April 9, 2006: I figured I'd better post the second part of the first chapter, in case the first part didn't make a lot of sense by itself. I might not be able to break the others into two parts without being confusing, so we'll see how that goes.

Remember: Liberties have been taken. I'm trying to keep it 'real' and true to the spirit, though.

Enjoy!

Smashing Through the Looking Glass

Chapter One: Part Two

Whatever

It's five twenty and I'm sitting on the edge of a leather, wing-back chair, imagining the smells that go with the smoke I can see coming from the barbeque pit just down a small hill from the back of the mansion. It takes me a few minutes of surreptitious observation of the activity around it - what little I can see from where I sit, if I keep my back very straight - to determine that Logan and Sam are on cooking duty. Surprised they aren't having a beer and belching while they flip pork chops and roast corn. What a guy-bonding sight that would be. I can hear voices and laughter on the back patio. I refrain from sighing and listen to the clock tick away on the wall to my right. Tick, tock, tick, tock… At least the air conditioning is back on. And I finished the essay and arrived with just seconds to spare at the office, meeting Mr. Summers as he was unlocking the door.

Go me.

He's taking the time to read it now. Why? Who can say? Only the Shadow knows… Ahem. Well, if the Shadow does know, he isn't telling me. I keep my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to fiddle with the One Ring replica I have on a chain around my neck. What a Tolkein geek. At least the essay is only six thousand words long. I might be released in time for dessert.

For crying out loud! Let me go before I starve! I say - in my mind.

Mr. Summers isn't saying anything. Not even nodding or grunting or sighing as he flips the pages - double-spaced and footnoted, with a bibliography - apparently absorbed with my observations and supporting facts. His face is unreadable. Idly, I wonder if he plays poker. He might be tough to beat. Bobby still owes me a six-pack of wine coolers; the poor guy just can't play cards to save his sorry ass. I remain tall in the saddle, as it were, so I don't appear intimidated or not confident in my work. Besides, then I can watch some of the mingling going on as people pass by the windows, holding glasses of lemonade and fancy little munchies on toothpicks. Summer themed, of course, but this is Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters and not roughing it at day camp. Catered, my dear, hem, hem. I still hope we get to have a bonfire later on and a second meal of roasted weenies on a stick, followed by s'mores, made the correct way with graham crackers and Hershey bars and marshmallows the size of ping pong balls. I'm such a junk food fanatic.

Pork chops, though. I hope they've remembered I don't do pork and have a grilled salmon filet ready.

Not that I'll get to eat it if I never get outta this office.

And I still have a headache.

Whatever.

My eyes are drawn to the mirror behind his desk, which is situated roughly in the middle of a wall of bookshelves. It's about four feet high by three feet wide and the image warps a bit at the edges. I figure it must be an antique of some kind, maybe Victorian. I've stared at it any number of times I've had to talk to Mr. Summers in here. It has the most beautiful wood frame, with carved ivy and little faces peeking out from behind the leaves: quite elaborate. I keep meaning to ask him about it but never seem to remember after I leave the room.

Mr. Summers places my assignment on his desk and I return my attention to the situation at hand. He looks at me. I wish I could see his eyes. It'd give me a better idea of what he's thinking and just how much squirming I'm going to experience.

"Well, Kitty, I want to know what you think of the essay you've submitted."

Oh. At least I know the answer to that one. "I think I've managed to summarize the political situation at the time of the invention of gunpowder and convey the changes in power that occurred in response. I've also dealt with the increased aggression in some nations, using the discovery on their neighbours in an attempt to conquer them before the knowledge spread." Dr. McCoy? You aren't the only one who can string together a decent sentence.

He nods. "And?"

"I would probably need more than six thousand words to properly explain the impact on society as a whole as war became more devastating. I touched upon the philosophical reaction to this new tool, much like the development of nuclear weapons gave rise to such debate, as noted figures contemplated the ability to destroy so many lives."

Mr. Summers considers this, and then says, "Do you feel you need more time?"

Uh-oh.

