The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York

The Past, Three Weeks Ago

Wolverine left the forest surrounding the grounds and marched back into the school, taking the back entrance, his arrival going unannounced. It had taken him awhile to get his head in a place where he wouldn't consider immediate evisceration as a go-to response at the first imposition. He checked in at the front office and found it empty. The kitchen too, was vacant. At last, he turned to the headmaster's office. Wolverine pushed open the door to find Rachel seated behind the desk. Joanna was seated in Bobby's customary seat, her feet propped up on the desktop.

"What are you two doing in here?" Wolverine demanded.

Joanna continued to methodically chew, a large deli sandwich held in her grip. "Moffing," she said, her mouth full.

"Logan," Rachel said as she stood. Her face looked pained. "I've been trying to reach you. Where have you been?"

"Where the hell is Kitty?" Logan asked.

"She's downstairs with Hank," Rachel said as Logan turned. She called after him: "Wait! Hey!"

Logan started marching towards the infirmary. "Where's Storm?"

"She's downstairs, too," Rachel said as she hurried after Logan. "With Bobby."

"What're they having a party?" Logan asked. "Doesn't anybody do any work around this place?"

"No, that's what I was trying to tell you," Rachel said, finally catching up to Wolverine at the elevator. "There's been a – uhm, an incident."

Wolverine took a moment to register Rachel's expression; it was drawn in concern. "What. Happened," he stated.

The elevator arrived and the doors whispered open. Both Wolverine and Rachel stepped inside. "They're all in quarantine," Rachel said. When Wolverine's expression turned into one of incredulity, she hurriedly continued: "It's really just a precaution. They're not sick or anything."

The elevator traveled downwards, releasing the pair at the lower floor. "Half the staff is in quarantine?" Wolverine erupted as the doors reopened.

"Joanna and I have been holding down the fort," Rachel told him as they disembarked. "It's been okay. But like I was saying – I couldn't reach you. Where did you go?"

Wolverine held a hand up, silencing Rachel. Her expression became irritated and she came to a dead halt, letting Wolverine continue down the hall on his own. "I'll just go on back to work, shall I?" she shouted after him. "Completely managing the school and all?"

"Tell Joanna not to eat in my office!" Wolverine shouted over his shoulder. "That's how we get ants!"

"Flonquing jerk," Rachel muttered and stormed back to the elevator.

Wolverine pushed into Hank's office. The huge blue-furred mutant turned, not looking particularly surprised to see Wolverine standing there. "I thought I detected your dulcet tones wafting down the corridor."

Wolverine glowered at Hank, his lack of amusement apparent.

"Has Rachel brought you up to speed on the situation?" Hank asked.

"Start talking," Wolverine said.

Hank sighed, his shoulders rising and falling in a show of forced patience. "I am afraid that during your sudden absence, several members of our staff as well as a handful of students were admitted into quarantine. It's a precautionary measure," Hank told him. "No one is exhibiting any signs of infection, but it was better to be safe than – ."

"Fewer, shorter words," Wolverine ordered.

Hank's expression was one of annoyance. He began to open his mouth to retort when someone stepped out from the adjacent room and into a clear plastic tent-covered area. She was clad head to toe in a white hospital uniform, with gloves, a mask covering her nose and mouth, and a blue hair net covering her head. As the door closed behind her, Cecelia pulled the mask down, exposing her full-lipped frown. She began stripping off the protective garments.

"Doctor Reyes?" Hank prompted.

"We need to prep him for surgery," Cece said. "I'll feel better once his temp comes down."

Wolverine looked from Cecelia back to Hank. "One of our students?"

Hank scratched his forehead with a clawed fingertip. "I suppose you could say he was under our temporary protective custody."

"It's Remy," Cecelia told Wolverine as she stepped free from the tent. "The younger version."

"What's the matter with him?" Wolverine asked, his volume increasing.

"Chronic meningitis," Cecelia said. "Is our tentative diagnosis. We won't be able to say for sure until we get the lab results from the lumbar puncture."

"God dammit," Wolverine muttered. "When did this happen?"

"Likely, he has been infected for some time," Hank said. "Though not knowing his medical history, I can't be certain. For now we're aggressively treating him with intravenous antibiotics."

"He might have been sick for weeks. Maybe months. Probably due to a past illness, maybe pneumonia," Cecelia said. "Something that severely inhibited his immune system."

