Chapter 12

Remy remembered his father telling him that if he had to tell himself not to panic, it was already too late. This did not stop the chorus of Don't panic don't panic don't panic that was circling through his head.

He couldn't touch Rogue. He couldn't touch Rogue.

His mouth still stung and smarted, the skin tender like he'd tried to drink a cup of tea just off the boil—or like she'd slapped him full-force. What happened when two true but incompatible ideas tried to occupy the same space at the same time? Well, now he knew. And he didn't know what to do about it. Rogue wouldn't come running after him, willing to surrender her position for the sake of their relationship; she was too stubborn and too proud. And he . . . had he just blown the best thing in his life because Magneto had slipped a few pernicious lies into his ear?

No. They weren't lies. Just very inconvenient truths. Professor Xavier might believe that there'd be a peaceful resolution to the war that had just been launched, human versus mutant, but Remy had seen what scared people could do. There was no compassion when you thought your life was on the line. Maybe the law would be overturned; maybe they'd all shake hands with Senator Creed, accept his embarrassed apology, and go home. But probably not. The more likely outcome was that the U.S. government and its frightened citizens would continue lashing out at the 'mutant threat' however they could, and as soon as the tenuous peace was broken Magneto would lash back at them, and the X-Men would be in the middle of it all, hunted by both sides, Xavier's dream crushed under the brutal necessity of raw survival. It would all be stalemate and destruction if the X-Men held the course they were on.

He could see it. But he knew Xavier never would. Or Cyclops, or Storm. They'd fight to the death . . . which sounded heroic and dramatic, until you got a sense of what 'the death' really meant. Rogue, hero that she was, would follow them without a second thought. But Remy was no hero. His self-preservation instinct was just too strong.

She'd come around. This would blow over. They fought and made up so much it had become a household running joke. In the years they'd known each other, he'd been able to coax and wheedle and cajole her into anything. She was putty in his hands . . .

. . . But it was because she chose to be. His confidence retreated before the memory of the set of her jaw, the flash of her eyes when her mind was made up about something. And her mind had been made up about this since long before she'd ever laid eyes on him. She loved him, but her loyalty was to Scott. Charles. Storm. Logan. Kurt. She was an X-Man first. He wouldn't budge her off of that if he fought her for a hundred years.

But with his blood boiling like this, how long could he just keep his head down and defend the people who were stealing from him everything that mattered?

"Gambit?"

He froze. He'd barely realized he'd been moving, but now that he thought about it he must have gone back and forth up this hallway a half dozen times.

"Are you okay?" Kitty was at the head of the hall, where it intersected with a larger corridor. As he whipped around to face her, he relaxed all the muscles of his face, erasing the telltale worry creases between his eyes and the tension around his mouth.

"Yeah," he assured her, calm as a summer's morning by the time they made eye contact. "Just stir-crazy. I like havin' my two ways outta anyplace . . . dis whole setup's a little too enclosed for me."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Kitty said sympathetically. "Did you get the Professor's hail? He needs us in the conference room upstairs."

"Didn'. Thanks." He joined her in the main corridor, and side by side they walked up towards the rendezvous.

"Do you know what's going on?" she asked.

Remy had to take a split-second to re-orient himself to what had been going on before his world exploded. Memories clicked into place, and he answered, "Little bit. De Prof's got a job for us. Could get exciting, but shouldn't be a problem." He snuck a look at her out of the corner of his eye. "How're you holdin' up, Minou? You ready to do dis?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"You were kind of a wreck last night."

This elicited a weak giggle. "I'm . . . less of a wreck. Breakfast helped. And talking to . . . talking to Lance."

Gambit gave her another sideways glance. "You back on speakin' terms wid him?"

"Yeah." Kitty had the decency to look a little ashamed of herself. "I know you don't like him, but, you know, as long as we're all up here and kind of stuck with each other . . ."

"As you please." Twenty minutes ago, he would have been furious—not at her, but at Piotr, whose incessant inaction was rapidly losing Gambit his bet. Now he couldn't muster too much energy to care whether Kitty decided to bestow her affections on Lance or Piotr or even Magneto or Sabertooth. It just wasn't that entertaining anymore. As soon as this thing with Rogue was water under the bridge, he'd pick up that sport again.

