"Normal speech."

["Language other than English, translated."]

-'Psychic communication.'—

Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole

"…which regulation allows no longer than six months betwee… ey, fannullone, are you listening to me?"

Kurt tore his eyes away from the window, where he'd been watching a lush riverland pass by miles below, and dutifully returned his gaze to Sergeant Bianchi. The hard-edged Italian woman had her hands on her hips, her lips twisted with contempt. He gave her a sheepish smile.

The sergeant's arm snapped forward, took his wrist in a hard grip, and yanked his hand away from his scalp, where he'd been absently running his fingers through his hair. "Basta. Stop fidgeting with it. It is only a haircut."

"But it's so short," Kurt protested, sinking lower in the uncomfortable metal chair and dropping his arms onto the table in front of him. "I have fur zhat is longer zhan zhis."

"It could be much shorter, so quit whining. A hippie cut like the one you had would have just gotten in the way."

"Hippie cut?"

"Chiuda il becco. Close your beak or I am shaving off every last bit of fur you have."

Kurt groaned but closed his mouth, slumping forward against the table in front of him. Sergeant Bianchi eyed him for a good thirty seconds, dark eyes flickering over his drooping form with disdain.

Sergeant Bianchi was a class of woman Kurt didn't have much experience with. The closest he could compare her to was his mother: the sergeant had the same strong voice and hard-edged self-possession that Mystique had. Yet the sergeant had a quality of discipline that also made him think of Scott. She was probably about thirty years old, with dark brown hair pulled under her cap and hardened Sicilian features. The solidly-built body under her uniform was obviously familiar with daily work-outs.

The two of them were alone in a small room on board SHIELD's flying base, the Helicarrier. The only furniture was a metal table, a matching chair, and a mirror Kurt strongly suspected was a one-way observation window.

After Fury had finished his introduction on the jet, Kurt had been knocked out again. He'd woken up to the sounds of the distant humming that came from riding a large aircraft. He found himself in a small, windowless chamber with a cot and sparse furnishings. After a bit of exploring he'd found that—in order—his wounds were patched up, he wore only a pair of loose black trousers, the door was locked, and there was a covered tray on the end table that turned out to be a generous, high-protein breakfast.

Just as he'd finished eating, two men had come in and dragged him through a series of procedures: first a (supervised!) bath; then a long, mortifyingly invasive physical; then a clothes fitting complete with measuring tape which ended in him being stuffed into a black SHIELD uniform; then a haircut; until they finally dumped him, exhausted and embarrassed, into this small table-and-chair room.

Ten minutes later, this uniformed officer had marched in, introduced herself as Sergeant Bianchi, ("your new boss, so get used to my face, birichino"), and started giving him a lecture in SHIELD 101.

"How much longer vill this take? It feels like ve've been in here for hours."

"Sergeant."

"Vas?"

"'How much longer will this take, Sergeant.' And that is not even touching on the disrespectful way the question was asked, nor on the petulant tone."

"Uh…"

The sergeant gave him a hard look. "Try asking again."

"Um… I'm not sure I vant to."

"Smart boy. So smart, I will answer. Orientation takes days, fannullone. Days. And then, once you can recite all our rules and procedures by rote, we let you move on to the hard stuff."

Kurt groaned and let his head flop forward onto the table with a thump.

"This is not nearly as painful for you as it is for me. Now, once again. In the matter of updating mission data, which regulation allows no longer than six months between…"

Kurt restrained himself from banging his head on the table.

Every couple minutes, he was tempted to try teleporting out. He could see the ground through the window, and it would probably only take two jumps… but he knew better than to entertain escape as more than a passing fancy. He wasn't just worried about SHIELD chasing him, although that in itself would have kept him up at night. He was also very aware that he had nowhere else to go.

He couldn't go back to the circus after what had happened. He doubted Madam Szardos would let him live long enough to explain. And his foster parents… well, graveyards didn't provide much by way of security. There was no Institute to go back to, and without his image inducer he had no hope of entering normal society.

SHIELD was his last hope, and they knew it.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The worst part about losing his foster parents was that there was no one to blame but himself.

He'd been home for about a month. He'd gotten into the habit of checking online news feeds about the mutant situation in America, and the anxiety was making him shed horribly. For hours at a time, his golden eyes pored over photos and videos of the riots, searching for hints of anyone he knew. He prayed for their safety every night. So far, he had no way of knowing whether God was even listening.

His parents sought to cheer him up by pulling him away from all that. Mama packed a picnic lunch and, before he knew it, he was being dragged out to the Grauen Klippen… the Grey Cliffs.

