Xavier's School
October, 2003

Blonde waves tied loosely in a ponytail, swaying with her movement, as Cassandra walked—no, marched—the silver halls toward the dressing room. Her fingernails pressed crescent moons into the skin of her palms as she took deep breaths. It was one of those days. Nearly everything and everyone was driving her crazy, somehow managing to get on every one of her already frayed nerves. Scott had agreed to supervise her in the danger room in order to let off some steam—and then he had to cancel.

That was the last straw. But it wasn't just a matter of her convenience—it was also a matter of public safety. It seemed the more overwhelmed she became, whether positively or negatively, the harder it was to control herself. She continued taking deep breaths, whispering numbers to count the seconds, as she pulled her suit from its hanger. Jean and Cassandra had been working on methods to work through such strong emotions. Breathing, making fists, distancing herself.

They seemed ridiculous at first—until they started to help. However, now, breathing deeply only seemed to make it worse. Her stomach was swirling, an empty feeling to her chest, along with a slight dizziness. The blood in her veins was pumping too fast, drawing heat to her palms. Cassandra unzipped her hoodie, then every muscle in her body lurched. There was a loud clanging sound. It was followed by silence, but that was somehow much more ominous than a series of sounds.

Cassandra hung her suit and took quick steps toward the doorway, peering around the corner to see into the hall. It appeared empty. Curiosity peaked where it met the adrenaline caused by the suddenness of the clang and she found herself continuing into the silver hallway. It was most likely Jean or Storm, the two adults who frequented this area of the underground headquarters. Or, she supposed, it could be Lori aiming to scare her.

If that were the case, it worked, even if only for a moment. Her feet pattered quickly along the hall. As she took one more step to round the first corner, toward the infirmary, her face collided with bare muscle. Her body bounced, feet shuffling backward rapidly, and she fought to maintain her balance as her eyes focused on the roadblock—a man. His features were completely unfamiliar, drawn into cautious and defensive shades as he, too, got a look at the person he'd run into.

Adrenaline had spiked within them both. The man's right fist aimed up, the fluorescents reflecting off the metal knives positioned at each knuckle. Upon noticing them, Cassandra's eyes widened. "Who the fuck are you?!" she all but shrieked, hands shooting up to defend herself if necessary.

The man's eyebrows knitted tightly in confusion as his eyes swept over her small frame. "You're a kid."

Cassandra could only stare, jaw slack as her chest heaved to catch up with her pulse, the back of her throat ablaze. He was tall—well, taller than her—with a mess of black hair. Despite looking as though he were only in his thirties, there was something distinctly aged. His torso was bare, exposing his impressive muscles to the light, remaining tight even as the knives in his hands began to retract into his skin. "I'm not gonna fight you," he gave a small shake of his head, though his eyes lingered on her cautiously.

"Who are you?" Cassandra repeated the question. He may have shown a lack of danger by putting away his weapons, but her hands remained risen, ready. "What are you doing down here?"

The man grunted. "I was about to ask you that. Name's Logan. Are you a prisoner here? Are there others?"

It was then Cassandra's hands fell to her sides, features contorting with confusion, if only for the sake of shock. "What? No, this isn't a prison," she shook her head. Her eyes drifted to the sweatpants on his hips—and it clicked. "You're a patient. You were the one in the infirmary. Where's Jean?"

"Who?"

"Cassandra, step back-"

Jean's voice came from behind Logan, and he spun quickly on his heel to see her, feet shuffling backward toward Cassandra. Instinctively, both hands tightened into fists as the blades reemerged from beneath his skin. "No!" Cassandra lunged forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist, other hand on his shoulder. "No- it's okay, she's not gonna hurt anyone. I promise."

Logan's eyes darted to Cassandra's face, peering around his bicep with pleading features. This girl was a complete stranger to him, but something tugged at his ribs, hindering his lungs at the sight of her blue irises. All it would take, he knew, was a proper pout to complete the look. Like a small child begging its parents for a new toy. It was something warm, spreading through his muscles and down his spine, threatening to render him utterly defenseless.

It was incredibly foolish to trust her—absolutely unintelligent to even consider it. Yet there he stood, relaxing under the touch of her youthful hands. Cassandra gently pushed on his wrist and it lowered slowly, the metal retracting back into each hand as the other followed suit. "I'm Cass," she gave a small smile, holding back a sigh of relief as she removed her hands from his arm. She tipped her head to the left in a gesture, and continued, "This is Dr. Jean Grey. We're like you."