Even if the fight get settled, though, what guarantee do you have that you'll be able to touch her again? The whole arrangement was precarious anyway . . . and that jolt hurt like all hell. . . what if it's broken, what if we're broken? Did I just blow my only shot at being with her?

DON'T panic. Stop it.

They'd reached the conference room. Waiting for them were Professor Xavier, Scott, Hank, Kurt, Forge, Amara, and Rogue. Gambit gave her a glance-over, on the off chance that she might be ready to throw herself into his arms, possibly with the addition of apologetic tears. Head back, arms folded, back to him, tossing over her shoulder a glance hard as rock and cold as ice . . . nope. Besides, tears weren't really her thing anyway.

"You'll be taking the jet down to the planet," Professor Xavier told them. "Hank is piloting. The five of you who are going into action, we are dropping off in two teams. Rogue and Nightcrawler, we're sending you on extraction." He offered Rogue a sheet of paper. "This is a list of as many mutants as we know how to find in the New England area. Contact as many as you can. Tell them what's happening. If any of them want to evacuate to Avalon, tell them to meet at the boat launch at Foster Pond, in Finger Lakes National Forest, at eleven o'clock on Sunday night."

"Foster Pond, Finger Lakes National Forest, eleven o'clock Sunday," Rogue rattled back.

"We're planning to do several of these runs, but to minimize chances of the military learning the rendezvous point, we'll choose a different location every time. We'll let you know the next meeting on Sunday. Stick together, and stay safe."

"Yes, sir." Rogue folded the paper and brought it to her chest, as though to tuck it into the inside pocket of the jacket she wasn't wearing. Realizing her mistake, she slipped it into the leg pocket on the outside of her thigh.

Gambit was having a hard time concentrating; the briefing was being drowned out by his intense and painful desire to touch her, right now . . . the need to feel her energy pouring inside him, to drain away the stress and anger he could feel radiating off her skin. He curled both his hands into fists, digging his fingertips into his palms, and bit down on his tongue. Don't do it. You got burned. She'll burn you again; don't think she won't.

"Shadowcat, you and Gambit have two missions. The first is to get Scott to where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. The second is more difficult. You'll be breaking back into the house and copying computer files that we're going to need for Scott's trial."

"What computer files?" Kitty asked.

Forge fielded the question. "Surveillance video. The computer's in a crawlspace under the professor's office, right under the desk. The password's 'buffalo', two fs, one l. There'll be a folder on the desktop called "Data Loop." Just copy it all onto the drive, and then up here I can sort out what we're gonna need."

"Unfortunately," Professor Xavier continued, "since Wolverine took the only Cerebro we've got left, you're going to be doing all of this with no way to contact the team."

"Ain't we got a phone up here?" Gambit asked. She saw Rogue shoot him another glare, and realized his voice had come out more sardonic than he'd meant it to.

"Outbound calls only," said Professor Xavier. "Eric insists. For the continued security of the station, there are scramblers that are constantly changing the number. He, I, and Forge intend to assemble another Cerebro, to the extent that we can, but it will probably take some time and I don't know how much range we'll be able to achieve."

"What about de Cerebro dey got at Muir Island?" Gambit asked, carefully schooling his tone this time. "You wan' we should go grab dat, too?"

"No. That's securely in the hands of the military by now, and though I'm quite certain you could get it, the payback is not worth the risk."

"Wait . . . didn' we blow up de big Cerebro just 'cuz de military gettin' hand on it would be very, very bad?"

"For the records stored in it—information on every mutant I've ever located. The Muir Cerebro was little more than an elaborate telephone and a training tool for Betsy. Without a telepath to operate it, it's useless. It's very unlikely they'll even figure out what it is. Leave it be. Hank will meet you at five o'clock tomorrow morning on the ridge that overlooks Bayville from the west. You know it?"

"Yes, sir."

