Chapter Eight – Back to Reality

As a complete antithesis to the previous night, a cloudless blue sky housed a cheery sun. It shone on the contents of the red convertible, as it pulled into the street that led to Bayville High. Somewhere, a robin trilled, and leaves whispered in a light breeze that promised a pleasantly warm day. Out for a walk with its owner, a dog barked at a squirrel. At the corner bus stop elementary school kids laughed at an old joke making the rounds of yet another generation. Cars hummed, as Moms and Dads went about their daily lives, totally unaware they were passing a carload of teenagers so powerful they could wipe this pleasant little berg off the map if they wanted to.

Fortunately for them, none of them wanted to.

In fact, the only thing they were in danger of doing at that moment was being late for school.

"Come on, Kurt. Like, pull the lead out." Kitty jiggled impatiently, eyes fixed on the looming brick bulk that was their destination. So near, and yet so far, since a huge lorry bearing a skip had chosen to stop right in front of them to unload its cargo into a front yard. It blocked the entire side of the street not already choked by motorists.

"Excuse me." Scott twisted around in the front passenger seat. "The lead will stay exactly where it is, thank you very much. No pulling is going to happen between here and school."

Kitty harrumphed and fell back, arms folded.

Next to her, Amara tossed her hair and rested her chin on her fist, staring at the passing traffic, as she was wont to do. Nova Roma wasn't exactly automobile capitol of the world. She had been known to pass hours on long road trips just watching other drivers and their vehicles. Kitty shot her a look, then turned her attention to her backpack.

"Ever the organised one, eh?" Bobby grinned. After much griping, Evan had been forced to utilize his beloved skateboard to get to school, and Bobby had jumped at the chance to take his place. It seemed that, for this morning at least, the New Mutants were making headway on the carpool situation, claiming two fifths of the seating arrangement for their number. A rare occurrence indeed.

Kitty negated his comment by grubbing around her satchel and bringing out a stick of lip-gloss and small compact. Since the car was stationary, she risked applying a fresh coat to her already slick lips. "It'd be faster if I, like, walked," she mumbled between strokes.

"Then why don't you?" Amara didn't take her eyes from the sleek blue Mustang on the other side of the road.

"I'll assume that was a rhetorical question. Kurt, overtake the guy already."

Kurt, conscious of Scott's penetrating glare, thought better of following Kitty's advice. "Nein, Kätzchen, I value my hide too much."

Scott nodded, pleased that Jean had been proved right, even if it meant he looked more pig-headed than ever. "Good choice."

"But we're gonna be la-ate."

"Worried you'll miss Lancey-poo before class?" Kurt grinned at her in the mirror. "Don't worry. We'll get there on time." A loud clang sounded from the crane lowering the skip into the driveway. Kurt winced in Scott's direction. "Uh, and in one piece, too. Of course."

Scott sighed, rearranging his injured foot into a more comfortable position. Faced with nothing better to do, his mind started to wander, meandering through various facetious bits and bobs but never settling on one subject long enough for him to latch on and start up a conversation. To call the atmosphere 'strained' was an understatement.

As it was, he didn't have start one at all. Amara took up the bat, snapping from her reverie and saying loudly, "Okay, I'm tired of avoiding it. What did everyone else think about last night? There must be some opinions floating about."

A kid passing by gave them an odd look and hurried on. In the mirror, Scott could see Bobby grimace. "You make it sound like something... carnal," he said in a low voice, kicking the back of Scott's chair until he was made to stop by The Look.

"Someone buy you a thesaurus?"

"Shut up, Kitty. And if you're talking about Ray, then I don't have many thoughts on the whole thing."

"Now there's a surprise."

"I said shut up, Kitty." Bobby gave her a playful shove, leaving a lip-gloss smear all up her left cheek.

"Bobby!" she squealed, fumbling around inside her bag for a tissue.

Reaching into the side pocket of his door, Scott passed back a small box of Kleenex Travelsize.

Kitty's glare was turned into a pout by the splodge. "Honestly can't you act your age just for once?"

"I'd rather act my shoe size," Bobby replied. "So what are your thoughts on last night's little admission?" Then he pulled a face. "Man, talk about an Oprah moment."

Kitty dabbed at her face with the tissue. "Quite honestly? I feel sorry for Ray. Not that I'd ever say that to his face, of course. Unless I wanted him to rip mine off."