"I knew bringing that kid here was a mistake," Wolverine said.

"Fortunately, his exposure to the rest of the student body was limited," Hank added. "And the staff has been immunized."

"What students?" Wolverine asked, a sinking sensation of dread filled his gut.

Hank looked a little nervous. "Those four," he said and pointed with his thumb to the window behind him.

Wolverine strode forward to see four of the original five X-Men inside the infirmary. They seemed none the worse for wear. Instead of looking like patients or prisoners, the four boys were playing with a Nerf basketball. Bobby was attempting to dunk over Scott, who easily knocked the ball away from the hoop just by raising a hand. Clearly, they were enjoying not having to save the planet for the moment.

"Great. Fantastic," Wolverine growled and turned away from the window. He began striding towards the isolation room.

"Logan –," Hank began.

"You can't go in there," Cecelia interrupted as Wolverine stepped past her. She put out a hand to grab his arm, but he easily shrugged her off.

Wolverine cast the flaps to the tent open and pushed through the swinging door. The room beyond was dim, a soft light shown on single occupied hospital bed. Wolverine walked forward to hover over the figure who was draped in a white sheet. He looked down at the boy, looking for a sign that this was some kind of dupe. Gambit could play at being weak and vulnerable, stupid or vapid. He used these tactics to his advantage, something Wolverine didn't consider to be particularly heroic but cowardly. The problem was, there were times when it was difficult to know when Gambit was just acting, or being legitimately stupid. Looking down at the child-version of his teammate, Wolverine could see, and smell, that the illness was very real. The boy looked ghastly pale under the red blotchy flush of fever. His eyes were closed, his eyelids looked dark and bruised. A tube lead into his nose, there was a piece of surgical tape on his cheek to hold it in place. An IV drip was in his narrow arm. Both of his wrists were fastened to the bed rails with restraints. Medical equipment softly hummed, charting the patient's heartbeat and respiration. Wolverine rubbed a hand over his head, fingers digging into his coarse hair. He suddenly had a terrible headache.

~ oOo ~

In those first few weeks, Wolverine didn't know what to make of Gambit joining the staff of The Jean Grey School. Wolverine thought the thief likely wanted off Utopia and was looking for any escape route. Or maybe the idea of working alongside Magneto put him off. Wolverine was under no impression that Gambit had left Utopia for their shared camaraderie, nor did he get any sense that Gambit harbored animosity towards Cyclops. Gambit wasn't interested in teaching youngsters. He wasn't interested in being a soldier. He wasn't a freedom fighter. He wasn't following Xavier's dream. He wasn't loyal to any cause...unless it suited his agenda. Wolverine had no idea what Gambit's agenda was now, and as the weeks went by, he came to realize Gambit didn't know either.

Wolverine thought his aimlessness likely to do with Rogue, Gambit's main motivating factor, being out of the picture. He thought Gambit could use a straight talking to, to get it through his thick Cajun skull that he needed to get over it and move on. That the woman was never going to love him the way that he loved her. And it was pathetic and desperate the way he jumped at any scrap of attention she'd care to give him, and settle for her friendship just to be near her. Wolverine briefly thought about saying these things to him. But then Logan imagined Remy's slow, ironic grin spreading across his face; the mocking gleam in his eye. Perhaps followed by a very casual gesture to the school name stretched across the front of Logan's tee-shirt, right over his heart. Pot, meet kettle. Gambit wouldn't have to say anything so directly, he never did.

"It's a good thing nothin' happened t'Hope," Gambit had told him as he poured a measure of bourbon into a highball glass. Wolverine was seated at the counter in Gambit's kitchen, eyeballing the apartment's spartan furnishings. It had been a week since Hope and the Scarlet Witch had undone the No-More-Mutants spell and dispersed the Phoenix Force across the globe. It had been a day since Xavier's funeral. Wolverine had taken a chance that the thief would be in, without company, and in a hospitable mood. There was also the promise of a stocked liquor cabinet.

Wolverine grunted a response.

Gambit moved the glass across the countertop towards Wolverine. "I'd hate t'think of her gettin' killed," Gambit continued. "What with all the sacrifices people made just t'keep her alive."