Rogue was watching him again. After all his talk about how Xavier was going to get them killed, she was probably waiting for him to tell their teacher to shove it. But right now there was no point. Xavier and Magneto were, for the time being, giving the same orders. Besides, Remy'd learned through hard and painful experience that he should never, never make life-changing decisions when he was stressed, or scared, or angry, or anything other than perfectly lucid and calm. He was not calm right now. Right now was a time for keeping his head down and taking orders, just as he'd agreed to, on the first morning he'd come to the Institute and called it home.

"What about Amara?" Kitty asked. "What's her job?"

Amara hung her head, a red blush of shame rising in her dark cheeks. "I'm going home to Brazil," she admitted. "I'm just getting sicker and sicker up here, and the Dramamine doesn't help. The Professor and I talked it over, and decided it's better if I . . ." She raised her face to Scott, and her eyes were shining with tears. "I'm so sorry, Scott. I'm letting down the team."

"You are not," Scott insisted. "You never think that."

"If I felt as bad as you look right now, I'd be going home, too," Kurt told her. Then he paused, reviewing what he'd just said, and added, "I meant zat in ze nicest possible way."

It had perhaps not been a very graceful turn of phrase, but it made Amara smile. "Logan's going to kill me," she observed resignedly.

"He's not," Rogue told her. "If he was here, he'd be tellin' you to get your butt down to Brazil. Trust me."

"Are there any other questions?" Professor Xavier asked the group. When silence answered, he told them, "Then we'll see you in about fifteen hours. Good luck, all of you."

That was the dismissal. The meeting was over. As though the transfer of authority were a visible thing, Remy felt his attention move from Professor Xavier to Scott. They were going into the field again, and that left them in the hands of the field commander.

"Let's go," said Scott. He turned and left the room. Hank followed him, then Kitty, Kurt, Amara, and Rogue. Gambit fell into line last of all.

Rogue didn't glance back at him as they navigated the corridors down to the hangar. Her shoulders were still square, the muscles of her back rigid. Still mad. No end in sight.

Magneto was waiting in the hangar for them. "I'm taking your plane down into the atmosphere," he informed them, when the X-Men recoiled a little in response to his presence.

"Fun ride," said Kurt, under his breath.

"Tell me about it," Rogue muttered. The pair of them fell into step as they boarded the X-Jet. Gambit followed.

As he passed Magneto, his red eyes met the Omega's gray ones. Gambit didn't offer a nod or any other acknowledgment . . . but the glance had happened. There was no telling yet what it would mean.

Rogue had seen it happen. He knew as soon as his eyes flicked back into the plane; she was standing at the top of the loading ramp, watching him. As soon as their eyes met, she turned away, her head dipping and her right hand reaching across to scrub nervously at her left arm.

Something in Remy's gut twisted painfully. Rogue angry he could deal with—in fact, most of the time he downright enjoyed watching her get her color up. But Rogue sad was another matter. He hated seeing her sad. Rogue sad required immediate intervention, because her unhappiness made him feel like dirt. As he climbed up into the plane, what he wanted to do most in the world was slip his arms around her, turn her towards him, and assure her in touch and whispered word that whatever happened, they'd be okay.

That was what he wanted to do. He wanted to do it so much that he felt his feet turn him towards her as the hatch closed behind him. But even though her eyes were turned away, she felt him coming, and turned just a little so her back stayed towards him. Rejected. She'd torture him with her sadness, since shouting and begging hadn't seemed to change his mind.

He took a seat next to Kitty and strapped on his harness. His new adamantium staff weighed heavy inside his coat.

Jean didn't realize she'd drifted off until the altered note of the engines' hum nudged her back into consciousness. She twisted her neck, stretching the cramped muscles. "Where are we?" she asked, and as she spoke she realized her mouth tasted foul. She wanted a toothbrush. Badly.

"Montana," Logan told her. The thruster engines on Velocity had turned downward, easing them into a vertical landing. "About three miles south of the border."

"Are we close?" He hadn't told her where they were going, and she knew better than to ask, but she figured this was a safe enough question.

"Not really. But this is the only place I know of in the area where it'd be safe to put Velocity down, and if we hunted around for another landing spot I'd lose my orientation. At least I know I've come this way before."