The Klippen were a place he knew well: a river valley surrounded on each side by cliffs between twenty and sixty meters tall. The cliffs were old and craggy, with plenty of ledges, outcroppings, and other interesting formations for an agile young child to climb and jump around on.

Kurt was reluctant, at first. He followed his parents gloomily as they walked the well-known trail up the river along the base of the cliffs, the two talking quietly about nothing. It was the sort of day that made hiking enjoyable and relaxing, with a bright sun on their backs and a soft breeze rustling through the trees.

["Ah, Kurt!"] Mama said, turning to smile back at him while she pointed to a particular out-cropping on the cliff face above them. ["Do you remember when you lost your brush and climbed up there? You were so scared you stayed up there for two days, just so you didn't have to tell us."] Her short white hair practically glowed in the sunlight, and she didn't seem the least bit bothered by the taxing hike, despite her weight.

Kurt looked up and tentatively smiled at the memory. ["Papa had to lure me down by cooking a fish at the base of the cliff."]

It was Papa's turn to smile back at him, skin crinkling around his eyes. ["If there was one thing your Mama and I have always counted on, it's your appetite."]

Kurt felt the beginnings of a grin. But then, he remembered Hank speculating that his large appetite was caused by his unusually fast metabolism. Hank had then scolded him for being so disorganized with his eating schedule, saying that he'd never be able to handle his appetite if he didn't regulate his eating habits. Kurt's grin faded before it had a chance to take hold.

Mama and Papa exchanged a look at the return of his downcast expression.

Papa tried this time, his peppered brows furrowed over his hooked nose. ["Would you like to go jump into the shallows? I think your old rope swing is still around here somewhere."]

Kurt shook his head. ["No."]

["I remember when Papa first hanged that thing,"] Mama said. ["He climbed out on the tree branch to tie it, and nearly fell right into the river before he got a good grip. And then you scampered up after him, perched on his shoulder, and started asking him when it would be ready, over and over again."]

["I don't remember that."]

["You were very young. Four, I think."] Mama dropped back so that she was walking beside him. He was surprised to find that he was as tall as her now. ["You were so chatty and excitable at that age. It made you quite the handful."]

["I don't feel so chatty and excitable now."]

["You are worried, little one. It's all right to be worried about your friends."] Mama gave him one of those matronly smiles that only she and Ororo seemed able to pull off. Kurt winced at the thought, and Mama reached over to stroke his face. ["You have always cared so much about everything, especially your friends. When you feel something, good or bad, it is with such intensity that you can't help being consumed by it. Your Papa and I were so grateful for how happy that school made you."]

["They're the first friends I ever had… I feel like I abandoned them."]

["No. No, my little miracle, no."] Mama stopped and drew him into a hug. The old pet name nearly made him cry. ["You came here, where you are safe, and I'm sure that is what they would have wanted if you'd been able to ask them. There is no need to feel responsible for them. You were always telling me how strong they all were; have faith in them."]

Kurt leaned into his Mama's embrace, feeling some of his anxiety ebb away. Faith, he knew, was exactly what he needed to fight away these ghosts.

Papa stood by in silence, watching them with a loving smile. That was what made Kurt finally pull away, rubbing at his damp eyes.

They continued their walk, relishing in the old memories that the Klippen evoked. Kurt found himself smiling a little more easily as time passed, the nurturing comfort of his parents breaking through his anxiety. They were right; he just had to have faith. Faith in his friends: that they could protect themselves. Faith in his family: that they knew what was best for him. And faith in God: that He would guide everything to come around right in the end.

By the time they stopped to eat in a clearing, Kurt was feeling much better. He even smiled and teased Papa about the time he'd climbed up the cliffs after Kurt, only to slide backwards and get stuck in a crevice.

["You were so red when the Shermer boys pulled you out, everyone thought you had been sunburned,"] he chuckled.

["Yes, yes. I remember,"] Papa said, turning a similar shade now. ["I was not at my best that day."]

["Are you kidding? You've never been good at climbing."]

Papa's smile grew playful. ["No? I'm not as good as you, but I think chasing you up and down walls all these years has taught me a thing or two."]

["Care to prove that, old man?"]

Papa grinned and started rolling up his sleeves.

Ten minutes later, Kurt was doing aerial flips halfway up the cliff-face, laughing with his entire being, while his foster dad picked his way up the craggy surface. The older man was only a third of the way up, but he moved with patience and steadiness. Mama stood at the bottom, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, an indulgent smile on her lips.

