Gambit sprinted for his room. If he was going on this mission he sure wasn't going in a sweat drenched uniform. He bounded up the north stairwell, his long legs carrying him effortlessly, two and three stairs at a time.

Cyke woulda said somet'ing if he didn't want me to go. Wouldn't he? His thoughts were a confused and jumbled argument that clouded his head.

The logical, rational, confident hero named Gambit was more than ready to seize this opportunity to prove, once and for all, to friends and family, that he was more than capable of living up to their expectations. That, whomever this enemy turned out to be, he was with them one hundred percent. Without question. Without doubt.

Countless times, he selflessly risked his life defending this world that still hated, and feared, him for being born a mutant. After a few false starts, some bad luck and more than a few mistakes, he made a choice. Gambit was an X-Man. His own philosophy now a blended version of Storm's passion for protecting the human race with Xavier's fight for mutant rights. The lingering doubts his friends harbored about him would finally be obliterated with this mission. They would see him for the man he had finally become.

But the lonely, guilt ridden, world weary man named Remy LeBeau saw only more angst in his near future. How many times had he let himself be used, for one nefarious scheme after another? The list of madmen and murderers that had his number was a Who's Who of vicious enemies that keeping his friends so busy. But, no matter what he did, no matter how selflessly he placed himself in harm's way, no matter how painful his sacrifices, this family of friends that worked their way into his heart, would never see him as the hero he was trying so hard to be.

Liar.

Traitor.

Thief.

Even Stormy still looked at him differently since the trial, though she would never admit to it. This mission would remind them all, yet again, exactly why they loathed him and they would cast him out for the final time.

Arriving at his bedroom, he placed a tentative hand on his door.

Stop being pathetic. He chided himself. Make up your mind. Dropping his forehead into his other hand, he took a deep breath as a brief flash of long buried memory cut through his foggy thoughts like a ray of sunshine.

He and cousin Etienne, thirteen and twelve years old respectively, in the French Quarter at Mardi Gras. The streets filled to the brim with touristes, drunken frat boys and half naked cheerleaders. Pockets and purses brimming with cash and plastic. Such easy pickings for even the youngest of thieves. His brother, Henri, dares them to a chicken run. One on either side of St. Charles Street, at the height of the Orpheus krewe's Fat Tuesday parade, run the ten blocks from Napoleon to Canal, relieving the tourists of their valuables. And in broad daylight. The biggest pinch wins.

Usually, a thief picks his marks carefully with wary eyes on his surroundings. For today, not only is the street packed with people but also police, uniforms and plainclothes, looking out specifically for the very thing they are about to do. And boy, would Jean-Luc tan their hides if they get busted! But a dare is a dare. As Etienne and Remy shake hands, both excited, and more than a little nervous at what they are about to do, his cousin flashes a smile that is both angelic and devilish at the same time, and says, "When in doubt, do it anyway."

When in doubt, do it anyway. You can always sort it out at the end.

"T'anks, cousin." he whispered with a small relieved smile. It may not have been the best advice, but his Guild training had saved his sorry ass more times than anyone or anything. And this precious little shard of memory reminded him that, ultimately, no matter the outcome of his actions, he was his own savior when no one else wanted the job.

He opened the door and entered. He had to get changed.

In the hanger bay, Cyclops, Beast, Northstar and Marvel Girl readied the jets for their mission.

As Cyclops slipped into his command chair with a conspicuous creak of stiff, new leather his dismal mood slowly began to dissipate as he ran his hands appreciatively over the instrument panels of his newest toy. He smiled wide, then chuckled softly at himself. Nothing brought him such child-like glee like new jet smell. And this newest incarnation of the Blackbird was the most advanced terrestrial aircraft he would ever have the pleasure of flying.

He had called in more than a few favors from Forge, while Emma pulled some strings at Stark International. Then Hank retrofitted all their favorite Shi'ar gadgetry to equip the X-men's newest ride with an impressive array of unique features. The ultimate big boy toy.

With a wide, boyish grin, he methodically began pressing buttons, keying codes, like a maestro at the podium, conducting his first symphony. The aircraft purred to life under his direction. Cyclops could hear Northstar and Beast in the aft hold, stocking extra medical supplies. He listened as the conversation trailed off into the distance as they exited down the ramp. This new jet was nearly silent as the engines warmup sequence initiated with a faint whir. He was pleased.