Kurt glanced in his rear view mirror again, nodding. "I know what you mean, Kätzchen. It took a lot of guts for him to tell us what he did. I've been bound by oaths before, and they play on your honour enough to make you FUITH."

"Ray has honour?" Bobby asked just as Scott said, "You took an oath? For what?"

Kurt just waved a careless hand at the question. His holoprojector glinted in the sunlight. "It's not important. But if Morlock oaths are anything like Romany oaths, then Ray took a huge step of faith breaking his to tell us about them."

Kitty paused long enough to blink. For a moment she looked positively vacuous - a lot more than she actually was, as her test scores proved. "I… never thought about it that way. A step of faith? I thought Ray didn't even like us, much less trust us."

"He's not so bad." Scott shrugged at their surprised expressions. "What? He's not my best buddy or anything, but the guy's not a total fiend, either."

"Well that's open to debate." Bobby rubbed ruefully at the back of his head, remembering the many times Ray had accidentally-on-purpose caught him with stray electricity. Sometimes it was a genuine mishap, but sometimes…

"I feel kinda stink, now," Kitty said suddenly. "I mean, we never realised any of that – not even Jean. You'd think we'd have enough intuition to tell when one of our own is keeping something from us."

Scott remembered Jean's talk of yesterday and nodded. Beside him, Kurt mirrored the move, though the two younger X-Men in back seemed a little more reticent on the matter.

"I dunno," said Bobby, "Ray didn't want anybody to know about it, did he? I mean, you could tell that last night, even without him saying it in so many words. He wanted the whole business kept a secret."

"Still," Amara mused, surprising them all, "I do feel rather… odd after what he said. He never wanted us to know, but that doesn't make his loss any less. He was obviously upset by the… what? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

Bobby made a show of rubbing his eyes. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with Amara?"

She scowled and folded her arms, tossing her hair as she often did when annoyed. And any other time, too. She had much love for her shiniest-of-shiny hair. "Hmmph! There's no need to be that way about it. I'm not completely heartless, I just don't choose to wear my feelings on my sleeve. Unlike some people. People who moon over every little thing." She looked meaningfully at Kitty, who spread her hands wide.

"What?"

"Don't deny it. If anyone so much as says the name 'Lance Alvers' you go weak at the knees."

Kitty flipped her ponytail in a perfect imitation of Amara's hair-toss. "Excuse me, but my knees have nothing to do with you." Then she looked contrite. "But I must admit, I agree with what you're, like, saying. I feel like we should, I dunno… like we should do something for Ray. I mean, we took so long to pick up on what's been bothering him. The least we can do is help him feel better about… what happened to the Morlocks. Now that we know, I mean."

Kurt nodded vigorously.

Bobby ventured, "A party?"

"Obviously you've never lost a loved-one, mein Freund."

"Hey, the Morlocks weren't exactly loved-ones. Ray wasn't their best pal or anything – he said so himself, remember? But I get you. No party." He perused his fingers. "So… what then? I hardly think Ray's the kind of guy who'd appreciate a box of chocolates and a condolence card."

Scott frowned, lost in thought. "What about… hmmm."

"Sounds like you have an idea." Kurt punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I can hear the cogs turning in your head. Come on, fess up, what do you think we should do?"

"Well, there's the obvious," Scott said slowly. "Just try to help that mutant, Feral, to get better. Maybe settle in if she stays. Ray's obviously attached to her, or at least feels some kind of loyalty, what with her being a Morlock and all. Maybe if we pitch in and make her feel welcome… that'd take some of the stress away from him. Make him see we don't hold anything against him for being a Morlock, or not telling us before now…"

"But that's not all, is it? Come on; I know that look." Kurt took his eyes off the road to look at his friend and raise an eyebrow. "We're waiting."

In answer, Scott swivelled around. "Kitty, you're a computer whiz, right?"

"Depends which teacher you ask," she replied smoothly. "Mrs. Connolly thinks I'm a jinx after I blew up a couple of terminals in a power blip. My hands just phased right through the keyboards whenever I went to type something, then 'ZZIP'! Short circuit."

