Author's note: Some housekeeping. Obviously, I don't own any of this, though Narra is an original character. I recently found out that a comic book character named Leech can do much the same thing she can, though I came up with her before I read about him. Like I said, this will be based on movie canon, with bits of the comic book woven in. And I think I changed Beast' character slightly—was he a biochemist?

A/N 2: A few revisions as of 10 AM EST, 5/6.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. This didn't come out exactly like I wanted, but oh well.

BIG BOLD NOTE: I have not seen X3. I will not see it until this story is complete. Please, if you review, do not include spoilers for it, or criticize me for being uncanonical to X3. Thank you.

-

Narra, exhausted after weeks on the road, slept soundly, so soundly that she didn't notice the door sliding open, the accompanying flare of light, or the soft footsteps. When she finally woke up some hours later, there was a pile of clothes by her feet.

She blinked up at the white ceiling, disoriented. There was no clock and no windows, so she had no way of knowing what time it was; it could have been the middle of the night.

In the wall to her right a door was open that she hadn't noticed the night before, leading to a bathroom. She looked from the open door to the clothes, and decided to make herself presentable, then find something to eat. Her appetite had returned while she slept, and now she was faint with hunger.

The bathroom had obviously been made to accommodate injured mutants of all forms, and contained a huge sunken bath as well as a showerhead. She eyed the bath with interest, but eventually decided that the warm water would put her to sleep again and she'd probably drown.

The contusions, wounds and bruises on her thin skin were clearly visible as she scrubbed away three days' worth of dirt, a history of her trip ranging from nearly healed to fresh. Most noticeable out of all of them were the three angry red gashes on her left shoulder. They'd probably scar, she thought dispassionately.

The pile of clothing proved to be a shirt and pants, simple and dark. They were a bit loose on her, but the feeling of wearing clean, dry clothing was so luxurious that she didn't care. Not wanting to put on her filthy shoes, she went barefoot, and since she couldn't braid her hair without wrenching her shoulder, she left it loose, combing it clumsily into some semblance of order with her fingers. Finally she stuffed the dirty clothes into her backpack, swung that over her good arm, and approached the door, which slid open accommodatingly.

Retracing her steps, she came back to the ground floor and blinked against the sunlight streaming in the windows. It was apparently mid-morning, but the hallways were deserted. Narra cautiously stretched out her senses and found the greatest concentration of emotion stretching away from her. She stopped walking and closed her eyes, exploring the sensations, tasting them in her head. There was contentment, and boredom, and happiness, and anger; love, hate, jealousy, sadness, surprise... all the emotions one would expect of normal people. But there was very little fear. This was a safe place, then.

After a few minutes she opened her eyes again and looked around. Ahead, on the right, was a small kitchen. It, too, was deserted, but by the haphazardly piled assortment of dishes in the sink, several someones had eaten here earlier, and by the odd remnants of even odder foods clinging to the plates and bowls, most of them had been children.

Looking through the cabinets and cupboards, reveling in having the luxury of choice, she finally put a small pot of water on to boil and made herself a bowl of oatmeal, heavily embellishing it with honey, cinnamon, and raisins. Dish in hand, she wandered out into the hallway, only to return to the kitchen for her backpack.

Near the kitchen was a library, filled wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with thousands of books. She wandered over to the genetics section and looked at the selection. Most of them Narra had read, but one, by Dr. Hank McCoy, was unfamiliar to her. She pulled it off of the shelf and began to read, oatmeal quickly forgotten. Only when her foot started to cramp did she realize that her breakfast was cooling, and she was still ravenous. She replaced the book and left.

Also nearby was a large open area containing several couches, some chairs, and a television, obviously a rec room of some sort. Through another door she saw a game room, with a pool table and a foozball table as well as a ping-pong net. Farther through that area was a pair of massive doors, obviously the front entrance, but she turned down another hallway and continued her explorations. As she walked farther, past more living areas, the rooms took on more of an institutional atmosphere, and Narra realized she was in the school.

Having scraped the bowl clean, she retraced her steps to the kitchen, washing the dishes she'd used as well as the others in the sink. Then, the plan of the house firmly in her mind, she went looking for someone.

It wasn't very long before she was found by Dr. Grey as the red-haired woman stepped out of what appeared to be a science classroom. Faint surprise radiated off of her-- startlement, really-- but she smiled. "How do you feel?"

Narra experimentally rotated her left arm in a restricted arc. "Much better, thank you."

"Did you get something to eat?"

Narra nodded.

"I was on my way to come find you, actually," she said. "The professor would like to talk to you."

So Narra followed Dr. Grey down the hall, nearly to the other end of the house, into what proved to be a study. The professor was seated behind a desk, talking with the other occupant of the room, the third man from the night before. He looked up when they entered and smiled a welcome.