"Even if I had more time, I find the topic a bit overwhelming. There are so many angles to the discovery and ramifications on society." It sounds good, and it's true.

"True." He picks up a pen. "Perhaps if you narrowed the focus of your thesis, you'd find the essay a bit more cohesive. You obviously know your topic well and lean towards discussing the impact on society."

"I did find that more interesting." He waits. I give him a small smile. "With great power comes great responsibility," I say quietly, not positive who said that originally, but knowing I'm paraphrasing something he told me several years ago when I first came to Xavier's. "Everybody's affected. Fire, gunpowder, nuclear weapons, superheroes." I look at my feet. "It's not the advancements in warfare, Mr. Summers. It's what we do with them."

"Are we at war, Kitty?"

Ah. He picked up on the 'superhero' part. I guess it's on my mind. I look up and focus on the eyes I can imagine behind those ruby-quartz glasses.

And think of Dr. Grey.

"After what we've just been through?" I control the slight quaver I can hear creeping into my voice. Was it really only six weeks ago?

Scenes flash through my head, like the pages of a photo album being flipped.

The armed men flooding the mansion. Siryn's scream. Phasing just before the tranquilizer darts can hit me. Initially on my own, I was able to sneak up behind one of the soldiers and put my martial arts training to the test. He resisted, but that just made my victory all the sweeter. Not that I didn't receive a bruise or two, but let's face it, he had the advantage of height, weight and government training. Didn't save him from losing consciousness. Jerk.

Destabilizing the molecules in half the gun and snapping the weapon in two was also satisfying.

I encountered three other soldiers heading towards the main hall and phased through them, shorting out all their high-tech communication equipment. Wish Sam could've seen that, but he was visiting his family and missed the whole thing. Some of the younger kids witnessed it, though, from a terrified huddle on the stairs. They were a bit stunned when I proceeded to run up the wall and grab one of the old oars from the boathouse that was on display. I charged the men I'd just phased through, who were real slow figuring out what I'd done. Solid wood. Some folks cared how things were made, once upon a time. The oar made quite the impact, as it were; the soldiers weren't unconscious but it bought me time.

More images, as if they were someone else's experiences.

Flinging the oar at the men as they struggled to stand. Yelling, "Move!" And, being the eldest present, the kids listened, a few still gaping at me as I herded them through the nearest secret tunnel to the woods on the east side of the mansion. Geez, what did they think I did in my spare time? Running in the dark with the choppers and searchlights behind us, my dance shoes giving little protection from the stones and twigs. Most of the kids are barefoot, their faces pale and scared. Meeting Peter and the students he was able to lead to safety. Doing a head count, and knowing that Jubilee was one of the ones missing. Evading the soldiers that stayed behind, deciding it was mutant hunting season, and doing a pretty damn fine job of it if I do say so.

This was the experience that spawned the den mother in me. Who knew?

The Blackbird tracked us down, about thirty miles from the mansion. I'll never forget the high-five with all the kids after two days in the woods with little sleep, and only three chocolate bars, some trail mix and adrenaline keeping us going. Getting a bear hug from Peter was pretty cool, too. We'd done it. It was over. Everyone had made it. We'd worked as a team and been X-Men for a while. It was exhilarating, even if we were exhausted and dirty and in our jammies.

Jubilee had leapt from the plane before the hatch had finished opening and hugged me like she thought she'd never see me again, which had crossed her mind, as I found out later. Bobby and Rogue were there. Dani and Ray were tired but would be okay, and so would everyone else.

"Where's John?"

How I wish I hadn't asked that.

Then I knew something was wrong. Several somethings.

The images speed up and I close my eyes. The X-Men leaving the plane, checking the kids for injuries and reassuring them. The look of concern on Peter's face as he exchanges a glance with me when we both notice their strained expressions and automatic responses. Ms. Munroe moving towards us as the others are loaded onto the Blackbird, tired and happy and, blessedly, missing the undercurrent. I could hear exclamations of surprise and noted someone had stayed on board and was now being introduced. It appeared to be a blue demon with yellow eyes. At least Siryn hadn't screamed.

