lost soul, unsure of what had happened that Erik had reacted that way simply to gentle contact. Whatever it was that had caused such a trigger, it must have been tragic.
"It's okay, man," he assured Erik, "I'm sorry for…"
"No," Erik interrupted, "There's no reason for you to apologize. It is enough to me that you did not run. How you can still look upon me, speak to me as an equal is quite beyond me."
"What do you mean?"
"All my life, I was treated as an animal, no, worse than that. Twice I was imprisoned in a cage in traveling fairs."
He launched into his life, severely shortened, how he'd been held captive, locked in a cage, how he'd been beaten and abused, the time his keeper had almost raped him, his years in Persia. Then the story of how he came to Paris and the Opera, about Christine and that painful episode. He ended with how he'd been beaten after the incident of that fateful night when he'd stolen Christine from the stage and had dragged himself to his bed and fallen asleep.