Chapter One – School Daze

Samuel Guthrie was bored. B-O-R-E-D, bored.

He was not, nor had ever been a particular fan of being cooped up inside a classroom while the weather was even halfway decent outside, but when it was out-and-out sunny it was a cruel, though not so unusual punishment. Especially since he sat next to the window of the classroom, with a perfect view of what he was missing outside. And especially since his seat was right up against the radiator, which, for some unknown reason, was turned on full blast and baking his brains even more than Mrs. Kilroy's monotone voice.

'Killjoy Kilroy' as she was called by everyone bar teachers – and even then Mr. Istanov sometimes slipped and used the nickname – looked up and narrowed her eyes behind her half-moon glasses even as they slid down her not-undersized nose. "Mr. Guthrie, would you mind telling me what you're doing?"

Sighing, Sam let his hand slip from where he'd been trying – and failing – to twist the handle of the radiator to a more bearable setting. "Nuthin', ma'am."

"Really? Because it looked to me as though you were fiddling about with school property." She gave a long sniff and tilted her head back, allowing her English class the full benefit of her large nostrils. "I've been teaching for thirty years, Mr. Guthrie. I know how to spot a prankster in progress from a mile away in the middle of a snowstorm. What were you doing? Planting a stink bomb? Come on, you can't get anything past me. I've had Kurt Wagner is this classroom, and you come a poor second to his shenanigans."

Sam blinked. "Uh, no ma'am. It's just, well – the radiator's just so darn hot, I was just tryin' to turn it down a smidge, is all. I'm sweatin' like a pig over here."

She sniffed again, nostrils flaring as if testing his words. Several members of the first row were forced to look away. "Nonsense. The temperature in here is perfectly adequate. You're just being overly sensitive - " She blinked, a flash of inspiration crossing her withered features. Shoving her glasses further up her nose, she turned to write on the chalkboard. "Oversensitivity. Now there's a common feature of 18th Century poetry, chiefly prominent in the English Romantic era, although in America..."

Sam suppressed a groan and the need to bang his head against his desk. Glaring down at the surface, on top of which rested his notebook, he saw that there were several small indentations that could be accounted for by other students having done the same. In fact, there was a good-sized groove quite near the edge in which he could rest his forehead if he wanted.

Face tipped downwards, a globule of sweat dripped off the end of his nose and hit his work with the tiniest of splats, making a darkish blob of liquid and turning the word 'satire' into an illegible mess. He sighed and dabbed at it with the corner of his jacket, reasoning that it needed washing anyway. The result, however, was an even untidier blob, and he resigned himself to rewriting the entire sentence while Killjoy prattled on in the background.

It wasn't that Sam disliked school; it was just that English Literature did nothing for him. Maths and Science he could cope with, and in spite of his gawkiness he was even passable in gym, thanks to Logan's unforgiving training sessions. Yet when faced with the intricacies of past novelists and writers it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. In short, the subject left him cold, something he'd tried to explain to Professor Xavier when showing him his last school report. That, and Killjoy insisted on always picking the most mind-numbing texts she could find for them to study, and had a proclivity for revolving around Austen so that Sam – having no real clue what life in that far removed country was like nowadays, let alone hundreds of years ago – was even more at sea and couldn't espy a lifejacket anywhere.

He looked up, squinting at the chalkboard and scribbling things down in a hasty scrawl.

Come to think of it, he was due another report soon. And that meant an exam first. Faboo. He couldn't fob off the Institute faculty with stories about 'settling in' a second time, and he was under no false impressions that his upcoming test scores would be less than impressive for English. Then there was the whole rigmarole of explaining poor results to his family back in Kentucky...

At least they can only yell at me down the phone, he thought, imagining the expression on the Professor's face even now. It would be a fatherly look, the same as he gave Bobby when the self-proclaimed 'King of Cool' had been hot-dogging it in training sessions again. Yet, where academia was concerned, Xavier always reserved a calculated look of disappointment to slip into his gaze. It would be subtle, almost unnoticeable, but enough to make Sam feel like he'd let the guy down somehow in the most appalling fashion. Damn adults and their stupid psychological warfare! Had they no shame?

Sighing, he tried to keep up with what Killjoy was saying. His head ached, although for once it wasn't because of her voice. The morning's training session had gone wrong in almost every way possible, culminating in Bobby mistakenly freezing him to the wall just in time for a giant glorified ball-bearing to smack him in the back of the head. At least, he hoped it was mistakenly. There was no way to tell with Bobby, since sometimes his penchant for practical jokes crept into places it wasn't wanted.

