Here is the chapter two. Finished before... that version of chapter one. Hurrah.

NOTE--I'm warning readers now; this might go from K+ to T. I really don't know. Be warned.

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"Teen Titans!"

"Gilmore Girls!"

"Teen Titans!"

"Gil... Nightcrawler you get your fuzzy butt down from that ceiling right now!"

It was your typical weekday night argument at Xavier's Institute. Too many teenagers and not enough TVs led to verbal and occasionally physical battles for the remote. Anyone who didn't want to watch the tube could always be entertained by viewing the fights. Tonight it was Nightcrawler vs. Shadowcat, which always proved to be interesting. Unfortunately, today's tussle was ended swiftly and brutally by the arrival of Hank McCoy.

"I'll take that, thank you." He rescued the remote from being torn apart between Kitty and Kurt and plopped down on the center of the couch. "There's a fascinating documentary about Don Sphynx genetic patterns on and I'm sure no one would want to miss..."

He glanced up, noticing the sudden deserted state of the room. He chuckled, turning on "From Here to Eternity". "Works every time..."

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"Ah-one, ah-two, ah-one two three four!"

A saxophone solo filled the loft of Jimmy Johnson, leading swiftly to a wailing trumpet and, finally, a soothing tenor singing "Straighten Up and Fly Right". This was the usual scene on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Chi-town Scat took over the place from six to eight, practicing their jazz pieces. They were a six-man ensemble, and played for gatherings and restaurants across their great city.

Or so they would like to believe.

Really, they were six twenty- and thirty- somethings with instruments and decent voices who wanted something to do. Betty graced them with her saxophone and, occasionally, her singing.

This was her life. Work as an editor for some big-shot magazine whose name she couldn't remember half the time but whose writers sure made a LOT of grammatical mistakes during the day. Take up her old jazz band dreams at night. Try to keep her existence from seeming pointless.

"No, no, no. Stop. Right there."

The singer, Johnson himself, had abruptly cut out, looking a little irritated. The rest of the group petered out as he poked his music.

"See, Bets? Measure 34. You get off. I don't know what you're doing, but it's off."

Betty rubbed her eyes, blinking at her music. "Oh. I see. I was inverting the sixteenth and the eighth again." She picked up her pencil from her stand and marked it in.

"Maybe we should just quit, Jim," Sam Rayburn, their player-of-all-brass, master-of-none, cut in. "It's almost eight and I gotta get home. I promised Chris I'd bathe the twins tonight. I'm lucky she still lets me come."

The rest of the group made various agreeing noises, and Johnson had to give in. "Alright, we'll call it quits," he said with a sigh. "Nice work, everybody. Remember, practice is from seven to eight next Wednesday."

The usual wrapping-up small talk occurred as instruments were cleaned and put away and the loft put back into order. Betty waved good-bye and left, knowing that Tybalt would be wanting his evening walkies before he went to bed. It was a nice night, and she could use the workout, so she walked home, whistling and switching her sax case from hand to hand whenever it became to heavy.

The usual low 'hawoofs' rumbled from the house as soon as she started up the walk. She chuckled, unlocking the door to be greeted by an ecstatic Tybalt, his tale thwacking against the doorframe. "Oh, who's a good boy," she said, setting down her case to grab his head in both hands and rub his ears. "Is yous a good boy? Of course you is! Oh yus, Ty is the best boy in the world, yus he is! Does Ty want to take a walkies? Of course he does! Of course he does!"

Tybalt probably understood about four words of the speil (good boy, Ty, and walkies), but he wagged his tail and salivated all over his mistress just the same.

"C'mon, boy, let's go for walkies."

Ty eagerly trotted into the kitchen, and Betty followed after him, expecting, of course, a normal night.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

Last time she checked, a normal night didn't include a bald guy and a woman occupying her kitchen.

"Hi?" For a second, she was so taken aback by the absurdity of the situation, she didn't even know how to react. "Why are you in my kitchen?" They didn't look like thieves. Most thieves aren't disabled, and the bald guy was in a wheelchair. Very hard to get through broken windows and such like that. Even though she had a feeling they weren't there to hurt her, she backed up a step until her hand was grasping the handle to the cutlery drawer, ready to yank it open and brandish the butcher knife.

"You don't have to be afraid," the man said, and something in his eyes made her want to trust him. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Oh, really?" she asked vaguely, still not quite over her shock. "Then why are you in my kitchen?"

"We run a school for mutants," the woman said, speaking for the first time. Betty liked her direct way of getting to the point; unfortunately, she did not like the point.

"Really?" she said again, wondering why she still didn't feel scared. "If you're looking for donations, you're not going to find them here."

"We want you to join," the man answered. "We're always looking for new staff, and..."

"Wait, wait, wait," Betty said, holding up a hand to stop him. "You want me... to drop my life, and start working at a school for mutants." She gave a half laugh. "No offense, but you might want to look for someone better suited for the job."

Elizabeth. She realized the voice was inside her own head. My name is Charles Xavier. No, don't look around—I'm right in front of you. My school, it's a home for mutants, especially youngsters coming into their powers. You're a late bloomer, and I understand with an intact life you might not want to...

"I'm not a mutant," Betty broke in, as the anger she had been waiting for finally came. "I don't want to hear about your school, and I want you out of my house. Please. Leave now."

Xavier sighed, pulling a business card out of his shirt pocket. "Keep this," he said, as she reached for it automatically. "You may need the number."

She snorted, tossing it onto the counter. "Door's open."

They took the hint, both leaving.

"That," Betty murmured to Tybalt, who whined after the strangers, "was weird."