"Ah, our newest resident," he said. "I trust you're feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, instinctively closing herself off as she glanced quickly around the study. There was no need to be wary of attack here, but it was deeply ingrained instinct after six weeks on the run. And she was curious.

"I don't believe you've met Scott Summers," he continued, indicating the second man, who nodded. Though they were inside, he wore sunglasses with dark red lenses.

"Storm coming?" Dr. Grey asked.

Professor Xavier cocked his head as if listening. "She's on her way," he said, and sure enough, the door opened a moment later.

Narra was surprised to see Ms. Munroe enter. Her bewilderment must have shown on her face, for Dr. Grey explained, "Storm is... it's like a mutant name. Scott is Cyclops, and Logan is Wolverine. Most of us have them."

"And you are?" Narra asked.

She shook her head. "Just Jean."

"I thought Logan was going to be here," Ms. Munroe-- Storm-- said.

Narra felt a brief flare of hostility as Scott said, "He went off somewhere early this morning."

There was a pause, then the professor said, "I believe we've put together most of your story, but there are still some questions."

Narra nodded.

"Do you have any idea who the men who chased you were?" said Scott. "Who sent them?"

She shook her head. "The first people to express an interest in obtaining my father's work were representatives of a biopharmaceutical firm. I'm almost positive the men who pursued me were related in it to some way, yet when they first approached him my father researched them thoroughly and found them to be a shadow front for another entity."

"Who?"

"We never found out."

"What kind of research, exactly, does your father do?" said Storm.

"He's a genetics professor at the University of Pittsburgh," she said at last, expanding on what she'd said the night before. "For the past twenty years he's been studying the transmission of mutant traits through family lines. Before that he did other research into genetic determination of mutant emergence." Storm and Scott looked confused, so she explained, "He was trying to find out what made mutant traits emerge when they did, whether under stress or at puberty."

"Yes, I remember being quite impressed with his early work," the professor murmured.

"You knew him?" Scott said.

Professor Xavier shook his head. "Never personally. Only by reputation. He's quite famous in his field."

Narra smiled, then went on. "For the past three years or so, someone has been trying to get access to his research. First the shadow corporation contacted him with a lucrative offer if he would turn his data over to them, but he turned them down. They tried to... persuade him, but he refused. They vanished, and we thought that was the end of it until his lab at school was vandalized, and then his office."

"You're sure whoever it was was looking for his data?" Scott asked.

She nodded. "Yes, because the computers were always left intact, but everything else would be strewn everywhere."

"Did they ever find anything?"

"No. Everything was on one computer at home." Narra paused, then continued. "People started following us. My father started to get threats. Then..." she paused again, trying once again to sort through hee jumbled memories of that taut day. "I don't know for sure, but I think someone attacked Stella, my sister," she said finally. "I was on my way home from class when my father called and told me to drop whatever I was doing and leave right away." What had scared her, more than anything else, was that her father had sounded frightened. "By the time he hung up I was at home anyway. I knew they would be coming for his data, so I copied his and my hard drives onto a DVD and destroyed the computers. As I walked out the backyard, men in black arrived in the front. They ransacked the house."

"And then you came here."

Narra nodded.

"What do you intend to do now?" said Storm.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," added the professor.

"Thank you," Narra said. "I would like to stay here and look for my family. And resume my research."

"Research?" said Storm. "You mean your father's?"

Narra shook her head. "I was my father's lab assistant, but I also did work of my own."

Jean looked interested. "What kind of work?"

"Broadly, building a database of mutant DNA in order to determine the differences between the mutant genome and the non-mutant one. Specifically, I'm hoping to discover which genes control which types of mutations."

"Could you also use it to determine more about a mutation based on the person's genetic code?" asked Scott.

"It would depend on the mutation, but it's very probable."

Scott looked at the professor. "She could use the DNA of the children, assuming they are amenable."

Professor Xavier nodded. "Yes, that was my initial idea as well." Narra caught an emotional surge and realized that another person was approaching; a moment later, there was a soft knock on the door. "Ah, my literature students." The others in the room stood, so Narra followed suit. "One more question before you go," he said. "Your mutation seems to be of an... unusual nature."

Narra hesitated. "I have what my father called a reactive mutaton," she said. "I can suppress the powers of other mutants. I also inherited the empathy trait from my mother."

"You sense other peoples' emotions?" said Storm.

She nodded. "I can also affect them." She felt no concern, or disquiet, from any of the others, and felt her own worries ease; she had not been sure how they would react to her primary mutation.

"I'll ask one of the older girls to help you get settled," Jean said as they walked down the hallway. "Move you into a room, find you some more clothes."

"Thank you," Narra said, slipping her backpack over her right shoulder. Storm, on her other side, gave it a curious look, but didn't say anything.