Aspirin. That was what he needed. Some nice, pain-relieving aspirin. However, a glance at the clock – he'd left his wristwatch on the dresser this morning while running for the carpool – told him that he still had another forty minutes to go before he could even think of mitigating his aching head, and he wasn't entirely sure he had any with him, either. After class he'd have to search out Jean. She always had a handy stash she was willing to give out to those in need. And boy howdy, was he in need -

"Mr. Guthrie." Killjoy's voice cut through him like a knife. Sam looked to the front of the room.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"As appealing as the clock is, I'd appreciate it if you'd maintain your attention this direction until the time I say you can leave. It's no wonder your grades are so poor. You never actually concentrate long enough to learn anything."

A girlish titter sounded up from somewhere behind him. Sam had to force himself not to roll his eyes. However, as soon as the teacher swivelled around again he darted another quick look at the clock, willing it to move faster so he could get out of there.

10:16

Oh please, oh please, oh please.

Slowly, little by little, the longer of the two hands inched forward.

10:17

Yes! Progress! He smiled. One minute down, just another thirty-nine to go. He could do that, simple. Easy as pie. All he had to do was stay out of trouble and it would go by that little bit quick-

"Mr. Guthrie."

Damn.

"I'm tellin' you, man, she's some kind of witch in teacher's clothing!"

Bobby extracted his Social Studies text from its niche in his bulging locker and quickly rammed another book in its place before the carefully constructed pile of had chance to come crashing down. As it was, an empty soda can plopped onto the floor. He sighed as he scooped it up and crumpled it in one hand. He really had to sort out this junk sometime.

Slamming his locker door – not without difficulty owing to the mass of bits and pieces clamouring to spew forth – he turned to where Sam was leaned up against the adjacent one. "So what did you do this time?"

"Me?" Sam batted his eyes and laid a hand across his chest in a pseudo-hurt gesture. "Why I've been a pure paragon of virtue and good behaviour all day."

"I thought that was meant to be my line when I was in trouble. So spill, did you fall asleep in class again? Did you snore like last time?"

Sam ruefully shook his head, and then winced. "I wish. Nothing so peaceful." He rubbed at the spot between his eyes and frowned into his fingertips. "Ach – do you know what class Jean has next? I need to borrow some aspirin."

Bobby raised an eyebrow and tossed the soda can into a nearby trashcan. Score! "Just borrow them? I don't think she'd want them back after you're done."

Sam's answer was mature. "Ha-freakin'-ha. So do you know where she's at?"

Bobby shouldered his backpack and pressed his hands to his temples, closing his eyes. "Wait a second while I use my awesome mental powers to pinpoint her exact location."

"You don't have any mental powers, awesome or otherwise."

He ignored the snippy remark and made a throaty humming noise of the kind he'd seen hypnotists and two-bit 'psychics' do on TV. "I see something... very faint... she's quite close, and she's in a hurry... headed in an easterly direction...yes, yes I'm pretty sure it's easterly..."

Sam rolled his eyes - instantly regretting it, as they seemed to have swelled to twice their normal size and no longer fitted properly in their sockets. "Come off it, Bobby. Do you know where she is or not?"

Bobby opened his eyes and grinned. "Of course I do."

"Hi guys," Jean said, affably but hurriedly, as she dashed past.

"She's right there."

Sam shot him a withering look before hastening after her. "Jean! Hey, Jean, wait up!"

She must not have heard him, because she never slackened her pace and he was almost forced to run to keep up. Briefly, he wondered what she could be in such a hurry for. Jean hadn't a tardy to her name, but her grades were so consistently good that her teachers were able to forgive a little lateness now and again.

"Jean!" he tried again, turning a few other curious heads as he scurried past. Dangit.

This time she heard him and turned her head, slowing enough for him to draw near. "What's up?" she asked, cordial, though her eyes darted along the corridor, signalling that she'd much rather be somewhere else.

Sam blinked, curious despite himself. "Where's the fire? Or is my company that bad?"

"Sorry. Our History teacher's gone home sick and he asked me to take the class today." She glanced at her watch. "I'm supposed to be there to let students into the room." A faint jangle drew Sam's gaze to where a set of silvery keys were hooked around her index finger.

