Edited 3/5/16

Chapter 30 – Left Behind

"Those who do not fear the sword they wield, have no right to wield a sword at all." – Tousen Kaname, Bleach

The average time it took to get from Xavier's School on Graymalkin Lane in the town of Salem Center to the Westbrook Mall runs an hour by Metro North from Grand Central Station, often two in the middle of rush hour.

Taking the lead, Scott made better time than that. After the first round of broadcasting, everyone was glued to their TV's wanting to hear more about the attack which left the roads relatively clear. Logan kept hard on his tail, and if the situation weren't so dire, he would have been tempted to shake him off. Even the feral seemed to know how bad things were, since he didn't attempt to pass Scott.

In the time it took to get to the mansion, the airwaves filled with chatter. No facts had been provided beyond the initial announcement of the attack and that the President had survived. Now every channel featured talking heads spouting wild accusations and endless speculation, all fixated on the unconfirmed reports that the assassin was a mutant. The question on most reporters' lips was whether or not this was a follow up on the recent mutant terrorist attack on the World Unity Conference on Ellis Island. Was this the start of a mutant uprising? Was the U.S.A the only nation attacked?

Each question cascaded over the next, creating a tsunami of rumor. The President's rushed appearance to give a brisk statement on the attack did nothing to stop the media machine. As the endless voices bounced back and forth on a hundred different stations, it seemed to tap into a great reservoir of anxiety the nation felt when it came to mutants. The turbulent waters had been held back by a thin veneer of faith that the government had the problem contained, and perhaps mutants weren't as bad as the talk shows made them out to be. With a single act, the veneer shattered. People around the country and all over the world started venting their fears over the future.

As details about the attack were dumped onto the media firestorm, it caused far greater damage to the national psyche than the Ellis Island incident. Back then, a strange, almost alien machine lit up the sky in waves of light. No one understood what was going on, save that the official spokesman said it was dangerous.

This was a man with a knife, who'd waltzed into one of the most secure locations in the world. If a mutant could come a hairs breath away from stabling the President in the heart of his power, then no one was safe.

Ironically, the mutants – students and teachers alike – driving through the wrought-iron gates marking the entrance to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters felt the same way. Fear permeated the vehicles as uncertainty built in their minds. An uncertain present was giving way to an ominous and threatening future for all mutant kind.

Xavier's ancestors settled this are of Westchester County back when Salem Center was nothing more than a trading post and tavern. They'd claimed a stretch of five-miles along the north shore of Breakstone Lake and never let a single bit of land go. While some generations prospered and others struggled, what began as the wilderness frontier evolved into one of the wealthiest counties in the country. It was home to billionaires, ex-presidents, and a few Stars. But the one constant for the family was that they never sold the land.

When it was first constructed, the mansion was Georgian in style, bosting two stories with pillared porticos that offered a stunning view of the wide expanse of lawn to the lake. After a hundred years, that structure was replaced with a new one. It was a late Victorian stronghold of slate grey stone, which looked as solid and everlasting as the lake itself. In those days, the wealthy built massive homes. Though it was entirely too much for a single family, it became perfect for a boarding school. With wings, battlements, and turrets by the score and a layout so erratic that every new student was regaled by tales of the poor new student who'd gotten lost and was never found again, it made the perfect home for the young mutants.

Now the mansion might have to become their stronghold to weather the coming storm.

Scott's gaze rested on a holographic image of a man's head hovering at eye level above the small portable projector on the coffee table. The face captured in light was handsome, but darkly so. Like that of a fallen archangel, tempered and shaped by a lifetime of struggle. A face that had witnessed untold horror. Whereas Charles Xavier was bald, Erik Lehnsherr's hair was still a thick mane white, swept back from to reveal the sharp plains of his face. Xavier's smiles were always things of generosity and offered to all, Lehnsherr's were akin to a jackal's toothy grin. While Xavier saw endless possibility in the world around him, Lehnsherr's gaze was jaded. There was no trust in him, and when you looked into that steely gaze you knew there would be no mercy found there. No, he was a man who'd drawn his line in the sand long ago and you stood beside him, or against him.

He was a being of power, and in his own way, he was Xavier's match. As youths, they'd worked together and been friends. In some ways, they still were. Erik held sway over all the forces of magnetism and took the name Magneto to reflect his strength. Scott had seen the charts on Erik's power levels. In the right situation, it was possible Erik Lehnsherr could manipulate the magnetic field of the very planet they stood on.

Before Zen entered their lives, Lehnsherr kidnapped Rogue and used her ability to absorb other mutant's gifts to power his mechanical creation. The machine was designed to alter the DNA structure of humans who came into contact with its radiation in order to force mutation on them. He'd planned to use it on the gathered world leaders during the United Nations conference. It was his hope that if all the leaders were mutants, they would be forced to put mutant kind above humanity.

However, he failed to appreciate the power of his creation, and its dire consequences. The new mutations were unstable, causing the host body to break down. Worse, the waves of radiation would have impacted the majority of the city, contaminating a population of millions.

Scott led the team that stopped Magneto's plan. With a little unwanted help from a couple of assassins, he amended in his thoughts. Even though he hadn't seen them himself.

The sound of his name brought Scott out of his inner musings when he realized Xavier was talking to him. Shifting mental gears, he allowed the part of his consciousness that kept tabs on the conversation to move back to the forefront of his mind.

"My opinion," Scott said, shrugging his shoulders even though his mind was made up the second he'd heard the reports. "Magneto's behind it."

Before Xavier could defend his long-time friend, Jean spoke up.

"I don't think so," she said while turning her attention back to Xavier.

The Professor nodded in solemn agreement. "It's not that Erik couldn't organize an event like this from his prison cell. No, such an act would be illogical from his point of view. This does nothing to promote mutants, and actually does the opposite. It will create a devastating backlash against mutant kind."

"You mean mutant superiority," Scott countered.

Xavier's eyes closed briefly, "You're correct. If Erik had his way, we would be the dominant species."

"Perhaps that's what he's going for, Professor," Scott pointed out, "I mean it forces all mutants into a corner. It makes us choose sides, no more sitting on the bench, no more equivocating."