"But you know more about the Internet than the rest of us? Like, how to look up certain genetic researchers…"

Bobby's eyes widened, before his face fell into a habitual mischievous smirk. "I think I see where this is going. You want her to find out about that Cerberus jerk, don't you?"

"Sevarius," Scott corrected, neither nodding nor shaking his head as a couple of seniors waltzed past, arm-in-arm and giggling at something girlish and trivial. He thought one of them sometimes hung out with Taryn. Maybe she was on the soccer team. Couldn't they walk any faster?

Kitty pocketed her gloss and pressed her lips together to even out the residual gloopy mess, no doubt wanting to look her best should Lance's jeep happen to pull in anywhere near them. Provided they ever actually made it to school, of course.

Scott leaned over the side of his door to where the workmen on the truck were having the resident sign something attached to a clipboard, and only heard, rather than saw Kitty's answer.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, we don't know anything about the guy other than what Ray told us. Apart from it being unethical to pry, I like, wouldn't even know where to start looking."

"You're talking about ethics when we're discussing a guy who murdered and did who knows what else to a bunch of harmless hobos?" Amara snapped, perhaps a little more strident than Scott might've liked. As pleasant a surprise her sudden concern for her teammate was, Amara had yet to fully appreciate little nuances like 'tact', having had only minimal use for it in her position on Nova Roma.

"We only have Ray's word on that," Kitty pointed out, sticking commendably to her objectivity. "I mean, from what you told me about Feral and what she said, Ray may have jumped the gun or something. He's not the most clear-headed of people in a crisis. Or have you forgotten when he freaked out in that underwater training sim and fried your butt?"

Amara scowled, brows furrowing so deep you could practically plant potatoes in them. She ignored the reminder, sniffing mightily and sticking her pert little nose in the air like a true aristocrat.

"Look, let's just take it as Ray says and assume he's right," Scott mediated. "Could you look for Sevarius on the Internet? If he's some kind of geneticist then there would have to be some record of him somewhere."

"I probably could, yeah. But what would you do with anything I found?" Kitty narrowed her eyes. "I'm not getting involved if you're planning on paying him a visit. He could be anywhere in the country – if he's in even in the country anymore. The Professor would definitely have our hides if we went off like that."

Scott was forced to agree.

"Couldn't you just satisfy our curiosity then, Kätzchen?" Kurt asked, gripping the wheel a little tighter as the drivers in front finally clambered back into their truck. "Just tell us who he is, at least." He looked winsomely at her in the mirror.

Kitty sighed and threw up her hands. "Fine, I'll find out about him for you. But I'm not infiltrating anything illegal; so don't even ask. Unless the Professor gives the say-so, the guy stays where he is, and we don't take the law into our own hands - "

"Aw, Kitty, you're no fun," Bobby pouted.

" - No matter how much of a despicable, cold-hearted jerk-off he is, and no matter how much we'd like to shove a computer up his dark dimension."

"Uh, scratch that."

Sam trudged into his first period class with an aura of doom hanging around his shoulders. And it wasn't all to do with the Ray-Feral incident, either.

Today was the day Killjoy returned their English essays – something Sam had spent scant time on, the subject matter leaving him cold. He'd tried to get into it, for a passable grade on his report if nothing else, but it was so boring. Hopefully he'd get points for effort, though. His track record in English wasn't spectacular, but if he could pick up his score now, before the report cards came out, then maybe…

Killjoy's beady-eyed stare wasn't encouraging. He sank into his seat to await judgment.

It wasn't long in coming.

The F stared at him balefully, ringed several times in red ink. There were a few comments smattered here and there in identical print, but he barely glanced over them.

An F.

Nobody else wore anything less than a smile. A couple even whooped.

He was officially a bottom-feeder

Nutbunnies.

It plagued him the rest of the lesson, making him even more distracted than normal. Several times Killjoy picked him up on not paying attention, but always he went back to glowering at the sheet of paper covered in his scrawly blue script. It was smudged in several places, and one corner was stained a dirty brown where he'd dropped his backpack in a puddle on the way to school.

Okay, so maybe his presentation left a bit to be desired, but he'd worked really hard on this essay. Sometimes teachers just forgot that there was anything less than perfection, and expected people to live up to their own high standards, no matter what their age or knowledge.

Um, hello? Working without a degree to my name, here.

