Weapons of Dark and Light Chapter 37: Weapon, a Harry Potter + X-Men: The Movie Crossover fanfic

Chapter 37 - Weapons

"A weapon does not decide whether or not to kill. A weapon is a manifestation of a decision that has already been made." ~ Steve Galloway, The Cellist of Sarajevo

Storm and Kurt hobbled around another corner, arms wrapped around each other's waists for comfort and support as they struggled to find the children. Overhead, more loud rumbles vibrated the once solid concrete.

Up head, someone began screaming. The sound made them stumble and almost fell. Only Kurt's unique feet kept them upright. "Vut is that?" he whispered, fear itching along the edge of the words. Storm understood that primal fear. The screams continued, began to dwindle, then were driven to greater heights. "Is it the children?"

That thought spurned Storm to move faster even though voice didn't sound like a child. Then again, who could judge someone's age based off the sound of their screams? Careening around a bend, the pair crashed face first into the force field. They bounced like a pair of moths off a windshield and fell in an undignified tangle of limbs at the foot of the enclosure Zen put around the children.

"I am most heartily tired of finding myself on the ground," Kurt grumbled as he gently shifted his tail out from beneath Storm's leg.

"You and me both."

"Storm? Is that you?" The small voice held a complicated mix of hope and dread, as if the speaker was afraid to believe in rescue.

The white-haired storm mistress pushed herself up into a half crouch, her eyes shining at the sound of the familiar voice. "Jubilee?" Reaching out, her hand met the invisible force she'd ran into a second ago. A familiar force. Her eyes darted around, tallying up the children, who was there and who wasn't. "Where's Zen. Why are you here?"

Jubilee opened her mouth, shut it, and then shifted awkwardly in place. Clearly not sure how to answer the question. "Go on, spit it out."

She bit her lip indecisively. "Well, you see, we were caught by some soldier guys. They had these dart gun things with something that knocked us out." Storm was tempted to tell her to get to the point, but chose to let her go at her own pace. "We woke up in a locked room. One without any windows. Zen said it was," she paused, thinking back, "oh, right, he said it was a holding pen. Told us not to use our powers because they were probably watching us and the room was set up with holes in the walls. The holes could be used to gas us," she gave a dramatic shudder, but now that the X-Men were here to save them, the expression and tone of her voice no longer held the real terror she must have felt in the pen. Instead, it was already taking on the sheen of a tall tale, one that would grow in the telling.

Another rumble shook the complex. This one held the desperate shriek of something metal twisting out of shape deep in the bowels of the dam. If they didn't get moving soon, then there wouldn't be any tales told around the campfire about this disastrous little adventure.

"What's that?" Malcom squeaked, his eyes widening in renewed fear. Sandy went to the little boy, her plump arms circled his trembling shoulders and she cuddled him close.

"Nothing to worry about right now, kiddo," she soothed, but her soft brown eyes were wide with the same terror he felt.

Storm pressed her hands a little harder against the force field, as if that might force it open. "Where is Zen?" she asked again, not wanting to tell the children exactly how precarious the situation was.

Jubilee cleared her throat and began again. "Okay, well something went wrong, and all our powers kinda got out of hand." Her nose wrinkled, remembering the bite of static against her skin, growing stronger by the second. It would make her hesitate to use her powers as a prank in the future. Storm gave a sympathetic nod, indicating the same happened to them. "When it was over, Zen was... he," her voice hitched, unable to drag the word out of her tight throat.

Strange, she hated his guts just a few short weeks ago, and now the thought of him being dead made her eyes sting. He was still a skunk for all the crap he pulled when he was with the bad guys, but now that she had the smallest taste of what it was like, she could understand him a little better. What would she be like if she'd been in the hands of these bastards for who knew how long?

"He was all used up," Malcom piped up when Jubilee faltered.

Heads nodded all around. "Yeah. No idea what he did, but he protected us. It took everything he had. He wasn't really breathing, you know?" It was as close as she could get to saying he was dead. Not that they checked his pulse or anything, but he looked super dead. "Anyway, Malcom got Sandy to borrow some of all our power and pushed it into him. That worked," the last two words sounded like a lie, but Storm didn't call her on it. Some things needed time to settle before they could be confronted. "After that, he got us out. While we were going down the hall, he found the Doctor," her voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence.

That explained the screams, which stopped at some point during their run. But then she frowned. Zen wouldn't have killed the Doctor without orders. She was missing something. "So, he found the Doctor and left you lot out here in the bubble?" She prodded.

Now Jubilee looked down at her hands, twisting around each other in a way that looked painful. "Pietro," she whispered, the word so soft it almost went unheard. Storm's lips thinned into a hard line at the information, but she could understand why the speed mutant would act on his hate. They would deal with the aftermath later.

"How do ve get them out of here?" Kurt's voice broke the oppressive silence. While they'd been talking, he'd circled the enclosure, feeling for breaks. As he spoke, he began to climb, surprised that his fingers and toes could grip the strange there/not there structure. His antics drew reluctant giggles out of some of the younger children, making him smile. Their simple joy was refreshing after years of being shunned any time he stepped outside the circus. Then again, they were mutants too, and while they didn't share as obvious a mutation as his, they still understood the feeling of exclusion the outside world imposed on their kind.

A low, amused growl jerked all their heads around. Three people stepped out of a doorway into the hall. The sight of them silenced everyone. Kurt took one look and poofed off the dome to appear in front of it, putting himself in front of the children.

"Zen?" Storm asked, her voice held an edge of husky fear her palm itched with the need to reach up and hide the scar across her throat. It had been a long time since his presence inspired that level of fear, but the man who stood before them bore little resemblance to the bullied child Xavier turned him into.

At some point between his capture and now, Zen found time to change. Now he was in his assassin gear. Black cargo pants, each pocket just the right size for who knew how many deadly toys. A skin-tight shirt, which for some reason had lopsided neck line, almost as if the shirt had been tailored to expose the now vivid red bite marks littering his neck and shoulder, black boots, and more than one gun in plain sight. The icing on the hellish cake was Zen's face. It was totally blank and smeared with blood. The dripping red color seemed to bring out the stunning green of his eyes, making them glitter with inhuman coldness.

Behind and a little to the left, Pietro stood unusually still. In all the months she'd known him, Storm didn't think she'd ever seen him not fidgeting in some way. Fingers tapping, feet twitching, hips swaying if he had to stand still. Any number of little movements that defined Pietro, but now he stood with his head bowed, eyes on the ground, blood spotting his face and streaked over his hands.

On Zen's other side, X stood. He was also in a new pair of jeans, nothing else. Except for the blood of course. All three of them looked like they'd rolled around on a slaughterhouse floor. No wonder Kurt looked so freaked out. Storm eased around the edge of the shield until she stood shoulder to shoulder with the teleported. "Zen?" she asked again. This time, his eyes found her, and she saw they weren't as dead as she first feared.

They were tight with exhaustion, and now that the shock of his appearance had worn off a little, she noticed streaks of silver in his hair. He wasn't breathing. The words came back to her, making her gut clench.

How far had Zen gone to defend the children? What a foolish question. He went as far as he had to, as he'd been trained to. Without answering her, he lifted his hand and gave a negligent wave.

Jubilee fell over when the shield popped like a soap bubble. Her arms pinwheeled, and she stumbled forward, thumping into Kurt's back. He swayed forward, but kept his feet. His tail gently circled the girl's waist, causing her to give a small squeak of surprise.

Reaching out, Zen nudged Pietro. Instead of snapping at him like he normally would, he gave a full body shudder before plodding forward to join the other children. Next, Zen touched X's wrist, "Guard." One word, but it made the hair on Storm's neck stand on end with its utter lack of inflection.

"IX?" Storm tried again, hating how that name came out of her mouth instead of his new one, but she didn't take it back. Again, he said nothing. Closing his eyes, he vanished into thin air.

"Vat is going on?" Kurt scowled, sick of having all his questions ignored, and using the irritation to mask his mounting terror at the situation. Almost against his will, his eyes locked with the feral's. In an instant, the slight hint of amusement on the other man's face vanished. Animal intensity glared out from those human features, making him cringe back. He dropped his eyes, and while he didn't quite tilt his head enough to offer his throat, it was a close thing.

The feral didn't push the dominance contest. Instead he turned and stared down the hallway, guarding them. Kurt shifted a little closer to Storm. Together, they moved until the children were huddled in a small group between them and X. Leaving the children so close to X bothered him, but he understood they were in deadly territory. Now wasn't the time to question loyalties.