"Cyclops?" the unexpected voice called from behind. The normally cool, collected leader of the Xmen nearly jumped out of his uniform as he whipped around in his seat.

"Rachel!" he put a hand to his thumping chest, with a small shake of his head. "You scared the crap out of me." He took a moment to collect his thoughts "Did you learn that from Logan? I didn't even hear you board, you sneak."

"Maybe it's because I'm a telepath." Rachel let the bitter venom drip from her words. "You know, just in case you forgot." She shoved a slim laptop computer into his hands, a small cord dangling from its side. "The new adapters should fit the nav computer interface." She turned to leave before finishing the sentence, her face tight, brows furrowed with barely contained anger.

He reached out and grasped her wrist, "Rach, talk to me."

She tried to tug free, but he held fast knowing he couldn't make her stay if she truly didn't want to. But, he had to try. Her chin trembled slightly as she frowned, trying hard to restrain her emotions before she embarrassed herself.

"Please?" Scott's voice was soft, almost pleading. She looked at him tears equal parts anger and despair, welling in her eyes.

"Talk about what? The same thing, over and over again? I hate her, she hates me and you just want to stay out of it. I could have helped with this mission and you know it. More than Jono. More than Tessa." She pressed hard on the bridge of her nose, trying to relieve the building pressure of suppressed tears. She continued, her voice choked with emotion. "Does Emma hate me even more than she hates Tessa? She can manage a professional relationship with her. What about me? I'm part of this team, or so you tell me. Tell me how that's good for the team, Cyclops?"

He winced as she spit out his codename. It wasn't all that long ago she called him Dad. He could live with her calling him Scott, as long as she didn't say it with such pain in her voice. It seemed the only way to placate her anger, and assuage her pain, would be to make a choice. Which could he live without? The young women he loved as a daughter, or the love of his life?

How can a man cut out a piece of his own heart? And, even though she never said the words, he knew Rachel wanted him to make that choice.

"It's not good for the team. I know it's not, Rachel. And, this time, you are absolutely right. We argued over exactly that for hours the other night. But," he paused, trying to summon the appropriate words for his conflicted emotions.

"But she always gets her way because you have no spine when she's in the room." Rachel abruptly finished the thought for him.

He let out a long, punctuated sigh. He deserved that.

"Maybe." The whispered response betrayed his emotions. He dropped his head, as he forced the air from his lungs. Squeezing his eyelids tight, mustering his nerve before looking back up at her anguished face. "But what would you have me do, Rach? How can I draw the line with her when this involves a telepath? How can I tell her what to do, when she was the one attacked?"

He was so weary of the fighting, over and over again. It didn't matter what he said, he couldn't win. His voice lowered again in defeat as he released his hold on her wrist "I tried, sweetie. I tried."

"Yeah, I know you did." Rachel lowered her eyes as she headed slowly for the ramp. "It just never seems to be good enough, does it, Cyclops?"

Kurt and Logan had one last detail to attend before leaving on their mission. It just so happened that the objects of their search were in the same location. They were engaged in conversation, wedging their way through busy students, who were rushing in both directions, on the east stairwell.

"I am not sure I am up to zhis challenge, Logan. I can handle demons, dragons, homicidal mutants and religious zealots. But zhis..." Kurt was shaking his head in despair

"Listen up, elf," Logan interjected. "Yer readin' way too much inta this." He was interrupted by a loud wail and a stream of laughter as a gaggle of younger students rushed past them on the landing. Bobby, covered in a green, viscous substance, in hot pursuit.

'You slimy little monkeys are gonna pay, big time!" Bobby yelled after them. He sounded angry, but had a smile plastered to his goo-covered green face as he deftly jumped the railing to catch up to his, now screaming, fleet footed tormentors. They got him good and he had just enough time to make sure they regretted it. Kurt and Logan watched him from over their shoulders as he disappeared over the railing. They continued now down the hall.

