Xavier's lab

A day later

Ian was typing into a terminal and a tablet...at the same time. Kitty looked on a little enviously. He was working both the Sentinel issue and the finalisation of his treatment. He divined her thoughts and grinned. "I'm mentally working Marie's problem, too. It's a real pleasure to be able to multitask. Funny thing," he reflected, "before my mutant power came in I was quite slow at school, and complex computations were out of the question. I could barely manage a simple sudoku."

"Then the mutant thing happened," Kitty understood.

"Yeah. My grades shot up, to my parents' delight. It wasn't that I wasn't trying, far from it, but I wasn't getting anywhere. Suddenly, though, there was no stopping me. I read the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica in only two days - and I remembered everything I'd read, every word. I read War And Peace in the original Russian - I hadn't known Russian until I read a book on it. I even read Einstein's work, in the original German, and I solved a Rubik's Cube in 22 seconds flat. They were so amazed...until my hair started falling out."

"And you started getting older," she sympathised.

He sighed. "Yeah. I'd been quite good with sports until then - but suddenly, while I could calculate the trajectory of a baseball or a javelin to the last decimal place, there was no way I could throw one, it was just too much effort. Took me a couple of weeks to work out why, but I looked at my own DNA and realised it was mutated." He looked wry. "Even for me, though, discerning the cause of the rapid ageing was one thing; solving it was something else again. By the time I turned 18 I'd deduced that it was a race against time...and I was losing."

"Poor you," she murmured.

Ian stopped typing briefly to pat her hand. "Thanks, Kitty. But now, thanks to Marie and Logan, the end is in sight. The treatments will allow me to regain a lot of lost ground - about 36 years or so." He grinned again. "Might even get my hair back, not that it matters."

"Any thoughts on the Riemann Hypothesis?" Kitty teased.

"A few," he smiled. "That's a more complex problem than Riemann first thought, but it had better be true, or mathematics is in serious trouble. In figuring out how prime numbers are distributed, we're delving into the basics of the Universe, and that's no small undertaking. Likely it'll take even me several years." He sobered. "And right now other things are taking priority."

"The Sentinels," Kitty nodded grimly. "Any thoughts?"

"Nothing good," he answered with equal gravity. "I suspect Trask is getting private funding - that explains the speed of development. And I know from Hank that he does not have Presidential approval."

"Not that that's stopping him," Kitty noted.

Ian finished typing on the tablet and sighed in satisfaction, munching on a power bar. "That should do it. The solution came even faster than I'd supposed - I should be on the mend in just three days, not eleven. I can actually incorporate the solution into the bars and the fortified juice - eat and drink my way to greatly improved health. Right, now to work on Raven's problem," he resumed typing.


In less than six hours, thanks to the information he'd sourced from Worthington, he had an answer, and formulated it in the lab in just under an hour. Raven looked on in fascination; while she was technically minded and skilled with computers, the complexity of DNA was beyond her. "So it's a cure for the cure?" she reasoned.

"Only for you, unfortunately," he nodded. "The mutability of your leukocytes is still there, it's just that the treatment is suppressing it. Effectively what I'm doing is giving you a way to evolve and change past it. As my serum kicks in and is absorbed, the leukocytes will briefly change, becoming more aggressive, and overcome the effects of the ‛cure'. But it's that very mutability that's the key; other mutants, such as Marie, wouldn't be able to utilise this to render the treatment temporary. For them, it's still a one-shot affair, still irreversible."

"But...it will work?" Raven asked hopefully.

Ian smiled gently. "Everyone makes mistakes, Raven, even me. But I make them far less frequently than other people. All the simulations check out. There's a probability of 99.3% that it'll work and that you'll regain your shapeshifting powers. It wouldn't work for anyone else; anyone who was forcibly changed at Alcatraz is stuck with being human. As I suspected, Erik's case was an exception that proved the rule. For you, though..." He finished decanting the solution, which was a pale orange colour. "Andrea, you're a doctor; would you do the honours, please?"

Andrea filled a syringe with the concoction, but as Raven offered her arm Andrea asked concernedly, "Ian, is it possible you've made the same mistake Hank did? What he thought would abolish his mutation actually enhanced it. What are the chances that this will do something similar? Either enhance the effects of the treatment...or change her into another form irreversibly? As a doctor I have to think of my patient first."

"Prius non nocebit," Xavier agreed softly.

"First, do no harm," Ian readily translated. "Asclepius and Hippocrates would have been proud. I did take that possibility into account, and I discounted 2,473 variants which would have brought that about. At least 315 would actually have killed her. This one, though - there's only a 0.7% chance that it'll have no effect. But whether it works or not, it will not harm her. That's a guarantee of at least 99.9999999%."

He looked and sounded certain. Raven's jaw set. "Charles taught me that sometimes you have to take a risk. Please do it, Andrea. No-one will blame you or him if it goes wrong, not even me." She sighed. "Even if it does kill me...I still win. Do it. Please."

Charles said softly, "Raven...even if it does not work, death is not the only way out."

"So Alison said," Raven answered as softly. "But as much as she means well, and I know she does, she's wrong. I...I just can't adjust. If this doesn't work, I'd rather be dead. Either way, this is a way out. Please let me take it. I...I know you could stop me."

Xavier sighed sadly. "I could, yes. But even if it means your death...I will not. You could have made the alternative timeline a reality by killing Trask, but you chose to do the right thing instead. I am trusting you once again to make the right choice. The right choice for you," he added gently.

Raven looked firmly at Ian. "I trust you." Her gaze travelled to Andrea. "It's my only shot. Please do it."