"We already know how the Government will respond," Storm's husky voice broke in. "They'll attempt to resurrect the Mutant Registration Act."

"Or worse," Xavier agreed.

"Magneto survived Auschwitz," Scott said, turning the conversation back to the powerful mutant. "Perhaps this is his own attempt at Reichstag Fire. Perhaps his goal is to provoke an extreme response against mutants so we'll have to join him in order to survive. Mutant superiority, Mutant hegemony, guarantees mutant survival."

"Do you honestly believe that, Scott?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe, it's what Magneto believes. That's what matters now. I know you've been friends for a long time, and I know this school was as much his creation as yours, but he's seen—and survived—the worst man can do to one another. I think that's make him willing to do anything, anything, to ensure it never happens again. If that means burning the world down to save it, he's prepared to do so."

"The White House assassin is the key," Jean said.

Rubbing his chin, Scott nodded. "Agreed. If the Feds had him, they'd have announced it. That means he's on the run."

"Do you think he was working alone?"

"There's only one way to find out," Xavier decided. "We'll have to locate him before the authorities do. Using Cerebro, I've identified his signature and tracked it down to the vicinity of Boston. Jean, Storm I'd—"

"Sir?" Zen's cold voice silenced Xavier. The tone wasn't his normal monotone, there was a hard edge to it the man had only heard in Zen's memories.

"Yes?"

"Allow me to track and eliminate the threat. If we deliver the body to the White House, it will help alleviate the current situation."

Silence met his words as the adults in the room stared at him, not quite believing what he'd proposed. "That's murder," Jean blurted, feeling stupid even as the words flew from her lips. As if an assassin cared one way or the other about murder.

"By killing him, we'll prove to the government that the mutant population is capable of policing its own. The threat will be eliminated, and we can work on repairing the damage from there," Zen pushed.

Xavier studied the short teen, and wondered for the first time if he was simply creating a more adept sociopath. Even now, Zen would kill on command, without remorse for his actions. Then again, he wasn't like most sociopaths. He killed, but not randomly, and he didn't appear to be compelled to murder.

Instead, Zen lacked any moral compass. Worse, he was trained to serve. After months of careful observation, Xavier knew Zen would never be able to function like a normal human. He'd always be driven to find a strong master, and not all masters were as moral as Xavier.

"No."

"Why not?" There was a sharper edge to the words. Jean's weigh shifted forward, and he could feel the low hum of her power shifting under her skin, ready to lash out.

"Because that is not our way."

Instead of accepting the words, Zen spoke again. "A weapon is only as strong as the one who wields it, and it serves no purpose when it is left to rust upon the wall. Why do you refuse to use me?" The words weren't shouted, and didn't feel angry, but Xavier could almost taste the underlying pleading that stirred at the heart of them.

"You aren't a weapon! Damn it, you're just a kid. You shouldn't even be in here, you should be out with the other children," Scott snapped.

Dead green eyes locked on his, and the look in them pinned Scott where he stood. "You don't understand what's going on here. The group I worked for was actively pursuing this eventuality. There are people in high places who will use this incident to further their desire for mutant destruction. If we don't act decisively, it will be too late to act at all."

The words made Jean's skin crawl. He knows because he used to be a part of it, he helped destroy his own kind.

"That's enough. We will never achieve the future we seek by spilling blood so callously," Xavier said. This time the note of command in his voice was too strong for Zen to fight, so he bowed his head in submission to Xavier.

Returning his attention to the pair of women, Xavier continued. "Storm, Jean, I'd like you to take the Blackbird and make contact. Hopefully we'll be able to defuse this bomb before it explodes in our hand."

Prior to the attack, the President's personal aid would show guests into the Oval Office. Today, that task belonged to a hard-faced Secret Service agent who'd been chosen for both his frightful size and a face that made cold granite look kind.

"Mr. President," the guard rumbled before stepping aside to permit the guest entrance. The new comer was slight compared to the guard, and it took a second for the President to place the bland looking man whose plain brown hair and eyes were as forgettable as a passing cloud. That's right Marcus Schmidt, Stryker's replacement. Stryker's disappearance was still an open investigation, and the President was sorry to have lost the man. He'd been a good adviser, and would have been invaluable for negotiating these new treacherous waters.

"Good afternoon, sir. I came as soon as I heard the news," Schmidt said, his tone smooth as silk with just a touch of that oiliness most politicians left in the air. The man's sharp brown eyes narrowed as he studied the gash on the desk. "It was a lot closer than the media's reporting, wasn't it?"

George McKenna remained silent, waiting for the door to close and the two men to be alone. Or as alone as he could ever be. Two agents flanked either side of the fireplace, and a young woman stood in the corner. She was obviously a secretary, one so quiet and unassuming that she almost blended into the wallpaper. From her position, she had a better view of the room than the two men, which meant she'd be the key player in any combat situation that might arise. The reports he'd read indicated a female agent had shot the mutant, saving the President's life. If Schmidt were a betting man, he'd say she was the one.

With a wave of his hand, McKenna invited Schmidt to take a seat on the couch. As President, he took the chair beside it.

"What do you need, Schmidt." This would be the new replacement's first major act, and McKenna's eyes weighed and measured him, waiting to see if he would prove to be an adequate replacement for Stryker.

Schmidt's eyes cut towards the agents, and he arched a single eyebrow in question. "I'm afraid they're here for the duration," McKenna admitted with a quirk of the lips, attempting to make light of the situation. "In fact, I've had the devil's own time keeping them from posting agents in my own damned bedroom."

Schmidt offered a cool smile at that. "I'm sure your wife is thrilled with that, sir."

"Not so much, which is why they backed down. Her temper is even sharper than mine," his eyes grew serious, and he waited for the man to dispense with the chit-chat and get on with it.

"I require your authority for a special operation, sir."

"Oh? And here I thought you'd come for school reform," McKenna joked.

A coy smirk flitted across Schmidt's lips and was gone so fast the President wondered if he'd imagined it. "I believe that was the top of your schedule for the day, before everything went pear shaped. Though it is interesting you'd mention it."

Before he could continue, a soft knock cut him off. This time, the President's aide nudged the door open. A glance showed McKenna was unsurprised by the interruption. So, this private meeting won't be as private as I assumed, Schmidt thought, careful to keep the irritation off his face.