The end of class couldn't come soon enough. When the mitigating bell finally tolled Sam lurched to his feet and haphazardly shoved things into his bag. He put off touching his ring-binder and the treacherous paper therein, instead pausing to rearrange his paraphernalia into a more orderly composition to eat up the time. The eraser went in the pencil case, which went next to his textbooks, which were laid flat on top of –

"Mr. Guthrie."

Damn.

"Yes, Miss Kilroy?" Sam turned to face the nasally-enhanced teacher, painting a look of practised indifference on his face. It was the same look he'd refined back home, when dealing with the 'farmboy' taunts from townie kids. He'd been using it for so long it was almost a relief to fall into it – like an old pair of slippers, as his father used to say.

Killjoy perched on the corner of her desk, sensible flat shoes dangling. She held her half-moon spectacles in one hand and a small book in the other. The book was old. The edges were frayed and torn, and the pages looked as though they'd seen many better days. The deep red cover stood out against her pale brown skirt, and a layer of dust from it had caught on the sharp pleats. She looked at Sam, chewing the hook of her glasses thoughtfully.

"Mr. Guthrie, that last paper was rather… disturbing."

You're tellin' me. "I'm sorry, Miss Kilroy. I was just a bit stressed, is all. Not concentratin' properly. It won't happen again."

"I seem to recall you saying such a thing last time I graded a paper of yours. And the time before that. and the time before that, unless I'm very much mistaken." She removed the frame from her mouth and peered at him through half-seeing eyes. "Mr. Guthrie, I won't lie to you. Your grades in English are less than satisfactory, and from the way you act in class, they don't look to go up anytime soon. A worrying trend, I think you'll agree. This isn't anything to do with my half of the equation, I do believe, which is another worrying thing. You just don't seem to put in the effort you could into your work."

Sam looked longingly to the door, but stayed where he was. Perhaps if he said something she'd let him go. A minute longer in this stuffy classroom was a minute too long. "Pardon me for sayin' so, Miss Kilroy, but I did try on that last paper. Really hard, too. I just couldn't get into the book enough to write anythin' proper about it." He scuffed his shoe, making a loud squeak on the floor tile.

Killjoy winced. "Indeed? I was under the impression the whole class understood the basics of Jane Austen. Certainly, nobody told me anything different." She stared almost accusingly at him. "I don't appreciate such matters being left until written work is due in, Mr. Guthrie. I'm a teacher. I'm here to teach. But I can't very well do that unless you tell me when and where you're having difficulties. I'm not a mind reader. I do have my limits." She spread her hands wide. "Is there something in particular you find difficult about this book?"

"Well…" Might as well take the plunge, I suppose. Not gonna get outta here any sooner, otherwise. "It's just… it's so darn borin', ma'am. Nuthin' seems to happen."

"I see. Did you actually read it all the way through?"

He nodded. Well, he'd read the first few chapters, and then an online summary, so he knew pretty well what happened. Which wasn't much.

Killjoy sighed through her teeth. "Well, I'll freely admit that Austen's aren't the most action-packed of books, but I'd hardly say nothing happens in them." She replaced her glasses on her nose and looked closely at Sam over the steel rims. "Could it be that you believe nothing of any note happens in them, perhaps; as opposed to nothing at all?" She sounded slightly defensive, as well she might. Jane Austen was notoriously Killjoy's favourite. That much was made clear by the huge posters on the walls advertising adaptations and theatrical versions of her work. The idea that someone didn't think the Austen was the best thing since sliced bread obviously didn't sit well with her.

"I suppose," Sam granted her that much. Not because he agreed with what she was saying, but in a simple attempt to remove himself from this place before his brain melted.

Killjoy pounced. "Ah, so you admit that you're judging the book on what you think should happen, rather than just seeing what does happen."

I said that? "Uh…" was the best Sam could think to say. "I… guess so?"

The classroom door was open. Outside it the next cluster of students waited, milling around noisily and shouting to friends in the busy inter-lesson rush. Feet thrummed the hallway, and voices raised in a clamour of daily teenage life that school dared to hinder. Killjoy glanced at her waiting class and made an irritated hissing noise, like she really couldn't be bothered to deal with them right now.