Deftly Andrea performed the injection. Immediately Raven started to shudder, falling to her knees with a groan, keening. Then...she changed. Abruptly she developed spikes all over her body which went through her clothes, shredding them.

"That," Ian admitted, "I did not expect. Her ability seems to have returned, but it's out of control." He moved to help her.

But whilst still on her knees, she gasped, "No! I just - I - I need a minute to acclimatise! After so long..." She shuddered anew, and frowned fiercely. "Remember the disciplines you taught me...wait..."

And then it seemed to be over. The spikes retracted back into her body. As they watched, her face melted back to the once-familiar blue, and her eyes turned yellow - not just her irises, but her eyes.

Then blue, as she suddenly resembled Xavier.

Then brown, as she became Wolverine.

Finally back to yellow.

Her black hair lightened, becoming russet in the old cropped helmet of hair. She drew a deep breath, stood and said with relief, "I'm actually warm. For the first time in two years...I feel warm." She stripped - and laughed in delight. Her old familiar ridges and contours were back, plus the scales. She ran her hands over those contours, loving the feel of them. It was almost narcissistic, but for several years she had been one of the few mutants with unusual appearance who was utterly at home in her body.

Ironically Erik had taught her that, to accept herself as she was, blue skin and all. When he'd told a serum-transformed Beast that Hank had never looked better, he'd truly meant it as a compliment, not as mockery, though only Xavier himself had known it. Erik actually favoured mutants whose appearance differed from the human norm, the more extreme the better. It was why he'd first been attracted to Mystique and what he saw as her most exotic appearance. Exotic...and sexy.

Mystique, in turn, had been fascinated to see his genuine interest, and returned it with something close to love - at least until she was 'cured'. Now, though, she had decided against vengeance, as she knew Charles would prefer. Live and let live, and all that.

Raven - Mystique - laughed again, feeling an almost sexual pleasure. Even her voice had regained its old resonance. "It worked! Ian, you really are a genius!"

"False modesty aside," Ian smiled, "my pleasure. I love it when nothing untoward happens."

"My God," Alison breathed in admiration, "being a connoisseur of the female form, I thought you were beautiful before. But now..." She looked coy. "Do you like girls?"

Mystique chuckled. "Not the way you do, no. Sorry. But thanks for staying up with me and listening to me bitching."

"That's what I do," Alison returned.

Mystique took her hand and squeezed it. "You do much more than that. Thank you." She hugged Ian. "Thank you for giving me the real cure." She turned to Xavier and hugged him, too. "And you, Charles. You had every reason to turn me away, but you didn't."

"I had many more reasons for wanting you to stay," Xavier murmured, "and I still do, now more than ever. Come back, Mystique," he offered in earnest. "Fight with us. Be an X-Man again. There is still a place for you." He reached out a hand in appeal.

But Mystique didn't take it. She shook her head. "You fight Trask in your way, Charles. Me in mine." She hesitated. "Unless you stop me."

He too shook his head. "I gave you a free choice in 1973. I was right to trust you then, and I am right now. But you must see that for yourself. You have had quite enough of my control, one way or the other. As you see, I have changed." He sighed. "Just, please, promise me you will not kill anyone."

She looked very solemn at that. "For anyone else I'd tell them to go to hell. For you...only if I absolutely have to. That much I will promise you."

"Then that will have to do," he sighed. "Must you leave immediately?"

She chuckled again. "I'll split one last stack of pancakes with you in the morning."


The next day they spent their last meal together in silence, just the two of them. By the time Logan arose, she was gone.

"Funny," he reflected, "I was kinda gettin' used to her."

Actually amused, Xavier returned, "She left a message for you: ‛Thanks for not killing me'."

Logan sighed. "I may come to regret that."

Xavier too sighed. "I admit it is possible. But I trusted her to do the right thing in 1973, and it your memories of the vanished timeline are accurate, we avoided a genocidal war."

"Yeah. An' now we got another one."

"Not yet, Logan. Not yet. And if my plans work out, not ever."


Xavier's study

The next evening

"I have received word from Trask," Xavier reported. "He has accepted my offer of a flag of truce and has agreed to visit the Institute - and, Logan, he has agreed to come entirely unarmed. Nor will he be accompanied by Sentinels. In return, he asks for a guarantee of safety. I have promised him such - he shall be entirely unmolested whilst he is here, and he shall be free to leave at any time."

"Bad idea," Logan snarled. "I should kill 'im as soon as he arrives!"

"No!" Xavier returned sharply. "I grant that he is an enemy, Logan. But need he remain so? Perhaps not. Perhaps he will see his fears are groundless."

Logan shook his head. "Charles, sometimes you go too damn far with the optimism. He ain't lookin' to make peace - he's a scout!"

"He's precisely what we need," Scott argued, "an advocate for the anti-mutant brigade who can listen to reason. Once he sees how we live and work at the Institute...c'mon, Logan, it's worth a try!"

They were all surprised to hear Ian quietly say, "No." He of all people was an advocate of peace, so this objection was surprising.

"Ian, would you care to explain?" Xavier requested.

"As jarring as it is for a peacenik to object to such a notion, Charles, I'm with Logan on this. We are proposing to freely give him information on our mutants - on what their powers are. This, plus the layout of the Institute, is information he can feed into the Sentinels - so when he gets funding, as he likely will, they can and will be prepared for us. It'll make them even more dangerous than they currently are, at least in potentia.