"Less haste, more speed?"

"Something like that." There was a gentle shudder through the plane as she came to rest on solid ground. "Also more walking."

"How much walking are we talking?" She unfastened her harness and stood up. "Because we don't have much equipment on Velocity . . . most of the survival gear's in the X-Jet."

"There's a town on the border. We can buy what we need. Assuming the feds haven't frozen the credit accounts."

"And that anyone will sell to us dressed up like this." She gestured at her sleek gray-and-green uniform. "Well, wear it like you own it, I guess."

Logan killed the engine, locked the computer, unbuckled his flight harness, and stood up. "Grab a pack and come on. We're losin' daylight."

There were six minimalist survival packs in Velocity, one for each of the six seats in the aircraft. Jean snagged one and followed Logan out of the nose hatch and closed it behind her. They'd landed in a quarry. Red-brown rock ascended in tiers all around them, half covered in the last of the grainy winter snow. There wasn't a human soul to be seen.

"So since you've now dodged my question . . . twice . . . I'm guessing that when I ask "How far?", the answer is either "A really, really long way," or else "I don't know"."

He sighed and glanced back at her. "Kinda both. I remember landmarks, and I'm pretty sure once I'm on the right trail I'll go in the right direction. But as you may or may not have gathered, it's kind of a mess up here." He tapped his temple. "So no. I don't know how far."

Somehow, the admission sat well with her. Straight talk had once characterized her relationship with Logan, and it was something she'd missed. "Okay," she said steadily.

"When your feet start hurtin', maybe you'll learn your lesson about doing what you're told. Just remember I gave you a fair shot at waiting all this out at a beach house in Bermuda."

"You were going to take me to Bermuda?"

"I guess you'll never know."

She almost laughed. He almost smiled, but seemed to think better of it. "You just better keep up."

"I'll keep up," Jean assured him. "So . . . rain check on the beach house thing?"

"Pushin' your luck."

"Sorry."

Rogue was working very hard at sitting still. Her body wanted to start rocking, a futile attempt to shake away the stress that was making the muscles of her back, neck, and shoulders seize up. She couldn't touch Remy. And suddenly the intense claustrophobia inside her own skin that she'd lived with for years, the haunting depression that accompanied the inescapable gloves, the sense of entrapment that had all but vanished in the last few months, with Remy always near her, was back with a vengeance.

He was right next to her, and the awareness of his presence was firing along every nerve in her body, part acute embarrassment and part intense, almost painful longing. She had to get out of this plane, soon, or she was going to do something drastic.

"Kurt, Rogue, we're almost to your drop point," said Hank, with timing so perfect she could have kissed him. "It's a few miles inland of New York City. A good chunk of the names you've got are in the area, so it should be a good place to start." He reached behind himself, to a mesh storage pocket behind his seat, and pulled out an envelope. "Take this with you."

Rogue snagged it and reached inside. She found a wad of twenty-dollar bills and two passports: one U.S., one German.

"The passports are fakes, but Gambit assures us they'll stand up to at least some scrutiny. Still, try not to use them unless you need to. And the more you can make the cash stretch, the better off you'll be, but Rogue's going to need some clothes if you two are going to keep a low profile."

Rogue handed the German passport to Kurt and tucked hers, and the cash, into her other leg pocket. "We'll find somethin'."

Kurt immediately flipped his passport open to the back page. "Kurt Strauss?" he read, incredulous. "And where did you get this picture? It's horrible!"

"It's off your student i.d.," Gambit told him, "Photoshopped a little. Wouldn't be a real passport if you didn' look like a stoner."

"We're coming up on the right area," Hank told them. "Do you need me to slow down for you?"

Rogue unbuckled her harness. "Nah, we'll be okay. Kurt, you ready?"

"Ready for action, sir. Ma'am. Rogue."

"All right. Let's do this thing."

"Good luck, you two," Kitty told them. "We'll see you back on Avalon, okay?"

"Take care of each other," Scott ordered. Rogue, of course, couldn't see his eyes, but she could see the lines around them . . . worry, affection, and pride were all written there.