"I'll be plain with you, Mr. Guthrie. You have a lot of potential. It's clear in what you do write that you have the capability to do very well academically if you just applied yourself a bit more. Now, far be it for me to show favouritism to any of my students, but I looked out this book for you from the school library. Yes, the school does indeed have one of those big rooms filled with books. Not that you'd know it considering how many people actually frequent the place." She thrust out the faded red book. When Sam failed to jump up and euphorically wrestle it from her, she shoved it into his hands. "Read it. It may be useful."

Sam barely had time to look at the bold, capitalized print on the jacket before she was propelling him out the door. His bag was only partially on his shoulder and his feet tripped over themselves. He couldn't help but blush when a pair of girls at the door tittered. All his old insecurities about his height and gawkiness resurfaced, as they were wont to do when he messed up in Wolverine's training sessions. He ducked his head to scurry away like the little mouse he wasn't.

"No need to say thank you, Mr. Guthrie," Killjoy sniped after him.

He paused long enough to throw a curt "Thank you, ma'am," over his shoulder. Then he let himself be absorbed into the crushing, rushing, smooshing crowd of bodies snaking into classrooms.

Now that right there; that was messed up. Killjoy givin' me extra help? Think I'm gonna crawl into a corner somewhere an' faint.

Hank looked up as the med-lab doors slid open, half-expecting to see Ray back again. He'd been surprised to see the boy return in school garb not half an hour after dismissing him.

Then again, he supposed, he'd also anticipated his return, since Ray seemed to have such an attachment to his new patient.

Charles had informed him not two minutes after Ray entered that it was fine for him to be there, but in the end Hank had practically had to chase the boy out, simply so he could get on with properly treating Feral's wounds without someone breathing down his neck and causing him to make mistakes.

So it was with more than a smidgen of astonishment that Hank realised it was not Ray walking through the sliding doors. In actual fact, it was Logan, incongruously carrying a pile of neatly folded green percale and Infirmary blankets that looked suspiciously like those used for Scott, Kitty and Jean not so many hours ago. The pure domesticity of it threw Hank for a moment. It was several seconds before he regained the use of his tongue.

"You know, every time I think I have you figured out, Logan, you do something that surprises me."

"It's a knack." Logan gestured to his armload. "'Ro washed 'em. Said she couldn't sleep a wink after what happened, so she stayed up an' did laundry." He shrugged, as though such methods of distraction were beyond him. Which they probably were, since he had a preference for violence or travel when overly stressed or pensive.

"Ah yes," said Hank, nodding. "Last night. Your eye seems to have healed quite well."

Logan shrugged. "I'll live. As usual. Where d'ya want 'em?"

Sighing, Hank indicated with a nod of his head. His hands were currently engaged in unwrapping the bandages from around Feral's upper arm. Logan's claws had penetrated deeply in their scuffle, and the wounds had been nasty. Nasty enough that he had used up an entire roll of gauze, anyway.

Logan grunted and carried his load over to the small alcove where the pyjamas were kept. The Institute held a range of nightwear in reserve, since one could never be certain who would need to stay overnight in the med-lab. Yet everything was made from the same green percale; itchy to a fault, but a hardy material that could even stand up to bone spikes and sprouting fur without fraying. Hank swore by it, though the students were wont to differ with him on grounds of comfort and colour.

In lieu of any stimulating conversation, Hank went back to concentrating on removing the bandage without reopening the wound he'd so carefully cleaned. A nasty yellow ichor stained the gauze, making even him grimace. He tugged gently, almost delicately, so as not to cause any undue harm.

"That's the way," he whispered in a voice so low a normal human ear would not have heard it. In college, he'd always whispered to himself during experiments and exams, which hadn't gone down terribly well with invigilators, but it helped him concentrate. "Easy does it. Don't want to make this any worse than it already is…"

"Talkin' to yourself, McCoy?" Logan reappeared, minus the laundry and plus a curious smirk.

"The greatest minds have done no less, Logan. Albert Einstein talked to himself."

"Albert Einstein," said Logan, with some degree of finality, "was a crock."

The scientist part of Hank was immediately affronted, but he wasn't so tactless as to voice it. Especially since Logan's pride and demeanour were still sore from the fight with Feral – as evidenced by the dirty look he insisted on throwing her way. So instead, Hank tried to play off the assertion as a joke, and laughed heartily. "You talk like you met him."