Wolverine moved to take the glass, but Gambit held the drink firmly for a beat or two before relinquishing it. Wolverine looked up at his host. "I'd have a hard time makin' peace wit' whoever would hurt her." Gambit's smile was vague and did not reach his eyes. He was being uncharacteristically forthcoming.

So Gambit was pissed with him, Wolverine realized. It wasn't as if the situation hadn't been reversed, with Wolverine being pissed at Gambit for some stupid thing he'd done. But unlike Gambit, Wolverine took no small pleasure in bluntly informing his occasional-comrade, sometimes-drinking buddy, and intermittent-adversary that he was a fuck-up. Wolverine felt he owed it to Gambit as a matter of course with the goal towards Gambit's self-improvement. Gambit would get a very pointed warning, at the very least. Which was a lot more than most people got before Wolverine went and kicked some ass.

But Gambit was backwards, and would rather deliver a message by creeping around from behind and sneaking in a barbed comment. Or in this case, a threat. Wolverine had gone to confront Hope before the Phoenix had arrived, thinking that if the firebird planned on assuming control of the so-called mutant messiah, Wolverine would do the merciful thing and kill the girl first. Apparently, Gambit did not approve. Maybe he was sentimental. Maybe Gambit felt guilty about carrying that red-headed baby straight on into Sinister's lair, and the terrible risk he took by trusting Mystique. Maybe he was thinking of how that baby saved had Rogue's life.* Or maybe he just hated the idea of kids getting hurt.

Wolverine watched Gambit over the rim of the glass, taking a long draw of the liquid inside. He set the glass back onto the ring of condensation on the granite countertop.

"You should just pray don't ever have to make a call like that," Logan told him.

"I'll add it to my daily devotions," Gambit responded.

~ oOo ~

Logan looked down at the young patient. The boy's eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused. Remy mumbled something unintelligible. Logan might have made a crack that Gambit was barely coherent even at the best of times. Instead, he held his hand out over the boy's forehead, feeling the heat of fever radiate from his body. Logan turned as Hank and Cecelia entered the room, both of them clad in protective clothing.

"Logan –," Hank began as a warning.

"What happens if this kid dies?" Logan asked.

Cecelia gave a start, her breath catching in her throat.

"He's not going to die," Hank answered firmly.

"That kid is dying," Logan responded. "I can smell it."

"This is really not the place for this discussion!" Cecelia snapped, her voice high and tight.

Logan glanced back at the boy. Remy's eyelids were half-closed, his mouth slack. "He's out of it," Logan replied and looked back to Hank. "Why do you have him tied up?"

"He had a seizure," Hank said tiredly. "And he's delirious. We didn't want him to hurt himself. So we restrained him."

"Take them off," Logan told him. "If he comes to, you'll only freak him out."

Cecelia hesitated and glanced at Hank before starting towards the bed. She unclasped the restraint from one of Remy's wrists, the one without the IV. She continued to hold his hand in both of her own. "This is my fault. I should have examined him more thoroughly. I should have seen the symptoms..."

"Cece, Remy isn't the most cooperative patient," Hank told her. "Don't blame yourself. To be perfectly honest, I believed his symptoms were nothing more than a reaction to the inoculation."

"So you were both wrong," Logan said. "Now what?"

"We have to perform minor surgery," Cecelia said. "To drain the space behind his infected ear. We have to hope the antibiotics start to work."

"My concern is that he may have another seizure. The infection causes an inflammation of the membranes surrounding the brain and spinal cord. If it progresses, we're looking at a number of severe complications – tinnitus, memory loss, epilepsy, possible brain damage...," Hank said.

"And death," Logan said.

"Yes, death," Hank agreed.

Logan stared into the Hank's eyes, the only part of him visible through the protective clothing. Cecelia stood behind Logan, adjusting Remy's pillows to prop him upright. "If this Remy LeBeau dies, what happens? What happens to the – space-time continuum, or whatever?"

"I have a few hypotheses," Hank began slowly.

"So hypothesize all ready," Logan said.

"One is that an alternate reality or parallel universe could be created, diverging from the event of young Remy's – ah, unexpected death. Much like the Apocalyptic reality that was created when Xavier was killed. We would continue to exist as we are, but another reality where Remy never lived to see adulthood would be created."

"Could our timeline change?" Logan said.

"That is another possibility," Hank said. "If this is our Remy LeBeau, the one we know to become Gambit, then his dying would result in a paradox, which would cause changes to our reality."