Logan huffed a dry chuckle. "I doubt that, kid."

Cassandra tilted her head, lips pulling thin, and then she was gone. Purple smoke filled the space she once occupied, dissipating by the second, with wisps of lingering electricity. Logan's features dropped. He turned quickly, looking down the hallway behind him, before turning forward again to look past Jean. Jean, however, was unmoved. She stood a few feet away with a small, but smug smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "She's getting pretty good at that," she said, gaining Logan's attention.

Her voice was slightly graveled, rasped from the recent trauma to her neck—all thanks to Logan. He'd woken with a start, lurched upright before wrapped an arm around her neck, pulling tightly. His claws had been poised to kill, but he could sense she was no threat. Logan let her go, and she crumbled to the floor in a heap of barking coughs, while he made his escape. Now they stared at each other in the silence, Jean's arms folded over her chest and Logan's features shifted apologetically.

"Sorry about before," he spoke somewhat quietly, guilt marbling his tone. "I didn't hurt you too much, did I?"

Jean gave a shake of her head. "Nothing a hot drink can't soothe."

It was then that purple smoke appeared, fanning outward as it dissipated, with nothing but Cassandra in its place. Logan sidestepped in a contained startle, raising an eyebrow as she held out a hand, fingers gripping the fabric of a dark t-shirt. "It's Peter's, he won't mind," she said, gesturing the shirt at him. "I was gonna grab one of Scott's, but your arms are bigger."

"Uh. Thanks."

Logan's voice was unsure as he took the article of clothing from her. As he did, his eyes spied a thin wrapping of bandaging around her left hand, the cotton beneath the wrap nestled against the center of her palm. Jean only sighed, hearing her words. "Cassandra, aren't you supposed to be in class?" she asked the question rhetorically, trying to prompt the girl to get to her studies and allow her to handle the situation herself.

But Cassandra raised a brow, a loose smirk on her lips, as she turned to face her mentor. "I had a free period."

Right, Jean thought, today was a danger room session. She'd been unfocused since her senate speech, and even more mentally aloof since returning to the mansion. Remembering the day's schedule was at the bottom of her list of important tasks. As Logan pulled the t-shirt over his head, situating the fabric on his torso, Jean exhaled through her nose. "Come with us then, Cass," she told Cassandra, walking toward them with the intent to pass. Then, to Logan, she added, "The professor would like to speak with you."

"The professor?" Logan repeated, eyebrow arching.

"He runs the school," Cassandra explained. She turned to follow Jean, gesturing a hand to usher Logan along with her. Though Logan wasn't sure why, he was just curious enough to do just that. He turned around absentmindedly and followed them both, walking a half step faster to catch up with Cassandra. Still, his eyes darted down every hall, into every open room or space—making sure there was nothing coming his way.

Even though he could hear and smell nothing of the sort, he wasn't about to leave it up to chance. He had to slow once he was beside Cassandra to account for her shorter strides and he lowered his voice as he spoke to avoid Jean's ears ahead. "This place is a school?" he questioned, with shock, concern, and disbelief swirled into his tone. "For what?"

"The professor will answer all your questions," Jean answered as Cassandra opened her mouth. She waited ahead near the end of the hall, at the open elevator.

Cassandra's eyes rolled into the back of her head. "Thanks, mom."

"In," Jean smiled, gesturing briefly toward the elevator. Although Cassandra sighed heavily, she complied without question. It was something no other adult had been able to gain from her—blind loyalty, unbridled trust. Cassandra was a small bundle of constantly frayed nerves, harboring within her an amount of anger and sorrow unfit for someone so young. She was explosive, argumentative, stubborn. But when Jean Grey spoke, she listened.

Though, it didn't happen overnight. It took many hours of awarding that same respect, of listening, and taking the time to find common ground. Their bond was built through frustration and tears, but it was maintained through unconditional love and understanding. Something the others hadn't been brave enough—or willing to take long enough—to attempt with her. Jean prided herself on the feat, but she genuinely adored the person she knew was behind the anger, tucked safely beneath the hard shell of Cassandra's exterior.