Guard, the single word rang in Kurt's mind. He shook his head, unable to comprehend how such a small mutant had complete dominance over a feral who all but vibrated with power.

Ten minutes passed since the last blood curdling scream ended in a familiar wet gurgle. The ground beneath Monroe's feet gave a tiny shake, a forerunner to the coming devastation. Behind him, glass beakers tinkled together, whispering about their destruction. He reached up and adjusted his glasses, even though he couldn't see in the darkness of the storage closet. Only a single line of light bled up from under the door, and it wasn't enough to be of use.

It rankled the scientist to sit here in the dark like a child, but he was nothing if not practical, and if the Doctor couldn't regain control of Weapon IX, he would be courting death by confronting the renegade project. Better to wait, at least for a while.

Another tremble rocked the small room, and one of the glass beakers, too close to the edge, danced off and exploded. Against his will, Monroe jumped at the sound, and he was forced to reevaluate the situation. Obviously, the structural integrity of the dam had been compromised, and he couldn't wait forever.

At first, his fingers refused to close around the cool metal door handle. He hadn't heard anything since IX's last passion filled cry rang out minutes before, but that didn't mean the room was empty. Both X and IX were masters at moving silently.

Finding his resolve in the certain knowledge that he would die either way if he didn't move, he opened the door.

Blood covered the floor. Discarded innards added macabre exclamation points to the darkening liquid. Monroe's stomach didn't so much as twitch as he looked at IX's handiwork. After all, the Doctor did worse whenever he was feeling playful. However, he usually put the organs into specimen jars instead of tossing them all over the floor.

Curling his lip in distaste at the mess, he minced his way through the slaughterhouse leavings. He couldn't quite make it over to the bank of computers without stepping in blood, but he did his best.

He sat down with his back to the door and did his best to ignore the way the skin between his shoulder blades burned with the anticipation of pain. His fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up the various programs and implementing override codes.

The project that had taken so much of their effort and resources wasn't finished. Another base rumble reminded Monroe it never would be. They'd implemented all the physical upgrades, and completed a majority of the mental remapping and key command protocols, but were still weeks, if not months away from live testing.

Still, the project was theoretically complete enough for this. Reaching up, he adjusted his glasses one final time before typing in the final command: ACTIVATE PROJECT XI. EXECUTE TEST SEQUENCE SEARCH AND DESTROY. TARGETS: WEAPON IX, WEAPON X, MUTANT INFILTRATORS.

Deep in the bowels of the dam, the last flashing green light gave up the ghost and flicked over to red. Every console in the room blinked with points of baleful crimson light, and countless alarms chirped, honked, and blared warnings to a near empty room. The man who'd stayed behind to salvage the situation flopped on the floor, blood coated his chest from his gushing nose. His screams and the alarms fought each other for dominance.

In the short time since the explosion in the generator room, the small cracks in the dam had grown exponentially. Had the dam been in optimal working order, the situation might have been salvageable, but the clogged spillway allowed Alkali Lake to fill to dangerous heights, putting the entire structure under tremendous strain. Even without the explosion, the dam had been well on its way to failure. Now, the pressure of uncountable cubic tons of water pressed down on the doomed complex and the worst-case scenario was about to play out.

A ripple passed through the entire complex, and a block of stone the size of a small table fell from the ceiling. With a sickening pop, the screaming ended abruptly as the first jet of water gushed into the room. More stones collapsed, now each the size of small SUVs as pipes ruptured, gas lines failed, and the air in the room filled with the wild banshee hiss of escaping steam. Sparks erupted from the equipment, hydrogen ignited, and a massive belch of fire roared through the room.

Water, seeded with rebar reinforced stone, exploded out of the control room in an unstoppable wave. It slammed into the first generator, jamming up the turbine blades which, in turn, tore the entire assembly loose from its axis. Shrapnel from the shattered blades flew in all directions, the world's biggest hand grenade. A chain reaction of destruction ensued as the entire line of generators failed.

The series of explosions rocked the complex in a way no one could ignore.

A voice teased at the edges of Xavier's thoughts.

"Wielder."

It didn't hold the desperate edge of all the rest, somehow it cut through the roar of voices, the base vibration of Cerebro, and the drain of trying to hold all those minds in his.

"Wielder."

A slight frown touched Xavier's lips. All the endless voices in his head seemed to be in pain. He tried to shake the thought away. It couldn't be right. After all, he'd built Cerebro to help people, not hurt them. That had been the biggest contention between him and Erik after all, that Cerebro not be turned into a weapon. Their opposing stance on Cerebro was what finally broke them apart. He believed the machine should be used as a unifying force, to bring the human family together. Magneto saw Cerebro as, ironically, the final solution for cleansing the human gene pool. He'd lived through one Shoah, and had vowed after his escape to never permit another by any means necessary. Even Erik understood the irony of a child of the Holocaust employing the same methods as the ones who'd slaughtered his family so long ago, but somewhere along the way, he chose not to care.

Xavier shook his head again. Erik was wrong then. This, another head shake, this... wasn't right now.

Could he do anything to stop it?

"Wielder."

For a brief moment, the chamber holding the Dark Cerebro gave a violent shudder in response to the shock wave. Metal screamed in protest as the pressures all around the dome torqued it viciously out of shape. More than one portion of the ceiling plating fell, some passing mere feet from the gallery platform.

In that moment, the complex illusion 143' wove slipped, causing the setting to revert to its true form while the holographic globe flickered like a candle starting to gutter in a strong breeze. Xavier jolted, a cough rocking his frame as he tried to reach up and remove the helmet. But the small window of opportunity closed before he could finish the action.

A wave of nauseating vertigo slammed into his mind, and once again the room solidified into his Cerebro. There wasn't a monster in a wheelchair in front of him. Just a little girl. The globe steadied, glowing brilliantly with all the dots of humanity. Closing his eyes as everything settled back into rightness, Charles Xavier unwittingly continued to bring about the annihilation of the human race.

Cerebro's hum intensified as all those tiny dots of light began glowing brighter still. A dark glint filled Mutant 143's eyes as he accelerated the process.

Zen stood in the center of Cerebro, and fought the urge to fall over from sheer exhaustion. He forced his legs to hold him as his senses explored the great, empty room. It appeared to be empty, cold, and silent, but he knew better. Before shadow walking here, he'd locked onto the twisting thoughts of his Wielder, and made the mental twist that should have brought him to Xavier's side.

When the shock wave passed through the room, it fractured the illusion for half a heartbeat. Giving him a single glimpse of the room as it really was. He noted the position of both his Wielder, and the misshapen creature in the wheelchair across from him, whose mind had latched on to Xavier's like a lamprey. The globe also burned brightly in his mind's eye. All the white dots, blazing like micro suns, burning up under the force of his Wielder's power. Even if the damage done to humanity wasn't permanent, the assassin understood it would leave deep scars behind. They would forever fear this new reality where they might be struck down without warning or any way to defend themselves. The damage of this day would have far reaching repercussions, but Zen didn't dwell on what could not be changed.

Instead, he slid a tiny throwing knife from its sheath. The weapon felt at home in his hand, even though he hadn't held one in months. Zen's eyes slid shut, and he inhaled slowly. On the exhale, he let the blade fly. The illusion snapped like brittle bone, and Zen saw the form slump forward, his blade buried deep in the once-green eyeball, shutting it forever.

Xavier's mind almost shattered in that instant, as all the agony crashed into him; as understanding, true and brutal, ripped into him; it almost tore him to pieces. The only thing keeping him together was the certain knowledge that he would doom not only himself, but everyone connected to him if he let go.

A pair of hands gripped his shoulders, grounding him, and suddenly another mind overlaid his. Not controlling him, not trying to blind him, but acting as a buffer. Zen's icy thoughts encircled his tormented ones, flooding the psychic with his own emotionless perspective, giving him the distance needed to do what had to be done.

Held in the calming pool of Zen's mind, Xavier closed his eyes and sent a thought pulse of his own down the linkages he'd established between his mind and all of humanity. Temptation whispered in his mind, the near irresistible urge to perform a global rewrite, something akin to "Love thy mutant neighbor as thyself," but he forced his thoughts away from that path. As Storm often said, nature moved in her own time, and teachings had to be taught and learned at their proper pace. To short-circuit the process was to shortchange the results. No good would come of trying to force people down the path against their will.