"What would that entail?" Logan asked.

"I could only speculate," Hank replied. "Storm's abduction by the Shadow King? Rogue's death? Hope Summers as Sinister's protégé?"

"Oh, is that all?" Logan groused.

"There is another possibility...but I don't know how much stock I would put in this postulation –."

"What? What is it?" Logan asked, fearing the worst.

"It's possible that everything occurring at present is meant to occur. That our timeline is, shall we say, set in stone. That young Remy being with us now...was preordained. It's the self-consistency principle."

"That would be good news, wouldn't it?" Cecelia asked, turning towards the two men. "Then we could know that Remy will be okay. That he will get better, and we can get him home to his family."

"If you consider fate a good thing, perhaps," Hank said in a manner that conveyed he felt the opposite. "If the future has been written, then we forgo free will, and instead follow our predetermined course."

"So what you're saying is that since this hypothesis is contrary to your personal beliefs, it can't be true," Cecelia said. "You won't even entertain it as a possibility."

"If we were to believe in self-continuity, then we are only fulfilling our roles in history instead of creating it," Hank told her. "We would not be masters of our own destiny, but slaves to it."

"It could be that someone has a plan," Cecelia responded. "A plan for us."

"It is the upmost of human egocentrism for one to believe that there is some sort of godlike entity plotting out each and every one of our lives," Hank said.

Cecelia fixed him with a withering stare. "I'm not interested in debating faith with you again, Hank."

"I don't understand how a woman of your intelligence could logically –," Hank began.

"Can it, McCoy," Logan interrupted. "Your personal feelings aside, why don't you think we could be looking at this self-consistency thing."

"If everything a time traveller does has been part of history all along, then there is nothing he or she can do to change the past or future in any way. Doing so would create a paradox, which in this hypothesis is impossible. Any effort to change history would result in probability bending to prevent any paradoxes from occurring," Hank explained. "As we approach a paradoxical event, the universe would compensate with more and more coincidental instances. A distortion of probability would ensure that what is happening is what was meant to happen. If one cannot change history, outcomes would become stranger and more improbable in order to prevent the impossible."

"If Remy's death would create a paradox, we would see reality warp, so it couldn't happen?" Cece asked.

"Nothing that would be unfeasible, just extremely unlikely," Hank responded. "Such as amazing coincidences, serendipitous instances, highly unlikely odds that would turn unexpectedly in your favor."

"So maybe we should buy a lotto ticket," Logan suggested. "I'm not buying this self-consistency crap either. Do whatever it takes to keep this kid alive."

Cecelia nodded. "Logan, before Remy lost consciousness, he asked for his father. Ororo has tried his phone number several times."

"He's not answering?" Logan asked.

"Ororo doesn't seem to think Jean-Luc would respond," Hank added. "She does not have a very high opinion of the Guild."

"Maybe he just doesn't have a cellphone," Logan said practically.

"Do you think you can try him again?" Cecelia asked. "Maybe you'll have better luck."

Logan nodded and as he turned to leave, Hank reminded him that he needed to change and sanitize everything. Logan's healing factor would prevent him from getting infected, but until they understood the cause of Remy's illness, they couldn't risk spreading any bacteria or viruses. Logan returned to his office, a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it in his hand. Rachel and Joanna had made themselves scarce, leaving only the faint scent of brown mustard behind. Logan sat at his desk and moved to pick up the receiver. As he placed his hand upon it, it rang.

Feeling a bit perplexed and surprised, he lifted the receiver and held it to his ear. "Hello?" he asked.

"Logan, it's me," Rogue said quickly.

Logan felt his shoulders tighten and he gripped the phone, causing the plastic casing to creak. "I got nothin' to say to you," he growled.

"Wait, Logan, don't hang up," she continued, her voice was a little breathless. "It's important."

"What is it? What do you want?" he demanded.

Rogue hesitated.

"I'm hanging up," he told her.

"No...Logan. Ah – Ah wanted t'say Ah'm sorry," she admitted. "Ah'm sorry. Ah didn't mean what Ah said. Ah was just angry."

Logan paused, uncertain of how to respond.

"Ah know you were upset," she continued. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

Her apology was unexpected. Logan felt perhaps a little uncomfortable with the idea of asking for and receiving forgiveness. Most of his previous disputes had ended either in slashing claws or a grunted understanding that they would never again speak of the moment.