Ms. Munroe finally spoke. "Kitty, Peter."

The pause was palpable.

I stared and quickly came to a conclusion. "John isn't on the Blackbird, is he?"

"No." So soft, so sad.

"Dr. Grey isn't on the Blackbird either, is she?"

She looked startled. It hadn't really been a question. My favourite teacher would be out here, with all the others, smiling at the older kids and giving hugs to the younger ones. I swallowed.

"What happened?" This from Peter, as I was starting to lose it. It had been a harrowing two days.

"We'll talk about it later," Ms. Munroe said. "Please. Don't discuss this with the others."

We made noises of agreement. The Blackbird was pretty crowded but at least we didn't have far to go. Logan stayed behind and was going to walk back to the mansion; ostensibly to make sure no soldiers remained. I looked at Bobby but he wouldn't look at me. Was John dead? I didn't have to ask about Dr. Grey. I just… knew. The tension was - I can't find the right words to describe it.

Peter held my hand all the way home.

I open my eyes. I'm back in the office. The clock is going tick, tock… Mr. Summers is waiting patiently for my response.

"After what we've just been through?" I repeat. My voice is calm and not accusatory. How can a sixteen-year-old girl sound like she's as wise as Professor Charles Xavier? "We can be used as weapons, sir. We can defend and we can destroy. That's why we're here, right? So we know the difference, and can make choices that won't destroy us." I wonder why we're having this conversation.

His face crumbles. He looks at me like he's never seen me before.

"Do you still have the nightmares?"

No point lying. Never been my thing.

"Sometimes."

He shifts in his chair.

"What you and Peter did that day -"

"Has thoroughly been discussed." Suddenly, I'm tired and not sure if I could eat, anyway. "We did what we've been trained to do, sir. We defended. We made the right choice in getting the others away from the mansion. And we helped keep them alive. Peter and I still talk about it. We know what we did."

"It took a lot of courage."

"We've been well trained, sir." I smile a little, not wanting to seem angry, though some disappointment is there. "And we paid attention. To the gymnastics and the fighting, to the meditation. To the leadership workshops."

"You are both excellent students."

My head is thrumming. I decide to try to change the subject. "Except my history essay needs some work, right?"

"You didn't know what you were capable of until then, did you?"

So, he wasn't going to let it go. I shrug.

"I think I knew, but it scared the crap outta me."

"I'll ask you again: Are we at war, Kitty?"

"I think we're in a battle to prevent a war," I respond carefully, quietly. "We've been invaded. We've had casualties. Is that considered a state of war?"

Someone knocks on the office door. I send a silent thank you to whoever decided to interrupt and promise them the moon.

Mr. Summers clears his throat. "Yes?"

The door opens just enough to allow Siryn to poke her head in. She's flushed from running and smiles brightly.

Hun, you can wear all the pink tank tops you want.

"Dinner's ready!"

"Thank you, Siryn." Mr. Summers smiles and nods that he has understood. By coincidence, he and I stand at exactly the same time. "We'll continue this later," he says, and tucks my essay into the top drawer of his desk. Siryn has returned to the garden but she left the door open.

"Thank you, Mr. Summers."

"Kitty?"

The tone in his voice stops me as I reach for the door to open it wider and leave. I pull my hand back and turn to face him, wondering again why a discussion about a history essay became something completely different.

He looks like he wants to say all kinds of difficult things. His face is pale and his mouth is having trouble staying firm. He's rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, something I've seen him do the few times I've caught the end of a meeting between himself and the Professor. He straightens, apparently coming to a decision, and moves around the desk to put a hand on my shoulder. If I could see his eyes, I'd know they were boring right into mine.

"It's going to be alright, Kitty," he says with conviction, as if he's telling himself as well as me, hoping he'll believe it, too.

I can feel my eyes starting to tear up and I blink to stop it, but I can't - and he sees.