"Plus there's no way in hell that he would let us tour his facility and learn about the Sentinels. This is not a quid pro quo situation, it's entirely one-sided. We are giving up a lot - he is giving up nothing. We don't want to destroy them, but they want to destroy us. We want to live together. As is all too typical of homo sapiens, they have no interest in sharing the world. It's an unconscionable risk, Charles. I say no."

"It is a risk, I agree," Charles nodded, "but it is a risk worth taking."

Wolverine popped his claws. "Tell that to the kids when they're all dead or on the run."

"Storm?"

Ororo hesitated. "Before he died...Senator Kelly asked me why we hated humans. I said it was because...we were afraid of them. But their fear is a product of ignorance, and ignorance is what we are hoping to dispel. This might be our only chance to do that."

Abruptly Logan stood. "You're gonna do it. Well, count me out."

"Logan -" Xavier began.

"Okay, I won't kill 'im. But he's gonna do his damnedest to kill us." Wolverine walked to the door. "I'll drink a toast to you. Be all I can do, looks like!"

With that he stormed out.


The practice range

Shortly after

Alison found him tearing into practice dummies on the range; she'd felt his sheer rage halfway across the Institute, and zeroed in on him. Hopefully she could help him - certainly she would try her best. "Hey, you want to -"

"Ain't interested in talkin'!" he snarled, lashing out. A dummy lost its head.

She sighed and sent forcefully: Logan! One way or another, you will LISTEN to -

He whirled, and his claws stopped just short of her throat. She gulped. Only by sheer force of will did she refrain from wetting herself.

There are times, Alison thought ruefully, when that character flaw of mine might just get me killed. I am scared as fuck...and soaking wet.

Would I come as I died?

Probably.

He was breathing heavily, fighting for control. She decided to take the risk for once and read his mind. It wasn't easy; the poor guy had had all kinds of people doing all kinds of stuff to him. His mind, she discovered, was nothing short of a mess, jumbled fragments from different times and places. Even he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. As an empath, she felt nothing but profound sympathy for him.

One memory was especially fragmented...but especially strong.

Kayla Silverfox.

After a struggle, he'd remembered at least some of what had happened, after meeting Stryker again. He'd remembered her comforting presence, her kindness, her Native American roots, her tales of Trickster and the Wolverine.

And he'd remembered that she was dead.

She had given her life to try to help him and other mutants. But an adamantium bullet fired by that bastard Stryker had put paid to that, and to his memories of receiving the adamantium infusion. All he had left of those memories were Kayla, a little about Gambit, and scattered fragments of Alkali Lake.

But she knew that Kayla - and her apparent death at Sabertooth's hands/claws - was the reason why he'd volunteered for the procedure.

He'd loved her, Alison knew.

Bravely she asked him, Would you, for once, want to talk about it? Please?

His claws retracted, and he looked as apologetic as he ever did, still breathing heavily. She reached for his knuckles and caressed them gently. It served to calm him somewhat.

"Kayla used to do that," he said quietly, haltingly. "At least...I think she did. Someone used to, anyway. Might've been her."

"You like it?" she asked softly, still stroking his hands.

"Yeah. Feels good."

Physical therapy takes all kinds of forms, Dr. Mike Garrett told her in her first year. All can be equally valuable. A touch, a stroke, a kiss. Use them all, Alison. Whatever works, works.

He had lived just long enough to see her move the tassel from one end of her mortar board to the other; he'd been proud of her. When he passed away, it was with contentment for a life well-lived. She still missed him, but his wisdom lived on. She was looking forward to imparting it to some of the students.

Right now, though, Logan needed her help. She continued stroking, and finally all the fight left him; he sighed. "Gotta admit, that therapy stuff works."

"It should," she quipped, "I am a doctor. So what's going on?"

He explained.

"Hmm," Alison mused, non-committal.

Logan exhaled. "So you think I'm wrong."

"I didn't say that," she shook her head. "There are arguments for and against. Tactically it is a risk, I agree. But...what do we really know about Trask? This is our chance to find out, Logan. I think I can read his mind, but perhaps more subtly than Charles. Come to think of it, I have training in reading body language and kinesics, and he doesn't know that. He might give away a lot just by being here. To me, anyway."

"What can you find out?"

She smiled. "More than you think. I'll prove it. I give you my word I will not read your mind any more than I already have. But just from your kinesics, I'll be able to tell what snack you like."

Logan chuckled. "Yeah, right."

"Ho-Hos," she answered confidently.

He stared at her. "Lucky guess."

Alison shook her head again. "Neither lucky nor a guess, Logan. Your favourite colour is black. Technically, that's the absence of colour. You like motorbikes, the faster the better. And...you like a woman's knickers to be brief and pink. That might be a cliché, yeah, but that's my favourite colour for knickers, too." She grinned. "Though I'm not wearing any right now, brief or not. Sherry seldom wears any, but I usually do because I like the scent from my cunt. But I woke up late and didn't have time."

Logan breathed, "Be damned. All true." He closed with her and slowly pulled down her trousers...to discover bare, shapely flesh beneath them. "Goin' commando, huh? I should spank you."

Alison looked impish. "Is that a promise?"

It was, and he kept it. Her happy squeals echoed through the range as they christened it.

Deep down she heard a mental sigh. Alison, I did say your liaison was no-one's business. However, the range is public. In his room or yours, please.

Mental eavesdropping? Alison quipped.

Hardly. I am sure every telepath in the Institute is aware of you both.

