Scott turned around to get a more thorough look at his new home for the foreseeable future. No one had mentioned anything about bail or contacting a bond agency, and Scott hadn't asked. He didn't have any money or any belongings to offer as collateral. Gazing at the empty walls and uncomfortable-looking bench that ran across three of them, he was content to take the officer up on his offer and try and get some rest.

As he approached an empty section of bench, the feel of several eyes on the back of his head told him that things weren't going to be as simple as all that. He froze. Before turning, he said, "Are you fellows looking for trouble?"

"Maybe we are," said a deep voice from behind him. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Scott sighed. Every single thing that had been happening to him seemed so clichéd. It was really starting to verge on the ridiculous. He turned slowly and faced the three men who were standing behind him. One of them was wearing a dark grey suit, his tie pulled loose and his shirt unbuttoned. The other two were young men, probably in their early twenties, Scott guessed, and were dressed in loose fitting t-shirts and baggy jeans.

"I don't have anything. You know that," Scott tried to reason. "What reason could you have for wanting to rough me up?"

The youngest-looking of the three with blond hair rubbed his nose and smiled. "We're bored," he said.

Scott tilted his head slightly to look around his would-be attackers and examined the remaining men in the cell. They were all cowering and showing bruises of their own on their faces. Scott shook his head. It didn't seem right that this kind of activity would be allowed within a police station, but he supposed the police had better things to do with their time than worry about the criminals they had already caught. At any rate, it seemed he had three men intent on passing the time by playing punching bag with his head. Unfortunately, Scott had other plans.

The other young man, who had brown hair and extraordinarily bad skin, stepped forward. Scott raised his fists, ignoring the stiffness in his injured arm. "You don't want to do this," Scott warned. "I'm a trained fighter."

"Yeah?" said the man in the suit. "Me too. Black belt in opening a massive can a…" The rest of the man's sentence was lost as he lunged forward, swinging his large fist towards Scott's head. Just as before, Scott's training kicked in and the world began moving in slow motion. The only sounds he heard were the commands he gave himself. Step back, he thought. Side-stepping, he grabbed the man's elbow and wrist. Attack. He twisted the man's arm and gave a sharp, calculated push to the man's elbow.. He heard the joint snap and allowed the man's forward momentum to carry him past him. The other two men converged, seemingly unaware of what had already happened to their "partner." This time, there was no sock slipping on the cold floor, he wasn't just waking from a much needed rest. This time, Scott Summers was tired, hungry, and angry at the world. Most importantly, he was tired of being pushed around and treated like a... Scott stopped the train of thought, astonished by his own thoughts. I'm tired of being treated like a normal person, he repeated in his mind.

He didn't have time to dwell on the thought. In fact, the distraction nearly cost him dearly. A punch landed on his cheek, and Scott skillfully turned his body and face, allowing the blow to roll off of him as much as possible. Still twisting, he lowered into a roundhouse kick, catching the blond man behind the knees. He followed up with a hard jab to the man's nose, breaking it.

The brown-haired, pizza-faced boy stared at Scott in wonder and finally realized that this was a fight he didn't want to be a part of. Raising his hands in surrender, he backed towards the bench.

When the world again sped to normal speed, and Scott became aware of the sounds around him, he heard the applause of not only the inmates who had been terrorized by the trio but also cheers of those in the cells around them.

Scott sighed deeply, frustrated by the accolades of those around him. Violence wasn't something to be proud of. "I warned you," he said as he bent to help the blond young man rise to his feet. His help was rejected. The fair-haired man jerked away from Scott's hands and snorted blood from his nose.

"Stay the hell away from me, man," he said.

The older man in the suit would be worse off, Scott knew. He was bound to be in a lot of pain. Moving to his side, Scott winced at the agony on the man's face. "I'm sorry," Scott said. "You didn't leave me much choice."

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" the man said through clenched teeth.

Scott paused. "Not far from here," he said. "In another lifetime."

Throwing the man's good arm over his shoulder, Scott helped him to his feet and moved him to the bench and then went to the door of the cell. "Officer!" he shouted. "Hey! We got some people hurt in here!"

At first, he was ignored, but Scott endured. Finally, a door opened and a couple of police officers appeared. The following minutes were filled with chaos, but eventually the three guilty parties were escorted out of the room, two of them headed to the hospital. With much of his cell's space freed up, Scott found a large area of bench, laid down on his back, and closed his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.

"Scott Summers!" someone yelled.

Scott sat up with a start, for an instant confused at the bars surrounding him. His sleep had been deep and much-needed. Still, the bench wasn't very comfortable, and he rubbed his neck and stretched his back as he dropped his feet to the floor and looked to the direction of the voice. He noticed with the hint of a smirk the wide berth the rest of the inmates were giving him.

"Scott Summers!" the voice repeated.

"I'm here!" he replied. "What is it?"

The big-bellied officer at the door pulled open the bars. "Come with me," he said.

Scott fought the urge to stretch as he rose to his feet. He looked around him, looking for a hint of what was about to happen in the faces of the other men. There was nothing, except for a smile and the look of relief.

"What time is it?" Scott asked as he stepped out of the cell. The officer closed the door and slapped cuffs around Scott's wrists.

"It's about five," the policeman said while he pushed Scott forward.

"In the morning?"

"Yeah, and it's time for your warm milk," the large man said with sarcasm in his voice. "No, five PM. (Thank God.)"

Scott shook his head. He couldn't believe he'd slept so long. How long would he have slept if the beer-bellied man behind him hadn't come yelling? Hanging his head, he remembered the day when he could have run for three days without sleeping. His body just wasn't in the same shape it had been before. It seemed like a week had passed since he'd escaped the hospital.

Oh well, he thought. I'll have plenty of time to rest up. And get in shape.

He was led back to the interrogation room and seated. As the officer left, he called over his shoulder. "The detective will be right with you."

Scott shifted in the seat, sliding his rear onto the edge, trying to make himself comfortable. If the wait was anything like the first time around, he was going to settle in. Maybe he could even squeeze a little more sleep in…

The door flew open and Detective Bates stepped in, looking almost as disheveled as Scott. His hair was mussed and his eyes heavy with exhaustion. There were loose papers crinkled in his hands, and his countenance was full of a mixture of confusion and wonder.

Scott's brow furled. "What's going on?" he couldn't stop himself from saying.

"That's what I wanna know," Bates said with a hint of anger. "This has been one HELL-acious day, and I got one man to blame." His finger jabbed at Scott. "You."

Bates placed his hands on his hips and started pacing back and forth in front of Scott, pressing back his sports jacket and showing his white shirt half untucked from his trousers. "Now the way I see it," he continued. "You owe me big for the mountain of shit that just landed on my desk and for this headache I got that just won't quit, and for the fact that I ain't ripped that head o' yours off yet and tossed it to the sharks waitin' out front for you with their cameras and recorders."

Scott's frown only deepened. Cameras? he asked himself. He raised his hand (and the one shackled to it) and rubbed his forehead. He wished he could get the fog out of his head and think clearly.

"Yeah, so I think, after all I been through, you could at least tell me what you were doing. What you were running from, and where in God's green earth you thought you were going?"

Scott looked at the detective with something close to sympathy, but there was no way to explain to him what he wanted to hear and, under his current condition, Scott couldn't think of a lie good enough to tell him either. I was looking for the mutant training facility and headquarters of the super-hero team called the X-Men, he thought. His eyes left Detective Bates' and focused on the mirror facing him. Yeah, that ought to land me straight inside an asylum in record time.

"Don't worry about them," Bates said, stepping in front of Scott, blocking his view of the mirror, and, Scott noticed, their view of him. "Tell me," he whispered. "I know about the coma. I know you were confused. I know everything seems a little crazy. I also know that you ain't a bad guy. The news is crawling with the story of a stranger saving a woman in a rest area from a rapist who just happens to also be a cop, and, from first glances, this wasn't his first victim. Our guys in three states have been looking all over for this serial rapist, and you bagged him for us. It's big news, and it's got a lot of people wanting you out of this precinct as soon as possible. It's bad publicity for a hero to be locked up in jail."

Scott listened with awe, but the frown never left his face.

"Are you hearing me, Summers?" Bates continued, his voice still low. "You've bought yourself a free ticket outta here, but you need me to stamp it, and I'm tellin' you, I wanna know where you were heading."

Scott squinted, a gesture that was no longer invisible to the world as it had been while he wore his visor and shades, and a look he gave when he was about to be stubborn. Jean had always hated it when he squinted. She told him it would give him "crow's feet." It had.

"I was chasing a dream," Scott said. Though it wasn't mine, Scott thought. Not originally. Scott sighed. "Only the pot wasn't at the end of the rainbow."

Bates dropped his head, considering Scott's words carefully and chewing with his mouth as he milled over the thoughts.

"I don't remember the life they say I had," Scott whispered.

Bates shook his head slowly. "I see… Yeah, the hospital report said…" There was a long pause, during which Bates would alternatively nod his head, and shake it in disbelief. "Yeah," he said, and patted Scott on the shoulder.

"Well, Mr. Summers," the detective said, stepping away from Scott and speaking loudly again. "The owner of the golf course has dropped charges, as has the owner of the plane, contingent on the fact you agree to pay for damages incurred."

Scott nodded, suddenly feeling a ray of hope and the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

The detective opened the door and a very familiar figure was standing on the other side. "And your wife has posted bail." Bates turned to face Scott, but Scott's eyes were fixed only on the woman before him. "You're a free man," Bates said.

"Julia?" Scott said.

"For now," Bates added under his breath.