"As I was sayin', ya need a different approach. This ain't like fightin' Sentinels, or beatin' down demons. All that subtle charm 'n flair 'o yers ain't gonna work here. Yer too much Errol Flynn. Ya need more Clint Eastwood," he said as he stopped in front of the last door on the left, soundly rapping on it. He lowered his voice to a raspy whisper, "Remember..." and pointed his finger in the air like a gun then mouthed "pow" as he pulled the imaginary trigger. They heard shuffling inside, a few hushed whispers, then a voice full of freshly summoned courage.

"Come in!"

Inside, Gutherie sat on his bed, Ethan sitting in a desk chair, effortlessly balancing on two legs. Along the window ledge sat the Neo; Recoil, Friction and Daedelus. The quintet tried to look nonchalant, but Logan could smell the nervous tension. They were all trying to hide something. He gave a quick sniff of the air, but didn't detect any hint of Jay's usual vice. Logan cocked his head at a slight angle, hooked his thumbs in his belt and nodded in Jay's direction.

"What ya up to, Hayseed? I know that look." Logan's suspicious glare passed over each boy, trying to discern what game they were playing.

"Nothing. We're just talking. You know, telling the guys about the school and all," Jay said, a pout of his lip to reinforce his innocence. While Jay's poker face had come a long way, it still wasn't quite tight enough. His nervousness reverberated just underneath the smooth delivery. But Logan couldn't detect anything else obviously amiss.

Cagey little sneak. He's up to something. He actually admired the kid's gumption, but he couldn't let Jay know that. He didn't have time to dig the truth out of him now, so he made a mental note to do so after the mission. As Jay and Ethan's senior advisor, it was Logan's job to see to their day to day discipline. And Jay kept him busy. He was here to mete out punishment for their transgression earlier this week. Midterms usually gave them a three day reprieve, but that was about to be revoked.

"I'm here about yer plans for the weekend." Logan's smug expression clearly betrayed his sadistic plan "You 'n Ethan have a date. The lovely Ms. Stevie Hunter has agreed ta babysit you two this weekend. You will be her personal servant boys from sun up ta'morrow ta sunset on Sunday." Logan patted Jay's leg with two quick swats of his gloved hand. His voice lowered menacingly, as a feral grin wrapped around his face. "Remember ta pack yer tights, fly boy."

Ethan sucked in a big breath of air to speak out in protest. Logan wheeled around in his direction in less than the blink of an eye.

"You got somethin' ta say ta me, boy? Eh?" Logan raised a hand to his ear mockingly. "What's that? I can't hear ya." Ethan swallowed his breath with an audible gulp as he seemed to visibly shrink a few inches in his chair. Then, unexpectedly lost his balance. Ethan threw his arms up, reached desperately for the floor with his feet, teetering on the edge of an undignified crash. He jerked himself forward, forcing the front chair legs to comply as they hit the floor with a thud. He just looked at the older man, wide eyed and silent, though a bit embarrassed.

"I didn't think so. And ya know what happens if I hear that you two gave Stevie even an ounce a trouble." Logan stood, arms folded across his chest. In his peripheral vision, he saw Kurt still standing in the doorway. Logan waved him in the direction of his three Neo charges. "Next."

Recoil, Friction and Daedelus regarded their senior advisor with disdain. Domina respected the fighting abilities of these X-men she sent them to. But, she had never warned them about - this. This low born, blue skinned freak was just one of a seemingly endless number of genejokes in this freakshow they called a school. The X-Man could talk all he liked, but that didn't mean they had to listen. They would sooner take orders off a flatscan.

"Boys, ve are off to find out vhat happened to your families. Dr. Reyes and Nurse Annie vill be looking after you vhile vee are gone. Do you haf anyt'ing more to tell us before ve go?" Kurt was doing his best to be empathetic. These boys were born into, and raised with, the bigotry they openly displayed toward him and many of the other students. It wasn't their fault their lives were filled with hate from the day they were born. He truly wanted to reach out to them, to teach them that there was another way. That men and mutants were not measured by the purity of their genetic makeup, but by the strength of their character and deeds done in service to their fellow man.

Daedelus eyed him and turned his head away with a snort and a frown. Friction stared off, his forehead pressed up against the window. Recoil stood defiantly, eyes locked with Kurt's. He shrugged his shoulders, "They're dead. Vat more do you haf to know?" he mocked Kurt's accent.