We certainly are, a new voice piped up; it was Phoebe. Ooh, I love eavesdropping, especially on -

PHOEBE! Emma snapped. Kindly discipline yourself - or I will! Sex is by definition a private affair between consenting adults, and not for the delectation of randy clones! Behave yourself for once! Alison, I do apologise, to you and to Logan. It will not happen again. It had better not happen again, she warned a chastened Phoebe.

Apology accepted, Alison sent back.

But she cheekily waited until both had climaxed before she suggested they adjourn to his room. I hope Phoebe did, too. She's a dirty bitch after my own heart.

In fact Phoebe did climax, much to her sisters' disdain. Nor did she care much, intent as she was upon her bodily sensations. In some ways she was precocious...and Emma's disapproval was feigned to a degree. Deep down she actually approved of her clone's wanton sexual tendencies; if nothing else, it proved Phoebe was her own person.


Logan's room

An hour later

"So what d'you think?"

She sighed. "Let it happen...but get everyone ready for the Sentinels showing up. I don't know jack about computers, but I know Kitty does, and if she's worried, I'm worried. Question is: how long will we have?"

"You could just read Trask's mind an' find out," Logan suggested.

Alison sighed again. "And be in breach of my contractual T & Cs. Telepaths have a strict set of guidelines at the Institute. I doubt the Cuckoos follow them," I know Phoebe doesn't, "but the others do. I certainly do. That would be breaching Trask's mental privacy, and I can't - won't - do that."

"Needs must," Logan pointed out.

At that Alison almost looked offended. "Logan, ethics aren't like a coat you can choose to wear. You either do or you don't. I do. Reading minds in any context is stepping dangerously close to my boundaries. I only do it to help people. That's the only way I can justify it at all."

"Hey, you wouldn't have a career without your telepathy," he objected.

"True," she admitted, "but I didn't know I had it then. But I do now, and my career has gotten both easier and harder." She sighed a third time. "Oh, it would be so easy to ignore the guidelines and simply read minds willy-nilly. But...that's a very, very dangerous road to take. There's too much potential for abuse.

"Like the Jedi in Star Wars - it'd be so easy to manipulate the Force if they just surrendered to their feelings, but that leads to the Dark Side, to the way of the Sith. So it is with telepaths: start ignoring one rule, and pretty soon there are no rules. No privacy at all." She looked fierce. "I will not allow myself to fall into that trap, Logan! It's too dangerous! It might start with reading Trask, but what then? If it's okay with him, why not you? Or Ororo? Or anyone? No! I CAN'T! I WON'T!"

He raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I thought I had a temper. Okay, yeah, I get it. Sorry."

Alison forced herself to calm, taking deep breaths. "No, it was a reasonable suggestion; I just overreacted. I'm sorry." She kissed him. "But I'll do my best every other way."


Classified Military Facility

Same time

"Are you ready, Doctor?" a scientist asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm quite ready," Trask replied, pulling on a coat. He carefully adjusted the unimaginatively named Device under his suit jacket. "Bearding the lion in his den, as it were."

"I still think you should have an escort," the scientist fussed.

Trask chuckled. "And if they were anything other than mutants, precisely how effective do you think they would be? No, the request specified that I be alone. I shall be perfectly safe; they can only lose if I am harmed. Besides," he smirked, "their leader, one Charles Xavier, gave his word."

"He's not just a telepath," Dean Williams protested, "according to our intel he can -"

"- influence minds, yes, I am aware. But I have prepared a series of questions for you to ask upon my return; should I give any incorrect or uncharacteristic answers, you will know I have been compromised, and you may take over the project with my blessing. The Sentinels will require of him that I be restored. However, all the intel we have on him suggests he is a man of his word. Hence I am not concerned in the slightest."

"But -"

"Besides," Trask added, patting his jacket, "I have the Device, of which they, as yet, know nothing. It will protect me."

It'd better, Williams worried as Trask left.


Xavier's School for Gifted Children

An hour or so later

Trask's bodyguard rang the doorbell; set as it was at the standard height, Trask could not reach it. The door opened, to reveal Xavier. "Ah, Doctor Trask. Welcome to my Institute." He smiled ruefully. "I apologise for the placing of the doorbell; I sometimes forget that some of my students are very young and thus of diminutive stature. I shall speak to Scott Summers, one of my teachers, about lowering it."

Trask replied carefully, "I had thought I was regarded somewhat as persona non grata here. Nonetheless, I came. My bodyguard," he indicated the taller man, "is here mainly to escort me and ring the doorbell. My orders to him are to wait for me in the car." He inclined his head. "I am given to understand that I have been granted a passage of safe conduct."

Xavier smiled. "Indeed you have. I give you my word that all the terms of our agreement shall be met. No-one will attack or influence you whilst you are under my roof. Please, come in."

Trask did so, nodding to the bodyguard, who saluted and walked away.

As the door closed, Xavier sent to Alison: Alison, do you register his mind?

Register it, yes, but as per my T & Cs I'm not reading it. But it's...strange. There seems to be a...duality. As if he has a shadow or something.

I agree. It is very odd. But a surface probe - like you, I cannot and will not go deeper than that - reveals no hostile intent at the present time. Perhaps Logan was wrong.

Mmm, maybe, Alison returned, doubtful.


"May I ask where your students originate?" Trask inquired pleasantly. "I have noted some American accents, but I believe at least one is of French derivation, and I am quite certain the large young man is of Slavic origin - either Latvia or Russia."

"Dr. Andrea Bell, a telekinetic, has a French mother, yes. Peter Rasputin is indeed a child of the former Soviet. But my oldest former student, Ororo Munroe," he smiled at her, "is African. There are a number of others - even an Aussie."