The laughter died away at Logan's expression; dark and forbidding, and just this side of angry. Hank's throat made a strange gurgling noise as he wondered whether Logan actually had met Einstein. After all, he was old enough, and had certainly done enough travelling in his exceptionally long life…

"I don't like her bein' here."

The abrupt change in subject was startling, but Hank welcomed the opportunity to stop himself saying something he shouldn't. Logan's past was an uncomfortable subject, and one most avoided if they could possibly help it. It had taken more than one faux pas after arriving at the mansion before Hank realised this for himself.

Logan glared at Feral, unconsciously rubbing at the left side of his face where her claws had done the most damage. Hank could understand the sentiment, coming from him, but not condone it.

"She's injured and in need, Logan. Charles saw fit to give her a chance. You should too."

"Chuck wasn't outside last night. He didn't see what I saw." Logan was snappish, and his lip curled in the vestige of a snarl.

"True, but considering what Miss Feral's been through, I think we can grant her a little leeway concerning her behaviour. From what I hear, you've had days when you've gotten a bit… out of control, and nobody ever held it against you."

Logan snorted and folded his arms. From his stance alone, it was clear he wasn't interested in listening to reason. Hank sighed inwardly, pausing in his chore. "Is there something else I can do for you? Not to sound rude, but I've had people in and out of the Infirmary all morning, and I'd really like to get on with treating Miss Feral, now."

Another snort. "Nah, nuthin' else, Poindexter. I'm gonna go look how this little hellcat got into the frikkin' grounds in the first place. Make sure it don't happen again." Logan shook his head. "No way she got over the wall, that much is sure. An' that only leaves the cliff or the western side. Take your pick."

"It's only my humble medical opinion, but I doubt she'd be strong enough in this condition to scale a two hundred foot sheer cliff face."

"Western side it is, then." He made as if to go, but Hank held him back.

"Logan, please, listen to me for a second. Don't make this any more difficult than it already is. I understand that Feral wounded your pride last night, and I don't blame you for being suspicious, given her rather… unorthodox arrival. But still, for the students' sakes, at least try to be civil about this whole thing."

Logan looked at him hard, and Hank read the scrutiny in his eyes. "You're talkin' about Sparky, ain't ya?"

"Partly. But I'm also talking about Charles. He has enough on his plate just keeping this place up and running without you – or any of us – causing more problems than strictly necessary."

Another hard stare. "I'm just lookin' out for the kids, McCoy."

"So am I - their physical and their mental welfare. Think about how your distrust of Feral will reflect onto Mr. Crisp. He'll think her past as a Morlock has caused a proclivity for you not to like her, and how will that affect his mental state?"

Logan removed Hank's restraining hand. "I think you're lookin' too deep into it, McCoy. But I can see your point. Okay, so I won't make a big deal out of nuthin', but that don't change my feelings about it. I still don't trust her. Not yet, at any rate," he added, catching the warning look in Hank's eyes.

Hank bobbed his head knuckled back to his charge. "Thank you, Logan. As I said before, you never cease to surprise me."

Logan sniffed and rammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, since his jacket had hit the trash that morning. He didn't like showing weakness, and in Logan's book, consenting to keeping his mistrust in check was doing just that.

Hank couldn't help but smile at the parting comment.

"Feh. Bunch of tree huggin' hippie crap."

Logan stalked across the foyer and out the glass doors. Despite everything, the huge panes were still intact, and he took a moment to marvel at the fact. He'd had words with Charles in the past about these damn things, about how they were utterly useless from a defensive point of view. Charles had replied that he didn't want the Institute looking like a fortress, even if it was built like one beneath the surface, and Logan had been forced to concede the point in favour of another couple of guns inside the stone lions over the front gates.

The squeak of those gates and the hum of an engine brought him back to reality. He turned to see the sleek black shape of the X-Van purr up the driveway, Ororo at the wheel. She waved, knowing she had his attention. Logan, as usual, didn't wave back, but descended the steps as she drew to a halt.

"Logan," she said by way of greeting, not cutting the motor but letting it drone in the background.

He nodded. "'Ro. Been for a spin, I see."

"The way this thing eats gas? I hardly think so. No, I was just delivering Ray to the educational authorities and his note to the school office." Ororo rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I despair at that school. From what I could see, their admin and filing system are appalling."

