"So it seems that, because of every syndrome and disorder we've invented in the past twenty years, the Los Angeles Times stated that 63% of American families are now considered dysfunctional. My God! That means we're the majority. We're normal! It's the people who have the mommy, the daddy, the brother, the sister, the little white picket fence—those people are the freaks, man!"

The tv audience laughs their asses off, and I take another swig of my beer. Good ol' Titus. If I ever got a contract on that man's head, I'd take him out for a few beers 'fore I off'd him. Just as he's startin' in again, Rachel rolls in her sleep and throws her arm over my lap. She sighs and a few o' those smokin' hot red curls fall over her face.

We've become our own kind of dysfunctional family in the last year or so. She's like the little woman, cleanin' house, cookin' my steaks. She even went grocery shoppin' in town the other day while I was out an' got everythin' for a gourmet steak recipe with chimichurri sauce. When I got home, I was pissed that she'd left the house. That was one of my rules. Then I realized that she came back. I ate the steak and I told her I loved it. She knew better. Funny thing 'bout lying to psychics…

She's been breaking a lot of my old rules lately. But I'm findin' I don't really need them anymore. She isn't just my hostage anymore. I don't know quite what she is to me, but she sure ain't that. She's slept in my bed with me every night since I came home almost six months ago. And I'm not 'xactly sure how I feel 'bout that either.

I hear a footstep. A single footstep is all it takes to send my heart racing.

Fast as Quicksilver, I head to the bedroom door and sniff at the gap by the floor. Sure enough, I smell intruders—lots of 'em. I run to the bed and shake Rachel's leg and she wakes in a second. I put my finger to my lips to signal her not to make a sound. She doesn't need any further explanation. She jumps out of bed. Her breasts are way too easy to see through one of my white wife-beaters, and her black panties are like somethin' from a wet dream. While I'm getting' dressed, she pulls on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt quiet as a mouse.

I'm just 'bout ready to head out the door when he puts her hand into mine and laces her fingers between my own. I turn, expectin' to see her scared, but her face is set with a look of pure determination. Of course. We step out into the hallway together, and sure 'nough, at least twenty masked men are blocking the stairway, aimin' Uzis in our direction.

"Don't fire!" calls a voice, cold as steel. Sinister steps out from behind his henchmen and smiles at Rachel. "Hello, child. My, but you are as beautiful as your mother, aren't you?" I growl and his smirk widens. "Come, Sabretooth, be reasonable. I only want the girl. There's no reason we can't still be friends." I step in front of Rachel protectively. Sinister sighs. "Fine, then. Have it your way. Kill him, boys." He turns, walks through the black hooded crowd, and disappears again.

The first goon to rush me looses his larynx. Then four more men come boundin' forward, and I gut them all easily. The hallway is thin, so only a couple can come forward at a time, which means I can't be surrounded. I've got the upper-hand…you know, over and above the obvious. I'm surprised at Sinister. The man's so methodical. You'd expect him to have thought this through better. Then they all start openin' fire. And now the hallway attack makes sense.

I make sure that my body is directly in front of Rachel's, so that no bullets can slip between my limbs and hit her. I take seven shots in the torso and two in the thighs before I realize we're gonna lose the battle this way. I slip my hand behind my back, and our fingers interlock again. Then I start steppin' forward, takin' more bullets with ev'ry step. When I reach the throng, I slash at their throats and midsections, spillin' guts all over the floor, and keep walkin' forward. Amazingly, my mind stays clear the whole time. Blood lust never takes over.

We get through the first troop and run downstairs, but jus' as we turn for the garage door, another pack is comin' straight at us from that direction. I turn heel and push Rachel into the interrogation room. She and I wedge the long metal table between the door knob and the concrete floor, makin' an effective blockade, but they're poundin' and bangin' and the door keeps pushin' more and more against its frame. Pain sears through my whole body, and I slump to the floor. Rachel runs to my side.

"Victor!" Lookin' down, I see blood seepin' out of my body and onto the floor. I grip Rachel's shoulder and speak in her direction, but I can't see a damn thing. Seems like vision's always the first thing to go in these situations.

"Rachel, listen to me, an' listen good," I say. "You have to use your powers. You have to put a shield 'round your whole body. Then, you gotta get to the garage. There's all kinds of cars there. You drive outta here and you don't stop 'til— Don't stop 'til— Don't stop—" From somewhere very far away, I hear myself cough and sputter and then suck in air.

For some reason, all I can think of is that I've never tasted her lips.

I never realized before how beautiful his eyes are. They reflect the little light in the room, causing the pupils to glow gold inside his pitch black irises. But there's no life there. I keep staring into those eyes, trying to will him back to life, but he doesn't move. Running footsteps are coming closer and closer. I should turn and run. But instead, I just stare into those beautiful eyes.

He's not dead, I tell myself. He can't be dead. He doesn't die. The stampede gets closer. Every second I stand frozen here, I'm losing more and more time. But I can't seem to make myself run. I hear the door being kicked down, and just as I turn my head, gunfire showers across the room at me. Two bullets head straight for my forehead. I squint my eyes shut as tight as I can, bracing for the worst.

But then nothing happens. Slowly, so slowly, I open my eyes. The two bullets sit in mid-air, hovering just before my face, not moving, simply sitting there like they're stuck in invisible jello or something. I look up to find that a gunman is staring with his mouth gaping open, his weapon still raised at me but no longer firing. Another henchman shoves past him and starts shooting at me. His bullets stop just short of my skull as well.

Concentrating, I push my shield just a bit wider and the seven bits of lead move backward about a foot. Now two more minions enter the room, and all four of them pull out their automatic guns. A shower of ammunition hangs in the air before me like a string of Christmas lights, and using my telekinesis, I turn it around to face my attackers. A sudden comprehension dawns on all their faces just before I push the darts forward at over a hundred miles per hour, and they all crumple to the floor. I shove the door closed before anyone else can push their way in and block the way with a solid wall of TK.

Turning back to Victor, I pick up his torso, my hands shaking uncontrollably. How could this happen? I knew it was coming! I was supposed to be ready, dammit! But the sudden excitement of being awakened in the middle of the night and the imposing presence of so many enemies and a hundred bullets flying and all the commotion have me completely off-guard. And now Victor is dead.

My head falls against his chest and I'm tempted to cry. What would he think if he saw that? I fight off the urge. Okay, pull yourself together, Rachel. What did he tell you to do? "Put up a shield, get to the garage, drive and don't stop 'til—" Well, drive and don't stop works, anyway.

Out of nowhere, Victor's chest heaves. He takes in a huge breath of air, turns away from my arms and coughs up blood all over the floor. I have to fight off the urge to cry again, this time from relief.

"Victor!" I yell. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and turns to me, his eyes slightly glazed.

"Fuckin' A, Rachel, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Huh?"

"What happened?" he asks, pulling himself to his feet. "How long's it been?"

"I dunno, maybe a few minutes? I used my TK, and I killed them." I pointed at the bodies near the door. "But there're a whole lot more outside. You don't look good."

He stands, very wobbly on his feet, and looks at his reflection in the one-way mirror with criticism. Picking at one of his more ghastly wounds, which is already healing, he says, "God, I'm one ugly mother-fucker after a gun fight. Always seem to take more bullets than anyone else in the room." He turns to me. "You think you can manage fitting a shield 'round both of us? I'm not sure if I can eat that much metal again without bleedin' out, and if you're gonna wait on me to make yer exit, that'll slow ya down a helluva lot."

I try to look confident. "I guess we're about to find out, aren't we?" He just grins.