"A fascinating cultural diversity," Trask observed. "Clearly the mutant issue is not limited to the United States, as was once thought by those who had not really studied the matter as I have."

"Know your enemy, huh?" a voice growled from the shadows.

Xavier sighed. "If you have studied the issue, Dr. Trask, then this man will need no introduction."

"Indeed not," Trask nodded, fascinated. "Known officially as Weapon X, I believe. Less formally, Logan - though there is reason to suspect his real name is James Howlett."

"That right?"

"Allegedly you were born in Canada, in the 1830s, and you have participated in every war since the Civil War." Trask shook his head in true admiration. "Amazing, the sheer diversity of mutant powers - longevity and your own telepathy, Professor, being but two of them. Were I an unethical scientist, I would seek to capture Logan and discern his secret."

With what for him was a surprising degree of tolerance, Logan shook his head. "One of my clearer memories is of someone tryin' that once. I actually went along with it 'cause her kid, a little boy, had childhood leukaemia. Worth a try, we figured, but...it didn't work."


The Children's Hospital, Australia

7th June, 1948

The researcher, Dr. Nellie Chalmers, looked up from her microscope and sighed deeply, tears in her eyes. "No go, huh?" Logan surmised sympathetically.

Nellie shook her head. "As I suspected, your leukocytes would cure Billy's leukaemia, in only a few days. But...as I also suspected, they would...tear him apart at the cellular level. They're aggressive little buggers...too aggressive. They'd be worse than what he has…"

She broke down. He held her gently.

Less than four days later her son Billy, aged six, passed away. The next day, in tearful despair, so did Nellie, of an overdose.

Logan was left to stand over the grave, putting flowers there, wishing he could've done more. All those brilliant, driven scientists an' doctors, lookin' to him as the answer to their prayers, only to find his leukocytes were worse than the diseases people were tryin' to treat…

It was possible, he was sure. Maybe someday someone would figure out how to extract the things an' tone down their attitude or somethin', make 'em the cure everyone thought they might be. But he couldn't, he knew. He had no idea as to how it might be done.

Hell, he no longer had any idea how old he was - he wasn't even sure any more as to who he was...


"I have studied Logan's blood work with his permission," Xavier nodded. "His leukocytes appear to be the key - but they are so aggressive that, while they would cure such diseases as cancer and the like, they would be far worse than the malady to which they were applied. Only Logan's tissues can tolerate them. They, in turn, will tolerate nothing external or foreign."

"Which doesn't explain the adamantium in his body," Trask pointed out. "Doubtless there is constant conflict between the two. I suspect he would not have survived the procedure without his healing factor." He gazed at Logan with something resembling sympathy. "I feel for you. No wonder you are so...aggressive."

Logan slowly extended the right-hand set of claws. "That ain't the reason, Doc."

"Please, Logan," Xavier appealed mildly. With equal slowness Logan complied, sheathing the claws.


The next person they met was Sherry, followed closely by Alison. "Good morning," Trask greeted her. "If this is not too forward, may I inquire as to your mutant power?"

Sherry chuckled, realising his faux pas. "I can type 96 WPM, and I make a wicked Sex On The Beach."

Trask was taken aback. "Am I to understand, then, that you are...human?"

We're all human, Doctor, Alison sent sternly, that's what this is all about. But yes, Sherry is baseline human - and a terrific secretary. She sent that last to Sherry as well; Sherry blew her a kiss.

Trask frowned. "I...had not thought to encounter someone purely human here. My apologies. It appears I have underestimated your Institute's diversity, Professor."

"In more ways than one," Xavier agreed as a group of students playing catch hove into view.

One kept blinking in and out of view, but another said reprovingly, "Hey, no powers, Willie!"

"Bo-ring," the lad being addressed shot back, but he was too good-natured not to comply with their informal rule. They continued their game as they rounded a corner.

"One a mutant, the others...human," Trask surmised, "playing a game which clearly has rules."

"The Institute has recently opened its doors to baseline human children as well," Xavier nodded. "Children are far more adaptable than adults, more able to accommodate the new and the different. Were you to mention 'prejudice' to them, they would actually be confused...even the mutants." He looked earnest. "And that, Doctor, is the reason why your Sentinels are not needed. It may be true that my generation, or yours, cannot and/or will not accept mutants. But their generation can. They do not want a war. Nor, in truth, do we."

"But you are ready for one," Trask observed. "It is my understanding that the lower levels of this Institute are rather different from what I have seen so far. Supposedly you even have a variant of the SR-71 Blackbird."

"Which isn't armed, except with tinsel and other countermeasures," Scott interjected as he arrived.

"Mmm. It could be argued that you and yours do not need weapons."

"We don't," Scott agreed, and used his optical power to knock a dead branch off a tree, performing grounds maintenance of a sort. "But that isn't the reason. You carry weapons into combat, you're inviting their use against you. We're better than that."

"Dr. Trask," Ororo said quietly, "it's true that there's a lot of fear, on both sides. Fear can lead to hate. Hate, to suffering." She looked wry. "Very George Lucas, I know, but he had a point. But we, at least, are trying to move beyond that. All we want is to live in peace."

"But if we can't," Logan growled, popping both sets of claws, "you can bet we're ready for your toy tin soldiers."

"There is not an ounce of metal in them, Logan," a cultured voice corrected him...from above. Magneto floated down to join them. "They are designed, in part, with me in mind. As you can see, Dr. Trask, I have regained at least some measure of my power. But now I agree with Charles: cooperation, not competition, is the answer." He looked bleak. "Unless you choose to emulate the Nazis, in which case I shall pit all my powers and intellect against you and yours.

