Washington DC, USA

Three Years Later.

Marc was nearly sixteen when he moved countries again, this time to the United States of America. His father Jacques, a distinguished-looking fifty years old, was looking forward to the last five years of his career close to home, in an easy post with very little potential conflict. Marie was looking forward to being able to take shorter flights to see her parents and friends in Ottawa and Montreal, and Marc was looking forward to going to his first ice hockey match. He settled into high school with minimal problems, quickly gaining a group of friends. He didn't tell anyone about his telepathy or telekinesis, and was careful only to practice them at the Embassy away from prying eyes.

He had been told that the Friends of Humanity were very much active on Capitol Hill, and had garnered much support, especially from right-wing conservatives and religious fundamentalists. To reveal himself as a mutant would undo all the work he had accomplished to be accepted at school, as well as harm his father's position in the Diplomatic Service. Marc was fully aware of the politics of the Service, and realised that America was a 'sending-off' post, one given to diplomats after a long period of dedicated service as a reward.

Some of the younger members of the Friends went to his school. A few were in his class. Listening to them sound of in a Philosophy class once, Mark felt compelled to take the opposite side. Ms. Lee, the Chinese-American teacher, happily let him.

"So you're saying that people who are telepathic are the biggest danger to humanity? Why telepaths? Why not religious fundamentalists?"

"Because they can read people's minds and control them," said one of the girls.

"And why would they want to?"

"Because that's what mutants do, dumbass," said another girl.

"Perhaps I should rephrase that," he said, his face darkening. "I meant, what use could they possibly have for an empty-headed wannabe like you? Because I don't think there's anything in there to control."

She went pink. One of the boys, a hard-faced character by the name of Luke Sims, jumped to her defence. "The Bible says that they're abominations."

Incredulous, Marc turned to him. "What?"

"The Bible says they're abominations. My dad says."

"And where did he get that from? I didn't know the Friends of Humanity had their own translation of the Bible."

"Actually, he's the Catholic priest for one of the largest churches in Washington."

Marc's temper snapped. He hated religious dogma, especially incorrect dogma. "The Bible says the exact opposite. Go home and read it, and open your mind. Not everything in the world is contained in those sixty-six books. What happened to 'Love thy Neighbour'? What happened to 'Judge not, lest thee be judged'?" If you find me a passage in any official translation of the Bible that says "Mutants are an abomination", I'll happily retract the point. Last I checked, Christianity was a religion of love, not something to bash minorities with." He ended with a colourful description of the boy's parents and their marital status in Mandarin. Ms. Lee looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Sorry, Ms. Lee," he said, in Mandarin. "I just hate close-minded idiots."

"No problem," she replied, in the same language. She wore an angry expression, and the class got the impression she was telling him off. "To be honest, they're getting on my nerves with the whole "God" thing. Alright, class," she called in English, as the bell rang and chairs started scraping on the floor. "Assignments for Monday: Five hundred words on your position on the issue of mutant rights. For or against, it doesn't matter, but please try and strike a balance. Class dismissed."

He was joined outside by his best friend, St. John Allerdyce, an average-looking kid who had his locker next to Marc's. He had brown eyes and slicked-back brown hair, and a cocky attitude that bordered on insolent. He didn't seem to be afraid of anything, and he had a wicked sense of humour. He also had a fiery temper, and when he got angry or hyper, the latter much more often, Marc was the one person who had the ability to calm him down. Marc put it down to his parents training in diplomacy and conflict resolution. He was the first person who talked to Marc when he had started, and finding that he had the same sense of the absurd they had become fast, close friends. Marc didn't know much about John's family situation, but he gathered enough to know that calling it a broken home was being very charitable. He was cracking open a can of soda when Marc opened his locker and started rummaging through.

"Man, usually it's me that says something like that in that class," said John, taking a long gulp of Coke. He was already playing with a cheap plastic lighter, one that he always seemed to have. It was funny, because he didn't smoke. At least, that was the only reason that Marc could come up with.

Marc snorted. "I get pissed off when I see the Bible being used as a weapon instead of a guide. Prats like that are not helping America's world image."

"And what was all that Chinese at the end of the class?"

"The language is Mandarin. You forgot, I spent three years in China with the Embassy, and I picked up quite a lot of the language. As for the statement, I called him an illegitimate inbred bastard son of a whore."

John laughed.

"You what!" came a furious voice behind him. Marc didn't turn round. Being telepathic, he knew that Luke Sims was behind him, and had pitched his voice to carry.

"Oh, it's the advance God Squad," said Marc contemptuously to John. He laughed again.

"I said, what did you call me?" asked Sims, in a dangerously quiet voice.

