This being the X-Men, Marvel own all. The idea of Marc Duchaine and his family as OCs are my own, however. This disclaimer applies to the whole story. Please read and review, and tell me if you think anything needs changing - this being my first fanfic and all!

-- Michael

--------------------------------------------------------

Ottawa, the near future.

The Ottawa General Hospital maternity ward supervisor was a tall, spare man called Michael Dumas. His tie was gone, his collar loose, and his sleeves rolled up beyond the elbows. A half-empty mug of coffee dangled precariously from one hand. His shift was at an end for yet another long day of mixed joy and sorrow, for the mothers cradling their newborn infants, and the poor souls who had had to endure an intensive labour only to find their child was blue and still. Fortunately there had been none of those today.

He was still waiting for the night supervisor to show up and relieve him when a familiar face passed him, one that was etched in pain, supine on a gurney heading in the direction of the delivery room. Wheeling round, he followed the familiar face as he tried to force his way through the double doors that had swung shut after the gurney had passed through.

"Marie? Marie Duchaine? What are you doing here?" he asked, knowing instantly that it was a stupid question, that-

"She's having a baby, Michael," said a laughing voice behind him. Dumas turned around. A man, slightly shorter than him, but still fairly tall, dressed in an expensive, well-tailored business suit stood in the doorway. He had jet-black hair, a clean-shaven, boyish face that radiated amusement. Marie's husband, Jacques Duchaine, was thirty-five years old, and a rising star in the Canadian Diplomatic Service. His good looks, coupled with the radiant charm and ability to put anyone at ease had tipped him for some of the more choice assignments available to diplomats. He would not be starting his career in the Sudan.

"I can see she's having a baby, Jacques, old friend," he retorted good-naturedly. "Remember, I've been giving her check-ups for the last few months. I just didn't realise that it was so close to your due date."

"It's not," said Marie, through gritted teeth. "He's about three weeks early."

"But I thought you didn't want to know the baby's sex until it was born," said Michael.

"Please, Michael, if a girl ever kicks this hard, then we should see more females in gridiron football," said Marie tartly, but with an edge of humour. Jacques smiled, moving to stand beside his wife. Her hand snaked out and grabbed his, and squeezed tightly. At that point, the night supervisor hurried through the door.

"Michael, I'm so sorry, I got caught by someone in the car park," he said breathlessly. He quickly organised the team that would take care of Marie, and with that, Michael Dumas walked out of the delivery rooms, out of the maternity block, and out of the hospital, to the staff car park, where he got into his four-year-old Honda for the fifteen minute drive home.

He was met at the door by Charlie, his black Labrador, who enthusiastically tried to take out Michael's knees with his tail. Three small dog chews and a lot of ear-scratching later, Michael stretched out on the sofa with a TV remote, while Charlie occupied an easy chair with the last half of one of his chews. The news was on, and he caught the last half of a story about a teenage boy in America who had nearly killed one of his classmates by somehow firing beams of red light from his eyes. He was being kept in hospital for tests, while the other boy lay in intensive care, with serious head injuries. The boy who was able to fire these so-called "optic blasts" had bandages taped over his eyes, and had the look of a rabbit caught in the glare of a car's headlights.

Michael flipped the TV off and sighed. He already knew what would happen. The poor kid would get called a mutant, terrorised by his local community and reviled, hated for something that was, essentially, not his fault. It was just sheer bad luck that his powers had manifested in just about the worse way possible. But then again, that was the American Way.

If it had been Canada, the boy would have been incorporated into the Alpha Flight, a security organisation that was comprised solely of mutants. They were among the best security forces in the world, and much interest had been generated by the Canadian Government's apparent lack of fear of the "Mutant Menace" that was being peddled on television, especially the networks and shows funded or presented by right-wing politicians and citizens.

Some other governments were looking into creating their own version of Alpha Flight.

In any case, there was nothing he, Michael Dumas, could do, was there?

The birth certificate of Marc Christopher Duchaine put his time of birth at 03.14am, July 25th. It was soon after the birth that another well-dressed man entered the Maternity ward, and handed Jacques a letter. It was an official letter from the Diplomatic Service, showing his next assignment to be Junior Ambassador to France, under Ambassador Julie Perrault. He had immediately informed the Service that he was now a father, and his departure was delayed by a few days, to make sure that little Marc was given the okay to fly.

The Duchaines were given their diplomatic passports at the airport, as they boarded an Air Canada flight bound for Charles De Gaulle Airport. Sitting in First Class, Marc only cried a few times on the six-hour flight, mostly during the takeoff. Some other passengers remarked on what a beautiful baby he was. Marie beamed.

They were met by Ambassador Perrault herself, and she whisked them from the airport to the embassy in a back limousine with diplomatic licence plates.

"You'll just be starting out by going to the usual functions, parties hosted by politicians and media tycoons and everyone else." She smiled, looking at Marie. "I warn you, my dear, little Marc there will become a godsend after a few of the more boring parties. A muttered excuse of the both of you needing your sleep, or needing to change your son, or something like that will be your cast-iron excuse to get rid of the bores."

Marc grew from thirteen days old to a sturdy four and a half while in France and his ear for the language was impressive. Never mind the fact that his parents were French-Canadians, his reading and writing ability was at least a year above his age. Even when the Service reassigned them to Germany, he continued to learn French at school, as well as German. His parents were teaching him English at home, and at the age of six, Marc was fairly fluent in all three languages. It was uncanny how he could pick up the language and master it. The tutors at the embassies were impressed by his command of the languages, and laughed on the occasions when he became too excited to stick to one language. Quite a few times in his first six years, his parents had to consult phrase books and dictionaries to try and work out what he said.