"Uh, well, I was just wonderin' if'n you had any aspirin you could spare," he said sheepishly.

Jean gave him a sympathetic look as she swung her shoulder bag around and started grubbing about inside. "Still suffering the effects of this morning?" She'd been there when the icy blast went astray, and it was only through her quick thinking and psychic shield that Sam had been hit by only one metal sphere instead of three.

"Bobby will pay," he replied, mock-serious. "Slowly and painfully. I'm just lullin' him into a false sense of security first."

"That's the spirit." Jean exhaled noisily and looked down to where the small, unassuming box of tablets had slipped through the torn lining of the special pocket she'd sewn into the side of her bag and become lost somewhere in the depths of make-up and stationary. Jean had so many headaches as a result of inadvertent psychic projection by her peers that she virtually kept the pharmaceutical industry on its feet by herself. In fact, she went through so many painkillers that she had to hide many boxes in secret pockets like this one in case people thought she was some kind of junkie.

Today the aspirin flatly refused to be found. Jean chanced a quick peek to make sure nobody was watching and then covertly sifted through the contents of her bag with her telekinesis. She grunted as they turned up at last, and pushed them unceremoniously into Sam's hands.

"Hey wait," he called as she hurried away. "Don't you want these back? I only need two tablets."

"No time," she replied, and disappeared around the corner with an offhand, "See you later."

"Fuck."

"Mind your language."

Ray glanced up to where Jubilee and Kitty were grinning at him and gave them the one-fingered salute. He was in no mood to deal in petty conversation right now, and as far as he could tell, that was pretty much all those two dealt with. That and the occasional lecture.

His day was not going well as a whole, and it seemed it was about to get worse. The morning's training session had seen him quite literally take the flack of Jean's last second rescue of Sam. His ribs still ached from the crushing blow they'd unintentionally taken from a metal sphere when one of her throws went awry. His geography teacher hadn't had an ounce of sympathy when the residual pain interfered with his ability to concentrate on glacier formation. It had taken all Ray's self-control not to blitz her backside when she walked away from his desk.

"Charming," said Kitty, opening her locker. Inside, all her books and various belongings were stacked neatly, in methodical order, and it was but the work of a moment to rearrange her rucksack for next period. "So what's with the expletive?"

Ray gave her a contemptuous look. "Fuck off." He banged at his unopened locker with a closed fist. There were several dents in the metal where he'd done it before, and the two girls exchanged a knowing glance and not-so-secret giggle.

"Forget your combination again?" Jubilee asked sweetly. She popped her gum in a perfect bubble. The scent of strawberries filled the air. "Aw, shame. You know, if you just stopped blowing your lockers sky-high in a temper then they'd quit moving you, and you wouldn't have so many codes to remember."

For a second Ray looked a little panicked, no doubt because of her casual, and very open mention of his powers. It was no secret at the Institute that, when in a bad humour (which happened most days, at varying degrees of intensity) Ray's mutant abilities were wont to flare up, which usually resulted in his locker, and any contents therein becoming little more than a charred mess as he struggled to get the door open. Electrical based powers and metal doors did not a good combination make. However, it wasn't something they generally mentioned outside of the mansion – and for good reason.

He glanced around the corridor, but it was fast emptying of people, and none of them were even slightly interested in the trio of Institute kids.

Institute kids. Even though only a few of them hung around together on a social basis, they'd all received the same moniker. It irked some of them – Ray included. He was the most vocal, but people never took any notice. He was their teammate and housemate, he said, but not their friend. Not really.

Not that he knew it, but it was the same sort of thing Rogue had said for a very long time after moving to the mansion on the cliff. In certain circles, she still maintained it to this day.

"Tell the whole world, why don't you?" Ray hissed, and hammered the door again. It didn't budge an inch.

Jubilee waved his concerns away with a casual hand. "Geez, lighten up. We know it, and you known it, so why not tell it?"

"How about a little thing called subterfuge?"

"How about a little thing called 'being late for class'?" Kitty inclined her head at the wall of lockers. "Need a hand? The school, like, totally can't afford to pay for a new set of textbooks for you. Besides, they're gonna get suspicious soon of these 'rogue pranksters'. Y'know, the ones who keep targeting you and your stuff alone?"

"Perhaps I should work my magic on a couple of other lockers to even things out a little." A strange light glinted in Ray's eyes. It was almost mischievous. Except that Ray, as he kept telling people who dared to think otherwise, was far too 'hard core' to ever be considered mischievous. "I can think of several just off the top of my head."