Another nod. "He okay?"

Ororo seemed surprised at the question, not so much because it was so curt, but rather because it openly asked after the well being of one of the students. "Careful, Logan," she warned. "People will think you're going soft."

SNIKT

"No they won't." Logan ran a bare palm over the gleaming adamantium of his claws.

"Point." Ororo sighed, and suddenly her face looked a lot more strained, like her cheery mask was slipping.

Logan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He knew that song.

"Why do you want to know about Ray? From what I've seen of your training sessions, he's hardly your best student, and you're hardly his favourite teacher."

"I've seen survivor guilt before, darlin'. Sometimes it does funny things to a body. Kid's awful young to be dealin' with that kind of crap."

"Scott did it. So did Alex."

"Ever think that might have sumthin' to do with the whole fiasco up on Asteroid M? Guilt festers, 'Ro. It don't go away so easy, an' it can make a body crazy." He spoke with a voice of one in the know, and Ororo thought it wise not to ask just how he knew such psychological things. After all, Logan himself admitted he'd fought in WWII, and if that didn't stir up a batch of survivor guilt, not to mention his mutant abilities, then nothing would.

She let out a breath. "Ray was very quiet the whole journey. Barely spoke two words, even when I took him to register in the office. He seemed very distracted, but since I figured I knew the cause, I didn't press him about it." She cut Logan a sidelong glance. "There. That make you happy."

"Not in the slightest, darlin'." He jammed a matchstick between his teeth before stalking off towards the western perimeter.

Ororo watched him go. Then she shoved the van into gear, veering towards the garage in silence.

Ray followed Dorothy, the school secretary, down the hall with a sullen slump to his shoulders. He glared solidly at the floor, killing all conversation before she had chance to start it. Once or twice she looked at him with the Kindly Smile she'd been taught in secretarial college, but his ferociously neutral face stopped her tongue dead in its tracks, and she ended up delivering him to his classroom with more than a little relief.

A creak of the door, and fifteen-plus faces looked up, broken from the reverie that was biology class.

"Mrs. Haley?" Dorothy asked, like she didn't meet the labcoated woman at the chalkboard in the faculty lounge every day.

Mrs. Haley was a short woman, stocky under her perpetual white labcoat, with quick dark eyes and a frothy brown hairdo she'd had styled during the eighties and never changed. She raised an eyebrow at Dorothy and the student behind her. "Returning one of my flock, I see, Dorothy. Mr. Crisp? I trust you have an explanation for your tardiness."

Ray's lip jutted out a further few inches. Had he stared any harder at the floor the tiles would have melted. Dorothy came to his defence, handing over the note delivered with him that morning.

Mrs. Haley's eyes scanned the page. When she looked at Ray again, her eyes had changed. No longer quite so sardonic, they were tinged with sympathy and an edge of guilt – no doubt at her flippant tone.

Ray scowled, knowing what the note had said. He hadn't read it, since the thing had never actually come into his possession other than to see Ororo hand it over the desk in the office, but he knew well enough what it would have printed on it in the Professor's neat script. Some story about him losing a family member and so being allowed some leeway as far as negative behaviour went, or some such emotive crap. Probably short and to the point, stating the bare facts and not much else. Telepathy meant the Professor sometimes forgot things had to be communicated in slightly longer form than his thoughts were wont to be, and resulted in stunted letters with lots of gaps for idle minds and the gossip chain to fill in. By lunch, the whole school would know about his 'loss', as well as whatever else the elite gossipers chose to add in whilst bored in class or waiting in the cafeteria queue.

And that meant more pity for him.

He went to his seat without being told to, slumping down with folded arms, not bothering to retrieve pencil case or paper from the spare backpack Rahne had lent him. It was the only one he had been able to scrounge by the time he realised his old one was still out of commission, and he'd traipsed the halls, hoping nobody would see the smiling Trolls emblazoned on it.

He half considered putting his feet up on the table, testing how far this 'negative behaviour' guff would let him go. He thought better of it. There was no reason, but the idea of causing a bit of wanton mayhem seemed mightily appealing. De-stressing was his forte, natch. That special DR program Logan coded in for him spoke for itself.

School, however, was nothing like the Danger Room. He settled back in his chair, eyeing the two women, as if daring them to speak. Dorothy and Mrs. Haley exchanged a look, before not-so-subtly edging out of the classroom.