"I have given your kind too many chances already. Once, my efforts to be a good neighbour, saving a man's life, led to the deaths of my wife and child. I have sworn that will not happen again. I have decided to play it Charles' way...for now. My new desire for peace is as genuine as his has always been. Unlike him, however, I hope for it...but I do not expect it. You may make an enemy of me, Bolivar Trask, but you do so at your peril."

Erik's voice was cold, and left none of them in any doubt as to his sincerity.

"Is that the general position?" Trask inquired quietly.

"I assure you that it is," Erik confirmed. He looked to Xavier.

Who sighed. "I am teaching my students to respect others, to live in peace with them. Even after Cuba, even after the first unveiling of the Sentinels, I still believe it is possible." He looked grim. "However, I am not as idealistic as Erik believes, or as deluded as Logan maintains. I hope for peace...but I am - we are - prepared for war. If we are pushed to it, we will fight for our survival if we must."

I can stop him, Alison pleaded mentally, in a private communication with Xavier. Just ignore my breach of T & Cs and I can stop him!

No, Alison! Xavier shot back. That would make us worse than him!

HE WANTS TO KILL US ALL!

No. He believes he must. But that is precisely why I offered to meet with him: to convince him that this is not so.

He doesn't believe you! He's heard all the arguments, seen the evidence, but -

And how do you know he is not convinced, mmm? There can be only one way!

Okay, yes, I read his mind, and, whoo, it was hard - I think he's got some sort of technological protection, that's why he seems shadowed, dual. But, Charles, he is not convinced! I'm sorry, but I had to do it! PLEASE let me stop him!

NO! I will NOT stoop to such a level! It would cheapen our alleged victory - and do you seriously think he has taken no precautions against that very thing? We must NOT lower ourselves!

EVEN IF WE ALL DIE?! Alison mentally screamed.

EVEN THEN! Xavier roared silently.

There was a pause, which in real time lasted about a fifth of a second. Then Alison ventured in a small "voice", Ouch. That hurt.

I am sorry. But I remain firm: he must leave with his mental integrity intact.

Unless I have anything to do with it, a new "voice" interjected:

Phoebe.

Ethics are all very well, Professor, but he is going to kill us. I can stop him. I will.

But then another, louder "voice" interjected: You most certainly will NOT! Charles, Alison, my clones are so powerful even I need help. Join with me and we can stop her without hurting her. A mental blast of flame caused a distant Phoebe to wince. But I don't insist on that last. Hurt her if you must. Deprive her of her powers, even, at least for a time. Differences aside, I believe our wayward upstart might require a timeout.

Xavier and Alison joined their powers with those of Emma, but Phoebe knew when she was beaten. She mentally sighed. Okay, I'm sorry. I'll behave. Ow! Phoebe protested at Emma "spanking" her.

There's more where that came from, Emma warned. More...and worse. Give me your word. On your sisters' lives.

You have my word, Phoebe answered sullenly.

Irma sent, You don't speak for us, Phoebe.

No, you never did, Celeste agreed.

I didn't mean any trouble.

Yes, you did, Emma snapped. But I'll let you off - a bit - for the sole reason that you didn't actually do it. Honestly, Phoebe, while I do approve of your efforts to differentiate yourself, there are limits. If I don't enforce them, Charles will - or Alison. She mentally smirked. You don't mess with her and come out of it unscathed.

True, Phobe admitted, abashed.

Trask looked back and forth between Xavier and Alison, and ventured, "I have the distinct impression I am...missing something."

"A close shave," Alison said with feeling, but she did not elaborate.

"There is a huge, qualitative difference," Xavier said gently, "between what we can do and what we will do. If you have not yet seen that, Doctor, then perhaps you never will."

Trask nodded. "Doubtless you were discussing whether or not to neuter me in some way. I should point out that while I originated and lead my team, I am not essential to it. If I am destroyed or subverted, it will continue."

"Then you're gonna use 'em?" a worried Kitty asked as she shot out of an exterior wall. "Doctor, I've been over the bare bones of their code, and they're unstable! Their open-ended logic loops -"

"- will serve to facilitate their adaptability," Trask interrupted, recognising he was in the presence of a genius...even a precocious one.

"- will lead to their forming their own agenda!"

"Even in that unlikely event, I can shut them down with a single command," Trask replied dismissively.

"It won't work!" Kitty cried. "They'll find some way around it! You won't be able to stop them!"

As he reached the front door, which opened, Trask smiled. "My dear girl, what makes you think I want to stop them? Good day, Professor. We shall, I feel, meet again."

He went out, and the door closed. It sounded very final.

Kitty sighed. "Excuse my language, but we are so fucked now."

It was a measure of their agreement that no-one chastised her.


Xavier's study

A little later

"Told ya it was a bad idea," Logan growled. "He's not convinced an' never will be. Now we gotta wait for those things turnin' up."

"Tactically we are now worse off," Ian agreed. "He knows our strengths and weaknesses, but our position is unchanged - except for the degree of preparation."

Xavier sighed. "Like so many things, it seemed a good idea at the time. Alison, what did you learn?"

Alison shook her head. "Nowhere near as much as I'd hoped." She winced. "That damn tech's given me a headache. Professor, he is the worst kind of villain: the kind who genuinely isn't evil. He admires us for our abilities - but he really believes we have to be eliminated. The fact that we're willing to fight only makes it worse. It's not that Trask hates us, not at all; he sees our elimination more as an act of necessity. He views it as being the difference between Homo Neanderthalensis and Homo sapiens, and he doesn't see the false analogy."