"I called you an illegitimate inbred bastard son of a whore."

Marc caught the flicker of thought a second before Sims' fist lashed out, a sucker punch that would have knocked him cold. Marc's hands flew up and caught the fist before it could connect. Twisting his body to guard against kicks, he just held on to Sims' fist and wrist, staring at him darkly. Sims started to pull back, but Marc didn't let go. He just held on, silently, while Sims cursed and yelled, tugging on Marc's grip, until Marc suddenly let him go, watching Sims go crashing into the lockers on the other side of the corridor.

"What's going on here?" asked a teacher, hearing the crash. She registered the loose circle of students, Sims on his back across the hall, and Marc staring at him menacingly.

"All right, who started it?" she asked, resigned.

"He did, Miss," said John, pointing at Sims. He had stood up and was advancing again on Marc when he stopped, as though he had run into a brick wall. Marc's eyes flashed. Sims' mouth dropped open, and he said, "Mutant lover, you're a goddamned mutant freak lover…!"

"Actually, I'm a second grade black belt in Karate, which is what I used to stop the punch you tried to throw. I'm not a mutant lover." He turned back to his locker and pulled out some books. "Everyone here will confirm that he started the fight."

"Only because you called me a bastard inbred!"

"And that's a bad habit, listening in on other people's conversations."

It was in detention with Sims in which his secondary mutation occurred. He was writing up his paper for Ms. Lee when he felt an odd sensation in his left hand. He put his pen down and scratched at it. The feeling subsided. He picked up his pen and continued to write. Five minutes later, the feeling spread all up his left arm, along his shoulder, down his back, and through his body. He put his pen down again, feeling a cold shiver run down his back. The feeling reached a kind of crescendo, and-

-when he looked at his hands, they weren't his.

They were Martha's.

He'd been thinking about her on and off for the past few weeks, ever since she'd gone back to Ireland and the S.H.I.E.L.D. Psy-Ops training facility, with the Duchaine's heartfelt thanks. Now, the hands that met his much poorer eyesight were lined, wrinkled and knuckly. He thought of himself, and felt the sensation begin again, this time from the centre out. His eyes focused, and he looked at his hands, immensely relieved to see them again.

He could assume the bodies of other people.

He dared not try out his new power anywhere in the school grounds – and there was a junior member of the most militant anti-mutant group sitting three desks away. He just hoped that he could control this as easily as he could his telepathy and telekinesis. even as he thought about what he'd tell his parents, he felt the sensation begin again, and he shut his eyes, not wanting to see what happened. When it stopped, he opened his eyes-

-and was met by the horrified look on the face of Sims.

In that moment, Marc broke every single rule of telepathy drilled into him by Martha McGuiness. He seized control of Sims' mind, and saw himself – a cross between his father and mother in one body. Splitting his concentration in two, he returned to his body and reversed the last change, and then erased the entire episode from Sims' memory. To be safe, he also erased the last ten minutes of the detention in case Sims had seen anything before that. Leaving his mind, Marc returned to himself, and carried on writing as though nothing had happened. He disciplined his mind, following exercises he had learnt, and the rest of the detention passed uneventfully.

He was shaking when he walked out of the detention fifteen minutes later. Pulling his hood up, he walked slowly back to the embassy, trying to think of how he was going to break the news that he was a Metamorph to his parents. They had accepted without question his telepathic and kinetic abilities, but he wasn't sure how they'd react to having a shapeshifter in such close quarters. He decided an honest approach would be best.

"Mom," he called, as he went into the bedroom and dropped his bag on the desk. "I need to talk to you."

"What is it, dear?" she asked, entering the room.

"I need to talk to you and Dad together, about something that happened at school. I think I may have a secondary mutation that manifested."

"What kind of mutation?" asked Marie, now fifty, and looking twenty years younger.

He thought of his father, the man he had grown up respecting, and felt the now-familiar sensation start to spread. This time, he felt his clothes change too. When he answered, it was in his father's voice. "This kind. I'm a metamorph."

Marie's hand flew to her mouth, and she groped for something solid to lean on. Seeing her son turn into her husband before her eyes was the last thing she was expecting. She had gotten used to seeing random objects levitating and floating majestically towards her when she asked over the last three years. Marc used it as a training method. This, however, completely threw her. At that point, Jacques walked in.

He saw a strange man in the private suite with his wife, and naturally assumed that the person was an intruder. It was only when the man turned round and Jacques saw his face that he realised that he was staring at himself.

The figure suddenly shrunk, the grey hair turning blond, the beard disappearing the clothes changing, and there stood Marc, a guilty expression on his face. Jacques stared for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Mon Dieu, Marc, you poor boy, it's just one thing after another, isn't it?"