["You are so slow! If you go like that, you'll never catch me!"] Kurt laughed, swinging from a protruding tree root by his tail.

["Have we never told you the story of the tortoise and the hare?"] Papa asked, reaching for another handhold and pushing off with one foot. ["Slow and steady prevails over fast and sporadic."]

["You know, I've always wondered about that one."] Kurt swung and latched onto the cliff, crawling sideways along it like a spider. ["You know who would really win that race? Fast and steady. Like a horse. Or a jet plane."]

Papa laughed through his heavy breathing. ["I do not think jet planes belong in folk tales, little one."]

["Maybe they should. Jets make everything cooler. And I'm not just saying that because I know how to fly one."]

Papa gave him a sharp, surprised look, and Kurt realized that he had just recalled something from his Institute days, and it hadn't hurt quite as much. It didn't feel like mourning or gnawing fear anymore. He gave his Papa a smile. I'm going to be all right.

Papa smiled back. I knew you would be.

Then, it happened. Kurt pushed off his perch and did a sideways cartwheel along the cliff-face, landing on a ledge about ten meters up and one meter to the right of Papa's position. A ledge that started crumbling under his weight.

He automatically hopped off, latching to a higher spot on the cliff. The ledge continued to crumble, spraying Papa with dirt and small rocks. The older man let go with one hand to cover his head.

But that wasn't the end of it. It seemed that Kurt had found an unsteady part of the cliff. The vertical surface he clung to started sliding downward , and he couldn't find a hold as everything he tried to grip came loose. Worse, the unstable area kept widening as more of the cliff collapsed.

Kurt managed to find a root to grip among the tumble, but soon spotted a bunch of pebbles heading down towards his Papa. Immediately, Kurt disappeared with a bamf, reappeared in the air behind Papa and grabbed him around the shoulders, then teleported them both to the ground some distance away.

Still gripping one another, they turned and watched as the rockslide intensified. Larger rocks, deprived of the smaller bits holding them in, tore from the cliffs… falling on the plump woman who huddled at the bottom, shielding her head with her apron.

["No!"]

Kurt teleported the two of them right into the rain of stones, and Papa immediately broke away to grab his wife and shield her with his own body. It was difficult to see; they were surrounded with falling mud and rocks the size of baseballs—and getting larger. Kurt felt a particularly nasty one hit his shoulder, sending a jar of pain down his arm.

Gritting his teeth, Kurt leapt forward and grabbed his parents' hands with his, Mama's in his left and Papa's in his right. Then, just as he teleported, a rock the size of a cantaloupe hit him in the back of his head.

Bamf.

For a long, suspended instant, Kurt was aware of a ringing in his ears as the world broke apart and reordered itself, then broke apart again. For that long, shuddering instant, it seemed that there would be no reentry. Darkness swirled over him, and there was a rushing noise and an overpowering scent of brimstone.

Finally… bamf.

Kurt's feet jarred against solid ground, and vertigo pulled him down onto it in the next moment. As unconsciousness swallowed him up, he realized that his hands were empty. At some point during that long moment, he'd let go.

Kurt did not teleport again for a very, very long time.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Your codename will be Cheshire Cat," said Sergeant Bianchi, leading him through the corridors of SHIELD's flying base. He kept close to her heels as they passed other agents during their trek, all of whom Kurt worried were highly trained in combat and licensed to kill. His head was still spinning from the veritable codebook that had been drilled into his skull over the past few days, so he was just grateful to be out of that room and moving around.

"A new codename? Vhat's wrong vith 'Nightcrawler'?"

Thwack.

"Ow! Vhat vas that for?"

"Recite code IA zero zero nine."

"Um… oh, right. 'Direct any procedural-based questions to your commanding officer, and keep it strictly need-to-know'."

"And which part of that did you just violate, birichino?"

Kurt rubbed the back of his head where the woman had cuffed him and smiled sheepishly. "Zhe second part?"

"Si. You do not ask questions. When you do ask questions, you ask them to me…. but you do not ask questions. Clear?"

"Not really…"

"Do not be a smart mouth and stupid at the same time. Think. What is the function of a codename?"

"To keep enemies from identifying and tracing you. That's under MiP four…. Uh…."

"Four two one. Bene." She tossed him a hard glance and paused, dragging out what he knew was coming. "So why would we not use a codename that is well-known?"

Kurt had already ducked his head in embarrassment. "Ja, ja. I get it now."