"The fact that we can make intelligent decisions regarding our future," Ian nodded. "We and the rest of humanity can choose to live together. But he still doesn't believe that there is a choice."

"I didn't expect that tech, though. It's thrown me off. I hate to say it, but you really should've let me change his mind, Charles."

"Wouldn't have worked," Logan shook his head. "There's still the rest of his team. Gonna subvert them, too?"

"Then we have no choice now," Erik observed. "We must prepare for an attack."

"What if he prepares?" Scott wondered. "I mean, the next logical step would be to take the fight to him. What if he sees it coming?"

"Then we've gotta stop him," a frightened Kitty piped up. "If those Sentinels are deployed…"

She didn't continue. She didn't need to.


Classified Military Facility

Not long after

Williams finished asking the prepared questions, but despite his fears Trask's mind was untouched. He had no idea of how close it had been and nor, in truth, did Trask. "All your answers are within the expected norms, Doctor. I conclude that you're okay."

"I have a feeling it was a close shave," Trask observed. "They do have some extraordinary talents; it almost seems a shame to eliminate them." He sighed. "There is a complication I had not expected: there are humans present. Luckily the Sentinels can discriminate between them and mutants, but it necessitates a change in strategy. We'll have to program the AI accordingly."

Williams nodded, but now he was feeling doubt...and he wasn't the only one.

The Sentinels were, by definition, weapons. No AI had ever been given full control of weaponry before, and he wasn't 100% sure that this AI was up to the task. Fine tuning would be required, but the programming language had certain contradictions at base level and he didn't like the open-ended nature of their programming. They were aimed at mutants, yes, but...would they stop there?

For the first time since he came on board, Williams honestly wasn't sure. But he dared not voice his concerns; Trask had already fired one colleague who had wavered, and he doubted Ellie Nesbit would be the last.

Unbidden, a quote from Terminator 2: Judgement Day passed through his head:

"Skynet fights back."

But it wasn't the same, he tried to tell himself.

The programming was soon complete. They hadn't received clearance yet, but Trask proceeded as if they had, and shortly the AI came online.

CODE COMPILATION COMPLETE AND CLEAN, it announced. NO BUGS DETECTED. SYSTEM INTEGRITY 100%. MUTANT TRACKER SYSTEM ONLINE AND FUNCTIONING. ORDERS IN PLACE. AWAITING FINAL CODE TO INITIATE. The first Sentinel raised its head - design considerations had leaned towards a humanoid form as being the most efficient - and stared at Williams. POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION: WILLIAMS, DEAN, SENIOR PROGRAMMER FOR PROJECT SENTINEL. CATEGORY: HUMAN. NON-THREAT.

"Perfect," Trask approved. "Sentinel 01: identify me."

IDENTITY CONFIRMED: TRASK, BOLIVAR, TEAM LEADER FOR PROJECT SENTINEL. CATEGORY: DWARF HUMAN. NON-THREAT.

Williams frowned. That was odd; the AI shouldn't have identified Dr. Trask as anything other than human. It wasn't programmed to differentiate between human physical variations.

He hadn't programmed it to do that, certainly.

Then a further surprise came to light. The Sentinel's gaze travelled across the lab - and stopped at Jim Grant, a low-level programmer.

IDENTITY CONFIRMED: GRANT, JAMES, LOW-LEVEL PROGRAMMER FOR PROJECT SENTINEL. ALERT: ANOMALY DETECTED. SUBJECT CARRIES MUTANT GENE POTENTIAL. ADVISE IMMEDIATE ELIMINATION.

Trask whirled around to stare at the now-frightened Grant. It was little wonder he was scared; Sentinel 01 had raised its gun arm. "Interesting. Not only detection of actual mutants, but detection of potential ones as well. It would appear my system is more capable than I had supposed. Mr. Grant, there is by definition no place for mutants - or their potential progenitors - on this team. Kindly leave immediately; your employment is hereby terminated by the terms and conditions of employment."

The youth nodded nervously and started to pack up. But Sentinel 01 wasn't finished.

INADVISABLE, it grated. SUBJECT CARRIES MUTANT GENE POTENTIAL. OFFSPRING WILL BE MUTANTS, PROBABILITY 0.98. REPEAT: ADVISE IMMEDIATE ELIMINATION. AWAITING FIRING CLEARANCE. DO NOT MOVE OR THIS UNIT WILL DESTROY YOU.

Terrified now, the youth broke and ran. But 01 was implacable. ATTEMPTED FLIGHT EQUATES TO CLEARANCE. FIRING, it finished unemotionally. A burst of thermoceramic ammunition was unleashed, shredding him even as he ran; he screamed and fell dead.

The entire lab was shocked - except for Trask, who was clinically interested.

MUTANT POTENTIAL THREAT ELIMINATED. RETURNING TO STANDBY MODE. AWAITING FINAL CLEARANCE.

Appalled, Williams whispered, "Dear God, he was just a boy. Just 20 years old."

"Two years past fighting age," Trask observed. "Clearly the Sentinels can identify potential threats as well." He regarded the bloody, pathetic crumpled body at his feet. "A tragedy, to be sure, but we can't be too careful. Sentinel 01: Accept shutdown command."

ACKNOWLEDGED. SENTINEL 01 NOW ENTERING PASSIVE MODE. Its head dropped.

"Exactly as programmed," Trask approved, and left.