Kitty sighed and rolled her eyes. "Cut the act, Ray. Here." Sparing the briefest of glances around to make sure nobody was looking, she stuck her hand through the metal door and fumbled around inside. After a few seconds the lock clicked, and the door swung open. "There. Open sesame."

Ray reached past her and grabbed hurriedly at a few heavy books, thrusting them into his bag.

"No need to say thank you or anything," she sighed, by now rather used to Ray's rudeness. He hated having to ask for help – especially from a girl. It seemed, in her humble opinion, to be an intrinsic part of the Y-chromosome that admitting you need help is a no-no, and that any help offered was owed you anyway. Scott had been like that until quite recently, despite his leader status insinuating he was supposed to know better, and she smiled at the memory of Jean making him eat his words that girls aren't as competent as boys.

"Fine by me," Ray grunted, not looking in her direction and inadvertently proving her theory.

There was the sudden sound of ripping fabric. He cursed again as the bottom of his battered old satchel finally gave up the ghost and tore through. The safety pin he'd attached to keep the two sides clipped together until allowance day had been lost somewhere, and now a gaping hole graced the worn fabric. It was completely useless for carrying books – or anything else for that matter – and when he held it up to inspect the damage a much-chewed ball-point pen fell out and went skittering under the row of lockers.

"Oh, crap on a raft!"

"Bless you, my son," said a low voice.

Ray whipped around to be confronted by the grinning face of someone he really didn't need to see right now. "Fuck off, Roberto."

"Don't worry, he's said it to everyone now," Kitty said over his head.

Ray growled at her, but she barely noticed. Incomprehensible noises were as much a part of Ray's everyday dialogue as 'like' was of hers.

Kitty glanced at her watch and readjusted her bag, slipping her other arm through the strap and waving to them all. "Gotta run, I've got Geometry next and the teacher will so, like, totally fry me if I'm late."

"And we couldn't have that, now, could we?"

Jubilee cuffed Ray upside the head, the action having no real malice, then swept past him and dragged Roberto along by his elbow. Ray growled after her, then got down on his hands and knees to see if the pen was retrievable. He had precious little stationary, owing to an uncanny knack of losing them in random places, and there was still enough ink in it for it to still be considered useful.

Roberto seemed a little reluctant to leave, however, which might have had something to do with the fact that Sandra Amigoni, a few moments ago drinking at the water fountain, was now bending down to tie her shoelace not ten feet away. Sandra was his resident girlfriend of the moment, although it was commonly knowledge that her 'assets' – which were the reason behind her recent immense popularity – weren't quite what they appeared. Not that it bothered Roberto, of course; nor the rest of the male horde she had at her feet as soon as she walked through the doors every morning.

"Come on, Casanova," Jubilee said, tutting at his gooey expression. "We have Chemistry next, and I'd like to get there sometime this century. See you, Ray." She waved at him, which he returned absently.

"Yeah, whatever."

"You'd better hurry, too. One more tardy for you and it's detention for sure."

"Fuck off, Jubes. What I want your advice, I'll ask for it."

Roberto blinked out of his drooling long enough to throw another wicked, "Bless you, my son," over his shoulder, knowing that it annoyed the hell out of Ray, even if he didn't actually know why. It was a quirk he'd picked up not long after they arrived at the Xavier Institute, along with the fact that he didn't like Ray Crisp one iota.

"And you can fuck off and all, Bertie!" Ray sniped, using the nickname he also knew his teammate hated.

His reward came as Jubilee steered Roberto up the stairs. Ray caught a peep of a furrowed brow and a murderous look just before the other boy's face disappeared.

It was a practised ritual, this tossing of insults and jibes. Roberto had only come to collect Jubilee for their next class, and hadn't even known that Ray would be there, but the two of them had effortlessly slipped into their customary slanging match like that had been their intention all along. Kind of like Scott and Lance's grudge, only without quite so much outright loathing.

The strange verbal – and oft times physical, though usually when the sun wasn't out – feud was something the other Institute kids often marvelled at and puzzled over in equal measure, wondering how it was they could be so absolutely foul to each other in everyday life, but still work as a team without carving each other's guts out when they needed to. Scott reasoned it was because they knew the value of teamwork and watching out for each other's backs, and sometimes people tried to concur with him; but most of the time they agreed that Kitty was closer to the mark when she argued that it was more likely Logan's 'calming influence' had something to do with it. Nobody – but nobody – acted up while he was in the room, for fear of having painful parts of their anatomy impaled on his claws.