"I miss her, too," I manage to blurt out feebly, and bawl into the chest of Mr. Summers, who is suddenly, fiercely holding me tight. I don't know if I could stand if he weren't supporting me. I haven't cried like this in front of anyone, not even Peter. Not even at Dr. Grey's memorial service. I certainly didn't dream I'd finally cry, really cry, in front of the man she loved.

He's stroking my hair and whispering, "It's okay," over and over, and it isn't until a few minutes later that I feel his tears on my forehead. They're running down his face and going to his chin, where they hesitate before letting go. I start to hug him back, feeling stronger, and my crying increases.

My day has been full of extremes. I hope I survive it.

I don't know how long we stand like that. Eventually, our crying reduces to sniffles and he turns towards the door.

Ms. Munroe is in the room, eyes huge, waiting. I wonder how long she's been there. I scrub at my face with the back of my hand and notice the box of tissue she's holding out for us. Mr. Summers gently pulls one free. I pull one, and then decide I'm only fooling myself and rapidly wrench six more in quick succession. A slow, sad smile comes over her beautiful face and she places the box on the small, dainty table beside the chair I'd been sitting in moments ago. I quickly wipe away my tears then blow my nose. It isn't a very delicate sound. Mr. Summers blows his nose, too, and it sounds like an elephant. He chuckles. I realize we each still have one arm around each other and it feels comfortable. There's nothing inappropriate or embarrassing about it. I sigh.

"Are my eyes bloodshot?"

"No, Kitty," Ms. Munroe assures me.

"Amazing," I murmur, and clear my throat. "The Professor knew we were having a rough time, didn't he?"

Her eyes move almost imperceptibly to Mr. Summers. "Yes. He thought I might be able to help you - both of you - so you could join us for dinner." She smiles, a beautiful, blinding smile, and says, "And yes, they've remembered you don't eat pork."

"Cool," I say, sniffing and casting about the room for the garbage can. I didn't realize her other arm was behind her back until she brings it forward, presenting us with the garbage can. Man, she's organized. We toss our tissues in and finally step apart. I move to the table and pull more tissues and blow my nose again, thoroughly, until I think my brains might be coming out. I pitch that batch into the garbage and pull my t-shirt down, smoothing my hands over my thighs and oddly comforted by the feel of denim.

I glance in the mirror with the carved frame, checking for pieces of tissue on my nose. Good thing I'm not big on make-up. My face looks tired but gets the 'all clear'. I can see Dr. Grey, staring back at me, but I'm almost used to this waking dream state by now. I smile at her.

"I wish you were here," I whisper, not meaning to say it out loud. I notice Ms. Munroe's reaction, her reflection looking at me, puzzled.

I gasp when I see the reflection of Mr. Summers in the mirror and turn towards him. He has taken his glasses off. His eyes are tightly shut and he's wiping them gently. I've never seen him without glasses before. He has long lashes and I know several females who would be envious. I wonder, not for the first time, if he has to sleep with a pair of glasses strapped around his head to secure them, in case he should wake up suddenly and need to be able to see. Thank you, God, for not giving me this power, either. I look at the clock. Tick, tock… It's almost five forty-five.

Ms. Munroe has put the garbage can down. She holds her hands out to me, palms up and I place my hands in them. She pulls me into a gentle embrace. I don't want to start crying again, especially since my stomach has decided that food really is a good idea. It feels like I'm being held by a powerful goddess - oh, wait. I am being held by a powerful goddess, albeit one wearing jeans and a tank top. No wonder I feel protected - and scared. I pull away slowly and give her a smile.

"Thanks," I manage.

"Anytime," she says, and I know she means it.

"Well." Mr. Summers straightens the collar of his shirt in the mirror, his glasses back in place and all evidence of our grieving in a small, cylindrical can. "Shall we go to dinner?"

"Sounds like a plan, sir." I give him a smile, too, and receive one in return.

'Tis better to give than to receive.

As we leave the office, I now know how that saying came into being, except, of course, that receiving is pretty cool, too.