A shaking Williams wasn't nearly so sanguine. Entering passive mode was not the same as a complete shutdown, any more than putting a PC to sleep was turning it off. He regarded the Sentinel with trepidation.

What was it learning, even while asleep?

That poor boy...dear God, he was younger than my son. He didn't even have a girlfriend yet; what were the chances of him ever having kids, mutants or not?

Did Trask ever read Frankenstein? I doubt it...

A lyric from T'Pau's excellent China In Your Hand - the superior (in his opinion - Author's Note: In mine, too) album version with Taj Wyzgowski, not the single - crossed his mind:

A mind of his own/An omen for our time...

Would this, he wondered fearfully, be an omen for Mankind?

Once the Sentinels were deployed, did even Trask know what would happen?


The White House

Shortly after

Richard Duquesne, the Defence Secretary, regarded Trask's latest report with mild disgust. Okay, the mutants were a problem, but were they a serious problem? Terrorists, now, they were definitely serious, and even in the U.S. Defence Budget there was only so much to go around. It was a question of priorities.

A junior aide, Rachel Aimes, approached his desk. She looked frightened. "Sir, did you hear? Trask's Sentinels killed a man. God, I say 'man', he was just a boy. Just 20. Are you really gonna let them loose?"

Duquesne sighed. "That, Aimes, is exactly the question I'm debating right now. I'm inclined against it, to be honest."

Trembling, she steeled herself to do what had to be done. "Sir...the Sentinels must not be deployed. I...I can't let you do it."

He looked up from his papers - to gaze into the muzzle of her SIG-Sauer P226. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"What I have to, sir," Rachel answered fearfully. "I...I'm a mutant, sir. It's just a little thing, I can read a book without opening it. I...don't know what it's called. But I can't let something like Trask's monsters be unleashed. Please, sir, shut it down before it's too late. If it isn't too late already. Please."

"Aimes, put that weapon away and get a grip," Duquesne ordered firmly. It wasn't the first time he'd had a weapon held on him; he'd been a 20-year man in the U.S. Army before becoming a politician. By pure coincidence, his military career had started the very day James Grant had been born, and ended with an honourable discharge after he sustained an injury in the field. But to see a member of his own staff pointing a gun at him…

"Sir, please, I don't want to shoot you," Rachel quavered, sobbing now. "I love my country, I really do. I live by the words of the Declaration of Independence. But...I have to fight for mutants, too, they're my own kind. I'm begging you, sir, don't do it."

Duquesne stood and calmly reached out. "Rachel, it's been a long day so far and, hell, it isn't even lunchtime yet. And no-one's questioning your loyalty, okay? Least of all me. Listen: do you serve the President of the United States?" The gun didn't waver, but she nodded. "Well, so do I. And this thing will be decided at a pay grade above mine and, with all due respect, way above yours. I give clearance, yes, but the final decision lies with the President. This isn't the way, Rachel. C'mon," he coaxed, "put it away."

She was crying harder now. "Sir...my Mom taught me to do what's right. I...I know it's wrong to threaten you. I know I'll be dismissed at the very least. But...I have to. Either you shut the Sentinel program down now, or -"

Rachel was interrupted by a Secret Service operative grabbing her gun. Panicked, she fired, but her aim was thrown off by the agent; the bullet barely nicked Duquesne's shoulder. The two fell in a tangle of arms and legs.

Another agent, a woman, entered and asked him, "Secretary Duquesne, are you okay, sir?"

Duquesne was staunching the blood, which didn't take long; his injury was minor. "Yeah, I've had a lot worse. Be gentle with her," he ordered the other agent, "she's just misguided, that's all. I don't think she meant it."

"Sir, your injury speaks otherwise," SS Agent Kate Laughlin demurred sternly. "You could've been killed."

"I spent 20 years in the field, Agent Laughlin," he reminded her, "I know when someone means to kill me and when they don't."

"Sir," Laughlin insisted, "knowledge is one thing. A bullet is another. She could have killed you."

For all his courage, he couldn't deny that. As Agent Oscar Ferris cuffed and formally arrested Aimes, and the three left, he sat once more and considered it. Yeah, he had to admit it could've been worse.

A lot worse.

His eldest son wasn't much younger than Rachel, and had never held a gun in his life except when Duquesne taught him basic firearms safety. He was more into art than weaponry at the moment, applying to BFAC, with his Mom encouraging him. David could do some terrific landscapes; Duquesne's favourite was one of the Giant's Causeway.

Poor kid. He well understood Rachel's moral dilemma; he'd felt the same the first time he'd killed a man. He'd consoled himself with the knowledge that it was a) as per orders, and b) necessary - he would've been killed if he hadn't fired. David and his younger sister Patty would never have been born.

But the incident did point up holes in the security of the White House; the President had very firmly nixed the idea of mutant trackers in the White House, though they'd been approved for the FBI, the CIA and the NSA. He'd survived one mutant sort-of attack from a kid barely of employment age...but what if there were others, older, more experienced...and more sure of themselves with firearms? Could he take the chance?

No, he decided, I can't. Samantha wants another kid, she's getting broody again, bless her. I have to think of our future.

With that, he stamped the report:

Approved by the Secretary of Defence.


With its unmatched AI senses, Sentinel 01 detected this via the hidden - and secret - surveillance cameras, shielded from detection, in Duquesne's office, installed there without Trask's knowledge via the software agents it had placed in the White House network. It experienced the AI equivalent of satisfaction. Soon, now, clearance would be granted. It and its fellows would be free to eliminate the mutant threat.

Soon…