The newcomer was instantly recognizable for all the time he spent in front of the camera, first with his own bid for the White House a few years ago, and then for his flip flop on the Mutant issue. Robert Kelly, senator from Massachusetts, still had the ambition to make another attempt, but was young enough to wait and bide his time. While he waited, he'd begun building a strong activist record in Congress by reaching out to both conservative and liberals with a measure of success that hadn't been seen since the campaign of JFK.

Schmidt studied the man, it seemed like he was in better shape than he used to be. The man had the ill manners to overindulge in almost all areas of his life, and he used to have a real talent for making a custom-tailored wardrobe look rumpled and off the rack. That had all changed since the Liberty Incident. Now the senator's suit fit perfectly, and had a crispness that matched the other two men in the room.

"I'm not sure if the two of you've been officially introduced," McKenna said. "Senator Robert Kelly of Massachusetts, this is Marcus Schmidt—"

"Of No-Name, Nevada," Schmidt interjected.

"Mr. Schmidt," Kelly said, offering his hand.

"Marcus, or Mark if you prefer," Schmidt replied as they shook. Kelly's weight wasn't the only thing that had improved. His grip was stronger too. He used to close his hand around the other person's fingers in a fleeting, weak gesture before letting go. Not anymore, this grip was palm to palm, man to man, strong and secure.

"Mr. President," Kelly acknowledge as he took a seat on the couch, angled in such a way that he would be able to relate to both McKenna and Schmidt without having to move. In his chair, the President was positioned to do the same. Schmidt, on the other hand, was facing the President, and would be forced to turn right to face Kelly, partially turning his back to McKenna. The tactic had been superbly executed, putting Schmidt in an awkward place. Schmidt wasn't pleased with the arrangement, but refused to show it.

"I appreciate your allowing me to attend this meeting," Kelly said.

"Your input is valuable, Robert, as is Marcus's. He's with the . . . intelligence community."

"Which branch?" Kelly challenged.

The President waved it away. "That's not important."

"I'm only asking because I'm a ranking member of the Joint Intelligence Committee, and I—"

"Robert," The name became a warning. "It's not important."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"As I was saying, Marcus has assumed leadership of a task force that's been dedicated to the study of the Mutant phenomenon for . . . well, before my time in office."

"So I've heard, albeit only as rumors. For a man in such a high position, Marcus, you leave a very small foot print."

Schmidt smirked. "Then I must be slipping, the goal is to leave no footprint at all."

"Your task force is known for questionable methods. I hope with the change of leadership it will be taking a new turn?"

"The work my task force is engaged in is vital Senator, with this incident, wouldn't you agree that knowing as much about mutation of the upmost importance?" Without allowing Kelly to answer, Schmidt continued. "I've observed your career with interest. If I recall correctly, you were a stalwart supporter of the registration act. Yet, your attitude on the mutant problem seems to have taken an abrupt turn recently."

"For the best, I trust."

"Hm, yes. Well I place my trust in God."

"Since Senator Kelly has been at the forefront of both sides of this issue," the President interjected, "I thought his perspective would be valuable going forward."

"You're the commander in chief, sir," Schmidt said.

"So, what exactly are you proposing, Mr. Schmidt?" Kelly asked, locking eyes with the man.

Schmidt paused, and gave the President a look that clearly said this information was need-to-know only, and that he didn't believe Kelly should be in the know. The look McKenna shot back told Schmidt that he didn't give one whit what he thought on the matter, and to get on with it.

"You spoke about a special operation, Marcus?" prompted McKenna.

Taking a breath, Schmidt nodded, accepting the President's authority. Schmidt opened a slender briefcase and spread a set of glossy surveillance photos on the table, right in front of the President, where he could see them, but Kelly would have to strain to do the same.

"Working with the National Reconnaissance Office, my people were able to gather these images of a mutant training facility right here in the United States."

"How did you develop the information?"

"Discover the installation's existence, you mean? Primarily through the interrogation of one of the terrorist prisoners captured after the Liberty Island incident."

"Erik?" Kelly's sharp voice broke into the conversation. "Erik Lehnsherr?"

"Code-named Magneto, yes," Schmidt replied.

"You have access to him?"

The level of interest Kelly displayed over the information intrigued Schmidt. "Yes. My team developed the technology for his plastic prison when, I might add, Mr. President, your defense department couldn't find room for the allocation in their own budget."

"At the time," McKenna replied, "the need didn't seem pressing."

"Priorities change, I understand. Threats can always be properly identified in hindsight. The greatest challenge presented to any prudent and responsible leader is identifying clear and present dangers to the nation and dealing with them before they manifest as a threat."

Moving forward, he slid another set of photos onto the table.

"It appears I'm not the only one with access to the prisoner. This man," – he tapped the photo of a bald-headed man seated in a plastic wheelchair – "has been identified as Charles Xavier. He's the leader of the training facility and a known associate of Mr. Lehnsherr. Apparently, Xavier has friends in the Justice Department. Since Lehnsherr's incarceration, he's paid several visits."

Kelly shifted forward so he could get a look at the images.

"What is this place," he asked with cool skepticism.

"Ostensibly, a school," Schmidt replied with a low chuckle. "For 'gifted' youngsters. I suppose that's one way to put it."

Another set of photos was tossed onto the table with a causal flick of the wrist.

"We've retasked a keyhole spy satellite to procure these shots," he said. "I believe you'll agree that the results are worth the expenditure."

Even though the photos had been taken from over two hundred and fifty miles above Manhattan, they held the crisp clarity that only the most advanced technology could produce. The results were as exceptional as they were devastating.

"What is that?" McKenna asked.

"A jet."

McKenna scowled at him. "What kind of jet?"

"We don't know—but as you can see, it comes up out of the basketball court."

The next sequence of images demonstrated just that. The court behind the main house slid apart to allow an elevator platform to rise to the surface from what could only be an underground hanger. When the plane was fully revealed, it was like nothing the President had ever seen before, twin engine, and twin tailed with forward sweeping wings. The jet used vertical thrusters to get air born before shifting to horizontal flight, and was gone from sight in an instant as the flight path and the satellite's orbital track took the objects in opposing directions.