Sighing, Ray pressed his ear to the ground and peered under the lockers. He snorted slightly as a few dust bunnies crept up his nose, but poked around as far as he could, trying to feel if his pen was yet salvageable. He'd only bought it at the weekend, after all.

It wasn't.

Complaining profusely, he clambered back to his feet and surveyed both his ruined bag and the many textbooks he needed for next period. The many heavy textbooks, most of which he would rather throw out of an upstairs window than have to look at again.

With a resigned sigh, he stuffed the remnants of material into the very back of his locker and retrieved his emergency pen from where he'd stuck it to the roof with gum – his own, not Jubilee's. It was speckled with sticky white flecks and it smelled a bit odd, but picking them off would give him something to do in class rather than listen to the teacher. Hell, trapping his head in a waffle iron was better than listening to that drone.

He pocketed the pen and balanced the books in his arms, shutting the locker door with his elbow and somehow turning the combination the same way. The hallway was almost completely vacant now, and he staggered away towards the stairs, trying hard not to drop anything.

Just my crappy luck my class is on the next floor.

However, in spite of ungainly textbooks, navigating stairs he couldn't see properly, and half skidding along a corridor the janitor would pick today of all days to wax, Ray almost got to his class in time.

Almost.

{DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR }

The bell, which just happened to be right above the door of his classroom, thundered into his ear and through his brain like one of Evan's spikes. Not expecting it to be so deafening and close, he flinched his head back. Unfortunately, the movement didn't go well with an armload of heavy books, and he started to overbalance. For a second he teetered on one foot. Then gravity won the fight and he fell squarely on his rear with a loud yelp.

The books and loose papers flew from his hands, scattering everywhere, and the coveted spare pen vanished over the side of the staircase. Ray heard it drop and bounce, and briefly considered chasing after it until the door to the classroom opened and a floral print bulk appeared.

"Mr. Crisp," the teacher said, rolling her eyes. "Why am I not surprised to find you at the heart of this commotion?"

Wisely, Ray said nothing. A few curious heads peered around the teacher and sniggered. One boy held up a hastily scrawled notelet that read 'U R ded!'

Faboo. As if he didn't know it already, somebody thought his demise needed signposting. Nice to know they thought so highly of his mental capabilities, although their own weren't up to much if their spelling was anything to go by.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"Uh, I was a lot closer this time?"

A light smattering of giggles leaked out of the room. They were quickly silenced by the teacher's hard glare. Whatever chintzy, motherly garb she wore, her face was like rigid steel, and she turned a dispassionate eye on Ray that he knew all too well.

"Your humour won't save you, Mr. Crisp." What was it with teachers in this place? Didn't they know how to use first names? "Close or not, this is the fourth tardy in a row, and you know what that means."

Sighing deeply, Ray got to his feet and held out a hand for the detention slip she no-doubt already had waiting for him. Sparing only a precursory nod, she slapped the paper into his hand and gestured that he should pick up his things so they could start the lesson.

"Uh, Miss Minkis?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have a pen I could borrow?"

Scott's car was crowded most days, both to and from school. Being the only kid with a car at the Institute had its advantages, more freedom being a primary one, and that chest-swelling edge of responsibility another. However, when he'd got his first motor, nobody thought tell him that owning a set of wheels also entailed becoming the automatic carpool for anybody and everybody who reached it in time to squeeze in before all the seats were taken. They'd also neglected to mention how many times it would get blown up, crushed, smashed and lasered to death either, but that was another story entirely.

"Kurt, move over!"

"Yowch! Watch it! That's my tail, man."

"Well, keep it out of my way."

"It is out of your way. If I wrap it any tighter around my gut I won't have any gut left."

"Like, what gut? You're too skinny, Kurt."

"Jealous, Kätzchen?"

"You wish."

"I do."

"Eew! Whatever."

"Mature response, as ever, K-Girl."

Scott was a responsible leader. And responsible leaders don't kill their teammates.

Still, these guys were seriously pushing their luck. He found himself unconsciously grinding his teeth as Jean slid into the seat next to him. She shot him a sympathetic look and told the others to knock it off; advice they promptly ignored as soon as Kurt tried to eat a sandwich he'd snagged from the Cafeteria at lunch specifically for the lull the trip home provided between meals. It had been sitting in the pocket of his bag all day, and the mayonnaise was starting to smell a little odd.