"Read pages fifteen to twenty until I get back, class."

Gossip, gossip, gossip, Ray thought, scrunching up as the door closed and a multitude of eyes switched from it to him. They all mirrored the same hungriness for information, but also a little trepidation at his expression. His temper was known throughout the halls of BHS, even if only by rumour. Nobody seemed brave enough to ask what was going on, despite wanting to. Gossip, gossip, gossip. Well, you can all get on with it without my help.

Stoically, he set his jaw and averted his eyes. He radiated reticence. People exchanged looks over his head like the one passed between Mrs. Haley and Dorothy. This would be fodder for later conversations, to be chewed on and mulled over until their version of the facts had come to fruition.

Trying to ignore them, Ray shifted his gaze to the window. Sat in the middle of a row, it meant he had to look across a line of desks to achieve the glass. The girl sitting opposite gazed at him openly. She was a small, fluffy thing, all primped hair, high fashion and blank stare. Her name escaped him, as it did with most of her kind. He grunted, staring at a point just above her head until her cheeks flushed beneath the lashings of concealer and other make-up he knew not the purpose of. The technique was one he'd perfected long ago, knowing it unnerved people into looking away and opening themselves up to attack.

Just another one of the small things he'd picked up in the sewers, along with a thousand other survival techniques he sometimes didn't even realise he used on a daily basis. Many had been forgotten with his return to the sun, but some had been so ingrained over those six months that he barely recognised them as real techniques, instead subconsciously viewing them as more an extension of his own psyche - always there, ready and waiting for as long as he could remember.

Strange, how a few hours of madness could make a person question so much about themselves, he mused, watching the riveting sight of the janitor emptying the trash across the forecourt. If Feral hadn't turned up out if the blue, he probably would have just treated this day like any other. Go to school, complain profusely about anything and everything he could, go home, et al. As he'd told Tabby yesterday, self-analysis was not his forte.

That said, he seemed to be doing an awful lot of it lately.

The janitor whistled, some tuneless melody, lost to the glass window. Ray watched intently, eager to focus on anything but the hum of nervous chatter. He could literally feel his classmates' gazes lingering on him, burning his skin with their gaping curiosity. He resisted the urge to either shiver or scratch. For once, he actually wished one of his teammates shared this class, if only to alleviate the feeling of isolation. Nobody here knew the truth. Seeds of rumour were all that circled. He wasn't going to tell them the truth, either. He couldn't, for far too many reasons.

It made for a lonely kind of school-life.

But this, all this, was what he'd claimed when he left the tunnels, right? The petty lies, the tittle-tattle and gossip of high school. The small-mindedness of people, not just teenagers. Upworld was filled with it.

But then again, so had the sewers. It was one of the few things they shared.

As had been the sewers.

He'd known this was what life up here in the light entailed. He'd experienced it before, when he was 'normal'. Before his mutant gene leaped out and took a rather large bite from his rather small world. He'd known the pitfalls as well as the good stuff, and he'd taken it up anyway. For a world full of daylight, Upworld had a lot of shadowy parts. So no matter what happened, no matter what fortune hucked up and spat at his feet, this was the life he was determined to lead.

He just wished he still didn't feel so guilty about it.

To Be Continued...

Those keen-eyed amongst you may notice that there are two chapter eights - this one, and last time. Yeah. I miscalculated and jumped the gun a bit. Arse.

Review Replies

Katatonia - You know, I appreciate reviews like yours so very much. It's always nice when people say they like what you're doing, but when they prove they've actually read a fic by pinpointing what, exactly, they liked about it... Just know that I'm grinning.

Angel of the Fallen Stars - Scott's car is the Holy Grail - you can look longingly, but you can never actually touch it. Which doesn't mean Kurt wouldn't try. Possibly with Bobby's help. Can't you just imagine them driving pellmell out of the gate, Scott shrieking behind them? Cue shivers of geeky!Scribbler joy.

Ivan Alias - Eyeball jelly. Nice. Quite good on toast, I hear. I think I should have a branch in front of my face and be approaching a castle, after that quote. Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble...

LanceIsHot - Ray is rapidly approaching FUITH. Yessum. Which is possibly why I love him so.