He mumbled something into the receiver.

"Ah'll take that as a 'yes,'" Rogue said. "Ah know you miss Jean... and – and Kurt." Her voice wavered a bit. Logan could hear her swallow the tightness in her throat.

"Yeah," Logan agreed.

"We've lost so many friends...Ah wanted to make an effort not to lose the friends Ah got left."

"That why you called?" he asked.

"No," she began. "Ah wanted to say that in person, but Ah couldn't wait. Ah had t'tell you – ."

"I'm done with this touchy-feely stuff," he interrupted.

Rogue let out an exasperated breath. "Ah had to tell you," she continued more forcefully, "about what Ah found."

"What?"

There was a rustling sound as Rogue readjusted the phone against her ear. He could hear a clacking of computer keys. "Maybe it'd be best if Ah showed you. You near a computer?" she asked.

Logan nudged the laptop on his desk suspiciously. He clicked the lid open. "Yeah?"

"Ah'm sendin' you a file," she said. "Check the FTP."

"The what now?"

"Logan, go to your favorites...Kitty made you a link, don't ya remember? Your. Favorites."

Logan squinted at the screen. "There's nothing on here that I would be in favor of," he informed her.

"Oh for god's sake!" Rogue snapped. "There's a star – a yellow star! It says 'favorites' under it."

"I don't see any – oh yeah, here we go."

He could hear Rogue grinding her teeth. "You see where it says 'FTP'..."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it now."

"Click on that and open it up in the Explorer window."

Logan stared at the monitor in consternation.

"Logan? Do you see the window...?"

"Hm..."

"Logan!"

Logan attempted to execute a basic computer function. "I see a little picture of...a movie or something, I guess."

"Double click on it."

Logan moved his finger ponderously across the laptop's mouse pad.

"Are you clicking?"

"How do you click?"

"You tap twice!"

"Hunh, okay." Logan paused as a viewer opened up on the screen. Camera footage began to play. "There's no sound," he told her.

"No, it's security footage," Rogue told him.

"What'm I supposed to be seeing?" he asked. He saw an overhead view of a lobby area. A security guard was seated at a desk at the top of the screen.

"It's the lobby of Gambit's apartment building," Rogue said, her voice hushed.

After a few moments, two people emerged from a revolving door at the base of the screen. Logan could see the tops of their heads from behind as the pair moved towards the desk. As he watched, the two figures turned to look about the lobby. Logan's heart contracted. One of the figures, her hair long and ragged, glanced over her shoulder. Though the footage was in black and white, Logan knew that her hair would be red. Her face was smeared with soot and her long gown was torn and dirty. Her eyes were large and frightened in her pale face. The security guard seemed to think nothing was amiss. He spoke to the taller figure, a man. The man was also dirt-smeared and bare-footed. He nodded at the security guard and pointed skyward. Both figures were dressed in late-Victorian period garb. The man turned to look at the woman. Logan saw it was the Gambit-clone. The clone smiled at the woman in a reassuring way. She took his hand, and together the pair walked towards the elevators to disappear from view.

"She must've used her powers to disguise their appearance from the guard," Rogue said. Logan startled, forgetting she was still on the phone. When he had seen the woman, the world around him had gone completely silent.

"Where –," Logan began.

"Wait, there's more," Rogue told him.

The camera cut away to another view, this one of a parking garage. A figure disembarked from the elevator car followed closely by another man and the woman.

"That's Murdock!" Logan exclaimed. "What the –!"

"They're gettin' in that SUV," Rogue said. The driver gestured aggressively at Daredevil, his irritation apparent. The two men seemed to argue for a moment. Then the driver opened the side door and climbed behind the steering wheel. Daredevil opened the front passenger door and bade the woman to enter, then he too climbed into the vehicle. With the doors closed, the driver backed the SUV out from the parking space. As the vehicle passed beneath the security cameras, the passengers' faces appeared clearly on the screen. The footage froze.

"That's not the Gambit-clone," Rogue said. "That's the real deal."

"And the woman?" Logan asked, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

"That's Jean. It has'ta be," Rogue answered. "She's alive. And she's with Gambit."

~ oOo ~

*All this happened in the Messiah Complex.

Next time: Gambit's ongoing Daddy Issues.