What he did instead was to siphon a small amount of energy, personal grace, the equivalent of a psychic aspirin. While he couldn't undo the physical damage caused by the Cerebro wave, he could ameliorate the lingering pain. The victims would remember the pain, but would no longer feel it. Quite the contrary, they'd feel better, as if they'd woken up to a beautiful day where anything was possible. A natural high.

Xavier reached up and eased the helmet off, and with that, he cut his direct contact with Cerebro, triggering an automatic shutdown. He let the helmet fall from his age wrinkled fingers. Then he reached up and placed a hand over Zen's. He gave Zen's mind a gentle nudge, prompting the assassin to withdraw. "Thank you, I couldn't have done it without your aid." A strange warmth seeped through Zen's blood; it was nothing like the sharp fire X inspired, but it was pleasant.

"You're welcome." Kitty taught him that. To always say you're welcome when someone said thank you.

Closing his eyes, Zen gripped the Professor a little tighter and vanished.

"We have to go," Storm said, her voice tight with conflict. If anyone could save the Professor, it was Zen. She knew that, and it killed something inside her to even consider leaving him behind. But time was running out, and if they were to save the children, they had to get moving now.

"No." The word was half snarl, but still understandable as a word. The inhuman sound of it made the skin along her spine creep, but she didn't contradict him. Her own desperate need to make sure the Professor made it out safely kept her lips sealed.

Seconds passed, and just as she was about to say something else. Zen appeared with the Professor. The small assassin stumbled, and almost fell, but X caught him. He swayed, face grey, but finally steadied. "The dam is failing, come on." Zen gave X a small push, "Carry the Professor."

Xavier grimaced at the thought of being carried, but said nothing as he was hefted into the feral's arms. But, even with the indignity of being toted around like a sack of flour, he couldn't quit hold back his smile. That was the first time Zen referred to him as anything other than Wielder.

Zen took point, while X followed close behind. Next came the children, with Pietro in the lead. Storm and Kurt followed behind, guarding the children as they fled down the increasingly unstable hallways.

As they rounded another corner and were nearing the exit, Zen came to an abrupt halt. Xavier drew in a sharp breath as he stared at what stood in the middle of the door, blocking their path. "Damn you, Stryker," Xavier hissed under his breath as he was forced to look upon yet another mutant twisted by that madman's experiments.

This one wasn't in a wheelchair. He was dressed in a similar fashion to X, just a pair of pants. No shirt, shoes, nothing else. That sent a chill washing over Xavier's skin. Unlike IX, he apparently didn't rely on external weapons, making him all the more dangerous for the unknown quantity of his power. Then there was his face, the mouth appeared to be sealed shut with his own skin. He was as bald as Xavier himself, though the Professor doubted his was due to natural hair loss. Markings covered his body, markings Xavier had glimpsed in Logan's mind when the feral had nightmares about his time as X.

"Wade Wilson." Zen's face was as blank and dead as Wade's. The two weapons regarded each other. Their eyes, though different colors, reflected the same damage; the same soul deep scars.

"No. Not Wade. Weapon XI, I presume." The quiet, matter of fact words, caused students and teachers alike to take a step back. Instead of retreating like the rest. X turned and set Xavier against the wall, freeing his hands. A sharp, almost mocking, snarl curled X's lips as he studied what had been done to the once mouthy mutant. Shink, his blades tore free of their fleshy sheaths.

Weapon XI cocked his head ever so slightly to the side. Then twin blades, far longer than X's but made of the same sleek, indestructible metal, hissed out of his flesh. In a move too fast for the children to follow, Zen pulled a Glock 26 from a side holster. Four shots exploded the heart stopping silence. Two neat holes appeared center mass in Weapon XI's chest, two more snapped his head back, each centered directly on the bridge of the new weapon's nose.

The roar of gunfire deafened the children, making echos of terror vibrate all around them and spurred them into motion. Like a herd of deer, the children turned as one and fled up the hallway. Pietro's own body reacted with the same mindless panic, but he wrestled it back under control before the rest got too far away. Putting on a burst of speed, he appeared in front of the group. "Stop!" He shouted, holding his hands out. The way he magically appeared out of nowhere, coupled with the sound of his voice, jolted the entire group to a halt. "This is far enough. We don't have time for the adults to hunt us all down when the fight is over." If the fight goes our way, he couldn't help but think as fear raced down his spine.

Storm caught up with the group and with Pietro's help, they lined the rest of the children up against the wall in an effort to keep them as far out of the line of fire as possible. He shifted from foot to foot so fast in his anxiety that it looked like he was vibrating in place with his indecision. "Should we get out of here?"

Another base rumble rocked the ground under their feet. "No. There's not enough time."

Pietro offered a shaky nod and went to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. The sound of blade screaming off blade made him jump, and he almost screamed like a little girl when Zen appeared behind them, setting Xavier down next to the children.

"Hurry," the old man rasped.

"Yes, sir."

Then he was gone again. Shock jolted through Pietro's veins when he saw a familiar red beam of light explode out of the enemy's eyes and crash into X, burning deep into the large mutant's flesh. His roar of pain and fury bounced down to them, making Pietro's skin crawl.

Black smoke appeared above Weapon XI and Nightcrawler joined the fight. The next few minutes made Pietro's jaw drop in shock as Zen, XI, and Nightcrawler danced in and out of existence. His throat spasmed around a laugh as X waved his claws around and chased after the group, never quite able to keep up. If it wasn't for the deadly nature of the situation, the whole thing could have been some weird comedy skit.

One of XI's blades lashed out, cutting a deep groove in Nightcrawler's chest, and all the humor Pietro felt died as blood flew.

Go help them, damn it! The thought kept bouncing around in his head, firing down to his limbs, making his legs ache with the need to RUN. To join the battle. To do his part to save them.

But no matter how loudly his mind clambered at his body to go, his feet wouldn't listen. Every time he clenched his fists tight, ready to move, the memory of flesh splitting under the blade in his hand burned him. The raw meat scent of the Doctor's organs falling to the ground like discarded toys. His mindless, animal eyes at the end. I can't. All at once, his skin began to itch. Pietro forced his eyes to remain on the fight, even as his nails dug painfully into his skin, trying to scratch the Doctor's blood off.

"Shit!" Pietro shouted when XI's blade drove right through the tiny assassin. The other blade was going straight for the kill, and his body took two mincing steps forward, but froze again when Nightcrawler appeared, crouched on the weapon's shoulders, hands wrapped around his neck and tail in a death grip around his wrist, keeping the blade from lopping Zen's head off.

For a long, heart stopping second, the three were perfectly motionless. The world's most morbidly realistic statue of violence.

Movement jolted his eyes from the frightening tableau, and two new actors entered stage left. Or, more like, fell onto the stage, once more filling Pietro with the surreal sense of watching a particularly strange horror comedy skit.

Jean and Scott were a mess, wherever they'd been, they hadn't had an easy time of it, and they stumbled along, leaning against each other like a pair of drunks on the far side of the battle. X was mere seconds away from barreling into the silent trio, but before he could, the middle figure erupted in a pillar of flame.

"Mein Gott!" The shout rang in Pietro's ears as he watched Nightcrawler vanish in a puff of smoke. He winced, knowing there was no way he hadn't gotten singed. Zen pulled away from the human torch as well, stumbling back and falling on his ass in a way that did pull a weak chuckle from Pietro's lips, even as his guts churned in horror at the sight of the man on fire. Behind him, the children screamed and Storm did her best to shield them from the horrifying sight.

I guess Zen finally got tired of pussy footing around, he thought, still trying not to choke on his own horror as the stench of burning flesh quickly filled the hallway. He wanted to look away, dear God, how he wanted to look away as flesh melted off bone, only to reaper a second later. It was a strange parody of how the other mutant could teleport. Only now they were seeing his skeleton for real. Why isn't he screaming? The thought bounced around inside his skull as he tried to latch on to anything that wasn't him watching someone burn to death. Or... worse... not burn to death.

Whatever the bastard Doctor did to Wade, it appeared to have made him as indestructible as X. And in that moment, as he watched flesh vaporize, reappear, vaporize again, he finally understood. That understanding made him sink slowly to his knees, still unable to look away from one of the mutants who'd once captured kids like him for the scientists to experiment on.

One of the men who'd become an experiment. Now he understood what Remy learned long ago. It didn't matter which side of the bars the mutants were on, they were all victims.

Zen was a victim.

He and Zen were brothers, not in blood, but forged in the fires of this hellish place.

The bed-stone of his hate shattered into despair.