Scott swivelled in his seat and did his best to glare, noticing as he did so the crowd of younger students coming towards them. Beyond the new recruits he could see Rogue talking amiably with Risty as the two of them walked arm in arm towards the latter's car, and a small pang he decided not to analyse blossomed in his gut when neither girl even bothered to look up, let alone wave.

Kurt, Kitty and Evan, squidged firmly together in the back seat, did their best to follow his gaze, with mixed results when Evan's skateboard caught Kurt in a very compromising place with a sharp crack.

"Whoops. Sorry, man." To his credit, Evan did look penitent.

Scott gave a vicarious wince at the pained look on Kurt's face. His hologram was turning red as he held his breath, then let it out in a long whoosh that sounded a little like "You will be," although he'd deny it later.

"Sorry guys, all full." Scott patted the steering wheel, anxious to be off but feeling a small pang of guilt at the disappointed expression on the younger recruits' faces. For a moment he was glad Jamie was home tutored by Mr. McCoy, since the little guy's puppy-dog-eyes put even Kurt to shame.

Bobby drew close to the driver's side and puckered his brow. "Aw, man. Not again. Do you guys get let out earlier than us or something, or do you just cut last period to beat us here?"

Kurt grinned, though it was still a little strained, and his voice came out thin. "Tricks of the trade, mein Freund. Besides, we have a lot more practise at this than you do."

"Why aren't you skating home?" Amara demanded of Evan. He shrugged and cut her a dashing smile.

"Hey, why put in the effort if Scott's willing to drive me there?"

"Because you're taking up my seat. I was promised a ride today. Scott said so this morning."

"I don't see your name on it."

She grunted, and seemed about to say more. You could always tell when Amara's last class had been with Ms. Vasquez, because she spent the rest of the evening in a mood as black as coal. However, instead she turned on her heel and stalked away to wait, impatiently tapping her foot on the opposite sidewalk.

Jubilee rolled her eyes theatrically, popping a large pink bubble that splattered onto her chin. She peeled it off and went right on chewing, much to the disgust of all watching.

"Dude, sick!" said Evan, sticking out his tongue.

"Want some?" She fumbled around in the pocket of her favourite yellow jacket, a piece of clothing she was forever wearing, even though she never told anybody why she liked it so much. As far as anybody else could tell it was a threadbare, dowdy old thing that had been darned back to life several times. It only ever left her possession to be washed or re-sewn – most notably during the 'incident' between her and Amara on their first day that had ended in both the jacket, and Jubilee's arm being accidentally cut. As Kitty had said many times, it was an item thoroughly consigned to the eighties, along with Beely-bubs, shell suits and Ra-Ra skirts. Yet, whenever questioned, Jubilee just stroked the hem and said she'd always had it, and wasn't about to give up on it now it was a pensioner.

Evan shook his head at the packet of strawberry bubblegum she offered, and all the other mutants responded in kind. Jubilee shrugged and pocketed it again, tossing a handful of old gum wrappers into the trash.

Scott arched an eyebrow over his glasses. "Don't your jaws ever hurt from chewing that stuff? Every time I see you you're chomping."

"Hey, don't bother me about my gum and I won't hassle you about your shades," she replied, paraphrasing the line he'd fed to almost every new recruit when they first arrived at the Institute. Then she winked and rested her hands on the side of his door. "You sure there's no room for us? The way home is so far, and we don't take up much room, honest."

"You better hurry, then, or the bus will leave without you."

"Cruel fiend," she grinned, showing she'd known what his answer would be even before she asked the question.

Rahne came up and tugged at her arm. "He's right, though, hen. Lookit, there it is."

Sure enough, the flaking yellow school bus was lumbering around the corner towards a gaggle of leftover kids plus Amara. Amara shot them a glance that clearly said 'hurry up so I can have someone to tell how horrible Ms. Vasquez was to me today', though the rest of her expression told them she wasn't happy to be riding the bus yet again.

It was true. Those not of the original variety rarely got to ride in Scott's car. It was a constant sticking point, and several times he'd been accused of playing favourites with the older kids, but he always maintained that they simply got there first, and it was nothing to do with him who rode and who didn't. Secretly, Scott would've killed for just one day when he could drive to school alone; or perhaps with just him and Jean. However, he was too much of a softy to ever say no when pleaded to, no matter how tough he cultivated his 'fearless leader' persona to be.