"You would have understood faster if you had applied what I'm trying to teach you. Instead you open your big mouth. Next time you do that, I think I will pull out one of your pointy teeth."

Kurt self-consciously clamped his mouth shut. The way she said it, it sounded like she was actually considering it.

She paused at a door on their left, and it slid open for them. Inside was a fairly large room, two stories high and the width and length of a tennis court. There was a table by the door that had assorted wooden poles, devices that looked a little like TV remotes, and other objects that Kurt had no idea what to make of. The rest of the room was dominated by maroon mats along the floors and walls, there was a camera in each corner of the ceiling, swiveling around at them each time they moved.

He barely pulled his tail in before the door whooshed shut behind him.

"Put this on."

Kurt turned to Sergeant Bianchi and took the object she held out to him. It was a belt… probably. The black leather was the length and width of an average belt, anyway, but it didn't have a buckle so much as a latch. The attachment seemed to be made of chrome or something, and was in the shape of a Hershey's Kiss that had gotten its tip bitten off. In the center of the latch glowed a soft green light.

"Vhat is this?"

The sergeant didn't say anything. She just looked at him.

Kurt ducked his head. "Right. No questions." He snapped the belt around his waist, the end of the leather sliding into a slot in the latch with a click. It matched everything else he wore: a light, comfortable undershirt that breathed well; cargo pants that had been specially tailored so they didn't hang awkwardly off his unusual legs; and a ribbed vest that had more pockets on the inside than it did on the outside… and it had quite a few on the outside. Everything was black, black, and more black. SHIELD seemed very fond of the color, for people who claimed to be good guys.

Thwack.

"Eaargh!" Kurt went flying forward onto the mats with the force of the blow. He rolled across them for a good four meters, managing to turn the momentum into a summersault. He landed on his knees, and groaned at the pain in his newly bruised shoulderblades.

"Reaction time is abysmal," Sergeant Bianchi said to no one that Kurt could see. "At least he already knows how to land. We can work with that."

Kurt looked over his shoulder, and saw that she was holding a meter-long pole like a club. As if she had just hit him in the back with it.

Painstakingly, he pushed himself to his feet and turned back to her, leaving plenty of space between them. She watched him impassively while he sorted through all the questions now in his head, finally landing on one that might not lose him a tooth. "Who are you talking to?"

Sergeant gestured toward a camera with her pole. "The training officers." Kurt's question must have been written across his face, because she put her hands on her hips and continued. "I like to train my agents personally, but I can't be here all day long. I have things to do. So, your training will come from many people, some who specialize in training agents. Other times, you will get me. It will be grating and hard to please everyone, but you will adapt, or you will fail."

Kurt swallowed. "Okay."

"'Yes ma'am.'"

"Vas?"

She gave him one of her 'you're being a stupid fannullone again' looks. "You know the rules. I am your commanding officer. I say something you like, you say 'yes ma'am.' I say something you don't like, you say 'yes ma'am.' Never do you say 'okay' to me. Clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Bene." She grabbed another meter-long pole from the table and tossed it at his feet. He picked it up uncertainly. "Today, we are going to test your current knowledge, so that we know where to train from. This is melee combat. I am told you have an affinity with swords, yes?"

"Um… only a little. I…" He trailed off, his face growing hot. "I used to play through pirate scenarios in zhe Danger Room."

"Yes, that is what I am told," she said matter-of-factly, and his face grew warmer. How did SHIELD know what he'd used to do in his leisure time?

"I assume this also gave you experience with pistols and rifles. That will also come in handy."

"Guns?" Kurt squeaked.

She stared. "This is a military organization. You need a long-range weapon. So, unless you can suddenly cough up acid hairballs, you will learn to use a gun."

"But…"

Her look intensified, and the protest faded from his throat.

"Er… yes ma'am."

She nodded. "Bene, birichino. Very good." Then, she raised her pole into a guarded position, and he did the same. "And now, we fight."

And that's what they did.

At first, Kurt had the unnerving sensation of being entirely unready. She rushed him with a straightforward overhand slash, and he barely blocked it, stumbling back with the force. She twisted her arm and slashed him backhand, and he dodged back with a small flail.

She pressed her attack, stepping in and swiping at his side. Kurt was ready this time, and parried the blow. The next one hit his shoulder, but then he dodged a head shot by using the momentum to duck into a sideways roll.

Suddenly, something in his head snapped into place with a nearly-audible click. Just like that, he was back in Bayville, facing the Brotherhood. He knew how to do this; it was rusty, but it was there.