Yuriko scowled venomously down at the panel of controls in front of her. In her mind's eye, she could see her hands pressing buttons, flicking switches, taking control of the massive contraption as if she'd been flying her whole life. Unfortunately, a mental fog drifted over those memories, giving her brief glimpses, tantalizing hints, but nothing solid to work with. Her teeth flashed in a snarl as she fought against the irrational urge to unleash her claws and tear into the machine.

"Might we be of some assistance?" The cultured voice caught her off guard, causing her claws to extend half an inch before she caught sight of the semi-familiar face. In her spotty memory, she'd seen the old man, dressed all in white, in a room made of plastic, caged, helpless, and yet still holding an air of dignity that left a lingering impression on her.

He watched her with his cold, steel eyes, but said nothing more. Allowing her to think through her options at her own pace. "You can fly?" She asked.

"Indeed." Yoriko could almost feel that voice wrap around her bones, compelling her to submit. Hesitating only an instant more, she moved out of the pilot seat, taking one of the seats in the back, leaving the front to the two new mutants.

Magneto slipped easily into the copilot's seat, allowing Mystique to take the lead. It didn't take long to run through the start-up sequence. With an elegant fingertip, she pressed three buttons in sequence and smiled at the climbing whine of the twin jet engines cranking up to speed. After checking the gauges and ensuring the performance was nominal across the board, she engaged the rotors. A deep thrum vibrated through the aircraft as the blades overhead began to spin.

One hand rested lightly on the control yoke, while the other held onto the secondary, she prepared to lift off. Then something caught her eye. She nudged Magneto with an elbow and jerked her head towards the left. His gaze followed the motion and zeroed in on the still figure of a boy standing just outside the tree line, his face expressionless as he watched them about to make their escape. The only thing about him that moved was his right hand, casually flicking open the lid to his Zippo lighter before snapping it shut. The motion repeating again and again, as steady as a metronome.

Mystique studied Magneto, curious to see which way he'd leap. Seconds ticked by, each one bringing the dam closer to utter destruction. After nearly a minute, she opened her mouth to remind him they needed to be on their way.

Magneto gave a beckoning nod to the boy. Instead of responding, the boy just stood there.

John's thoughts pulled him back to Boston, to how Bobby Drake looked as he stared longingly at his parents and his home as if he were saying good-bye to them forever. He snorted, recalling how he'd been kicked out by his own family so long ago, and how he'd forgotten them. The way Bobby hesitated was meaningless, a totally bogus gesture. Yet, now all his cold cynicism was flung back at him with the rotors of the helicopter, because now he faced the same damned choice. If he walked away from the X-Men now, he knew there would be no going back. He'd shatter the friendships he'd made. Rogue... What did he care about her anyway? It was beyond obvious that she had the hairy wow-wows for Bobbeeee. He scoffed at her God-awful taste. And then there was Bobby, whose choice in women said more about him than he'd ever know. A girl he could never touch, never kiss? Bobby was blind. They both were, the pair of idiots were perfect for each other and both would make perfect little foot soldiers for Xavier's X-Men. No way would John Allerdyce turn out like those fools.

He stood at a crossroads, and it was time to make his choice. Pyro was made for more than the goody-goody life of the X-Men. Slipping his lighter into his pocket, he headed for the open door of the helicopter.

The smile Magneto gave him as he slid inside made it all worthwhile, assuring him he'd made the right choice.

As the helicopter lifted off, drawing them up into a clear blue sky, Pyro smiled too. He had no regrets about his decision. And no worries about the X-Men either. They weren't in any real danger after all, they'd flown the Blackbird here, and the underground tunnel went right to it. They would be fine, and if they weren't? No skin off his nose. He'd made his choice.

Sweat poured off Jean's face like an endless flood of tears, and she wondered if it was possible to die of dehydration in the span of only a few hours via sweat alone. How Scott kept a hold of her with all the sweat slicking her skin boggled her mind. She pushed down another twang of guilt as they hobbled along with him supporting most of her weight. If he hadn't been almost as banged up, she knew he would have tried to carry her the whole way. Noble, for sure, but they didn't need him to die of exhaustion before they made it out of this God-forsaken place.

After what felt like years and miles, they made it to the end of the next corridor. This one had a heavy metal door blocking their path, and when Scott blasted it open, they heard the sound of children screaming. That threw them both into high gear, and busted leg be damned, she hopped like a three legged rabbit determined to outrun a fox.

They stumbled around the corner and nearly fell over in their haste as they came upon the scene. The children huddled behind Storm at the far end of the hall. Logan, running full speed, claws out at the tro, frozen as if carved of stone, closest to them.

An unknown mutant standing tall in the middle. A blade shoved clean through Zen's body, the assassin gripping the mutant's arm bringing her attention to the fact that the mutant wasn't holding the blade, no, it protruded from his hand the way Logan's weapons did. And over it all, like a demon, Nightcrawler crouched on the mutant's back, hands wrapped around his neck, and tail holding the second sword inches from Zen's exposed throat.

Jean's heart thundered in her chest, not from exertion, but from the power thrumming in her veins as she studied the three frozen figures locked in their dance of death. In the back of her mind, it felt like great wings opening up, flowing like lava, and once more the celestial song fills every inch of her being. It croons to her, whispers that vibrate through every fiber of her being.

Save them.

Yes. Jean let the power ride her, almost eager for its embrace as she focused. As she exhaled, it moved, invisible heatwaves in the air. It wrapped around the shirtless mutant, wrapping around him from the top of his bald head, to the soles of his shoeless feet.

Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as she could feel each individual cell of her target vibrating together in the harmony of life. The power reared up, and Jean's breath caught in her throat as he burst into flames. She didn't see Nightcrawler poof away, or Zen jerk free of the blade and the inferno of her own creation.

No. Her eyes were consumed by flames. I hadn't meant... She'd only wanted him to stop. Not... But the individual molecules that made up her target were dancing, vibrating at a higher and higher rate, and she couldn't look away, couldn't cut the power off because now it had her in its talons as well because he was fighting them, FIGHTING BACK, and as fast as she burned him away, he regenerated. Mocking her power.

Each breath came in sharp little bursts as power fought power. He burned, and burned, and burned, and each new burning made her power soar all the higher. Sparks of red danced in the depths of her forest green eyes as she fought the urge to laugh as her psychic power danced in the flames.

Then the tide began to shift. Her power finally eclipsing his own. Each regeneration took half a breath longer, until the skeleton fell into a smoking heap on the floor, picked clean of every delicious particle of life.

The morbidly musical sound of empty metal clanging off the ground ripped Jean out of her stupor, and a wave of fear rocketed through her when the power pulsed and bucked in her hand, not wanting to stop. No, it hissed inside of her, not yet, give me more.

And Zen looked up at her, his dark empty eyes waiting, waiting to burn for what he -

NO! Jean deliberately put weight on her leg, and the screaming pain shattered her concentration. She could almost hear the power break apart, but stuffing it back into her skin hurt. It hurt more than her shattered bones, more than anything. But she did it.

"Come on," she called, forcing her voice to rise loud enough to carry down the hall to the still cowering children and Storm. Thinking of them helped her regain some semblance of control, helped remind her why she couldn't let the power go, even against someone who so richly deserved it. Because she knew if she did, she wouldn't be able to put it back in the box. And Zen wouldn't be the only one to burn.

A series of spiderweb thin cracks splintered across the face of the dam like wrinkles around an old woman's pinched lips. The minute fissures extended up from the initial rupture point in the generator room. They didn't look like a dire threat, not impressive in the least, until it became obvious that the only way water could be coming through was if the cracks extended all the way to the lake side of the dam.

The laws of physics and hydrodynamics would no longer be denied. Water began to explode through the holes with volcanic force, driven by the tremendous weight of the miles long, a mile wide, and hundreds of feet deep lake pressing down on it with ponderous force. The water dug its claws into the concrete as it gushed through the cracks, tearing out great chunks. Every second saw more of the dam eroded. The cracks widened, more water flooded in and more of the dam was eaten away by the relentless motion.

Although they didn't know it, the X-Men were out of time.

Deep in the bowels of the complex, a sound grew. First a rumble, then a freight train roar, as water began to pour in. Jean's eyes widened. "Go, go, go!" She shouted. Deep in her chest, she could feel her power thrum, making it hard to breath. It felt like she'd swallowed a sun, and now it burned and throbbed inside of her, wanting to explode outward.