"I've spoken with the Air Force on this matter, and DARPA, they don't even have aircraft with capabilities like this one the drawing board. When I talked to them, they claimed such technology was still in the realm of science fiction. It clearly represents the height of stealth technology as well. Every radar record we could find, military, and civilian, for that time and course, register nothing."

Schmidt waved an elegant hand, encompassing the President and the room. A glance pointed out the bullet holes that had yet to be repaired in the walls.

"You gentlemen ask yourselves: How could this happen?" Then he gave a humorless laugh. "How could it not happen?"

Kelly snagged one of the shots off the table. "Schmidt, these are children."

"Indeed. Ripe young minds being indoctrinated, but to what end? Need I remind you of the children dressed as terrorists in the Middle East? This isn't the first time the United States has been forced to contend with child soldiers, Senator."

Flinging the photo back onto the table, Kelly scoffed. "These are American citizens, none of whom – that I'm aware of – have committed any crimes. Or am I mistaken?"

Instead of answering the charge, Schmidt turned his attention back to the President. "Sir, if we'd been permitted to do our jobs prior to the attack—"

"What do you need, Schmidt?" McKenna asked.

"Your authorization, sir."

"To do what precisely?" Kelly snapped, asking the question he knew the President wouldn't.

Again Schmidt ignored him, the full weight of his gaze remained on McKenna. "Don't misunderstand my objectives, Mr. President. All we wish to accomplish is to ascertain their goals. If they have nothing to hide, then they'll have nothing to fear."

"That's illegal," Kelly countered, attempting to turn the conversation back onto sane ground.

"Not if they're terrorists," Schmidt said, "For over a year now, we've been tracking this particular mutant. His origins are European, but we believe there is an affiliation with this institution."

Reaching into the briefcase, Schmidt withdrew a final damning photograph and handed it to the President.

"This was taken three months ago, sir." When McKenna saw the picture, his choice was made.

The strange creature stared up at him out of the photograph. Humanoid, in that it had a two arm, two leg, central trunk, and bilateral symmetry. The hands and feet were made up of two big digits, skin the color of the sky at midnight with hair like spilled ink. Its gleaming yellow eyes seemed to mock him, along with the sharp white fangs. Pointed ears, and a long pointed tail combined to give the creature a demonic cast. All that was lacking was a pair of wings. And his power is almost as good a replacement for those.

"Listen to me, Marcus," McKenna said in a cold tone that promised dire consequences should he deviate the slightest from his wishes. "You enter. You detain. You question. But the last thing I want to hear is that we've spilled the blood of an innocent child, mutant or otherwise, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

After the meeting concluded, Kelly stalked out after Marcus, catching him in the hallway outside the President's suite of offices. Here, the repairs were almost finished, and the level of armed guards had grown like a bed of mushrooms after a long rain.

"That was a compelling argument, Marcus," he said.

"The evidence speaks for itself, wouldn't you agree?" Schmidt nodded to a beautiful young Asian woman who joined them. Dressed in a well fitted business suit, the newcomer carried herself in a way that made Kelly think, Bodyguard. A pair of light sunglasses hid the color of her eyes, but still allowed them to be seen. "Please allow me to introduce Yuriko Oyama. She's my director of . . . special projects."

Her handshake was brisk, but when Kelly started to let go, she gave a single hard squeeze, showing a flare of dominance. Once free of the slightly crushing grip, Kelly shook his hand out and offered a sheepish smile. "Quite a handshake you have there."

Schmidt and his assistant turned to leave, but Kelly kept pace with them. Finally, he stopped and turned to confront the man.

"Is there something you need, Senator?"

"Yes, I was wondering if it would be possible to arrange a meeting with Erik Lehnsherr?"

Schmidt gave Kelly a frigid smile. "It isn't a petting zoo, Senator. In this conflict, he is the enemy and you are only a spectator. Do us both a favor and stay on the sidelines, all right?"

"Are you trying to turn this into some kind of war?"

Turning his back on the Senator, Schmidt started down the hall again before calling back, "Senator," the way he spoke the word turned it into a profound insult. "It's already a war. The only problem is bleeding hearts like you who refuse to acknowledge it. I hate to bring this conversation to a close, but I'm on a tight schedule, and I must be going. Good day, Senator."

Kelly watched them go, his expression darkening with every step they took. For a second, the iris and pupil of his eye vanished, flashing into chrome yellow, the same shade as the assassin's. Then he blinked, and they returned to their normal shade. No one noticed the momentary lapse.

Back when the world stood at the brink of nuclear conflict, a command decision was made to create a facility that would survive should the worst happen. This location would be used to house key members of Government so that there would be someone left to pick up the pieces when it was all over.

This location had to be far enough away from all the major targets of such a conflict, yet close enough for a successful evacuation of the President and senior members of both the civilian and military hierarchy to get there before the region was destroyed.

After due consideration, a decision was made: The Appalachian Mountains. It was west of the capital, nestled in the peaks forming one wall of Shenandoah Valley.

It was built along the same lines as its sister facility, the headquarters of the North American Air Defense Command, located at the heart of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. By hollowing out the base of the mountain, the stone itself would form a majority of the protection for the people within its cold womb. Inside the hollowed out area, the living spaces were built on massive shock absorbers, guaranteeing survival from all but a direct hit. It had been outfitted with the latest and greatest technological advancements and enough resources to permit a designated number of survivors to live for over a decade underground.

Thankfully, it hadn't been needed.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the dwindling threat of nuclear war, the secret location had gradually become less important. It was considered a relic of a long gone age and most in the government forgot its existence.

Not William Stryker.

The mutant problem consumed his thoughts from the moment his son was diagnosed, and in the years since, he was plagued by a simple question: What to do with mutants if things went bad? Where could the government house criminal mutants?

Mount Haven was Stryker's solution, and Erik Lehnsherr became its first inmate.

For most, William Stryker was missing, presumed dead. But there were those who knew the truth, and since he'd hand crafted this facility, all who worked here were loyal to him. Schmidt was his stalking horse for getting things done, but William was still the hand that pulled the strings from the shadows.