Kurt was using every fiber of his being to maintain control. He had faced, fought and forgave bigots more arrogant, outspoken and violent than these three kids. But, for some reason he couldn't quite discern, the boy was actually able to hurt him with this childish taunt. Nightcrawler felt like an idealistic fool with little more than a single, mimicked word. He looked back to Logan, his jaw slightly agape. Logan pointed his imaginary gun and slowly pulled the trigger.

Kurt returned his focus to his adversary, yellow eyes flaring to life as he took three steps closer to Recoil, bringing him chest to chest with the arrogant youth. His tail lashed angrily behind him. The other two Neo boys tensed with the threatening gesture. This seventeen year old boy was two inches taller, probably thirty odd pounds heavier and obviously overconfident in his superiority over the smaller man. But Kurt wasn't looking to turn this into a physical confrontation. Not that these children stood a chance against him.

Ethan sat dumbfounded. Jay turned, as if to attempt to defuse the suddenly uncomfortable situation. Logan placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and shook his head 'no'.

"Sit. Down. Now." Kurt's face was a mask of grim determination. Daedelus nervously shifted his position and the blue mutant pointed a finger in his face without breaking his stare with Recoil. The blond boy flexed his fingers up in surrender as he sunk slowly back into his seat. Recoil's eyes began to shift anxiously. To the side, to catch site of his friends. To Logan, who leaned his meaty shoulder against the wall near the door, arms crossed, amused smirk on his face. To Jay, perched apprehensively on his bed, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. Then back to the steely, blue faced, yellow eyed glare of the X-Man known as Nightcrawler.

He slowly sat down, as his eyes focused on his lap.

"You boys vill be safer here den on de streets. Whoever is hunting your clan, most likely, vill not attack you vhile you are in dis house. I suggest you get comfortable vith our hospitality. Do not do anyt'ing..." he paused, eyeing the three boys carefully, "...rash vhile ve are avay." He watched them shifting uncomfortably in their seats, doing their best to avoid his gaze. So much hate for boys so young. He turned to exit the room, stopped in the doorway looking back over his shoulder, his expression softening. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Charles Xavier slowly wheeled his way around the common areas on the first floor. The students were over-exuberant, most of them free from midterms for the weekend. So many faces. He never imagined in his wildest dreams that his school would host so many children. So many mutants. So many more than anyone ever predicted. He wheeled down the hall, heading for the elevator.

He saw that his original students had risen to the challenge he presented them, all those years ago. Grown into passionate, dedicated adults. Having fought the most heinous of foes with conviction and fortitude, without thanks, or praise, for their sacrifices. For their pain. Admirable stewards of the mutant race. Mutant race. Did he truly just think the term? Charles Xavier arched his eyebrows in curiosity but banished the thought as the elevator car arrived. He had a more pressing issue waiting upstairs.

Charles arrived on the second floor where all was quiet. He still found it odd that Scott had decided to separate the men's and women's quarters. These were no longer immature children in need of supervision. These were no longer students in need of rules and regulations. Humpf. Considering Scott's most recent history with the less than demure Ms. Frost, this particular idiosyncracy seemed almost puritanical. He wheeled up to the forth door on his right. The man behind this door may have provided some inspiration for the stodgy policy. He knocked lightly, listening to the soft rustlings from within.

"Remy, it's Charles. I was wondering if I might have a word with you before the mission." he tried to sound friendly, approachable. He knew Gambit had always been a private man, especially with his feelings. The man's discomfort with him only added to the tension in their brief conversations. Charles needed to reach out to Remy, if only to let him know that support was available and freely offered.

The door swung open, Remy's voice trailing into the corridor. "Jus' gettin' cleaned up a bit. Come on in, Professor."

Charles wheeled into the room. He had never been in Remy's quarters before. In all the years he knew him, in all the years he hosted him under his own roof, he never visited the man in his own surroundings. Remy considered this house his home, these people his family. So much could be discerned about a person from their personal space; likes, dislikes, favorite colors, favorite music, hobbies. These trivial things couldn't necessarily decipher a man's morals, his ethics, or his philosophies on life. But they could build a clear picture of who the man really is. As a person. As an individual. As a friend. The thought struck Charles like the crack of a whip.