"We will," she assured him. She and Kurt positioned themselves in the middle of the plane, facing one another, and Rogue took a firm grip on his ribs while he wrapped his hands around her shoulders. The momentum would be enough to rip him out of her grasp if she wasn't prepared.

"Whenever you're ready," Hank told them.

Rogue swallowed, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

There was the click of a seat belt. "Rogue!"

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned, not letting out her breath. Remy was up out of his seat, motionless as only a trained thief could be—so still he was almost vibrating with it. Looking her straight in the eye, he announced, carefully and clearly, "I love you."

Rogue froze. Why, why did that sound so strange? She knew that he loved her. Knew it absolutely, whatever he might say about the professor or Magneto or the war. But this was the first time he'd ever said it. Before now, she hadn't known it through words . . . since that morning in New Orleans, she'd known it through his very skin. The fact that he had to say it only underscored how much they might already have lost, the moment her lips met his and so much of what had connected them had gone up in flames. He loved her, and she him . . . but was it going to be enough?

And why was this awful moment dragging on so long? It was Kurt . . . rather than porting them out, Kurt was waiting, giving her a chance to respond. But she couldn't think of a thing to say. One more second here, and she might just faint dead away like some silly swooning female in a cheap novel. So she turned to her brother and whispered, "Go, Kurt." Kurt, bless him, obeyed without question, and in a heartbeat her entire world was transformed into a flash of red, sulfuric heat, then a blast of cold wind and the bottom-dropped-out-of-your-stomach, top-of-the-roller-coaster feeling of the instant before free fall.

He'd said "I love you" and she hadn't said anything.

This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. She could not have just done that.

"Rogue!"

She snapped out of it, pulling up from the drop that she'd just been allowing to happen, dragging Kurt with her to a standstill in the air as the Blackbird roared out of sight in front of them.

"Rogue," Kurt told her, catching his breath, "When you jump out of a plane, you should pay attention, okay?"

"Okay. Ah'm sorry." She let him get an arm around her shoulders and turn so he could see where they were going, then turned towards the New York skyline standing jagged in the distance. And she rearranged her thoughts, shoving Remy and Magneto and all the complications and the hurt and the dread into the furthest, dustiest corner of her mind. "Let's get to work."

Kitty wished she'd had a second to compare notes with Rogue before the teams had split. Rogue, at least, might tell her what was going on—why she'd left the plane without a word, without a touch, to spare for her boyfriend. That was very weird behavior. Fifteen minutes' interrogation would be enough to pry the whole story out of Rogue, but Kitty knew, from sad experience, that neither time nor tide would coax one scrap of information out of Gambit until he was good and ready to give it. Which, judging by the calm, professional, closed-off way he moved as he retook his seat and refastened his harness, wasn't just yet.

She sat back in her seat and sulked until they were on approach to DC.

"There are passports for you two as well," Hank announced, looking to Scott but jerking his head at Kitty. "Gambit, you've already got yours, right?"

"Pick a color," Gambit deadpanned, pulling from his pocket a small stack of little booklets. He fanned them out, just to show off, then selected one and tossed the others on the floor. "Stickin' wid U.S. fo' now."

"I'm going to drop you at the spot where we parked the X-Jet on our field trip to the Smithsonian last year," Hank informed them. "Will that do all right?"

Scott checked the clock. "It should, if we hurry. It's almost quarter to four."

"Then get ready to hit the ground running." The plane shuddered and rumbled, and Kitty felt the higher-pitched buzz of the VTOL engines kick in under her feet. "Gambit, Kitty, I'll see you in the morning. And Scott . . ."

"See you in the movies," Scott finished for him. "All right, guys, let's move."

Thankfully, the sun was starting to think about setting, covering Washington in blazing orange light that made everyone with sunglasses whip them on. Scott and Gambit blended right in. Although as the three of them proceeded up the sidewalk, Scott felt a little bit like one half of a matched pair of bodyguards, clearing a path for Kitty, some ambassador's daughter or foreign princess.