Again, pain jolted her, this time as Scott scoped her into his arms and took off at a dead run towards the escape tunnel. Worry itched along her nerves, not from the sharp crackling sound of cement breaking, but from the fact that she could feel the rest following even though she couldn't see them. Each of her friends, each of the children, even Zen and Logan, fluttered in her mind like captive fireflies. Dancing in the brilliant sunlight, their tiny flickering lights should have been eclipsed by her power, instead they seemed to be magnified. As if she could reach in and pick apart the fiber of their souls at her leisure.

No. She closed her eyes and rested her head against Scott's jostling shoulder, letting herself focus on him alone. On his love, her love for him as she tried to let the fear go. They would make it out. Everything would be fine. They just had to make it to the jet.

Time seemed to leap forward when they burst out of the underground complex. While they'd been in it, it felt like a nightmare, the slow motion kind where no matter how fast you run, the monster always catches you. Now, time jerked forward and in what felt like less than a heartbeat, Scott was buckling her in. She almost called him back, almost demanded he hold her the whole time, because she knew that he was helping her stay together, but she didn't.

Biting her tongue, Jean let her fingers slide from his, and felt a burst of almost giddy delight as her power gave another vibrant throb inside of her. She closed her eyes, barely hearing the voices coming from the front of the jet, the growing panic. Wonder, and a growing sense of unease coiled inside her. Like with the attacking mutant, she could feel the molecules of her clothing. They danced along her skin in their tidy little rows, unseen but felt, and she knew that if she wanted to, she could change them. Fix the burns, the torn cloth, or... or change them into something else altogether. A ball gown, leather pants, a swimsuit. Anything she wished could be hers with a mere thought. The power whispered seductively in the back of her mind, demanding she take what was rightfully hers.

Then a new sensation struck her a slap across the face. While Scott and Storm's panic hadn't been enough to break through the whispers of power, the terrible vibrations shaking every particle of the forest as the wave came at them did. She knew the exact micro-second when the dam failed. And knew that death, in all it's frozen glory, was bearing down on them.

They were out of time.

Holding her breath, Jean stood up and began to hobble down to the ramp, her shoulders hunching as she fought to hold onto the power. All the adults were up front, trying to fix the problem. As she passed the children, they looked right through her. Jean's mind reached out to sooth them without her consciously choosing to do so. She didn't notice that she'd left a trail of smoking footsteps in her wake where the rubber soles of her shoes melted away under the strain of her body attempting to hold onto the massive power.

With every step she took, the agony of her shattered leg diminished, fell away as the tiny fractures fused. Then she was outside, a flick of her fingertip slid the door shut behind her as she took her place in front of the jet, her eyes locked on the wall of trees that would be no barrier to the wall of water rushing towards them.

Then she saw it. The water moved like a living thing, rearing up above the tree line in a massive wave. Mist, like fine lace, blurred the leading edge. Jean's lips peeled back in a grimace, and her concentration slipped. An arch of power exploded out of her like a solar flair. The trees in front of her shattered, cartwheeling away as her power slammed into them. It crashed into the leading edge of the wave, cutting through it like a sword splitting the water down the middle so the jet behind her would not be swallowed whole.

Distantly, Jean was glad the power erupted in front of her, and not backward to roast her friends alive. But it was getting so hard to focus on the here and now, when everything around her, every part of this dirty little rock crawling with humans, pulled at her.

Too much. Not enough. Her mind longed to pull free, to leap up, leave this pebble behind and expand outward, her own wave of consciousness instead of water, rippling out into the wider universe. She ached to see it all, to swim through a nebula, to ride the energy wave as two galaxies collide, to dive into the heart of a star and drink it down.

The first drops of water struck her cheeks, and hissed, instantly vaporized from the heat beating just below her skin. But the small spikes of cold drove shards of ice into her heart. FOCUS!

She jerked hard on the power, driving it back, and in her head it shrieked its fury at her. "NO!" Jean roared back, even as the power urged her to let the water take her friends, feel them snuffed out, simple candles in the wind.

No. A corona of power began to waft from her shaking limbs as she split her focus. Keeping the water at bay as she curled her power around the jet. Like so, she thought. Bent and twisted metal snapped back into its rightful shape with a sharp clang. Air molecules split and reformed into fuel as torn wires twisted back together.

Even with her mind split in so many directions, a small fragment of her noticed with bemusement that she wasn't breathing. That she didn't need to breath.

Still the voice inside her raged, wings of fire flaring in her mind as it tried to overpower her. But, for the first time in longer than she can remember, Jean felt completely in control. As she forced the jet off the ground, she sent a burst of thought to Scott, enfolding him in all her love before sending him into sleep. She wouldn't make him watch.

Closing her eyes, Jean lets go. Cracks flared across her skin as fire overtook her body, then the wave crashed down, crushing her in its icy depths.

Storm fought to control her breathing. Tears blinded her, and yet she couldn't stop looking out at the water, staring down at it with the wild, foolish hope that Jean would break the surface. As if she'd just jumped into a lake and would pop back up any second now. Any second.

More tears fell, and her numb fingers fumbled with the controls, wanting to leave, needing to stay.

"She is gone." Xavier's voice, hoarse with shock and pain, shattered the silence.

A sob escaped Storm before she could hold it back, but in her heart, she knew he was right.

Then, her eyes cut to the side where Scott slumped. He'd collapsed just before the end, while frantically trying to work the controls, to get the door open, to do anything to save Jean.

And even while fixing the jet, holding the wave back, and standing on a badly injured leg, Jean still managed to reach out and force Scott into unconsciousness. A sad smile touched her lips. It was just so Jean.

Scott's raw mind screamed with the need to save her. Save Jean, save Jean, SAVE JEAN! He remembered his fingers flying over the controls, half leaping out of his chair to try and force the door open, then she struck.

A bomb detonated in his mind. Not one full of shrapnel, but full of memories. Emotion. Part of himself, a very distant part, felt his body fall in slow motion, so slow, so unreal. The voices of the others, the cries of the children, came to him from underwater, low warbles that held no meaning as he was bombarded by wave after wave of memories. A million touches, fingertips, arms, lips, hair, body wed to body, sweat. Sound, laughter, sobs, teasing, playing, raging. Words mixed with sensations, mixed with scents, mixed with... And he drifted in an ocean of all they were. All her love. All his.

All their everything. A beautiful liquid ocean of gold. There were no visors here, no clothes, no flesh. Soul to soul, they mingled. Scott drifted, and wondered if he could sink below the waves. Drown in her love.

Then he felt it. Scott knew she hadn't meant to stay connected. That she'd given him this parting gift to keep him from seeing, from knowing, but she hadn't broken away fast enough.

In an instant, the love, their lives together, snuffed out.

Leaving him in darkness.

In the back of the jet, Logan quietly fought X to a standstill about having Zen strapped into the seat next to them. The ex-weapon wanted their mate curled up on his lap, where he could keep him safe. Logan knew Zen would be a hell of a lot safer strapped into the seat if the amount of crashing this bird had done lately was any indication, and finally talked the other half of his mind into complying. That made him shake his head with a surprising amount of fond exasperation.

Somehow, over the course of this fucked up mission, he and his alter ego managed to come to a truce. The feral half of his soul no longer tried to tear his mind to pieces to gain control of the flesh, and Logan no longer felt like he had to ruthlessly suppress X every second.

Somewhere along the way, they'd managed to form a sort of truce. So much so, that Logan let himself fall away even though they weren't in danger. He ceded the body to X so he could sink down into the waves of their shared mind and rest, trusting the feral not to get all stab happy with the students. More importantly, trusting X with the safety of the rest of things went tits up, which happened with surprising regularity around this bunch.

Closing his eyes, X drew in a deep lungful of air, instinctively filtering out the terror drenched scents of both children and adults. He zeroed in on Zen's unique aroma. Unease danced along the borderland that marked the edge between Logan and X as they sipped his scent. First, the bone deep weariness was like a slap in the face. The scent of prey that had been chased for a day and a night, run into the ground until it can't take another step. His lip twitched in an aborted growl as he reached out to finger one of the thin lines of silver streaking his mate's hair.

Leaning over, he took another deep breath. The sharp ozone scent of lighting was there, barely, and masked under a jangle of sharp noted scents, flavors he couldn't begin to decipher. They twined around Zen's base scent, like smudges of candy ground into raw silk. It made both X's hackles rise with the knowledge that something happened before they'd found him. Something deadly.

Rogue made sure to buckle in tight this time, not wanting another flying lesson. Once she was certain that nothing short of the jet breaking into pieces would dislodge her from the seat, she turned her attention to the pair who'd turned her world upside down more than once.