Logan reluctantly followed into the elevator before Jean stepped inside, and the silver door hissed shut, marking its secure closing with a soft thud. Cassandra leaned her butt into the wall as it ascended to the first floor of the mansion, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jacket. However, the ride wasn't very long at all. In a few moments, the door was hissing open, revealing a dark wood hallway with warm lighting. Other children Cassandra's age and younger passed by in either direction, some with books and some empty-handed.

Jean lead the way out, prompting Cassandra to exit the elevator car next. Logan hesitated. He was slow, easing his way out as his eyes flitted left and right, getting a good look at either end of the hall. But as Jean continued on the path to Charles' office, Cassandra remained still, looking up at Logan. She was trying to read him, he could tell. Trying to figure out just what was going on inside his head as he scanned the area. Even without looking, he could sense her staring—and it pulled his eyes straight to hers.

Still, she didn't speak. Simply watched. It was as though she were analyzing him, studying him and his reactions. Eyebrows knitting in confusion and curiosity, he stared back. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen," she replied.

"Where are your parents?"

Her gaze remained steady, features unchanged, as she answered, "Dead."

A small pang of guilt hit Logan's chest, faint against the bone of his ribs. He'd assumed the answer would be something simple and straightforward—like, in the city. Or, at home, would have even sufficed. Although, this was an answer he understood painfully well, somewhere in his gut. He could feel it, the urge to say he could relate, to risk bonding on some level with this child. But he didn't have time to decide either way before a throat cleared, interrupting them.

Their heads turned to see Jean at the other end of the hall, her gaze on Cassandra pointedly, silently reprimanding her for not urging him along when she hadn't noticed him stopping herself. "She always this uptight?" Logan asked, glancing back down at Cassandra.

"Only on weekdays."

Cassandra made the comment partially in jest, dryly sarcastic as she gestured with her hands and took steps forward, following the hall toward Jean. Logan sighed begrudgingly, giving a small shake of his head, before continuing along behind her. If it weren't for his damned curiosity and that girl—that oddly sentimental pull in his chest whenever her eyes met his—he'd be halfway back to Canada. There was too much here to walk away from just yet. After all, he hadn't even found Rogue.

Instead of ditching the welcoming committee and making a run for the border on his own, he followed the girls to the professor's office. Jean entered first, standing beside the door to hold it open for the others. As the door opened, it revealed three new faces. Another woman, to the left, and a man who stood to the right of a desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Then, a bald man sitting behind the desk.

The man on the right turned further toward them as they filed into the office, his arms falling to his sides, features slacking beneath the darkness of his sunglasses. "Cass, what are you doing here?" he questioned, his tone reminiscent of a concerned father, scolding his child for ruining the new sofa with a set of vibrant markers. "I told you to go study."

Cassandra's fingers wove together, absentmindedly fiddling with her hands as she stepped to the left. Her lips were pulled tight, eyes full of guilt. "Remember when I helped you fix your bike last week? Your hands were too big to get the tool in, but I slithered in there-"

"Just don't do it again," he interrupted her with a defeated tone, tilting his head in exasperation. She nodded once, quickly, as she held up the thumb on her injured hand.

Jean hid a humored smile as she closed the office door, before coming to stand beside the man scolding Cassandra. "Good morning, Logan," the man behind the desk greeted Logan, ignoring the previous banter for the sake of simplicity. "I am Charles Xavier. Would you like some breakfast?"

"Where am I?" Logan questioned, somewhat apprehensively.

"Westchester, New York. You were attacked," the professor turned and drove his wheelchair around the right of the desk. Scott moved to stand near the door, out of the way. "My people brought you here for medical attention."

Logan grunted. "I don't need medical attention."

Charles stopped his wheelchair three feet from Logan with a small nod and a knowing curve of his lips. "Yes, of course."

"Where's the girl?" Logan asked.

"Rogue? She's here, with the other children. She's fine."

"Really?" Logan's voice was rhetorical, determination in his eyes a silent challenge. Charles stared back for a moment, unfazed by the accusatory undertones in Logan's questions, as he allowed him a second to rethink.

"These are some people I'd like you to meet. You've already met Cassandra Barton and Dr. Jean Grey," Charles reintroduced Logan to Cassandra and Jean, the mention of her name causing Logan's eyes to dart briefly in Cassandra's direction. "This is Ororo Munroe, also called Storm. And this is Scott Summers, also called Cyclops."