Moving with the confidence of a King in the heart of his domain, William headed towards the perfect cell for his first captive. It had been shaped entirely of plastic, suspended by pliable plastic cables and beams in a chamber of the mountain that had been roughed out, but never finished. The massive space was over a thousand feet square, buried more than that beneath the mountain's surface. The stone itself was nonferrous, and all the walls of the chamber had been lined with a plastic stronger than steel.

The suspended cage was transparent, as was the furniture. Clothing, sheets, and the few books given to the inmate to read were the only opaque items in the cell.

He was under constant surveillance, and had a continual rotating shift of guards whose orders were absolute. No metal of any kind was permitted into the chamber, let alone the cell itself. But the orders went further than that, all major sources of metal were banned within half a mile of his cell, included but not limited to: vehicles, weapons, and furniture. One of the major side benefits of Magneto's incarceration was a massive improvement in the practical application of plastics.

The inmate's clothing were made out of a hybrid version of paper and cloth that attached with the use of Velcro. One of the conditions of employment was a complimentary trip to the dentist to have all metal filings replaced with porcelian. Those who violated the rules were fired, without exception.

No one knew for sure what the true extent of Lehnsherr's power was, and it was better to error on the side of caution than to allow even the slightest chance of escape.

For all the regulations surrounding the man, he himself didn't look intimidating in the slightest. In person, the face held a dignity and humanity the holographic image Scott observed at Xavier's lacked. A glance revealed both his intelligence and commitment. Lehnsherr was a man whose soul was forged by one of the hottest furnaces human kind had ever crafted. The fierce kilns of Auschwitz claimed the lives of his family and burned away the life he'd known and the one he'd hoped for.

Lehnsherr survived then, and he would survive now. Of that, there was no question.

A low mechanical buzz sounded as the plastic umbilical cord extended to connect his cell to the outer platform. Lehnsherr's gaze remained on the book he'd been reading, T.H. White's, The Once and Future King, only lifting when he heard the bolts snap into place and the door on his side hiss open.

Slipping the book back onto a plastic table, Lehnsherr's steal gaze locked on the guard. Mitchell Laurio was a cruel man by nature, who'd been chosen after two felony indictments were brushed under the rug, both for brutalizing inmates. The day he started, he'd been informed that the recorders would 'glitch' whenever he entered the cell. His only limits; no breaking bone, no killing the old man. Other than that, Lehnsherr was fair game.

The treatment wasn't new to the prisoner, after all he hadn't even been a teenager yet when he'd received his first beating at the hands of an SS guard. A half smile quirked his lips, he also recalled what he'd done to repay that guard years later.

"Mr. Laurio," he said in a cordial tone, "How long can we keep doing this?"

Laurio gave a savage grin. "How long you in for?"

"Forever."

"Not forever, Mr. Lehnsherr," Stryker said, smiling pleasantly from the walkway before he entered the cell. "Just until I'm satisfied that I've gotten all the information I require."

"Mr. Stryker," again his tone held nothing of his true feelings, matching his relaxed body language. "How kind of you to come calling. Have you come to ensure the taxpayer's dollars are keeping me comfortable?"

"It's simply a matter of the punishment fitting the crime. You know, heads of state look down on being attacked. Many of them wanted you put to death. Without, I might add, the benefit of a trial."

"How fortunate for you that, merely by labeling me a terrorist combatant, the government removed all such pesky legalities."

"The ACLU is still filing briefs on your behalf. You never know, they might find a judge who will accept their writ of habeas corpus."

Lehnsherr knew better. Even if such a judge were found, he'd have an accident long before a trial could be held. No, he was here until he died. Or found another way. Just like Auschwitz.

"In the meantime . . ."

Lehnsherr fought the instinctual tensing of his muscles when Stryker slid a plastic case from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The case held a small vial of glowing yellow liquid. Unable to stop himself, the prisoner started up from his seat. Laurio's hand lashed out, expertly applying the billy club to the back of Lehnsherr's legs, forcing the old man to collapse to his knees. A vicious jab to the side made him gasp. Grabbing Lehnsherr's right arm in a hammerlock, Laurio forced the trapped hand up almost to the prisoner's neck. He moved with practiced ease, forcing Lehnsherr's face flat against the table and held it there in a vise grip, turned so that the base of his skull was exposed.

With a grim smile, Stryker eased forward and administered two careful drops of the serum to the circular scar on the back of Lehnsherr's exposed neck.

Slowly, the muscles in the mutant's body became lax, his eyes widened as his pupils dilated to their full extent.

A satisfied grunt escaped Laurio as he yanked the now pliant man up and shoved him back down into his chair. Lehnsherr's face was blank, showing no hint of expression now that the drug was in full effective. Tucking the case back into his pocket, Stryker settled against the corner of the table before reaching down to grab Lehnsherr's chin to tilt his face up. There was no reaction to the gesture.

"Now, Erik – may I call you Erik? Of course I can, thanks to my little serum here, we're the best of friends, right? And friends have no secrets from one another. So while we have this special time together, I'd like to have one final talk about the school you and Charles Xavier built. Especially that wonderful machine you both call Cerebro."

Pietro's knee went up and down in a soft blur of agitation as he sat in the squishy chair in front of Xavier's desk. The old man wasn't here yet, which only gave him time to think of all the reasons that might have landed him in the Boss Man's office.

It could be because he'd shoved Zen into the pool, only to learn the hard way that the tiny assassin didn't know how to swim. Who knew? What kind of killer didn't know how to swim? It was crazy! And hardly his fault.

Or maybe it was because he'd superglued Zen's backpack to the ground during Jean's class. Not that anyone could prove he'd done it, but well, the Principal was psychic. He was one of the only ones left who harassed Zen, but it was his sworn duty to do so, even if it meant cleaning out the girls' bathroom every week. His nose wrinkled in utter disgust.

If he'd been thinking about girls in that way, one stint of bathroom duty would have killed the thoughts cold. Girls were disgusting. Not that boys were better, but still, ick.

The door swished open, and Pietro's spirits sunk deeper. Walking behind the Professor like a faithful guard dog, was the one and only assassin himself. Great, just great, another lecture and apologies all around.

It wasn't the first attempt at an intervention the bald Professor had staged between the two, but nothing he or Zen said could ease the pain of losing his sister. The only thing he had left was the raw hurt, and that was best translated into revenge.