I have been - rude.

Charles casually surveyed the space as he entered. Sunlight barely filtered into the room through semiopaque, deep purple silk curtains which transformed it into a pale purple glow. The walls were a deep shade of crimson. Several fine pieces of antique furniture adorned the room. Heavy, dark wood, intricately carved, Art Nouveau period. His bed was a huge, ornate Gothic masterpiece. The heavily carved mahogany was aged to a nearly black, glossy patina. A few pieces of art graced the walls, framed in antique gilt frames. A small gallery light highlighted one small sketch in the center of the largest wall; a bucolic scene of a nude woman bathing in a sun dappled stream. He recognized the work but shook his head. The DaVinci must be a print. In all, this room was nothing like he expected. I really don't know you at all, do I Remy?

"So, what c'n Remy do for you, Professor?" Remy stepped from the bathroom, toweling his wet head. He was dressed in only his partly buckled pants, which hung low on his hips.

"That was about to be my question to you." Charles smiled warmly, even though it was troubling that Remy chose to shower and change uniforms in his room instead of in the team locker room, with his teammates. It was yet another sign that Remy was indeed isolating himself, slowly but surely. Charles feared that the unfortunate turn of events that brought the Neo boys to the mansion would just worsen this disturbing trend.

Remy sat on his bed and began pulling on socks then boots, regarding the Professor from under an errrant lock of damp auburn hair. "Not followin' you, Professor." He began tugging at the metal latches that secured his armored footwear at the calves.

"I'm concerned for you, Remy. I know this attack on the Neo bears an uncomfortable resemblance to..." Charles paused, regrouping his thoughts "... to another incident." With Remy's mental shields so tight, Charles couldn't be sure of his state of mind so he decided to approach the subject as delicately as possible. Remy's reaction would guide him from there.

"You c'n say it. No need ta beat around de bush on Remy's account." He continued dressing, pulling on a black, beta cloth shirt. "N' you weren't de only one to make dat connection, eh?" With a toss of his head, he flipped unruly hair back with a wet slap. "Sure glad Cyke didn't team me wit' Warren." The monotone cadence spoke volumes.

"Remy, I can't say I speak for everyone in this house, but I can say that, for the most part, you are among friends. Storm. Logan. Jubilee. Kurt. Jean-Paul. Bobby. Scott and Emma..."

Remy shot a surprised look in Charles direction. Scott and Emma? Dat be news to Remy he thought pulling on his gloves and wrangling his headpiece on and into the correct position. His moist hair wasn't cooperating so he yanked and tugged at the stray strands that tangled over his ears.

"...Hank. Myself," Xavier continued. "We all consider you family." Charles carefully studied Remy's face, taking measure of his reaction.

"We jus' a bit too dysfunctional to be much of a family, don' you t'ink?" Remy asked with a tiny smirk. He hoisted his armor up and over his shoulders and began fastening the latches at the sides.

Charles chuckled a bit. He was absolutely correct. Their bonds were forged in battle, out of necessity. Their camaraderie came, not from their similarities to each other but from the fact that the rest of the world would not tolerate their differences. If these X-men had led normal, unassuming, base scan human lives they would never have chosen each other as friends.

"While I may agree with that observation, I also know that you value our companionship. And I want you to know that I value yours as well. I'm here for you if you need me." Charles wanted to say so much more. To confess his guilt, offer his repentance, atone for his lack of involvement and his ignorance. But that was his ego. And not what Remy needed. He was determined to be the rock which Remy could anchor to in a storm. To be there for him now like he should have been then.

Remy paused, regarding the statement, searching for the hidden meanings, for the catch as he slowly pulled on his trenchcoat. When he couldn't find any, he looked to the Professor. He sat there, in his wheelchair, with a pleasant, almost hopeful, expression on his face. It was genuine. He could feel the warm sentiments like a warm summer breeze. A small smile brightened his face.

"You don' know what dat means ta me, Professor." Remy stood and extended his hand. Charles grasped his hand ebulliently, cupping his left hand over top, shaking heartily.

"Please, Remy. Call me Charles."

"C'n I call ya Chuck?"

"Don't push it, my friend. Don't push it."