A tiny thrill jolted up her spine when she accidentally locked eyes with Logan, only to realize it was X staring back at her. Something inhuman flowed through the depths of his amber gaze, reminding her of the restless gaze of tigers in the zoo. Not the ones who laid around all day sleeping, but the restless ones. The ones who paced back and forth, over and over and over, pausing only to look longingly at one of the giggling toddlers.

What big teeth you have, grandma. The thought drifted up from her subconscious and almost made her burst into hysterical laughter. But, the sound of Storm, trying and failing to muffle her sobs from the front of the jet kept her jaws locked on the sound.

Biting the tip of her tongue hard enough to make it bleed, Rouge shifted her attention to Zen, and her breath caught in her throat. His once midnight black hair now sported several streaks of white. His were more scattered, and thinner, but she couldn't help but reach up and touch her own snowy lock. Her own badge of power used to the point where it nearly - no not nearly, it did, it did - killed her. Closing her hand tight, she could feel the ghost of metallic claws tearing through her own flesh. Memory, sensation, things that didn't belong to her, but were now echoes in her heart.

X saved her. And he had been X then. Just X. No Logan to temper the beast. Only IX to hold his leash, and who would hold hers? Rogue closed her eyes and turned her face away from the pair. She wouldn't think of it anymore. Wouldn't think about the bits and pieces other people left in her, even as she was haunted by what Xavier's power did when it turned the blade of her power against herself. Even now, she could feel the clamor of old ghosts clawing at the back of her skull, and hoped, dearly hoped, that they'd grow quiet again with time.

Tucked into one of the far corners of the plane, not bothering with any of the seats, Nightcrawler crouched. His dark lips pulled back in a delighted smile, showing the slightest hint of fang as Malcom swatted at his tail. The little boy would catch it, give it a light tug, and then let it go, only for the game to start again when Nightcrawler gave it a teasing flick. Just like playing with a curious kitten, he mused as he watched the human looking child, still marveling over the lack of fear.

Bobby sat as far back into his chair as he could get, and did his damnedest not to look like he was fighting off a complete nervous breakdown. Against his will, his eyes kept jumping from the children, to Logan and Zen, to Xavier, to Storm, to Kurt, back to the children. To the seat where Jean should have been, and where Scott slumped, looking more dead than alive. That, more than anything, was what made Bobby want to drag his nails over his arms and start screaming. He didn't understand how most of the other children were sleeping, as if everything was all right now. As if Jean hadn't just... He dug his nails into his arms, letting the small pain derail his thoughts. Trying his damnedest to cut off the other question tearing at his heart.

Where was John? No matter how hard he tried to wipe the thought away, to reassure himself that his roomie got out, all he could see was how the wave crashed over Jean. And before they got too far away, he saw just how much larger the lake was. Had they killed John by letting him leave? Was his body floating face down in the water?

What about the other kids? What about the rest of the school. How many had the soldiers killed? Any? All? Were they all that was left of a once vibrant school?

Even though he'd know enough back in the beginning not to let his parents know, this was the first time he truly felt like a refugee.

The rasp of Bobby's panic sharp thoughts scraped at Xavier's raw mind. There were many questions he couldn't answer for the boy, but at least he could set his mind at ease on one of them.

John is fine. He went with Magneto. He felt Bobby's mind absorb the information before it spun off into a whole new route of fretting. No longer worried about his friend's bloated corpse, now he worried about him turning to the dark side. A half smile touched his age wrinkled lips because he couldn't help but think the same thing. He'd tried his best to keep John on the right path, but in the end, he was a survivor above all else.

Letting his eyes slide shut, Xavier's mind relaxed from the hurt animal clench it had been in since breaking free from the dark Cerebro. Gentle tendrils of thought drifted free, like the waving tentacles of a coral reef, he sampled the flavor of the world, tasting the mood of the collective, and feeling the many jangles of discordant thoughts, after effects of Stryker's plot.

One such thought trail drew his attention. His heart gave a single sharp beat before settling.

Storm, head to Washington.

Scott huddled in the dark depths of his own mind, hiding from the pain he knew awaited him if he woke. Even deep in sleep, he sensed it waiting to tear him apart.

Not yet. The voice flowed gently around his mind, a balm over burned senses, a question. Scott reached for the comforting numbness Xavier offered. It wouldn't be a cure, he knew that, just as he knew his pseudo-father wouldn't reach out like this if it wasn't necessary.

No, he understood; even after all the trauma, he understood. The wave. First the mutants, then the humans. Who knew how much damage the last few hours bred. Damage control, he thought, and received an affirmation. A part of him, bigger than he liked to admit, wanted to turn his back on Xavier, the X-Men all of it. All he wanted to do was turn the jet around, and go crawl under the water, to join Jean where ever she'd gone. He swallowed hard; if he left now, maybe he'd be able to catch up with her on the other side.

Xavier's mind slid over his; gentle, like fingers through his hair. He didn't lecture him about the secret wish, or try to tell him it was wrong. No, all he did was offer his silent support. Scott gave the equivalent of a mental nod, accepting what Xavier offered. Like a shot of mental Novocain, the agony dulled. It shifted from the bright, shocking pain of a full body burn, to the dull throb of a broken bone. Still painful, but he could bear it. He must.

President George McKenna sat straight in his seat behind the desk in the Oval Office, waiting for the live broadcast to begin. In the week since the attempt on his life, the household staff had been busy putting things back in order. The desk, carved from timbers of a British frigate captured during the war of 1812, sat cleanly before him, void of the normal day to day clutter. All that remained was a stack of files bound in leather loose leaf notebooks, each emblazoned with the seal, and the knife, still bearing its blood red banner of: MUTANT FREEDOM NOW.

And the speech.

Of course, the copy in front of him was for show. He would be reading from the teleprompter in front of him so he could give the illusion of looking the country in the eye as he delivered the speech. One of his best skills was the ability to convey complex information to an audience while providing that person to person touch, breaking it down in a way that made it understandable without being condescending. He could inform the public, and in turn, show them how that information pertained to their lives.

Closing his eyes, he wished he had a different topic to discuss.

All around the room, people flowed and jostled each other: staffers, Secret Service, broadcast technicians, and military. Anxiety floated so thick in the air he could almost taste it, and he prayed that his own anxiety didn't show on his face. It was a lot to ask the country, to declare war on some of its own children.

He glanced at the bust of Lincoln he had on his desk, outside the view of the camera, and the photo of John Kennedy. One, because he led the Union into and out of a Civil War; and the other because he stood with the world on the edge of nuclear annihilation, yet managed to bring us through to the other side without the bombs falling. Looking at the knife, McKenna thought he understood know how they felt in the days, weeks and in Lincoln's case, years of conflict. He kept from reaching out to touch the edge of the blade, wondering not for the first, time if he would meet a similar end.

A faint smile twitched the corner of his lips; after all death wasn't the worst that could happen, all things considered. He'd long ago accepted that death was a part of life. Still, there was a difference between dying and being killed. And after surviving a combat tour in a serious shooting war, he'd hoped to have put that risk behind him. More the fool him.

There had been no word from Schmidt since he'd last spoken to the man here in the Oval Office, going over the intel the man had gathered on Xavier's so-called school. There'd also been no contact with Schmidt's senior staff. It worried McKenna, especially after reviewing reports about a number of military helicopters attacking a school and kidnapping children. This was what he'd feared most about Schmidt's methods, and he'd been on the edge of sending a stand down order when the whole of the human race had come a hair's breadth away from total extermination.

The memories of the attack were hazy at best. All he could really recall was toppling over, then waking up with his head cradled in the lap of one of the female Secret Service agents while she pointed her gun at the doorway. Now, she stood in the corner where she had a clean view of everyone in the room as well as a clear run at McKenna himself if anything happened. Alicia Vargas would lay down her life for his, if the moment called for it.

The contents of the speech had only been seen by a handful of people, though it had been the focus of untold rumors ever since he'd blocked time off for this broadcast. In the hours after the attack, he'd worked on the speech not with his official speech makers, but with his wife, and had written a good portion of it himself. There were no other copies, save for the one that would scroll over the camera mounted in front of him. Nothing had been released to the press in advance of the speech, leaving speculation to guide public discourse.

As the camera men ran through their final checks, he thought of his children. What would he do if he found out one of them was a mutant? Could he honestly stand by and watch them be condemned for a simple quirk of birth, no different than blue eyes or brown? How fiercely would he stand to defend them?