He was fairly popular at all the different schools he attended, being invited to other people's houses for birthday parties. However, it was at his third primary school in Germany when the trouble started. Two or three bigger boys found out that he was the son of the Canadian Ambassador. It started with the little pushes and shoves, which he ignored. One day, when the bullies ran past him, knocking him over and snatching his schoolbag, he jumped up, ran after them and punched one across the face. They dropped his bag and ran off, surprised that he'd fought back. Unfortunately, his mother had seen the incident.

Taking him back to the embassy, she told him that he was never to hit someone else, even if they had attacked first. He tried to defend himself.

"But they'd been doing stuff for weeks! Running into me, knocking me over. I thought that if they knew I hit back, then they'd leaved me alone!"

It cut no ice with his mother. She left him alone in his room for an hour for him to think on what he'd done. When the hour was up, his mother entered his bedroom with a white bundle over her arm. A stranger stood in the doorway behind her, his face and upper body hidden in the shadows.

"Here, put this on," she said. Marc took off his t-shirt, and pulled on a white cotton tunic. Trousers of the same material, and finally a white belt that was tied in a funny knot.

"What's this for?" he asked, puzzled.

"if you want to fight back, and make bullies leave you alone, then you need to know how to do it properly," said the strange man in the doorway. He entered the room, and as the light fell on his face, Marc recognised him as one of the security men at the embassy. "Every afternoon, after school, we will train together, and then you won't need to put up with people who try to hurt you."

And they did. From the age of seven, Marc trained with the man, who he knew only as Sensei. He proved as quick a learner of karate as he was with languages. He went through the first three grades in less than a year, and then he changed countries again. This time, it was Spain.

Having been taught English and French at home from a very young age, German from age four, and taking extra lessons in language studies and karate from the embassy personnel, Marc was ready for the challenge. He picked up Spanish as easily as he had the first three, and was soon talking like a native. It was around this point that his parents began noticing strange things about him. Just after he turned twelve, and just ready to start his new secondary school in Madrid, his father received word that he'd gotten the biggest career boost to date: Senior Ambassador to China.

"Yes!" he yelled, alone in the room he shared with Marie. Marc's room was next door. As he walked past, brimming with glee, thoughts running in the direction of the East, Marc shouted in Spanish, "Dad! Keep it down, I'm trying to concentrate!"

Jacques stopped dead, both his forward movement and his thoughts. "Thank you," came the relieved call from the other side of the door.

Jacques knocked on the door. "Marc? I didn't say anything. What do you mean, 'keep it down?'"

"Didn't you? But I thought you were yelling something about-" he stopped dead at the expression on his father's face. "-China. That's where we're going next, isn't it?" He tried a bright smile.

Jacques advanced cautiously into the room. "I opened the letter less than two minutes ago, Marc. How do you know about China?"

Marc refused to meet his father's eyes.

"Marc?" he asked, with more force.

"Because you were thinking it loudly. I couldn't block you out just now, and I was trying to get through this difficult passage."

"Thinking loudly?" echoed Jacques incredulously. He suddenly realised what this could mean. He can read my mind any time he wants to-

"No, I don't read your minds all the time, dad," said Marc, still staring at the floor. He didn't seem to realise that he was confirming Jacques' suspicions. "To be honest, the chatter round here is driving me mad. I keep inside here for the most part." He tapped his head. "Dad? Are you mad at me?"

"No, Marc, of course not. Do you realise what this means? You being able to hear other people's voices in your head?"

"Yeah." His voice was glum. "It means I'm a telepath, a mutant."

"No! It means that you could be eligible for a trial with Alpha Flight."

"Huh. I think that's why I find learning stuff so easy, because I can listen to three times as much as what's being said, and it's done properly, too. Between you and me, Dad, when this started, I thought I was ready for a straitjacket, but then I remembered I have diplomatic immunity." He cracked a smile; despite the revelation, Jacques smiled too. "But then I figured out that the voices in my head sounded exactly the same as the spoken voices, and I began matching them up. Didn't take me long to crack some of my friend's best-kept secrets. I didn't do anything, Dad," he said, catching sight of Jacques disapproving frown. "It's like you always tell me, to have more information gives you the greater position of power. I just don't have the luxury of being able to use this information like you do. That's diplomatic."

"Yes, but then I deal with affairs of state, not playground rivalries."

I'm not going to do anything with it, Dad. The crushes and petty arguments got on my nerves after a while. No-one's closed up at school, they're all leaking thoughts like sieves.

You don't have to, Marc, but I think I'll contact Ottawa and see if they can send a telepath to help you train with your ability.

Thanks, Dad.

Well, I can't change what is, so I might as well accept it with good grace. If anyone's to blame, it's me and your mother. After all, we did create you. I mean, ahhh…

It's all right, Dad, I know about that, and Marc snorted.

Oh, okay then. Well. Jacques recovered his poise. In matters of DNA and genetics, there isn't really a lot that can be done. We are all products of circumstance, Marc, and we have to make the best of each chance we get.

Jacques exited the room, closing the door behind him, and resumed his walk to where Marie was, then stopped, eyes widening. Marc's door opened, and he poked his head round the door frame.

"Did I… Did we…?" asked Jacques, clearly not believing.

Marc nodded slowly. "We just had the last half of that conversation mentally," said the twelve-year-old telepath.