"Good afternoon, Pietro," the Professor said pleasantly. His mild tone made his knee bounce a little faster. It didn't fit with the normal disappointment the man usually sent his way.

"Uh, good afternoon," he repeated dumbly, trying to figure out where this was going.

Wheeling behind the desk, Xavier waved a hand at Zen. "Please take a seat." Like always the short teen obeyed instantly. Pietro snorted under his breath and gave the boy a baleful look. Even though they'd had a few moments of understanding here and there, it wasn't enough to begin shoveling away the mountain of shit that stood between them.

"Now, I've asked you both here to discuss Zen's new living arrangements."

The words sent a lance of ice through Pietro's heart. No way, he's absolutely not going to say what I think he's going to say. Dread laced the thought in delicate lines of frost. Xavier wouldn't do that to him, would he? Don't, please don't! He thought it as loud as possible at the man, hoping to derail the madness before it left the station.

No such luck. "Since Pietro is the only male student without a roommate, you'll be sharing a room from now on."

Without giving Zen a chance to speak, not that the little freak would do something so crass as question an order, Pietro leapt to his feet. "You can't do this! I hate him and he…well…he's him," he finished lamely, stumbling over the fact that Zen still didn't hate him after all the shit he'd put him through.

"Yes, I'm aware. Sit down Pietro." The speed mutant's legs gave out, and he flopped back into the chair and crossed his arms. "Now I'm more than aware of your animosity, and I appreciate its cause. It's territory we've transverses again and again these past months. However, no punishment seems to be able to curb your bad habit of attacking a fellow student. If it weren't for your shared past, I would have been forced to expel you from the school at this point."

Dred sank claws deep into Pietro's gut at the words. Where would he go if Xavier kicked him out? What would he do? "Look I'm-"

Xavier held up a hand, and the words dried up in Pietro's mouth. "If it were a different situation." He repeated. "The trauma you've suffered has given you leeway in this matter, but even that leeway must give eventually."

"I don't understand, why make us room together then?"

Now something almost devious entered Xavier's gentle smile. "Because you have to sleep sometime, and you have to relax your guard sometime. It will be difficult, but I think that having Zen share your living space will be an adequate deterrent to further torment of him. After all, he is best friends with Kitty, and she'll likely want to visit his room on occasion."

Xavier let the information hang there for a moment while Pietro's face paled dramatically. "I see we have an understanding." Turning his attention to Zen, his smile gentled. "You can move your stuff up out of the basement now."

Zen gave a silent nod, not even sparing the still gaping Pietro a glance as he got up to leave.

"Wait! Can't we talk about this," Pietro's whine cut through the air as the door shut behind Zen.

Walking down the hall, Zen pondered his wielder's sanity. He couldn't comprehend what the man was thinking. He would have preferred remaining in his cell, but he hadn't been given a choice in the matter. Kitty, in true Kitty fashion, tried to help him out by convincing the staff that he needed new clothes and a new place to live, but like the shopping, this backfired spectacularly. Now I'll be exposed to my enemy at all times.

Then again, that meant Pietro would be exposed to him at all times. Zen hadn't retaliated against the boy due to the simple fact that he was too fast. He had the reflexes of a cat on crack, and short of killing him, Zen doubted he could stop the youth long enough to administer a proper beating.

Now . . . You have to sleep sometime. Perhaps this would work out in his favor after all.

Logan stood inside the door to the office and drank in the scents in the room. Zen's heady aroma flirted around him, stiffening his cock instantly. Damn it, the unrelenting boners were becoming a hassle, and even masturbating did little to relieve the ache. He also caught the faint sullen odor of the snarky little speed demon.

"Ah, there you are." His thoughts were interrupted by Baldy, whose mental dog call brought him here. "Come along."

His lips pulled back in a mock snarl, but Logan followed anyway. There was something about the old man that made a person want to obey. No wonder Zen's so entranced. Then again, Zen would follow anyone who he claimed as master. X growled in the back of his mind, and he could feel the restlessness of the feral. Something about his thought had agitated the beast.

Logan's steps faltered when something like a memory, faint and hard to capture, whispered in the back of his mind. The feel of chains clamped over his flesh, unable to move. And the sharp spike of agony when the scent of Zen's blood spiced the air.

Then it was gone again.

"Logan?" Xavier's voice jerked him back into motion. What the hell was that? Logan growled in his mind at the beast, but it didn't reply, not even with a snarl.

"Nothing, I'm fine. Where are we going?"

"There's something I'd like you to see," came the vague reply.

Xavier led Logan down into the heart of the complex. He stopped in front of a thick circular doorway that would have been the crowning glory for any major bank. It was twice Logan's height and over three feet thick when it swung open.

Through this strange portal, Logan saw a suspended walkway that lead to a circular platform in what he assumed was the center of the vast open space. He followed the wheelchair bound man out into the empty sphere. Even his advanced senses couldn't find the far wall, or the base or summit.

This room was a psychic clean room. The only thoughts permitted were the ones Charles Xavier sought out himself. Sometimes, he spent time in the room just to take a break from the endless voices that crashed around him day in and day out.

Xavier positioned himself on the central dais and slid a strange skeletal helmet over his bald head.

The whole room was a focusing chamber for Cerebro, a titanic array of sensors, daisy-chained multiprocessors, and resonance amplifiers constructed to magnify Xavier's unparalleled power to Godlike proportions. After adjusting a few dials, he glanced back at the feral, who'd just lit a cigar.

"Logan, my repeated requests about smoking in the mansion notwithstanding, continue smoking that in here . . ."

Sighing, Logan pulled the cigar out of his mouth and studied it. He'd lit it without thinking. His healing factor made little things like cancer obsolete, so he liked to indulge.

The next words weren't spoken out loud, but echoed in his mind: . . . and you will spend the rest of your days under the belief that you are a six-year-old girl.

With the thought came an image of Logan in a frilled pink dress, something akin to what Barbie might wear, with layers of silk and crinoline petticoats, an avalanche of bows, ankle socks, and patent-leather shoes.

The low hiss of blades extending whispered through the vast chamber, sliding out of the hand that held the cigar, but Logan made no move to attack.