And yet, on the other side of this poisoned coin, it was by an unknown miracle that the world survived. Did not the needs, the survival of the many, justify the sacrifice of the few? True, Schmidt's indictment of mutantkind added weight to the scales in favor of the plan. That's what indictments were meant to do, sway the case for conviction. Still, McKenna would have felt better if there was someone on the other side to mount a defense.

His brow furrowed as he thought about adding another bust to his desk. Perhaps Pontius Pilate, or Ramses would be better since he'd condemned the Hebrew firstborn?

The carefully crafted speech rolled off his tongue as if he'd spent months practicing it. "... in this time of adversity," he read, "We are being offered a unique opportunity - a moment to recognize a growing threat within our own population, and take a unique role in the shaping of human events."

Reaching out, he took up the stack of folders Schmidt provided him. "I have in my possession... evidence... of a threat born in our own schools, and possibly even in our own homes-"

He jolted, and had to bite back a curse as his knee knocked against the edge of the desk when a deep bass rumble of thunder rattled the windows in their frames. Out of sight of the cameras, harried staffers rushed over to the windows to close the curtains. The broadcast was live, so there wasn't much that could be done about the windows behind him that showed a sky the weather man promised would be clear, darkening with deep bruise colored clouds that spanned from horizon to horizon. Another jag of lightning cut across the sky as a hard, pelting rain crashed into the glass.

"... a threat we must learn to recognize, in order to combat it..."

Just to the right of the teleprompter, a display monitor allowed him to see how he looked as he spoke. The sky seemed to rip open under the force of multiple lightning strikes, each one accompanied by a roll of thunder so loud he had to stop speaking. In the monitor he saw his own shocked face reflected back at him before it dissolved into static.

"What is going on," he demanded in an exasperated reaction both to the faltering equipment, and the raging storm outside. Now the lights began to flicker. Great, just peachy. Right in the middle of the most important speech of his presidency, this freak storm was going to skunk him out.

"What the hell," he said as he half stood out of his chair. The red light atop the camera was no longer glowing, proving they weren't broadcasting. Anger darkened his features when he released the camera was off. How long had it been off? They would have to start all over. Before he could open his mouth to demand answers, he noticed the cameraman wasn't moving. Not the sort of holding still some staffers did when things went wrong, and they didn't want to draw attention to themselves. No, the man was still as a statue, as if he'd been frozen solid.

A single glance around the room proved he was the only one able to move. The panic chewing at the back of his thoughts was shoved away. Instead he looked around the room again. Time clearly hadn't stopped, water still poured from a pitcher Larry Abrahms held until it overflowed the cup and began to spill down his leg.

Snatching the phone up off his desk, McKenna snapped quickly through each line, listening to the low dead hum, unable to find a single dial tone. Not even the direct, secure, and untappable link to the National Military Command and Control Center in the Pentagon. Next, he pushed the crash button, indicating an imminent threat in the Oval Office. That should have triggered a series of alarms that would have brought armed agents at a dead run.

Nothing happened. Adjusting his tie, McKenna took a drink and sat back down at his desk. In a room crowded with people, he found himself shockingly alone in a way he hadn't been since taking office.

The air seemed to shift over by the fireplace, but the bright lights of all the recording equipment left him half blind, unable to clearly see the threat. Still, he didn't leap up to his feet and demand answers. He waited.

They didn't make him wait long. Five in all. Three men, and two women. One of the men was in a wheelchair. All but that man wore form-fitting leather outfits bearing the look of a uniform. The bald man wore a neat suit, one as conservatively respectable as McKenna's own.

"You," McKenna said, his gaze zeroing in on Xavier's face. It wasn't hard for him to recognize the go-to authority on mutants whenever the subject came up on the talk shows. Schmidt's enlightening report gave him the answer why.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," The voice reminded him, almost absurdly, of Morgan. He'd been the man who ran the ice cream shop when he was a boy. The two looked nothing alike, Morgan had been a huge man who looked like he should be wielding a mountain ax and not an ice cream scoop, but still. They both had that calming tone, the one that invited him to pull up a stool, eat a big bowl of ice cream, and tell him all about his day at school.

McKenna had to clear his throat before he could speak, momentarily thrown by the strange mix of terror and nostalgia. "What are you doing here?" He demanded as he stood up, once more straightening his tie as he glared at the mutants invading his office.

"We're mutants," Xavier said, confirming what McKenna already knew. "But we aren't here to harm you. Quite the contrary, my name is Charles Xavier. These are the X-Men. Please sit."

"I prefer to stand."

From Schmidt's files he had names for most of them. The silver haired woman was a teacher at Xavier's school, her name was Ororo Munroe. Beside her, a girl stood. There was a streak of white in her hair, and he only knew her by the code name in the file: Rogue. The male with the strange visor over his eyes was another teacher at the school, Scott Summers. A half step back from the group stood the only one who wasn't named in Schmidt's files. Short for a man, McKenna didn't let that fool him. His eyes moved over the room, lightly touching on everything, but not lingering in any one place. This man was guarding their backs, just as Alicia Vargas did for him. If there was a problem, he'd be the one to handle it.

Moving with delicate grace, Storm stepped forward and set a neat stack of folders onto the desk, right next to the ones he'd gotten from Schmidt. "These are files from the private offices of William Stryker."

McKenna's eyes narrowed. "How did you get them?"

A fleeting smile touched Xavier's lips. "Let's just say I know a little girl who can walk through walls."

"Where is Stryker?"

"Regrettably," the tone of voice showed Xavier meant the word, "He is no longer with us."

"You killed him."

"He was killed while trying to annihilate every person on this globe who possessed the mutant gene."

McKenna's eyes jumped from Xavier to Alicia Vargas and back again, recalling the shocking way she'd collapsed, writhing on the floor as if in the throes of a grand mal epileptic seizure. How blood gushed from her mouth, nose, eyes, ears, the pads of her fingers and toes. It was as if she'd been instantly afflicted with advanced stage Ebola. With the single flick of his eyes, he realized that although she hadn't moved, she wasn't frozen like the rest of the room. She could both see and hear Xavier, and her hand rested lightly on her gun, though she had yet to draw it. Despite the revelation, McKenna didn't doubt her loyalties. Mutant or no, she took an oath, and would do everything in her power to remain true to it.

"I didn't know," he whispered. "My God." Then he shook his head. "No, Stryker went missing months ago, Marcus Schmi-"

"Marcus Schmidt was Stryker's stalking horse. He chose to break with the government to peruse his own agenda, which quite nearly came to fruition."

The strength seemed to run out of McKenna's legs, and he sat down heavily in his seat. Fighting the way his hands wanted to shake, he reached forward and began leafing through the files. "You don't, I mean you can't possibly think I would sanction something like this?"

"If I did, sir, we wouldn't be here."

Minutes ticked by as he flipped through the dossiers, speed-reading enough to get the flavor of the information. It was enough to make him want sag over onto his desk as the weight of the office, of the world, pressed down on his shoulders, crushing him with the enormity of what he'd almost set into motion.

Swallowing hard, he found it almost impossible to force the words out. "I've... never seen this information."

"I know," Xavier said softly.

That drew a glare from the President.

" I do not respond well to threats."

Xavier gave a single decisive shake of the head. "This isn't a threat, Mr. President. Not of any kind. This is an offer." With a flick of his fingertip on the control, he rolled forward. He nodded his head to the photo of John Kennedy. "I, too, remember those dark days, and fear what came with them, that through no fault or action of our own, the world could come to an end. It wouldn't even be a matter of someone's choice. It could just as easily be an accident."

After a slight hesitation, McKenna nodded, remembering the strain in his back and shoulders as he helped his father dig a bomb shelter in the backyard. Looking back at that pitiful hole, he knew how utterly futile it would have been if the worst happened.

"You and I, Mr. President," Xavier said, "and the people we represent have had a taste of our own version of doomsday. How close did we come to the abyss? Have we learned anything from that terrible experience? John Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev found a way to lay a foundation of lasting peace between their two nations - or at the very least, a way to reduce the probability of outright war. Can we not try to follow in their footsteps?"

"You were given information about our organization," he indicated the files on the President's desk, "About me, my school, my people. Information about grown mutants like the X-Men, like... Magneto, are but a small handful. Most mutants alive today are children, and what are children but the promise of the future made flesh? What shall we promise our posterity, sir? A world of blood, forged of hate and fear, whose ultimate outcome would be a genetic Civil War that will undoubtedly lead to the death of us all? Or can we find a better way?