Logan's eyes shifted skeptically to the new faces as Charles introduced them with a gesture of his hand in either direction, but his eyebrow shot up at the secondary names. Scott, being the closest, stepped forward and held out his hand for Logan to shake. Though, Logan simply retained a mild glare.

Scott awkwardly retracted his hand, moving instead to clasp both behind his back with a silent exhale. "They saved your life," Charles reminded Logan. "You're in my school for the gifted. For mutants. You'll be safe here from Magneto."

Logan's eyebrows knitted. "What's a Magneto?"

"A very powerful mutant who believes a war is brewing between mutants and the rest of humanity," Charles explained, calmly. "The man who attacked you is an associate of his called Sabretooth."

"Sabretooth."

Logan said the word aloud, almost as if to test it on his tongue. To see if saying it himself would make it sound any less ridiculous. "And what do they call you? Wheels?" he sarcastically questioned the professor, visibly holding back a laugh. "This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Cassandra snickered before clapping a hand over her mouth. The sound, however, earned her a displeased glance from Storm. Logan turned on his heels and took a step, inches too close to Scott, before grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt. "Cyclops, is it? Wanna get out of my way?" he was quiet, but vicious.

"I wouldn't do that," Cassandra spoke up, drawing Logan's eyes once again. "Hands off."

"Or what? You gonna teleport me away?" Logan taunted her with a huffed chuckle. And though it was in jest, it wasn't conveyed.

Cassandra's brows were drawn, mouth down-turned in a loose frown as her gaze turned to a steely glare, and she marched forward. Logan glanced around at the other adults for a reaction, and suddenly they all appeared nervous. What was there to worry about, though? What could she do to him that would have any real effect?

After all, with adamantium bones and quick-healing skin, there wasn't much left he hadn't recovered from. Then, her fingers wrapped around the exposed skin of his wrists, and he felt it—it was like a sharp blade across his gut, over and over in a constant stream. He groaned, features screwed with pain that was rapidly spreading.

Logan couldn't help but stare, eyes wide, up at her as his knee buckled under the fiery ache. "Cass, no," Scott was quick to grab hold of her forearm and tug, ripping her away from Logan. Voice lowered, he said, "We talked about this."

The second he'd interrupted, the pain within Logan's body ceased completely. He found himself heaving for a breath, eyes remained enlarged as he stumbled to his full height. "What the hell was that?" he questioned, voice risen with fear and concern.

Scott gave Cassandra a stern look, tilting his head in a brief expression that caused her to sigh. "You're lucky I was focusing," Cassandra threw the words at Logan—instead of the apology she knew Scott intended—keeping her disgruntled eyes straight forward.

Logan's eyes narrowed, brows furrowed in confusion and frustration

"Go to your room, please. We'll talk about this later," Scott told her, letting go of her arm. Her eyes remained ahead or on the ground, her lips curved downward now into a complete scowl. Still, she glanced at Jean in question. Asking silently, do I have to? But Jean gave a small nod and Cassandra sighed heavily. Purple wisps and streaks of electricity engulfed her, carrying her away in the time it took to bat an eye.

Logan stood still, quickly recovered from the pain but stuck in a muck of confusion and curiosity, as his gaze shifted swiftly between Scott and Charles. "You keep a fifteen-year-old girl as an attack dog, and I'm supposed to trust you people?"

"Logan, it's been almost eleven years, hasn't it? Living from day to day, moving from place to place, with no memory of who or what you are," Charles changed the subject in an attempt to push it back onto the rails. But the sudden change—the nature of the change—was most definitely worse.

"Shut up," Logan snapped, the truth in the professor's words a bitter thumb of salt in an open wound, rubbing deep into the torn and sensitive tissue.

"Give me a chance," Charles continued, a bit more gentle. "I may be able to help you find some answers."

Logan squinted. "How do you know?"

"You're not the only one with gifts."

Charles' voice vibrated warmth through Logan's skull and his instinct was to glance around, eyes darting to every corner of the room, but they settled on the professor in the wheelchair as it sank in. The man was a telepath. Maybe—just maybe—that meant he was right? Maybe he could shed some light on the dark spots, the missing time he'd tried so desperately to recover himself?

He'd hoped, for a while, that it might come back on its own. But he continued to live every day knowing that something was missing. Details about himself and his life were missing. If this professor could truly help restore them, wasn't it worth sticking around a while longer despite the risks? Logan found himself with a small but noticeable grin as he asked, "What is this place?"