-

Logan woke sweat-soaked to a dark, hot room that, to his enhanced senses, reeked of anger and fear.

Shoving the damp blankets to the floor, he padded silently to the door and walked out. The hallways were dark and quiet, the students either in bed or sneaking around silently enough that they appeared to be in bed. He didn't know what time it was; probably around two. He'd gotten back around midnight from a long jaunt on Cyclops's bike.

Logan paced silently down the stairs, welcoming the cool air. It slowed his rapidly pounding heart. He couldn't remember the dream, but knew it had been like all the others: rage. Blood. Screams.

-

Narra moved on autopilot as she put two saucepans on to heat, one of milk and one of water. She'd woken in the middle of the night, again ravenously hungry. It probably would be a couple of weeks before she fully recovered from her cross-country exodus.

She measured from the box, blinking back sudden tears as she recalled all the times she'd done this at home after a late night at the lab. Her mother had taken to teasing her about the 'Phantom Glutton', who mysteriously made dirty dishes appear between supper and breakfast. Where was her mother now?

"I'm sorry about your shoulder."

Wrapped up in her own thoughts, Narra missed the approach of another person, and squelched the startled impulse to assume a fighting position. Instead she looked up quickly. Logan-- Wolverine-- was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. He looked like he'd just gotten out of bed, and beneath a calm surface she sensed a dark tangle of emotions.

"It's fine," she said, and felt strong surprise rolling off of him. "Want some noodles?"

-

Logan blinked. "Sure." Whatever he'd expected-- fear, anger-- he hadn't gotten.

As the girl-- Narra, he remembered-- added dried cereal to one of the pots and dark powder to the other, he watched her. She was tall, and slender to the point of being gaunt, with little figure. Dark hair hung loose to the middle of her back. He couldn't help but notice that she used her left arm sparingly. Her facial structure seemed to reflect exoticism that was at odds with her pale skin.

She didn't look at him again, but concentrated on her task, retrieving a variety of items from what Logan realized as the spice cabinet and a perforated metal bowl from under the counter. When the contents of the two pots were apparently done, she took two bowls from a cabinet with the hesitancy of someone who is in unfamiliar territory. Steam rose in a great cloud as she strained the noodles.

Logan hadn't moved out of the doorway. Narra put the two bowls on the table and glanced up at him; it was a question, or an invitation. Startled out of his reverie, he sat down a bit awkwardly, unsure as to what to say.

She divided the contents of the other pan into two mugs and slid one across the table to him. He looked down in surprise: it was hot chocolate.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." She slid into the seat across from him with the grace that had caused him to mistake her identity, though now that he was closer, Logan realized that she moved less sinuously and with more economy of motion than Mystique.

Mystique. He still felt like he had to explain. "I thought you were attacking the school," he said abruptly, his voice coming out lower and more grating than he'd intended.

Narra waved away his explanation. "I probably would have done the same thing."

One eyebrow curled up. "You don't have claws."

"No, but I am a second-degree black belt."

Logan blinked again, then nodded. "Fair enough."

Narra performed what looked like a complicated maneuver with the row of spice bottles, her hands always replacing an old bottle and picking up a new one as she progressed down the line, shaking the contents into either her dish or her mug.

"What was that?" he said.

She looked up. "It's just how I season my food."

It looked pretty weird to him, but he shrugged. Whatever floated her boat.

"What are you?" he said suddenly a few minutes later.

Narra looked up again. "I beg your pardon?"

He grimaced. "You look like you should be from the islands or something."

Her face cleared. "My mother is half-Italian. My father is half-Indian."

He nodded. "And you don't know where they are?"

"No."

"Tough break."

Narra shrugged, and he sensed her unwillingness to continue the discussion. "So, you stayin' on here?"

"Yes," she said. "To continue my research."

He raised an eyebrow. "Research?"

Large dark eyes surveyed him steadily over the rim of the mug. "I'm a geneticist."

"Oh."

Narra got up to put the spices away. "Why didn't you duck?" Logan said suddenly, a few minutes later.

"I block other peoples' mutations," she said. "I thought the claws were yours."

"No," he said, reluctant in his own turn to discuss it. Then: "You stop other people from usin' their powers?"

She nodded.

"That could've come in handy," he muttered.

"The Liberty Island attack?"

He frowned. "How'd you know about that?"

"Something Jean said."

Had Logan been a true wolverine, his ears would have perked up at the name; as it was, he merely half-nodded, half-shrugged, trying to feign indifference.

The empty dishes went in the sink. As Narra turned to go, he noticed that she wasn't wearing any shoes. "Good night," she said, though technically it was probably morning.

"'Night." He watched her go with a slight frown, still not sure what to make of her. Then he shrugged. As mutants went, she was pretty normal.

Logan wandered the halls for a few minutes, but his restlesssness was gone, and when he went back to bed, so were his nightmares.