They'd managed to buy coats—a long black canvas one for him, and a down-filled ski jacket for Kitty—at a shopping center not far from where they'd landed the plane. Gambit's duster made him look at least moderately normal, but in deference to the cold weather he'd splurged on a sweater and a scarf. Now, at seven minutes to five, they were outside the fence that enclosed the White House and its lawns. He could've hit the side door into the West Wing with an accurately thrown rock . . . if doing so wouldn't have caused the guards to shoot him.

"Okay," Gambit muttered, scanning the space between them and the building. "What we goin' for is dat wall. Press offices right behind it . . . should be empty . . . an' from dere it's a straight shot into de briefing room."

"You've got the floor plan of the White House memorized?" asked Scott.

"Yes," said Gambit, his tone implying Don't you?

Scott thought about this for a second, then shrugged it off. Don't worry about where he got the skills . . . just be glad they're here. "Okay. So there's two guards in this shack, and two more at this south-facing door we're going to have to cross right in front of. And since the president has a great view all the way down to the Washington Monument and we're going to be in plain view of half the tourist zone, we've got to do this lightning-fast before anyone figures out what's going on."

"'Bout right."

"Gambit, you think you can take out the men in the guard shack before they can raise an alarm?"'

"Yes."

"Okay. I can get the two at the door. You move first. When you're clear, I'll shoot, and then Kitty, you and I make a mad dash for that wall. Sound like a plan?"

"No . . ."

"Gonna do it anyway?"

" . . . Yeah . . ." she admitted.

Scott snorted. "You're a sport, Kitty. Thank you." Suddenly it seemed like a good idea for him to take a deep breath. He was going in there alone. No teammates behind him, no powers to protect him. Throwing himself on the mercy of people who might or might not have any mercy to give. He was scared. He knew about fear, knew how to deal with it . . . that didn't mean he enjoyed it. Some plan. But it was what they had, and these two, bless them, were with them for as long as they could be.

Kitty hugged him. "Good luck in there, Scott. We're all rooting for you."

"Thanks, Kitty. Be careful. Keep Gambit out of trouble." He let her go, then turned and looked at Gambit.

The other mutant's red eyes were uncharacteristically serious. Gambit extended a hand, and Scott took it. He was almost startled enough to let go when Gambit gave his arm a tug turning the distant, professional handshake into the brief, firm, one-armed embrace of brothers in arms.

"You do this," Gambit hissed in his ear, the words almost a command. "You prove it can be done. You prove Magneto wrong, y'hear me?"

Scott gave a little hmph of laughter as he let Gambit go. "Why? Have you got another bet riding on this?"

Gambit gave him a slow, exaggerated nod. "Oh, ouais. An' I don'like how high de stakes got. So you win dis for me . . . 'cuz what you're about t'do, I couldn't do, ever. So you go show 'em how it's done, Hero."

Gambit . . . being serious. Since the day he'd moved into the house, Scott had been lecturing him on how he needed to take some things seriously, not treat every aspect of life as his own private joke . . . but now that he saw what Gambit's face looked like without a hint of amusement in it, he began to wish he hadn't insisted quite so much.

Gambit turned to Kitty. "Okay, put me in."

Kitty took him by the arm and guided him through the metal fence. Gambit slipped into the cover of the trees that decorated the lawn and was soon lost to Scott's view.

Scott fished his visor from his pocket, flipped it open, and switched out his glasses. The visor gave him better accuracy, which he was going to need.

When he opened his eyes again, the two guards were still in the guard shack, looking professional but bored. Less than a minute later, without the slightest sound, both of them dropped out of view. Gambit's hand popped up to replace them, gesturing 'A-OK'.

Scott's right hand found the control on his visor and flicked it. Ffffft-fffft. Two shots, inside half a second, both hitting their targets flawlessly. A straight, focused eye-beam hit to the temple would probably cause a mild-to-medium concussion . . . hopefully nothing more serious than that. The suddenness with which they dropped made him worry, but there was no time to check; Kitty already had him through the fence.

It was a crazy sprint, no time to think—just the lawn under his feet and the wall looming up in front of him. There was a sunken sidewalk just in front of it that he wasn't ready for, but it didn't end up mattering; they just jumped clean over the walkway and straight through the wall into the press office.