"Chop chop," said Evan. He clapped his hands and revelled in the plush interior he could recline back in, while they'd have to avoid the unsavouries of public transportation and circumvent the hole in the floor that the school was forever assuring them would be 'fixed in the near future'. You didn't have to be a psychic to know that the future they talked about would never come.

Scott swivelled again. "Cut the sarcasm, or I'll give your seat to one of them," he warned.

"You wouldn't dare."

"My car, my rules."

It wasn't clear whether he was saying that to appease the horde of newbies, or whether he actually meant it. Ruby-quartz glasses had the unfortunate ability of inhibiting most emotions unless they were very over-blown.

Whatever the case, Evan leaned back, grumbling to himself but doing as told.

In dribs and drabs, the newer students peeled away and ambled across to the bus stop as the ancient vehicle creaked up.

Scott twisted his key and the engine of his car roared to life, purring happily. He patted the side, as he was wont to do, murmuring words of encouragement as he shifted into gear and reached for the handbrake. His habit of talking to his car was something the other kids liked to pick on him for, but Scott ignored them throughout. His car was his baby, and he cared for it as much as he would indeed do a child. Considering how often it caught the flack for his own misadventures, he felt he had a right to feel a little overprotective.

However, Jean stopped his hand and gestured to the newbies. "Isn't there someone missing?"

"Uh?" Scott blinked, not having noticed. After all, the newer recruits were so many compared to the old team dynamics that sometimes they were hard to keep up with. "Uh, no?"

Kitty leaned in between them and shook her head. "Jeez, Scott, you're supposed to be the leader. You'd think you'd know when a couple of your teammates are missing."

Scott flushed, embarrassed at having his Achilles Heel called into question – especially when he saw Jean giving him a reproachful look. Clearing his throat, he called out, "Hey, Bobby. Aren't you absent a few?"

Bobby turned around, but kept walking backwards. "Who? Ray's in detention again – big surprise – and Roberto's off with... um..." He frowned. "Hey, Jubes, who's Roberto out with today?"

Jubilee looked up and blew a bubble, which Rahne and Sam stuck a finger into from either side. She left them to deal with the sticky mess and said, "Sandra Amigoni. You know, Miss Double-F? Or it might be that girl from his Biology class. I don't know, I'm not his secretary."

Bobby's cheeks darkened a little, but he snapped his fingers and relayed the information to Scott.

In back, Kurt rolled his eyes. "Trust Roberto. He'd probably make them add a day of the week just so that he could take out eight girls instead of seven without overlap."

Kitty squinted at him, mouth quirking upward as she rested an arm on either front seat. "You're just jealous because all the girls know it and forgive him anyway."

Kurt grunted a noncommittal response.

Kitty licked her finger, making a point symbol in the air. "Fifteen all, Fuzzy – oh, yeuch! I thought I told you to put that sandwich away! It's, like, totally disgusting, and you'll get salmonella."

"Mmmm, nummy." Kurt crunched happily away and offered forth the offending sandwich. "Like a bite, Kätzchen? Put hairs on your chest."

"I think I'm truly gonna hurl."

"Not on my upholstery, you're not!" Scott shoved at one of her arms and Kitty plopped backwards into her seat.

Kurt swallowed and grinned at her. "Thirty-fifteen."

To Be Continued...
Review Responses:

Angel of the Fallen Stars - Glad to hear you like it. Thanks for the review, I appreicate you taking the time to write it.

FrickinEvilPoptart - Your closing sentence made me do a spit-take, I'll have you know. And why, pray tell, does your dog smell like butt? Or should I not ask? Anyway, many thanks for the review. I'll keep in mind what you said about mishmash paragraphs. Hopefully this time things were a bit clearer, but if not, please let me know.

Me (Harry Wriggle) - You liked Moonshadow? Well, colour me surprised. The prologue was meant to be a bit confusing. I was hoping to slip details of what the hell was going on in as we get further into the fic. As for the fanart, I actually have an image in my head from later on in the fic that I would quite like to see. But, y'know, when you're ready. I don't want to encroach on your RL, babs. Oh, and I started this thing in March 2003, so it's been in pre-production for... seventeen months. Fuck, that long? Even I've started to lose track of the time now.