"I am willing to trust you, Mr. President, if you're willing to return the favor.

"As we both have seen firsthand, there are forces in this world, both mutant and non-mutant, who believe war is coming. That it is inevitable. You'll see from those files how diligently some worked over the years to make this coming war a reality.

"If we wish to preserve the peace, to guarantee our posterity, we must work together. Do you understand?"

Before he spoke, McKenna glanced over at his chief of staff. By now, the pitcher was empty, only a few forgotten drops of water trickled out. Larry was a fastidious man, and he was bound to flip his lid when he noticed his wet trousers and ruined shoes. Then his eyes were drawn inexplicably back to Alicia Vargas, and he was confronted with such a heartbreaking look of longing and apprehension in her eyes that it tugged at his father heart. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and promise there were no monsters lurking in the closet, nothing she need ever fear, save as Franklin Roosevelt once said, fear itself.

"Yes," the President said after thinking things through. "I think I do."

With that, he held his hand out across the desk, and Xavier took it. His grip was strong, and held calluses that told McKenna that, like himself, he was a man who liked to work with his hands. The man was obviously an exemplary teacher, and George McKenna hoped that he wasn't too old and set in his ways to learn the trick of this new world.

"I'm glad," Xavier said, "we are here to stay, Mr. President. The next move is yours."

McKenna gave a nod, and found he wasn't surprised when he glanced up that the X-Men were gone. Turning to the window, he smiled. The storm had cleared, and the sun was just breaking through the clouds. Like in the "Pastoral" sequence of Disney's original Fantasia, all the gods of the storm, finished with their fun, tucked themselves away to sleep until next time, leaving a bright and hopeful day in their wake. Curiosity tinged his thoughts as he wondered which of Xavier's X-Men had brought it about, and for no reason he could decipher, the image of the black woman, Ororo Munro, matching him in height with the most vivid blue eyes and hair that looked like the finest of spun silver, flashed in his mind.

A light cough from Alicia drew him from his tangled thoughts and speculations.

Larry Abraham gave a catlike screech of fury at his sodden clothes, just like McKenna knew he would, and he couldn't quite keep the grin off his face.

Shock and surprise rippled around the room, emanating from the President outward. From their perspective, he'd been giving his speech one second, and then BOOM, now he was standing up, everyone began moving with agitation, creating a small wave of chaos.

Sighing, McKenna resumed his seat and waited for order to reassert itself. Small, hissed conversations were shot back and forth between the camera crew and whoever was responsible for the network feeds. All the talking heads had been vamping like crazy ever since the feed was lost.

In the ensuing confusion, no one noticed the neat pile of folders on his desk, and as McKenna settled in his chair he gave each pile a long, considering look.

Movement caught his attention as the stage manager held up five fingers, and folded them in quick succession. Then the red light flickered back into glaring life above the camera, bring the Oval Office back online to the world.

At first, George McKenna maintained his silence, allowing it to press down on all who were watching as he marshaled his thoughts, frantically reviewing facts and rewriting in his mind. No one watching would be able to understand the quirky, self-deprecating smile he wore, or why he'd glanced off camera towards the bust of Lincoln. Nobody, except perhaps Charles Xavier, caught the tail of his thought: It least you had a train ride and the back of an envelope at hand when you wrote the Gettysburg Address; me? I have to wing it! Extempore and live to the whole damned country!

Even as his bowels clenched at the uncertainty of the moment, McKenna mastered himself. He knew what he wanted to say, and he would speak from the heart and soul, allowing his true self to dictate what needed to be said without dressing it up in a lot of verbal fluff.

With a final, steadying breath, he took the files Xavier gave him and set them on top of the ones Schmidt gave him. He locked eyes with the camera, knowing his gaze would penetrate every one of the citizens watching on the other side of the screen. Then he spoke, hoping, praying, that his words would penetrate their hearts with the same steady force.

All up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, pedestrians hesitantly stepped out of shops and out from under doorways, commenting among themselves about the downpour and good-naturedly grumbling about how the weather man was always wrong.

A young couple from Iowa stood on the grass of Lafayette Square, arms around each other, a huge smile on their faces as their friend got ready to take the perfect picture; the White House in the background and not a single other person in the background to spoil the photo. "Say Monkey Ballllllls," the friend cried, pulling a pair of giant grins from the couple. Just before she snapped the shot...

... Nobody moved. Not here, not within a five-block radius of that point. Water continued to whisper secrets as it flowed out of fountains, flags continued to snap crisply in the wind, birds sang on. All the mechanical elements of life in the capital continued as they always had. But the people didn't notice.

Then, into the stillness, a sleek ebony aircraft rose into the sky from the helicopter landing stage on the South Lawn of the White House. For one long heartbeat, the jet seemed to hang, unmoving, in the air before rocketing away on silent wings.

Once the jet was out of sight, Washington woke up and continued as if they hadn't lost minutes of the day. Only a handful would ever know the truth; how a handful of heroes put themselves between the world and those who would see it burn, of how their struggle would inspire a leader to achieve greatness and an immortality all his own, to rival the predecessors he so admired.

All it takes to save the world are a few decent people who are willing to stand up and do the right thing.

To some, they are human, to others mutant. Of that group, some are called X-Men. And thanks to them, the world had a future.

On the shores of the now greatly expanded Alkali Lake, tiny, calm wavelets lapped at the vegetation already beginning the erosion process to form the newborn beaches. Something glittered in the sunlight, the gentle curve of a hip bone encased in metal. A tiny thread of pink traced the inner swoop of the bone, creating abstract patterns that would remind the casual observer of creeping vines.

Out in the lake, far from the beached skeleton, and deep beneath the now gentle swaying waves, a shape burned, the barest hint of wings stretching out against the dark crush of countless leagues of water.

Author's Note 1:

I would like to thank my new beta reader Njchrispatrick, without him this chapter wouldn't exist. It also wouldn't be as good as it is. He helped me develop the chapter in a way that flowed more naturally and stayed truer to the characters. Thank you so much for all your help, and for your relentless badgering over the last year to get me writing again.

Author's Note 2

Well, here is your yearly update! Yay! *Ducks the thrown tomatoes* Just kidding, just kidding!

Last time I made a person, which was a great excuse for not writing. This time the world did its best to destroy everything I love. So... yeah. It's been a rough year.

Here's a short list of my adventures since we last spoke:

Major house fire. We lost both our cats, and our ferret.

Husband was almost murdered by Pizza and spend the weekend in the hospital. (He choked and tore his throat open trying to cough it up, queue vomiting blood and a trip to the emergency room)

Older son broke his collarbone.

Second fire. So, we lost everything in the basement in the first fire, but all the stuff on the main level of the house was fine, just smoke damaged. A restoration company took all our stuff to clean, and just after Christmas, their warehouse caught on fire and burned all our stuff up. Which, yes, sounds like a lie and ridiculous because who has that kind of bad luck? We do, that's who. Don't believe me, look up Paul Davis fire online. I'm still so mad about that. Basically, we lost everything.

One of our two dogs, Clover, who survived the fire ended up getting a brain tumor and we had to put her down.

When our house was finally done (Six months after the fire) my car died in the middle of the move. So, we had to go get a new car, with a new car payment, that weekend.

At the start of this month, my grandmother died. My baby and I took a next day flight to Nevada for the funeral. Flying alone with a baby should be its own ring in hell, just saying.

On top of all that, I haven't had a full night sleep in roughly two years. My first pregnancy symptom with Dante was having to get up to pee 10 times a night. And even though he is 15 months old, he's still not sleeping through the night.

*sob*

Anyway. I'm still alive. I really need to sacrifice a goat or something to purge myself of this year long streak of bad luck, but I am alive. And this story is still alive! And I will do my damnedest to not let a whole year pass again before I write the next chapter.

Author's Note #3

If anyone made it this far, I hope you're a fellow writer. This chapter is brought to you by the writing site 4thewords. Seriously, you need this in your life if you write. I began writing this chapter 8/3/18. I'm done with it, all 15,367 words of it, on 8/8/18. I'm not sure yet when I'll be posting because I need to do some edits, but as I write this, I'm finished with the rough draft. That's 5 days, even in my crazy life of being a mom with two kids who works full time.

If you are a writer who wants to try this out, use this code THIZJ40664 as the referral code and be sure to friend me. I'm Noyoki there as well. I'm in love with this writing site, and I hope all my fellow wordsmiths give it a chance.

Ta Ta for now!