By the time he'd caught his balance and turned around, Kitty was already gone.

Kitty skittered to a stop outside the White House, her desire to get the heck out of here warring with her desire to go back and give Scott one last hug or word of support. But there was no time. Gambit was already back at the exterior fence, and he needed her help to get out of here. And who knew how long those guards were going to stay unconscious, or if anyone had seen Scott's eye beams and raised an alarm. She was on her feet and running again, pounding past the two poor knocked-out souls, through the trees, and through the fence, yanking Gambit with her.

"I don't got de slightest bit'a confidence dey ain't gonna just up'n shoot him as soon as dey figure out who he is," Gambit told her, "so you stay right here an' watch. De second you hear guns, or see red light flashin' outta dem windows, you go back in an' get him, whether he wants to come or not. I be right back."

He was gone before she had a chance to say another word.

Oh, crap, oh, crap, oh, crap. Kitty felt herself phase out again, and she just stayed that way. Phasing was her response to stress. Logan had trained that into her, in hour after hour of Danger Room drills, year after year of life in the house on Greymalkin. He'd throw things at her when she wasn't expecting it, shove her without warning into walls and furniture. When she got fed up and finally yelled at him, he'd snapped back, "When you're startled, Kid, I want you to phase. I don't want you to think about it; I just want you to do it, like gasping. Reflex."

"Why?" She had been young then, younger than she was now. He powers had still frightened her. Phasing was like diving into deep water, with no guarantee she could come up again.

"Because," he told her, articulating every sound, as though explaining something to a four-year-old having a tantrum, "when you are phased, nothing can hurt you."

That was the day she'd learned to trust Logan. He was content to let her think him the world's biggest jerk if that was what had to be done for her to learn how to keep herself safe. So Kitty stood on the sidewalk outside the west wing of the White House, listening for gunfire, while soldiers and marines and federal agents combed the country looking for her and her kind, held safe and untouchable by the little quirk of genetic coding that had started all this trouble in the first place.

She heard raised voices, multiplying like firecrackers from the building and grounds beyond the fence. It was done. Something was happening. But although she felt adrenalin rush through her bloodstream, reinforcing her phase, she heard neither gunshots nor the air-tearing slice of Scott's eyes.

Go back and help your teammate. Years of training were screaming at her, not to leave Scott alone, not to stand here doing nothing . . . and where was Gambit? She could just run back in, check that Scott was all right . . .

A silver Toyota pulled out of traffic and eased up against the curb. The passenger door popped open. "Get in," Gambit ordered from the driver's seat.

Kitty balked. "Did you steal this car?" she demanded.

"Yes," Gambit snapped, impatient. "Get in."

She huffed out her breath, dropped her phase, and climbed into the car. She grabbed for her seat belt, clumsy in her haste to get it on; the steely look in Gambit's eyes suggested they were in for a wild ride. But to her surprise, Gambit flicked on his left turn signal and pulled smoothly out into traffic.

There was another voice in the car. She whipped around to check the back seat, but it was empty apart from a couple of boxes of files and a dry-cleaning bag. Not a person: the radio.

" . . . being confirmed now. A mutant has, indeed, infiltrated the White House. The President and senior staff are being evacuated. No word yet on whether the mutant is working alone, or if there are others . . . so far, no injuries reported . . ."

"Dey took de bait," Gambit muttered. "You didn' hear any shooting?"

Kitty shook her head. "Not one round."

"Den he's on his own. Godspeed, Scott Summers. An' good luck to de poor soul who gotta tell Jean what he done." He changed lanes and turned the radio down. "We got a long drive an' a long night, so you best get some sleep if you can."

Author's Notes:

Well . . . ahem . . . the delay on this is downright embarrassing. I plead summer camp and funerals, although this only semi-justifies about half of the delay . . .

This chapter is published with apologies to Al Gore—hey, it was a good turn of phrase, and I needed to use it. So there—and with a nod to Doctor Who. Geography of the White House was unwittingly provided by the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum.