"Rock-a-bye baby, safe under the ground-"

Stop. Rewind. Repeat.

The woman's dark hair gleamed on the screen, the bundle of squirming cloth in her arms gently rocked as she sang.

"-with the demons and the ghosties that hunt without sound."

Stop. Rewind. Repeat.

The old man enters the cell softly, cybernetic arm clicking and whirring. He can hear it on the speakers. A man with long blonde hair stands beside the older man, a gun cradled restlessly in his hands. Lips, blue with cold, part, and a soft voice asks, "Odin?" The watcher is confused, his hands, shackled together, rattling on the arms of the chair.

The baby is removed from the hands of the woman, who continues to rock and sing just the same. The doctor stares with pitiless gray eyes at the insane prisoner, and nods to Odin. The massive man takes a step forward, places the gun against her head, and fires. Gray matter explodes onto the walls and floor, painting the room with crimson.

The baby does not cry. Blue eyes, token of a father never known, stare at the corpse with unnerving intelligence. At the age of three hours old, the child has been admitted into the small league of those who see their mothers die.

There are no tears. No screams. No emotion. The two, now three, leave the room, and the baby is silent.

The tattered blue blanket falls to the floor with a rustle.

"Heero! Heero, wake up!"

He woke from dreaming with a crash, meeting Duo's red-rimmed eyes and feverishly slurred words.

There was whisky on Duo's breath.

Dark eyes moved to stare at the others. Trowa was sprawled across the end of his bed, a vapid, mad smile scrawled across his lips, caught in the drugged stupor of LSD. It was a useful coping mechanism, he knew; after much experimentation, Trowa learned to control the visions he had while high, somewhat.

Quatre was deeply asleep, his small, lithe form, shoulder bandaged tightly, sprawled across Trowa, one slim hand fisted in Trowa's shirt. A box of tranquilizer pills, nearly empty, rested on the bureau, illuminated by the faint light of the moon. Quatre was lucky in his choice of poison; the pills allowed him peaceful rest and an escape from the constant foreign emotion his Space Heart cursed him with.

The last member of their mismatched family was on the other side of the bed; they had pushed together the three beds when they first arrived in order to make one large one for them all to sleep in. Wufei was curled in a fetal position, a slight smile tugging at his lips, his breathing unnaturally slow and raspy. Heroin was something that even Gundam pilots are not immune to.

"Yoush m' bes' friend!" Duo slurred, plunking down beside him and flinging an arm around slim, scarred shoulders. Heero stared up into glazed violet eyes calmly and said,

"I am flattered. Now go to sleep." Duo pouted childishly, the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the nightstand gleaming in the light. "Yer no fun," the braided man chided, snuggling up to Heero and closing his eyes. Trowa laughed suddenly, an unnerving, high-pitched sound.

Heero stared into the darkness of the night, surrounded by drug addicts who were also his best friends, closed his eyes, and slipped away.


"I'm telling ya, Chuck, those kids are dangerous!" Logan paced the soft blue carpet of Charles' office, the bald man watching him with a weary, paternal expression. Logan spun, irritated, continuing, "They slaughtered the opponents in the simulation. Heero tore out one's throat and the other's belly. Duo was whispering at the end; he said, 'Shinigami does not play fair.' 'Shinigami' means 'God of Death.' Even that nice one, Quatre, he threw a spear into one without blinking an eye."

Frustrated, Logan raked his fingers through his dark hair, meeting Charles' eyes. "They're soldiers. I dunno what kind or what training they've had, but they're soldiers." Charles smiled sadly, replying,

"I'm aware of that, Logan. Unfortunately, I'm still unable to see inside their minds." Logan snorted at that, and, bidding a gruff goodbye, left the room. Silently, Charles finished his thought, 'Although I'm not sure I'd want to.'

Logan stopped short in the hallway leading to the attics of the Institute. He slept close to them, since he was prone to nightmares, and could injure a roommate or the person who came to check on him. His nose twitched, a scowl wrinkling his forehead.

The spicy scent of cigarettes, vaguely minty (menthol?) wafted about him, coming from the half-open window to his left.

"Stupid kids," he muttered; if one of them was smoking, that meant they had to have pilfered the cigarettes from his stash. Leaning outside the window, his claws shot out with a 'snickt!' to plunge deeply into the bricks, anchoring him to the wall. Amber-brown eyes narrowed in confusion as he saw nothing, no shoes, no pants, no sign of anyone.

With a grunt, he swung his legs outside the window and jammed the steel-capped toes of his boots into the mortared cracks between the bricks, pulling his arm back and plunging it back into another brick, beginning his slow, laborious ascent up the wall of the Institute.

As he reached the shingled roof, Logan withdrew his claws, before he heaved himself over with a grunt, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun, steely-blue eyes focused on him with all the intensity of a laser beam.

Heero.

"You can put the gun away," Logan said, dusting off his worn jeans as he stood, looking around at the admittedly odd scenery.

Heero was sprawled against one of the chimneys, his back painfully straight, legs crooked slightly and crossed at the ankles. Darkly intelligent eyes watched his every move, the younger man's ragged denim jacket rippling in sync with his sienna-brown hair. A lit cigarette rested lazily in the corner of Heero's mouth, the red-glowing tip nearly blending in with the crimson bricks behind him.

"You smoke?" Logan asked rhetorically, moving cautiously over to sit well away from Heero. The older mutant pulled one of his cigars from his pockets and flicked his lighter (a Zippo, emblazoned with a maple leaf) open, lighting the cigar and sticking it in his mouth, beginning to chew contentedly on the tobacco. Heero raised an eyebrow, saying simply,

"Yes." Logan nearly snorted; it certainly seemed that the kid did not have a penchant for idle conversation. A man after his own heart. He was lucky when it came to smoking; his healing factor neutralized all negative effects, as well as making him practically immortal. It must be the same for Heero, then.

"I noticed your tactics in the Danger Room. What school of martial arts did you and the others train in?" Heero's eyes flicked over to stare piercingly at him for a moment, his agile mind quickly considering the ramifications of telling Logan the information. It couldn't truly be used against them, since in this time; there was no OZ, nor ESA. In his short, clipped voice, he spoke softly,

"Wufei is a master in Shokotan. Quatre is a master at aikido. Trowa has mastered jujitsu, Duo ninjitsu." Logan listened carefully, nodding once he comprehended the different styles. A diverse, well-rounded group, indeed. But Heero hadn't said what he was trained in...

"And you?" A cynical snort drifted through the air, Heero removing the cigarette from his mouth and blowing the smoke out idly. The older man waited patiently for an answer, confident he would get one. Heero turned to him, his expression blank.

"All of them, and many more." Logan lifted an eyebrow in surprise, replying, "And why do you have to know all of them, and the others only one each?" Heero shrugged and said in a tone of finality,

"It was required." Logan inhaled deeply, the familiar burn of smoke racing through his lungs, before he retorted,

"What, so someone gives you a requirement, and you fulfill it?" Heero nodded once, sharply, and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. Logan replied idly, "Can't be much of a life." Heero turned to him, eyes calculating, measuring his worth. Logan stared back, amber-brown meeting electric blue, two souls crying out in silent, unknown agony reaching for each other, for any kind of kinship or understanding. Thin lines of stress faded for a moment, the hard planes of their faces softened-

And the moment broke, Heero turning away and leaping down onto the ledge of the window, swinging inside the hallways of the Institute once more.

Logan was left only with the fading whisper,

"It isn't a life."


"Scott..."

"Yeah?" Jean glanced at her boyfriend, green eyes worried. "School starts in a week, and the new mutants are probably going to be going with us."

"So?" Jean, irritated, continued, "So what if they react to the people in the school like they did in the Danger Room? They could very easily kill someone." Ororo entered the room, Rogue and Evan following. The younger members of the X-men looked up from their awed contemplation of Ginsu knives on the television screen, turning to face the older woman. Ororo perched on the arm of the couch, smoothing her skirt out.

"I know that everyone is very excited to be going back to school," she smiled at the loud groans of protest, "But there is an added element of danger this year. As you all know, we have been exposed as mutants to the rest of the world. Prejudice and hazing will likely run rampant. The new mutants- Duo, Trowa, Heero, Wufei, and Quatre- will be going to school with you. Unfortunately, they have shown themselves to be highly dangerous and possibly paranoid, so the hostile environment might affect them badly, leading to extreme violence. Charles and I have decided to partner several of you with one of them, making sure that as little fights as possible happen. We tested all five of them, and all of them are at senior level, but we only have two seniors, so one of them will be partnered with both of you. So…" she pulled out a list; the teenager's eyes followed it immediately, waiting. Ororo read the list out,

"Kurt, you have Trowa. Kitty has Quatre; Rogue, you have Duo; Heero is with Jean, and Wufei is partnered with-"Scott blanched when he realized, "Scott," Ororo finished cheerfully. "Any questions? Yes, Kurt?"

"What if the Brotherhood or the Acolytes attempt to start a fight?" The blue-furred mutant ventured, his tail flicking to emphasize his nervousness. "Jean will keep tabs on everything, right?" The telepath nodded distractedly, her mind consumed with thoughts of how to prevent Heero from destroying the school. Scott's eyes flicked to her beneath his visor; jealousy roiled in his gut: Heero was attractive, if he was any judge, and he had that damnable 'look-at-me-I'm-dark-and-sexy' air about him. He smirked; he was taller then Jean, though, whereas Heero was at least a foot shorter then her. He did have a height advantage, at least.


"Okay, guys, let's review the plan." Duo sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, dressed in black sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, appearing nowhere near hung-over. The other pilots had elected him to serve as their leader in the education part of their time here; as an American, and being naturally gregarious, he was in the perfect position to tell them what to do in the unfamiliar environment of a public high school.

"Quatre-"the Arabian looked up with a pained smile: his Space Heart was quickly going into overload from the tidal wave of emotion raging around the Institute. Trowa gripped his uninjured shoulder in a silent show of support, sitting behind the smaller teenager with his free arm wrapped loosely around Quatre's waist.

"You're going to keep watch on all of us using your Space Heart. If one of us starts to experience anger, tell the rest of using some sort of signal, like making our heart rates accelerate briefly. Then the rest of us will show up to support the one in trouble." The former Deathscythe pilot grimaced as he said, "I know that none of us are very happy about being separated, or about this harebrained 'partners' shit. As for the partners-"he flashed a quick smirk at Wufei-"Man, I pity you, 'Fei, getting stuck with that tight-ass Scott. But you like your asses- Mmmphg!"

"Finish that sentence and die, Maxwell," Wufei said, pretending to see nothing at all unusual about his clamping his hand over Duo's mouth. Duo slyly stuck his tongue out and licked Wufei's palm, making the Oriental pull his hand back with a cry of disgust. "Okay, okay," Duo said, holding his hands up in surrender to the reproving glares of Heero and Trowa.

"As for the partners, we're going to stay neutral. Offer no false information unless they ask for it, and say nothing unless they initiate a conversation." 'Not that I'm going to follow those rules to the letter,' he thought. Homework will be dealt with as a group, each to their own strengths. Hopefully no one will ask us for help, but if they do, offer it and then retreat. As for our weapons, I was thinking that we should leave-"he looked around the circle, grinning at the stubborn glares sent his way. "Okay, okay, I was just yanking your chain. We can each take one gun, but nothing more. There are no metal detectors so we're safe. Okay, that's the end. Any questions or concerns?"

Heero blinked twice, mentally separating himself from Zero's whispered entreaties and threats before he said,

"Zero is becoming angry. It is demanding more bloodshed, which I refuse to give it. I estimate that soon it will attempt to try to control me. Quatre, have the remnants of Zero in you said anything?" Quatre sighed; although Heero was the one to bear the burden of carrying nearly all of the Zero System in his brain, he still dealt every day with part of Zero. The system, divorced from its world of constant battle and bloodshed, was rapidly growing more demanding, more insistent in its assurances that total annihilation of everyone around them was necessary to keep the five of them from torture and death.

"Yes, Heero, although I'm usually able to control or ignore it. Not like you, I'm afraid," he said. Heero, as master of the Zero System, was privy to all of its thoughts, and as such, he shared his body with the System. At rare intervals, the system was able to take control, and, without the intervention of the other pilots, death tore a swath across the land.

"I've chosen some clothes for all of us that aren't quite as- conspicuous as what we usually wear. We're all going to be in jeans and t-shirts; we want to resemble each other slightly, so that the other students will associate us with each other unconsciously. And yes, Duo, you get to wear your precious black anarchy shirt and your trench coat," Quatre said with a fond glance at the braided teenager. He had the most 'normal' sense of fashion among them, pink shirts notwithstanding, so he was elected to select clothing for them. Duo whooped and disappeared into the bathroom, dragging his bag of clothing with him.

"Look at it this way," Wufei offered. "If we keep him happy, we never have to go on one of those hellish shopping expeditions again."

"True," Trowa said. Quatre reached up and lightly hit his lover on the side of his head, grinning. "Come on, I like to shop." Trowa rolled his eyes in mock-despair, focusing when Heero coughed in impatience. "Heero, you've got your denim jacket and your tennis shoes- not the horrid yellow ones, please- and your shirts. Please choose something from the white to gray range- we do want to appear as generic as possible. Wufei, the white shirt and your beloved Doc Martens should do fine." Wufei hmphed; it wasn't his fault that he wanted to wear shoes with thick soles so that he could bash someone's chest in if needed. "Trowa, the green shirt- no, not the turtleneck, love- will do well."

Duo entered the room again, doing a twirl to show off his outfit. Quatre sighed and said, "Duo, when I said you could wear your trench coat, I did not mean the one with the handmade burning effigy of Scott on the back."