"I'll have Jean braid your hair," Xavier said as he mentally tweaked the image to match in a way that was so absurdly over the top that Logan couldn't help but give a rough chuckle.

Yes, Xavier probably could impose his psychic will on Logan, but they both knew that it would risk the delicate balance of his mind and X wasn't Zen. He wasn't a creature of obedience, and there would be a dire reckoning for such a violation.

The claws returned to his flesh, they'd been little more than an idle threat anyway, and they both knew that as well. Closing his eyes, he crushed the cigar out on the palm of his hand.

With the flick of a final switch, the chamber began emitting a low grade hum that vibrated deep in Logan's metallic sheathed bones.

"Are you sure I should be in here?" Logan asked, in his mind, X began pacing restlessly, untrusting of the strange sensations going through their flesh.

Instead of replying, the massive door slid shut behind him. "Just . . . don't move."

Instead of obeying, Logan took a few steps closer so that he stood on the platform behind the Professor. A startled gasp escaped him when the fabric of reality seemed to twitch like the hide of a fly bitten horse before dissolving beneath him. For an instant, there was the lurching sensation of falling, like going over the top of the first hill in on a roller-coaster ride.

Then, with another spine jarring jolt, he was stationary again. Only now the space around them had become a giant three-dimensional representation of the world. Scattered over the land masses and studded here and there over the oceans were countless pinpricks of light. They mostly blazed white, but the white was intermixed with specks of red.

"These lights," Xavier said with the same humble tone one would use in a cathedral, "represent the whole of humanity. Every living soul on Earth."

Logan smirked. "Let me guess, we're the red ones."

Like stars winking out at dawn, the white lights faded, leaving the scarlet to blaze alone. "Yes, these represent the mutant population," Xavier replied, impressed with Logan's swift understanding. "Many of them are unaware of what they are, what they'll become. As you can see, we aren't as alone as the media would have us believe."

Logan's stomach gave a protesting lurch when the globe rushed towards them, the focus narrowing down, down, down until they had a bird's-eye view of the northeastern seaboard of the United States. Then most of the tiny lights flickered out, leaving a small scattering whose placement matched up with the school. Along with the dots representing them, there was a thin scarlet line darting from Washington to Boston.

"That," Xavier pointed out, "represents the path of the mutant who attacked the President."

"You still planning on sending Jean and Storm after him?" Logan asked, personally believing that Zen would have been the better choice.

Xavier nodded. Again the focus narrowed down, this time encompassing Boston. Now the trail began fragmenting.

"I'm having difficulty locking in on him," Xavier confided.

"Can't you focus harder?"

"Yes, if my goal was to kill him."

Logan folded his arms over his chest. "You can do that?"

"Easily," Xavier said after a long measured glance.

"A lot of people would pay a fortune for a skill like that,"

With another spinning lurch, the scene zoomed in further, settling on a neighborhood in the South End. A single crimson light was blinking. Latitude and longitude points shimmered into existence over the light and a moment later their corresponding cross streets appeared.

"There we go, he'd finally stopped running and gone to ground."

Closing his eyes, Xavier disconnected mentally from the machine, causing the lightshow to vanish. Logan rubbed his eyes, and X gave a low growl in his mind, reminded of Zen's unpleasant form of travel.

The walkway had returned, and fresh air wafted through the now open door. A new scent drifted into the room: Ivory soap, Old Spice, and small dash of Armani that had to come from Jean. Scott stood in the doorway expectantly, dressed for the road.

Logan's eyes locked with the other mutant's face, and not for the first time, he felt the hair at the nape of his neck rise like an agitated dog since he couldn't meet the man's eyes. The feral in him despised not being able to get a proper measure of the man. So much could be learned by looking into the eyes of another. Scott's mocking smile did nothing to ease the tension between them. A corresponding feral grin, more a bearing of teeth than anything friendly, made Scott's smirk wilt a little along the edges. That's it pretty boy, even with your fancy eyes, I could take you if I wished to.

"Logan," the sharp rebuke almost made him want to whine at the unfairness of the universe. There were times when Xavier made him feel like a small child, and he was one of those mothers with eyes in the back of her head.

Once Logan's attention was back on the Professor, he continued. "Scott and I are visiting an old friend tonight, and I would like you to play chaperone to the children while we're gone."

A grunt was the only reply, but Xavier's smile proved the man knew he'd won. Damn it all, I've gone from the most terrifying killing machine ever to . . . babysitter.

"Okay, here are the rules. That's your side over there, and this is my side. Don't come on my side, don't mess with my stuff, don't stare at me in that creepy way all the time, and don't kill me in my sleep."

Zen stared at Pietro's agitated face, trying to decipher the emotions flashing behind his eyes. "What did I say about staring?" Pietro growled.

Turning his back on the furious teen, Zen began unpacking the endless bags of new clothes. Every item was meticulously folded and put away. Half the items ended up in a drawer that he mentally marked as never to use. While he'd done his best to curb Kitty's spending nature, he wasn't successful. By the end of the nightmarish journey, he'd given up trying to contain the girl. So many of the so called outfits would never see the light of day.

Behind him, Pietro sat down in the middle of the bed, glaring at his back. His stomach clenched uncomfortably with every move the short boy made, and it took him almost fifteen minutes to understand his feelings.

Fear.

It sat on his chest, crushing his ability to draw a full breath and pinning him in place. He swallowed what felt like a lump of coal and tried to get ahold of himself. Zen won't hurt me, he can't. As long as I leave him alone, he'll leave me alone. Right.

Having Zen move in was akin to sharing his room with a Black Mamba. In the back of his mind, he saw the terrible splash of blood as mutant after mutant died under Zen's indifferent hand.

He saw his sister's empty eyes, knew he couldn't do anything but watch. Like flipping a switch, the fear morphed into unspeakable rage. His body vibrated with the desperate need to attack.

Not just attack. Kill.

Where will it stop? The Professor's words rang in his heart again. Zen was the tool used to murder his sister, but he wasn't the hand that held that tool. It was an evil daisy chain whose end he couldn't guess at.

Yes, he might be able to kill Zen. Key word being might, now that the assassin had access to his power and was permitted to use it in self-defense, he wasn't sure he'd be able to strike the killing blow before Zen took him down.