He stayed crouched on the ground as the sergeant started a charge toward him, coiling his legs under him. Then, just as she started a swing at his head, he leapt, jumped clear over her head, twisted in midair, and used the downward momentum to slash down at her shoulder.

She twisted and blocked at the last minute, and Kurt saw the spark of something new in her eyes: interest.

He flipped backwards out of her range before she even started her retaliatory swipe, landing in a fighting stance five meters away. She didn't charge him this time, but came in slow, aiming for his right side. He parried the blow and threw off her balance, giving him an easy shot of her back. He took it.

It went on like that for a while… Kurt wasn't sure how long. At one point, she ordered them to switch hands, and seemed not put off in the least that he was as dexterous with his left as he was with his right. That was also the point when he started making use of the room, using the walls and ceiling as launch points. Then, they tried two weapons. In the end, she'd even given him a third, dagger-sized one for his tail.

By the time she'd stepped back and called, "Basta. Enough," his fur was matted with sweat and his lungs gasped for air. He was far from unfit—his acrobatic training was as demanding as his X-men training had been—but Sergeant Bianchi was apparently some sort of tireless automaton. He let his arms and tail sag to the ground with a sigh.

Bodily, he was exhausted… but mentally, he was absolutely exhilarated. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have a real workout against someone. Sure, flipping around on a trapeze was fun, but it lacked a certain something. Something that could only be understood while looking into an opponent's eye and knowing that you were going to have to fight for your life.

"Good reflexes," the Sergeant said in that 'for the camera' voice. "Strong evasion skills and good use of natural agility. Good sense of space, probably related to his powers. Ambidextrous, although the tail could use work. Amateur stance and blocking. No power behind his blows." She put her poles back on the table, and Kurt moved to do the same. "Overall, not as good as we hoped, but not as bad as we feared."

"I feel like some kind of zoo animal vhen you do that."

She gave him a hard look, her more relaxed expression disappearing (wait, a fight relaxed her? Who was she, Logan?) . "Also, he has a smart mouth. And he asks too many questions. I suggest pulling his teeth out."

Kurt snapped a hand over his mouth, but couldn't stop his energized smile. Sergeant Bianchi gave it a sideways look, seemed to make a mental note of it, then motioned for him to return his poles to the table.

After he did, he turned to face her again, and she addressed him directly. "I notice that at no time did you make an attempt to teleport."

Kurt blinked. "I did not know I vas allowed."

"Is that it?"

She looked at him matter-of-factly. He swallowed.

"No ma'am."

"I did not think so. What would it have taken to provoke you to teleport?"

He found himself wringing his tail, and forced himself to stop. "Probably… a life-or-death situation. Like… the vun I was in vhen Colonel Fury found me."

She nodded and pressed her attack. "How long before that had it been since you teleported?"

What was the point of this? "Two years."

Sergeant Bianchi sent a meaningful glance to whoever was watching the cameras, and the fur on Kurt's neck and back stood on end. What was that about?

Then, she turned and headed toward the door. It opened with a whoosh. "Vieni. Come. We have much to do."

"Yes ma'am." He sent a last glance at the cameras, but obediently followed her out the door.

The rest of the day was much like that. He was led around to several rooms, including an obstacle course ("What? You are not still tired from the melee, are you?"), a shooting gallery ("Terribile! Assolutamente terribile! It is a good thing you have a way of getting close very fast."), and, surprisingly, a computer console that had a number tactical and strategic thinking games ("Ugh. I will do all your thinking for you. Clear?").

Eventually, he was dismissed. Before he turned to head for the mess hall, he paused and looked at Sergeant Bianchi.

She stared, familiar with that expression by now. "You have a question?"

He gave a single nod, then fingered the odd belt latch. "This… do you want me to give it back?"

"No, it is yours. In verità, you are to keep it on at all times that you are not sleeping."

He opened his mouth to ask, but clamped it shut again.

"You are learning. This is good. But I will tell you anyway, because you must know. This is a Psychic Suppressor. It blocks out ambient telepathy. It is very useful, because that is what the GCD is using to find mutants."

"Vait… like Cerebro?"

"Si. And this allows you to use your powers without being detected. Like I said, very useful."

Kurt stared down at the little glowing green light, the implications descending on him.

Sergeant Bianchi was still in lecture mode. "The green light tells you it is working. If it is not green, you must tell me, and you must not use your powers unless it is life-or-death. We can not afford to have them find you now that you work for us. Clear?"

"Yes… yes ma'am."

"Good. Now, go have your dinner. You have a long day tomorrow, and for many days to come."