What then? What if he managed to kill Zen and get out of the school without getting caught? What then? He already knew that the old facility was abandoned. He had no idea where to start looking for the rest of the scum behind his sister's death.

Then there was Logan. No way would he be able to kill Zen and not have to face the indestructible feral. A shudder skittered through him at the morbid thoughts plaguing his mind. No, he wasn't going to even attempt to kill Zen. Madness lay down that path.

But that didn't mean he had to like sharing a room with the twerp.

Over the next half hour, Pietro learned a bizarre truth. When Zen's focus was on a person, it was total. When he ignored someone, that was total too.

For reasons he didn't want to examine, Pietro resented the fact that Zen was ignoring him. Ridiculous, get a grip man, you don't want him paying attention to you. If you play this right, we can spend the rest of our lives pretending the other doesn't exist. That thought was depressing, and he bit his lip with indecision.

Scowling, he glared at Zen as he moved around their shared room. Even when he did nothing wrong, he irritated Pietro. Then he almost swallowed his tongue when Zen pulled his shirt off. "What are you doing," Pietro all but shrieked.

Once again, that penetrating gaze fell on him like a ton of bricks. "I'm changing into my pajamas," Zen replied before dismissing him again.

"Er . . . right," Pietro muttered, heat burning his cheeks as he looked away. Once the short assassin was fully dressed again, Pietro looked him over. Dark red plaid pajamas met his gaze, and he couldn't stop the low chuckle from escaping. It was sort of like finding out that death wore fuzzy bunny slippers in the morning.

Seeing Zen in his jammies made him seem almost real to Pietro. Not the terrible harbinger of death he'd been in the facility, but . . .

Just another kid.

Shaking his head, Pietro threw himself back onto the bed. No, he wasn't going to fall for it. Now he understood what the Professor's devious plot was, but he refused to be defeated so easily. Of course Zen was a real person, but that didn't change the fact that he was still pure evil. Just because he was kind of cute in a little kid sort of way when he wandered around the room dressed like that didn't un-spill a single drop of blood. Nothing he does will ever bring my sister back.

And not just Wanda, but every person whose life had been cut short at the hand of his new roommate. Holy shit, I'm going to be sleeping in the same room as a mass murderer. Pietro wondered if this is what it felt like to end up in jail when you were innocent. How could anyone cope with something like this?

It was crazy, that's all. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe he'd run into a tree at full speed and was now in a coma somewhere, dreaming this whole disastrous situation up.

Then he snorted at the utter ridiculousness of his own thoughts. Yes, Zen was a murderer, and yes he'd killed his sister, but there wasn't anything either of them could do to change those two facts. Nothing would bring Wanda back, even Zen's death couldn't do that.

Pietro strained against the demented bands holding him in place. It was akin to an adult version of the little kid bouncers some insane parents hung in doorways. No matter how hard he struggled against them, he couldn't break free.

We'll never get out of here. Despair flavored the thought like drops of acid in his brain. No, I refuse to die here like a rat trapped in a bottle. Baring his teeth, he renewed his efforts until he collapsed in the bindings, his muscles giving out under the strain. "Fuck!" He shouted, sweat pouring off his face and making his skin itch.

"Just stop now." The soft broken voice tore him out of his brooding thoughts, and he almost flinched when his gaze met Wanda's. He hadn't asked what the doctor did to her this time, and she hadn't offered, but looking at the dead look in her eyes, he knew.

She was dying by inches, and there was nothing he could do to save her.

"Sorry," he whispered. "When we get out, I'll buy you a triple decker Sunday with all the toppers you want." Instead of the wan smile he could usually get out of her, she stared at him hopelessly.

"We're never getting out." The words fell into his heart like sharp edged stones, making him choke on a sob.

Swallowing the useless sound, he forced his tired body to its full height. "Yes, we are. Don't give up on me now, we're all we've got, and we can make it through this. You and me, always. Remember?"

Pietro flinched when her jarring laugh rang out, making the other prisoners shift uneasily in their cells. It had gotten quiet in the vast room, the way it did sometimes and he wanted to shout, to continue thrashing, anything to silence her heart breaking laughter.

The sound dwindled in fits and jags, Pietro wondered if her mind was still intact. "Wanda?"

"Foolish brother, when will you open your eyes? The only way out is death." And I'll welcome it when it comes. The unspoken words were an endless scream between them.

Then, as if he were the Angel of Death and had heard her silent prayer . . . IX came striding out of the shadows. He'd moved with terrible grace towards Wanda's cell.

Pietro's throat convulsed on the scream, so raw it got trapped within the narrow flesh. For the first time since his mutation became active, Pietro's body stilled completely.

No, nononononono!

She didn't fight.

She didn't scream.

She didn't cry.

With the artistic swipe of his blade, IX painted a smile below her chin, granting her freedom.

Pietro fell out of bed in a painful tangle of limbs and blankets. His heart had become a frightened humming bird trying to pound itself to death upon the cage of his ribs. Blood filled his mind, and the last memory of his beloved sister tried to shatter his skull.

Tears fell unnoticed down his cheeks, and before he decided to move, he found himself standing over Zen's bed. His whole body shook beneath the relentless storm of emotion, the need for revenge.

Jaded green eyes stared up into his tortured face passively. It took him a long minute to realize Zen was awake.

A ghost of emotion brushed over Zen's blank features, and the small assassin sat up.

Confusion tore at the rage, making Pietro take a stumbling step back when the short teen stood up and padded over to his dresser, all the while ignoring his wrathful roommate.

When Zen turned to face him, his heart gave another sharp lurch. In Zen's hand was a slender knife.

Fear doused the rage like a flood sweeping through a house, leaving him frozen in mind-numbing terror. Deaths, countless deaths began to play out in the theater of his thoughts, and even though he screamed at his body to move, the muscles refused to obey.

The only way out is death. Wanda's last words haunted him, and he wondered if this was how she'd felt. Wanting to scream, to fight, to do anything but stand there waiting for death to come. Maybe she hadn't let Zen kill her, maybe she'd been frozen in place too.

Instead of slashing his throat open, Zen flipped the knife, offering it to Pietro hilt first.

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